Clapham Lights (9 page)

‘Tennis.’

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He and John have gone to see Grandad. He thought you might have wanted to come, but you were still in bed.’ Patricia pulls
You
magazine from the
Mail
. ‘Have you phoned Jenny?’

‘Can you do it please? I’ll sort the kitchen out.’

‘Oh, and there’s another thing I was going to ask you, Mark Hunter,’ she stops to say as she is leaving the room. ‘Why is there a dent on the bumper of my car?’

‘No idea. Why do you always assume it’s my fault?’

Jenny excuses herself and leaves the dining table. She and Mark are
sitting
opposite Uncle John, with Patricia and Mark’s dad, Graham, at either end. Patricia has prepared a roast banquet.

John smirks and waits until the bathroom door shuts in the hall. Patricia, who has changed into a sparkly black jumper and jeans, warns him not to say a word.

‘What does she normally eat for lunch? Human growth hormones?’ John says, reaching for one of the cans of Stella by his feet. ‘She’s like one of those East German hammer throwers from the Seventies. How tall is she these days?’

‘John, keep your voice down and don’t be so bloody rude,’ Patricia says.

‘Sorry, Pat, but honestly, look at the poor girl. What is she Mark, your bird or your bodyguard?’

‘We don’t really see that much of each other any more,’ Mark says, glancing through the bay windows at John’s Mercedes M-Class.

‘Mark, that’s your girlfriend you’re talking about. I know she’s a bit
big
, but she can’t help it,’ his mum whispers.

John helps himself to more potatoes. His stomach swells beneath his Ralph Lauren shirt and there are broken veins all over his bulbous nose. His cropped hair is badly receding and he has a small bald patch. ‘Lost your appetite, Mark?’

‘No, I’m just not that hungry,’ he says, looking down at the untouched vegetables on his plate.

‘Don’t eat it if you don’t want to,’ his mum says.

‘I’m just a bit full. I’ve just been trying to cut down a bit recently, trying to get fit. I’m thinking about entering a triathlon.’

Graham brings in a second bottle of white wine from the kitchen. He has grey hair, worn in a side parting, a grey moustache and glasses. He is far slimmer than his younger brother and has a fresh, healthy complexion.

‘How was Grandad?’ Mark asks.

‘No better.’ Graham’s speech is more formal and softer than John’s. ‘There’s no way he can go home at the moment. The doctor said he might have to be transferred to a care home.’

‘All he needs is a few more days of rest and he’ll perk up,’ John
interjects
. ‘There’s no need to start thinking about care homes. You know what he’s like, he’ll be up and walking by the end of the week and
probably
discharging himself.’ He shuffles in his chair and scratches his head. Gravy drips down his chin as he chews another chunk of beef. ‘How’s work going, Mark?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘Justin said that he might get promoted,’ Jenny says. She has put on a baggy v-neck jumper.

‘I think that Justin’s a pompous little dwarf,’ John says. ‘He swans around like he owns the place. I hope you don’t take any shit from him.’

‘John, do you always have to swear?’ Patricia asks.

‘Sorry.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Mark assures him. ‘Justin leaves me to get on with things. He’s not in the office most of the time.’

‘Is that Jane girl with the fake cans still there?’

Patricia glares at him.

‘Julia? Yes, she’s still there.’

‘I tell you what,’ John says, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t had a go Mark. I would have done by now.’

Mark cringes.

‘Well Mark’s not like you,’ Jenny says defiantly.

‘No, sorry Jen, you’re right, of course he not… not that I’d blame him. She’s a pretty girl-’

‘John, for god’s sake,’ Patricia says.

Jenny looks to Mark, but he keeps quiet. Her bottom lip starts to tremble. Patricia asks if she could help her out in the kitchen and glares at John as they leave.

‘I’ve told you to watch what you say around Jenny. She can be very sensitive,’ Graham warns him.

‘Sorry, I know. Sorry, Mark,’ John says, emptying another can of lager.

‘It’s not him you should be apologising to. Mark, don’t you think you should go and talk to her?’

‘No. She prefers Mum. Can I have another drink?’

John passes Mark a can. ‘What do you reckon your bonus will be this year?’

‘Umm, I’m not sure. We’re doing pretty well, so I’m hoping for
better
than last year.’

‘What did you get last year?’

‘Twenty grand.’

‘It wasn’t anyway near that much was it?’ his dad says, with a baffled look.

‘Yeah, it was.’

‘When do you find out?’ John asks, rubbing his stomach.

‘Second week of August.’

Graham starts piling up the plates in the middle of the table as the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes.

‘How long have you been there now? Three years?’ John asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘With your experience you should be earning about… ummm… four times what you were when you joined. If they try to fob you off with anything less, I’d threaten to leave. It’s all a game of bluff, mate.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Remember to tell them you’re underpaid and ask for ten grand more than you think’s reasonable. That way they’ll meet you halfway and they’ll think they’re getting a good deal and everyone’s a winner. There are a lot of golden tits at your place, Mark. You’ve just got to make sure you’re sucking on the right one.’

‘I’d be very careful about making extravagant demands,’ Graham says. ‘The last thing you want is to price yourself out of a job. There are plenty of other young men out there with your qualifications who’d happily work there for what you’re earning, so don’t talk yourself into redundancy.’

John waits until Graham leaves the room.

‘Don’t take a blind bit of notice,’ he says. ‘You don’t get anywhere by playing it safe. That’s fair enough if you’re an accountant, but to make the big money you’ve got to take a risk. If they won’t pay you what you’re worth then walk out and find someone who will.’

‘That’s what I was planning to do anyway.’

‘How much holiday do you get at the moment?’

‘Thirty-five days.’

‘Thirty-five? That’s nothing. Ask for at least sixty. You’ve got to cash in while you can.’ John slugs more beer and adjusts the waist of his navy chinos. ‘Try to get a car out of them, and ask about doing an MBA or something like that. A lot of companies are willing to pay for it these days. Do some research, and throw a few suggestions at them. It makes you look ambitious. A bloke I know did a three-year business course at Harvard, paid for by his company and they kept him on full salary. You’d be set up for life if you can get that sort of deal out of them.’ He farts and apologises. ‘You couldn’t pop to the living room and get me the
News of the World
could you mate?’

Everyone bar Graham is back at the table. Patricia picks at fluff on her jumper. Jenny’s eyes are red and she is quiet. John is flicking through the paper.

‘Sorry if I upset you earlier, Jen. I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he says. ‘I was just-’

Jenny sniffs. ‘No, it’s fine. Lunch was lovely,’ she says looking to Patricia.

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah, it was great. Cheers, Pat,’ John says.

Graham brings in a trifle and scoops generous portions into
porcelain
bowls. Mark devours his first helping before his dad has even sat down. He then helps himself to more and is onto his third spoonful when he suddenly turns bright pink and runs to the bathroom.

He turns the cold tap on full-blast and hacks up his undigested
dessert
. He pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, holds his chest and washes his mouth in the bidet. Reaching out for a hand towel, he wipes dribble from his chin and uses the other side of it to dry his forehead.

‘Are you all right, Mark?’ Jenny calls from behind the door.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit hot. I’ll be out in a sec, babe.’

Mark stuffs a recycling bag into his back pocket, unplugs the shredder and carries it into his room, locking the door behind him. He separates the post on his desk into two piles: 1) Barclays, NatWest, Virgin, Egg and Capital One correspondence. 2) Catalogues and anything else.

He feeds the unopened bank statements, credit card bills and
letters 
into the shredder’s metal teeth. It jams repeatedly and when it can’t digest what Mark is trying to feed it, he tears the envelopes apart with his hands.

He empties the waste paper unit into the recycling bag for a third time and brushes the few loose strands of paper on the desk onto the floor. He then thumbs through catalogues from Ferrari, Jack Wills and Bang and Olufsen and slides them into his leather holdall.

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Hang on,’ Mark says, stashing the recycling bag under his bed.

‘Why did you lock the door?’ Graham asks as Mark lets him in.

‘I was getting changed.’

‘Into the same clothes?’

Graham sits on the edge of the bed, with his hands on the knees of his corduroy trousers. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me?’

‘Umm, yes.’ Mark sits down on his old yellow computer chair. ‘I wondered if you could do me a favour.’

‘Go on.’

‘I wondered if you’d be able to give me a slight increase in my
allowance
.’

Graham stands up. ‘Well this is going to be a short conversation isn’t it? The answer is no. You shouldn’t even be getting an allowance. I cannot believe that you can’t survive on your wages, what are you spending the money on?’

‘It’s the flat, Dad. Since Craig made us move I’m paying out twice as much in rent and bills. I’m actually a lot worse off. The place is
costing
an absolute fortune. General living expenses are much more as well.’

‘Mark, you’re talking to me like I don’t know how much running a house costs. I think you might have a bit more cash if you didn’t go out getting drunk every night of the week. And despite your protestations I don’t believe for a second that you’re at work until eleven every night. You look hungover every time I see you.’

‘Because I’m not getting any sleep because I’m working so hard.’

Graham looks quizzically at the shredder. ‘If your flat is too
expensive
you shouldn’t have moved there in the first place. The rent’s not gone up has it?’

‘Dad, please this is a one off. I need eight hundred to tie me over until pay day.’

‘Eight hundred pounds? What for? You get paid on Friday don’t you?’

‘It’s for bills.’

Graham shakes his head and folds his arms. Mark looks at him expectantly.

‘Promise me you haven’t been using any of your inheritance money.’

‘Dad, of course not. It’s all in a high interest account.’

‘Promise. Because if you’ve been-’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Good. Look, I’ll give you the money as a
loan
, and you’ll pay that back the minute you get paid. I’ll check my account on Friday night and if that money isn’t in there I’ll be straight on the phone to you to find out why not. Is that clear?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘If you can’t live on your salary then something is seriously wrong.’

Mark says nothing and lunges forward, wrapping up his dad in an uneasy hug.

‘M
ake yourselves at home, boys,’ Craig says.

Adam and Tony dump their bags in Craig’s room and saunter into the warm, sunny living room as Craig hooks back the French doors. A thin layer of dust is visible on the dining table and television.

‘This place is sweet, mate,’ Tony says. He has a stronger Norfolk accent than Craig and is slight, clean-shaven and has a spiky brown quiff. His short-sleeved check shirt, cargo shorts and bright white trainers all look new.

‘Very nice,’ Adam says, stepping out onto the roof terrace. He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand even though he has sunglasses hanging from his v-neck t-shirt. He is taller than Craig with a more athletic and hairier physique, short blond hair and a confident demeanour.

Craig gets three Coronas from the fridge and squeezes chunks of lime into the necks of the bottles.

‘Cheers,’ Adam says, taking a swig. ‘Where’s your flatmate?’

‘Mark? I’m not sure. He was in bed when I left this morning.
Probably
shopping.’

Tony joins them outside. He’s already drunk most of his beer.

‘Mate, this is awesome. How long you been here now?’ he asks,
looking
out over the houses.

‘Almost five months.’

‘It’s so much better than that last place you lived in. How much rent you paying?’

‘A lot.’ Craig pauses. ‘Over a grand a month.’

‘That’s a bargain mate.’

‘It’s a grand a month
each
.’

‘I hope you’re selling plenty of houses,’ Adam says.

‘That’d pay for ten weeks in my place,’ says Tony.

‘Yes, but it’s London, not Norwich.’

Craig removes his tie and drinks his beer.

‘What’s the plan then?’ Adam asks.

‘We’ll have a walk up to the common and go to the pub. There are usually loads of girls there sunbathing when the weather’s nice. I’ll go and get changed.’

Craig returns in a white polo shirt, camouflage combat shorts and Havaianas flip-flops. He messes up his hair and puts on his sunglasses.

Adam and Tony are sitting on the sofas, drinking.

‘Have you had a makeover?’ Adam says, standing up to have a closer look at Craig’s clothes. ‘When did
you
start buying Abercrombie?’

‘I’ve only got one. You should have a look in Mark’s wardrobe. He’s got hundreds.’

Tony polishes off his bottle. ‘Let’s get going then.’

Clapham Common is teeming with activity. As well as the sunbathers and joggers, there are refereed games of eleven-a-side football and touch rugby, and a large group of shirtless men are having an Aussie rules training session. A gang of teenage boys are cruising around on BMX bikes, their faces shaded by baseball caps, and there are a number of professional dog walkers being pulled along by packs of spaniels and Labradors. A young girl’s birthday party is taking place in the shade of trees on the edge of the common and even the surrounding roads are busy with cars and buses.

‘Tony, stop staring, or at least put your sunglasses on,’ Adam says as he kicks a ball back to a fat child wearing an Arsenal shirt.

‘Mate, it’s hard not to. Look over there.’ Tony points at two
olive-skinned
girls in bikinis, stretched out on beach towels. One of them is reading
Heat
.

The boys wind their way towards the pub. Tony suggests getting some beers from a shop and sitting on the common, but Craig overrules him.

Three young women in Lycra shorts and bra tops bounce past and Tony follows them with his eyes.

As they get closer to the pub, Adam, squinting, reads the sign:

‘The Whore on the Common? What kind of a name is that?’

‘I don’t know. It used to be called The Thornton Arms.’

The pub is a two-storey Georgian hotel and bar which sits alone on
the edge of the common. Its name is displayed in golden letters high along the width of the building. A huge wrought iron lantern protrudes from the wall above the main door.

Outside, young drinkers are crowded around the wooden picnic tables. Four blonde girls in tiny shorts and big sunglasses are sharing a jug of Pimms next to a group of boys wearing low-cut t-shirts and smoking Marlboro Lights. To the right of the door, a chef is cooking on a barbeque made from an oil drum. The burgers are £12 each but the queue is over thirty people long.

Inside, it is shady and cool and none of the tables are occupied. The dull red walls are covered in old photographs of the common. The back half of the building is a restaurant with tables set for dining.

Tony orders three pints of Peroni, hands over a £10 note and is shocked when the barman asks for another three pounds eighty.

Outside, Adam and Craig pounce on a vacated table just ahead of a man in a South Africa rugby shirt. Tony carries the drinks over.

‘Four-sixty a pint, these are!’

‘It’s not cheap anywhere around here, mate,’ Craig says.

The boys toast Craig’s flat and all the girls they’ve just seen in bikinis.

‘How’s work going?’ Adam asks Craig.

Craig frowns. ‘I need the market to pick up. It’s been very quiet the last few months.’

‘Are you still doing stupid hours?’

‘At the moment I’m starting at eight-ish and usually finish about nine.’

‘Your dad said you were working a lot,’ Tony says.

‘It’s not like I can stop at six because I have to do as many viewings as possible in the evenings. Without any viewings, I can’t sell anything and I need the money.’

‘Are you still looking for other jobs?’ Adam asks.

‘Yeah, a bit, but I don’t get much time. I might just wait until I’ve done two years, then go. How’s everything at the school going?’ he asks Adam, changing the subject.

‘Mark’s just text me. He’s on his way here,’ Craig says.

‘Great,’ Tony says sarcastically. ‘Last time I came down here, he spent about an hour telling me about how much money he was earning.’

‘Have I met him?’ Adam asks.

‘Yes, you must have done, when we were at uni. He was in my halls in the first year. About five-eleven, brown hair, quite fat now.’

‘Was he the bloke at your birthday last year that kept going on about how he was going to buy a racehorse?’

‘That sounds like him.’

A black cab pulls up and Mark jumps out. He is decked out in a straw boater, white shirt, red shorts, and navy shoes. He waves over to the boys, hands the cab driver a £20 note and tells him to keep the change.

‘Where’s he come from, Monte Carlo?’ Adam says as Mark bowls over.

‘All right boys,’ Mark says, shaking hands with Adam and Tony. ‘Good to see you again. I was going to come down earlier but I got stuck in the office. What time did you get here?’

‘A couple of hours ago,’ Craig says.

‘It’s a quality boozer isn’t it,’ Mark says rhetorically. ‘How many beers have you had?’ He looks at the collection of empty plastic pints that are stacked up in the middle of the table.

‘Not many. Three each,’ Craig says.

Mark says he’ll get a round in and returns from the bar carrying eight beers on a tray.

It’s eight o’clock and the evening sun is filtering through the trees. Most of the afternoon drinkers have dispersed and been replaced by people dressed up for a night out. The buzz of chatter drowns out the traffic and inside there’s a deep queue at the bar.

‘Do you work in Norwich?’ Mark asks Adam.

‘Just outside. I teach PE and English at Walsham College.’

‘What’s that? Comprehensive?’

‘No, it’s private.’

‘Is that where you three went?’

‘No,’ Craig says. ‘We went to the Lord Nelson. Walsham were our rivals.’

‘PE teaching must be easy,’ Mark says, ‘all you’ve got to do is show a few kids how to play rugby.’

‘Well, it’s a bit more than that. I don’t teach rugby anyway.’

‘It’s a private school that plays
football
?’ Mark says, incredulous.

‘No, we play both. I teach football though. We have specialist coaches for all sports.’

‘Adam played for Norwich when we were younger,’ Craig says.

‘How come you don’t still play? Mark asks.

‘I broke my leg in two places in a reserve match.’ Adam points to three long scars on his left shin.

‘That’s unlucky mate. Did you ever play in the first team?’

‘No.’

‘I think being a footballer’s overrated though,’ Mark says. ‘If you’re playing for Chelsea or Man United I could understand it, but not in the lower leagues. And your career’s over by thirty-five. Even if you were getting ten grand a week, that’s not enough to retire on.’

Adam raises his eyebrows at Craig.

Mark’s watch twinkles in the fading sun. ‘Where are we going tonight?’

‘Can we go to Hoxton or Shoreditch?’ Tony says. ‘I read about them in a magazine’

‘No. They’re full of cocks in skinny jeans,’ Mark says.

‘It’s five past eight,’ Craig says. ‘I reckon head back in a minute and get changed.’

‘What time is that girl and her mates meeting us?’ Adam asks.

‘Who’s that?’ Mark asks.

‘Hannah,’ Craig says. ‘We’re not meeting them any more. She’s gone home for the weekend.’

‘But you said-’ Tony starts.

‘Yeah, sorry. There are loads of other girls around here. It’s no big deal.’

‘What are the plans then?’ Mark asks impatiently.

‘Drink at the Railway or Chernobyl, then Fire Bombs?’ Craig
suggests
.

‘Craig, you can’t invite your mates down here and take them to Fire Bombs.’

‘What’s Fire Bombs?’ Tony asks.

‘It’s a shit club down the road from here,’ Mark says. ‘It’s like a
student
union, but with fat old women instead of fit students, and the drinks are watered down. It’s where you go if nowhere else will let you in.’

‘Where do you want to go then?’ Craig asks.

‘I’ll show you boys a proper London night out. Let me make a call.’

The black cab turns onto Piccadilly and Mark tells the driver to take the right after The Churchberry. He tells Mark he knows where he’s going.

They stop outside The Clarion, a dark, overcrowded pub. Most of its customers are standing out on the pavement, drinking and smoking. The boys split the fare equally.

‘Let’s get a beer here first,’ Mark says, slamming the taxi door behind him. He adjusts his powder blue Paul Smith trilby and leads the way in. The pub has an uneven wooden floor and old gas lamps hanging from the ceiling. He orders four Magners from the Kiwi barmaid, asks Craig to wait with him and tells the other two boys to find somewhere to stand outside.

‘Is this it?’ Craig says, flattening the lapels on his shirt.

‘Of course this isn’t it.’

‘Please tell me we’re not going to Mankini.’

‘Got it in one,’ Mark says with an exaggerated grin.

‘Mark, how are we meant to afford a night in there? It’s insanely expensive.’

‘It’s not that bad, I went there a couple of weeks ago. I’ve booked a table.’

‘How?’

‘I know a guy who works there.’

‘How much does it cost to get in?’

‘Nothing, I’ve booked. Look, I know it’s not cheap but it’ll be fine. I’ll just stick the drinks on my credit card and you can pay me back.’

‘Mark, you know I haven’t got any money.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Pay me back when you can.’

They carry the drinks out to Adam and Tony who are standing beside three older men in black tie who are smoking cigars.

‘Is that Mankini down there?’ Tony asks, pointing to a doorway down the road where two giant bouncers are standing beside flaming Roman torches. A blonde hostess with a clipboard waits between them.

‘Where do you think we’re going?’ Mark says.

‘Are you being serious?’ Tony says.

‘I’ve sorted it. Special treat for you boys. We’ve got a table reserved.’

‘I thought you were going to take us to a strip club, not some celeb hangout,’ Adam says.

You’ll love it,’ Mark says, pouring cider into his glass. ‘It’s the home of the rich, the famous, and tonight, you three. Mark my words, the girls are amazing. Even better than the birds you get in Clapham.’

Tony looks anxious and keeps pressing an area on his chin. ‘I think I’ve got a spot coming. It might put the ladies off. Is there a dress code?’

‘No. It’s relaxed. Everyone wears stuff like this really,’ Mark says referring to his white and navy striped polo shirt, ripped jeans and white plimsolls. ‘You can’t wear trainers though. They might say something about your t-shirt not having a collar, Adam, but if they kick up a fuss, let me handle it.’

‘I’m glad I brought a proper shirt and shoes with me,’ Tony says. ‘God, I actually feel nervous.’

‘It’s only a bloody nightclub, Tony. Don’t be such a tit,’ Adam says.

‘Yeah, probably better if you don’t start chatting to the bouncers on the way in, Tone,’ Craig says. ‘And try not to talk to anyone when we’re in there either.’

Mark strolls past the queue of floppy-haired boys, and the other three follow him.

‘Mark Hunter. I’ve got a table,’ he says to the girl with the clipboard.

Tony and Adam look up at the luminous orange sign.

The bigger of the two bouncers puts his hand on Mark’s chest as he tries to follow the girl through the doors. ‘No trainers.’

‘These aren’t trainers, they’re deck shoes. Ralph Lauren.’

The bouncer takes his arm away and Mark ushers the boys in. They are taken down a pitch-black staircase which resounds with the sound of rhythmical drumming and squawking animals.

The compact nightclub is themed to resemble a tropical island and is almost as hot. The walls are decorated with palms, rows of exotic
flowers
and menacing tribal figures, including one with an excessively large phallus. Stuffed parrots and other birds are suspended from the ceiling. The centre of the club is dominated by a giant circular tank where
fluorescent
fish swim amongst coral reef and miniature shipwrecks as
Atomic
booms out.

A group of big-haired girls are drinking cocktails at a table designed to look like a giant drum. They ignore the boys as they walk in. Nobody is at the bar, the dance floor is empty and one of the Hawaiian-shirted staff is having a beer.