This bozo makes me nervous, and his histrionics don’t cut with me. I’ve been biding my time; I’ve walked right up behind him with an iron poker in my hand, on several occasions. Holding it up my sleeve, willing myself, but not quite able to strike. I’ve come that close . . . Oh no, this old cunt had better not try playing rough with me, ’cos this one’s got an iron poker up his sleeve, something to rearrange your fucked up skull! I bite down, turn and walk away . . . I try to swallow but I’ve got no spit in my mouth.
‘I can’t divorce him, can I? He’s up there now, in my bedroom, and he won’t come down. He won’t even let me sleep in my own bed . . . He’s camped out under my dresser. Drunk of course, dead to the world. Do you want more tea? Some toast maybe?’
Her fingers play at her throat, she pulls at her hair, greying. That’s a new development.
‘Tea, toast?’
‘Tea.’
‘Are you sure, don’t you fancy a piece of toast? Have some toast. I’ll make some anyway, do you want a slice?’
I stare into my cup . . .
‘And my cats, I suppose they’ve got to move out as well. Minnie-Minnie-Minnie-Minnie! Where’s my cats? He’s scared them off. Have you seen them? Nig-Nig-Nig-Nig-Nig-Nig! Come on den Minnie-Minnie, come on den, Mins!’
We look about, no signs. I go under the table, I crawl about in the gloom . . . No cats here . . .
‘Maybe they’ve gone out.’
‘You didn’t let them out, did you?’
‘Maybe they just went out on their own, they are cats, mum.’ ‘No, not my cats! Not in the dark! They don’t like it, they only want to come back in again . . .’
‘Yeah, they go out, then they come back again, that’s what cats do . . .’
‘Not my cats, not after dark. You didn’t let them out, did you?’ ‘No, I didn’t let the fucking cats out!’ Her eyes flinch . . . ‘I’ll look upstairs, alright?’ I walk out into the hall. ‘Look there’s the black one . . .’
‘Ah, there you are, Nig-Nig . . . There you are, my girlie, yosh, yosh, yosh, come on dens . . .’
It strolls over, the Nigs, it swaggers in. Black, totally black . . . charcoal-like, a cellar . . . apart from the white under her chin, an overall effect. And two eyes and a tail like a question mark, a little black cheroot. It holds it there, erect, its trade mark.
‘That’s my little girlie, what’s he done to you dens?’
She resumes her whisper. ‘Well, he can’t stay, that’s for sure . . . He can go back to his girlfriend’s, why should I have to put up with him? Haven’t I suffered enough? He’s trying to wear me down you know, the same as my mother! The house wouldn’t even be here, it would have gone to the creditors years back, and now his highness wants back in! He’s up there now in my bedroom! My cats won’t stand for it! You can’t reason with him, he’s got an answer for everything, just like you! Well, he can clear off back to her! I don’t want him here, I’ve had it up to here! Christ, I put up with it for twenty-five years, isn’t that enough? Through thick and thin! And the things he’s said to me, the lies . . . Haven’t I fought for what I’ve got, tooth and nail? The truth? That soddin’ bugger wouldn’t know the truth if it spat at him! I know what he gets up to, he can’t pull the wool over my eyes any longer. I might be blind but I’m not stupid! It’s a matter of survival! What do you think I should do? His girlfriend rings me up regularly, oh yes, she gave me the low-down on that skunk. ‘Tell him he’s a spineless shit!’ That’s what she tells me, as if I don’t know it already. Her with her ‘tell him he’s a spineless shit!’ She’ll be telling me how to suck eggs next! Well, I’m not moving out, no matter how many times she rings me up, let her ring away . . . I know where my bread’s buttered! This house is all that’s left, and it wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me . . . I know that goose’s stinking character from tip to tail! Haven’t I stuck by him? He thinks he can drive me out? Well, we’ll see about that! If he thinks he’s moving his floozies in here, he’s got another thing coming. I haven’t held on all these years just to give it all up for his little jailbird! Why doesn’t he go back to her? I’ll tell you why, because she’s thrown him out, that’s why! She’s thrown him out and he’s got nowhere else to go . . . He thought I’d be dead and buried by now, along with my mother . . . He promised her this house and he can’t deliver, that’s why she’s thrown him out! That’s why he’s skulking in my bedroom . . . Why doesn’t he go back to her? If I hadn’t stuck by him, all this would have gone yonks ago . . . I’m the only reason it’s still standing! And then he has the gall to lie to me again, not just the once, but a thousand times! Right to my face! As if I was born yesterday! Well, I may have put up with it in the past, but not again, not anymore! You do think I’m right, don’t you? I’m not being too harsh, am I? He might be telling the truth this time . . . it’s never too late to change . . . It is possible, there’s a first time for everything . . . maybe he really has left her.’ I drain my cup, and look her in the face, the black eye . . .
‘He hit you, didn’t he?’
Her hands come up, fluttering, she fumbles with her neck scarf. ‘He won’t come out, he’s up there now. I can’t sleep up there, not with him in the room, on the floor . . . I’ve asked him to leave nicely, but you can’t reason with him . . . What am I supposed to do? My own bedroom . . . and my cats, they won’t go in there.’
I put it down, I place it heavily, it makes a noise. I push my chair out and stand, you have to watch your head on the lamp . . .
‘I’ll go speak to him, I’ll ask him. He can sleep in Nick’s room tonight, then he can leave in the morning.’
I put down my cup, stand and leave the room. I look at her and make for the stairs. I watch them as they pass under me, that’s the effect, one at a time, slowly, resigned. Left at the top, across the landing. I knock, twice, three times, open the door and look in. It takes time for your eyes to adjust, to become accustomed to the gloom.
Gradually, I begin to make things out, shadowy, indistinct. Bits of old furniture, I should think, museum pieces mostly . . . And that must be the marital bed, a big four-poster job. And over there, curled in a heap on the floor like a little cocoon, his head under the dresser, his golden locks gleaming, comfy looking. I walk over and tap his shoulder. He opens one eye. The bags separate, and there it is, blinking . . . blue with a little spray of red veins.
I speak to him, I summon my courage and open my trap.
‘Dad, can you sleep downstairs, please. Mum wants to go to bed.’
He looks at me, a moment’s recognition, then he pulls the covers back over his head.
‘Look, she can’t sleep up here with you in the room.’
‘Go away!’
I stand there, stammering, I feel my knees going. I lean in again and re-tap his shoulder. Bang! He sits bolt upright, his dressing gown falls open, a naked chest, golden hairs, expanding, unaged.
‘Go to bed, Steven, it is time all little boys were in their beds!’ I feel my hackles rising. I suck my teeth, there’s no spit, but I suck, that makes me curl my lip. And then I grab him. I claw at his sleeping bag.
‘Listen you, you’re sleeping downstairs!’ I feel myself going to say it, the words jam up like a great wad of blood in my throat. I have to spit them out or I’ll choke. I force myself to jump, an impossible leap, my knees knock, then I push off . . . I feel myself flying . . . a surge of beautiful hate, nursed at my bosom, matured and now full grown. It bursts out of me like a dam, rushing out through the top of my head. I spit cataracts, I snort them out through my nostrils. My ears go pop! and I pull him wriggling from his sleeping bag . . .
I feel my strength, the strength of the weakling, of the underdog. I lift him and throw him sprawling out across the landing. He scrabbles to his hands and knees, he slips in his own shit, whimpering . . .
I grab hold of his dressing gown and launch him across the floor, the blood pounding in my ears. I’ve got to get him up, to get him off the floor and out of this room, becaus
e I never ever want to hear my mother talk of this man, this house, this marriage, ever again!
I breathe in great gulps of cold air. He crashes down on his back and I stare at my clawed fists, his dressing gown in tatters . . . He pulls himself up and adjusts his dick . . . I don’t move in, I stand off, still his son.
‘Now, you sleep downstairs, alright?’ I look at him in desperation . . . that this situation shouldn’t turn to murder. ‘Please!’
Now I think back to it, I should never of said that word: ‘please’. ‘Please’ isn’t the language of the conqueror, it’s the language of the vanquished . . . Straight away he’s onto me.
He re-finds his balance and comes strutting back into the room. He pulls himself up, readjusts his G-string and pats his pecker into place. He looks me up and down, finds his bluster, then starts laying down the law the way he sees it.
‘You stupid little child! You think you’re a man with your pathetic tattoos, don’t you? But you’re not a man at all, Steven, no you’re just a silly little boy! I think it’s past your bed time. Now, run along like a good little boy, mummy and daddy have some very important matters to discuss. Out! Do you hear me? Chop-chop! Out of my house!’
He bristles his whiskers and jams his face right into mine. I’ve got his gander up, that much is obvious. I let him sound off, let him have his say, but one more push, so much as one more piece of his crummy advice! I fix him with one of my stares, I hold him with it. His hands flapping at my chest. My ears go back, I can feel them burning . . . the heat rushes through to the tips . . . tingly.
‘You think you’re a man with your tough man tattoos, but in fact you’re just a silly little boy, Steven! You think you’re a man, but you’re just thick! Thicko!’
He liked that word ‘thick’, he repeated it, ‘thicko!’ . . . I like it too. I lunge and groan . . . I go for his beard . . . I let him have it, twenty-two years worth in one go! He’s finally got my goat.
I grab a handful of his fancy suits off the peg and ram them into his chest. I scream it out. ‘It’s you who’s leaving, you fucking cunt!’ I open my eyes so wide that they ache. His face registers panic. He can’t figure out where my hatred’s sprung from. He backs off, cringing.
‘Steven, I wouldn’t hurt mummy . . . mummy . . . I wouldn’t hurt mummy!’
He’s playing ga-ga now, five years old . . . And I give it to him — I put my fist in his face, five knuckles, a whole bunch . . . A perfect hatred, finely honed over years of silence and compliance. It bursts out of me like a disease, crawling and malignant.
I grab up a pile of his fancy togs and jam them into his bread basket. I shake my head and fill my veins . . . He falls back, his eyes questioning. His little world isn’t functioning properly any more. He grasps at the air, he staggers, hands flapping under my nose. I cover my balls.
‘Mummy, mummy . . . I wouldn’t hurt mummy!’
And sock! I stick one on his bracket. I sight along my thumb and lay one on him. I coil up and spit it out. It lands, an explosion between his eyes . . . He topples, he hangs there for a moment, caught in time . . . He teeters on the brink, then his knees give way . . . I watch him go, he lifts off and flips back, bouncing down the stairwell . . . He revolves, taking three pictures with him. He cartwheels and bounces down on his bonce, one step at a time. Then crack! as he hits the bottom step. His piece of masonry, hand-built in green slate. He examines his handy-work at close range. The special type of grouting, the general effect, crack! On his final bounce.
I run down after him, leap over him, holding up my fists, bunched, ready . . . my chest tightened into a ball of fear. He’s knocked for a loop, he whinnies . . . his tongue hanging out . . . his hair-do fucked, his little china blues . . . dribbling.
‘If you want more, you can have it!’ I’m shouting, I’m dying, I show him my stupid fists. I feel foolish, but I say it anyway. I mean it. . . He sags, propping himself on the bottom step. His left eye, it swells, a purple slug, one end of it opens and it splits its guts and starts pouring . . . He shakes his dumb stupid head and tries to pull himself to his feet.
‘You can have more of it if you want it!’
The truth is, I should have killed him the instant he went down, throttled him on the spot. But the moment passed, my hatred spent, souring to my stomach.
‘Blood,’ he says, ‘blood . . . What have you done to me, Juny, what have you done to me?’
My legs shaking, beginning to buckle . . . I drop my guard. He rolls his eyes, the blood trickling out from the crack in his skull . . . He sits back and dips his fingers into the soup . . . he studies it, he mumbles. He looks to me and the old girl, from face to face. He mouths words . . . reaches out his hand, white fingers, the blood dripping . . . He rattles those fingers, like teeth, like castanets, drumming the nails against the bone. I back off, his little death rattle . . . and he whispers something inaudible . . .
‘I still love you, Steven.’
I look into this poor fool’s eyes . . . It’s too late, old man, too late . . . I brush my hands on my thighs to get this filth from my hands. I see my mother through the mist . . . her hands fiddling with the skin of her throat.
‘He’s a bully, he deserves it,’ she says.
A distant voice . . . hovering . . . I leave the pair of them there and go to the front room. I’m cold, cold, my teeth clattering. I click on the TV set. I sit with my hands between my legs. I want to piss. My head’s going like the clappers . . . I play with the dials.
I’ve been set up, a regular stool pigeon.
He’s in the toilet, swathing his head in toilet paper, dabbing at the blood. I pace up and down holding myself. I can’t stop rattling, I got some kind of a fever. If I lie down, I jump straight back up again. I have to sit on the side of the bed, clamp my jaws and pray.
I feel under the bed for my iron poker. I take him in my hand; I flex and I unflex. The important thing is to stay awake in case of night attacks.
The morning comes and I hear him moving around downstairs collecting his personal effects. He wanders about in the garden, his head bandaged, hiding behind his dark glasses. He dithers about, tinkering with the lawn-mower. He packs and double fiddles with everything. He tells the old girl to call him a cab and stares forlornly up the garden path. This sad old ritual, never to be played again . . .
He paces around in the driveway ’til the taxi sounds its horn out on the road. Then his face relaxes, he comes back in, sits down on his slate step, unbuckles his shoes and starts repolishing them. First the uppers, then he turns them over and concentrates on the soles. He takes his time about it, spitting and licking, as fastidious as a pussy cat. He buffs them ’til they burn like coals, then admires his whiskers in them. The meter still clicking away. That’s his style, nonchalant, thirty-five minutes. He likes to keep people waiting, one of his little pleasures.
I help him carry his cases to the taxi, a suitcase in each hand. It’s a tough thing to do, carrying your old man’s cases, to load him up on his way to the nut house . . . He’s ready to leave.
My trouble is that I’m a romantic at heart. That’s what kills me. The dreams, all those little intimacies, they come flooding back to me and I’m lost. And I think of all of them, as they were. My parents, my brother, my friends and lovers, and I want to hold them in my heart forever and sob with the pain of it all . . . And I shake my fists at the moon and feel sorry for every last stinking one of us, but ultimately I feel sorry for myself.
58. IN WHICH BUDDHA AND THATCHER ARE CALLED TO WITNESS
My brother shows up, strolling down the garden path, a face from yesteryear. I hardly recognise him. I run to the door and usher him in. I know that mug from someplace, I do a double take. It’s him alright, old bro’, not seen in donkeys’ years. Mum joins in the party; she puts the kettle on.
‘Mum, it’s Nick!’
She wipes her hands.
‘You answer it,’ she tells me.
I fire my arse, I quit snoozing and get the door.
‘Watcha Nick!’ He extends his hand, avoiding my eyes . . . ‘Hello brother.’ We shake.
I didn’t tell you about his face, dough-like, with the two currants stuck in it. Like that! He looks out resentfully, with just a hint of desperation.
Nick sits himself down, fluffs up the pillow and parks his arse. He makes himself comfortable and squats, Buddha-like. I sit opposite, expectant. I want to know what the honour’s for . . . I fish in my cup, I use the spoon, I taste it — bitter! He coughs, rubs his mitts together and half smirks.
‘What’s that you’re writing?’
That throws me, him and his ‘what’s that you’re writing?’ I swill my tea, look down and close my notebook.
‘This ’n’ that, poems mostly . . . a book . . .’
‘Do they sell?’
I give him a sheepish one, I hunch my shoulders and hold out my empty palms, I plead innocent.
‘Have you read Burgess?’
He waves a telephone book in the air and thumps it, resounding.
‘Syntax!’ he says. ‘Burgess,’ he annunciates. And, ‘What you lack is syntax.’
I nod . . . He leaves through the pages, he cascades them under his thumb, he looks up questioningly.
‘Have you read him?’
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Burgess!’ he shouts.
I shake it.
‘Amis, the younger?’
‘No.’
He nods his head thoughtfully . . . In truth he pities me. He stares into the print, transfixed by the effect. He comes to the end of the book and pats it like a dog. A faithful old friend. ‘What you want to do is get yourself an education, boy! Get out there and read the classics: Hemingway, Amis the younger. Learn the ground rules. Syntax! Grammar! Verb agreement! Burgess writes thirty thousand words before breakfast, just to warm up!’
I ponder on that one: thirty thousand? That’s a lot . . . no doubts . . . and syntax, there’s a new word . . . Burgessesque, I shouldn’t wonder, a puzzler. He looks at me, trying to read my mug.
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