Writing On the Wall Read online

  “No. The point of all that stuff is to turn you on.”

  “Oh,” I said. I played about with my fork. There was a long silence. “Can I have seconds?” I asked finally.

  “Trouble with you is, you can’t get your mind off your stomach.”

  “Yours is stuck even a bit lower down,” I said, which I thought was rude, but quite good in its way. It shut him up about my appetite, anyway. And his, come to think of it.

  *

  Perhaps because of that, we had a nice day. Just sightseeing and that. We left the bikes behind and walked, and took trams. Darryl had said you had to travel like the “real people” did, to get to know a foreign town, and I saw his point. Being jammed in with hundreds of Amsterdamians (Kev called them “the Amsterdamned”) in a tram, well, that’s one way to get to know them. They’re very polite, not much pushing, and they’re nice and clean. Modest, too. I looked up at pretty near every balcony we passed to see if there were any underdressings suspended there. I’d hoped there would be, just one or two, but no. Solid against underdressings, the Dutch. I began to think I’d have felt more at home in Italy or somewhere, with all those strings of washing right across the streets.

  One thing was really nice. We were walking along and we heard fairground music. Right in the middle of the town. Now I’m bent for fairs. Can’t resist them, never could. Just the sound of that tonkly steam-engine music turns me on and gets me running. I was off like a shot down a sidestreet, and suddenly there we were in a big pedestrian precinct. It was market day seemingly. Loads of people, and half of them were standing around this huge thing.

  I don’t know if I can describe it. It was a music-machine, obviously, kind of like a big box on wheels with all kinds of carving and figures sticking out of it. All painted fair-ground colours, with lots of gold and silver. The figures were in fancy dress (except for some cherubs), the men in white curly wigs and long socks and the women showing a lot of chest and with little satin slippers, I mean painted of course. And they moved. They were all playing instruments, bells mostly. It was a treat how they moved and how they worked. And of course the sound. I stood and stood, just watching it working, and listening. Kev got fed up in the end.

  “Oh come on! What’s grabbing you? So it’s a big old musical box on wheels. Let’s go.”

  “Kev, you know what? You could keep all the groups, the Clash and even Sting, if I could have a thing like this banging away outside my window.”

  He looked at me as if I’d flipped my lid.

  “You can’t even dance to it.”

  “I could, if no one was looking. It’s magic.”

  “It ain’t working any spells on me. I’m going.”

  “Just another minute—”

  He wouldn’t, though, and I had to leave. But in the afternoon, we saw another one, even nicer, and this one had a little man on it who turned his head and rolled his eyes every time he clashed his cymbals, and that got Kev a bit; he said he looked as if he was going to have a fit. So I was allowed to watch that one for maybe ten whole minutes.

  When I came out of my trance and looked round, I thought he’d run out on me, but then I saw him. He was away across this square, talking to some fellows. They were all drinking beer outside a little place like a pub.

  Kev caught my eye and I thought he’d beckon me over, but instead he made a sign that I should stop where I was and look some more at the music-machine. Being me, of course, I didn’t want to then. I wanted to see what he was up to. So I strolled across.

  Kev didn’t look too pleased, but he said, “This is Neils and this is – what you say your name was?”

  “Yohan,” said the other one. They were both Dutch, a lot older than us. Neils was tall and had short mousy hair like Cliff, and a little moustache. Yohan was short and darker, with a beard. He wore dark glasses. They were dressed a bit like Mods, long jackets and that. It struck me they were a bit old for that lark. I go for cults and fancy gear and that myself, but it always upsets me a bit when older people do it.

  So these two blokes offered me a beer, which I took, and we sat down and talked about the weather. It had been exceptional, day after day of sun like that, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I asked them what they did for a living, and Yohan grinned and said, “As little as we can.” Their English was very good. “Are you out of work?” I asked. “In a way,” they said. “Do you get social security? Or what?” I asked. Kev gave me a kick in the ankle. “What’s wrong with asking that?” I said, narked, and he said, “None of your business, Nosy,” which was true I suppose, so I shut up.

  They seemed very maty, so we told them about getting kicked out of the Parkstaad Hotel. They thought it was a riot. When they finished killing themselves about my underdressings, they said, “And where do you stay now?” We told them the name of it and they looked at each other, and then Neils, the tall fair one, said, “That is not fun. Perhaps you like to stay with us.”

  “You got a place?”

  “Yes,” they said, “what you call a pad. Not very elegant, but there you are free to do as you like.” They gave us a look, from Kev to me. I looked away across the square to the music-machine so they wouldn’t see me blushing. I’d begun to wish we hadn’t run into them.

  “Maybe we’d best stop where we are,” I said. “Thanks all the same.”

  But Kev had seen a way to save money.

  “How much do you charge?” he asked, straight out. And when they both laughed and shook their heads, I saw Kev was in favour, a hundred per cent.

  “Okay then,” he said, before I could interrupt. “We’ll fetch our gear and bikes. How shall we find you?”

  The blokes said they’d come with us and give a hand. We were completely lost by then so it was a help, and what made me think again about our luck, meeting them, was that they took us most of the way by a boat with a glass roof and wouldn’t even let us pay our own fares.

  They gave us a sort of running commentary as we went along, pointing out places of interest and probably having us on a bit with their stories. I felt they were laughing at us behind our backs, though they kept straight faces when it showed. I wondered why they were bothering to be nice to us. What Sean had said about foreigners did cross my mind. But when we’d got our bikes and the rest of our stuff from the hostel, and walked with them half across the city to their house, I was too knackered to worry. We’d been on our feet the whole day and even if they’d lived in a doss-house I couldn’t have moved another step.

  And it wasn’t a doss-house, not by a long chalk. Their flat was high up in one of the tall, narrow old houses, with stairs so steep we had to practically crawl up them. But when we got up, it wasn’t half bad. You could see they did themselves all right, and why they weren’t bothered about a few guilders for our rent. The main room went right from the front of the house to the back, under the sloping roof. It had a skylight and it was all very modern. The furniture was mostly black leather and chrome and glass, and the rugs were shag-pile in very bright colours to show up against all the wood and metal and plain dark walls. At the far end the wall was black, with no pictures, though there were pictures everywhere else – big glossy coloured photos like you see on calendars in workshops and in some other places – girls without much on in all sorts of sexy poses.

  There was plenty of stereo equipment, and a big telly, and a lot of fancy lighting. Down at the end, where the black wall was, there were some stand-up photo-floods like they have in photographers’ studios, and things which I only glanced at at first – one of them looked like a motorbike, of all things, under a dust-sheet. And there was a very expensive-looking camera on a tripod.

  I moved round the room, looking at the photos.

  “Is this what you do?” I asked. “Take photos for calendars?”

  They laughed and said that was one thing they did, and did I want to look at some more of their art-work? Frankly I thought there was as much of it as I’d want to see stuck on the walls, so I said, “Okay, only later,�
�� and asked for the ladies’.

  They showed me where it was. I got a start when I went in. It must have had about a two hundred watt bulb in there. The walls were all papered like a jungle and the toilet fitting was like an alligator’s head – you had to open up its jaws to sit down. Luckily it didn’t actually have teeth. . . .

  When I turned to face the door I got another shock. There was a mask on it – carved and painted like a witch-doctor’s mask – one of those very scary ones. Kind of leering at me. Something gleamed in the eye-holes. Something made me lift it off its nail, and then I saw that in the door, behind where the mask’s – eye-holes were, there were two little spy-holes with magnifying glass in, like you get in some ordinary front doors.

  I couldn’t believe it. I just stood there. Then I threw the door open. Nobody. . . . I went out and closed the door, leaving that bright light on, and peeped through a spy-hole.

  That was when I should have left. I know that now. Why didn’t I? Don’t ask me. Con would have, and said a few choice words before she went, and all. But I didn’t have the guts. So I just went back into the big room and sat down as if nothing had happened.

  They’d poured out drinks, short ones. They gave me one. It was thick yellow stuff like custard, and I felt so shaky I drank it. They were all getting on like a house on fire, and I was left out, so I asked if I could put on some music. They showed me how the stereo worked – it was at the far side of the room from where they were all sitting drinking – and left me to it. I found a cassette of a Dutch group and put it on, and then I sat in a deep leather chair and put my feet up on a matching footrest. I sipped the yellow drink and listened to the music and after a bit I just sort of dozed off.

  When I woke up it was dark. And I was on my own. They’d left one light on, right down the far end, and the stars were shining down through the skylight. The room had a funny smell in it – they must’ve been smoking like mad while I was asleep. I wondered what time it was, and then I saw the lit-up numbers in the digital radio-clock: 22.46. Getting on for eleven at night! Mother of God! I must’ve just flaked out.

  But where were they? Where was Kev?

  I got up and turned on some more lights, and then I saw his note. It was on the black-topped coffee table among the ashtrays and sticky glasses and bottles. In his awful writing, it said:

  Neils and Yohan wanted to take us out to a nightclub they know which is even worse than what we saw last night. I knew you wouldn’t want to come and you was sleeping so we decided to nip off. Neils says there’s food in the fridge, to help yourself. If you want to turn in, just use your sleeping-bag on the settee.

  Kev

  P.S. You want to try some of the liquoures, we left them all out for you. Try the green one, it’s peppermint, got a kick like a kangeroo.

  I stood there, staring at it, reading it over and over. It wasn’t possible, but it was true. You’d think I’d have got it from that, wouldn’t you? And simply never spoken to him again.

  15 · Nasties in the Cupboard

  I was so blazing mad, I hardly even bothered to look in the fridge. It was full of cheeses and lovely things like ham and fancy ice-cream. But I was too choked up to eat. I stamped back into the big room, read Kev’s note again, started crying out loud, stopped because there was no point, and then looked at the bottles.

  There were lots of them, all different shapes and with pretty-coloured drink in them. There was the thick yellow stuff, and the green, and some that looked like meths. A lot of the labels said BOLS so I shouted “BOLS BOLS BOLS” at the top of my voice. Then I got a big glass and poured a bit in from every bottle.

  It didn’t all mix. I switched on one of the strong photo-lamps at the back end of the room and held up the glass against it. The layers lay like a rainbow. It was so pretty it seemed a shame to tip it up and drink it. But I managed.

  Strong? I’ll say! Made me feel funny. Much funnier than those gins that time. I wanted to dance, so I put the cassette on again. I whirled around a bit on my own, but the room started whirling too so I kind of sat down on the floor. The Dutch singer was good. I shut my eyes and tried to think I was at home, listening to Sting, but he didn’t sound anything like him really. I started to cry again.

  Fancy Kev walking out on me like that. Just to see some horrible tarts taking their clothes off. I didn’t know how he could want to see them when he could’ve been with me. Maybe that was the trouble. Maybe he was fed up with me because he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Maybe he was so highly sexed he couldn’t manage without. Maybe after he’d seen those sexy floor-shows he’d get so turned-on he’d go to some streets Neils had told us about on the boat, where the girls sit in their windows. If too much he was telling the truth. . . . He’d said if a man fancied them he just rung their doorbells and they’d let him in and have it off with him. Just like that.

  It made me sick. The whole business made me sick. Why’s it so different for men? Karen says it isn’t, that girls are just the same really. But I don’t believe it. How could a woman want it off with a man she’d never seen before? You’ve got to like the person, haven’t you? Karen should talk. Cliff probably just did one wrong thing, or said one, and chop! She’s so off him she won’t talk to him. As for me, I couldn’t even kiss a fellow I didn’t like.

  Did I like Kev?

  The question flashed into my mind. I threw it out. If I didn’t like him, I couldn’t want him. So I must like him.

  Did I want him?

  Oh sod this drink! I thought drink was meant to stop you thinking, not make all sorts of thoughts and questions come into your head, all clear and sharp like the shadows from that bright photo-lamp. It was still shining away, onto the black wall and all the weird stuff they’d got down there. I thought I’d best turn it off. Must use an awful lot of electricity – Mum’s always on at us to turn lights off.

  I staggered down the room. The studio part on the other side of the light was quite hot. I looked at the stuff. I lifted the cover off the thing that looked like a motorbike and found it was a motorbike, brand new, painted red. I looked at some of the clothes on a clothes rack. Some of them were normal, but some of them were weird. For instance, there was a pair of jeans with a hole cut out of the back, like a key-hole. And there was a purple silky dress with borders of furry stuff, ever so soft. I held it up against me and pulled it this way and that, but I didn’t see how you could wear it by itself, the neckline was down round the waist somewhere. I supposed they were what the calendar girls wore for photos.

  Then I noticed a door in the wall, and opened it. More cameras were in there. And there were other things. Chains, hanging on hooks. Weird-looking bits of leather and rubber and stuff. Some were made into bits of clothes, but others – well, I couldn’t make out what they were. Then, stacked against the back wall, I saw a pile of boxes. I opened the top one and looked in. And closed it again, quick.

  What kind of photos did those boys take, anyway? I came out of there in a hurry. Suddenly that end of the room with its black wall and its hot, glaring light was somewhere to get far away from.

  I wished Kev was here. No I didn’t. I wished Dad and Vlady were here, or if not, Con or Michael. I had an idea if Michael saw all that stuff in the cupboard he’d have me out of that flat in two minutes. I wished I could go. That’d pay Kev out, if he came back all – all cocksure, and found me gone. I started giggling at the idea. I finished my drink. I’d heard they invent fancy names for cocktails, so I decided to call mine Tracy’s Multicoloured Gobstop. I must’ve been pretty well away by then because I picked up the phone, which was on the floor, and said:

  “Hallo, is that Noel Edmonds? Tracy Just here. I’d like to swop a box of whips and some sexy gear for a bike with wings to fly me back to the youth hostel in Rotterdam.”

  Through the buzzing in my ear, I distinctly heard Noel say he’d got one, to come down the steep stairs backwards and I’d find it waiting for me outside.

  *

  The buzzing was still going
on when I woke up next. I jerked myself up. I was all stiff and sore from lying on the floor. The phone was off the hook so I put it back. And that awful lamp was still glaring away. And Kev still wasn’t back, though the digital clock said 02.46.

  The youth hostel in Rotterdam.

  I’d been dreaming about it, over and over again, me trying to get there, running to get there. Suddenly I thought, Maybe they haven’t left, maybe they’re all still there! Would it have a phone? Yes it would!

  Something in my head said to me very clearly, “You’re going to have to think, and you’re boozed. Get unboozed.” I climbed carefully to my feet and took short steps into the kitchen. Actually I didn’t feel too funny any more, but the buzzing was still in my ear from the phone and my eyes were sparkling round the edges. I opened the fridge again and took out a hunk of ham and some of that Dutch cheese with red wax round it. I plugged in the electric kettle. I knew from Sean that coffee’s good for deboozing so I looked for some. There was no instant, but I found some real coffee. Do you know, I’d never tasted it? I only recognised it because I’d smelt it, passing the coffee-shop in Ealing. No clue how to make it properly, but I just bunged some in a mug and poured the boiling water on and it worked – sort of. Tasted dead bitter, but I treated it like medicine and drunk it all and by the last swallow I was liking it. Ate the cheese and ham, and some rolls I found, and then I got out the carton of fancy ice-cream (maple and walnut, I think it was) and tucked in with a big spoon. By the time I’d had enough, it was gone and the sparkling and buzzing had too.

  Now to find a phone book. I went back into the big room, and right away I saw one, on one of the shelves. I grabbed it – but of course it had to be the Amsterdam one.

  Now then, I thought, Trace, you got to be dead clever. How would a Dutch person look up a number in London, I mean like in Brum if he was in London? He’d phone Directory Enquiry. Did they have it in Holland? Of course they did. And where could you look, to find Directory’s number? Front of the phone book, right? I turned to the front of the phone book.