I speak a small Turkish, Beede answered, nonchalantly, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the hook behind the door, from my time of the navy. You offend my pride with this words.
Gaffar winced, pantomimically, at his accent. Ever considered taking evening classes?
Yes, Beede back-handed, that is why we are conversation. So whats your excuse, Mr Celik?
Yip! Gaffar exclaimed, making as if to duck a punch, then rapidly drawing both fists to his chin (in readiness for some kind of counterattack).
Watch out, Beede smiled, drawing up his own fists in a similar fashion, I was South-East Kent Boys Boxing Champion, 19561961.
Wha?!Youre a fighter, old man?
Gaffar was visibly moved by this information.
Yes. I used to be. In very far-back distance. And less of the old, thank you very much.
I boxer, Gaffar announced proudly, and trust me, I wouldve severely pulped your spotty, teenage arse back in 61.
Oh, really?
Yes. In my country Im a celebrityfamous, eh? for my amazing talents as a featherweight.
Beede appeared to take this bold personal declaration in his stride. Unfortunately the time-space continuum prevents us from categorically establishing the better man between us, he murmured dryly, but I take you at you speak, eh?
Lets roll for it, Greybeard, Gaffar was smiling, Ill even give you a head start, as a mark of your seniority.
He removed a pound coin from his pocket and slammed it down, flamboyantly, on to the table.
Beede had no intention of playing dice. He hated all games (developed this deep antipathy during his long years in the navy). To Beede, game-playing was like aimlessly treading water in the fast-running Stream of Mortality; far better he felt to swim hard against the current, or to drown spent and exhausted in the attempt.
Did that Tupperware pot have a lid when you found it? he enquired.
Huh?
Lid, Beede pointed and then performed a small mime.
Ah, Gaffar finally understood him and shook his head. Uh-uh.
Oh dear.
No problem, Gaffar shrugged, we dont need one to play Par. Or Pachen, if you prefer.
I suppose not Beede was mournful. He peered balefully over the back of the sofa at Kane (as if hoping to find the lid protruding from one of his pockets; perhaps jutting out neatly from between his buttocks) then glanced up again. So have you been here long, Gaffar?
Twenty-eight months.
No, I mean in this rooms.
Gaffar inspected his watchless wrist. One hour.
I see.
Gaffar vigorously rubbed his hand up and down on the goose-bumping flesh of his uninjured arm. Your friends purple-haired whore broke her leg, he explained, amiably. She fell off the wall outside. I was helping her I have a special genius for massage
He pummelled the air, theatrically.
Good God Beede was naturally alarmed by this news. She fell off the wall? Outside? Was it a bad break?
Gaffar calmly ignored his questions. Then he uhKane, he continued, nodding angrily towards the offending individual, suddenly turned up from out of nowhere and threw hot coffee all over me. Smashed my Thermos. Ruined my shirt. Got me the sack. And the girl whose leg was in a pretty bad wayuh he paused, ruminatively, Kelly. That her nameshe went off in an ambulance. Which was when, he continued, he kindly invited me inside and let the dogs maul me
Gaffar calmly ignored his questions. Then he uhKane, he continued, nodding angrily towards the offending individual, suddenly turned up from out of nowhere and threw hot coffee all over me. Smashed my Thermos. Ruined my shirt. Got me the sack. And the girl whose leg was in a pretty bad wayuh he paused, ruminatively, Kelly. That her nameshe went off in an ambulance. Which was when, he continued, he kindly invited me inside and let the dogs maul me
He pointed at the handkerchief on his arm.
Ah. Beede suddenly caught on. He smirked. So would that be Pachen with bluffs youre playing there?
Gaffar stared at him, blankly.
No bluff, he finally murmured, hurt.
While Beede wasnt entirely convinced by the accuracy of this strangers report, he was impressed, nonetheless, by his good bearing and air of self-containment.
Im afraid Kane is my son, he mused quietly, almost regretfully. Gaffars dark brows rose, but he didnt respond.
I am his father, yes? Beede persisted (like a rookie attending his first AA meeting; determined to confess everything). The penny suddenly dropped.
What? Gaffar pointed accusingly towards the oblivious Kane. This big, fat, uselessYank is your seed?
Beede nodded. Cruel, isnt it?
Gaffar cackled, Well your arrival home was timely. I was just planning to fleece him.
Then you wouldve fleeced me, Beede declared, almost without rancour, because this is my flat. Kane lives upstairs.
He pointed towards the ceiling.
As he spoke the washing machine clicked quietly on to its spin cycle.
Gaffar grinned, slammed down the Tupperware beaker (in brazen challenge), pulled a nearby stool closer and patted its seat, enticingly. Then lets settle this the traditional way, Old Champion, he wheedled. Come. Come and join me. Lets play.
Kane slept for three hours. When he finally awoke he found himself in his fathers flat, curled up on the sofa (covered in a blanket: Beedes clean but ancient MacIntosh tartan, which had been so neatly and regularly darned over the years that the restoration work constituted more than a third of its total thread content).
The air was moist and scented (Gaffar had partaken of a shower eschewing Beedes carbolic soap in favour of Ecover camomile and marigold washing-up liquid). There was some kind of tangy, tomato-based concoction bubbling away on the stove.
Kane blinked, dopily, as Gaffar emerged from the bathroom in an expensive if slightly over-sized Yves Saint Laurent suit.
He struggled to remember the exact course of events which had led him here
Three Percodan
Seven joints
Half bottle Tequila
His mouth was dry
Dry
His stomach hurt. He shook his head. He cleared his throat. He inspected Gaffar more closely (his hands flailing around to locate his cigarette packet). Who was this man, again?
Ah, youre awake. I just lifted £200 off your father, the Kurd informed him, chirpily. Father, he quickly repeated. Beede, eh?
Kane sat up, alarmed. Is Beede here?
The Kurd nodded. Now theres an intelligent individual. Very generous. Very hospitable Gaffar expectorated, then swallowed, then blinked and swallowed again. But a miserable gambler He shook his finger at Kane, warningly. Never, ever let the old man gamble with me again, eh?
The bathroom? Kane rapidly threw off the blanket, still panicked. Is he in the bathroom?
No, Gaffar shook his head as he strolled into the kitchen. Heuhwork. He go. From he shrugged, half-hour.
Jesus.
Kane closed his eyes for a moment, in relief. Thank fuck. Gaffar frowned, then abruptly stopped frowning as he peered into the bubbling pan on the stove.
So did you explain about the dogs?
Kanes eyes were open again.
Huh? Gaffar tested the edible medley (a large tin of Heinz baked beans with chipolatas). He winced
Hot
then sucked his teeth
Too salty
How the English loved their salt.
The dogs? TheuhWoof! On the stair, Kane valiantly continued, observing a cigarette-packet-shaped object in Gaffars suit pocket. Did he see? Did you explain about Kelly?
Gaffar half-smiled as he returned to the living area. Yes I do, he said, with exactly the level of conviction most calculated to fill Kane with doubt. And then, Woof! he mimicked, satirically (with a huge grin), in a way that (Kane presumed) might be considered cute in whichever godforsaken part of the planet he originally hailed from
But not here
Kane rubbed his face with his hands (he was finding the Kurd rather exhausting). Would you get me some water? He mimed turning on a tap, holding a glass under.
Gaffar did as he was asked. He was accustomed to following orders. There was a kind of dignity in submission which the quiet ox inside of him took an almost active pleasure in.
Thanks.
As Kane drank he assessed Gaffars suit.
Nice suit He exhaled sharply as he spoke, then burped and wiped his mouth with his hand.
Gaffar nodded.
Wheres it from?
Beede.
Kane blinked. No way.
Yes.
No, Kane reiterated firmly. Beede would never own a suit like that. It looks foreign, for starters, and he religiously supports the British Wool Trade
Gaffar scowled. He give to me. Beede. In exchange for his losses, yeah?
What is it? Kane casually flipped open one of the front jacket flaps (feeling the seductive, semi-hollow crackle of his Marlboro packet through the lining). Gaffar immediately slapped it shut.
Yves Saint Laurent, he announced, haughtily.
Not a chance, man, Kane snorted. Its gotta be knock-off.
Gaffar (rising like a pike to the bait) shrugged the jacket from his shoulders and showed Kane the label.
Wow. Kane perused the label at his leisure (it looked legitimate), while casually slipping his free hand into the pocket and removing his cigarettes.
Wow. Kane perused the label at his leisure (it looked legitimate), while casually slipping his free hand into the pocket and removing his cigarettes.
So there you go, huh? So there you go, Gaffar echoed, scowling, as Kane tapped out a smoke and flipped it into his mouth.
He pulled the jacket back on (wincing slightly as it snagged on his neatly re-bandaged arm). Kane relaxed down into the sofa again (matches? Lighter?), his expression one of tolerant bemusement. As he leaned he felt something crumple behind him. He shoved his hand under the blanket and withdrew a large, slightly dented brown envelope. He stared at it for a while, frowning.
Gaffar, meanwhile, had returned to the kitchen and was dishing himself up a large bowlful of beans. In the bread-bin hed located a half-used wholemeal loaf from which hed already torn a sizeable portion. He balanced the bread on top of the beans and carried the bowl over to Beedes desk, placing it down, carefully, on to the battered, leather veneer and taking off his jacket (hanging it over the back of the adjacent chair).
He sat down and began to eat, employing the bread as a makeshift scoop. Several mouthfuls in, he noticed a large World Atlas on a bookshelf close by, hauled it out, one-handed, opened it, and began casually paging through the maps.
Kane watched Gaffar for a while, patting away like a zombie at his pockets (impressed by the Kurds apparent ability to make himself feel at home). The suit (Kane wryly observed) gave Gaffar the furtive air of a man struggling to pass himself off as Minister of Sport or Information, or the Arts in a tin-pot military dictatorship (somewhere much too hot) after his brother, Sergio (the ambitious, pissed-up lieutenant), had shot the bastard general and promptly stepped into his highly polished, size eleven lace-ups