18. The Artist
The Artist
Dylan
They moved on from the coffee shop and into the streets of Oldton. Their boots hit the pavement at speed, but accounting for Isaak’s limp.
The air felt crisp this evening. The sun was still visible in the sky, the clouds turning that purple colour Dylan was sure was due to pollution.
That fact kept her from fully enjoying the sight.
“So this guy, is he cool?” she asked.
“Yeah, he’s cool… We played in the Lazarus together.” Despite his answer, she noticed some apprehension in his tone.
She knew every player from when he was part of the team. “Wait, who are we going to see?”
“Sacha. He’s German. Broke through the Brexit wall to join us.”
Brexit again. The indelible mark on the souls of Britain and Europe still echoed, the actions of those wanting something better condemning them to something worse, forever.
She thought about the psychic damage that it brought to the collective soul of the nation, and the poverty that had followed that vote. Content and ignorant, Dylan concluded.
“I know who he is!” she said. “He left at the same time as you.”
“Of course you do.” Isaak laughed. “Sorry, haven’t got used to the idea of you being a fan.”
Something about the way he said the word made her blush.
The large metal arches of the Oldton roundabout were still in place, the roads completely paved over now, the locale deemed “protected” by the Mayor of London.
Shops were dotted around it, equally spaced with the last spots for defunct fast-food joints and sustainable vegan versions of night-out habituals.
The sun set as they walked to Sacha’s place.
The atmosphere got denser as the mimicry vapours poured out of the diverse array of chip shops and drunk sustenance places.
Noise levels increased as tourists and locals, in a disproportionate ratio favouring the tourists, gathered around the authentic?? eateries and pubs.
“I’ve seen some shit here, Isaak…” she started, reminiscing about her younger, wilder days.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
She pointed to a window, the promise of chilli sin carne stickered on.
“One night me and Talia had Mexican at that place. Some guy she’d made out with earlier in the night was eating a burrito right off the table.
He was beyond drunk. He was really fit, and he seemed okay before, but I don’t think she ever got over the embarrassment. ”
“Goddess… And he was fit as well, you say?”
Oh. “I… I don’t know why I said that.”
Isaak held his hands up. “Nothing wrong with a fit guy.”
She stammered, trying to think of something to say. She’d been trying to impress him with some silly story, not trying to scare him away talking about fit, drunk guys.
“What happened to him in the end?” Isaak asked, putting her out of her misery. “I guess your friend didn’t end up taking him home?”
“No… Half an hour later he was taken away by some night cops. Caught taking a wee around the corner.”
“That’s tough. All the man wanted was a smooch, a meal, and a piss. This country’s bollocks.” Isaak pretended to toss something in front of him, mocking a state of upset. “And he was really fit too!”
“Stop it.” She hit his arm playfully, letting out a laugh. “I’m sorry, did you want him to keeping standing on the corner with his dick out?”
“His dick was out, was it?”
She hit his arm again, harder this time. “No! Well, yes, logically! But I didn’t see it!”
“Right, right…”
Dylan looked down at her feet as they continued walking, manoeuvring through street debris and other people – and trash bins, which had made a return to the streets after the vegan laws were enacted.
“You got any messy stories like that?” she asked him, still smiling.
“I bet you and your mates went mad when you won the cup?”
The light smile faded from his face, and his walk slowed. “I do, but… it’s still painful to reminisce about those days.”
She was about to say something, apologise, to make him feel better. But he added, “No, it’s okay. I’m just apprehensive about this. Seeing Sacha.”
It dawned on her then that she didn’t know why Sacha had left the Lazarus at the same time as Isaak. He didn’t hurt himself in the game.
“Are you the reason he left?”
The conversation had turned serious. She wanted to give Isaak space, but to challenge him at the same time. It seemed like he didn’t have many people to talk to, and she wanted to give him a chance to talk and to really listen to him, not just chat superficially about drunken nights out.
The night-time neons lit him up, and she let herself revel in his natural good looks, while he paused to consider her question.
The pinks and blues framed his long black hair, highlighting his chin, turning his skin into a feast for the eyes.
Guilt bubbled inside her, looking at him like this, after asking him something so difficult.
She was having trouble controlling her feelings for him.
“Can we talk about it later?” he said eventually. His eyes couldn’t hide a genuine sorrow. Whatever had happened between them, it must have torn them apart. Isaak obviously didn’t feel a hundred percent comfortable going to Sacha now, but it seemed like he didn’t really have a choice.
They stopped in front of a residential building, the kind with miniscule balconies facing the busy street, dotted with the odd deckchair never used – presumably because of the mix of smoke and dust that had stained the railings, walls, and windows black, years in the making.
“This is the place.” He struggled to put a smile on his face.
“Okay. We can talk later.” She hoped she’d be able to piece together enough context clues from meeting Sacha to figure out more about what had happened anyway.
Isaak pressed the buzzer and glanced around as they waited for a response.
After a few seconds, a voice cracked through the ageing intercom. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Isaak. Can you buzz us up?” He sounded unsure to Dylan’s ears.
“Who’s ‘us’?” Sacha asked.
“Me and a friend.”
The intercom went silent. Isaak and Dylan traded glances.
The metal door opened with a clang. Isaak started through it. “Follow me. Just a few floors up.”
As Dylan stepped through the door into the cramped corridor, she was forced to cover her nose and mouth with her sleeve. A mouldy odour lingered about, tinged with disinfectant, the nasty fighting off any attempts to be washed away. Isaak glanced back at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It stinks, but I’m here, so let’s keep going.”
She felt suddenly completely outside her comfort zone. She knew who Sacha was, but she didn’t know him. And did she really know Isaak after just a few days? Was this a good idea? She searched her gut for guidance as they climbed the wooden stairs.
After a couple of floors, Isaak had to stop. His knee.
“Is it painful?” she asked.
He looked at her like he’d never been asked that by someone who actually cared. “Yeah… It comes and goes, though.” Her heart overrode her other concerns. She did know Isaak. And she could trust him.
She smiled playfully. “I could rub it for you?”
He laughed. “It’s okay. I just need to rest it for a minute. But I appreciate the offer…” While the tension in his leg resolved, another kind of tension grew between them. Did he feel it too?
Then Isaak said, “It’s feeling a lot better now. We should carry on.”
When they reached the fourth-floor landing, a door was open, bright blue and yellow lights spilling out into the stairwell. Sacha was waiting for them.
“Isaak. Miss.”
He was younger than Isaak by about five years, and yet, like Isaak, worry lines had formed around his eyes and mouth.
Sacha was still blessed with a youthful face, but one that had seen a lot in its time.
He was wearing a green utilitarian vest decked out with various pockets, bits of multicoloured wire peeking out of them.
His blonde hair was cut short, jarhead-like.
A far cry from the long hair of his London Lazarus days.
These two were the team’s biggest stars: the stalwart, hardened team captain and his eager apprentice, a neophyte whose gameplay skills grew in leaps and bounds as they worked together.
Their strategy, technique, and shared quick-speak gave them an edge over other teams, with both coming in clutch for the other and ensuring victory, while the rest of the team slugged it out and made a path for them.
Isaak nodded at him. “Sacha, this is Dylan. Dylan, this is Sacha. Be nice!”
Sacha waved them inside his flat, closing the door behind them, grumbling audibly in his faint German accent. “Doesn’t call for months, then barges in here demanding that I’m nice…”
Isaak looked over his shoulder. There was a veiled threat in his eyes. She wondered what it would be like to be Isaak’s enemy, and she couldn’t believe Sacha would be on that list.
The man gave Isaak a wounded look. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It’s not like I didn’t want to call…” Isaak said, leading them further into Sacha’s flat.
Two huge studio lights lit up the main space, giving off a low buzz, and various cameras and screens were set up around the walls.
Dylan had to be careful not to step on any of the hundreds of cables running over the floor.
At the centre of the room, on a table about bar height, were chunks of cobbled-together chipboard, connected with varying lengths of wire.
Simultaneously a workshop and an abstract display, though she couldn’t figure out the meaning.
“Are you an artist, Sacha?”
She reached for a strange-looking piece of metal sitting on one of the many shelves arranged around the room, and just the act of touching it caused something else to fall down, clanging to the floor.
“Miss, Miss! Be gentle!” Sacha stormed in after her, waving her away from the various contraptions and wires. “This is my work, yes.”