Sam Gulak noticed that a new message had arrived on his mobile. The sender was not registered on his contacts list. The text stated: 'Thanks. Call my daughter Milena on 0207747288552 about the iPhone. Regards, Jan Novak.' Sam rang the number and was answered promptly.
'Hello, is that Milena Novak?', he said.
'Who is this please?'
'Hi my name is Sam Gulak. I found your iPhone on the Underground the other day. I speed-dialled the first number on your list and it was your father who answered. He said you'd called him and told him that you had lost your iPhone. He gave me your landline number so I could arrange to give it back to you.....'
'Oh, really. He never said....'
'Well, I thought that you might like to have it back....'
'Yes, yes....' She collected her thoughts.
'But just a little security check: what is the screen-saver?', asked Sam.
'A picture of a harbour.'
'OK. Good. OK, so where shall we meet so I can give it back to you?'
'Where are you?', asked Milena.
'Kilburn....but I'm actually on my way to Brixton this evening to see my girlfriend, so we could....'
'Yes, yes, yes. Brixton will suit me fine. Right, OK, so where and when?'
'There's a Café Crème opposite Brixton Underground Station. You can't miss it when you come out of the station. Just cross the road.
'There's only one exit?'
'Yes... Say seven-thirty?'
'What did you say your name was again?'
'Sam.... Sam Gulak.'
'OK Sam. At six-thirty, at the Café Crème across from Brixton Underground Station. Please don't be late. How will I recognise you. Describe yourself'.
'I'll be wearing a black jacket with a Los Angeles Lakers crest on it. Purple letters on a gold background.'
'Are you a basketball player?'
'No. See you later'. He hung up. Milena immediately called her father. All was in order. She gave him Sam's name and number, together with the details of her meeting.
Milena Novak had been born into an upper-middle-class family in London. She was in that first generation of girls to become aware of the diminishing power of paternalism. For her, class was not an issue: she more or less had it all; it did not affect her. Schooled expensively, she had moved effortlessly through the system, completely oblivious to how posh she sounded and how privileged she was. She was an accomplished cellist and linguist (as was her father Jan), with a capacity for mimicry which was legendary. Her brother Richard, two years her elder, had justifiably been asked to leave his school. He did not mend his ways at his next one, leaving at sixteen to join the staff of the local newspaper, eventually ending up as a film producer.
After her degree, Milena - 'not Millie, please' - had worked her way up to the editorship of a national current affairs magazine. On the way, she had become known for what could only be called an 'angry' writing style, pithy and punchy, replete with sentences without verbs. Some might say that she was provocative, which to her was a compliment. To be sure, she could be brash and breezy, with an easy charm. For a while it worked, but colleagues soon found her quest to control all and sundry to be tiresome. Corporate life stifled her style, and so at the age of forty, after being eased out of her job in a boardroom coup, she had packed up and embarked upon a two-month residential yoga course in Goa. There she fitted in with the misfits.
On returning to London, Milena had decided to go it alone, to no-one's surprise. She would continue as a freelance journalist; and after her spiritual awakening she also established herself as a therapist, specialising in cognitive behaviour therapy and yoga. Having got to the bottom of her own identity-angst, she felt able to assist other credit-fueled, shopped-out spa-dwellers to do the same. Attracted by the title 'Dr Novak', she resumed her long-dormant Phd study: 'Agency or structure – a sociological analysis of neurolinguistic programming'. She lived in Pimlico, alone, in a groundfloor flat, without a dog.
Up-date and addition June 19 2013:
Up-date and addition June 19 2013:
FORGET THE GRAFFITI
Sam Gulak languished in a faded old house on the southern margins of Kilburn in north London. The main door to the vestibule had a removable piece of stained glass which allowed access to the latch inside. The levers on the lock were stiff, and no amount of oiling had seemed to loosen them. There was an alarm, but it had a mind of its own. Beyond the vestibule, the flooring of the spacious hall was parquet, devoid of carpeting. There were four rooms off the hall, one of which was the large kitchen which had windows on two sides, one set facing west, the other north, but the light to the latter was obscured by the neighbouring property. An ancient gas-fired Aga was festooned with tea-towels drying on the handles. There was no dish-washer, only a stainless steel rack on the draining board. A bowl in the sink contained two plates with pasta welded to them. There were various jars of sauce whose lids had long disappeared. A whiff of gas pervaded the room. Its source was probably the equally-ancient cooker which sat beneath a yellowed extractor fan whose slats had long since seized. A dog basket was next to the Aga, near the side-exit door. There was no dog. Above the large dining table was a stained-glass pendant light with only one of the bulbs working. An over-ripe banana sat curled up alone in a Mexican fruit bowl. Generations of coffee-mugs had impregnated the top of the refectory table. Next to Sam's Apple Mac was a half-eaten chocolate biscuit and a mug of tea, with its tea-bag still floating inside it. There was a Flying Lotus sticker on the lid of the Mac. A copy of Catullus: The Complete Poems looked like it had been well read. On the wall was a wood-rimmed clock of the type which used to be seen in banks, its indicated time bearing no relation to the present, but it still ticked. The floor was red, tiled and variously chipped, with an assortment of leaves from the front of the house. In this place did Sam and his seven friends reside, as squatters.
A new message was flagged on his mobile. The sender was not registered on his contacts list. The text stated: 'Thanks. Call my daughter Milena on 020 7747 28855 about the iPhone. Regards, Jan Novak.' Sam rang the number and was answered promptly.
'Hello, is that Milena Novak?', he said.
'Who is this please?'
'Hi my name is Sam Gulak. I found your iPhone on the Underground the other day. I speed-dialled the first number on your list and it was your father who answered. He said you'd called him and told him that you had lost your iPhone. He gave me your landline number so I could arrange to give it back to you.....'
'Oh, really. He never said....'
'Well, I thought that you might like to have it back....'
'Yes, yes....' She collected her thoughts.
'But just a little security check: what is the screen-saver?', asked Sam.
'A picture of a harbour.'
'OK. Good. OK, so where shall we meet so I can give it back to you?'
'Where are you?', asked Milena.
'Kilburn....but I'm actually on my way to Brixton this evening to see my girlfriend, so we could....'
'Yes, yes, yes. Brixton will suit me fine. Right, OK, so where and when?'
'There's a Café Crème opposite Brixton Underground Station. You can't miss it when you come out of the station. Just cross the road.
'There's only one exit?'
'Yes... Say seven-thirty?'
'What did you say your name was again?'
'Sam.... Sam Gulak.'
'OK Sam. At six-thirty, at the Café Crème across from Brixton Underground Station. Please don't be late. How will I recognise you. Describe yourself'.
'I'll be wearing a black jacket with a Los Angeles Lakers crest on it. Purple letters on a gold background.'
'Are you a basketball player?'
'No. See you later'. He hung up. Milena immediately called her father. All was in order.
Milena Novak had been born into an upper-middle-class family in London. She was in that first generation of girls to become aware of the diminishing power of paternalism. For her, class was not an issue: she more or less had it all; it did not affect her. Schooled expensively, she had moved effortlessly through the system, completely oblivious to how posh she sounded and how privileged she was. She was an accomplished cellist and linguist (as was her father Jan), with a capacity for mimicry which was legendary. Her brother Richard, two years her elder, had justifiably been asked to leave his school. He did not mend his ways at his next one, leaving at sixteen to join the staff of the local newspaper, eventually ending up as a film producer.
After her degree, Milena - 'not Millie, please' - had worked her way up to the editorship of a national current affairs magazine. On the way, she had become known for what could only be called an 'angry' writing style, pithy and punchy, replete with sentences without verbs. Some might say that she was provocative, which to her was a compliment. To be sure, she could be brash and breezy, with an easy charm. For a while it worked, but colleagues soon found her quest to control all and sundry to be tiresome. Corporate life stifled her style, and so at the age of forty, after being eased out of her job in a boardroom coup, she had packed up and embarked upon a two-month residential yoga course in Goa. There she fitted in with the misfits.
On returning to London, Milena had decided to go it alone, to no-one's surprise. She would continue as a freelance journalist; and after her spiritual awakening she also established herself as a therapist, specialising in cognitive behaviour therapy and yoga. Having got to the bottom of her own identity-angst, she felt able to assist other credit-fueled, shopped-out spa-dwellers to do the same. Attracted by the title 'Dr Novak', she resumed her long-dormant Phd study: 'Agency or structure – a sociological analysis of neurolinguistic programming'. She lived in Pimlico, alone, in a groundfloor flat, without a dog, or cat.
******************************************************
Added June 19th 2013:
In the Café Crème, Brixton, Sam Gulak sat sprawled in a deep light-tan leather armchair, tapping away on his mobile. He looked slightly foppish, a little out of place. The cups and plates on his table had not been cleared, and he had corralled them into a corner so as to create space. He took a hurried sip from his coffee. Some froth stuck to his upper lip.
Milena Novak sidled up to his table, unnoticed: 'You must be the famous basketball player I spoke to earlier?' He looked up, startled, as if not to be expecting anyone. He pocketed his phone, wiped his mouth with his left hand and offered his right to her, raising himself very slightly from his seat as he did so. He smiled: 'You found it'.
'Look', she said, 'I don't want to seem rude, but I am in rather a hurry...Did you hear about the looting north of the river yesterday? I don't want to hang around here.' She remained standing.
'Yes, and you speak fast. Not even a coffee...?'
'OK, a coffee. Can I get you one?'
'Yes please, thanks', said Sam, 'Regular americano with milk on the side.'
'Pastry?'
'Nope.'
Milena sauntered up to the counter to place her order. She caught her image in the glass of the cabinet, and looked slightly askance at herself, pouting imperceptibly as she did so. She liked what she saw, though perhaps a little botox would not go amiss.
'Four-twenty please. Do you want a tray?'
'Please', Milena replied, slightly perplexed by the request.
'Do you have a loyalty card?'
'I don't think so.'
'Want one?'
'I don't think so.'
Having arranged the drinks on Sam's table, Milena reverted to journalist mode: Sam was to be interviewed. She sat to the side of him, and she leaned forward slightly, her blonde hair falling slightly to the sides of her face.
'So are you really a basketball player?', she said, pointing to the Los Angeles Lakers' crest on his jacket.
He laughed. 'If only. Anyway, I'm not tall enough. My status is much more lowly. I've just graduated in philosophy, so I am naturally unemployable.' He eased further back in his armchair, and smoothed the leather with his left hand, ending the movement with a slight flourish; almost a flick.
'I see. What are your plans now?'
Now it was Sam's turn to lean forward: 'I'm going to follow the normal career progression of someone of my status by continuing to live with my equally-gifted friends in my palatial London squat'. He peered at her over the rim of his coffee cup, grinning behind it.
'Really! I see. How commendable. God this coffee's dreadful.'
'Anyway, I'm in no rush to work. I can't see the point of writing hundreds of applications for jobs I don't want. I mean do you like your job?'
'Ha! My job: well Sam, that's another story.' She started to stir her coffee and watched the foam get sucked down the vortex. He watched it too. 'Do you actually live in Kilburn?', she continued.
'Yes'.
'Been there long?'
'I spent some time here last year while waiting for my case to come up'. He gazed out of the window as he said it.
'Your 'case'? You were on trial? [Sam nodded.] What was the charge?'
'Well', he said, scratching his head, 'I was in a little fracas with the police outside a branch of the Bank of Caledonia. We were protesting against fat-cat bank bonuses and all that. Anti-capitalist stuff. About thirty of us were arrested, and I was the only one to be convicted. I was on the telly. I don't think my lawyer was particularly impressive....'
'But that's awful'.
'Yeah, they tagged me, and I did four months' community service. It was completely banal. We literally had to collect rocks on the beach, and we were given completely mindless tasks to do in some National Trust properties.
'I thought all you humanities graduates went into the media and finance these days...'
'We used to. Not now. You'd be surprised. My girlfriend Rhona is a human rights activist. She's a law student. Knows her rights. Very committed, very angry. Gives legal advice to destitute people. She's in her final year, so she has slightly come off the bandwagon – exams are looming – but she will take it up again with me.'
'What's her background?'
'Disturbed. Her parents are both teachers. Very liberal; and very divorced.'
'Ever thought of that kind of thing?'
'Maybe. I mean after my conviction I need to restore my character profile. There's a scheme where top graduates go straight into challenging inner-city schools to teach for a year. I know people who are doing it, mainly because it looks good on their cv's. They have absolutely no intention of being teachers. They just know that employers seem to want evidence of a commitment to social awareness and community service. It's really cynical.'
'Of course, you already have the community service...'
'I do; and of course I have been very committed haven't I?' That cheeky grin again.
'Quite. But alright: whilst you're squatting and plotting, how will you support yourself?'
'Easy. We take food from the bins outside the supermarkets and restaurants. And we know people who can tap into the electricity and gas supplies. We manage. We don't steal from people.'
'Isn't there a risk of disease from eating food which is beyond its use-by date?'
'Yeah, I suppose there is that, but to be honest I'm more worried about a gas explosion.....' Another smirk.
Milena smiled, and brushed back the hair off her face, slowly. 'But do you know what I don't understand Sam? […] Why would you take all of this trouble to contact me in order to return my iPhone? These things have value, and you must need the money.'
'Yes'. He was serious now. He reclined again in his chair, and made a little tent-shape with the fingers of his hands. 'It's the system that pisses me off. It's not individuals. You're an individual. If you'd found my iPhone, you wouldn't have flogged it would you? […]. Would you?'
'Another cup of this awful coffee Sam?'
'Thanks. Would you like your iPhone back?'
'God yes. I completely forgot!!'
**********************************************
Earlier that day, the Tuns Tavern in Finsbury north east London had been unusally busy, and the bar attendant had been left to serve unaided, as best he could. Like the English everywhere the customers formed a queue; a single line – no pushing in. Raised eyebrows and hands on hips did nothing to speed things up, and when a woman requested four coffees the barman had to withdraw elsewhere to prepare them. For some, this delay was the final straw, and they left the bar, heads shaking, pulses quickening; never again. Outside, the tables and benches closest to the canal were in demand, and were occupied by smokers, who thought they were doing everyone a favour by exhaling into the breeze which was coming off the canal. A train rumbled over the nearby railway bridge. A canal-boat edged quietly towards its moorings, a final gurgle of its engines nudging it into place. A lone duck rode the soft ripples. In the distance a police car threaded its way round the nearby housing estate, its siren heralding the end of the driver's morning shift. A dog was tethered to iron railings at the entrance to the pub, next to a few rusty bikes.
At the edge of the canal-terrace a couple had been hugging each other, pausing intermittently to smoke, drink and kiss; in that order. They looked to be about forty-five. A woman rummaged around for her sunglasses, which she proceeded to wear pushed back over their hair, like an Alice band. The little dog began to yelp, unnoticed. Inside, the coffees eventually arrived, to mild cheers, and an embarrassed young woman counted out the amount owing, to the penny. The barman thanked her with an exaggerated grace. With tray in hand, and her chin pressed down against her chest, she teetered carefully forward, eyes straight ahead, never wavering. The tray stayed firmly gripped until it reached the door to the terrace. Normal service was resumed at the bar.
'Who's next please?' asked the barman, trying not to look flustered. The short man at the front of the queue said: 'I am please'. His voice was a bit gravelly, his accent possibly Italian. There was something of the musketeer about his face: a pointed short beard of black hair, a tapered moustache above the mouth. Sunglasses rested on his head, and a string of brown shells adorned his neck. He looked to be about thirty. Towering behind him, closely, was Stephen Tait. Tait's suit was black. His white shirt was open at the collar, with the merest hint of a tattoo on his chest. His head had been shaved, and it glistened. Tait edged slowly in front of the foreigner, who now stepped back from the bar, not quite knowing what to do. Others were watching. Having ordered his drinks – 'four small pints of London Pride mate' – Tait turned toward those behind him in the queue, scanning them, in a slightly cocky fashion, as if to provoke their disquiet. He knew he had jumped the queue and he knew he could get away with it. Tait then placed his chin on the crown of the foreigner's head, wedging him to the spot, knocking off the sunglasses which had been perched on his head. Tait's well-muscled friends lingered and leered from the side of the queue, their arms folded, tee shirts stretched, as if awaiting their cue to intervene on Tait's behalf. Their girlfriends rolled their eyes, and giggled, pretending not to know their men-in-waiting. The barman's finger hovered over the panic-button.
'Cappucino, sir? Just like your mama makes in Italy? Anything else?', said Tait.
'No thanks', replied the foreigner, his voice now an octave higher, the compression on the top of his head increasing. He fixed his gaze on the stubble of Tait's neck.
'NO, you don't want a cappucino; or NO, you don't want anything else?' Tait was almost playful now, getting into his stride, enjoying the gibe, eyeing his friends, who inched closer.
'Just the coffee, please'. The foreigner's voice was now reduced almost to a whisper.
No sympathy or support came his way; fear was in the air. He placed his finger inside the collar of his shirt, and slightly scratched his neck. He extricated himself from Tait, slowly; very slowly, and retreated. Tait smiled. Nothing happened for about a minute. The area around the bar had became hushed; people stared at each other. The police car had long passed by. Tait finally broke the silence: 'Whatever mate: your coffee's on me. Have a nice day'. His sardonic smile was written on every word. The drinks arrived, and were paid for with a credit-card, a black one, embossed with the name Stephen R Tait. As Tait keyed in his PIN, the barman noticed how uncommonly small Tait's hand was.
Not all of Tait's taunts had gone as well as this one. One in particular haunted him. Twenty-five years ago, whilst at school, the young Tait had long threatened and persecuted a certain Charles Gulak, Sam Gulak's father. Since his early childhood, Charles Gulak had suffered from involuntary movements in some of his facial muscles. He was a slight and studious pupil, and wanted to be a lawyer, a station in life far above that of his father, a conductor on the number 63 bus. Tait himself was something of a posh kid – his father owned a pub – and always wore a beautifully-ironed white shirt, with cuff-links. His blazer was a perfect fit, unlike Charles Gulak's which was invariably bought two sizes too large so that he would grow into it. Tait regarded himself as somewhat soigné and suave, and was quite sporty in a lumbering sort of way. Gulak, on the other hand was not, his affliction disinclining him towards games. He was a bit of a loner, but he had a quietly self-deprecating demeanour, which helped him to cope, and which attracted some sympathy.
But not from Tait. It had been the lunch-hour, and the inclement weather had required the boys to stay in their classrooms. Tait had perfected his taunting of Charles Gulak since their first year at the school, and was about to continue it. But for some reason – no-one had seen exactly what had triggered it – there was suddenly an outbreak of very loud shouting. Gulak had obviously snapped, lost it. Stephen Tait's face was badly bloodied, his blazer ripped, his tie askew. Bent forward, he clutched his groin, groaning. Meanwhile Charles Gulak – visibly shaking – was being quietly restrained by 'Titch' Taylor, the first-fifteen rugby captain. At which point, a form-master entered the room, with a somewhat bored what's-going-on-here look on his face. He stood for no more than a minute, taking it all in; and then he left. Titch continued to calm Gulak. No-one came to Tait's aid, and nothing further was ever said about the incident. Stephen Tait had never forgotten his humiliation.
Meanwhile, on the canal-side terrace of the pub on that August day in 2011, Tait and his entourage decided it was time to evict those drinkers who had had the misfortune to have sat at the benches beside the water. The kissing couple were the first to be asked if their table was free. Fortunately they were 'just leaving'. The smokers nearby quickly tossed their cigarettes into the water, fearing they might be called upon next to discuss their seating arrangements. Tait and his friends sat down to enjoy the view of the canal. He was not due at work until the evening, and it was an easy twenty-five minute journey from Finsbury Park station southbound on the Victoria Line.
The Dome in Cloud Land
'It's cold here, even in my spa-suit.'
'Really? I don't find it so.'
'You must do. Look at the icy sky. [...] I like the soft-white cobalt blue of everything. [...] What's your name?'
'My name is Glaciatorus. All of us are called Glaciatorus – except for the females, who are all called Glacia. Nationally, we are the Domestics. Because we live in the Dome....'
'So everyone has the same name?'
'Yes: we are all in this together; except for the Thermals.'
'The Thermals?'
'When you arrived you will have seen large igloo-like structures, or mini-pods, scattered here and there. It's a zone called Podestria. That's where the Thermals live. Inside their super-heated pods they age, their skin becomes dry. If they leave the pods without the transfusion then they freeze solid in what you call seconds.'
'The transfusion?'
'We Domestics don't have blood; we have anti-freeze. We used to have just pure alcohol, but that got to be a bit silly, as you can imagine. The anti-freeze transfusion has changed our lives completely. We've calmed down a lot. We have become the spa-destination of choice where the Thermals can chill-out safely, if they get the transfusion.
'Can I become a Domestic if I have the transfusion? Will I become cobalt-blue like you?'
'You must first join the Thermals and become a podestrian in the pods....'
'No, I like it here, outside. It's really cool. Give me the transfusion now please.'
'No, sorry. It's more than my job's worth. You're either going to have to remain in your spa-suit and leave the Dome, or go now to Podestria and prove your worth as a Thermal. Then perhaps we'll give you the transfusion if you show signs of coolness.'
'You're a cold-hearted so-and-so.....'
'That's the biggest compliment I've ever had. Let me have a word with my superior about your transfusion.'
MADAME FONTANA'S CHANGE OF SHOES
Helene Fontana was tapping the sides of her wine-glass as she read a book. She leaned across to his table:
"Excuse me. Are you English?", she asked.
“Yes”.
"Do you know French cars?"
"Most of them".
"The Citroen C6?"
"I know it".
"I need to go inside and telephone my husband because he's late. But I'm worried that he might arrive and I will miss him. If he comes, will you ask him to wait? He will stop here, at the cafe... It's dark blue".
"Of course."
"The name is Fontana; Helene Fontana."
“Thomas McIntosh.”
After five minutes, she returned to her table: "He is coming”. He nodded, and swirled his beer in the glass, gazing at the froth. They said nothing, both staring at the train station opposite. But suddenly she turned towards him, and removed her flat shoes, replacing them, very slowly, with navy blue leather ones; high-heeled. As she fitted them, she leaned forward, her black hair falling over her face. Glancing up at him, she caught his eye, and softly bit her lower lip. He adjusted his shirt-cuffs; no smile. Shoes changed, she picked up her glass, resting her chin on its rim, tightening her mouth for a second.
The Citroen arrived on the other side of the street.
'Your car Helene....'
"I know'. She gathered her bag. 'Au revoir Thomas", her hand almost touching his arm. He watched her saunter towards the car, her form fading mistily into his myopia. The book remained on her table, open at the Preface.
HOW MUCH WOULD YOU LIKE TO INVEST IN A CAR?
'Like it?' Rupert Grant smoothed his hand over the curve of the front fender of the BMW. Its sheen gave off a distorted image of his face.
'Anything in red – with metallic paint?', she enquired, thoughtfully, arms folded, feet apart.
Grant extended his arms towards her, palms up, smiling, his teeth unnaturally white and even. He swivelled in an arc, inviting her to absorb the gleaming cars around them.
'Any colour you want. If it's not here, we can order a completely personalised car for you.'
She gazed at the polished steel and marble of the showroom. There was an airy ambiance, all calm. Everything gleamed; soft sounds echoed. It could have been the lobby of a modern up-market hotel at two in the morning, but with cars instead of sofas strewn about the place. Grant moved away from the car and sidled up to her:
'Why red?', he asked.
'They can see me coming', she replied, still looking at the BMW.
'They?'
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