Untouchable Things Read online

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  They went for T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land in the end, partly because Rebecca knew it well and partly because it was the nearest thing to drama in Seth’s glut of poetry volumes. Apart from Shakespeare, of course, whose best soliloquies were all for men. She just read the first part, enjoying the different voices and the bleak comedy they created. As she finished there was nervous laughter.

  “Wow – you read it beautifully but I don’t have a clue what it meant.”

  “That’s a relief – I thought it was because I’m Spanish…”

  “Any chance you could explain it, Rebecca?”

  She laughed. “Not without the help of the Mr Eliot’s notes, which are nearly as long as the poem – which is about half a day long!”

  Charles stroked his beard. “I seem to remember lots of references to vegetation ceremonies and impotent fishermen.” He had a twinkle in his eye. “It was one of our A-Level set texts.”

  Michael nodded. “And the disjointed structure reflecting the fractured state of society after the First World War, right?”

  Instinctively everyone turned towards Seth, whose eyes were in shadow.

  “‘What is that noise?’

  The wind under the door.

  ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’

  Nothing again nothing.”

  No one spoke. Rebecca heard Jason shift in his seat and sigh a little too loudly.

  “‘Do

  You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember Nothing?’”

  His voice spat scorn and anger. Rebecca saw Anna and José exchange a look; Catherine put her hand briefly on Seth’s inert arm. The room hummed with tension. Jason took a slug of brandy.

  “Well then.” Jake got briskly to his feet. “Time for another drink I think. Rebecca, what’re you ’aving?”

  Seth remained motionless. “Now when we look to him we are all afraid. He’s pilot of our ship and he is frightened.”

  What was he quoting from now? Anna and José frowned at Charles, gesturing for him to do something. He coughed uncertainly. “Yes, definitely time for a break. I, for one, could do with a glass of water.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, Seth continued intoning the words of The Waste Land, staring past everyone towards the window.

  “‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?

  I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

  With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?

  What shall we ever do?’”

  Everyone looked alarmed now, Jake frozen like a self-conscious statue with his hands in his pockets. But Rebecca had an instinct; she also had the poem in front of her.

  “The hot water at ten.

  And if it rains, a closed car at four.

  And we shall play a game of chess,

  Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.”

  Slowly Seth looked up at her and their eyes locked. As the connection was made he started to look more like himself. Quickly Rebecca hurried into the East End pub scene that followed, hamming up her cockney wench bit to get people laughing. She looked to Seth for the last line of the section which he delivered in sonorous but no longer brooding tones.

  “‘Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.’”

  “Oi – are you trying to get rid of us? I thought I was getting a refill!” There was laughter at José’s bad cockney accent and people starting moving, talking, drinking again like someone had pushed the Play button. Rebecca noticed Charles with his arm round Seth by the window. She made her excuses shortly afterwards, sensing that the sands of Jason’s self-control were about to trickle away. As she went to look for their coats she passed Anna and José talking in low voices in the study. Then Seth appeared behind her. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed unsteady on his feet. He took her hand and gripped it hard. “Goodnight, sweet lady.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. More to the point, are you? I don’t think your beloved enjoyed himself too much.”

  “Oh – ” but at this point Jason had returned and they said their goodbyes.

  “Bloody hell.” Jason couldn’t even wait until they’d reached the bottom step.

  “He wasn’t himself. I don’t know what happened.”

  “You can say that again. Come on, let’s walk.” He had sobered up and had a spring in his step as he gleefully dissected Seth and his hang-ups. “And did you notice? No photos. Not a single one. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? Especially if he’s lost his parents.”

  “Maybe the memories are too painful.”

  “And all those mirrors. I’ve never seen so much of myself.”

  Lacking encouragement, he finally ran out of steam and they walked the rest of the way home in silence. Passing neon-lit kebab shops and boarded-up flats, the words of The Waste Land circled Rebecca like vultures.

  “‘What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?’”

  Scene 18

  And you are…?

  Charles Maslowe.

  Ah yes. Could you tell me, Mr Maslowe, how you first met Seth Gardner?

  We were in the same year at St John’s College, Cambridge.

  He’d gone up to Cambridge because his sister was there. Most younger siblings he knew tried to break away, go somewhere different, but then their sisters weren’t ill. He was at a different college from Sarah, but he could still keep an eye on her and reassure their parents.

  It was at a tutor’s drinks party in Freshers’ Week.

  Everyone trying to impress, trying so hard to be liked. Braying voices talking about rugger. Some good-looking girls. Ladies, rather. He felt no need to join in the scrum. A dark-haired chap in a well-cut blazer accosted him by the drinks table.

  “I’d go for the red. It’s French and quaffable. The sparkling stuff is nasty.”

  Charles was in the mood for white but felt it would be rude to ignore the advice. He took a sip. “Not bad.” What did he know? He’d barely touched the stuff before.

  The man extended his arm. “Seth Basildon.”

  “Charles Maslowe.” They shook hands.

  “You look like a man who might know something about music.”

  “Um…”

  “I’m after something dark and apocalyptic from his collection.” Seth pointed at Dr Cheetham’s shelves of records. “You’ve heard the Wagner rumours?”

  Charles smiled. “Do you think it’s true?” It was being passed round that Dr Cheetham would signal it was time to clear off by blasting them with Wagner.

  “If it is it’s predictable. I was wondering if we might offer him another choice. Frankly I’m desperate for any distraction.” He made a face in the direction of a couple of young men with bushy hair and suits that hung off them. ‘Mathmos’. The plural of Mathmo. Even to Charles they looked like people to avoid.

  “Gives us a chance to check out his record collection, anyway. Excuse me.” He leaned over towards the tutor and indicated the shelves. “May we?”

  Charles started rifling the record sleeves nearest to him, quickly becoming engrossed. Saint-Saëns, Schubert, Schumann, all alphabeticised. When he looked up, his supposed partner in crime was over by the door chatting to two attractive girls. Ladies. Charles felt his face grow a little warmer. He put his hands in his pockets and went back to the drinks table. He’d bloody well have the sparkling this time.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The glass nearly jumped out of his hand. Seth was back, smiling a little sheepishly. “Sorry about that, I got distracted at Fauré. So then, what’s your verdict?

  Charles made a non-committal face. “I only had a quick flip. A Space Odyssey would seem to fit the bill, though.” He spoke casually to show it was of no consequence to him.

  The other man nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. “Richard Strauss. An excellent choice. Well, Charles, my instinct wasn’t wrong. I was rather hoping you’d pick that one.”

  Before C
harles had a chance to process his words, Seth strode over to the record player and the first blasting chords of A Space Odyssey sounded at top volume. Students looked at each other in confusion. Was this their cue to leave? Most of them headed for the door immediately, causing a small crush. By the time Dr Cheetham had spluttered his way to the record player there was almost no one left. The tutor turned to Seth in bewilderment.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Seth was waiting with a million dollar smile. “I didn’t want you to waste your wine on people who don’t know their Wagner from their Strauss.”

  They’d ended up drinking port with Dr Cheetham until 3am.

  So you became friends.

  Yes, he’d clearly passed some kind of test at that moment. Occasionally he wondered how his Cambridge experience might have turned out if he’d failed, gone for Beethoven’s 5th or something. More recently, he had taken to wondering how his life might have turned out without Seth in it. Best not to think of that now.

  Close friends?

  Well, yes, we shared a set in the second year.

  A what?

  A sort of, ahem, suite. Obviously with two beds. And a shared space.

  Good room mate, was he?

  Well…

  Charles was in the library trying to finish his dissertation. The deadline was in a fortnight and he only had two thousand decent words. Panic simmered as he jotted down notes and tried to focus. For some reason a section of the room had been set up as a dining hall, where a group of first years sat banging their cutlery on the table. He recognised one of them as somebody he’d been at Scouts with as a boy, and wondered if he should say hello. But then a strange alarm began to sound intermittently. It didn’t sound like a fire alarm. No one else seemed to take much notice of it. Charles knew that if the alarm didn’t stop he would never finish his dissertation. And then he would probably be sent down.

  He woke to a terrible piercing ringing in the darkness. It took him a second to reach clumsily for the lamp switch and another to identify the source of the racket – a shiny red telephone newly installed on the coffee table. Why the hell wasn’t Seth answering it? He dropped his feet onto cold floor and lunged for the receiver, desperate for the screeching to stop. “Hello?”

  “Charlie, you godda help me.”

  It sounded like Seth but it couldn’t be. Seth was in bed in the next room.

  “Who is this?”

  “You godda help me. I’m in trouble.”

  “Seth?”

  “Come and get me.”

  He sounded blind drunk. Again. Charles sighed deeply and slumped to perch on the edge of the coffee table.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Ely.”

  “Ely?”

  “I need you to come and get me. Can’t stay here.”

  Charles frowned at the phone. “I can’t come and get you from Ely.”

  “Take my car.”

  “Don’t be stupid, I’m not insured…”

  “Please. I need to get home.”

  “Just get a taxi.” He moved to hang up the phone.

  “No taxis. I have to get out of here. Car’s on Silver Street. Keys are… oh God.”

  “Seth? Are you okay? What’s going on? Seth!” He could hear distant echoes of traffic but nothing else. He must be in a phone box.

  “Seth, are you there?”

  There was a loud bump in his ear then a slurred whisper, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  He folded. “Look, it’s okay, don’t worry, just tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

  I, er, well I didn’t know what to do for the best.

  Rest assured, Mr Maslowe, that driving uninsured is of no interest to us at the moment.

  Ah. I see. Well, I got directions from a girl who was at the party.

  By the time Charles had pulled on yesterday’s clothes, found Seth’s car keys and persuaded a very grumpy night porter that he had a good reason for leaving college at 3a.m, he’d already wasted twenty minutes. The silver Audi was in its usual place. His hand paused on the handle. But the strangeness of Seth’s voice was in his head. The sound of it made him press his foot on the accelerator, checking mirrors and praying there were no police around.

  It’s just… I’d never heard him afraid before.

  Good old law-abiding Charles zipping through residential streets at 3am in a car he shouldn’t be driving. He knew it made no sense, he and Seth, that it took the cliché of opposites attracting to a new dimension. But it worked, mostly. His parents had told him to have some fun, not to worry about Sarah too much, and fun was something Seth did in style. On some level it thrilled him to be hanging out with the bad boy instead of the swots. In return he supposed he provided some sort of anchor for Seth in the absence of family.

  He squinted at the scribbled notes resting on the passenger seat. Left after the pub on the corner. As predicted, he heard music blaring as he pulled up into Wharf Villas. The front door of number three was slightly ajar; since no one stood a chance of hearing his knock, he pushed it open. A bare light bulb blared down on a tangle of semi-clothed limbs and discarded clothes on the stairs. Charles shuddered slightly. Averting his eyes, he followed the hall and turned into the first room he found. Thumping bass and near-darkness stopped him in his tracks; then, as his eyes and ears relaxed, he saw a familiar figure propped against the sofa holding a thin, misshapen cigarette.

  “Charlie boy! You made it! Hang on a tick.” The figure leaned over to his left making jabbing motions. Without warning the music slammed to a halt.

  Whatever Charles had expected, it was not this. Seth had his free hand around a bobbed brunette who looked up at him with unconvincing head control.

  “Oi, what you doing? Put the music back.” She turned a slack face towards Charles. “Is this your friend then?”

  “It certainly is. Charles – get yourself a drink, old chap. There’s beer in the kitchen – unless we’ve drunk it – oops.” The two of them started giggling.

  Charles stared, feeling jarringly displaced and sober.

  “Are you okay, Seth?”

  “Okay? I’m fucking fantastic. Must be the weed this charming lady has served me. Did you get a drink?”

  “I thought I was supposed to be driving you home.”

  “But you’ve only just arrived. Besides I’m – um – starting to enjoy myself.” He winked as the woman’s head slumped towards his shoulder.

  Charles felt an unfamiliar surge of fury. “Fine, well I’m off anyway. Have a good night.” His legs shook as he strode towards the door.

  “Hey, hey, wait – what the hell’s wrong with you?” Seth came lurching after him and flung an arm over his shoulder.

  “Fuck!” Something moved and groaned on the floor. Charles threw off Seth’s arm and stepped away from the body at his feet, which appeared to be trying to sleep. He faced Seth.

  “What’s wrong with me? You wake me in the middle of the night, tell me you’re in trouble, I drive over without fucking insurance and then you just say ‘Hi Charles, want a drink?’ Work it out.” The expletive registered more than the words. Charles never swore. Seth opened his eyes wider and tottered like a discarded beer bottle.

  “Sorry, I’m a twat.” Then his face changed. “Poor little Charlie boy, all tucked up in his little bed in his jim jams when along comes the big, bad wolf… oh God…” He made a sudden zig-zag stagger, shoving Charles out of the way and diving towards the door. Bursts of violent hawking from the back of his throat intermingled with the splattering of liquid hitting the ground.

  “Fuck, man.” The figure from the floor began to crawl towards the lounge. Charles stood with his face turned away as Seth continued to gag and moan.

  “God, I feel terrible. Need to go home. Sorry.” Seth put his head in his hands and began to cry.

  Charles went to pull him up like so many times before. “It’s okay. We’ll get you home now.”

  Scene 19


  Such an idiot. Such a bloody idiot. He might just as well have the words ‘gullible fool’ tattooed onto his forehead.

  Safe in the privacy of his room, Michael clenched his fists, letting his frustration explode loudly and wordlessly from the back of his throat. Like a child having a tantrum. A child who didn’t like the magic show.

  A fucking magic show. That was what happened when you tried to have a serious conversation with Seth. He’d turned up on Saturday all set to have a heart-to-heart, assure himself about Seth’s state of mind, and then the doorbell had rung not once but twice more. Catherine, Jose and him, all expecting a private audience with Seth, all worried about him after that strange business with The Waste Land. Instead of which it was literally smoke and mirrors and Jake dancing around in that ridiculous costume as he and Seth put on their show. Seth, giddy as a goat, delighted with the way his little surprise had turned out, the others humouring him as per. Exposed as rivals, beneath the banter and bonhomie, all vying to be Seth’s number one.

  I will not be that person. I will draw back. But I don’t know if I can. Or if I can afford to.

  Mr Stanley? My colleague asked how the Friday Folly came about. We already have accounts from some of the others but we’d like to hear your perspective.

  I’m sorry, I skipped ahead. It was at the musical evening that Seth hosted. June 1994. At the time it seemed like a spontaneous idea. Now, of course, I’m not so sure.

  All it needed was a stag’s head hanging over the doorway to complete the scene. Oil paintings, period furnishings, chandeliers, chaise longue; the man was a living relic. Every one of Michael’s worst fears brought to life like a nightmare. Canapés, old school tie, the hum of polite chit-chat. And here came the orchestrator, clad in black tie and about to pump Michael’s hand.

  “Delighted you could make it. Are you a purist or will you have a drink?” At the flick of his fingers Catherine appeared with a drinks tray. “Champagne okay? Let me take that from you.” Michael relinquished his £3.99 bottle of plonk he now saw was a mistake. Seth glanced at it and deposited it somewhere in the kitchen. Catherine raised her eyebrows as Michael lifted a glass from the tray and took a sizeable swig.