15. Cold Comfort

Tuesday 20th December 2005

Strange days, indeed¦

I've got enough reasons not to like this place, as I've already said. But there are some things in its favour, too. The people I know here ' those I can turn to for a chat, a joke, a listening ear. The connections I've got. The places where I can make a few bob if I'm short. A geography that's familiar. Some sense of belonging.

And then, this morning. A little moment. An affirmation, if you like.

I'd had a bad night. Too much to drink, too much to think. Trina's alarming tale, of course ' plus there was that other one about three blokes in a darkened room waiting for me to give them meaningful things to say. Bits of it were starting to come together. I knew who the men were, at least. A teenager, a middle-aged divorcee, and a retiring widower. The three ages of the working man, you could say: starting out, pulling through, winding down. Ambition, disillusionment, acceptance. That kind of thing. Yeah¦ story stuff. It was all wandering through the passageways of my brain, anyway ' some of them walled-up, some of them leading to turns and stairs.

And on top of all the thinking, there was the noise. Not the usual Beth and Daz Babymaking Marathon scenario. This was another sort of plumbing altogether ' that connecting the water tank to the radiators. Something was up with it. The gurgles in the system sounded like a pig digesting a bucket of slops.

With all that together, it was a fair bet I wasn't going to have too much dream-time. So, in the early hours, with the light just beginning to silver the edges, I sat up and pulled the curtains aside.

And then I saw it.

The Square as I'd never really seen it before.

The sun, though still not clear of the horizon, was high enough to blush the bottoms of the few clouds that drifted above the sea. The light from it was slanting into the Square as through a doorway in a dark house ' so that, at first, just the bare outlines were visible. I fixed my eyes on a point in the mid-distance, out at sea, and let the features fill in at the edge of my vision, like a photographic negative. Doing that made the place take on a surreal, almost foreign look. The edges of balconies and drain-pipes and gables and chimneys and guttering seemed like the towers and revetments of a gothic castle. Fortifications sprang up. Buttresses and loopholes. Turrets. Spires.

As the light became brighter, other lines and edges came into relief: railings, window frames, the island and its empty bench. Lights began to go on in windows ' faded oranges, smudgy yellows, bare whites ' as the Square came to life: as if, deep down behind its walls, a heart had started beating and blood was flowing again, and the eyes were opening up on the day.

And that was it. Just for that short while, I saw something. A kind of rough¦ charm? I don't know if that's the right word. Whatever, it left me with a feeling of reassurance. That the place could always be a lot worse. And that it could always be made a lot worse. In the wrong hands. That there was something about it that was worth holding onto.

With those thoughts in my head, I turned back to the room ' and nearly jumped out of my skin. On the other side, by the door, a figure was standing, looking at me. It took me a good moment to realise it was just my reflection in the mirror.

¦and it was also then that I realised, for the first time, just how fucking freezing it was. I went over to the radiator and put my hands on it. Stone cold.

Brilliant! Gurgling explained. The boiler had packed up again. I got back into bed, huddled myself up, shut my eyes, and slept on and off for the rest of the morning.

.

After lunch, I wrapped myself up and went down to the letting agents to report it. This is never a fulfilling experience given that the guy in charge, an arse-in-a-sling old grease-nut called Les Kyle, is the Belching ward representative for UKIP. Which is okay - if that's his bag. But he just makes such a thing of it. Party leaflets are spread around the office like napkins at a Dribblers Soup Night. Anti-EU cut-outs from the Daily Mail are sellotaped to the windows. A poster on the wall behind the desk shows a caricatured United Kingdom fleeing in fear from a looming Europe-shaped snarling incubus. Underneath it is the caption 'Britain in the EU? Leave it out! ' Seeing it all gives me the same feeling I get whenever I meet someone wearing a crucifix the size of a headstone ' a pretty clear idea about where they stand, and what you need to be careful about saying. I always think it suggests issues about self-esteem: overstating something in order to cow you into submission before you start.

Though self-esteem probably isn't something that bothers Les Kyle too much. He gets quite a bit of support around here. Non-supporters are summarily dismissed: Guardian readers, probably ' hell-bent on destroying our cultural birth-right by handing it over to a bunch of johnnies who can't even speak English, and most of whom don't even have a monarchy. What can you say to someone like that? Except¦

"The gas boiler's packed up at number two Shanty Square. There's no heating or hot water. Any chance someone could have a look at it, please?

Keep it mundane. Keep it unequivocal. Keep it safe.

Instead of looking up at me, Kyle swivelled away from his newspaper and tapped something into his computer. I got the unnerving sense that he was running a profile on me ' compounded by the fact that a CCTV camera, mounted in the corner behind him, was pointing directly at my head. He was wearing his favourite bright orange puffer jacket. Poking from the top of it, his hairless bonce looked like a turnip skewered onto a pumpkin. His bottle-bottom glasses were semi-opaque with finger smears. A big gold knuckle-duster on his left pinkie rattled against his wedding ring. Beside his keyboard, a half-eaten sausage roll ' a gash of tomato sauce on top ' lay on a grease-stained paper bag. His ashtray was so stuffed with butts it looked like a portion of microwave chips. His coffee mug said simply 'Boss'. Over his shoulder, through the window, I could see his blue Mondeo parked up on the pavement. Honestly. I couldn't make it up.

"The landlord's away for Christmas, he said, turning back to his paper. "I'll need to get his say-so before doing anything.

I shifted from one foot to the other. "How long will that take?

"Depends on how long it takes to get hold of him, he said, making it sound like the bleeding obvious being explained to the terminally stupid. "I'll have to leave him a message on his home phone and hope he picks it up.

"Hasn't he left a hotel number or anything?

Kyle took a bite out of his sausage roll. Flakes of pastry dropped like scurf down his jacket. On his upper lip, a dewdrop of ketchup looked like the start of a nose-bleed.

"He's not staying in a hotel, he said. "He's driving his camper across France.

A tiny gob of mangled pork sprang out of his mouth and landed between the breasts of the model on the page before him. He picked it off, which seemed to distract him temporarily from his client's touristic ineptitude. I began to feel that my presence was an irritation.

"So¦ what do we do in the meantime?

Kyle stopped chewing and looked up at me for the first time.

"I dunno, mate. What everyone does in the circumstances. Improvise. Put on a few jumpers. Boil a kettle.

He swallowed his food and took a mouthful of coffee to wash it down.

"I've told you what I can do, he said. "I can't do any more until he gives the okay. My hands are tied.

I wished they were. Behind his back. On the end of the pier. I could watch him bob away on the outgoing tide like a big bloated orange buoy.

I left him to the rest of his lunch, or whatever it was. I got out before he started on about the steadfastness of the war-time spirit. About how we'd won the war in Europe without central heating and constant hot water to back us up. About how those things had softened us up and made us ripe for take-over by other, more surreptitious means. That was the way the conversation was going.

Feeling like a bit of a walk to warm me up, I headed along the High Street towards the Hummocks. En route, I nipped into Gemma's 10 o'Clock for a quarter-bottle of their budget Canadian Rye Whiskey, which I thought would keep the heat going later when I got back to the flat.

Gemma was in a buoyant mood. Yoyo-ey, in fact.

"You were right, Al, she said, grinning toothsomely at me as she gave me my change. "He is a good bloke. He just needs a bit of straightening out¦ but then, I don't mind a challenge.

I smiled. Straightening out Yoyo, eh? For some reason, I had the image of her steering a road-roller.

Outside, I crossed over and walked along past Billy's Hippodrome. Looking in at the entrance, I could see Billy in the thick of it between a middle-aged couple and a mahogany sideboard. I knew he'd had it a while and had dropped the price a couple of times. It was a good, solid piece of furniture. One that would outlast the great-grandchildren of the two who were currently rubbing their chins over it. I caught Billy's eye and he raised his thumb. I mimed cueing and he raised his thumb even higher. I showed him four fingers ' a four-hand game ' and he held up a fist in a victory salute. That was this evening taken care of¦ if Sherlock and Yoyo were up for it.

On the Hummocks, I sat in my shelter and took the top off the bottle. The early promise hadn't held out, and it had turned into a gloomy, temperature-inverted day. The horizon was hidden somewhere in the monotone greyness between the sea and the sky. As the mouthful of spirit seeped into my bloodstream, I had one of my quiet little moments when I put things into their proper order and stood back to look at them.

I thought ' simplistically, I know ' about the unfair way things seemed to be apportioned. On the one side, there were the Billys: working a steep and stony plot, but still managing to bring in a crop. On the other side were the likes of Les Kyle: filling out his arse in the back of a chair, tapping his keyboard, not giving a three-finger wank for the lot of anyone else ' and doing very well out of it, thank you very much. The sort who considered each option on the singular basis of personal advantage. It was people like him who'd be lining their pockets out of these council sell-offs ' if and when they came. Copping some commission. Maybe even snapping up a property or two.

What made it all the more galling is that they made a pretence out of being a part of the community by taking on a public role. I speak for you. Vote for me. Keep Britain British. Vote for me. Safeguard everything you hold dear. Vote for me.

Give me the means to further my own ends.

Vote for me.

I either worry too much or drink too much.

Both, probably.