Chapter Nine
As the months went by Martin continued to write, to redraft what he had sent. The story grew. It began to fill the writing room. Martin hand-wrote potential plots and stuck them to the walls, with wall planners depicting timelines to make sure the episodes he was writing would make sense. About once a week Alison went inside and collected the empty cups and glasses, the plates and biscuit wrappers. She never touched the bundles of paper or stacks of books. Once she stopped and picked up the top page of one of the bundles.
Gregor was holding a syringe to someone’s neck. The person was tied to a chair, with tape around his mouth and dirty sweat covering his face. His eyes were wide with terror as Gregor was advising him not to move, lest he miss the vein and cause some damage. He was wondering aloud if this amount was enough to overdose on.
“It’s a combination of meth and DMT, so it’s hard to predict. It all depends on your tolerance,” he was saying. “Of course it could just go straight to your brain and cause a fatal seizure. It also depends on how clean the rig is. So let’s give it a go shall we? Remember hold still. If this kick doesn’t kill you, you’ll be on one hell of a ride; this is after all a cocktail of our best amphetamine with our best hallucinogen. It’s a shame Lucy isn’t here to see this,” he was saying. “But she will. You see I’m going to film you, so that she can see. It’s only fair, you saw her. You thought that was a good experiment? Now let’s try this experiment, let’s just see what happens.” He touched the point of the needle to the eye of the tattooed scorpion, right on the jugular. “Hold still,” he whispered. The needle punctured the skin and a thin cloud of blood seeped into the chamber of the syringe. Gregor pushed the plunger all the way down.
Martin started coming up the stairs. Alison hurriedly replaced the page on to the top of the bundle and picked up the empty cups. She was walking out the door just as Martin reached the top of the stairs. She felt flushed and avoided his eyes as she stood aside to let him pass into his room. Martin didn’t turn around. He just closed the door. Alison stood for a moment, then went down the stairs. At the bottom step she turned and called, “I was talking to my folks. I was thinking of going up to the lake for the weekend. What do you think?”
Martin’s voice came from behind the closed door, “That sounds great. You go.”
“I go?”
“I can’t leave this now.”
Alison stopped still for a few moments with her hand on the stair rail, looking up at the light coming from underneath the door. “I go,” she said.
* * *
That Friday, walking up the hill from the train station, Alison thought about how she would confront Martin. All day at work she hadn’t been able to concentrate. The open plan of the office meant that she could see everyone else tapping on their keyboards and talking into their phones, and she wondered what their home lives were like. None of them lived with someone like Martin, she knew that, and she cherished how different he was. But it wasn’t working out. Where was the life they had looked forward to together? Surely they hadn’t been together long enough to start ignoring one another?
By the time she was in front of the house she was ready to go upstairs and tell him to stop his writing until they had talked this through.
When she opened the door the warm aroma of fried garlic and spring onions mixed with fresh bread filled the house and Martin came out from the kitchen. Before she could say anything he apologized. His head was so deep in the book, he was sorry, he would make it up. He took her jacket from her and hung it up.
The table was set. Alison sat down in front of a smoked salmon and fresh salad with a walnut mustard and goat cheese dressing. She picked up her fork and tried to remember what she was going to say to him, but he got in there first, talking as she took her first bite. He appreciated how hard she worked and he knew that it must seem like he didn’t do anything. He admired her for how hard she worked, how she put up with him, all that she was doing for them together.
As he talked he went back into the kitchen and took the freshly baked bread rolls from the oven, putting them in a basket and bringing it to the table. He must look like a total loser from her point of view, sitting up in his room, only thinking about a world which wasn’t real, trying to describe and rationalise actions of people who only existed in his head.
He sat opposite her. Thank you, he said, for putting up with me. I will make it up to you, he said, I promise. He picked up the wine bottle and went to pour. She put her hand over her glass.
“I’m still driving up to the lake tonight. Are you coming with me?”
He put down the bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No.”
They looked at each other. There was silence for a moment.
“I can’t now,” he said. “I’m right in the middle of it, I’ve just got to get through this next episode. I don’t want to break the rhythm.”
“Okay,” she said. “But we need to do something together soon. Okay? I need for us to do something together.”
“We will, I promise we will, and I don’t want to let you down. But I need to do this.” Martin looked at her imploringly.
Alison tapped her hand on his and drew it back to cut her salmon. “Don’t look so upset. Maybe a few days apart will be good for us anyway.”
As she ate she regarded him. It was hard to remain angry at him when he took things so deeply. Maybe all they needed was a bit of space. She looked out the window. At the end of the garden, the trees had grown and thickened, and she saw their tops against the darkening sky. They leaned and nodded gently toward each other, their branches reaching and missing, then touching, then missing again.
“I should leave soon if I’m going,” she said. “I don’t want to drive all the way in the dark. That was lovely.”
Within ten minutes he was waving goodbye, and the driveway was empty. He stepped back into the frame of the front door. He saw lights come on and curtains close in the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the street. A flock of crows passed overhead. He looked up and watched them fly. Against the fading sunlight he saw their fluid unity, he listened to the echoes of their sharp coarse calls shifting and changing with the shape of their flight as they flew to roost in the dark woods beyond.
Martin stepped back inside the front door and closed it. He stood for a moment as the silence established its momentum, and then sat down on the bottom stair. He took his phone from his pocket. Will be there within the hour, he texted. He pressed send.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Martin was on the train into the city. The carriage was half-full. This train had come a long way before it had stopped for him, and the people on it were tired and quiet.
Outside the shadows were claiming the countryside. In the distance the lights from the high rises were peering at him like guardian eyes at the edge of the city. He was coming from the new streets and clean walls of his estate, where even now the loose leaves stuttering their way across the dark smooth tarmac between the houses were making patterns on the streets which had never been made before, and he was entering the city, where the concrete was stained and aged, where every road had been crossed in every way it could be, where the shadows had been filled with every dark possibility, and where the street lamps were pushing old light through dense used air.
Martin wondered what it would be like to unthink something. Once something developed in your mind, once a thought had created shape, it could never be undone. The best you can do, he decided as the train sped toward the city and the night, is isolate it.
* * *
The last time Ozzy had seen Martin he was waving good-bye to him out of the back window of a police car. It was a matter of bad luck. It could have been either of them being taken away, but the way it worked out it was Ozzy in the back seat and Martin left with the long walk home. They had been out for the night, Martin talking about quitting the bar and just writing, Ozzy saying that if he quit the bar he wouldn’t have any decent material to write about. Martin teased Ozzy that he was just trying to get him to stay because he would miss him, and Ozzy said that was bullshit, that Martin going meant just there was a vacancy which could be filled by somebody much better looking with a better pair of tits.
They had been drinking for hours, with Martin threatening to go home as he finished each drink, either back to his damp bedsit or back to Alison’s warm bed. Ozzy said that he was nuts to even see it as a choice—how could he not go back to Alison’s? Martin’s rationale was that he didn’t want Alison to think he had no life beyond her, he had to have some level of independence. The bedsit was dark and damp, but it was his space at least. On the other hand, he really didn’t want to go back there. He couldn’t decide, and the more he drank the less he cared about the choice. Then Ozzy suggested scoring some weed.
After a taxi ride to the wrong place and then a long drunken walk they finally reached the street where Ozzy’s dealer lived. Ozzy went in and Martin waited on the street. It was mostly shop fronts with the shutters down and doors in shadows. Ozzy finally came back out smiling and saying they were going to have a great night.
They walked for about thirty seconds when two young guys came up behind them, pushed them against the wall, reached into Ozzy’s jacket, took the bag of weed, and ran. Ozzy and Martin ran after them. They followed them down a narrow lane and saw them jump over a fence. They followed, Ozzy shouting after them, and Martin falling behind and rolling through flowerbeds as they ran through back gardens and yards, climbing over fences and wire. Martin watched as Ozzy clambered over a fence and dropped down on the other side. He heard a moan and cursing. Then barking and growling.
“Don’t come over!” Ozzy called. Martin looked around the back yard he was in. There was a gate. He opened the gate and was out in the back alley. He walked to the fence of the garden Ozzy was in. The fence was high. He called over.
“Are you okay man?”
“There’s no fucking way out!” Ozzy shouted back. “It’s deeper than the other gardens, I can’t climb out!”
“Is there a dog?”
“Fucking damn right there’s a dog! He’s not happy. It’s okay, there’s a good boy.”
The growling increased in volume.
“Where did those two guys go?”
“Fuck knows.”
“How about climbing up on something? Is there anything?”
“No, nothing. Oh, shit, there’s a light coming on. Shit, shit—they’ve seen me—shit.”
There was a minute of silence, broken by the occasional growl, before a window opened and a woman’s voice said, “We’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”
Ozzy called back, “Hey I’m not here to, well—I’m here by accident, I don’t want to steal anything. I’m not—if you could just let me—” The dog started barking again and the window shut.
“Ah, come on, I’m here by accident! Please? You miserable old bitch? Please?”
“You got to be more friendly, Oz,” Martin called over the fence. “Don’t scare her off. Ask her for a cup of tea.”
So Ozzy was stuck in the yard and the police were on their way. With Martin on one side of the fence and Ozzy on the other they figured out what they were going to do. They reckoned those kids probably did that to guys coming out of the dealer’s place on a regular basis, the little bastards. They changed the story. Ozzy threw over his phone. He had been chasing two guys who had stolen his phone. That was the story.
Soon Martin could hear Ozzy petting the dog on the other side saying, “There’s a good boy, good boy. He’s fine now, Martin, he’s wagging his tail. There’s a good boy.” In another few minutes they were laughing. “At least I’ll get a lift back into the city centre,” laughed Ozzy.
When the police did turn up, Martin walked around to the main road and watched as Ozzy was brought out the front door and loaded into the police car. As the car pulled away, Ozzy flashed Martin a smile and little low wave out the back window. He saw Martin get smaller and smaller on the empty street.
Now, as Martin walked into the club, Ozzy could see he hadn’t been taking care of himself. He was wearing a faded check shirt and blue jeans. His unruly, wavy hair with the occasional curl was down to his shoulders and he had a beard, wiry and unkempt, creeping up to his cheekbones. His belly was pushing into his shirt. He smiled when he saw Ozzy.
As he walked over Ozzy threw his arms in the air, “Shit! Just ’cause you’re trying to be a fucking writer doesn’t mean you have to try so hard to look like one! What are you writing, a cook book?”
“Well, it’s good to see you too, and I see the hunger strike is still in place?”
“This is just muscle, pure muscle and bone. I’m not carrying any extra around,” he said, poking Martin in the stomach. “What’s with the wild west look?” He tugged at Martin’s beard. “You should have gone for the power goatee.” He stroked his own moustache and goatee like a villain considering how long his victim has before the train comes.
“Yes, I see you’ve got the pirate look down,” replied Martin, pointing at the red bandana covering Ozzy’s hair.
“Well, at least pirates get to plunder. Cocktail?”
“Just a beer for the moment, Oz. How’s Sal?”
“Sal?”
“Your girlfriend. Sally?”
“Oh! Sally! Sal, yeah. No she’s not on the scene any more. Um, no, yeah, that stopped working out. Zoe is here, though. I been seeing her for a few weeks now.”
“Where is she?”
“I think she’s off hassling the DJ. She’ll be back now. She is fiery, man. So how about it? How are things?”
“Alison is away for the weekend, so …”
“So party! Aha!”
“You know, just been …”
“Here she is.”
Zoe approached them. She was short and bleach blonde with leather trousers and a black netted top through which Martin could make out a purple bra pushing her little breasts into an unnatural cleavage.
“Any joy?” Ozzy asked.
“Nah, the guy’s a prick with a prick’s iPod full of music by pricks. We can’t hang round here. I’m fucked if I’m listening to this wanky shit all night.”
“I was just going to get another round in.”
“Don’t bother. Is this your mate then?”
“Yeah, Martin, Zoe. Zoe, Martin.”
“Well where will we go then?”
Martin said, “I never liked this place anyway.”
“Don’t know, but let’s get out of here,” Zoe said, and Ozzy pursed his lips around his straw and drained the last of his cocktail from the glass. Then they left the club, walking out into the warm city air.
“There’s always the Alabama,” said Martin.
“No fucking way,” said Zoe “Not after the last time.”
“What happened last time?” They stopped at the corner, waiting for the lights to change.
“Zoe got done in the face,” Ozzy said. The traffic whizzed past.
“What? Someone hit you?”
“Fucking damn right someone hit me. This tart smashed me in the face with her stiletto.” The traffic stopped and the green man flashed and beeped. They stepped onto the road.
Martin shook his head and asked, “Why? Why did she hit you?”
“Fuck knows. I didn’t do a thing, didn’t even see her before she started giving me a hard time, then I tell her to fuck off and she reaches down and then she’s got her stiletto in her hand and she fucking hits me with it, straight in the fucking face by my nose. Here look, you can see it. Look.” She stopped and turned to Martin, pointing to her face. He leaned down to see. Her skin was covered in a greasy film of a tan foundation. He couldn’t see any marks, just smears where the make-up was too thick.
“I, um, I can’t see.…”
Cars started beeping. The lights had changed. They were still in the middle of the road. She was still pointing at her face.
“It’s right there, right there, a big mark from where she stabbed me with her heel! Bitch.”
The cars beeped again, someone was shouting out their window. Zoe turned. “Fuck off!!” she shouted, pulling up her top to expose her bra, then continuing to the other side of the road. Martin gave a wave of apology before following her. As the cars drove past they gave long aggressive beeps. Ozzy was waiting on the footpath rolling a cigarette.
“Not the Alabama then. How ’bout J.D.’s?” He licked the cigarette paper and rolled it tight, then put it between his lips, smiling. “They got happy hour till ten.”
“J.D.’s,” Zoe said, and took it from him, putting it in her mouth, pouting her lips, and closing her eyes. Ozzy held the lighter and lit the end. She inhaled deeply. The tobacco glowed. Ozzy put his arm over her shoulder and they both turned and started to walk.
Martin followed them. Ozzy was much taller than Zoe, and as he rested his arm across her shoulders, she held onto his hand with both of hers and every now and then pressed her cheek against it. His jeans were low around his waist and his loose white t-shirt wasn’t doing much to hide his skeletal frame. His hair was black and lank, half covered by the red bandana. She was wearing Doc Martins. Her trousers were black leather, old worn leather, like an old couch. Martin could see the dark roots of her hair, could see rolls of skin bunching above her skirt through her netted top.
Ozzy leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She squeezed a bit closer to him. She came up to just below his shoulder. Despite the size difference, they seemed to walk in step. They looked comfortable together, passing the rolled cigarette back and to, before tossing it on the footpath.
The night was coming down into the city, but it didn’t feel cold. Taxis pulled over, emptying groups of guys and bunches of girls onto the street. The guys were puffing their chests out and the girls were keeping close to each other, laughing and clutching hand bags. It was just the start of the night, and the lights of the club signs were just starting to come into their own, just starting to stake their place, to make sense in the clutter of light of the city centre.
As they approached J.D.’s Ozzy turned his head and said, “No pussying out now, you’ve got no excuse. We haven’t been out in ages. Yeah?”
Inside J.D.’s they ordered more double cocktails despite Martin protesting that he only wanted a beer. When Zoe went to the toilets, Martin said, “Shit that’s terrible what happened at the Alabama. Was she really hurt?”
Ozzy shook his head. “Not as bad as the other one was. What was she telling you?”
“That some girl hit her in the face with her stiletto for no reason.”
Ozzy nearly spat his drink out. “Ha! No reason! Zoe had wound her up so far that the girl snapped. She was calling the girl a slag and a bitch and yeah, she took her shoe off and went for Zoe. I don’t really know what the fuck it was all about, I think that it had something to do with Zoe’s ex, but really …”
“Didn’t you ask her what it was all about?”
“No, I don’t give a shit! I mean, it’s got nothing to do with me, has it? And she’s been going on and on about it, but I still don’t know what the fuck it was all about. Anyway, the other bird got Zoe once in the face but it ended up with her on the ground, face down, Zoe kneeling on her back whacking the back of her head with her own stiletto heel. There was blood, but I don’t think it was Zoe’s. I dragged her off and then we were pulled outside by the bouncers. Just as well, because from what I heard, she ended up being taken away in a fucking ambulance. Nah, man, the reason we’re not going to Alabama is because we got no hope of getting in if we’re with her.”
“Jesus. How did you hook up with her?”
“She used to come into the club with a guy, massive guy, looked like a boxer. Always lined up tequilas, like, six shots at a time between the two of them. I thought she was hot then. Then she started coming in without him. I asked her about it, she said they’d broken up. I said there must be a queue of guys waiting to take his place. I told her that her drink was on me, that she could get me back on my break. Half an hour later she was giving me head in the staff car park.”
“Holy shit, the life of a pirate.”
“Arrggh.” Ozzy growled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “That’s nothing mate. We’ve been going to a club. A sex club.”
“A what? Like a, a swingers club?”
Ozzy winked and smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. Zoe appeared.
“What happened to your face?” she said to Martin. “You look like you just saw your mama have a wank.”
“Em, I …”
Ozzy butted in, “I was telling him about the Sugar Club.”
“Ooh, I didn’t know you were that kind of friends! Bum chums are we?”
“No way, Marty is as into pussy as I am, babes.”
“Well there’s lots of that, and cock too, if you fancy trying it out. You look like you might, Martin. Eh? Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”
Martin took a sip from his cocktail. “Well, it would take a lot of these, I can tell you.”
They all laughed and drank some more.
The night started to loosen up. J.D.’s was getting full of girls in heels and guys with gelled hair. There was a queue outside the door, a steady stream coming in, all wanting to have a good time. The DJ was playing Motown remixes, and the beats were crisp and the bass and horns were pushing grooves, releasing regular movement into the air, which was making people move. Even if it was just a nodding of the head or the slight sway of the hips, no-one was standing still.
It was past ten and happy hour was over, but there were more drinks lined up on the bar than before. In this crowded space, in this big ground floor room in the city, there was a constant movement of fluid; the bar staff pouring and pouring and pouring, glasses filling up and emptying, people filling up and lining up for the toilets. In between they danced and laughed, moved around each other in group orbits.
Martin saw all around him the tight shirts and fake tans, the make-up and false eyelashes, the plays for attention, the back and to of friendships and unsaid wishes for something closer.
“How’s life at ICE?” he asked.
“Same as when you left. Billy is still a wanker, but you get on with it.”
“I don’t know how you work there,” Zoe said, “if he was my boss he’d be hanging by his balls by now.”
“Well, babes, he’s just a duty manager. Everyone wants so bad for him to fuck up, but he never puts a foot wrong. He thinks he’s so above the rest of us. If only being a bastard was a sackable offence. I’m sure everyone has complained about him at least once, but he’s hanging on in there.”
The more the club filled up the louder they had to talk, until within an hour Zoe was shouting in Martin’s ear. He had his head down, leaning into her and she was on her tiptoes with her hand on his shoulder. Martin had to close his eyes so he could concentrate on what she was saying, to keep the beats and swirling music out and to keep the words in, to stop them from disappearing as soon as they were spoken. It seemed like they were the only ones standing still, keeping their place in the club; around them the people danced and pushed past.
Every time Martin opened his eyes he was surrounded by people he hadn’t seen before, laughing and shouting at each other, making faces and exaggerating gestures. Martin couldn’t see Ozzy. He had started bantering with a group of lads and girls and been carried away with them in the tide of people and alcohol. He had by now probably hooked up with another cluster of revellers. Martin had stopped looking out for him a while ago. He was concentrating on what Zoe was shouting into his ear.
They were gradually getting pushed closer and closer together until now their bodies were against each other, his arm around her waist and her face was against his neck, and as he listened to her he could feel the vibration of the heavy dub beats travelling through her body. She was telling him about her last relationship.
“He totally did one on me. One year. He was always telling me how much he loved me. He bought me things and told me how much he loved me. One year. Then I got pregnant.”
Martin shouted back, “Did you want that? I mean, were you happy?”
“When I was a teenager I had cysts on my ovaries. They told me I could never have kids. So it was like a miracle. But one I hadn’t wished for, I had accepted the no kids thing. It took me fucking ages to work out, you know? But I decided that it must be fucking destiny or something. This might be the only guy who could ever give me kids. It’s now or never. And when I made that decision then I really wanted to go ahead with it. Full blast. It didn’t matter if I was ready or not, life happens, you know? I mean, fuck it, it’s a baby. It’s a life inside me. One I never thought I would have. So that’s that. Then he turns around and says he doesn’t want me to do it. So it’s like, the child or him. I mean fucking hell, you know? So he talks me out of the baby, promises me all sorts, all about our life together, what we’ll do, the stuff we’ll be able to do and have if there isn’t a baby in the way. On the Sunday—the abortion is booked for the Tuesday—on the Sunday I check his phone.”
“Why did you check his phone?”
“A feeling. He had been on the phone a lot, texting a lot; I just had a look through his messages when he was in the shower. It only took a minute before I found a whole bunch of messages. Two girls. Two other fucking girls he was fucking. Two.”
Martin opened his eyes to look at Zoe. Her face was so close to his now that when he turned his head her nose was touching his cheek. He couldn’t focus on her she was so close. He leaned back and looked her straight in the face. His neck was sore from bending down to listen. She really was much shorter than he was. Her eyes were welling with tears.
All of a sudden he could see her as a fifteen year old, cheated on for the first time by an older boyfriend. A boyfriend who had told her he loved her, that she was the most special girl in the world, that she was the only light in his dark sky. He could see her as a six year old whose teary-eyed mother had explained, as the back door shut and the car engine started outside, that no matter what happened between Mommy and Daddy they both still loved her.
He took a swig of beer from his bottle and saw Ozzy in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of guys. He was leaning back with his arms triumphantly aloft and his mouth wide open and one of the guys in the group was holding a jug of blue neon liquid above his face, tilting it slowly as the group began to cheer. Martin leaned down to Zoe again, putting his lips close to her ear, breathing in her sweet perfume and acidic hair spray. On her shoulder there were tattoos of bird silhouettes flying in a V formation.
“Shit. What did you do?”
“I went fucking ballistic. I wanted to rip his balls off.”
“I mean what did you do about the abortion?”
“I went through with it.”
“Fucking hell.”
“I know. Fucking hell.”
“What did Ozzy say when you told him all this?”
“Who? Ozzy?”
“Yeah, I bet he offered to track the guy down and do one on him or something.”
“Ozzy? I haven’t told Ozzy any of this. He doesn’t care about shit like this.”
“Really?”
“Ozzy is hot but he doesn’t have much else going on beyond what’s in his pants.”
“I’m a writer.”
“So what?”
“Oh. Well, writers have … they, em, feel differently, you know, insight.”
“You’re still a man. Go on then, what’s your insight?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have checked the fucking phone.”
With that Ozzy appeared behind Zoe, grabbing her round her waist. His goatee and ’stash were wet. His white t-shirt was stained blue around the collar. His bandana had disappeared and his dark hair was slicked back away from his forehead. He leaned down so his chin was on her shoulder and started singing along with the song that was being pumped into the air around them while pulling stupid faces and trying to lick Zoe’s cheek. Zoe started laughing and turned around to him, taking his face in her hands.
Martin headed for the bar. Behind the bar there was a mirror, and he saw himself among the line of faces. He did look more scruffy than any of them, like he had walked in looking for a different bar, or got confused with what night it was. Club night? I thought it was Wild West. He bought another three bottles and when he found his way back through the dancing shouting mass of people, Ozzy took his and said, “Nice one mate. Down these and we’ll head to the club. Whatcha reckon?”
Martin looked at them both. Zoe didn’t make eye contact, just pushed her face into Ozzy’s sweaty t-shirt. Ozzy gave a wink and a smile and took a swig from his beer bottle. When he smiled his brow creased and deep lines shot out from the corners of his eyes. Martin saw him for a moment as an old man, making lewd comments to younger men about the busty woman at the shop counter, nudging them into uneasy assent with his elbow in their ribs.
Martin drank from his bottle and looked around. Besides Ozzy and Zoe, he had no connection with anyone else in this densely packed room of revellers. And how much did he know about Ozzy? They had known each other for a few years; he was the only person besides Alison that Martin could call a good friend. And yet within a few hours of meeting Zoe he had found out more about her than he knew about Ozzy in years of friendship. Or maybe there just wasn’t that much to know about Ozzy. Well, he hadn’t thought that he was the kind of guy who would go a swingers club. So, who knew? Not me, thought Martin. Well, he doesn’t really know me. Maybe we don’t know each other at all.
“Yeah sure,” he said, “might as well see what it’s all about.”
Outside looking for a taxi, Martin could see the tide of alcohol had come in and the city street was flooded with bunches of people clinging to each other, laughing, shouting, guys with red eyes and shirts undone, girls stumbling in heels, police standing by, and ambulances lined up at the end of the road. It was still pretty early too, only turned midnight.
“How far is it?” he asked as a taxi pulled up alongside them.
“Really not far,” Ozzy said and climbed into the back seat with Zoe, leaving Martin to get in the front. Ozzy told the driver an address and they were off. Within minutes the taxi had stopped and Ozzy was telling the driver to wait, that they would be back in a minute, Martin would sit with him.
“Just gonna get changed mate,” Ozzy said, as he and Zoe slipped out of the back seat.
“Am I—” Martin started, but the door shut before he could finish his question. The taxi driver sat mute, staring ahead, and Martin fished around in his head for things to say. It didn’t seem natural, the two of them sitting next to each other silently, looking straight ahead at a road that wasn’t moving.
Martin turned in his seat. The driver looked Indian, with tight greying hair, thin strips of grey stubble straps holding a thick straight beard, like an extension of his chin. His upper lip had no hair. The grey of his hair and beard spread into his face and his dark skin had an eerie pallor. His eyes had a yellow tinge. Maybe it was just the light, but to Martin he looked like a zombie from a Bollywood movie. He wasn’t moving. It was hard to put an age on him but Martin guessed he had died some time in his early sixties.
“Hey. The chances are,” Martin said, “that you and I will never meet again. I hardly ever come into the city these days, and there are thousands of taxis, right?” The driver didn’t turn his head, just looked sideways at him. Martin couldn’t read his expression. Besides his eyes, nothing in his face or body had changed. He continued. “Now Ozzy won’t be long getting changed, he’ll just throw a t-shirt on, so while it’s just you and me, you can tell me. You don’t have to go into detail, but what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? What’s the thing you’ve done that you’re most ashamed of?”
The driver shifted his gaze back to out of the windscreen. He didn’t make a sound.
“There must be something, just one thing, that when you think about it, it tears you up inside, something you wish you didn’t have to carry around. I won’t tell a soul, it won’t go beyond this moment. Tell me, go on.” Besides the sound of traffic passing, Martin couldn’t hear a thing, not even the sound of the driver’s breathing. He straightened up in his seat, once again looking out of the windscreen.
“Okay, I won’t even look at you, just go ahead and let it out. Honestly now, I won’t tell a soul.” The silence and stillness continued until the back door opened and Ozzy got back in the car.
“She’ll be down in a second.” Sure enough, Ozzy had just put another t-shirt on, but also his black leather jacket and a new red bandana. The smell of fresh aftershave circulated around the stale air of the taxi. Martin turned around in his seat.
“Are you sure this is cool, me coming with you guys?”
“It’ll be fine. You should check it out if you’ve never been. I mean, once we’re in, you won’t hang out with us, you can do your own thing. We usually split up anyway.”
“Really? How does that, em, well, don’t you get jealous?”
“She was the one who introduced me to it. She was a free spirit from the start, so who am I to try and change her? But the first few times, yeah, I thought I should, you know, hang around with her, but it soon became obvious I’d be better off finding my own fuck. That way there’s no jealousy, because I’m too busy to think about her. Thing is, when we get back afterwards we always have a crazy time ourselves. It’s like fuel; the feeling lasts for days.”
Martin glanced at the driver. He still hadn’t moved a muscle or shown any sign that he was hearing what was being said. Zoe was approaching the car. She had changed into a short skirt and heels, with the same netted top. Her legs were pale and rather shapeless, her calves were stocky, and her knees and ankles were thick. She carried a little backpack over her shoulder. She had put more eye make-up on, black lines around her eyes and her lips were a bright red. As she opened the door Ozzy gave another address to the driver who nodded, pressed his fare button and pulled out onto the road. In the back Zoe leaned into Ozzy, working her hands under his jacket and hugging him, and he kissed the top of her head. Martin watched the numbers of the fare go up and up, and the street lights approach and pass like the same frame of film repeated.
***