The Folded Man (3 page)

Brian shrugs, yawns quietly. Nowt else to do, he says.

No, really, goes Noah.

Brian hops his wheels up the kerb, wheels his chair up on to the weed-split pavement, over dandelions poking tall through cracks. Over this redeveloped land that seems so given to nostalgia. Brian rolls forward, towards his fortunes.

Behind, Noah shouts: And catch a donkey home later – a proper taxi like these council bastards used to run!

 

Brian rolls
into a dirty building with boarded windows; rolls into another
kind of waiting room for another kind of medicine. A
room where everything is wood panel and chipboard seats; where
time has slipped and left its holes.

This is Brian – stolen away between dirty walls on dirtier streets, in and among the filthy girls and the nervous, waiting men – the night-time hiding them all. This is The Cat Flap – a bad rumour lit in purple by blacklight UV bulbs, decorated with taxi firm numbers and take­away menus. A promise of a better night out. Where ­yogic young women pout and spread themselves open on every wall.

Brian, nose full of beak, guts full with adrenaline, hands full of government cash. Brian, at the desk, where you pay with more than money.

Mel looks at his head poking up over the counter. She looks battle-weary, a fringe greased over one eyebrow. Old mascara, fresh red lipstick.

Cassie is it? she says.

Cassie and another, Brian says.

Would you like to see the menu?

He shakes his head. He feels sick and excited and ashamed. I'm just watching, he says. Just want to watch.

Well go and sit over there, Mel says.

He nods and pulls backwards; turns and pivots. Parks himself by a big man with violent tattoos of dead flowers and smashed vases. Shot birds flail down his arms in spirals towards his elbows.

Fuck you looking at, spacker? the tattooed man says.

Eyes to the ground. To the sides. Everywhere but.

Eyes to the videos.

Brian sees a man with four girls on a screen above Mel's desk. He watches skin pulled and spread and pinched. Watches girls slapped and spat on. Backsides spread and hairy hands spreading.

A small bell rings – a corner shop's door chime. Six girls walk out, begin to parade and twirl – a pageant inverted. In a line, they wiggle hips and push their breasts together. They push out their tongues and lick their bright white teeth.

Pink bikinis, spotted knickers, undersized bra cups. Long fingernails over gussets. They are numbered with lipstick on their bellies. One, two, three, four, five, six.

The tattooed man stands up and storms from The Cat Flap. Another fucking place filled with sand-niggers, he sneers, to Mel, to Brian, to the girls.

Numb, nobody really bats an eyelid.

Oi, goes Mel. Cassie's waiting.

Brian browses. Brian window-shops. Brian umms and ahhs.

Brian decides he likes the girl with the tattoo – a set of paw-prints that run from hip to navel. He wonders how many fingers have walked that path across her stomach, and whether that was the point. She is number four. She's just this side of five-foot-five. Tall enough for anyone by any standard.

A perfect height for Brian.

Number four has dark hair. Downy cheeks. Fuzz on her belly –

This one, he points, the vomit crawling to his mouth, his eyes starting to water. Number four.

She doesn't smile. Doesn't pout, doesn't anything.

He imagines trying to work out where he ends and she begins.

Cassie! shouts Mel, their manager. His host for the evening.

Cassie comes to the door, hair up. She has creamy skin and bruised shoulders.

You and Celeste, Mel says. She nods to number four and then to Brian. And this gentleman.

Brian knows they don't even pretend here. No Jacuzzis, saunas or steam rooms. No lockers for work trousers; nice massages for hard workers.

Cassie recognises him. She kind of pauses, then winks. She says to Celeste, you'll do a good scene with me, won't you love? Ninety for starters is it? Oh, he'll pay more. She grins at the room. At her girls. Girls one to six.

I think this one likes to watch. Don't you love?

And all the girls are looking at Brian. All the girls are giggling and ganging up.

 

In the room, on the bed, Celeste and Cassie kiss awkwardly. Brian watches, a metre away, at the foot of the bed. They've wheeled him in and wobbled their hips. They took his hat and ignored his hair.

The girls kiss some more. The girls undo each other's bras. The girls remove each other's stockings. The girls kiss each other's nipples. The girls writhe and stroke and slap. The girls push fingers into each other. The girls pretend to come.

The girls stop.

The girls talk in their mothers' language. In Urdu. The girls giggle and look sidelong at Brian.

Celeste pushes her round
brown breasts in Brian's face. The fuzz against his
chest. Cassie pulls at his blanket, exposes his hand, pulls
at his joggers and his underpants. All that polyester and
precome.

Together, holding his arms back, they pull his hard penis loose. They spit on it. Cassie runs behind and pushes the chair to the bed, holding Brian's hands tight behind his head.

Celeste kneels forward onto all fours, her backside dangling from the edge of the bed, her hands pulling herself open. Cassie pushes Brian closer in his chair, howling with laughter. She bends and spits on him again. Bends and puts him in her mouth. A condom now, as if from nowhere, tight at the base, trapping hairs. But Brian's gone limp.

Brian goes weak.

The girls giggle some more. The girls, they pull Brian's joggers off.

The girls scream to high bloody heaven, covering themselves.

This is sex. Between grubby walls and dirty sheets. Between the bookies and the bus home.

This is sex. That bad, bad rumour.

 

The taxi driver's called Tariq. He finds Brian sprawled on the road, wheelchair tipped on its side, blanket torn. He finds Brian half-conscious and muttering, sick down his face, his hat hanging off his head. Brian who looks surprised and shocked and angry and lost. Who's all wet and tired and seems confused.

Tariq heaves Brian up, rights the wrongs. Big lad, Tariq is. Thick round the top half. He says, Good night, was it pal?

Brian murmurs.

Get you home shall we?

Tariq drives an old Vauxhall with a big boot and a heavy foot. Like most things in their city, it only works to a point. Inside, the windows steam up quickly. Brian feels baffled. Numb by the arse. He looks out to low cloud and back to worn seat fabric. Draws three stickmen, two legs apiece, on the windows. Then, he rubs them out.

Fact is, there aren't many Asians with curfew licences, so Brian's surprised to meet Tariq. It's rarer still that he's gone unchecked by the local lads. They strung a guy from a lamp post the month before – called the police and said we don't pay fares to their type. But he doesn't ask. Doesn't care. This is getting home. This is going to bed.

The taxi stops at the house. Tariq looks out at the sharp­line fence, the cameras, the floodlamps, the wrought-iron gates.

Tariq passes him a business card. I'm around and about. Could do with some more regulars.

Brian takes the card. Grunts. Looks out at the purple Transit, parked on his side of the road.

The house where Brian rots.

3.

Saturday. First light is a fresh yolk dashed across the Pennines – an orange line that turns the edges of morning pink. But there's always fragility to sunshine over the moors – a pregnancy. Because for everyone here, everyone nearby, warm weather on these hills is just weather waiting to relapse.

Brian is falling through the morning – falling and burning through. He's been drinking and smoking since four. By seven, he's still numb but somehow focused, scratching hard from toe to hip, trying harder to roll a thin joint for later. At eight, he calls for a cab and waits in his porch, locking and unlocking and relocking the deadbolts.

Brian smells of burnt hair and yesterday's clothes. He hasn't noticed the sick on his coat sleeves, and definitely hasn't clocked the bent spokes on the left wheel.

 

The taxi runs hot, running reds. You don't stop on this road. Not for porn shops or bookies; the gold exchange or the social clubs. Not by the boarded-up terraces with their lights still on inside. Not for the fresh flowers on railings; not for the wet red sand beneath them. Not even for some kid's body in a shattered bus stop, head spread over a metre in long red ribbons. The party from the night before.

By Noah's shop, Ancoats, bordering town, Brian pays for the cab. Another ten pounds to cross about ten minutes of hell. The driver says nothing; he just gets out, opens the boot, and unfolds the wheelchair.

Brian shuffles himself across the backseat.

 

A shoe shop was never the most imaginative front, but Noah's drugs factory is getting so close to legit he's taken to handing out business cards with his bribes. There's isn't a bastard missing on his books – pigs through pimps, councils through ex-cons. He's the go-to man. The shop's just there so he isn't rubbing important noses in his success. A kind of upright hobby to hide the plants and the pills.

Brian rolls through puddles and up kerbs. He clips the doorframe, clatters the entry bell.

In one aisle, Noah's holding a pair of school shoes to a little girl's feet. Her mother is thumbing some catalogue, licking fingers, pulling corners. Brian recognises her. It's the young woman who knocked on about donations and animals.

Very early, pal, Noah says, not looking up. Having a bad do this morning – mind waiting?

The little girl stares at Brian, at the hat and the beard, the clothes, the blanket. The woman turns, smiles thinly, not really noticing, not really listening.

Brian shakes his head, holds up his baccy tin. I'll be outside.

Don't be a bloody hero, says Noah. He winks and points downstairs.

 

In the service lift with concertina doors, the whole thing wobbling and scraping down the shaft. At the bunker's edge next – inches of concrete-reinforced steel with an old bank vault door. Keying in the password – the codes, the capital letters. Eighteen characters plus the eye-scan. All that trust.

Hissing doors. Spinning locks. Hydraulics or pneumatics or something else besides.

Into the paradise factory. Into Noah's war room, the dark engine beneath his shop. A hole where fat walls make hiding places for powerful men.

Rolling in, his eyes adjusting, Brian hears the burbling hydroponics, scans the tools put down on busy work benches by the projects and the prototypes. In one corner, a bank of manual pill presses. Another, a rack of antique swords. In the centre, two bookshelves, each filled with car manuals and engineering theory. A shelf for pseudo-science. A shelf for UFO literature, truther literature. A shelf for battle tactics. A shelf for DIY transistor radios.

The switchbox hums. The lights flicker.

Brian rolls around the room, a slow pinball buzzing between Noah's interests and inventions. There are blueprints here – blueprints and plans. There are home-made grenades, too. Fertiliser drums and jam jars filled with industrial fasteners. A bin of clothes – all camo – some urban, some not. A weights' bench. A climbing wall. Gas masks. Space on the wall for reclaimed flags and symbols turned out by relatives after wars they never talked about. Something bad, pointy, under a lot of old bedsheets.

All of that in this world, this lair, where Noah plans some kind of new Manchester.

 

So I get this call, Noah says, giving Brian a start. Shit, pal. Make you jump there?

Don't sneak up like that, Brian says.

Noah walks over, smile as big as garage doors, a proud man in his dark bunker.

Brian, he goes, almost too close. I won't take long. Just let me tell you about this call.

Brian says, Okay.

Noah lights up and grabs a seat. So an
old client of mine – did some big campaigns for him
before the riots. A few afterwards. Garland he's called
. Biggest name I've handled, come to that. Guns, chems
, ‘lectrics – he's in all the main sectors, or anyway
the main sectors left. Heard of him, right?

Brian nods.

Big boys then and big boys now, and no bastard mistake. One of the few private contractors the state even touches, actually. More call farms than a suit's got stitches. More capital than sensible places to put it.

Right, Brian says. And what's he want?

Well he calls me up first thing. Just before you, come to that. He says, Noah. Noah, my man. You may remember me. Done us a good spread way back when, a full-colour holo-vinyl on the Arndale tower. Piddler now, isn't it, he says – a tiny pecker next to the Ferguson – but you got us results.

So I say to him, Hello Mr Garland, all polite – polite since it's not often you speak to clients so direct. A nice change from Harry taking a cut anyway. So yes, I say, I say, I do remember that job Mr Garland. I say, I was younger then, of course; more balls than brains. But I recall the cash was decent, the fanny was mint and the rep from a Garland job was priceless.

So Garland goes, Well, son. I'm interested in using your services again.

Noah winks at Brian, smiling again –

And I mean I'm thinking, Bingo! I'm thinking last time I worked for this guy, I could go to ground for a while. Another job like that, I'm living like a king again. Spending cash like some tower-level dick.

Brian nods.

So what did he want you to do?

Say again?

What's it all about?

Well, cut a short story shorter, fella wants me to attend a tech convention on his behalf. Take a few notes on his up and coming competitors while I'm at it. It's up in the hills, up our way. Exclusive as owt you've heard of. And no, I know – normally you call on me to climb things fast, put adverts on buildings faster. But then again, I'm thinking, what the fuck. I'm that go-to guy. It's cash. I'm out of retirement. This guy Garland trusts me to keep quiet. Thinks I'm a requirement.

So you're doing it? says Brian.

Lad's paying me to get over to a tradeshow, Brian. To spy for him. Course I'm bloody doing it.

And you brought me here to tell me that?

No, says Noah. He stands up and kneels by Brian's chair.

Brought you here because when a man takes
a short cut, a man gets muddy feet. Because I
reckon I'm taking you with me. ‘Cause if I
take you, I won't have to climb walls, look
through top windows. No short cuts. No muddy feet. Noah
taps his head. Got brains, see. Better brains than that
. I can walk straight in there with my pal Brian
in his wheelchair; my pal Brian who I care about
deeply. My pal Brian, a local war vet – Brian who
lost a leg doing heroic things in far-away lands
. My pal Brian, who's filthy rich on charity profits
and wants to walk again. They deal in mobile war
tech, son. They'll have walkers, robotics, platforms there. And
you'll be there in your Sunday best. You'll
be there with your medals. You'll be interested in
their products – and they just might be interested in you
. PR opportunities. Photo opportunities. Development opportunities. And me, I'll
be taking notes for our man behind the curtain.

Brian doesn't know. Brian feels angry. Lost in Noah's bunker.

These are places and meetings where real men go to sort out futures, says Noah. Not these hippy bastards working on AIDS drugs for people we won't ever meet. Cancer pills for old bags we'll never see or sleep with. These are the men who design real aid for real people. For me and you. For our country. Aid for heartbreak. Aid for the lost or losing. You hear whispers – good whispers –

Suffocated, sobering, shaking.

Men like Garland are men who want our country back, says Noah. These are the men to bring long wars home. No more Beetham towers. No more lads with exploding backpacks in our museums and post offices. Competition's good. Healthy. He wants new ideas from the best in his sector. From a couple of blokes in particular.

So why isn't he going himself? Brian says. If they're after the same and all?

Noah shrugs. Noah sniffs.

I don't know, he says. Complex thing, this military-industrial complex. Can't ever say for definite, can you. But they don't like our Government much, these lads – doubt they're keen on Garland's connections. Think Garland sold out or something. Purists aren't they. Sometimes you forget how business is business.

Won't folk there recognise you?

Noah scratches his neck. Fingers his palms. Stretches a bit.

Don't know, he says. Maybe. Probably. What's to say nobody there bloody invited me?

Brian shakes his head.

It's just you've gone from scaling windows to rolling in with me.

Noah strokes his chin.

I'll have a shave or something. Don't fret the details.

And what do I get for helping? Brian asks, scanning the bunker. What if I don't want to come?

You will. It's something to do, says Noah. And after, well. Goes well you'll get as much minge as you want paying for. Classy types – European types. I can arrange that –

Trapped between walls and under ceilings.

Noah stands and sits on his weights bench. Noah spreads his legs and leans back.

So what thinks our Brian? he asks.

Brian looks on. Brian has a dry mouth.

I don't know either, he says.

On the weights bench, Noah starts pulling twenties.

Brian watches the brackets of vein expand down Noah's skinny biceps. The tendons on his neck pop out and in. Brian thinks of a sky gone pewter, with drizzle falling to dampen their day. He listens to Noah breathing through sets, twenty reps, twenty-five reps. Watches him plant hands on the floor, sixty incline push-ups, another round, then up into handstands and a short hop to his climbing wall. No chalk, just up and across, around and about.

Just think of all that fanny you could enjoy, Noah says, breathless.

When is it? goes Brian, following Noah across the wall.

Tomorrow night, says Noah, panting now, a crescent of sweat under each armpit. Best keeping your kind on their toes.

Brian says nothing, thinking, shite, and so soon. He
waits, rushing, hating himself and Noah
's presumption, wanting a line –

Wanting out of a world
he's running the edge of.

 

Later. Still Saturday. Under
blankets, in his chair, Brian the night-owl sits and
thinks. Brian is smoking and drinking and scratching hard in
bursts. The same three things he's done since twelve
-noon. Same three things for five long years. His day
measured in the scabs and skin he keeps for the
archives.

Brian is scared to sleep. Frightened of the dreams
–

He looks out at the Beetham memorial; the centre of
Manchester's gravity. A lustrous sunset, only turned on its
side.

Brian thinks to run a bath; to dig out
the salt and a pan scourer besides. To eat something
. To trim the hairs of a quadrant on his head
; reapply his Vaseline and his elastic bands.

Brian, he's
thinking hard. Long and hard – about what-ifs and consequences
. About slag and pavements. Torn between blackmail and bribery; between
duty and finances and morals. Between chances and lies. Torn
because he might not even care. Because it's about
using Noah. Using Noah or feeling used.

Brian, he's
weighing addictions – addictions, vices, sins. Easy money. Dirty money. Smoking
and drinking, watching and waiting. Trusting and breathing. A decision
to make. A favour to call in later. A promise
to keep. A stooge. A vet. A liar. A bastard
. Always that bastard. And now this chance for hips fused
to steel.

Maybe he's thinking too much. Might even
be fun, he tells himself. Leastways of interest.

And all
that war tech. Mobile war tech, maybe.

PR opportunities and
more.

Opportunities like making a half-man whole.