Dreams of Leaving by Rupert Thomson

mixing-desk.
    â€˜I thought you said twenty,’ Moses said.
    â€˜You did a good job.’ A smile tugged lightly at the corner of Elliot’s mouth. ‘I thought maybe you could take over on Wednesdays. Permanent, like.’
    â€˜Not a chance.’
    â€˜How come?’
    â€˜Too painful.’
    Elliot looked puzzled. He scratched his head at the point where his hair was receding. Maybe that was why it was receding, Moses thought. Maybe Elliot got puzzled a lot.
    â€˜I can’t go into it,’ Moses said, ‘not now. I’d just rather be a normal person. You know, one of the crowd. Inconspicuous.’
    Inconspicuous made Elliot laugh. ‘You seem a bit down. Fancy a game of pool?’
    Moses, slow tonight, said, ‘Where?’
    â€˜In the office. Got my own table.’
    Now Moses remembered. ‘Sure,’ he said.
    He followed Elliot up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Outside the last few people were stumbling home. Standing by the office window, Moses saw Belsen fold the gaunt scaffolding of his body into a battered white Cortina and drive away.
    Elliot selected two glasses with heavy bases and poured them both a large Remy. The green baize, lit from above, lived up to its reputation. So did Elliot. There was something carnal about the way he chalked his cue, the way his eyes feasted on the position of balls on the table. He won two games on stripes. Then he was on spots, and the spots disappeared as if he had some kind of miracle cream on the end of his cue. He crept towards the black on soft predatory feet and killed it in the top right-hand pocket. Moses had lost again. Three games in a row.
    Elliot slapped him on the back. ‘You need to sharpen up, Moses.’
    Moses stood his cue against the wall. ‘It’s been a long night.’
    Elliot went and sprawled in his executive leather chair. Moses took the dralon sofa under the window. He surrendered to the deep soothing reds and charcoal greys of the office. Wall-lamps built nests of warm light in the corners. Two glasses of brandy glowed in the shadows.
    The traffic had slackened on the street below. The occasional truck. The still more occasional bus. Moses was sober now – the soberness that comes from hours of drinking. Elliot must think I’m all right, he thought. He only invites people up here if he thinks they’re all right. He reached for his brandy, and smiled as he swallowed.
    Elliot propped his feet on the desk and talked about the club. He offered Moses cigarettes. They smoked until the corners of the office disappeared. Then the conversation touched on the break-in last September, and Elliot, without any prompting from Moses, began to tell the story.
    There had been two men, apparently. They had climbed in the back way – over the wall and into the yard where the dustbins were kept – and forced a ground-floor window.
    â€˜Professional job,’ Elliot said. ‘Very professional.’
    One of the men had been carrying a plastic bag of shit. He had scooped it up in handfuls, and plastered it over the walls, the tables, the bar. Afterwards he had wiped his hands on the curtains in the foyer. The second man had brought along one of those plastic tubs you buy paint in. Instead of being full of paint, it had been full of blood. Ten litres of the stuff. That too had been smeared over everything in sight.
    â€˜Right fucking mess,’ Elliot said. ‘You can imagine, right?’
    Moses shuddered.
    Elliot went on with the story. The next day, a Sunday, he had pulled up outside The Bunker in his motor. Two flicks of his wrist and the double-doors were open. The stench had flung him back into the street, an arm over his nose, gagging. It was as if everything that was bad in his life had caught up with him at once.
    He had rushed up the stairs to his office. It had been left untouched. He had grabbed the phone and almost called the police. Almost. Instead he had picked up