Four and Silence I

Four and Silence I



Anthony Gin









































[e-mail]





































For Honey.



With thanks to Sister M. H.









































































CHAPTER 1



You’ll find out about me. 

I’m like everybody could be.

I am total and whole.

Like everybody could be.

…

I used to have this belief where something good or exciting or lucky would happen. I’d like it to come back, but after thirty-eight years on this planet - with two growing kids and one growing wife - I have to admit it: it’s not coming back. I can lie here being miserable or I can go to my thrilling job, but it’s still not going to return.

Then our Franny crawls into the bedroom.

“What is it, petal?” I ask, sitting up.

Our Franny ignores me – she’s on a mission to grab the leg of the bed.

Karen walks in behind her. 

“Come on Fran, your dad needs his sleep,” says Karen as she lifts our Franny off the floor. “I’ve only got you to run after and him downstairs to watch and all the washing to do and your Gran coming at eleven. Let your dad have a lie in.”

Then Karen walks out of the bedroom and shuts the door with enough volume to annoy, but not so much that I could justly accuse her of slamming it.

Some God-awful children’s game show full of screaming brats blares up the stairs. And then Karen shouts at our Michael and our Michael mumbles something back and our Franny starts to cry.

I cover my head and try to remember this pop video I saw at the pub. Fuck knows who it was, but this girl in it; she couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She looked a bit like this girl that I went with when I was nineteen. Now there was a dirty bitch. She used to -

“DAD!”

Bloody hell. “What?” I shout. 

“Alright!” our Michael snaps through the door. “Mum just asked if you want a cup of tea!”

“Yes!” I shout back. “Tell her ‘yes’!”

But our Michael had already gone back downstairs.

I roll over.

This isn’t right, is it? Can’t lie in bed on my only day off, nothing to do or spend and you can’t even start a wank in this house without the kids interrupting.

I give it all up and get dressed and decide that something has to happen.

I can’t carry on like this. 

…

         Alan wheeled the chair from the computer and picked the phone from the glass table.

It was Helen.

He left it a moment for appearance’s sake and then pressed the button.

         “Helen,” he answered with cheery efficiency, “all good, I hope.”

         “Alan,” she replied. “It’s been to Darwens at New York and they say their Detroit and Michigan plants could pick it up for ninety-five percent of the price you’ve forwarded…”

         Alan knew this already. The idea was that Helen, with the power of the Gleamans co. behind her, could force Darwens into a deal. If Darwens bought their stock from Gleamans then they’d half their promotion costs and get a ten percent reduction on any future essentials. But Darwens knew that Gleamans could then raise the price of these essentials at any time, which was, of course, exactly what Gleamans would do. But Gleamans was a good name to be associated with in these hard times, and Darwens knew it, Helen knew it, and by Christ Alan fucking knew it. And all he had to hear from Helen was ‘Yes’.

Of course Alan didn’t show that he was eager to hear the conclusion – he knew better than that. He hummed and aha’ed in all the right places, and even got Helen to clarify a couple of points that he already knew. For Helen, Alan was relaxed and contented.

         “…And so,” Helen monotoned, “they’ve said ‘yes’ on provision that we continue to back their existing blah blah blah…”

          “Sure, that’s fine,” said Alan casually when Helen finally stopped talking. “I’ll look forward to the e-mail. Give my best to George and the boys. Goodbye.”

         Alan turned the phone off and smiled.

This was a big deal. An actual, bona fide big deal. This would make Alan Rosary, at twenty-eight, a millionaire. If he played his cards right – and he very much intended to - he could (and should) be a multi-millionaire within two years. Alan Rosary himself was now a bona fide big fucking deal.

         Alan went to the fridge, took out a Kit-Kat and ate the bugger just like that. None of this finger-by-finger business - two bites, four fingers, all gone.

And then Alan went back to work.

Not only was Alan Rosary about to become a millionaire, but he’d also just eaten his first piece of chocolate for two years.

It didn’t half give him a headache by lunchtime.

…

         Twelve O’ Clock in the pub – twelve o’ clock lunchtime. You forget how strangely sweet a pint can be on an empty stomach.

         “Yes, go on,” I said, “and get us a packet of Prawn Cocktail crisps, Ste.”

         I made a mental note. I had to give Mum a ring later for some money. Four days from the giro, skint, and in the pub at twelve o’ clock. Not good, not big, and not clever.

         Ste came back with the drinks and a packet of Salt and Vinegar. “There you go Laddy,” he said. 

Everybody calls me ‘Laddy’. Always have, and probably always will. It was my older brother, Dek. He’d called me ‘Laddy’ when we were kids, showing off in front of his mates, acting as though I was a puppy dog. What with me being about nine or something, I used to laugh and play along. And still – still everybody calls me ‘Laddy’.

         “Salt and Vinegar?” I said. “Are you deaf, you?”

         “Bloody hell,” said Ste. “Thank you, Stephen. You’re welcome, Laddy.” 

The pub – The Miner’s Arms – was Ste’s pub, really. My pubs were all down the road towards Tree Lane. These were Ste’s pubs, Ste’s business pubs.

         As we sipped our drinks, Ste motioned towards a shabby suited man at the bar.

“Here,” said Ste with a grin, “keep an eye on this fella here. Watch how many drinks he has.”

         “Okay,” I said. The man seemed oblivious anyway. “Is that his first?”

         “He’s just walked in, but watch how many he has.”

         So I did.

The man finished his pint in about fifteen minutes and then had a short.

Ste and me played pool.

The man had another pint and another short.

Ste won the first game; I won the second.

The man ate a sandwich and drank another pint.

Ste won the third game.

The man drank another short and left.

         “Well,” asked Ste, “how many?”

“Three pints and three shorts,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve seen him have more than that; that was about average. But here: guess what job he does.”

         “Job?” I asked. That poor bastard worked? “God knows,” I said. “Pen pusher? Does he work in a shop? …No, erm…” I pointed at the place across the road where they carve headstones. “Does he work over there?”

Ste shook his head and smiled. “No,” he said, “you’ll never guess,” and then he didn’t say anything.

         I sighed comically and said, “Oh, I don’t know, Ste.”

         Ste raised his eyebrows and said, “…Dentist.”

         “What? Fuck off!” I said, laughing.

         Ste laughed too. “Honest to God, fucking dentist! Swear to God.”

         “Fucking hell!” I said. I’ve never been keen on having stuff done to my teeth, but, Jesus – just imagine being under that bastard’s drill! First appointment in the afternoon, shitting yourself, and smelling all that booze. “How’s he managed to keep that up?”

         “Fuck knows,” said Ste, “but I’m glad the cunt doesn’t fix my teeth!”

         And here was me with no job feeling guilty about drinking at lunchtime.          

I imagined myself in a dentist chair with that dentist staggering about and I actually shivered.          

Like I said, I’ve never been keen on having stuff done to my teeth.

…

         Geoff came in at five minutes past and nodded at Mazza.

Mazza stood up and said, “Hello, love.”

         “Hello,” answered Geoff, and Mazza walked to the kitchen.

         Geoff sat down in the chair adjacent to Mazza’s gap on the couch, and he looked at the TV guide while Emmerdale played from the set.

         After the commercial break Mazza came back with Geoff’s tray.

         “Thanks, love,” said Geoff, putting the tray over his knee.

         “How was the farm?” asked Mazza. This was a longstanding joke that had ceased to be – a once semi-amusing expression that these days simply counted as good manners. Geoff worked as a newsagent and always had done.

         “Okay thanks,” said Geoff, between mouthfuls.          

The shop, Peake’s (the family name), was a lock-up at the train station in town, a prime location for the morning commuters and the passing travellers. What locals there were consisted of the other workers from the offices and shops nearby and, since the late nineteen-nineties, those rich executives who’d bought the apartments that used to be the Forbes and Colegrave factories. As such, the shop provided very well for Geoff, Mazza, Joanne and Claire.

         Geoff finished his tea as the music began for Emmerdale’s credits. 

Mazza got up and said, “Pass it here.” She took Geoff’s tray through to the kitchen and began washing up. When it was a Coronation Street night Mazza stayed where she was and did the washing up later on, but when it wasn’t she’d wash the pots straight away.

         Geoff wasn’t concerned with the telly, but he couldn’t be bothered doing anything else. He opened the shop at 5.00 am. He looked through the following few days in the television guide and shouted, “Is Claire in?” 

“No,” Mazza replied. “She’s at Natalie’s. I’ve told her to be back by nine.”

         Claire was their youngest daughter. She was thirteen and about to go into the third year at the local comprehensive. She was doing well academically, Geoff reckoned. She was a good kid.

Joanne, the eldest daughter, was nineteen (nearly twenty) and lived with her boyfriend, Chris, near Conner’s Park. When they’d first moved in together, Geoff had made a big show about how displeased he felt. But one day when he was at the shop about a week after Jo had moved out, Geoff was concerned about not ordering one magazine or another when he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be upset. So he’d stopped saying all the things that he was supposed to say and had concluded (for the umpteenth time) that what would happen would happen, whether he wanted it to or not.

Presently, Mazza came back to the front room and sat in her place on the couch.

“What do you want on?” asked Geoff, aiming the remote control.

Mazza shrugged her shoulders. She watched the telly but she didn’t really care. So Geoff nodded and continued leafing through the TV guide.

At nine o’ clock, Geoff stood up and said goodnight. And as he lay in bed, he heard Claire arrive through the front door. Happy that Claire was okay, Geoff drifted quietly off to sleep.

…













































CHAPTER 2

I answered the phone and looked at the clock.

Twenty-two minutes past three.

I replaced the receiver, drank a glass of water, stretched and did fifty press-ups. I’d usually lift weights, but I was pushed for time.

It was okay here. The executives kept to themselves. If they’d heard me driving away at that time before, they hadn’t said anything.

I drove from the underground garage and along Richmond Street at fifty miles an hour. It took ten minutes to the A Road where I did a hundred and ten to the second junction and then seventy to the Tree Lane estate. It wasn’t the first time I’d been there and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

On the estate I slowed to twenty and parked two streets away. Then I ran to the back of the address and checked.

The house on the left was unoccupied and boarded up; the right was occupied but dilapidated. 

I tried the locked gate and then climbed over the fence.

At the dark back door, I swatted a spider’s web and broke the lock. The door caught, bolted on the inside. I’d have to be quick.

I took the smashing cloth out of my jacket pocket, covered the small window in the door and hit it with my fist. There was no stopping the noise of the glass dropping onto the kitchen floor. It wasn’t even tiled.

I reached in and opened the door and the target was there, pale in tracksuit bottoms and no top.

He said, “No!” and dashed through to the front.

I ran and caught him. He could squirm and kick, I’ll give him that; but then they usually can.

I yanked the target backwards and laid him on the floor with my arm over his face. He hit me pathetically on the side of my head as I placed my elbow carefully onto his left eye socket. I then leaned into my elbow and listened. It made an interesting combination of sounds.

Then I got up and counted from one to thirty.

He’d gone.

I pulled a jiffy bag from my inside pocket, brushed as much of the glass and blood and spit off me as I could and then walked out the back door, picking up the smashing-cloth with the jiffy bag as I went. I kept to the speed limit all the way back.

By 4.41am I was back in my flat drinking orange juice. My clothes were soaking in the sink. The jiffy bag was tossed in the communal skip-bin next to the underground garage.

Then the phone rang again. I picked it up, said, “Okay,” and put it back down.

Business done, I think about buying my newspapers.

…

I woke a couple of seconds before my alarm and turned it off before it could wake Karen. I don’t need her crap at this time of the morning.

I then went quietly downstairs for a brew when our Franny suddenly cried from her bedroom.

Karen could sort her – she’d bloody have to. I have to get to work, lest we forget, to feed the appetites of a thousand around here. Then I heard our Michael go to the toilet.

I shrugged, and decided to wake Karen up too. “KAREN!” I shouted, and when Karen didn’t reply I shouted, “KAREN – FRANNY!” and walked out the front door.

They can all sort themselves out.

…

Geoff put the key in the shutter at 4.45am and pulled up the metal robber’s guard. And there it was: his Kingdom of magazines; his Palace of assorted knick-knacks.

He went to the stock area, put the kettle on and whistled along with the radio.

Geoff loved the mornings. He loved travelling to his Kingdom when everything was quiet. He loved the freshness of the damp air as the dawn broke. And then the papers and the milk would come and he’d sign the invoices. And then the early risers would come for their cigarettes and chewing gum, and the night-shift workers would stop to buy newspapers and bread on their grateful way home. And then the morning rush would start at 6.00 with the builders and the tradesmen in luminous yellow and build to a steady climax of schoolchildren at 8.30. And then he’d see the same faces – tired or moody or happy - finishing later in the day. And then the others in the morning – the students going to mid-morning lectures, the hopeful and the nervous bound for job interviews, the NHS staff on the late shift, the postmen finishing after lunch. And then the travellers in young backpacker packs, or the grenades of families jostling tiredness and excitement and harassment on their way to a plane or a ferry.

They all stopped for Geoff. And maybe none of them noticed him – well, most of them didn’t – but he noticed them. And he liked them, too. They’d paid for his mortgage, his cars and his daughters’ school uniforms. They’d allowed Geoff’s Kingdom to flourish.

He’d never really had regulars until Grange’s and Forbes’ and Colegrave’s had become executive warehouse flats. They’d been snapped up too, what with being next to the train station. But the executives didn’t stop to chat. Geoff would see the same smartly dressed people all the time, even on a quiet Saturday or half-day Sunday, but they never struck up conversations. But that was fine. In fact, in a way it was preferable.

Geoff put the newspapers on the racks and went to his small, never-quite-clean toilet at the back. When he returned, there was £2.20 on the counter, and the executive in black trousers with slicked-back hair was walking down the platform towards the steps and the street.

Geoff had seen this man numerous times, so he knew what he’d bought: The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mirror and a Nutri-Grain bar. He always did. Not always at five in the morning, but it wasn’t unheard of. But the man never stopped to talk; they never did from those executive warehouse apartments. But that was fine. In fact, in a way it was preferable.

Geoff put the boxes of crisps and Pepsi Max on the floor, and rotated his Palace’s stock accordingly.

…

“Any change in your circumstances?”

Well, yes actually, I thought. My best fucking mate died and I got a sympathy shag from that slag Joanne Peake out of it.

“No,” I said.

“Have you heard anything since last time? Any luck?”

Unlikely, seeing as I haven’t applied for any of the minimum-wage shite you keep offering me.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve got an interview next week for that caretaker’s job.” An absolute lie, and only a slight variation on the same lie I tell them every two weeks. There was no caretaker’s job, but then, there was no radiator factory job, hospital porter job or any other fucking job either.

“Oh, that’s good. Have you had a look at today’s vacancies?”

I look at the cards on her desk. Panel beater, chef assistant, part-time bar work.

“Would you like me to give any of them a ring for you?”

For fuck’s sake.

“If you could give me the number of the panel beater, that’d be good.”

“Would you like me to give them a ring for you now?”

She’s getting menacing. This is where you have to be polite but firm.

“I’d rather speak to them myself, to be honest. And the hospital said they’d ring about that porter’s job this afternoon, so I could do with getting back.” Absolute bullshit, especially as I don’t even have a landline anymore.

“Okay then, Mr. Bradbury. If you could just sign here, please. We’ll have to arrange a Re-start interview for next time.”

Oh Jesus.

“Has it been six months?”

“It has Mr Bradbury. I’ll put you down for 2.15. And don’t forget your Jobseeker’s evidence…”

Etc, etc.

I walk to the train station and buy a packet of Prawn Cocktail from that greasy old man who’s run the paper stall since about 1804.

Ste was dead. It was weird.

His brother Mark kept going on about The Bastard Livvys. The Livvys are infamous around here. I went to school with one of them – John Livvy, one of the youngest.

I’m telling you Laddy; the fucking bastard Livvys have had him. But Ste had always kept away from the Livvy’s area. He’d told me so himself.

I didn’t know what to believe. The police weren’t sure, either.

Ste had had horrific face injuries. The house had been broken into.

There was booze and draw and smack in Ste’s bloodstream. Well, no shit.

The police had feigned concern for about five minutes. Another dead druggie.

I just felt weird. I do my fair share of stuff, too.

I waited for the train and felt like I was going backwards, just stood there on the platform.

And for the first time, for the first time in a long time, I felt like leaving the shite behind and going back to college. I actually meant it, too. If it wasn’t too ambitious, I was thinking of nursing. Something to do with medicine, anyway. Christ knows I ought to know about drugs by now. Ha-ha-funny-ha-ha. Probably end up moving back with mum and dad, but it’s for the greater good. I need to clean up; I know I do. All this with Ste, it’s not good.

I almost started crying, but then the train came and took me back to Tree Lane.

…

Alan breezed into the office and put his briefcase on Mr Clark’s desk.

Mr Clark smiled and stood up. “The very man,” he said.

Alan didn’t smile. Alan said, “I’ll be brief. I’ve signed the contract with Helen. It’s going ahead.”

The colour drained from Mr Clark’s face. He said, “But you promised it was going -”

“I promised nothing,” said Alan. “I said you were one out of the list. You knew Gleaman’s wanted in. You can’t match their offer.”

Mr Clark sat back down. He’d have to ring the board before word got out. “Then… what are you doing here?”

Alan said, “You need to sign the release,” and took the forms from the case.

Mr Clark hesitated but conceded. He didn’t have a choice.

Alan returned the signed papers to his case and walked out of the office and into the sunshine.

There are winners and there are losers.

And Alan Rosary was a rich fucking winner.

…



















































CHAPTER 3



The good thing about earlies is that you finish early too. Three o’clock.

Bendy and Pug and a few of the others are off for a drink, and am I coming?

I think, and decide that I am.

At the pub I sit down with my first. Do I ring Karen and say where I am, or do I tell her there’s overtime? But what’s it coming to when you have to lie to your wife about a quick drink after work? 

Pug tells some joke, and Bendy and Aijaz put a stack of coins on the pool table.

I mean, it’s not like I moan when she goes out with her cackle of friends – Janet and Grace and fucking squeaky fat Lisa, the one who’s earned the classy nickname Sex in the shitty – although how anyone could bone that fucking bird anywhere is beyond me. I didn’t say anything when they fucked off last Friday, did I? In fact, seeing as our Michael and our Franny had slept straight through, it was a pleasure having the house to myself. I’d only wished I’d still had that blue DVD that Pug had lent us.

I give Karen a ring at 3.30 and tell her its Aijaz’s birthday, and that I’ll be back early. Karen sounds pissed off – but she doesn’t say anything. I mean, it’s a lie, but at least I said I was in the pub.

It was 8.30 when I got back. Karen still didn’t say anything. Our Franny was asleep and our Michael was eating his supper in his pyjamas, watching Spiderman 3 for a change.

Then our Michael went to bed and Karen asked, “How old’s Aijaz?”

I looked at her, not having thought the lie through that far. And besides; Pug had decided that we should all have a double to send us home, and I’d had a Sweet and Sour from the Chinese and everything had gone all tired and swimmy. 

Karen said, “You don’t have to lie to me, Ben. It’s not like you go for a drink with your mates everyday.”

I thought about saying “It’s not a lie, he’s thirty!” – But I haven’t got a clue how old Aijaz is. He works in the chopper. I only speak to him once a blue moon.

Trust Karen. There’s nothing like a bit of guilt when you’re feeling sickly.

…

Alan picked up his new car – BMW, natch – and drove to London for a meeting arranged by Helen. If all went well, he’d be on a flight to the States in three days – to Michigan, Detroit, Chicago and New York.

At the hotel, the valet parked the car. Alan showered, ate dinner, and met Mr M at nine.

Alan had heard of Mr M, but that was all. You only met Mr M when you became somebody. Indeed, it could be argued that to become somebody you had to meet Mr M in the first place.

Alan had heard rumours, and quite accurate rumours at that, that Mr M’s connections went all the way to the upper reaches of business and politics, and that transactions with him were all-but guaranteed to bring both the recipient and Mr M great financial rewards. Such rewards were kept well away from one’s V.A.T returns, but seeing as both sides of the House profited, nobody really lost out.

The location of the meeting was above a famous television chef’s restaurant (who was himself a prospector of Mr M’s coveted nod).

Alan walked to the restaurant’s rear entrance where a stone-faced diminutive man took him upstairs to an anonymous room crowded with boxes of supplies. Inside, a big man in a suit stood near the door next to a box stamped Crème de Fresh, and a female legal type sat to the left of Mr M at a broad, plain table.

Mr M was much smaller, older and frailer than his reputation suggested. His hair was thin and white, his skin was blemished and sagged, and his eyes were glassy and moist. But even so, Alan made sure that he looked suitably deferential as he sat opposite the old feeble man and the serious, sturdy woman.

The woman said, “Mr Rosary, Mr M wants this to go through without any problems.”

“I anticipate that it will, Mrs…?”

         “Mrs Green, Mr Rosary.” Mrs Green lit a cigarette. “But we don’t require anticipation, Mr Rosary; we need to know that this will go through.”

         Alan nodded. Mr M just stared with his damp, pink eyes.

“It will go through, sir,” said Alan quickly. “The papers show that Gleamans-”

         “We have the papers Mr Rosary, and we’ve read them,” interrupted Mrs Green. “We know the companies involved and we’ve worked with Helen and Frank before. But Mr M did not arrange a meeting with the papers Mr Rosary, he arranged a meeting with you and we have questions for you to answer.”

         Alan was a little perturbed – but not too much. You don’t get to the top without some form of personal sacrifice. And by the time Mrs Green finished, they knew everything. Alan’s past, his jobs, his political views, his habits, his tastes, his likes, his dislikes… But then Alan – through other people - knew a lot about Mr M, too. It seemed a strange way to work, but then, this was a whole new world to Alan.

         After forty minutes, Mrs Green said, “Okay, Mr Rosary. Thank you for your honesty.”

Then Mr M, with assistance from the big man in the suit, stood up and walked around the table. Mr M whispered, “Stand up, Mr Rosary.”

         Alan stood up.

         Mr M briefly touched Alan’s wrist and then the big man linked Mr M slowly out of the door. Mrs Green put the papers in her briefcase and began walking to the door.

           Alan asked, “Is it on?”

         Mrs Green paused, nodded at Alan as though he was stupid and then left.

         Alan drove straight back to the hotel.

He booked the plane tickets through the hotel’s Internet. They were coming with a courier in the morning. And as the young male masseur put his warm wet mouth around Alan’s cock, Alan thought about the money and smiled. 

…

         Geoff got back at the usual time. Joanne was sat on the couch, crying into her mother’s shoulder.

         “What’s up, love?” Geoff asked.

He sat down and put his arms around his daughter, and she cried and said it’s Chris, it’s Chris – as Mazza got up to fetch Geoff’s tea.

Mazza’s actions showed that Chris wasn’t dead or ill and that it was probably just an argument. So Geoff held his daughter and said “Shhh, love, come on,” until Mazza brought his meal through.

Geoff then untangled himself from his eldest daughter and put the tray on his knee and ate his tea – and although Joanne’s eyes were red and stained, she watched Coronation St and I’m a Celebrity, Get me out of here just the same.

Then Geoff went to bed. He could hear Mazza and Joanne talking through the floorboards and Claire’s telly from her room next door.

All families have problems. But just listen how close Mazza and Joanne are.

They really are lucky.

…

         When I was young my mum was odd. She used to beat me because I had rotted her soul. I used to read her newspapers and stare into space.

I’d sometimes eat jam from the pot for breakfast and that would be it for the day. Or there’d be days when I didn’t eat at all, or days when I’d have ten meals. Mum would wake me at 3am and give me porridge, and then an hour later she’d cook chips in the oven and start crying when I went to school. She once put a whole cooked chicken in my schoolbag - and I ate most of it, too. She used to scream at me sometimes when I got back, and then she’d hold me in her arms and tell me that I could save her.

I never told anybody. I think I must have known better.

         Then one day Danny Harding and his gang were grassed up for smashing up the off-license. They blamed me - for a joke I think - and when the police came to our house and saw me covered in blood while Mum was laughing at Morecambe and Wise, Mum got packed off to the mental hospital and I got sent to the bad kid’s home.

         The Staff at the home were okay - better than you’d think – but the kids thought they were something.

         Lindsey Watts and Jane Bradbury and fat Gary Kline were three years older than me, and they waited outside the school a couple of times.

One time I ran past them to the canal, but Lindsey Watts caught up and hit me with her bag. Fat Gary Kline then sat on me while Jane Bradbury pulled down my trousers and held my legs. Then Lindsey Watts bit me hard on the balls, leaving my testicles bruised and me crying for two hours behind the bridge.

         There were other incidents, and I started to prefer the school to the home.

I stayed in the homework clubs doing science and philosophy and maths and martial arts and gym until they became easy, and the school started talking about Oxford.

I went to Christchurch when I was seventeen and finished my dissertation when I was twenty. Then I undertook two Masters Degrees simultaneously – Research and Advanced Genealogy. They said it wasn’t possible but I did it, and then I came back up here for my PhD. 

The second week I came back, I started working.

I looked at the electoral register at the town hall - waving my University pass in their faces - and that evening I went to the Tree Lane estate for the first time in four years.

As soon as she opened the door I stepped into the one-bedroom flat. A television was on, a baby was gurgling in a pram and a toddler was sat on the couch eating chocolate.

I’d waited outside and knew that nobody else was there, so I immediately smacked her face into the wall. She fell, and I kicked her in the chest and stamped on her fat stomach.

The toddler screamed from the couch.

I bent down and put a handkerchief in the fat woman’s mouth. Her eyes betrayed a million words and I was surprised to see blood trickling down her leg. I whispered my name in her ear, and then picked the screaming toddler up. It was getting on my nerves, and I’m sure the neighbours were grateful when he stopped.

The three Tree Lane bodies remain a mystery, and just when the estate was trying to gain a good reputation after so many years known as a shithole. But I made sure that Lindsey Watts saw the baby and the toddler’s bruised and bleeding testicles first.

I let fat Gary Kline live for another year and Jane Bradbury for another year after that.

Jane was a single mother, too.

Kids always get in my way.

…

         All my stuff was packed. There wasn’t much for five years of independent living off the state. I looked out of the window at the grass where the squatters’ flats used to be, and I waited and trembled and tried to breathe normally.          

Mum picked me up at lunchtime, and, I have to say, it was good being back home. I didn’t think it would be, but it was. My room had changed, but that was okay. I wouldn’t have wanted it the same, and Dad had decorated it like a granny flat. It was nice living in a cosy granny flat after Tree Lane. And it was extra-nice knowing that the neighbours wouldn’t be noisy. They were a lovely couple next door.

         I started work on Monday. Nothing special – a factory job - but it was only ‘til September, ‘til the A-levels started. Dad had insisted. His house, his rules.          

I tried to feel relaxed and cool.

I turned the television off in my room at nine o’ clock and went to the front room to say good night. 

Mum and Dad smiled and said, “Good night, love.”

You can say what you like, but there’s nothing warmer than a mother’s smile when you’re getting clean.

…































































CHAPTER 4

It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Of course, it helps when you know that you’re not staying there forever.

It was a job much like any other. It makes you sweat, it makes you ache – but they pay you for it. Most of the other people are okay – unambitious, but that’s not a crime.

         The only thing: I made the mistake of telling them during my third or fourth day that I was going to college in September and they all took the piss.

Fair enough.

I’d probably take the piss if I were in their shoes.

And it’s started to ache less, thank God. 

…

         Alan came back from America with nine new contracts and a signature from the politician for Mr M. And although he didn’t know it at the time, Alan brought the HIV virus back with him, too.

         A few weeks after America, Alan was invited to a debutante bash. Not Alan’s kind of thing, but the word from Mr M was that certain members of the House were willing to be charmed, and charm equals spends.

         The debutante herself was Lord Laurence Gregory-Haversham’s daughter, a wide-eyed pretty thing.

Alan positioned himself at the bar and spoke to those that mattered, and ignored those that didn’t. The most challenging was the important and obnoxious Lord Laurence himself. He talked endlessly about the imported big game hunts on his land.

“We’ve got a whole family of leopards this week, if you can make it,” he said. “I hope they’re better than those fucking Bengali tigers. Cost me a fortune, had to charge a packet for the tickets, and the dopey stripy shits looked half-dead already. Mind, I don’t suppose they’re used to our climate, are they?”

Alan couldn’t have cared less, but as Lord Laurence talked Eleanor – the debutante herself – came over and said, “Daddy! Come and dance with me and leave Mr Rosary alone!”

         Lord Laurence barked a big false laugh and said, “Sorry, darling, of course,” and they walked away.

Alan watched Eleanor – would that be Lady Eleanor? - look back at him. He wondered how she knew his name.     

         And Mr M was correct – two members of the House were very willing to be charmed – to become infected in the same careless way that Alan had been.

…

         At the age of twenty-nine I formulated and patented the theory that I’d had since completing my PhD at twenty-three - the formula that was to make my life-long fortune. I made a major breakthrough in aerodynamic materials which meant that much less could be used to withstand a greater range of temperatures with less cost to the environment and, more importantly, a company’s budget.

Unlike most scientists, there was no serendipity involved. I knew exactly what I was doing. I always know exactly what I’m doing.

         The bidding started at British Airways, went to NASA, then BGM, NASA again, and back and forth between the world’s great players until they peaked. I agreed to let the University keep 50%, and gave my research assistants 10% between them. I can be altruistic sometimes. I pocketed just over nine million for myself.

         Then I left the university. I had offers of professorships and book deals, offers to go commercial like Stephen Hawkings. But I didn’t want people to know. I don’t need people to know.

It was time to explore the other areas of life.

         A man should exercise every part of himself – the scientific and the artistic, the primal and the sophisticated. Anyone can reach their full potential in every area, but very few choose to do so. To experience, you have to live to the fullest. Be educated, but be wanton - the sacred and the profane, at its most base. You have to get your hands and your mind, your inner and your outer - filthy and clean and serene and tormented.

         I was introduced to the business when I’d been awake for four days; fasting, meditating and exercising. On the fourth day, I went to the gym at nine in the morning, then to the swimming pool, back to the gym ‘til nine at night, and then to the casino.

         The trick is to count the cards. Obviously, I don’t need the money – but neither do the casinos. I like to take them for about ten grand and then drop the wad in the hands of a tramp on the way home. (Years ago, a man in a yellow luminous jacket caught up to me in the supermarket and said, “Thank you – you completely changed my life, man, why did you do it?” – but I had to walk away.)

         By one in the morning, I had just under ten grand – nine thousand, eight hundred and forty pounds to be precise – so I decided to go. I was hungry. It had been four days.

         I cashed in my chips and the coat check girl gave me my belongings.

Then two bouncers took my arms and asked if the manager could have a word.

I said, fine.

The manager thought he was somebody. Managers often do. And in a way he was somebody, too – working class, little education, but doing well for himself.

         “Ten grand, squire?” asked the manager in his unimpressive office.

         The bouncers chuckled.

         “I tell you what: Call it five and you walk out of here without a scratch. Deal?”

         I said nothing, and one of the bouncers took a metal bar from the inside of his coat. The other revealed a knife.

         “Come on, son,” said the manager. “You’ve done something tonight. We know it and you know it. But ten grand’s taking the piss. Now I’m letting you have five, and my boys here will even call you a taxi.”

         I said nothing.

         Then the manager stood up and said, “Don’t play the fucking silent game, dickhead. You’ve got five seconds to get five grand, or you get sweet fuck all except a trip to intensive care.”

         I nodded, and turned to face the bouncers. The one with the metal bar had bright green eyes. I looked at them as I snapped his left testicle.

He screamed and fell and the second bouncer swung at me. I ducked and grabbed hold of the sharp end of his knife. The blood jumped interestingly from my hand.

I quickly rubbed the injury into the knife-wielder’s astonished face, took the knife from his hand and screwed it through his tongue. Then I pushed the desk into the manager and trapped him against the wall.

I spent the rest of my ten minutes in there hitting all three with the metal bar and slicing them with the knife.

The first bouncer was the most intriguing. The manager and the second bouncer died quite easily, but I got to show the first bouncer his comrades’ lips in my hands and his own thumbs thrown upon the bloody carpet. When he looked ready to faint I pushed the knife into his right eye, deleted the security camera system and walked out of the casino with my injured hand in my pocket.

I gave the nine thousand, eight hundred and forty pounds to a methadone-addicted prostitute on the way home. She stared at me like they always do and I’ve no idea what happened to her.

         Over the next week I checked the papers – the locals and the nationals – but none of them mentioned the casino. I thought it would be big news.

         Then, ten days later, I met Mr Duce.

         Mr Duce came to my apartment door with Dave. I don’t know Dave’s second name. Dave took a gun from his pocket and pointed it at me.

Mr Duce said, “I haven’t got a weapon. But if you kill me – and I know you’re capable – Dave will kill you.” Dave stayed near the door and aimed the weapon at my face.

         I said, “Tell Dave to undress.”

         Dave said, “Fuck off.”

Mr Duce smiled and said, “He’s only exercising caution, Dave. Do as he says.”

         Dave said something about me being queer and then took his clothes off, somehow – God knows how – keeping the gun aimed at my face throughout. Dave knew what he was doing.

         Mr Duce said, “There you go. Happy? Now, you can believe me when I say that we’re not the police, and you can believe me when I say that I know it was you. Don’t worry; I don’t blame you. Tommy always was a miserly git. He never seemed to grasp that a casino has to pay out sometimes – and from what I’ve been told, you played the game well. Can I sit down?”

         I nodded.

Mr Duce took a cigarette out.

I said, “No smoking.”

         Mr Duce paused – he was a late middle-aged man who’d retained the air of his tough youth – but he politely put the cigarette away again and said, “I’ve got jobs for you.”

         I knew I had to – but so what? “There’s conditions,” I said, and I told Mr Duce what I’d charge, and that the money must be split between a foundation to educate the poor and PETA.

         From the door Dave said, “Who are you? Robin fucking Hood?”

         Mr Duce said, “Okay. Any restrictions on your services?”

         I shook my head.

         Mr Duce said, “Fine. You’ll hear from me soon,” and then he and Dave left, Dave with his shirt still untucked.

         After that, I worked for Mr Duce and Mrs Jameson quite regularly, at least once every two months. They both know that I’m on nobody’s side. I don’t recognise sides.

When I wasn’t called I’d work on my new formulation. I occasionally kept Harvard informed – I visited The US in the spring to use some of their equipment in return for one of my lectures (the bright young things!) – but I still refused to be exclusively tied to Harvard, or to anywhere else for that matter. I won’t be restricted. The soul and the person are limitless and infinite.

         It’s easy if you know how.

…

         Geoff was finding it a lot harder since Joanne had moved back in. She’d always been a melodramatic girl, but being pregnant seemed to have multiplied her volume as well as her belly. In fact, Geoff had almost lost his temper that night when Joanne kept him awake, crying and slamming the kitchen cupboards. But he didn’t suppose she could help it. It’s all them hormones, isn’t it?

         Geoff bought Joanne a cot and a pram, and Mazza took Joanne to the clinic. Geoff stayed out of all that. His Kingdom took up his time. But he did get those pregnancy magazines in, and was surprised at how quickly they sold. Why would anybody want to read about contractions and nappies when they have the glorious British countryside to muse upon?

         But Geoff carried on.

Geoff carried on with his head down, prince of his Palace, king of his Kingdom.

…

         I joined in when they all took the piss, but to be honest, it sounded good. And when I realised that I couldn’t get the idea of A-levels out of my head, I said something to Karen.

         Karen laughed and said, “Oh aye! And what are you gonna do with A-Levels?”

         “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just reckon it’d be good.”

         “Oh, fuck off, Ben,” Karen chuckled, as she stirred the pan on the stove. “It’d help if you weren’t as thick as pigshit.”

         “Oh, fucking cheers,” I said, annoyed. “Well I’m fucking clever enough to pay for your fucking clothes and the fucking food and the fucking rent.”

         “Exactly!” said Karen. “So why do you want A-levels?” Then her mobile rang and she talked to Sex in the shitty.

         I slammed upstairs, realised that tea was ready, and then went back down and sat and ate it and sulked.

         Nobody even noticed.

…