Copacabana Read online

  Copacabana

  Jack Rylance

  40° Books (2012)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  Having retired from the crime world, Pete Murphy relocates from Liverpool to Rio de Janeiro. Here he throws himself into the wild and sordid nightlife of Copacabana in an effort to forget that brutal murder which forced him into exile.

  This self-destructive routine is interrupted by the arrival of John Mullan, a young petty thief who has long idolized Pete, and is now on the run from associates back home. A situation further complicated by the £2000,000 of stolen money which John has brought with him.

  As the repercussions of this theft become ever more clear, the scene is set for an explosive showdown.

  Pete Murphy is about to meet the ghosts of his past head-on.

  In Copacabana…

  COPACABANA

  JACK RYLANCE

  40° Books

  Copacabana Copyright © 2012 by Jack Rylance.

  This book was produced using PressBooks.com.

  Alas Copacabana, you poor fool, for you have been called the Princess of the Sea and they have decorated your head with a crown of lies and laughed throughout the night at this drunken coronation…

  - Rubem Braga

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Afterword

  Introduction

  Hopelessly in love with the written word

  &

  still aiming to do it full justice.

  Jack Rylance is a seasoned novelist, world traveller, and restless soul.

  Finally, after one too many awkward dalliances with traditional publishing, he’s taken the decision to go it largely alone.

  Copacabana is the first fruit of this new, direct approach.

  For more information about Jack and his work, please take the time to visit:

  jackrylance.com

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/jack_rylance

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jack.rylance.5

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6420542.Jack_Rylance

  Tumblr: http://jackrylance.tumblr.com/

  Chapter One

  “So here we are,” Pete Murphy said. The apartment was a surprise to John Mullan – small, dim, cluttered up with cheap-looking furniture – and bore little relation to what he’d long imagined it to be. A pair of heavy green curtains were drawn together blocking out the midday sun. A computer was switched on at a desk in the far corner, shedding its sickly light.

  John walked into the middle of the room, pulling his suitcase behind him, and came to stand below the active ceiling fan. He looked at those doors leading off from the lounge and counted two of them. This suggested that there was only one bedroom, which meant that he’d be sleeping here on the sofa.

  “One block back from the beach,” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “This apartment. It’s only a minute’s walk. I hope you packed your trunks.”

  John walked over to the window and held back one of the curtains and peered outside at the other high-rise buildings across the way. “So can you see the sea from here?”

  Pete laughed. “Yeh, if you lean right out and risk breaking your neck…You want a drink?”

  “Have you got a coke?”

  Pete went into the kitchenette, opened the fridge, took out a can.

  “Am I alright smoking in here?” John asked.

  “There’s an ashtray on the table.”

  John sat down on the low white couch with the ashtray directly in front of him. He took out a Berkeley Superking and lit it up. It was his sixth cigarette since landing in Rio de Janeiro an hour and a half before. There were thick yellow bands of nicotine on those fingers he used to smoke.

  Pete brought the drink over. He had aged visibly since they’d last met, two years earlier. He now had a deep brown tan, the result of living in the sun day to day, month after month, and this tan had accentuated the wrinkles around his pale blue eyes. His hair was blonder than before but still the same length as it had always been, falling about his shoulders.

  “So how’s your mother?” Pete asked, putting the can on the coffee table.

  “The same.”

  “Right.” He sat down in the armchair opposite. “So I guess we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  John nodded, acknowledging the fact, but there was a look on his face which suggested he wanted to ignore these matters for the moment and press on with what was foremost on his mind. “Listen, Pete,” he said, “I brought you something.”

  “Oh aye? What’s that then?”

  John leant forward eagerly and pulled over his large suitcase and began to open it as fast as he could. He lifted back the lid and started burrowing through his clothes, throwing them out of the way like a child hunting down a gift. Then he came away with a smaller red sports bag hidden inside. “Here we go,” he said and zipped it open and then tipped it upside down. Countless bank notes fell out. They were tied in large bundles and made little thuds as they dropped against the floor. John shook the bag with both hands to empty it completely, releasing the last two stacks of Pounds Sterling. After that he looked over at Pete, awaiting his reply.

  “Well I guess that clears up why you had to leave in such a hurry.”

  “I haven’t had time to count it, but I reckon there’s a hundred grand there.”

  By Pete’s own estimation it was closer to two. “And you hid it in your suitcase?”

  “Yeh. I did.”

  Pete considered those baggage handlers who had idly watched this suitcase go by, missing out on the chance of a lifetime. The truth would have driven them all to madness. He looked at John closely for any sign of visible change, but the intervening years were nowhere to be seen. He was still a youth, if one of twenty two. You would have been hard pressed to mistake him for a man. His thin face was honest, expressive, easy to read. He possessed that innocence which the young desperately want rid of.

  “You’re a slave to fortune aren’t you, lad?”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind…”

  “I want you to take what you want, Pete,” John said. “That’s for you and me.”

  “And where exactly did you get it, John?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Obviously I do.”

  “Alright, OK, I’m gonna tell you.”

  “So…”

  “Riley.”

  “You stole it from Riley?”

  “I took it from his house.”

  “And is that who the money belonged to?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is this money Riley’s?”

  “Dunno.”

  “That’s a lot of money for him, don’t you think?”

  John shrugged.

  “Is that who you think the money belonged to?”

  John shrugged again.

  “So who knows you’re here?”

  “No-one.”

  “Not even your Ma’?”

  “Why the fuck would I tell her?”

  “And what about the other lads you knock round with?”

  “I’m
not that stupid.”

  “Alright. And you definitely weren’t followed to the airport?”

  “If I’d have been followed, I wouldn’t have made it this far, would I?”

  It was another reasonable answer, and probably John was safe in the short term, but the chances were this would only be a respite. Whoever the true victims of his crime, they were unlikely to let it go. It was worth considerable effort, this kind of money.

  John got to his feet and stood over the emptied sports bag, hands on his hips, waiting for Pete to show some pleasure. But Pete only shook his head. He realised that in spite of what John had done to get the money, the youngster was not particularly interested in holding onto it. His idea was to hand it over as an offering, a tribute. He was asking Pete to take care of him in return. And yet the money didn’t thrill Pete either. For some time he’d claimed not to care about such wealth, and, as it turned out, he’d been telling himself the truth.

  Chapter Two

  They went out after midnight. Despite Pete’s serious misgivings, he thought it only proper that they celebrate John’s arrival. After all, he had made it this far. And if John did not wish to bring up the exact circumstances of the theft then he would not press the kid for every detail until tomorrow. The lad deserved one night’s reprieve.

  It was less than a five minute walk to their destination, Sobre As Ondas, a terrace restaurant on Atlantic Avenue. They left the apartment building, took a right, a left, a right, and then it was there before them: the main strip of Copacabana’s nightlife; its popular, touristy, highly approachable heart.

  Turning the corner, the first thing to catch John’s eye was a tall bald man in a blue Hawaiian shirt smoking a cigar. He had one foot planted on a small wooden box as a young boy crouched before him and ran a cloth over one of his black brogues at astonishing speed. Meanwhile the man blew the smoke out of his mouth and looked downwards, studying the boy’s handiwork. Now John’s focus widened and he tried to take in the street as a whole and failed spectacularly. The entire scene was frantic and unfathomable. Countless young women were milling around, alone or in groups, all dressed up, showing themselves off. Hawkers were passing through, wares draped over their shoulders, selling towels, hammocks, flags. Amongst these people, there was unanimous interest in those holidaymakers who were also out in force, for the most part male. What drove the action here were these ceaseless trade-offs: the ways in which locals and foreigners rubbed each other up.

  John had never seen anything like it.

  A young girl darted towards them, maybe seven years old. She had short thick brown curls, a dirty face, and was holding out a few packs of chewing gum, offering them up for sale. Pete took out an identical pack from his back pocket to prove he didn’t need any. The girl dropped her interest in him instantly and began to concentrate on John. “I’ve got no money,” he said in English. She tugged at his shirt, imploring him all the same. He felt helpless, too frightened to push her away. “Tell her, I’ve got no money,” he said to Pete.

  “You should have brought some of your ill-gotten gains out with you,” Pete answered. “I’m sure she would have accepted a twenty.” Then he looked down at the girl and spoke in her language until she turned and ran off.

  The two of them cut through the crowd and reached the terrace which lay in the middle of all this confusion. It was wide, rectangular, packed out with guests. As Pete stood at its edge, looking for somewhere to sit, a waiter hurried over and greeted him warmly. “Oh Pete!”

  “Oh Antonio!”

  The waiter then turned and made a great show of hunting down a good spot. It pleased John to see that his friend’s standing here was high. “VIP treatment. That’s alright,” he remarked.

  “One of the perks of being a drunkard.”

  They were led to a central table and sat themselves down. Pete ordered a caipirinha for himself. “What do you want?” He asked John.

  “I’ll take a beer,” John answered, his eyes flitting about. He was still struggling to acclimatise. The sights hit him in successive waves and before he’d got to grips with any one of them, another came along. This superabundance had assaulted his nerves as soon as he’d arrived in Rio de Janeiro and resounded within him ever since. The foreignness was overwhelming. It struck him as a form of deviancy; as if the people here had tried in vain to imitate everything that John knew of life, only to get it horribly, spectacularly wrong. As such, it made for a world of sheer mystery. One which John was more inclined to avoid than try and explore.

  Scanning the periphery, he took in three young women and paused for a moment to look at them, trying to figure out if they were older or younger than himself. As John did so, one of them expertly caught his eye, smiled, and waved over at him. He turned to Pete. “I’m sure that bird over there just gave me a wave.”

  Pete followed John’s nod. “You could be right.”

  “You’d think she knows me.”

  “She certainly knows your type.”

  “How do you mean?” Pete ignored the question as he spotted somebody else standing close to the girl. “You see that fella over there.” He was referring to a skinny man with a large handlebar moustache. “He’s a taxi driver, but more importantly he’s also a snitch. You don’t ever want him watching what you do. And as for that woman he’s talking to…” Pete went on to point out other people as well, describing a web of intrigue, populating a gallery of rogues. It seemed like a very complicated drama and John soon gave up on understanding it and surrendered any hope of ever remembering what was what and who was who.

  It took Pete a little over an hour to finish his third caipirinha. He called these cocktails ‘petrols’. He was the kind of person who gave things nicknames which then entered wider circulation because the names were accurate, poetic, both. John stuck with beer, despite Pete’s cajoling him, and watched avidly as the drink took hold of his friend, triggering his famous wit. He was glad to see Pete on tip-top form. He was both calmed and delighted by this spectacle. This was the Pete that he knew and loved.

  John looked around again. “So are all these birds on the game?” He asked.

  “Now John, I won’t hear you talking about the good ladies of Copacabana in that fashion. They’re all looking for love, just like you and me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind shagging that one over there.”

  “That one over there would eat you for breakfast, lad.”

  “You reckon?

  “I know.”

  “How come? Have you been with her yourself?” John continued staring at the young woman in question, comparing her with Pete’s assessment. Yes, she looked like bad news. That was the main attraction. As she felt John’s eyes on her, the woman turned to face him and briefly smiled back. Then she spotted Pete, and the smile left her face, and she swiftly looked away.

  Now Pete became distracted by two North European tourists, a couple in their fifties, sitting close by. They were also drinking caipirinhas and becoming less formal, more effusive with one another as the cocktails slid down their throats. Pete pretended to interpret their conversation for John using a pair of comic accents, dubbing their actual words.

  “Later when we are in bed together you will do the special thing?”

  “I am not doing that!”

  “Here my darling, have another of their fruity drinks.”

  “I don’t want another of their fruity drinks!”

  “But you love their fruity drinks!”

  And so it went on, with Pete playing both roles. He never told a one-liner. His humour was always lavish, exhaustive, improvisational. He loved language and led it on a wild goose chase and that was another reason why John enjoyed his company.

  “Well, you always said you were going to visit me,” Pete said.

  “Yeh.”

  “And here you are. On the run.”

  John allowed himself a sheepish smile. Pete had already warned him several times to leave home or else he was going to come seriously unstuck. He had see
n John’s future, John realised now, and that was another good reason for his being here. It made sense to stick close to somebody who had that kind of gift. It was also true that when he’d answered John’s desperate phone call, Pete had not hesitated before springing into action. He’d arranged the flight within the hour. All John needed to do was get to Manchester airport and ask for his ticket at the desk.

  “Listen Pete, I’ve got to get out of here now,” John had said. “I’m in big fucking trouble. I haven’t got time to explain” The fear in his voice had been thick and had threatened to overwhelm him.

  “OK, you need to get out of town for a while, take a train up to Glasgow. I know people up there. They’ll sort you out.”

  “No Pete, I need to get out the country.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You want to come here?”

  “Can I?”

  “If that’s what you need to do.”

  As for Pete himself, he’d expected to be underwhelmed when he learnt of John’s reasons for running away. He thought they’d only relate to a misdemeanour rather than a significant crime: a minor run-in with someone insignificant, blown out of all proportion. The problem would require a cooling off period. There would be a talking to for John, and, if necessary, a word in somebody’s ear back home. Then, after a brief stay, he could put him on a flight back to England. But by dropping those bundles of cash onto the floor of his apartment, John had blown this theory out of the water. Pete was looking at an entirely different proposition; one which threatened to overtake his own life in any number of ways. The most obvious of these developments, if not the most threatening, was his being burdened with the boy, day after day after day. In the very short term, there was also Ester to consider. She would be back from Italy on Friday afternoon and he did not want John staying at his flat and cramping his style once his part-time lover returned. Therefore Pete resolved to speak with one of the brokers who rented out apartments by the month. He would set John up in Copacabana for exactly that length of time and then they would take it from there.