Michael Nath

Short Fiction

Tourbillion Park. That fella staring at the cascade like he could make it run back up – if I had sway in this world, I’d have a pair of topboys elbow him off the bridge. Let the patroon flounder in the carp pond!

On a dull day, none but him and me – and a blonde by the rockery vaping: grey coat, old daps, hairfall of brilliant coils. I’m smelling the vape from here, when along he rolls through the cinnamon cloud. Tidy beard, smiling eyes.

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed, I object to most demands. What did this one want? Taking in the lady of the rocks where she crouched, free as you like he sits beside me, asking me now my fucking name, which it’s the devil’s work withholding, when the other’s told his own; before you know, it’s Kemp & Morgan, two comedians on a bench.   

‘Years ago, Morgan,’ said he, ‘I thought I’d found my way.’

‘You should be so lucky, pal.’

‘Well you may be the man to judge.’  

Silence.

‘You know the station?’

‘Thataway?’

‘Thataway.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Know it well?’ Like we were spies or old salts.  

‘Well enough.’

‘Listen then, Morgan.’ 

Here was an accurate man.

---

Either side of the stairs, nine foot above ground, you had a white sign. In the top inner corner was a black box, with illuminated yellow lettering, WAY OUT, and a broken arrow attached to the W to make it extra clear the way out was up the stairs, in case you fancied a challenge, such as drilling your way through and ending up in Surrey. In the outer corner of the sign, in navy-blue letters, you had the direction Warwick Road, there being two exits, one at this side, one on the Earl’s Court Road. From a mounting between the signs, a surveillance camera with a little spout like a Heckler and Koch MPK, magazine detached, aimed at a point 18 foot from the stairs, where you had a white column with a fat white disk two thirds way up, resembling capital phi. This was your ‘Help Post’: fat blue button for help, fat red button for emergencies, two-way Delphic aperture, grilled. Transport for London certainly didn’t want anyone going the wrong way, did they? But how many people paid attention to signs? And how many people felt all right about speaking into holes in public? Wasn’t help from another person the thing we most wanted?

Not in my book it wasn’t.

Six foot down from the Help Post was a small, compact bench of oak inset into the back housing of a derelict escalator, a shady bench flanked by white uprights,  overhung by canopy of dull glass. Sun never shone there. You had to be careless of another’s space to join them. They didn’t care for it, unless they were screaming for company, or you were a beautiful tourist. The professors of behaviour should have come down and done some field work, on that little bench.                                                 

One summer morning, there sat Kemp, waiting for a train, professors on his mind. They told you people who wouldn’t look at you had something to hide. They told you people who pulled their ear weren’t telling the truth. They knew a thing or two about lying, these professors; did they have it all covered?         

Had some beef with professors, did he not?

Two Scousers with holdalls came tumbling off  a District Line train for Tower Hill on Platform 2, between Kemp and the Help Post; their girls behind. They were going round in circles here! Lead man laughing to his mate. Lead girl was hard-eyed, told them to ask the bloke. The bloke wasn’t Kemp; nonetheless, Kemp called from shadow it was Platform 3 they needed.  Up where it said Way Out and over there!

Whereupon they noticed him.

Any train Platform 3. Change at Victoria for Euston, la.

And the lead man was, Sound, mate! Cheers!

The lead girl hurried them to the stairs and up, they crossed the bridge and reappeared, stairs on the other side. On Platform 3 a field-grey train slid up, pell-mell they boarded. As it hauled out west, the lead man gave Kemp a thumbs up from the window. Kemp nodded back. Fare thee well, la! 

If the 1.15pm from Euston to Liverpool Lime Street were to be blown up by terrorists, his fine friends would be thanking him for sending them the wrong way. Across from Platform 1, ferns glowed in the sun; from the track flashed a spark. First lie he’d told in decades. A 630V direct-current lie.

Lies of mine raised their hands.  

Kemp boarded an eastbound. Seats patterned with interlocking triangles, orange, black, spinach, brown, non-slip wooden deck. In the furniture he took pleasure, the pleasure of a new captain. By now his friends would be above the trees, Turnham Green, Stamford Brook, Chiswick Park, Gunnersbury, maybe as far as Richmond or Kew. The day was always theirs. 

At Embankment, Kemp mounted the exit staircase behind a girl with a scorpion tattoo, phone in hand: Didn’t know if she could this time. She just felt so let down. What Edward had promised wouldn’t happen again, had happened again. Heel lifting from her mule, the scorpion slipped up the bottom of her jeans. Keeping her in view, he passed into Villiers Street, where gulls congregated; upon him came his opportunity. 

The thing being to wheel round briskly to the left through a half circle from six o’clock and intercept her higher up. She’d stopped at a coffee stall. By arcade and silent road he ascended the hours.

On painted dial, I saw a hand; beheld a climbing Satan.  

At twelve, down he came. On a bench in a dreary part of the street with her paper beaker and a little brown bag of cake, there she was, unhappy. Something sucked at the muscles of her face. Alighting besider, he told her, told he hated what Ed was doing to her.

She recoiled, narrowed her eyes, mimicking whiff of pestilence. A professor might have predicted this. She stayed anyhow. Later, she looked his way. There he was, hands clasped. In her eyes was a shine.

They’d been introduced a couple of months ago, he told her. For manners’ sake, she could not deny this. Perhaps she’d been too drunk to remember. She was trying to remember whose party. For manners’ sake she couldn’t ask him.

So she asked if he worked with Edward. There was a touch of the north in her accent. She must have come down here for the good life, fallen in with this public-school blackguard. 

Locking his hands kirk-wise, he was afraid he did.  Shine glistening, she watched him; leaned his way. Told her Ed took the piss out of  her tattoo – when he was with his mates.

Fucking shithouse! Out went the shine. Eyes black as battery powder. She thanked him for letting her know. Before she could ask his name, he was rising; between her fingers she crushed the cake bag, ruthless of its contents.

Which was what she wanted to hear. Before she’d encountered him, she’d been a  two-a-penny misery. No self-respect. By evening she’d be back with Edward, making him promise with her shiny eyes. Two weeks and he’d be abusing her again. Now, she could hate him. Her soul would grow. Life had reopened. Kemp turned his back, crossed the Strand, to tell more lies.

Are you getting the measure of this fella? I fucking wasn’t, I can tell you. The lady of the rocks was still putting out cinnamon smoke. Maybe she’d had her turn.

Covent Garden. In the Piazza he caught sight of a friend of his watching a fire-eater with his family. Years since he’d spoken to Sylvester. Their lives had ceased to match. The daughter had little blue boots, the son a little baseball cap. A thief with a tarnished earring was easing Sylvester’s wallet from his back pocket. The fire-eater emitting an oily-yellow jet, your thief had the wallet three quarters out. Under the cries of the crowd, Kemp said he was a police officer: where he stood the villain vanished .

I could have cheered, slapped his back.                                                           

That evening, Kemp went out to a pub, opposite the station where this all began. At the bar, he drank his pint; heard laughter, heard cheers. Fans turned against the lacquered ceiling. He began to daydream of the way he’d found, beyond the professors. The barman stooped to open the fridge, took out a couple of shining brown bottles. 

A tidy trick you played on us, la, said a voice to his right. The lead man’s breath was beery. They wouldn’t have minded, only they  had booked tickets. Two hundred quid out of pocket they were now. 

His party were at one of the window tables, which were separated by screens. From the green and gold shopping bags, they’d obviously had a swank afternoon, decided to make another night of it. The lead man wanted it to be all right, wanted it to be sorted. Fundamentally he was genial, but the hard-eyed girl had sent him over

So Kemp told the lead man he should have pressed the blue button.  If you wanted proper help, you pressed the blue button.  All right?

The sidekick of the lead had arrived at the bar, a smaller busy type. Wanted to know what Kemp was saying. The lead man waved it aside, dropped his voice kindly: the lad was tapped.

But the women were watching and the sidekick had come all the way over, so he gave Kemp a couple then breathed in his eyes. Kemp thought he might be crying; but it was only hot breath of the sidekick, the whacks on the nose.  

That was their way with liars! Sidekick shouting across the lead man’s shoulder, who’d now stepped between them. 

Kemp began to laugh, snotting blood on the back of the lead man’s polo shirt. Tried to tell the sidekick the way he’d found, its benefits; but the lead man was taking the sidekick back to their table like they were doing the tango; then all the locals, the visitors and fiends, they  lowered their glasses and the place was still.

---

The way he’d found, I hadn’t the measure of: say it was beyond measure, that day of lies that caused a wobble in the rankings – I mean the rankings where truth’s concerned. Had there been other such days in history, or was this fella’s performance a one off? I wished it to have been love that set him on; though taking love and malice as contrary forces – well, his way might have found that wasn’t of the essence.     

All I said was I’d listen to him anytime, rather than press the blue button. As he rose, I took his hand; the lady of the rocks had already gone, though her smoke still flavoured the air; I stayed behind to breathe it – and for once, I was  grateful.

---

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