Cloud Cuckoo Land Read online

  Leonard picked up the knot.

  Ian handed over his business card, which backed up what he’d been saying: ‘Ian Marble, knots, shirts and fuel grade diesel oil’. Leonard examined the knot and label again, with its little ‘c’ inside a larger circle.

  ‘Copyright! You can pay per tie or a one-off licence fee for a fixed tying period.’

  Ian puffed at his cigarette; Leonard looked bewildered.

  The waitress passed again.

  ‘Look, I said no fucking smoking!’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m going now, anyway.’

  Ian raised his voice so it was loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

  ‘Mind what you order, it’s extremely expensive here. It’s the bloody import-export gangsters trading black market because of the high border tariffs.’

  ‘You know the waitress?’

  ‘I don’t, no.’

  ‘She’s a he, right?’

  ‘I’m not blind, Leonard. Can I call you Leo?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Good. Of course she’s a he. It’s a great thing in life, don’t you think? To achieve what you set out to achieve, whatever it is? Can you imagine the busting great big thrill this chick-with-dick gets when he is mistaken for a woman?’

  ‘Yes but…’

  ‘So, where are you staying, Leo?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, maybe the Mirabelle.’

  ‘Oh dear no, not exactly the best inn in town, that’s for sure. I wish you good luck, although there is probably not enough luck in the whole world to protect you from the Mirabelle. Never mind, it’s too late now!’

  Ian stood. He handed Leonard a slip of paper stamped with red ink which read, ‘Ian Marble Knots, Half-Hitch, unlimited tie certification.’

  ‘There you go, I’m feeling generous this evening. See you around.’

  Leonard watched Ian stroll out through the door, watched him lean on an aluminium beer barrel and finish his cigarette with one side of his face lit by the last of the day’s sunlight. The exhaled smoke rose in a plume of gold above his head, he flicked the butt into the kerb and kicked off up the high street.

  The waitress came marching back to Leonard’s table.

  ‘Ready to order?’

  ‘Well, how much is the Bethany Omelette with Anatolian vegetables?’

  ‘That works out at two hours, miscellaneous, manual labour.’

  ‘What about the Stuffed Ichthys with Fayyum rice?’

  ‘A night shift.’

  ‘Zimrah compote?’

  ‘Two van deliveries, multidrop!’

  Leonard refolded the menu.

  ‘I don’t have a van. It’s all pretty expensive.’

  ‘What do you expect, we are practically living under martial law!’

  ‘Well, I’m not that hungry.’

  ‘Not yet, you’re not.’

  Leonard stood. The waitress raised an eyebrow and sprung her hip. Leonard left the restaurant.

  He found himself in lively streets, unusually European streets, with lit shop windows and passers-by stopping and looking in at the goods on display. Maybe the Spanish came here in the past, blown off course into the North Sea and shipwrecked; maybe boatloads of stray refugees fleeing some inquisition, because the place felt influenced by Spain, there was something in the architecture, in the iron-work balconies. On these balconies were washing lines with dangling clothes and caged yellow birds hanging in domed metal frames. Guitar music was spilling out onto the streets. Heart-felt music it was, with strangled flugelhorn solos and a fretless bass playing underneath African drums. Leonard stopped to listen; he stood in the doorway of a tavern, ignoring the bar-top TV. A female shape pushed through the standing crowd wearing red, all red, low at the neck and long right down to her ankles, split so she could walk. Black hair with loose curls, the kind of curls which wrap around your finger tips, looping over and under the knuckles. Her hair framed her face, a face already smiling because she knew the God-given value of beauty, how at every new introduction she had this unearned upper hand.

  She stopped just one step before physical contact with Leonard, she put her hands on her hips and looked straight in, right in until his stomach kind of lurched. That must be the famous butterflies, and it shocked him a bit, a childish phenomena happening right there in his own stomach.

  ‘Hello, what’s your name, then?’

  ‘Leonard.’

  ‘What can I get you then, Leonard?’

  ‘A beer, please.’

  She turned on her heel, lifted the flip-up lid of the bar top, stepped out of bounds and poured his beer.

  ‘Can you tell me what this music is?’

  She put his glass down on a small round tissue stamped with a logo.

  ‘It’s called elephant music, psychic elephant music. Like it?’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  ‘Here!’

  She pushed the beer towards him.

  ‘How do I pay? I mean, what do I owe?’

  She raised a black eyebrow. Then he remembered, he pulled the knot certificate from his pocket and flattened it out on the bar. She took a look and smiled.

  ‘Does that cover it?’

  She shrugged and took it.

  He picked up the glass with its tissue stuck to the underneath and drank it straight down, showing her his pale, swallowing neck.

  He watched her duck out of the bar and move away back into the crowd which parted and closed again behind her. He followed, he could see the red flag of her flank bending as she whispered into a man’s ear. It had to be a husband’s ear, an older man, twenty years older. He laughed at what she said and glanced around the room in the same arc that you would use for an automatic weapon, then he turned back to his conversation.

  Leonard moved in a bit further, excusing the bulk of his bag as it knocked against one or two people. One of the men in the crowd looked like the old man, the interviewer from the Administration Building. It was him, flanked by two assistants carrying files and unbound papers. Ian was standing there too, Ian Marble, smoking and drinking, wearing a doubtful face. Leonard felt like he’d got close enough, he was at that window-shopping distance, where you could still turn and go without obligation to buy. The old man had a beer in one hand and his walking stick in the other; he was leaning on his stick to stay upright but it also served to nail his assistants to the one place, the gum of grey rubber at its tip holding fast to the polished floor.

  Leonard was hungry and he was tired. The journey down from East Anglia had been uncomfortable, he’d not been able to sleep because of the lack of legroom. He fished the street map out of his bag and made his way back to the door. As he did, the girl in the red dress brought his exit to the attention of the crowd. The old man turned in a slow kind of three-point-turn, an about face just in time to see Leonard leave. The girl came back through the crowd and rammed the knot certificate down onto the bar-top spike which held a thick pile of credit notes.

  It was blowing up outside, flat, sheet-rain blowing straight in the face. The map was soon turning into blue and red porridge in Leonard’s hands. He just about found his way to the Mirabelle before the colours melted and the roads folded in on themselves.

  ◊

  The Mirabelle was a sort of four-storey seaside building, with round corners and a whitewashed plaster finish; the large aluminium window frames were dappled with oxides. It was one of those buildings that didn’t fit in the street, probably built on top of a bombsite where the existing building had been flattened in the war. It looked clean and ship-shape but up close there were thousands of surface cracks. There were a couple of handymen outside squatting on their haunches with wrenches and blowtorches, finishing up a day’s work. They’d done a really neat job of fixing a double-sized central heating radiator to one of the outside walls of the building. Leonard thought about asking them what the hell they hoped to achieve by this, but instead he let it go because they looked professio
nal, like they knew what they were doing.

  Leonard walked into the reception area where the air was overheated, stuffy. He struck the bell on the counter top but nobody came. There was an office behind the desk. The door was gaping open so Leonard called out.

  ‘Hello, anybody there?’

  A man stepped out from behind the doorframe. He was naked to the waist and wearing three sets of body toner pads stuck all over his upper torso. Blue, saucer-shaped pads connected by criss-crossing wires taped to his back.

  ‘Hello yes, Harry here. Can I be of any assistance?’

  Leonard was not sure. The man walked towards the desk but as he reached the limit of his extension lead, he abruptly stopped and stood still with his stomach, chest and upper arm muscles flexing involuntarily.

  ‘What are the ah…?’ Leonard pointed.

  ‘I’m working out!’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Fitness regime. It’s OK, I’m perfectly capable otherwise. Can I help you?’

  ‘I booked a room.’

  ‘OK, righto. Name?’

  ‘Leonard Gopaul.’

  Harry flicked through his reservations book.

  ‘Yes, here you are. I’ll show you upstairs.’

  ‘It’s very warm in here.’

  ‘Yes, some of our guests like it hot.’

  Harry disappeared into the office and reappeared carrying his own plug.

  ‘So, when are you up?

  ‘Up?’

  ‘Have you had your interview yet?’

  ‘Yeah, I went today.’

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Sure it is. I’ve seen thousands come and go, that’s a good first reaction. And you’re taking your room, fulfilling your obligation despite our reputation, I like that.’

  ‘He said we might talk again.’

  ‘There you go, see. Warden’s a difficult nut to crack, don’t loose heart.’

  ‘Warden?’

  ‘The old man.’

  Harry left the stairwell at the third floor. Leonard followed.

  ‘I’ve got two rooms free, shall I show you?’

  Leonard nodded.

  ‘Now, if you want my advice, forget luxury living and think practical. You’d better take one of these rooms because you won’t find anything else, not this late in the day.’

  ‘Right, OK!’

  Harry turned left off the corridor. He opened room 45, walked in, switched the light on and plugged himself into the socket beside the vanity mirror. The muscle toning pads started to twitch, making Harry seem nervous and uptight when really he was just fine.

  ‘What do you think? Need to see the other one?’

  It was hard for Leonard to concentrate with Harry’s tits flexing every few seconds. He didn’t really look at the room because it didn’t really matter. There was a bed in the background, nothing too offensive colour-or odour-wise.

  ‘This’ll do fine.’

  ‘Good, bathroom’s down the hall.’

  Harry glanced at his watch.

  ‘Curfew in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Curfew?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I wouldn’t advise cutting it too fine if you’re going out for something, the police are not very forgiving. See you around, then.’

  Harry unplugged and left the room.

  Leonard sat down on the bed, knackered and hungry. He unzipped his bag and reached into it, digging around in the rolled up socks for an airtight container. He peeled off the lid and inside were six snow-white duck eggs and a packet of bacon. The room, being just a bed, a chair, a table and one window, had no cooking facilities at all. But there was a kettle and an iron, so Leonard plugged them both in and took a look out of the window while they heated up.

  It was a significant view, a square courtyard with light industrial workshops on two sides and a gate to the street. Down below in the lowering light, a bored, brown dog was circling around one of its own turds. Between the buildings, there was a viewpoint of the border post with guards checking the arriving and departing cars. The fences were high and barbed at the top; the striped barrier across the road lifted slowly when the counter-weight was leaned on.

  The water was boiling so Leonard lowered an egg down into the kettle and let it settle against the heating element. Then he balanced the iron upside down and laid a rasher of bacon against the face. He gave the egg five minutes and turned the bacon twice, used the lid of his plastic container as a plate and rummaged in his bag for salt and pepper. He ate with a teaspoon, working the blunt steel through the meat and scooping out the thick, creamy yolk.

  Leonard unpacked as best he could, then he left his room, walked along the corridor for a quick shower and turned in very early, sleeping without dreaming.

  It was two in the morning when the noise of it woke him up; glass smashing in the street, followed by the brown dog barking in the yard outside. He rolled out of bed in unfamiliar darkness and couldn’t find his way to the light switch. Instead he pulled the curtain aside and peered out through the window. He had a clear sightline along the street which lay back off the main approach to the border. There was a terrace of houses and a row of street lamps. One of the lamps was dark, and there was some movement at the base of it which was difficult to make out.

  Leonard, his eyes now accustomed, walked across to his bag, opened it and pulled out a pair of army surplus ‘night-vision’ binoculars. He snapped them on and focused in on the figure of a woman in a black leotard standing at the base of the lamp, very close to the border fencing. She started to climb, moving easily hand over fist up the lamppost. At the top she took what looked like a length of carpet and threw it over the top of the barbed wire. Leonard took the binoculars away and rubbed his eyes, then he re-focused on her. She was crossing from the top of the lamp onto the carpet when there was the sound of a gunshot. In response, she rolled back off the top and hooked her fingers into the fence lower down. She tried to control her fall but she landed heavily.

  A patrolling car turned into the street and switched its headlamps on to full beam. She jumped up quickly and ran, the car sped up and followed her as she sprinted away. She cut down a side alley and the police car tried to follow but it side-swiped a parked van. The doors flew open and four policemen got out and ran down the alley after her.

  Leonard didn’t think she would be able to get away. He pulled some clothes on and left his room. He ran along the hallway, to the far end where there was a fire escape. He opened the door and stepped outside onto some rusting, cast-iron stairs. He couldn’t see the woman or the police anymore. He listened for a clue but there was nothing. He took the stairs to the yard and walked to the gate, his heart was beating in his throat and the hairs on the back of his neck felt electrified. There was a low growl behind him. He turned to see the brown dog looking much larger at street level and baring its yellow incisors, the muscles in its legs taut with wanting to lunge.

  Leonard lifted the lock and opened the gate very slowly, eased himself outside and closed the gate behind him. As the locking bar ‘clicked’, he realised that he’d locked himself out. Now he was no bloody good to anyone, he was just a danger to himself. He crossed the street and looked around the corner; the woman, with her arms pumping, was sprinting towards him. Leonard waved, he gestured that she should follow him but she just screamed and waved a knife in his face. He stepped back and pressed himself out of sight into a darkened doorway. She ran past, breathing hard and looking over her shoulder, terrified. The policemen, all in a line according to fitness, came into sight, but they were not so much men as boys, the oldest no more than seventeen. They ran by, laughing and swearing as they went; the leader looked back and encouraged them with a wave of his arm.

  ‘Come on, you bleeders, let’s get her, then!’

  Leonard looked for a way back into the Mirabelle. He rang the night bell but nothing happened, he couldn’t be sure that it
was working. He weighed up his options and decided he would try and find the tavern. It was the only place he’d seen people that he’d met before, and maybe they had a lock in and drank on after hours. A drink would be a very good idea.

  He retraced his route and found himself quite easily remembering his way back to the Spanish quarter. The problem was that the bar was empty and pitch black, there was just one light coming from a first floor window and that looked like a bathroom because it had that frosted, crinkly glass. Through the window, Leonard could make out a peachy skin-tone with long dark hair; a woman moving to and fro underneath a silver highlight, which was most likely a chrome shower head.

  He dragged a dustbin over to the building. When he stood on it, he could get a leg up onto a wall and from the wall he could reach the window with his outstretched arm. He tapped on the glass with his fingers and the shape inside jumped, disappeared for a moment and then returned, blue from the neck down. The window opened slowly. It was her; he’d hoped it would be her, ever since he had the stupid idea of coming here.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here? Are you fucking crazy? My husband finds you here, he will kill you and I don’t say that for drama, no. He actually will kill you.’

  ‘Sorry, I am very… I don’t know, sorry OK? I didn’t know where to go because I’m locked out of the Mirabelle and it’s curfew and I thought you could tell me where I could find Ian.’

  ‘You’re staying at the Mirabelle?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all I could get. I need your help. See, I wondered if you could tell me. I saw Ian Marble in the bar this evening, do you know where his house is?’

  ‘Ian doesn’t have a house, he’s a visitor like you. He lives up on One Tree Hill, there’s a row of old houses on the north side. His is number 4, flat B, I think.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  She pointed south, to a piece of moonlit ground with swaying trees at the top.

  ‘See the high ground? Well, that’s it.’

  ‘Thank you, thanks very much.’

  Leonard turned to go but he was caught on her arm because she held his lapel.