Michael Nath

Short Fiction

When we sat to dinner, they were still outside. Had they nothing better to fucking do? From the table we watched them chat. Couldn’t be anything heavy. Nearside cop made me think of my old man, one particular season of my youth; which was probably happier than I remember … 

Could say the same of all time.

  Yeah.

  Dinner was smoked mackerel. Huzza. By now, the cops were lolling. Sylvia wondered if they’d had anything to eat. 

  Christ’s sake! They’d have stuffed themselves in the canteen at lunchtime. Of that you could be sure.  

  She would keep looking out, so I said if you’re that concerned, take them some of this – you aren’t enjoying it any more than I am. Which was meant to be a joke obviously, though she rose and left the flat with a plate, crossing the road to the squad car. I’d have stopped her if I could; but she was door-side of the table – and usually gets away with stunts of this kind.

  So the nearside cop drops his window and grins, taking the plate into the car. By now, I’m halfway down the room, to examine proceedings. Meanwhile, Sylvia’s bending to talk, hand on roof, hand on hip. 

  By the scene I was delighted. She’d brought it off. Chatting with coppers was one thing; taking them a plate of smoked fish quite another. If it wasn’t an offence in itself, they might use it as excuse to pinch you. You’ve got to watch your step round here, as people say – though most of them probably have no direct experience, one way or the other. Everyone makes out they’re an expert: most of the time, it’s no better than superstition. Well Sylvia didn’t watch her step; she knew where her feet were. I took a quick photo. We could show it to our friends for a laugh: Yeah – when she was arrested for soliciting, I submitted this as evidence that community spirit was the motive! Let the joke convert your envy. With this thought, a little troubled, I began to clear the table. 

  When the buzzer went, I was at the sink. She’d forgotten the keys. Looking forward to a bright-eyed account (though put out by the escapade), I made to admit her. In the lobby was a tattooed man, broad and fashionably bearded. I’d seen him around, leaving the gym, in the barber’s, passing the gate to the bins; now his face was at the door, with the air of a good-news bearer.

  ‘They’re still talking, sir.’ 

  ‘How much longer – any idea?’

  ‘Not for certain. I could try an estimate.’ 

  I shook my head. Better to have something in reserve. With patience, his offer might  be parlayed. 

  ‘Will you come in for a minute?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  We faced each other, then turned about. The tattoos were arabesque.

  ‘Will you have a drink?’

  ‘No thank you. – Oh, I forgot to say, your wife will bring the plate.’

  Here was a setback. Could have done with the plate to keep me busy at the sink, while this rogue lurked in the hall. Sidelong I moved from him; like a climber on a ledge, he followed. So he thought he had one over me? No matter. Powerfully built as he was, I kept a cosh in the bedroom (a black sock stuffed with coin), which I could use on him in extremis. Though why should things come to such a pass? Besides, I’d invited him in.  

  ‘No uniform?’ I said now.

  ‘Should I be in uniform?’

  ‘The others are.’

  ‘I only brought a message, sir.’

  ‘They sent you to speak me?’

  ‘I happened to be passing. I was happy to help.’

  ‘So you’re not any kind of civilian officer?’

  ‘No, sir. Though I hope I am civil!’

  ‘Indeed you are.’ I regretted the idea of the cosh. ‘But you must have plans of your own for this evening? We’re keeping you.’

  ‘Being civil does not mean you have friends, sir,’ he told me, dipping his face.

  ‘You have no friends?’

  ‘Once I had friends, sir. But I came here.’ His English was excellent, as if he read the words.

  ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘I am a Slav.’ He smiled, and I dipped my face, for his smile weighed upon me, and I guessed why he was friendless. 

  ‘Why don’t you come in here?’ I led him to the room where Sylvia and I’d been eating. ‘We can watch.’

  ‘Now that’s a plan, sir!’ He rubbed his hands. 

  As we took our position in the middle of the room, Sylvia turned from the squad car with the crooked smile of a weatherwoman, raising the plate. My Slavic friend hummed: ‘I have hoped for a sight like this, sir!’

  ‘You’ve seen this sort of thing before?’

  ‘Only in dreams!’ 

  We laughed. 

  ‘What will she do next?’ As if he should school me in such shows. 

  ‘But there is already much there, sir!’

  ‘What need of next, hey?’ I nudged him, and felt he stored it. Sylvia holding the pose, plate above her shoulder, I took another photo, showing it to my friend; he was more interested in the scene itself. The cops seemed to be in discussion. I’d not yet seen the face of the driver, left arm raised as if to check his watch. Sidelong I regarded my friend; his beard was a prodigious object.

  ‘What if, sir, we should pull down that?’ Indicating the blind. 

  ‘But how will we know then?’ The suggestion disturbed me.

  ‘Know what, sir?’

  ‘What will happen.’

  ‘Has it not happened, sir?’

  ‘But it’s barely eight o’clock.’ 

  ‘Yet it is always some time or other!’

  ‘Of course,’ I admitted, ‘but this can only be the start – surely?’

  ‘Just now, sir, you said to me, “What need of next?” Then you were merry. What has upset you?’

  ‘That you suggested pulling down the blind.’ 

  As if a cheated child must have its way, he smiled; I went nearer the glass, my friend remaining in rear. Grinning, the old-man cop seemed to speak. I thought to drop below the window, then come up making a gun with my fingers. But in the instant I was down there, the tone might change. Besides, I should match the maturity of my bearded friend. 

  ‘Why do you wish to pull this down?’ I asked him.

  ‘Then, sir, we can consider what it is we have been looking at.’ I checked his face (still smiling), turned again to the window. ‘Furthermore, they are waiting.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For us to let them go. Have you never thought, sir, how it is with paintings? Sometimes the figures wish for darkness, that we stop staring.’

  ‘But it isn’t a painting!’ In the street, noise had dropped.

  ‘They are very still, sir.’ As they were now. ‘Besides, you have made your photo.’

  I was cut by the truth of this. ‘But if they were to go?’

  He came to my side. ‘Go where, sir?’

  ‘Away.’

  For the first time since I’d opened the door, he looked at me directly; benevolence and sincerity struggling in his beard like preachers in a hedge. ‘How could they go, sir? They must stand fast.’

  I looked from his face to the scene beyond the window. My wife still held the plate above her; she and my old man were grinning; though the grins seemed fixed, like Give us shade!

  ‘It’s not what will happen, but what it is,’ I proposed to my friend.

  ‘Why yes! That is surely it!’ 

  ‘And when we pull the blind, we will know?’

  My friend nodded.    

  ‘Well pull it then!’ 

  ‘I? I cannot, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’   

  ‘I have no authority.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘For this is not my property.’

  ‘Then I shall!’ I told him stepping forward. As I pulled, I dipped my eyes from scene to sill, knowing error as one who drives in fog. The blind could not be raised again. If Sylvia and the cops had taken their leave, I’d been cheated. Say they’d stayed where they were, darkness falling, who could ever relieve them?

  ‘Has something upset you, sir?’

  ‘My wife – she looked like an angel with that plate! Were they angels? Tell me!’

  ‘How far do they seem from you now, sir?’

  ‘Terribly far! Further than that. But you must tell me!’

  ‘Then it is likely they were angels, sir.’

  ‘Am I damned then?’

  Above his swarming beard, he watched me. ‘No, sir. Of course not. You were just a visitor to a gallery.’

  ‘A gallery?’

  ‘Which I should advise you now is closed.’

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Michael Nath is a British author and academic. His first novel, La Rochelle (Route, 2010), was shortlisted for the James Tait Prize (2011). His second British Story (Route, 2014) divided the Man Booker judges (longlist phase). His third novel, The Treatment, was published by Quercus (Riverrun) in 2020 – please see website below for reviews, etc. Nath’s fiction and articles have also appeared in Stand, New Welsh Review, Critical Quarterly, and anthologies. Extracts from British Story were translated into Spanish (Argonauta 3, 2016). As an academic, he specializes in Creative Writing, Modernism, Shakespeare, and the Renaissance. http://michaelnath.wordpress.com @MichaelNath11