Death in Brunswick (13 page)

Yeah, and ham. But that ham…still, if I really heat it, it won't be so…what else? More cheese—hey! What's this?

He pulled out a half-full bottle of murky liquid labelled ‘Chinese Cooking Spirit—Sweet Variety'.
Well, any port in a storm!
He sniggered and took a big swig.

Jesus! Christ!
Sickly rawness seared his throat. He coughed violently.
That's awful! Still, maybe with pineapple juice.

He opened the tin of pineapple chunks and poured the juice into a jug, adding the rest of the bottle.

Ah! Not bad, a new cocktail! ‘Marquee Madness'.

He giggled and took another big drink.
Round the world for nothing.

He paced round the kitchen, sipping. Soon the jug was empty. He set it down with regret and sighed.

The fluorescent lights shone with a kindly radiance and the kitchen suddenly felt familiar and comfortable.

I'll sort of miss this kitchen. Let's face it, I've worked in worse—ah, well.

He started slicing chips again. He was a little clumsy and the knife slipped, giving him a slight nick on his finger.
Whoops! I better watch it, I don't want to leave a finger in the chips!

He laughed out loud.

He put the chips in the oven, moving with exaggerated care. Even so, he slipped as he was closing the oven door with his knee and smeared his jeans with hot grease.

Shit! My last good pair. I'll have to buy some new clothes, I can't keep wearing the same stuff all the time—Sophie will notice. They care about your clothes, those girls. I could get some of those Italian cotton pants, one of those knitted tops—some loafers—even a double-breasted suit! Yeah, and a striped shirt—that
would
make Mother happy.

He was lost in a sartorial reverie when he heard a shout from the serving area:

‘Hey! Any tea?'

He went out, looking at his watch.

Two skinny youths waited impatiently in the gloom. Their hair was cropped and slicked above their ears and fell lankly over dark glasses.

‘It's not ready yet,' said Carl with irritation. ‘Anyway, where's your food tickets?'

‘We're from a band.'

‘So fuckin' what? You go and get tickets off Tony at the door and come back in half an hour, OK?'

‘Shit! This place is the
pits
.'

‘Yeah, well don't blame me, pal,' said Carl toughly, ‘Yanni makes the rules—no special treatment for bands.'

They retreated, grumbling, into the darkness.

He was struck by a new and disturbing thought.
Sophie! She wouldn't…she couldn't be a
band rat—
no! Anyway she
likes
me, and said so. Take it easy!

He went to make more pizza.

He mixed the yeast, water, salt and flour in his largest bowl and mixed and kneaded the dough with his hands. He knocked it back, slapping big lumps down hard on the steel bench, enjoying the plasticine feeling.
Just like kinder!
he thought happily, moulding and rolling out wide strips and laying them into oven trays.

Whoops! I should have let it rise. Oh, they'll be right.

Stacking the trays on top of the stove, he lined up his toppings: tomato, onion, pineapple, cheese,
ham. No, I
can't
use that ham.
He sniffed it.
No! ‘When in doubt, throw it out' right.

He picked up the greasy lump and carried it out to the dump-master parked in the passage near the open back door. He looked out. A fine rain slanted down, making the garish club lights pleasantly blurred. Flickering pink neon made the dark street mysterious, a B-movie set. A queue was already forming near the front door and he could see Tony taking money and handing out tickets. Laurie stood massively by, his arms akimbo, towering above the slight kids around him.
Bastard! I hope he gets the runs so bad! I hope he shits those fucking leather pants.

Carl ducked back inside and lifted the dump-master lid. There was an angry buzz of flies and a terrible stench.

‘Christ!'

He threw in the ham; it landed with an unpleasant splash and gurgle. Closing the lid hurriedly, he grimaced.

Jesus! It hasn't been emptied for weeks. Well, it's not my business. But wait! What if I ring up the Health Department on the sly? I'd be doing the right thing and fixing these bastards as well. I'll do it Monday, I will!

Pleased with this Machiavellian scheme, he went back to ponder the pizza problem. Spreading the dough with tomato paste, he paused, nonplussed.
What time is it?

He looked at his watch; he had to squint to see the red numerals.

I must be getting tired already—those kids'll be lined up looking for food soon. Well, I can give 'em chips.

He fetched out the hot chips and dumped the oily load into a bain-marie tray. He tasted one.

Not that bad—
salt,
they need.

He sprinkled some on and then some more, remembering youthful tastes.

Time for a bit of light!
He reached up into a switch box, carefully avoiding a tangle of exposed wires, and pressed a switch. The spotlights flicked on.

The blinding light revealed the squalor of the servery with remorseless clarity.

He hurried back into the kitchen, grabbing a roll of alfoil and switching on the exhaust fans. Using a good half of the roll, he managed to disguise the worst of the muck.

No salad tonight—well they didn't ask for it so fuck 'em. Now, what about these pizzas? I need olives and more ham, and, and…
anchovies,
yeah. I wonder if that deli round the corner's open—Friday night! Of course it is.

Carl wasn't supposed to leave the kitchen after seven, but in his elevated state he didn't pause. He returned through the passage, peeped through the street door, waited till Laurie's back was turned and slipped out into the night.

*

He ran up to Sydney Road and stopped at the corner. He lifted his face to the sky; the soft rain bathed his face. He looked around. Brunswick was almost pretty, like a bad copy of an impressionist painting; the air smelt cool and clean. He felt like running on and on, away from the club forever. Only the thought of his pay stopped him.

The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in his head and he swung confidently up Sydney Road toward the delicatessen.

It was open. Arabic lettering slopped across the window, one side of which was full of dark unfamiliar cuts of meat, the other stacked with tins of chickens and tomatoes. A cedar of Lebanon was painted on the rickety door. He pushed it open and went in, sniffing the rich spicy aromas.

The shop was empty except for a dark middle-aged man waiting quietly behind the counter. A set of worry beads hung from one hand.

‘Hi!' said Carl brightly, ‘I'm the chef from the club. Yanni's got an account here, hasn't he?'

The man regarded him, frowning.

‘Yeah, but he no pay.'

‘Well, he said to tell you he'll fix you up tomorrow—we need a few things urgently. OK?'

A plump, tired woman came from the back of the shop and stood by her husband. They had a short conversation in liquid Lebanese Arabic, the man shaking his head and then shrugging.

Carl felt embarrassed and resentful as he always did when hearing a foreign language spoken in front of him.
What are they saying about me?

‘Look,' he said, moving toward the door, ‘don't worry about it.'

‘All right, what you want?' said the woman. ‘Yanni must pay, things very quiet, see?'

She gestured round the shop.

‘Oh right, er…large jar of olives, three tins of anchovies and…um, have you got any ham?'

Aren't they Arabs? Arabs don't eat ham, do they? Or is it beef?

‘Yeah, we got ham, sure, how much you want?'

‘Two kilos, no
three
, and…a carton of Escort cigarettes and…yeah, some of that halva, that bit there.'

Fuck Yanni, I'll get
something
out of him. I can take most of that ham home too.

‘Listen, make that two cartons of Escort, the…the machine's broken down. Right, put it all in a box, will you?'

He roamed round the shop taking a packet of dates here and a box of instant felafel there.

‘OK. Yanni'll pay tomorrow.' He grabbed the box and made for the door. ‘Shalom!' he cried, and went out.

That didn't sound right—never mind. Shit, I hope Yanni does pay them. They looked a bit…

He looked round again, breathing the damp air. There was a dingy little pub two doors up.

One more little drinkie!

He lunged through the swing door. Two or three old men nursed beers at the other end of the bar.

‘A double…ah…Southern Comfort thanks.'
Shit, two bucks left.

He swallowed the sweet, potent drink and hurried out, round the corner and down to the club, clutching the box under his arm and keeping close to the wall.

The queue was longer and boys and girls were drifting away from the end.

‘Fuck waiting round in the rain,' Carl heard as he reached the back door. Two thick-set boys in cut-off T-shirts were arguing with Tony at the front entrance. Laurie stepped out and without a word propelled them down the street, gripping them firmly by the shoulders.

Carl dodged down the passage and into the kitchen, pushing the box under the bench. He sauntered out to the servery, caught his toe in a loose tile and staggered through the door. There was a low round of applause from the few customers waiting patiently holding tickets.

‘Any pizza, mister?'

‘Pretty soon, kids, how about some chips?'

He fetched a pile of plates and dumped them onto the cold tray. They toppled and slid with a clatter.

‘Right, who's first?' he said expansively.

Soon the chips were gone.

‘Sorry, kids, that's it for now.'

He felt a little muzzy.
Hell! I better get moving—‘feed the starving' and all that.

He daubed dough with tomato paste and threw on anchovies, olives, ham and cheese with abandon.
Quite artistic this—like action painting.
He stood back and cast mushrooms at random.
Hey, this is fun.

He threw the trays into the oven, burning himself on the door.

‘Shit! Shit!
Shit!
' he yelled, sucking his hand.

He slid the pizza into the oven and held his hand under the cold tap. Too late—a blister was already forming.

He sat down, a little sobered by the pain.

I knew something would…ah shit! What a downer.

He lit a cigarette and sat nursing his hand. Sophie came in briskly.

‘Hey, Carl, you got some customers out there, you know.'

‘Yeah, I know, I know, it's all coming. I just burnt myself, bugger it.'

She looked at him.

‘You all right?'

‘Oh yeah, sure, I just…'

He pulled her down onto his knees.

‘I just felt a bit pissed off, you know? Jesus, that uniform really suits you.'

He ran his hand up the net stocking.

‘No, don't, love. I told you about Laurie and them—someone might come.'

‘Bugger Laurie! I'll fix him! I did already,' he said, chortling.

‘Oh sure, Carl. Hey, how much have you had to drink?'

‘Well, a bit, you know. I found some goodies in the store but I'm all right. Sophie, hey, listen—what you just called me…do you? You know…I mean
I
do.'

‘Come on, Carl, I got to go back.'

‘Why? Is it busy?'

‘No, not really. Not like we thought. Must be the rain—Yanni's shitting himself. He's giving everyone a real hard time—so I'll see you after work, OK? Helen, my girlfriend, you know—she's having a party. You want to come?'

‘No, I can't,' he groaned. ‘I got to clean up and anyway I have to go home. My mother's staying—shit! I forgot to ring her.'

‘OK, Carl, I'll see you later then.'

‘No, Sophie, wait! Ring me tomorrow—and we'll talk about you leaving home and that. I'm getting some money soon, a lot really, and we could…well…you know what I mean? You
do,
don't you?'

‘Yeah, I guess so. All right, I'll ring you tomorrow afternoon. Take care.'

She laid her cool hand on the back of his neck.

‘OK?'

‘Oh, Sophie! All right. Yeah, off you go.'

He walked with her to the door and watched her climb the stairs. A boy waiting by the servery followed her sturdy figure with his eyes.

‘Bit of a spunk, eh? What d'you reckon?'

‘Just shut up, kid! What do
you
want? No pizza for fifteen minutes.'

‘All right, all right, Jesus!'

Shit, I better ring Mother—God, I do feel a bit pissed.

His head was starting to pulse. Thundering basses from above shook the air and, with a piercing scream, the night's entertainment commenced.

He picked up the phone and dialled. He had a little difficulty remembering his number. With one hand over his ear:

‘Hello, Mother, you all right? Sorry I didn't ring before.'

‘I'm fine, dear. I've just had my supper, and I'm sitting down to watch lovely Ronnie Corbett. Are you at work, Carl? I do hope so.'

Jesus! Can't you hear? You deaf old cow!
There was a deafening feedback buzz.

‘Sorry, Mother, I can't hear a thing. Listen, I'll be late tonight, I have to work back.'

‘What I wanted to say to you, dear…'

‘No, Mother, I haven't got time. See you tomorrow.' He put the phone down quickly.

*

Back in the kitchen, he took the pizzas out, sliced them and shook the pieces into the bain-marie.
More chips…
He dragged the bag of potatoes to the bench. On it, in the clutter, he noticed a full glass.

Hey! Good old Soph, she remembered.

Without thinking he took a big drink. His stomach heaved, his eyes blurred and watered and his mouth was full of salty liquid. Clutching the bench, he waited with his head down.
Oh God, I should have had something to eat.