Read Online The Folded Man by Matt Hill - Free Book Online Page B

yellow Porsches. Coke and sinking pinks, every night; every bloody night.
    Their host is a pretend mobster in a shipping container with flaking paint and creeping rust. Over the moors, the wrong side of Sheffield. A bad world going worse.
    Their host is wreathed in smoke, sitting here among his papers and his pens. Beneath the low ceiling and a simple lamp shade. He lowers his glasses, flashes his peepers. Good to actually meet you, he says, watching Brian by the ramp. Brian who is sweaty and fat and ­yellow-fingered.
    He coughs. My name is Ian.
    I know, Brian says. Brian bluffing. He didn’t know.
    I’m Michael, Brian says. Pleasure.
    I know, says Ian. Not bluffing. Eyeing what Brian has for legs.
    So come in, come in, Ian says. Glad I caught you actually. Stuck out a little down front, didn’t you; thought I’d introduce myself.
    Brian nods. Brian seems all right with that. Even if he’s still a bit wet from the toilet floor. A bit red and headachey.
    Tea? I find all good things start with a decent brew.
    I’m all right, Brian says. He can’t help feeling that he’s acting shifty.
    How’s about a Chai tea then?
    I don’t think so, ta.
    It’s really just spicy Horlicks, Ian says. You remember Horlicks, don’t you? He says Horlicks without the H.
    Brian nods.
    Course. Weren’t born yesterday.
    Ian takes his feet from the table. Half as if to show off his good manners, half to prove something.
    No, he says. None of us were.
    Ian has boiling water on tap. A small unit at the far corner of his desk. Brian watches Ian pour himself a stout brew. Yorkshire Gold on the teabag. Stockpiled or something, because you can’t buy that stuff now.
    Ian studies Brian’s fake war medals.
    I remember the army, says Ian. All them bare walls, the pool room brawls.
    Well, me too, says Brian.
    Taught me how to spot liars, did the army. Spot liars and shoot wogs any road.
    Brian nods. Tries hard not to wince.
    Still. Got lucky, you getting out with that.
    Should’ve seen the other guy, Brian says, the lies thick in his mouth.
    RPG?
    Something like that.
    Well, all I can say is resentment’s a good fuel.
    You get your moments, Brian says.
    Are you a nationalist, Michael?
    Brian pulls a face, awkward –
    Ian puts his hand up. Smiles.
    It’s all right, he says. But come with me a moment, will you? Got something to show you.
    Â 
    Ian rolls Brian along his neat lawns. There’s a gravel path, but he cuts it out, nodding to the odd group of men they pass. The grass is anyhow short enough for a comfortable ride.
    Like my house, Michael?
    Very impressive, says Brian.
    Makes a superb fairway, you have to say.
    I can’t – don’t play golf.
    Never supposed you did. But it’s home, aye.
    Soon they reach an old bandstand, open and ramped at one edge of the hexagon. Ian pushes Brian up and on to the decking – whitewashed and remarkably clean. In the centre of the bandstand, there’s a pond, under-lit with gentle blue bulbs and looking tidy also. It looks deep. A small stone cherub, penis in hand, circulates silver water. A filter buzzes in the corner.
    They sit at the edge, Brian leaning forward, Ian taking a bench.
    Oranges, whites, silvers, foot-long and flowing, crowd together and break the water’s surface. The fish with gawping mouths and slow eyes.
    Keep forever, these lot will, says Ian.
    They’re – they’re very nice, says Brian.
    Could watch them all day, Ian says. Man needs his pursuits, doesn’t he? If it in’t women any road. Had these boys ten year already. Camera up there to watch on cooler days, shall we say. Plus roof keeps birds out, doesn’t it.
    Brian nods.
    Planned a lot out here, says Ian. See these as my panel. Don’t answer back, do they? Simple living for simple ­beings. And we all know manners maketh man.
    Brian nods again; smiles thinly as Ian chuckles at himself. He spots a thick black koi,