‘Well. .’ said Steranko a few minutes later, holding the handlebars of his bike with one hand as we walked up the road together.
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘God, you take one look at her and all you want to do is cry.’
‘She’s got those kind of looks that make you feel really sorry for yourself,’ I said as we manoeuvred our way through tired women clinging to their prams. ‘Still, you seem to be taking it pretty well.’
‘Taking what well?’
‘Foomie. It’s obvious it’s me she fancies but you don’t seem to be sulking about it or anything.’
‘You took the words out of my mouth,’ said Steranko and we both laughed like college boys.
055
Steranko was leant up against the bar, studying the original gravity information on the beer pumps. He was wearing his working clothes — paint-splattered jeans, an old sweatshirt — and his fingers and nails were black with paint and grease. He bought me a drink and we sat next to two women who were quite often in the pub.
‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you,’ I said.
‘Go on.’
‘The good news is that Foomie — remember her, that gorgeous woman at the Jacaranda?’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s having a party this Saturday. In the afternoon.’
‘In the afternoon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the bad news?’
‘You’re not invited.’
‘You’re kidding.’
I shook my head: ‘Fraid not.’
‘Are you invited?’
‘Very definitely.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It’s alright, I’ll tell you what it was like, what she was wearing, what she said to me — all that kind of thing.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it. I bet you’re really pissed off. I know I would be.’
We drank beer.
‘And I’m really not invited?’
‘Course you are. Carlton just phoned. She asked him very specifically to invite both of us.’
‘Brilliant,’ Steranko said, smiling.
‘We can ask Freddie to come too,’ I said.
Steranko nodded: ‘She’s so beautiful.’
‘Yeah, isn’t she.’
‘What about Carmel? D’you fancy her?’
‘No. Do you?’ One of the women opposite us glanced across disapprovingly but didn’t say anything.
‘Not really. What about Manda?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, me neither.’
This was one of the irritating aspects of my friendship with Steranko. We both tended to fancy the same women — and they tended to fancy him. We looked similar but it was always Steranko they went for.
‘I’ve got some good news for you too,’ Steranko said after a while.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve got that money I owe you.’
‘Great.’
I swallowed the rest of my beer in a big gulp just as time was called. The two women next to us started putting on extra layers of clothing and then picked up two crash-helmets. We left soon after them, just in time to see them roaring off down the road, hunched over a powerful motorbike.
On the way home I stopped off at Steranko’s to pick up the money he owed me. I put two ten-pound notes in my shoe and a fiver in the cheap wallet that I always carried. Apart from that fiver the only things in it were cancelled bank cards and library tickets. There was nothing paranoid about doing this — like taking a quick look down a dark street before turning into it or walking on the outside of the pavement, I did it as automatically as a driver putting on a seatbelt. It was always a good idea to have some money you could get at quickly if you got jumped. Unlike Carlton, Freddie and Steranko I’d never actually been mugged but I knew that nine times out of ten you handed over the money and nothing much happened. It was when you didn’t have any money that things got nasty.
Pursued by the tolling of the town-hall clock I left Steranko’s at midnight and walked home through drizzle so fine it was hardly more than a damp breeze. Behind me I heard the sound of running. I turned round, feeling the first warning shock of adrenalin, my arm half raised to protect myself, as someone charged past. A few seconds later he disappeared round a corner, still running, feet slapping hard on the wet pavement. My heart was beating fast. People tended not to run like that after dark round here. It was like a false alarm that set others on edge and made them nervous — it looked too much like you were running away from something.
054
That was on Wednesday. On Saturday morning Carlton and Freddie called for me and the three of us called for Steranko.
We trooped up the stairs to his room, opened the door and found that everything in it had been moved round. Steranko did this from time to time, turning his room from a place of relaxation into an obstacle course for living in. There were coloured scaffolding poles everywhere, the bed was perched up on a platform of planks about six feet in the air and most of the other things he used regularly — record-player, books — were stored well above eye-level. If you went to bed drunk and got up for a piss in the night it seemed unlikely that you’d be able to find your way back to the bed. Steranko was nowhere to be seen. Freddie called his name and Steranko’s head appeared over the side of the bed.
‘What time is it?’ he said, still half-asleep.
‘Twelve thirty.’
Carlton dumped a pile of clothes on the floor and sat on the seat they’d been occupying. I looked out of the window which was thick with grime that the sun arranged in patterns. To the left of the window there was an easel with the beginnings of a painting. Propped up against one wall was a battered-looking cello. Steranko had lain back on the bed and disappeared from view. He reappeared a few moments later, yawning and rubbing his head.
‘How come you’re here so early?’
‘You said come round for breakfast before Foomie’s party.’
‘Did I?’
‘No but we came anyway,’ said Freddie. There was some rustling up on the bed. Steranko pulled on a dressing-gown and swung himself down to ground level.
‘So what’s this supposed to be?’ Carlton asked, gesturing towards the bed. ‘Urban Tarzan or what?’
‘It’s my experiment in negative ergonomics. An attempt to turn the fabric of the everyday inside out. It’s pretty exhausting.’
‘I bet. So that’s why the bed’s up there. .’
‘A man’s bed should be like an eagle’s nest — Nietzsche said that,’ explained Steranko.
‘Did he fuck,’ said Carlton.
‘What he really said was only a fool goes to bed while he could still be working,’ said Freddie. ‘He used to sleep about half an hour a day in his bed and spend the rest of the time nodding off at his desk because he couldn’t bear the idea of being proved stupid by his own logic. That’s what I call will power.’
Steranko grunted and headed towards the bathroom.
‘Have you still got that trumpet Steranko?’ Carlton asked.
‘It’s over there in that case. You want to buy it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I thought I was buying that,’ I said. Hearing Carlton say he was interested in the trumpet made me suddenly certain that I wanted to buy it. Up until then I hadn’t been bothered one way or the other.
‘First come first served. Maybe you’d be better off with the cello,’ he said, glancing towards it and then going out the door. A great variety of musical instruments passed through Steranko’s hands. He picked them up cheaply, learned to play them a little, and then sold them.