Nirvana Bites Read online

  There were two major questions.

  One: who were those guys anyway? When I had asked what their business was, it had been a serious question. Between us, we’d pissed off quite a few people in our time, so the answer was far from obvious.

  Two: what was the cause of Stan’s strange reaction? He was obviously hiding something. But what? And how could I get it out of him?

  7

  IT MUST HAVE been about seven in the morning when I heard Mags moving around downstairs, getting ready for work. It occurred to me that I had better let the others know what had happened under the bridge last night. Not because I was attention-seeking, and not because I was after sympathy, but my attacker had mentioned my friends. In theory, we were all in danger from the Black Balaclava Brigade. Whoever the hell they were.

  I risked the bleary-eyed wrath of the others and used my keys on the assumption (correct) that they would all be in bed, with the exception of Mags. To my amazement, the responses I got were more coherent – and more sensitive – than the collective ‘Fuck off’ I’d been expecting. The times they were a-changing, all right.

  When I got home, Stan was in my tiny kitchen brewing coffee. All this was a bit of a culture shock to me: up at seven – without having been out all night; a polite response from my fellow Nirvanans at said unearthly hour; a man in my kitchen, clad in boxer shorts and Elastoplasts. Only last night’s violence was familiar.

  My head felt fuzzy, like I’d been chain-smoking skunk all night. Even after a black coffee thick and strong enough to slice and chew, I was having trouble ordering my thoughts. Stan, for his part, was having trouble meeting my eyes. We seemed to come to a wordless compromise: he wouldn’t mention dropping the case if I didn’t; he wouldn’t mention whatever he had avoided mentioning last night and I wouldn’t rend him limb from limb. It was clear that trust between us was at an all-time low. But last night’s attack had locked us together in a deadly embrace that neither of us could break.

  Stan said he wanted to check on the penthouse. Funny how he never referred to it as home. I wasn’t happy about letting him out of my sight today, so suggested Ali and I accompany him in the transit. I wasn’t too happy about him being in my sight either, but I’d feel more comfortable if I could keep my eye on him.

  The scene in Docklands was as we had left it. Ali and I swept the wreckage of the aquarium into the dust sheet that had covered it, while Stan checked his mail. If there was anything untoward, he didn’t share it with us. He pressed ‘play’ on his answering machine. The first three messages were concerned colleagues at the Beeb, checking on his health. The next was from Catherine, demanding to know why he’d taken leave of absence without telling her. Stan clucked in annoyance.

  There was no build-up or preparation for what followed. With a letter, you can sometimes sense from the envelope that the contents could rock you. With the technological hardware that is an answering machine, you get no such warning. A guttural whisper, like that of a man with chronic bronchitis, invaded the room.

  ‘Sta-an. Oh, Sta-an,’ it called in mocking tones. ‘Did you think it was all over? Did you really think that? Well, I’m calling to tell you, it’s not. Not by a l-o-n-g way.’ A wheezing cackle was cut short by a mechanical voice announcing the time: three o’clock that morning.

  Stan’s face was ashen. He stared at the machine as though stuck in a game of musical statues. I picked up the phone and punched 1471. Surprise, surprise. The caller withheld their number.

  I looked at Ali, who was staring with narrowed eyes at Stan, who was still transfixed by the answering machine. The sound of a key being inserted in the front door broke the spell. We all spun round. Stan whimpered. My heart was pounding and my throat constricted. My senses strained at the door, trying to penetrate the wood and see through to the other side. We heard fumbling, the key being withdrawn and another inserted. I turned wildly to Ali, who nodded at the door. We were both still holding our brooms.

  We moved to the door and instinct took over. Ali took up a position behind it and I stood on the other side, clutching the broom in both hands. Meanwhile, whoever was on the other side continued to try keys in the lock. I felt a trickle of sweat drip down between my shoulderblades. Stan whimpered again. As the door swung open, there was a roaring in my ears. The intruder stepped into the room.

  I leapt forward and clouted him on the side of the head with the broom. As he staggered sideways, Ali leapt round the door and grabbed him from behind, holding the broom handle tight against his throat.

  ‘No!’ screamed Stan. ‘No! Stop! Don’t hurt him. It’s James.’

  Who?

  ‘It’s James. It’s my son. Let him go.’

  Ali released his grip. Our victim fell forward on to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Stan ran to him and pulled him up into his arms, sobbing.

  ‘Oh, James. James. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?’

  I took the opportunity to examine Highshore Junior. About nineteen. A floppy-haired Hugh Grant lookalike. Handsome in a soft way. Wearing jeans and a worn brown leather jacket. Casual but expensive. A chip off the old block.

  Stan guided his son to the cappuccino-coloured leather settee and lowered him with exaggerated parental concern. He continued to cluck and coo, raising a flap of hair to wince at the growing egg on his son’s right temple. Ali and I shuffled uncomfortably. This was a side of Stan I had never seen before. Stan the Loving Father. We had no place in this cosy family tableau. I wasn’t sure of our role. Stan didn’t leave me in doubt for long.

  ‘Get a packet of peas from the freezer and a tea towel,’ he barked in authoritarian tones without turning to look at us. My jaw dropped, but Ali’s eyes told me to go along with it. I trotted obediently into the stainless-steel laboratory that was Stan’s kitchen.

  ‘Ere y’are, guv. Couldn’t find peas. Will frozen asparagus do?’ I couldn’t resist saying as I handed over the package wrapped in a tea towel with a giant tomato on it.

  Stan applied it with infinite tenderness to James’s temple, but his son had had enough of his father’s ministrations. He pushed Stan’s hand away.

  ‘What’s going on here, Dad?’ he demanded. ‘Who are these people?’

  Stan didn’t skip a beat. ‘I hired them to take the aquarium away,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, they dropped it.’

  Stan, you’re dead, I thought.

  ‘Were the fish still in it?’ enquired James, wide-eyed.

  ‘No, no. I had already disposed of the fish.’

  Now there’s a thought. I wondered how Stan did dispose of all those fish and their staples. I looked in the direction of the toilet, wondering…

  ‘But why the hell did they attack me, for Christ’s sake?’ a belligerent Junior asked.

  Stan had shot his bolt. He turned pleading eyes to me. He was unbelievable.

  The next thing we heard was so unexpected, it made me jump.

  ‘Turf wars,’ said Ali.

  What? I thought.

  ‘What?’ asked James.

  ‘There are several organisations offering a similar service in this area,’ Ali continued. ‘Competition is hot. That’s why we were working so fast and got clumsy. When you came in, we thought you were one of our rivals.’

  Jesus Christ. That was the first time I’d ever heard Ali string more than a couple of words together. I had thought he rarely spoke because he was a genius. Now, having heard this implausible piece of utter bullshit, I wondered if it was because he knew that if he opened his mouth some outrageous chunk of unbelievable claptrap might spew forth.

  Maybe James had had such a sheltered upbringing he really thought that was what working-class oiks got up to. Or maybe Ali has mystical powers. How else could you explain James accepting this patent nonsense? No one could be that stupid. Yet accept it he did. And get up on his fucking high horse he also did.

  ‘Well you’d better carry on and finish the job then,’ he said.

  Spoilt little shit. Ali and I swept the remaining
hunks of glass into the dust sheet and tied the corners. I was careful to leave a few vicious shards on the carpet in case Mr and Master Highshore chose to wander round barefoot later.

  Meanwhile, James told his father he had tried to contact him at the Beeb and been told he had taken indefinite leave of absence. He’d phoned the apartment several times yesterday but there had been no reply and he hadn’t left a message.

  ‘I assumed you’d gone off somewhere, Dad,’ he said. ‘I wanted to stay, so I let myself in with the keys you gave me. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Stan reassured. ‘But why aren’t you at Leeds?’

  ‘I’ve dropped out,’ James replied glumly. He looked at us. ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Meaning, after the hired help has gone.

  ‘Where would you like us to drop this, guv?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll have to take it with you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do what? What are we supposed to do with a ton of shattered aquarium? Take it down the bottle bank?’

  ‘Well, there’s nowhere to dispose of it here. It’s too large for the chute and you’re not allowed to leave glass in the utility room.’

  The guy was amazing. With a low growl, I bent and grabbed hold of one end of the knotted sheet. But Ali wasn’t finished yet.

  He walked very slowly and deliberately over to the settee and just stood there, staring at Stan. The Highshores shrank back a fraction. Ali has more presence than Samuel L. Jackson and Harvey Keitel rolled into one

  ‘Was there something else?’ Stan asked, struggling to keep the superior edge to his voice.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Ali asked.

  Stan looked blank for a moment before the penny dropped. Except it was going to cost him a lot more than a penny.

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred,’ Ali replied.

  Ali – I love you.

  ‘Three hundred pounds?’ screeched James in disbelief. ‘That’s a bit steep for demolishing an aquarium, isn’t it?’

  Ali sat down next to him on the indentation left in the leather by Stan’s departed buttocks. He drilled him with his eyes and then grinned – but only with the lower half of his face. ‘You don’t understand,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s fine, James. Really,’ Stan said, pulling out a wad of cash from a wall safe. ‘It was my fault really. I should have warned them it would be too heavy for the two of them.’

  He held the money out to Ali, who looked at it, then up at Stan and back down at the money again. His timing was spot-on. Make them squirm, baby.

  Dragging the sheet into the lift and then into the transit took every ounce of our strength. We drove back to Peckham, making a short stop at a massive empty skip we were lucky enough to spot, and then did the obvious thing under the circumstances. We tumbled into bed together. This was something we had done spasmodically over the years. We never spoke about it and it changed nothing. It was nice though.

  When I got back to my place, the red light on the answer machine was blinking. I punched the button and the voice of my elder brother invaded my space. ‘Hello, Jenny. It’s Dennis. I’m calling to say the nursing home have phoned and said Dad’s very poorly. They don’t think he’s got long to go. I know how you feel, but I thought you ought to know.’

  If he’d just left it there, I could have handled it. But Dennis always was a smug bastard.

  ‘After all,’ he continued in his supercilious tone, ‘whatever you decide now, you have to live with for the rest of your life.’

  Fucking sanctimonious, hypocritical, guilt-tripping bollocks. Well, it wouldn’t work with me. Let Dennis and Straight Kate and their offspring go to soothe Grandaddy’s fevered brow. Let them comfort him before he was flown up to heaven on the wings of an angel. We all knew if there was any justice he would be destined for the deepest, darkest part of hell anyway.

  Dennis had always colluded with him in a sneaky way. In most families each member has a role, and ours was no exception in that at least. Den’s role was as the great appeaser. As long as someone else was getting the shit kicked out of them, he knew he was safe.

  Well, he’d have to represent the family alone. Lenny, my next brother, had spent most of his adult life in the secure unit of a psychiatric hospital. I don’t like to talk about him much. Ben, my twin and the bass beat to my treble, was holed up in an ashram somewhere in southern India.

  That was us. The Stern offspring. Den, Len, Ben and Jen. When I was growing up I often wondered if that was some twisted attempt at humour on his part. More likely our mother had named us in some desperate strategy to instil a sense of collective identity in us. She needn’t have bothered. Being the only people we knew who were subjected to random unpredictable violence would have done that anyway.

  I needed time to work some of the anger off, so I picked up a spade and let myself into Mags’s flat and through into the back garden. I hacked at the vegetable plot, ripping and tearing at the ground as though I was digging the old man’s grave myself. Maybe I’d go to the funeral, I mused. Just so I could be sure he was dead and perhaps take the opportunity to spit on his coffin.

  An hour and a half later, the vegetable plot looked like it had been turned over by a JCB. I was filthy, sweating and ached in every limb. But it hadn’t helped. I turned my attention to the lawn. Two hours later, there was no sign of it. That helped a little bit.

  Later that evening, I was slumped on the cushions watching a Schwarzeneggar movie when Maggot pounded on my door with the gentle touch of a ram raider. I’d seen her earlier and told her what had gone down at Docklands.

  ‘Jenny?’ she called. ‘It’s Stan. Shall I let the slimeball in or should I just knee him in the bollocks and send him on his way?’

  I hauled myself up, muttering under my breath, and stomped down the stairs, opened the front door to my flat and then returned to my cushions without so much as a glance in Stan’s direction. He hesitated in the doorway to my front room before lowering himself next to me.

  For a few minutes we watched TV in silence as Arnie crashed through a jungle, clad in little more than camouflage paint and snuffing out the cinematic lives of several dozen extras in the time it takes to have a piss. After a little while, I cracked.

  ‘So where’s James?’ I asked, keeping my eyes glued to the screen.

  ‘I’ve put him on a train back to Leeds. He’s gone and got some girl pregnant and the silly bitch wants to keep it. He was only thinking of dropping out of uni to get some job stacking shelves in Sainsbury’s to support the gold-digging little slut and her brat.’

  It was hard to believe I was sitting in my own home having this conversation. The little that I had assumed Stan and I to have in common was fast shrinking to infinitesimal proportions.

  ‘You know, Stan? You’re all heart.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. Whatever. I soon dissuaded him anyway.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ I asked, interested in spite of myself.

  ‘I raised his allowance.’ Stan shrugged.

  I reeled at this insight into the world he inhabited.

  ‘So money solves everything, does it?’

  I’ll never know what he would have replied. Shrill screams cut through from the street below. We both leapt to our feet, ran down the stairs and exploded into the night at the same time as Mags and Frank. Gaia was on the pavement at the end of the path to her house. Her hands covered her ears. She was wailing now – an even more terrifying sound – her body rocking back and forwards from the waist. Stan grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip.

  We reached her just as Ali opened the door to their house. As light spilled on to the path, we saw what Gaia had seen when she had arrived home moments earlier. My stomach lurched into my throat. Behind me I heard Stan retch and Mags and Frank groan. Saffron, the matriarch of Gaia’s cat family, lay sprawled just outside the door. Her limbs lay at odd angles, the white paws stained pink. Her luxuriant black fur was filthy and ma
tted and her yellow eyes were glazed, her tongue lolling. A dark pool spread slowly from under her shattered body.

  8

  MID-MORNING THE following day, I was back in the garden. We had called a lunchtime crisis meeting. Mags had taken a day’s leave and we had stuck a note under Nick’s door as he and Robin were still out.

  There were three items on the agenda.

  1. Bury Saffron

  2. Support Gaia

  3. Find out what the fuck is going on

  Stan and I had gone out earlier and bought charcoal, vegeburgers and bangers, organic wholemeal rolls and salad. Now he was upstairs in my kitchen chopping salad while I fiddled with the barbecue.

  Everyone gathered in the garden at exactly the allotted time. Unprecedented, as far as I can remember. What was happening to us? It was a though someone had inserted an efficiency chip into our collective psyche. Where would it end? Only Nick was absent, but Robin acted as his representative. Frank asked where the lawn had gone. My reply – ‘I was angry’ – was accepted without question.

  With great solemnity, we all stood in silence as Gaia emerged from the back door of the third house. You have to hand it to Gaia: she has a unique sense of style. She was wearing a black, long-sleeved dress, topped with an odd little round hat with two sticky-up bits on top. A black veil, woven through with a daisy chain, was draped over her face. White gloves, socks and plimsolls completed the ensemble. It took a moment before I sussed it. She was dressed to resemble a giant humanoid Saffron.

  Said feline lay in state in Gaia’s arms on a cushion draped with white muslin. Her fur had been washed and combed. Her white-tipped limbs had been arranged into a semblance of normality and another daisy chain was wound around her head.

  With infinite care, Gaia lowered the cushion with its stiff little burden into Ali’s outstretched arms. Then there was lots of chanting, incense-waving and tinkling of bells. This was Gaia’s show, so we gave her full rein. She prepared herself for the reading. She cleared her throat and gazed at Saffy, then up at the sky, before reading The Cat in the Hat by Dr Seuss.