THE PERSIAN
GORDON A. WATT
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Gordon A. Watt
The right of Gordon A. Watt has been asserted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only (and I hope you enjoy it!). This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient (come on guys - it’s cheap!). If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author (He’s sending a little bit of love to you right now!).
www.gawatt.com
For Kit
Leone Dulce
With looks dishevelled, flushed in a sweat of drunkenness
His shirt torn open, a song on his lips and wine cup in his hand.
With eyes looking for trouble, lips softly complaining
So at midnight last night he came and sat at my pillow...”
Hafiz, circa 1320-1389
Prologue
Weak and groggy, the figure on the bed stirred and cracked open his eyes to an unfamiliar room.
His skin itched and burned, but he didn’t have will enough to lift his arms and rub the discomfort away.
Summoning strength, and moving impossibly slowly, he made claws of his hands and hauled himself, naked and trembling toward the pillows at the top of the bed, where he settled heavily, curled into a foetal ball.
His ears ached too. A high-pitched whine, remnant of loud music perhaps; a counterpoint to his shallow breathing.
He groaned; his voice too loud. He couldn’t remember being this drunk. Why did he ache? Why this fatigue?
He didn’t care enough to answer his own muted questions and only sighed quietly when strong hands lifted him roughly into a kneeling position on the bed.
He felt warm skin slide up against his back, a familiar firmness pressing insistently underneath him, then calloused hands slipped up around his shoulders to rest around his neck where they slowly began to squeeze...
PART 1
[One O’clock News]
Good afternoon.
The bodies of two homeless men have been found in London this morning, victims of what appears to be a hate crime. Here’s our home affairs correspondent, Emma Payton.
[Run VT]
[Factory exteriors]
The men, both in their twenties, were found by police in this abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city during the early hours of this morning. The Metropolitan Police say that information given by an anonymous caller led them to the place.
[CLIP - Police spokesman]
“All we can say at this time is that the two men had been terribly beaten, and that these injuries likely led to their deaths. We would like the caller from last night to get in touch with us. It’s possible that he may have further information which may be of use in catching whoever did this.”
[Police entering building]
Little is known about the men at this stage. They are thought to have been homeless, both seeking refuge from last night’s storms over the capital. What happened next is mostly speculation at this point, but it seems likely that they were attacked, and killed.
[EXT - Ambulances leaving]
The bodies of the men have been taken to Saint Thomas’ Hospital. Police are urging the public to come forward with any information they might have.
Emma Payton
BBC News
Chapter 1
The Calla lilies in the planter at the foot of his lover’s headstone had long gone beyond the point where they might have been described as dying. The putrefying brown petals lay all over the grey stone chips of Rick’s grave, some of the rotting flowers sticking to the gold-inlaid characters of his name on the headstone.
Richard Maynard.
Below was his birth and death dates. Mitch skipped past these to the message his parents had asked for.
Beloved Son.
Mitch lay the fresh bunch on the wet grass and scooped the worst of the old mush into a carrier bag. He sat on his haunches and looked away from the epitaph, away to the orderly rows of headstones marching away across the uniform green of the cemetery.
Old gold-leafed oak trees broke up the rows, and grey darting squirrels and fat pigeons wandered among the avenues of stone hunting for nuts and seeds left by visitors.
It’s only just September, he thought, and the trees are already turning. Another year gone.
He turned back to Rick’s grave.
Black granite had been shaped into an open book, the stone pages curved as if the tome were some kind of soft bible held in invisible hands. A book of the dead? The work was beautifully done, even down to a texture carved delicately into the page.
Mitch knew that Rick would have preferred his body to have been cremated, that he wouldn’t have liked the idea of a grave at all. His family however, wanted somewhere to visit; and after the delicate dance of consulting Mitch without openly acknowledging the relationship, his partner had been buried in the family plot. It was a solution that he found actually helped his grief, though he couldn’t help the tiniest twinge of guilt at overruling Rick’s preference.
He arranged the fresh flowers as well as he could through the metal holes in the vase cover. Why did they have the stupid holes in them anyway? Why not just an opening to stuff the flowers in? Why bother even with real flowers? They just sit there unobserved and rot. Who would smell the fragrance of the blooms or run a finger over the waxy petals? Graveyards weren’t really for the dead. They were for the living to come and mope around in.
He shouldn’t have come today.
Mitch always felt low after shooting a news story concerning death, and the two homeless guys found that morning had left him more depressed than ever. Gay, black, homeless - different. There was never a reason for hate, and though his work made sure that he was intimately acquainted with the horrors one human could inflict on another, it still affected him deeply. He shivered and pulled his long grey coat around him.
Rick would have made a stupid joke or ribbed him mercilessly about becoming so affected by a news story. Six feet tall and blubbing like a beeyatch, he would have whispered - a stock phrase. Then he might have slipped an arm around Mitch’s shoulders or jabbed him with a thick finger till they both laughed out loud.
There were no tears today.
Blue as hell and no tears had to be a good thing didn’t it?
“Need a hand up?” said a familiar voice beside him.
Mitch smiled, “I was thinking about having a little pray.”
Rita stepped into view and brushed a stray leaf from the top of Rick’s headstone.
She looked good today, perfectly respectable with her trouser suit pressed and hair carefully pinned up, the silver strands outnumbering the black these days. Her broad ebony face smooth and strong - the features of a much younger woman.
“A prayer from you? That’s would be something to see.’ She looked down at him, eyebrows arched high. “What would you pray for?”
Mitch knew the answer to that. “I’d pray for a pay rise.”
Rita blew her cheeks out, “We all pray for that. I wouldn’t waste the breath. How about you pray for a mild winter, my garden needs the help.”
Mitch smiled and pushed himself up. “How about world peace.”
“Yeah - well that all sounds like a lot of hot air to me.” Rita laughed and picked up the bag full of dead leaves. She threw him a dirty glance, but the hidden smile still made her eyes twinkle. “Praying,” she muttered, “that’s just what we need from a heathen like you!”
They made their way toward the exit, Mitch stealing a quick glance back at Rick’s grave. Rita followed his eyes and watched him carefully.
“Do you think there’s a heaven?” Mitch asked.
She hesitated before answering, gauging his seriousness. “Sure - we’re living in it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What? Angels blowing trumpets, saints sitting in fluffy clouds...?”
“I don’t know. Something more...” Mitch gestured around them. Life, the world. “More than this.”
He had surprised himself with the question. It occurred to him that they had never spoken about religion in all these years of knowing each other.
“Well, I don’t know.” Rita answered carefully. She stopped by a compost bin near the gatehouse. “I’ve always thought that we make our own heaven and if we’re not too careful, we can end up living in our own hell.”
Rita emptied the brown dead flowers into the bin, the rich earthy smell enveloping them for a moment. She turned to Mitch and seemed to chew over her thoughts. “I think you have to be awake enough to know the difference and strong enough to turn one into the other if you have to. Not all of us can do that.”
She let the lid drop, folded the bag into neat quarters and tucked it into Mitch’s pocket. He looked down at her, eyes dark.
“Do you think I will?”
Rita slipped an arm around Mitch’s waist and hugged him gently.
“You already have.” she said, then chuckled quietly.
They walked through the pyramid-capped open gates and turned towards Walthamstow. The sun choosing that moment to break through the cloud above them and light the street brilliantly, the orange leaves of the Acer trees along the edge of the cemetery appearing to ignite with colour.
“There see,” Rita poked Mitch with her free hand, “one out of three ain’t bad!”
Mitch laughed a little easier; his mood lifting. His phone pinged and he glanced at it while they walked.
Package went down well. Ed says he won’t need you again today. Enjoy the afternoon! Emma. x
“Work calling?”
“Yeah - Emms. We were over at that old hotel where the two guys were found this morning.”
“Ahh - horrible,” she shook her head sadly.
“Yeah. I was glad to get away actually... And it looks like I’ve got a free afternoon.”
“Excellent - well you can come over for some food later if you like. I’ve got that new kid arriving.”
“Oh yeah. Iranian isn’t he?”
She nodded. “The artist!”
“Ahh - I’d forgotten. He’s going to Monarch’s. Same place as Tom isn’t he?”
Rita nodded. “Well he sounds like a nice boy. I know his father’s worried about him. Do you think you can make it?”
“Sure. I’ll grab his majesty too if you like. Might be good for him to meet someone who’s already been through it all.”
They rounded the corner onto Selbourne Road and the noise of the market crowd hit them.
The mile-long market heaved and groaned with a voice of its own. A hundred different languages amidst a riot of colour and scent always created a wall of sound that hit Mitch and Rita in a familiar textured frenzy.
Rita had lived here most of her adult life, bringing up her family amidst the constantly evolving backdrop of the city suburb. She had made her home in a tide-pool of London where immigrants slipped in and out as the years rolled by, some settling, most moving on. The area had subsequently become one of furious internationality, tiny enclaves of Lithuanian, Polish or Armenian settlers pausing here with African, Nigerian, Brazilian, Israeli and countless others before moving on elsewhere in the city once their numbers and affluence allowed.
Mitch had been there for seven years. He and Rick had moved into the leafy suburb after a year or so of gentle dating, and had loved the multinational feel of the place.
The restaurants and cafes, international supermarkets and of course the daily street market, had felt like home almost at once and after a few years he had become known to the vendors there, who nodded or smiled as he passed or invited him in for a taste of something new.
It was the reason that he didn’t move after his partner died. They had bought a fixer of a property to develop together - right next door to the lovely Rita.
She tensed against his arm for a moment as they approached a paper shop. The tabloids were predictably incensed about the homeless men and the news-stand outside blazed with ‘Homeless Men Murdered!’ in a red scrawl designed to sell the paper.
They hurried on by toward home.
Chapter 2
Victoria bus station wasn’t quite what Vaz had been expecting.
The grimy once-white coach had picked him and thirty or so other passengers up from Heathrow Airport. He almost hadn’t made it - the instructions his father had given him in Tehran had turned out to be ten years out of date, and the changes to the airport in the intervening time had taken Vaz about a mile out of his way, before he built up the courage to ask a suspicious-looking security guard how to get out.
The bus had taken them smoothly away from the airport and down the busy motorway into the London suburbs and the city beyond.
This was London. Finally - this city of his childhood dreams was in front of him, opening up in the sunlight like one of his father’s beautiful roses in the courtyard of their Tehran home.
His father...
Their farewell had been gentle and dignified, his father happy that Vaz would be able to further his art in a fine old academy in London. Each of them though, had moist eyes at their parting. His father rested his forehead against his own and whispered that Vaz’s mother would have been proud of him. Then he slipped a tight bundle of British banknotes into his son’s pocket where other passengers wouldn’t see.
“I know you will work hard Vahsalan.” Vaz’s father had said softly. “But I want you to live while you are in England. See everything, breath it in... And when you return, bring a little home with you, that we might share in your freedom.”
Vaz’s eyes did brim over then and he had wiped them away with the back of his hand.
Then, his flight being called, he embraced his father tightly and turned his back on his childhood. He walked across the concourse of the new airport building to meet his future in another country.
It seemed amazing to Vaz, that this had all happened within the last day. Home felt a world away and years ago. Another life.
And here was Victoria bus station. Gateway to London...
Stepping off the bus he could see that the low building was crowded with people sitting on their luggage or the few available seats, all waiting to board buses of their own. Bored-looking young people of every nationality mixed in with tired mothers listlessly attempting to corral their young charges together. An occasional businessman with his neat briefcase read quietly or whispered into his mobile phone. And over everything, the stink of too many people in too small a place hung heavily, the stale breath of tired travellers trapped inside where no sun might reach.
Stepping carefully between the other passengers, Vaz picked his way to the exit where the sliding doors opened with a groan and allowed the fresh air inside. Feeling like a condemned soul escaping some kind of purgatory, Vaz stepped through the first real gateway to London and onto the road that led towards the underground station.
Outside, the sun shone brightly again and the feeling of despondency that had clawed after him from the horrible bus station began to disperse.
He walked past a bus shelter on which a large poster advertised an exhibition at the British Museum, a history of the Shah Jahaan. He had heard from his father that London had been showing Persian artwork this year. To see an image from home brought him up short.
As the big red bus pulled in and passengers began to embark, he saw another advert on its side showing flickering images from a recent ‘Iran day’ in Trafalgar square.
There is more of Persia here than at home!
Turning around the corner of the ornate Victoria Train Station, Vaz stopped and stared.
There were thousands of people here, rushing in every direction. Many stepping off more of the doubled-decked buses and walking briskly into the train station, but hundreds more were emptying in an endless flood out through the archway leading from the station, across the pavement and pouring like some kind of human river down ancient stone steps leading underground.
This must be the Metro...
Vaz pulled a small wallet from his bag. It contained a travel card and tube map sent by the university. He tucked the wallet in his jacket pocket and unfolded the map.
Here was Victoria - in the central part of the city... And there was Walthamstow in the North-East - joined together along the same blue line...
“Hello there,” said a quiet voice at his shoulder.
A stubble-jawed blond man in jeans and a button-down shirt had appeared beside him. His eyes were a little too far apart to be conventionally attractive, and his gaze was sharp and calculating. He appeared to be around Vaz’s own age - in his mid-twenties.
“You look lost,” he said, openly appraising Vaz.
He had stepped a little too close and Vaz stepped back a little to increase their space. The man stepped closer again, the corners of his thin mouth twitching upwards in a cautious smile.
“I’m fine thank you,” Vaz said in accented English.
“Well maybe I can help you find your hotel...” The smiling man said. He raised his hand and ran his fingers along the thick hair of Vaz’s arm.
Feeling the warmth rise in his face - the nerve of the man! Vaz brushed his hand away.
“No thank you!” he said quietly but with some force, staring the man directly in his eyes.
“No problem!” The man finally stepped back, abruptly business-like, “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Though he plainly wasn’t.
The man left, turning sharply on his heels, though his eyes lingered, dropping to Vaz’s crotch and back up to his face in an unmistakable leer. He smiled again and turned away, his eyebrows rising as if to say ‘Your loss.’
Speechless, Vaz watched as the man approached a shaven-headed businessman drinking coffee by a concession stand. The routine repeated itself, the hand gently on the other mans arm, the eye contact, then the men smiled at one another, and sauntered off side by side.
Vaz removed his glasses and wiped the sudden perspiration from his face. Two minutes in his city of dreams and already propositioned. Not what his father would have expected he was sure.
Shaking his head and aware of his warm embarrassment, Vaz lifted his bag and joined the flow of people marching steadily underground.
Chapter 3
Emerging from Walthamstow Underground station in another fug of stale air and other passengers sweat, Vaz wondered how Londoners put up with this all year round.
Wiping his forehead, and marvelling at the dark particles in the grease collected there, reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the map Mrs Jabari, his new land-lady, had sent to his father several weeks previously. Her address was printed neatly on a sticker in blue ink and an arrow showed how to get to the house from the station.
It looked like a large market was closing up for the day, traders packing their goods into cardboard boxes and large striped plastic sacks. Stacks of scratched plastic bowls stood ready to be piled into the white vans and trucks of the sellers.
A few people were walking carefully amongst the rubbish, lifting a scrap of card here to find a soft - but edible pineapple, or opening a forgotten crate to discover a box of tomatoes left behind.
Cleaners were already at work tidying up the main shopping street. A heavy-set man with an unexpectedly-thick gold necklace chain swept the rubbish towards a truck with spinning brushes driving down the centre of the road. Other men folded card or plastic into neat piles ready to be taken away and presumably reused.
Vaz walked slowly along the street, surprised to find that the bustle here - even at the end of the day, reminded him of the market in Isfahan back home.
A bakery with plump women laughing behind a glass counter. A betting shop with a picture of smiling couples in the window, but a sour-faced old man leaving through the silver and gold fly-screen, tearing up his slip as he went. A cafe full of dark-faced Eastern-European men, their blunt hairy fingers curling around short misshapen cigarettes, stared moodily out at Vaz as he passed with dark eyes very similar to his own.
Black, white and every shade in between mixed freely and easily here. A black girl with her hair in a tight bunch on one side of her head openly kissed a pale-faced youth in a hooded top, his track-bottoms sagging well below his back-side to reveal bright red football shorts. Pink tongues connected them momentarily before they broke apart and laughed together at some private joke.
Vaz emerged onto Hoe street and, checking the map, turned left.
A Bank. A closed cinema. A delicatessen. An Indian restaurant on the other side of the street.
A small Chinese woman outside a restaurant smiled at him as he walked by. Her restaurant was filled with long oak tables already busy with early evening customers, and... here.
Jewel Road.
Vaz checked the map again, then nodded and folded it away. What would Mrs Jabari be like? Would she like him? Would he like her?
Vaz stood in front of the building and looked up. Number thirteen was a thin terrace building, arranged over what looked like three floors. It was sandwiched between two other houses of the same kind, each one offset by a few feet to account for the angle of the road and each a little higher than the last so that the houses stepped up the street like dominoes.
A short black woman was working in the paved front garden, filling a terracotta urn with soil from a composting bag. Her braided black and silver hair was tied back into a loose queue which had spread out across her back.
The entire yard was filled with pots and urns, a snaking path leading through them to the red-painted front door.
She looked up at Vaz and smiled widely.
“You must be Vahsalan!”
“Please call me Vaz.”
“Rita!” she said by way of introduction. “It’s lovely to meet you finally. Welcome to London!”
She giggled as she pulled a glove off to shake his hand.
“Let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted.”
Vaz followed Rita inside the house, barely aware that she was asking the usual questions - How was your flight? What do you make of London?
He made the expected polite responses distractedly as he took in the layout of the house.
As soon as he stepped through the door he breathed in the familiar smell of home-cooked food - bread certainly, something else too. It made his mouth water.
There was a cosy living room at the front of the building looking onto the road, then down a short corridor with what looked like a study off to one side, and then the house opened up into a second living space.
The room must have been the kitchen. One wall housed all the usual items, cooker, oven, counters and containers. But the rest of the room was filled with walls of books and a sofa that could seat seven or more people. A large oak table covered with cookbooks, scales and bowls sat below a rack hanging from the ceiling festooned with copper pans, more tools and heavy strings of onions and smoked garlic. She obviously liked to cook!
Skylights in the ceiling above the kitchen area let a blaze of late afternoon sun into the space which sliced down onto the terracotta floor in wide blades of golden light. Particles of flour hung in the air from what was obviously a marathon of cooking that she had taken a break from.
Through the last, glass-panelled wall, Vaz could see the garden; a surprisingly modern-looking space. Beyond a shallow reflecting pool, railway sleepers had been stacked neatly to create wide planted borders around a central area. Large terracotta planters sprouting elephant grass finished the area nicely.
Rita had stopped talking and stood by the kettle expectantly. Vaz realised that she hadn’t said anything in a little while.
“Takes you by surprise doesn’t it?”
He nodded, “it’s wonderful.” The room was just a room, but he could tell that this was the heart of the house. There was an air of quiet mystery about the space. Something almost expectant. He snorted quietly. “It reminds me of a church or a mosque.”
Rita laughed at the compliment, eyes wide. “Oh my! I think that just earned you the nicest room in the house. Come with me.”
She led him up the stairs in the corridor outside the kitchen to the first floor landing where she pointed out her own room, another spare guest-room and bathroom, then up another, smaller set of stairs to a tiny landing with two doors coming off in either direction.
Rita smiled and opened the door for Vaz.
“My daughter used to love this room.”
Vaz stepped into the deceptively large space. There was a wooden-framed double bed to one side of the door and an ancient mahogany wardrobe and desk to the other. The walls, of rough plaster, had been freshly painted white to grab as much light from the window as possible and throw it around the room.
The gable dormer emerged from the tiled roof of the building and was wide enough for a window seat. The windows stood open to let in a little summer air and in the distance, the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral stood proudly wreathed in the haze over the city.
Vaz laid his bag on the bed and stood by the window looking out. The street seemed so far away, the traffic noise from the main road on the corner, faint and unimportant.
Scent from a climbing Jasmine vine around the window gently wafted in, the little petals just beginning to open as the day cooled. It was unusual to see the little flowers blooming so late in the year, the effect was magical somehow.
“It’s perfect,” he breathed.
Rita showed him the tiny bathroom across the hall. It had a powerful shower too and to his surprise she announced that it was completely his to use. Finally she gave him a shiny silver key to the house. He was to come and go as he pleased.
Back in the kitchen, Rita poured Vaz a cup of strong English tea at the huge table.
Food had been prepared on the sideboards. The smell of herbs and fresh bread made Vaz’s stomach rumble loudly.
Rita laughed. “Well I hope you’ve got an appetite. I’ve asked a few friends over to meet you. Introduce you to London properly.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nothing at all. It’s all under control,” Rita said, pulling a metal tray out from under the oven. “Why don’t you try out the shower and relax. We’ll get some food in an hour or so.”
Vaz’s stomach rumbled loudly and Rita laughed again.
“Maybe you’d better grab something for the meantime,” nodding to a large bowl of fruit. “Try the Discovery. They’re my favourite.”
Chapter 4
Vaz sat in the window seat in his room and bit into another apple - his second. He enjoyed the sharp taste and hint of strawberries in the juice, and marvelled at the delicate red staining throughout its flesh.
The shower had been refreshing and the cool evening breeze made his skin tingle deliciously as his hair dried.
He picked up his phone and wrote a quick text message to his father.
Arrived safely. London amazing. New house & land-lady great. Miss you. V. x
He pressed the send button and finished the apple.
It would be after ten o’clock in Tehran now. Dad should get the message before he goes to bed.
A tall dark-haired man carrying two gently-clinking carrier bags left the house next door and walked around to Mrs Jabari’s gate. He stopped and looked up, meeting Vaz’s eyes.
His breath caught in his throat.
The man had strong features. A wide friendly face dusted with a shadow of new beard growth. Dark eyebrows framed blue eyes, clearly visible even from two stories up. His hair was dark brown and unkempt, but gave the man a rakish quality that wasn’t helping Vaz’s heartbeat.
He lifted a hand and smiled. Vaz returned the wave and the man stepped into Rita’s garden below, disappearing into the shadow of the house.
Shrugging a shirt on, he headed downstairs. Rita had put a radio on and barbecue food smells were wafting through the house. Vaz stepped into the kitchen.
The tall man was unloading beer into the fridge, muscles shifting across his broad back as he made space for the bottles. He kept three out.
“Hi.”
The man turned quickly, startled. “Oh! Hi!”
The bottles shifted in his hands, and Vaz quickly stepped forward to stop them from dropping.
The man's fingers were warm against the beer. Their brief touch a dry susurrus of palms amid the jangle of clinking glass.
“Thanks,” the man said, his lips raising in a quick smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry... I’m Vaz.”
“Mitch.”
The name suited him somehow. Strong.
“Nice to meet you,” Vaz said.
“You too,” Again the brief flash of teeth. Nervous?
“Is that beer I hear?” Rita called from outside.
Spell broken, Mitch handed a bottle to Vaz, then seemed to remember something. “Sorry - do you want something else? I think Rita has some iced tea outside.”
Vaz hesitated but smiled. “Thanks - beer is fine.”
Alcohol was forbidden in Iran, but like anything illicit, most non-religious families had found ways around the ban. He would have to be careful of the strength here though.
“That better be booze Mitchell!” Rita again - accompanied by laughter from someone else.
One of the glass doors leading outside was open, though it appeared the whole wall could be folded back.
Stepping into the garden, Mitch and Vaz walked around a small reflecting pool and turned the corner of the building onto a terraced sun-deck.
The last of the setting sun spread golden light around the patio. Flowers and shrubs encircled the area providing shade and colour.
A man and woman sat on a low wall made of heavy railway sleepers while another man wearing dark sunglasses lounged in a hammock strung at one end to a sturdy apple tree and the other to a large ring fixed to the wall of the house.
Rita expertly turned kebabs on a large steel barbecue.
“Ahh - our guest of honour,” chuckled Rita.
Vaz grinned, blushing and gave a half wave to the others.
“Everyone, this is Vahsalan from Tehran,” she continued. “He’ll be with us while he studies.”
“Vaz, please,” he mumbled.
“Rita mentioned that you’re beginning at Monarch’s,” said the man on the wall. “I’m Tom, I graduated last year.”
“So you’re a working artist now?”
Tom nodded. “I studied photography. That’s what I’m doing now.”
“Or not doing as the case may be,” This from the man in the hammock.
“Ignore him,” said Tom, rolling his eyes. “That’s Pete, my other half.”
Vaz smiled over to Pete who lifted his fingers in a wave.
“I see you’ve already met Mitch - my lovely neighbour,” Rita nodded to the tall man beside Vaz. “So there’s just Carol to introduce.”
“Hi,” Carol waved with a smile. Her gaze quick and curious, flicking between Vaz and Mitch.
“There’s no such thing as just Carol, Rita,” Pete called. He turned to Vaz in a stage whisper. “Carol’s our resident crime fighter, a regular Charlotte Holmes!”
He waggled his eyebrows at Vaz then ducked down into the hammock to avoid a flying sausage roll from Tom. They all laughed as Pete hunted down the pastry.
“I’ve read Sherlock Holmes. You’re a policewoman then?” asked Vaz.
“Better,” whispered Mitch. “She’s a detective.”
Carol picked up the plate of sausage rolls and handed them over to Mitch and Vaz. “These are pork. Would you like something different?”
Vaz reached for one of the small pastries, shaking his head. “I’ve only had it once before.” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, then nodded to Rita. “They’re great!”
Rita toasted him from her position near the barbecue as Carol continued.
“Actually I’m only just a detective. I’ve just finished my first year with CID. Now I’m waiting to be assigned to a unit.”
“Is that a detective school? CID?”
Carol laughed. “Something like that.”
“Food’s up, come and get it,” Rita called.
The kebabs were gilled perfectly. Rita had put out bowls of salad and plates for everything. They helped themselves.
“So Tom, did you enjoy studying at the Academy?”
“Hmm. Sure,” Tom nodded, nibbling.
“Did you start with photography from the beginning?”
A shake of his blonde head. “No. I did the usual course for the first two, then specialised for the third.”
“Do you have a specialty Vaz?” asked Mitch.
“I suppose my interests lie with home,” Vaz smiled. “I want to explore calligraphy in the visual arts, maybe merging with painting or photography.” He nodded to Tom.
“Well, you’re not going to have time to miss home,” Tom added. “The course will keep you busy for the first year and I expect you’re going to want to see the city.”
“Certainly. I’ve heard so much about London from my father. He studied here when he was younger.”
“You’ll have to let us take you round,” this from Mitch.
Vaz studied him closely, spearing a piece of meat with his fork. “I’d like that very much.”
Pete giggled and Tom gave him a sharp look.
“Did I say something?” Vaz looked across at Tom.
“No,” Carol said, “It’s just Pete being an arse.”
This only served to make Pete laugh more, but Carol shushed him as the news came on the radio.
The two men found that morning had been named. The first, Mr Hardwick, was a married father of two, a stockbroker in the city, the other, Mr Britton, a single gay man who had worked at a bio-lab outside the city. Neither of them had been unknown homeless men. Tom leaned over to change the channel and music filled the garden again. He shrugged.
“Sorry - it’s just a bit grim,” Tom said to Carol.
Carol had a thoughtful look on her face as she gazed across at Mitch. “You were there weren’t you?”
Mitch nodded. “Yeah. Just outside the building.”
No one said anything for a moment. Vaz noticed Tom steal a look over to Mitch.
“Will you be involved in the investigation?” he asked Carol.
She shook her head, placing her plate on the table and reaching for her beer. “Maybe. I haven’t been assigned to a team yet.”
Rita reached over and gave Mitch’s leg a rub. Vaz watched with interest at Mitch’s face clouded over with the memory of something, and he felt a wave of sympathy for the man.
Mitch caught his eye at that moment and Vaz watched his pupils dilate quite suddenly, his iris becoming a pulsing line of blue, before it thickened again and his pupil returned to normal. Mitch smiled slightly then reached his bottle over to chink gently against Vaz’s own.
“Welcome to the gang.”
They all raised their bottles to Vaz and drank together.
“Right,” said Rita, eyes glinting. “Who's for dessert?”
Chapter 5
On the first morning of school Vaz woke early, packed his father’s ancient shoulder bag with his glasses case, a sketch pad, pencils and a London guidebook and left the house with a final wave to a surprised Rita as she made her way downstairs in her dressing gown.
He walked with the first of the morning commuters to the Tube station and joined the rush hour press into London.
The tube was busy. He managed to get a seat at Walthamstow, but soon offered it up to a heavily pregnant woman. A few of the other travellers looked at him curiously then turned back to their books and newspapers.
Emerging at Oxford Circus, Vaz consulted his map and started down Regent Street towards the Academy.
Small clouds drifted gently across the clear blue sky and his heart lifted. Here he was - in London! He eagerly took everything in, determined not to forget this moment. He knew in a year's time he would likely be as indifferent to his surroundings as the blind commuters scurrying around him on their way to work, but if he could just pin down this feeling of exultation, he might remember this moment without becoming inured to living in this wonderful place.
Walking around the wide curve of the street, Vaz came upon Piccadilly Circus with its video-billboards and neon signs bright even at this time in the morning. Cars and buses; trucks, vans and cycles raced across the junction in five different directions, pedestrians hurrying across between pauses, or tutting as others rushed across on red lights to beat the busy traffic.
A bright winged figure perched atop a dark green bronze fountain in a paved area. People were already gathering around the monument, an obvious meeting place.
Turning down onto Piccadilly proper, he bought breakfast at a coffee shop and paused in a small churchyard-turned-market to watch the traders set up their red-striped stalls.
An ancient tree on the site had recently been cut down and sliced into pieces. Overheard conversation among the stall-holders told him that this was an unpopular, though likely necessary decision. Then, finishing his espresso, he crossed the road and entered the black and gold gates of The Monarch’s Academy.
The great courtyard buzzed with students arriving for their first day at the school. Vaz was directed to ‘First Year Art’ by a helpful woman at the entrance and he crossed the stone square past a huge glass ziggurat to the main steps of the building.
Doors on either side of the court labelled the houses of the Learned Societies. Vaz read off the names as he passed: Geology, Astronomy, Antiquaries, Chemistry and the Linnean Societies were all listed.
The building had been a seat of learning for longer than some countries had history, and had evolved over the last two centuries into one of the best academies in the world.
Grinning to himself, he mounted the shallow steps and entered the building at last. The Monarch’s Academy of Arts.
Chapter 6
The refectory was in the vaulted crypt beneath the academy and would have been a dark dismal place before the artists had arrived. Now it was painted in primary hues and the small basement windows had been enlarged to let the sunlight in.
The scent of coffee had drawn Vaz down the stairs from his induction lecture along with the majority of his new classmates and the room was raucous with strangers getting to know one another. A familiar face appeared above him.
“So how’s your first morning been?”
“Tom? What are you doing here?”
Tom brushed a curl of blonde hair out of his eyes and laughed. “They don’t get rid of me that easily!”
Vaz moved his mug over so Tom could sit down next to him at the brightly laminated table.
“Are you doing some kind of post-graduate work?”
“Nope. A few of last year’s graduates will be popping in from time to time while we get established out there in the ‘real world’.” He raised his hands to make curled quotes around the words.
Tom nodded a greeting at the blonde woman seated opposite Vaz. She smiled shyly back to them and adjusted her earphones before continuing with a sketch.
“We’ve only just met the lecturers really,” Vaz replied.
“How about the other guys? Anyone interesting?”
“They all are,” Vaz leaned closer, his eyes wide. “I feel quite ordinary here.”
Tom laughed and looked around the room. “Well let’s see...”
They watched a group of four students in one corner discussing a third-year’s painting on the wall beside them. One had taken the alpha-male role and was saying something rude about the work. Not everyone laughed with him however.
Students in Esfahan, where Vaz had studied while his mother was alive, had been more conservative. The men might have worn jeans to stand out, though most chose dull cloth trousers and cotton shirts; but most female students had worn the black chador, and between the sexes had created a grey homogenised generality to the student body. Style or individuality of any sort was dissuaded, most often by the peer-group. The artists back there had enjoyed a tacit understanding, and the girls would wear bright eye shadow and lipstick when they could get away with it. The boys would wear imported Tee-shirts under their grey cloth shirts, unbuttoning the top button while working without a teacher present.
These individuals by comparison were wildly original and distinctive. Each might have come from a different planet, so different were their clothes and hair.
“Now there’s a group,” Tom indicated with a tilt of his head. “Each apparently individual, but painfully generic.”
One had mixed a punk spiked dog-collar around his neck with a hippy-chic waistcoat and Dr Martin boots. A girl next to him wore a pair of pinstriped trousers which wouldn’t have looked out of place on a City banker. Her purple velour tunic pushed her breasts rudely forward, to the immediate attention of a passionately arguing young man in a leopard print track suit.
His companion wore tight black jeans and an open shimmery blue waistcoat framing a wooden ankh resting on his pale hairless chest.
“They look very individual to me.”
“I’m afraid that’s what goes for ‘artist’ around here,” Tom said, framing the ‘artist’ with his two apostrophe fingers held high.
The girl opposite looked up at this, her concession to individuality a pale pink scarf tied around her chest like a silk bandolier.
“Oh, not you love - you’re perfect,” Tom said to her blowing her a kiss. She smiled and rolled her eyes at Vaz.
“How about those two?” Vaz motioned quietly to a couple of bearded young guys leaning closely over their table.
“Ahh - you’ve spotted the rarely observed beginnings of a tentative bro-mance. Those two will spend the next few months fantasising about each other while trying to find girlfriends. Definitely a pair to watch.”
“Do you really see that? Not just two guy talking?” Vaz looked at Tom.
“I guess guys like us have it easier huh? At least if we feel an attraction we can act on it and save all the chasing around.”
Vaz felt the heat move up into his face while Tom looked satisfied somehow. Was Vaz that obvious? Could a western man just look at him and see his proclivity laid bare?
Tom indicated the bearded pair, mirroring each others position across the table. “Maybe they’ll figure it out in time, before the chase gets too cold.”
“Isn’t the chase the point?” Vaz whispered.
Tom laughed, not unkindly, and stood up to leave. He squeezed Vaz’s shoulder and whispered back. “That it is.”
Vaz sat still for a moment, a little stunned. Tom grinned from the door and disappeared.
The blonde girl waited until Tom had left, then took her earphones out. She slid her sketch pad across the table for Vaz to see.
It was a quickly drawn study of Tom and Vaz, Vaz looking at something outside the image, his eyes troubled, and Tom, his sardonic smile caught perfectly, watching Vaz.
“I think he likes you,” she said simply.
Chapter 7
Leaving the academy after a heavy day of induction lectures, Vaz walked through the Leicester square theatre-goers towards Holborn to meet Mitch at the British Museum. The last of the sunlight filtered through the trees dotted about the little green square. A few men in shabby clothes had claimed two long park benches, their belongings in bags at their feet, but sat amiably enough near the tourists waiting for their west-end show or movies to start.
A dozen or so lone figures stood on small boxes to either side of the pedestrian area before the park entrance. One man had been costumed - or rather unclothed - as a muscular Roman legionnaire, his skin painted to make him look like a bronze statue. Another mime, a woman, sat inside a cardboard cage, her face painted with a lion’s features. When a child got too near, she would roar convincingly.
One performer had drawn a cluster of people around him. He stood side-on to the crowd, his face a mask of Victorian gentility. He wore a neat black frock coat which reached down to his shiny leather shoes and bowed gracefully to the throng.
A small boy ran cautiously forward, his eyes on the man, to drop a coin in his medical case, then jumped back to safety, as with a snarl, the man leapt into the air and twisted to face the opposite direction.
This side of the man’s face was a ruin of gore, his makeup expertly applied to emphasise his sneer. He snapped at the crowd, snarling and biting from his podium, his fine clothes torn, moth-eaten; bulging arms and legs heavy with sinewy muscle and animal-like fur, his hand a taloned claw.
The crowd surged and shrieked, laughing nervously and the young boy hid behind his fathers’ legs, giggling but hiding from the monster in the tattered frock coat.
Vaz passed on, his heart racing from Mr Hyde’s shrill cry and breathed with relief once he had passed the avenue of strange performers.
Following the helpful map on his phone, Vaz cut across Charing Cross road, up past a restaurant called ‘The Ivy’ and Seven Dials, then past the Shaftesbury Theatre and crossed New Oxford Street. A short walk down Museum Street brought him to the impressive open frontage of the British Museum, it's stone façade dully reflecting the red light from the sunset to the West.
Visitors streamed out of the three open doors and across the open courtyard toward the main gates. A guard warned him that the museum would be closing soon.
Mitch waited patiently for him by the steps, a heavy camera slung on a strap over one shoulder and a tripod at his feet. He smiled as Vaz approached, then giving him the tripod, they climbed the steps and entered the building.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Vaz said. “I’ve never seen a video shoot before.”
“Glad you could make it.”
Mitch’s eyes twinkled. Vaz found himself watching for the little crows feet when Mitch smiled.
“Let’s go this way.” Mitch suggested.
Vaz caught a hint of a smile.
Mitch led Vaz through the entry hall into the Great Court.
Before they entered, Vaz noticed the quality of light begin to change. The orange and yellow from the sodium lights in the hallway gave way to a green glow from the space beyond. He took a quick breath as he stepped through the portico into the Great Court.
Vaz’s initial thought was that it was like being inside a pearl.
The space would have been a courtyard before the glaziers had got there. The triangular glass panels curved around the roof, no two pieces the same. They were coloured faintly green, but already his vision was compensating for the colour-cast and the light had settled on an even creamy-white glow.
Windows all around looked into the Museum proper, providing light to the rooms wherein lay the collections. Large statues were also dotted around the space, each on a pale marble plinth.
The centre of the Court was dominated by a round building containing, a sign announced, a reading room, though it was currently closed due to a separate exhibition, arrived at by climbing a set of wide stairs. Behind this a cafe could be seen closing for the day, wide steel tables and benches obviously catering to a brisk daytime trade.
“It’s enormous...”
Mitch smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”
Vaz felt his brain struggle with the size of the place, the vision necessary to imagine its construction...
Mitch laughed. “Come on. Let’s get set up.”
They walked across the Court as an announcement declared the museum finally closed for the day. An official in a dark blue suit and red tie nodded to them as Vaz helped Mitch set up his tripod and lighting in an open area of the Department of Ancient Egypt, a large, high-ceilinged room where gigantic busts of Egyptian gods looked down on the humble mortals below.
Mitch set up a microphone and secured the camera atop its ‘legs’, as he called his tripod, and they had some time to look around the exhibit while waiting for the interviewee to arrive.
“What are the museums like in Tehran?” Mitch asked.
“Veeery serious!” Vaz said with a heavy voice. Mitch laughed. “No, seriously, they are a lot more focused than here, and must run on fewer resources. We don’t have anything like this really.”
“Did you grow up in Tehran?”
“Not at all. My father is from Tehran, but my mother’s family has a long history in Esfahan. It’s south of Tehran in the centre of the country.”
“Your father is a teacher isn’t he?”
“Uhuh,” Vaz nodded. “A lecturer at Tehran University. He teaches history.”
“Does your mum work?”
Vaz looked up at Mitch. Of course. He couldn’t possibly know. Why would he?
“Ahh. My mother died two years ago. A brain aneurism.”
Mitch closed his mouth. He didn’t seem to know what to say. “I’m so sorry.”
Vaz touched Mitch’s arm. “Please - don’t worry about it. It was very sudden. The doctor said that she didn’t feel any pain... And no memory of her is unpleasant.”
“What was she like?”
Vaz smiled. What is any mother like? “She was a good wife to my father and a good mother to me. Knowing she had this ticking clock inside her makes me more grateful for the time we had, not less.”
Mitch smiled again and nodded, little crows-feet crinkling.
“Mr Mitchell?”
A woman in a red business suit had arrived. Mitch looked at Vaz. “Time to earn a living.”
The interview went smoothly and surprisingly quickly to Vaz. He had intended to make a sketch of Mitch working but didn’t have time to do much more than begin some cursory lines outlining the tall cameraman and his subject in the chair below the colossal statue of Ramesses the Second.
The woman thanked Mitch and nodded to Vaz.
“That’s it?” Vaz asked, confused. An hour of setting up and waiting and a five minute interview?
Mitch laughed. “Wait until you see it. It’ll be reduced to fifteen seconds of screen-time.”
Vaz shook his head, incredulous.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Mitch said.
They decided on a pub in a street close to the Museum. Tourists were enjoying the traditional English beers, and the wicker baskets of fish and chips dotted through the place filled the wood-panelled bar with mouth-watering aromas.
“No guessing what you’re going to go for then,” joked Mitch.
He ordered a basket and beer for each of them. London Pride for him and a lager for Vaz.
“I’m going to have to watch how much beer I drink,” Vaz said, patting his flat stomach. “This isn’t going to help my fitness.”
Mitch smiled. “You must work out a lot.”
He admired Vaz’s muscular physique without appearing to ogle. Tom would have made the look lascivious, Vaz considered, then wondered where that thought had come from.
He nodded, wiping the foamy bubbles from his top lip and sighing contentedly. “Yes - My father had a gym membership with his university, so I would go there a few times a week.”
“I should go more for sure,” Mitch said.
He looked down at his own stomach and Vaz’s eyes followed him down. Mitch’s build was pleasantly solid, but soft in the right places too. Comfortable. Vaz felt the beginnings of a blush beginning and concentrated on his beer.
Their food arrived and Mitch handed out cutlery and condiments.
“So how was your first day at the Academy?”
“Good thanks. The building is nice - so old!”
“Did Tom find you? He said he was heading in today.”
“Yes... I’m not sure he likes many of the students though.”
Mitch laughed. “Tom seems to disapprove of everything until you get to know him.”
Vaz tried the cod, pulling the crispy batter and thick flakes of fish apart. It was a bit greasy, but very tasty - he was really going to have to watch his diet in London.
“How did you two meet?” He asked.
“Actually we met through my last partner, Rick. Tom had taken photo’s of him for an exhibition and introduced us at the show.”
Ex-lover. Vaz didn’t push in that direction.
“Tom must be very good.”
“Oh he is. He might not be to everyone’s taste, but he’s got a gift for sure.”
Vaz thought again of Tom’s hand on his shoulder at lunchtime, warm breath in his ear, and shivered a little. There was something unruly about Tom, unpredictable. Looking across at Mitch, Vaz realised that the opposite was the case. Mitch was steady. Solid. Yet the two men tightened Vaz’s stomach in ways he wasn’t ready to look at too closely.
Vaz tried a chip from the basket and found it to be delicious.
He was going to have to find a gym.
Chapter 8
Saturday morning.
Vaz woke slowly, cool fingers of Autumn air through the open window tickling across his skin.
Rita hummed to herself in the distant kitchen below, and the sound of the town waking up outside made him think of bees fussing around his father's lavender, the cars on Hoe Street and even a train in the distance - exotic insects going about their business.
Throwing the duvet off and feeling full of energy, Vaz showered quickly and rushed down into the kitchen as Rita was spooning freshly ground coffee into a stove-top espresso kettle.
“Good morning!” he said.
“Hello Vaz. Did you sleep well?”
“Really well, thank you. I love the room.”
“My daughter always said it was her favourite room in the house.”
Vaz sat down at the table while Rita brought out crockery and cereal. The moka began to steam on the hob.
“Do you see her very often?”
“Not nearly as often as I’d like. Romance has done well for herself, but her work keeps her busy.”
“That’s a good name,” Vaz said. “Does she live in London too?”
“Sure. She and her boyfriend live in Hammersmith,” she said, smiling fondly. “That’s over to the West of the city.”
“What does she do for a living?”
“Conferences or something. Experiential marketing... Merchandising...” Rita laughed. “Listen to me talking as if I know what she does.”
Vaz smiled with her. “You must miss her.”
Rita nodded as the kettle begin to rattle and splutter. “Every day.” She looked thoughtful. “When my husband died, my eldest son had already left home, so it was just me and Romance in the house. But that was enough...” Her eyes saw something far away for a moment. “And I think it was healthy for us to be around each other after... Well - you know...”
Vaz nodded, remembering similar times. His father trying to learn to cook in his mother’s place, burning or wasting food, the untidy house... Eventually he’d taken over those chores and found that he had enjoyed keeping a home, and liked the feeling of him and his father pulling together during the months after her passing.
“I think I know what you mean,” he said quietly.
Rita looked at him for a moment, then smiled gently. “Look at us, dredging up the past over breakfast,” she said. “This is a conversation for another time, probably over brandies.”
Vaz laughed.
“This is where you tell me to ‘pass the milk old woman’,” she said.
Vaz laughed, “Okay,” he sighed dramatically. “Pass the milk old woman!”
Rita laughed and cupped Vaz’s cheek with her hand. “Good boy,” she said.
Vaz laughed with her, carefree suddenly. A bubbling warmth rose through his chest, and he realised that he would be able to call this place his home; be happy here.
They chatted about inconsequential matters over breakfast, Rita pouring him a wonderfully intense dark shot of coffee and encouraging him to try her muesli and fresh fruit. What things would he like to do during his time in London? What did he think of school and his new friends?
Vaz was helping with the washing and drying when his phone pinged with a new message.
Feel like heading over to my place this afternoon? I’m doing some post work on some pictures you might like to see. Tom. x
There was a link with the message which opened up on his phone to show Tom’s address and a map. Vaz was glad now that his father had bought for him this clever little phone.
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