Death in Brunswick Read online

  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.

&nbs
p; ‘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.

  Picking up his knife, he shakily bent to take a potato from the plastic bag, but the foul smell of preservative was too much. He ran to the toilet and leant weakly against the wall looking down at the murky circle of water in the smeared bowl.

  A rush of saliva filled his mouth and he retched and spat. Oh no, please no.

  In a painful spasm he vomited. He couldn’t stand. He slumped to his knees. The stink of his own sickness and old urine met him as he knelt in homage, his arms round the bowl. A solid bolt of vomit spattered into the water, and clear froth gushed from his nose.

  He sank back on the hard concrete floor, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. Surprisingly he felt a bit better. He got to his feet shakily and stumbled back into the kitchen. Through the door he could see more impatient kids waiting for food. I can’t!

  But he did.

  For the next half-hour he served pizza, fighting back waves of nausea.

  He was sitting trying to make himself start slicing chips when Laurie strode in.

  ‘How’s it goin’ Cookie? No time for bludging—it looks a bit bare out there.’

  ‘Lay off, Laurie, I’m feeling really crook.’

  ‘What’s wrong, you been eating your own grub?’

  Carl looked at him with real hatred. Just you wait!

  ‘No, I’m serious, I want to go home.’

  ‘No work, no pay, mate. No sickies here—you had it pretty good so far. Do a bit for a change, eh? Yanni’s too easy on youse lot. I’ll make this joint function yet. Come on! Slack-arse.’

  He took Carl by the arm and pulled him to his feet, pushing him toward the bench.

  ‘I want to see that servery full. OK?’ He turned to go. ‘By the way, your fuckin’ mate tried to get in again. Tony gave him a big kick in the arse—from you!’ Laurie gave a bark of laughter. ‘That Mustafa don’t like you at all. You better watch out goin’ home. Yeah, and listen, Cookie, I want to see this kitchen spotless tomorrow. Right?’ He left.

  Carl sliced potatoes, his impotent rage conquering sickness. Three, no, four hours to go, then I’m off for good. I’ll get some money out of them tonight, even if it’s only twenty. I’ll get a cab home. Poor bloody Mustafa—they’re really bullies.

  His eyes filled with tears.

  The next two hours were a blur of toil. He soon ran out of flour and tomato paste and made do with chips, working in a fog of acrid smoke. The hollow boom of the exhaust fans competed with bellowing, shrieking rock’n’roll; his head ached and pounded and his eyes stung unbearably. Luckily, however, his stomach remained quiescent save for an occasional sharp pain in his lower belly. He lost count of the trays of sodden chips tumbled into the servery. At last it was twelve.

  He turned off the spotlights, carried in the dirty trays and closed and locked the kitchen door. He squatted for a while, his back against the cool room. Turning, he pressed his hot forehead against the metal.

  Shit, I’m too old for this, I really am. I need another holiday—fuck it, I will go on the dole for a while.

  He looked around wearily. The kitchen was a shambles of dirty trays and plates, the floor covered with oil. He looked down at himself; his shirt and jeans were stiff with grease. Well, the sooner I get started…

  He hauled himself to his feet and shut off the fans. He stretched with relief; with the heavy door closed he could hear only a distant thudding from upstairs. He started to clean up.

  *

  Long after midnight he stood at the sink, drooping with weariness, his arms plunged into lukewarm water, his hands white and pulpy. Occasionally he would nod into sleep, recovering with a start.

  Moving mechanically, he finished the dishes and trays and mopped the floor. He wiped down the bench.

  That’ll do, I can’t do any more, fuck Laurie! Just think, after tomorrow, I’ll never see them again. Well, anyway, I’m taking all my gear tonight.

  He collected his knives and whisks and laid them out on the bench. My poor beautiful knives. He ran his thumb along the filleting blade. It shone, the only clean object in the dirty kitchen. He stood like a seedy knight, holding his knife up to the light.

  The passage door flew open with a crash. A stocky swarthy man stood swaying in the doorway, his round head thrust forward. His black hair was cropped to the scalp and a white scar ran crookedly down the hairline. His brown face was lumpy and bruised and his mouth hung open, showing broken teeth. A crust of dried blood smeared under his nose. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt, and his corded arms hung by his sides. Tattered sneakers showed under stained brown trousers.

  ‘Mustafa! What…what are you doing here?’

  Carl saw that the whites of the Turk’s eyes were quite red.
Mustafa shuffled forward, breathing noisily, and clung to the bench. Carl backed toward the corner where the bench met the wall.

  The Turk spat on the metal.

  ‘I thought you my friend! You cunt like the rest. Where my money? You take pills, no pay, you tell Laurie! You fucking cunt!’

  ‘Ah now, Mustafa…look…’ Carl, terrified, pressed himself into the corner.

  Mustafa came swiftly around the bench.

  ‘No!’ Carl shrieked. ‘That’s enough! Leave me alone! All of you.’

  Suddenly full of rage, trapped, he flung up his hands and pushed Mustafa violently back and fell to his knees sobbing. He looked up, expecting the Turk to fall on him, but instead Mustafa was crouched like a blue-shirted spider at the end of the bench. Carl heard a guttural ‘Vay Canina!’ The Turk fell slumped heavily forward, out of Carl’s sight. There was a sharp click! and silence. All he could see was a bare ankle and a sneakered foot.

  *

  Carl knelt paralysed for a long moment. The music upstairs had stopped. He heard faint voices from outside, the slam of a steel door, and then nothing, absolute quiet.

  ‘Mustafa,’ he whispered. He leant forward and touched the bare ankle.

  ‘Mustafa!’ Louder.

  Carl got to his feet and, his back to the sink, shuffled sideways until he could see the end of the bench and Mustafa lying, his shoulders hunched and his back curved forward. His arms were folded out of sight into his chest and his face turned away so that Carl could see only the nape of his neck.

  ‘Mustafa, come on!’ Carl touched the Turk with his toe. Jesus, he must be pissed, maybe he hit his head.

  Carl bent and pulled a shoulder, but the Turk didn’t stir. Carl pulled harder and Mustafa rolled onto his back. Carl leapt away. The Turk’s face was twisted, his smashed teeth clenched, his brown eyes open and looking over Carl’s shoulder into the fluorescent lights. The pupils seemed wide and soft.

  Carl’s gaze travelled down Mustafa’s body. The brown pants had come open, exposing a black-haired belly. The blue shirt was tucked up in folds. Carl saw near the middle of his chest a small red circle on the cloth—a badge? On it was a…chip of ice? It glittered in the harsh light.

  Carl leant forward again urgently. It was the broken blade of his knife. He saw the black handle lying in the Turk’s hand.