East. Alan hadn’t been east in a long while. When he’d first come to London in the early nineties you’d sooner have walked through Brixton in full Ku Klux Klan regalia – with your cock out and a sign saying ‘SUCK THIS, DARKIES’ taped to it – than wandered about Hackney at night. The only thing you’d have travelled to Hackney to buy when Alan was in his twenties was drugs, ideally without leaving the safety of the taxi. And now look at it: flat whites, handmade brogues, artisanal fucking bread. Following the directions he’d tapped into Maps on his phone he turned right and headed up Hackney Road, towards a large block of what looked to be recently refurbished Georgian houses, all now clearly converted into flats.
He’d finally got hold of Craig – ‘Shit, sorry, Alan,’ he’d said. ‘The old phone’s dead. I got a new iPhone and I couldn’t whaddya call it, port the old number in from the phone you gave me. Sorry. I thought I’d given Katie the new number …’ – and had been rewarded with an invite round to his new place. Strangely, and for no good reason, Alan found that he was nervous at the prospect of this meeting. He hadn’t seen Craig in a few weeks, true. On the other hand, he thought, it might simply be the nameless dread that came from it being nearly six o’clock and, very contrary to his recent habits, he hadn’t had a drink yet.
He had a few minutes to spare. Fuck it. He turned into the pub he was passing, out of the unseasonably warm April heat, fought his way to the bar, and ordered a Stella. Sod it. Stella and whisky chaser. Alan handed his card over and turned to regard the locals, sipping his beer. There was a gathering of Amish gentlemen at the end of the bar. At a nearby table a gay couple – one of whom was dressed in what appeared to be knickerbockers, a polka-dot bow tie, braces and a waxed, pointed moustache – were having a flaming argument. A girl wearing a diaphanous body stocking and covered head to toe in tattoos was conducting a loud Skype call on her iPad. Some kind of lurid techno pumped deafeningly. Alan did a relatively ‘cool’ job. He didn’t think of himself as an ‘old’ 48-year-old. But, in here, he might as well have been dressed as a regimental sergeant major or a High Court judge. He looked over into the corner and caught the eye of an octogenarian man, clearly someone who had been coming here since around the 1950s, who was sitting alone, sipping his pint. Alan nodded towards him, in a gesture meant to signify some kind of drinkerly solidarity. The old boy just looked away, clearly figuring Alan for some gay pickup artist whose kink was the over-seventies.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Alan turned to see the barman, who was also dressed as an Amish farmer, holding the card machine towards him, his debit card sticking out of the bottom of it. ‘Do you have another card? This one’s been declined.’
‘Declined? That’s not possible.’ Alan felt his face reddening. When had this last happened? It was an instant flashback to student days, or his early years in London, when a declined card was a monthly, if not weekly, occurrence. ‘Can you try it again … is it your machine?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve already tried it twice.’
‘Oh for fuck … hang on …’ Alan fumbled in his pockets, found a twenty-pound note and a ten and handed the ten over. ‘Here, just keep the change.’ What fresh hell was this? There was plenty of money in that account. Had he been using the card too much? Activated some kind of red-flag nonsense? Maybe something to do with the hotel? This was the card he’d given them when he’d checked in over a week ago. Could that be it? He’d have to call the bastard bank in the morning. He drained his pint, threw the whisky down and, blinking in the sunlight, regained the pavement and crossed the road. ‘Top Floor Flat, 248 Hackney Road.’ There it was, the buzzer already had his name on it – ‘C. Carmichael’. Alan pressed the button and a few seconds later there was Craig’s voice saying ‘Alan. A’right? Come on up’ and the door was clacking open and Alan was ascending the stairs.
It took him a moment or two to adjust his focus as he came out of the dark of the stairwell onto the light of the landing, to recalibrate his vision and convince himself he was really seeing what he was seeing.
Craig was standing in the doorway, bathed in bright summery light from behind, holding a glass of some clear, iced liquid in his left hand while holding the door of the flat open with his right. It had been nearly three weeks since they’d last seen each other, granted, but this … Jesus. Craig was wearing blue jeans and a crisp white shirt. There was something wrong, something … Alan couldn’t locate it, fumbling for words even as he extended his hand to shake. Craig’s skin looked brown, tanned. He’d gained some weight and was clean-shaven, sporting a new, expensive-looking haircut. But that wasn’t it, no. There was something else. Something had happened in the middle of … Craig was smiling as he said, ‘You found it. Come in.’ Finally it hit Alan.
‘Craig. You’ve had your teeth fixed.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Craig grinned sheepishly, revealing a flash of gleaming crowns on his upper front, where the blackened stumps had been, all the teeth around the new ones polished or whitened to the same lustre. ‘A couple of weeks back.’
The surreal pageant continued as Alan followed Craig into the flat. There was a big living room – perhaps thirty feet by fifteen – with three large Georgian floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the place with light. A sleek sofa faced a glass coffee table. The floorboards were painted white, adding to the shimmering brightness of the whole thing. There was a dining area at the far end, in front of a fireplace. There were piles of books everywhere, there were throw pillows and paintings and a thick rug in a kind of burnt-orange colour. A Martin acoustic guitar sparkled on its stand in the corner.
‘Drink?’ Craig was asking.
‘I … whatever you’re having,’ Alan said. ‘Fucking hell. How much is this costing you?’
‘Guy wanted two grand a month, furnished,’ Craig began, busying himself at the far end of the room, ‘but the second bedroom’s tiny. Cheers …’ Craig handed him a glass, ice and lime floating in it.
‘Cheers,’ Alan said, before sipping the drink and saying, ‘Grohhhhgghh – what the fuck is this?’
‘Soda water,’ Craig said. ‘Sorry, you said “whatever I was” … see, I’m not really drinking right now.’ What the fuck is happening? Alan wondered. He recognised something in the corner, a kind of lime-green swivel armchair. ‘I used to have a chair like that.’
‘It is yours,’ Craig said. ‘It was in your garage. Katie said I could … you know.’
‘Oh, right.’ The first mention of the unmentionable.
‘Look, we can go out for a drink if you like?’
‘Please,’ Alan said, handing his glass to this strange apparition that used to be Craig.
They went to some bar on Columbia Road, along from the flower market. It was a slightly more restrained, tasteful version of the pub Alan had popped into earlier. Craig continued to sip iced soda water. Not wanting to look like a total alky, and in deference to the warm spring night, Alan made do with frequent pints of white-wine spritzer. He could have a real drink later. After they’d caught up on Alan’s recent celebrity-shooting-related trials and tribulations, they got down to the real business.
‘Jesus, Alan, I was as wrecked as you were that night. I can barely remember anyone. But it’s simple enough, isn’t it? One of them either figured out the two of you had sloped off together, or they just wandered off outside, for a fag or a piss or whatever, saw you in your study getting … you know. They got their phone out and filmed you and here we are.’
‘Still doesn’t explain why they sent it to Katie.’
‘You reckon?’ Craig said. ‘I think that’s the easy part. He or she’s got this on their phone, they’re in the pub steaming drunk one night, Katie’s written some column that’s pissed one of them off, her email address is right there at the bottom, and one of them says, “Hey, let’s teach this cow a lesson – send her that video of her husband getting blown.”’
Alan nodded, thick with drink. This did sound plausible.
‘Where are you at with Katie now?’ Craig asked.
‘I’m at the Holiday Inn, Junction 4 off the M40.’
‘Fuck. She’ll come around, Alan. You fucked up, it’s a nightmare, but she’ll come around.’
‘I miss the kids,’ Alan said hopelessly.
‘Christ, aye.’
‘Anyway, here, I’ll get them in –’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go, got to practise a couple of songs. Early start in the morning.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m doing this thing on 6 Music, on Shaun Keaveny’s show? To promote the gig. Got to be there by eight.’
‘Oh, right. OK. Another night then.’
‘Aye. Course. Sorry.’
They stood up and hugged awkwardly. ‘I’ll just stay and finish this …’ Alan said, indicating his drink.
‘Alan,’ Craig said. ‘Are you … are you OK? You don’t look great, pal.’
‘Well, you know, it’s been quite a couple of weeks, with one thing and another. Probably putting it away a bit too much.’
‘Look, take it easy. Katie’ll come round.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right, see ye.’
‘Hey, what time are you on tomorrow morning? On the radio?’
‘Oh. About nine, I think?’
‘I’ll tune in.’
‘Great.’ Craig turned to leave.
‘Oh, shit, Craig?’ He turned back. ‘Fuck, my card got declined earlier. Must be some fuck-up at the bank. Do you have … ?’
Craig was already reaching into his pocket, almost as though he had anticipated being asked this very question. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘There’s about a hundred there, is that enough?’
‘Yeah, plenty. Thanks. I’ll pay you back later in the week.’
‘Don’t be daft – I owe you.’
‘Right, well, good luck tomorrow morning.’
‘Night, Alan. Get on home now.’
Alan watched him go, out into the street, through the twilight throng of drinkers and then whistling off down Columbia Road in his fresh white shirt. He looked at the money in his hand, then he looked at his watch – east London, 7.30 on a mid-April evening. If he left now he could make the 8.15 from Marylebone back to the hotel. He thought about the hotel, about the trouser press staring blankly at him. ‘Hey.’ He found himself cocking a twenty at the barman and saying, ‘Double Jameson’s and ice please.’