Free The Colour of Memory by Geoff Dyer Page A

Steranko. ‘There are
plenty of good brave causes left but there’s nothing we can do about them.’
    The afternoon passed quickly as we all got more drunk and stoned. People kept arriving. Juggernaut funk, agile, cumbersome and moving at high speed, thumped around the flat. Carlton and I were
in the kitchen with Belinda, scoffing French bread and hummus.
    ‘How’s your group going?’ I said, searching through the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.
    ‘We split up,’ said Belinda as someone else came into the kitchen. Belinda introduced her to Carlton and me. Her name was Monica and she was wearing a green cardigan. Her ripped
Levis were three or four sizes too big, gathered in at the waist by a leather belt. She had light, wavy brown hair and wore earrings and no make-up. She talked to Belinda while I continued my hunt
for a corkscrew.
    Eventually I turned to Monica and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a Swiss army knife have you?’ She reached into her pocket and pulled one out. ‘You modern
women.’
    We talked for a while but by this time I was well past my best, not far off my worst in fact. I sprayed breadcrumbs when I spoke.
    After not very long she said, ‘I’ve got to go.’
    ‘OK. I’ll call you sometime maybe.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Have you got a pen?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Nor have I,’ I said, feeling in my pockets. ‘I’ll memorise it.’
    ‘You memorise it, man,’ Carlton laughed. ‘You can’t even remember your own phone number.’
    ‘That’s where you’re wrong Carlton. My memory has never been in better shape. I answered one of those ads in the Sunday paper. Now I can even remember what I was doing on the
day George Best quit football.’
    ‘What were you doing?’
    ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Now Veronica, go ahead.’
    ‘Ready?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Five . . .’
    ‘Five . . .’ I repeated.
    ‘Five . . .’
    ‘Five . . .’
    ‘Five . . . Five . . .’
    ‘Double five . . .’ I said, concentrating hard.
    ‘Five . . .’ she continued. ‘Five . . .’
    ‘That’s it,’ she said.
    ‘Hey, listen I know that’s not a real number,’ I said.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s only got six digits. London numbers have seven.’
    ‘I’ll see you around,’ she said, smiling and leaving.
    I looked out of the kitchen and into the living-room which had thinned out now. There were more empty bottles than people. Foomie was sitting on the arm of the sofa, talking to Steranko who had
taken off his jacket and was propped up against a wall and drinking from a can like some swilled-out Valentino. She was laughing. Her hand rested on his for a moment as she said something I
couldn’t hear.

053
    Something was happening. You could tell something was happening by the way everybody was asking everybody else what was happening. Railton Road was cordoned off. Police were
everywhere. I was back in the DIY shop, wishing I measured things more accurately. Unable to find a tape measure I’d spent the morning calculating distances in terms of LP covers and Penguin
books – quite a satisfying activity in an imprecise sort of way – and now, with the help of one of the assistants, I was busily converting everything back into feet and inches.
    Ten minutes later all the stock from outside was bundled in and the shutters were yanked down.
    ‘There’s going to be a riot,’ claimed the manager with conviction, ushering customers out of the shop. Hardly a day goes by in the summer without a riot being predicted:
it’s done like farmers forecasting the weather (‘red sky in the evening, the ghetto is burning’) but with less accuracy. Outside everyone just milled around while the diverted
traffic congealed around them. I trudged back to my cave, eighteen foot (approximately) of shelving digging into my collar-bone.
    From the roof of my block I looked out over the streets but everything was quiet, except for Concorde booming modernly overhead.
    People were still talking about what had happened late