by Alan Warner
‘Nah, I’m staying put. Business here,’ said the Argonaut.
Superchicken started puffing out then chipping the candles from the roof of his car and tossing them in at the passenger foot space. ‘I’m just going over for an hour or two; no into it?’
‘Nah, can’t be bothered,’ shrugged Halley.
Superchicken stooped and climbed into the car, we all stepped back as it started up.
I said, ‘Sweetbay, that’s an amazing sounding place.’
‘That’s the original Gaelic name for it,’ said the Argonaut, ‘Sweetbay. Centuries ago some old greyhead had second sight that one morning all these little children would walk down the sand to the water’s edge and drink the salt water which was sweet; then it was always called Sweetbay. But when I was a kid, in 1975, this barge The Lusitanos, got stuck out on the reed beds then sunk; it was carrying ninety tons of sugar that became invisible salvage: it all dissolved, and for a week all the kiddies could walk down on the sand, lift the seawater to their lips and it was sweet.’
We watched the Opel Manta move forward onto the pier then turn expertly, stopping just before the edge – the long nose of the car butting out once on the forwards suspension and the full beams pointing out to the dark sea. The pitch of the engine changed as it revved backwards fast, reverse lights illuminating the rising mast of the fishing boat behind. The headlights of the car shone directly at us and I held a sheltering hand to my eyebrows just in time to hear a thump, the back of the car jumped then, for an amazing instant, I saw the headlights rear into the air sending two spectacular beams upwards through the night sky . . . There was a loud impact and I saw the mast of the fishing boat tip itself slightly towards us.
‘Oh, fucking Jesus, the Superchicken’s finally gone over the edge of the pier,’ shouted Halley. Already figures were running over the wooden pier to the edge of the structure.
When we got to the edge it was to find the Opel Manta at a forty-five degree angle, its rear rammed onto the middle of the fishing boat’s deck. The front wheels were resting on the edge of the pier, the radiator just showing above the bollards’ level. Superchicken was still sitting smugly at the steering wheel with his arms folded, reclined back on the angle: he had wound down his window. ‘How about that for fucking double parking,’ he barked, and suddenly switched on his hazard warning lights.
Argonaut shouted, ‘Get out the car, you arse, those moorings might go and I’ll be grinning at your puss on the bottom.’
More whelkers were piling from The Outer Rim Bar and looking down on the boat, their head-torches darting and circling on the planking of the deck.
In a slow continuation, Superchicken crawled into the back seat, opened the rear door and slid out, his belly showing as his Motörhead T-shirt pulled free of it; his running shoes dangled a moment then he stood on the deck of the boat.
Halley warned through clenched teeth, ‘Skipper Murdo’s no going to appreciate it when he sees the burroch.’
‘When’s he due to go out?’ asked the Argonaut.
‘Soon. With this tide I can’t see him waiting for a crane (he pronounced it ‘cranee’) to come over from the garage on the other side of the island.’
‘Not for a garish heap-of-shit-car like yon,’ Argonaut nodded seriously.
A few of the whelkers helped the Superchicken up the ladder; when he got onto the pier they started clapping his back as if he’d achieved something.
‘No bother, no bother,’ Superchicken announced.
The Argonaut sent me to the bar with Superchicken to buy him a stiff one. While someone went in search of the First Mate on Skipper Murdo’s boat, the whelkers began making their way down the shoreline for their night’s strange harvest – they were shouting and stooping, a crazy swarm of tiny light bulbs, weaving, clustering and separating along the darkened beach.
It was soon established that the deck planking of the boat was intact, no damage done, so all Superchicken could do was watch as the First Mate arrived, looked at the canted vehicle, shook his head and said, ‘This takes the biscuit, this does.’
They let go the forward mooring and the car crashed down on the deck as the boat swung outwards.
I stood on the pier. A squad of whelkers and the Argonaut held the car secure as the boat turned astern and sailed out into the weak dawn light, listing badly to port, before the men on deck hoisted the Opel Manta – with its aerials, spotlights, sports steering wheel and trimmings – then, in about a hundred feet of water a quarter of a mile out, threw the car over the side; it hesitated on the surface a moment then was sucked under in a twist and swirl of froth.
Everyone began to reconvene in The Outer Rim Bar.
I awoke to shouting and couldn’t remember who or what I was. Something was stuck to my face. I sat up from the hard floor I was on. Pain seemed to be shuttling from left to right and back again in my head. I remembered: I’d crossed back to the Argonaut’s house. He had the propellor hung on the wall of his long, empty living room, with the carpet that smelled of the sea, the wallpaper scratched and marked up to waist height, the roof tiles of the mad house all different because Argonaut himself had raised them from two sunken barges, using buckets and winch.
After smoking another hookah-full, Halley and the Argonaut had shrugged on air tanks and masks, put the regulators in their mouths and, carrying the equipment, walked into the water to rig the keep cages with explosive charges.
I’d stayed, drinking, as their torch-light crawled under the surface of the bay. When I’d needed to crash out later Halley had pointed to the box room, ‘There’s a sleeping bag in there.’
I looked around me: up the walls, on the floor and in my hair the little polystyrene balls adhered with static. The sleeping bag was lying in a corner. There was no light or window in the room; in the darkness I’d ignored the sleeping bag and shoved my shoes into a beanbag, ripping open the lining and pulling the torn fabric up to my chin. I thought it was a bit tight when I’d squeezed in.
In front of the house Argonaut was shouting:
‘You stoned-out bampot, that’s lime cordial.’
Halley’s Comet had fried all the bacon and egg in what he thought was olive oil from a bottle in the scullery.
Nam the Dam’s Westland came lifting over the high ridge above us, circled the bay, blowing up spray, then landed somewhere along the shore.
It was twenty minutes before I recognised Brotherhood’s walk coming along the beach.
I nodded to him.
‘Afternoon everyone. I’m so pleased to find you; thought you might have left the island, our little Forbidden Planet where we can play at The Tempest daily.’ He nodded back to where the helicopter had landed in a field: its stopped rotors, long and drooping; sheep cautiously moving closer. ‘My father is dying; have to send for some specialist equipment from the Mainland, could I have a private word?’ He threw an arm round Argonaut and manoeuvred him southwards along the shore. When he returned he said to me, ‘You left without saying bye.’
‘It must’ve slipped my mind.’
He paused, waiting for me to ask about her, so I didn’t. He knew how strong I’d been to walk away so suddenly, my absurdist repertoire exhausted. He knew my humanity was a defeat over him so he’d been searching the hills in the helicopter, perhaps hoping to find me next to the corpse of the skinned, emaciated kangaroo.
‘You don’t know, do you?’
I sighed.
Brotherhood said, ‘I almost didn’t realise. God knows, we’ve all been distracted with this millennial rave: El Big One. Promotion, busy pockets of the youth of today; look to the future, friend: mobile phones and jackets that say Security, don’t you see that vision of the future? All is in the hands of the youth. All our hopes!’ he laughed. ‘God, man, don’t you see the reason she stayed, little mummy tiger, the jumpers on all the time? Look, just a thought for you to take with you on your trip to the Mainland, so when you think back to your times here you can think of me, playing happy families .
. .’
‘Brotherhood, what are you on about?’
‘I can imagine our wedding night,’ he sighed and, genuinely pensive, looked out to the keep cages, ‘She’ll roll over away from me, curl up her legs, “You can just go rampant on me from behind,” she’ll announce, and that’ll be our wedding night. Then I’ll be able to howl with laughter at the little bastard thing driving its pedal car or whatever up and down the corridor and as the winter nights approach once again, I’m looking forward to the Old Pleasures that I gave up so long ago. If the hotel is shut it won’t be one of the Brand New Wives, I guess it’ll be a sixth-former from the boarding school – whatever, both her and the other girl’s mouth playing Russian roulette with my cock . . .’
I punched Brotherhood on the jaw and it was a pleasure to hear his next words snap shut. He sat down heavily in the shingle then a blow, denoting side-taking had begun, sent my head snapping to one side and I hissed out snottery black blood onto the back of my hand.
I was sitting in the shingle too, facing Brotherhood, the Argonaut looming above me.
Brotherhood spoke and spat, then continued. ‘You didn’t know at all. I knew you weren’t that strong. ‘When you left, for a moment I thought you knew, so I was afraid, but you’re just as stupid as me. She was pregnant the day she walked into the hotel.’
The Argonaut helped him up, took two steps towards me and kicked me on my ear, I fell to the side.
‘You’ll sleep better at nights, I’m sure. I had to say goodbye. You’ve been fun, by far the best I’ve ever known in fact. Enjoy civilisation.’ He crunched back up the shore then turned, ‘What is your real name?’ When I just glared at him he added, ‘We could have named it after you!’ He walked off. The starting motor on the chopper whined and the Argonaut said, ‘He told me about you. Fake compensation forms. I’ll give you your propeller all right.’
In front of his bungalow, with the dumb children staring, the Argonaut stripped off my shirt. He lashed the propeller to my back so its weight was across my shoulders; a burning point of pain at the base of my spine started straight away.
‘Four mile along the coast is Ferry Slipway, they’ll untie you there.’ The Argonaut looked at me and laughed. ‘You’re lacking your crown of thorns.’ He walked away to the rocks and I began to stumble forwards. Argonaut soon caught up with me. He was cradling a large clear jellyfish with purple central tracings, he draped it ceremoniously over my hair so its cold blubber cooled my forehead.
‘Your regalia: unfortunately not a stinger.’
‘A reminder of your ancestors,’ I forced a smile and began walking.
Moving through birches and whins further along the shore I had to turn first this way then that and move between trunks sideways. It was when I was clear of The New Projects on the lonely coastline, I turned, and with the propeller on my back, I shook free the jellyfish and began to climb back over the mountains in the direction of The Drome Hotel.
I was near the summit of the ridge when the keep cages exploded in a low plume of white water, shattered crabs rattling down out of the sky onto the coloured tiles on the roof of the Argonaut’s house.
THE LETTER
Secret Address
Let’s say Tierra del Fuego
(use a second-class stamp)
DEAREST PA-PA (nearest I’ll ever have),
Found this paper: so smooth to the touch, like the flat tummy of a twenty-year-old girl, eh? some time back in a hotel of no return, an island at the end of the world, there was a couple who had proposed marriage to each other live on national radio! I’m still unmarried, though I’ve had an interesting clutch of suitors lately. I’m writing to tell you I got up the clout and you’re a grand-daddy if not a very grand person. Perhaps you’ve let your last breath hiss out your nostrils? Couldn’t care less but I thought I’d try dement you one last time with the story of the events leading up to my child’s birth and The Nativity itself.
The things I’ve seen in the last years! Listened closely to my body and done what it told me – obviously! – and mainly otherwise read books while drinking sweet coffee all over Europe.
Daddy, a man swam the Danube for me! Are you proud? It’s full of minging ex-communist pollution. I’d just got off a very bumpy flight from Stockholm, or was it London? Whatever, rushed by taxi (the driver had a conversation with himself all the way) to a basement where the man had lived in a cage existing on spring water for forty days and nights; it was somewhere in the Romany district, the seventh or eighth precinct, then sparks flew in the candlelight from the saws they cut the bars with while a man played a didgeridoo. The air was mouldy and it was full of joumalists’ whispers – there was a crew from CNN and concept artists galore, studying the shadows.
The man made a huge speech on his experience in a language I understood nothing of. He ate a chunk of bread and sipped a thimble of wine that comes in nine levels of sweetness!
By sundown the fool was doing the crawl through muddy water – right across and almost back to our metallic café table when the River Police got him: shame. I folded his trousers neatly on the chair-back opposite and left enough money for the bill. He wasn’t the Jesus I’d crossed Europe for; I found him later, in the hotel, but more of that when I feel like it. I ensconced myself in The New York Café: beautiful, handsome rude waiters in white jackets (slept with two); a piano player; brilliant pastries, all crazily priced. I asked the old piano player who specialised in Strauss to play Where It’s At by Beck, and fucked if the old one didn’t launch into it! We became friends but never lovers though I stripped for him once. Christ, he must’ve been eighty and I learned things. I used to enjoy making the two young waiters jealous of him!
But listen, Daddy, this is not all! I had a conversation about post-modernism! It’s true. I actually said the ridiculous word and even held my sandwiches with two fingers. That was at a university. (Going back to The New York Café: its walls were impregnated with the evil and torture and executions of the old regime who used to own it, impregnated the same way they were, browny-yellowed by the slowly rising Havana smoke.)
I’ve so many stories I could tell you – infuriating itch – I hope every one of my words will be like the bedsores which bloom on your bony arse as you die – unable to scratch your knuckles up into the jelly.
I’ve only wrote 3 letters ever before. I can remember word for word I think: one was to Orla, my girlfriend in Sweden:
Sture Hof Tues
Orla, I’m on my sixth Bloody Mary, you know they always mixed a cracker here.
Look, there’s other men besides him – and ones who sweat less from their armpits, though few with so cute a frown: I know you believe he should give up his gold-leaf paintings that light the single room at dawn . . .
Ooops . . . you guessed it – as I walked in bare feet over his latest canvas entitled: Psychedelicatessen (stretched out on the floor with piles of the Swedish translation of my novel holding down each corner) I trailed silver and gold prints into the bathroom.
. . . I know you think you should live by those damp lakes of your homeland, him being the mosquito-bitten house-husband while you bring the bacon home in your blue Saab, giving out enemas and bunion plasters with equal generosity; him waiting for you, shuffling the wok as you swing the car keys but for fuck sake girl, when did you start believing in all this bourgeois stuff? This is not the Orla of old.
I thought of your lovely eyes and the way you use the Rimmel liner, cause you know you’ll be crying at some point every Saturday night. I’m deluded there’s a scrap of innocence and humility still left in me – but I’ve taken my young heart and polished it perfectly smooth.
I really suggest you put down your Anatomy and we meet this evening at the Sture Hof eight p.m. for Bloody Mary and laughs. Forget him and his Mathieus and Kandinskys and others who look like they suffered from severe flash headaches; that’s just you taking seriously the middle-class world we had agreed to rip off.
Orla, the fact is, his gold-fle
cked fingernail has been up my arsehole all last night and most of this morning: Yum yum!
Kisses on your opening which I’ve
spared yet again.
PS. A definition of human evil might be our ability to use those cutey-pie pet names we have for each other (Goolah-Goosh, Smicky-Smooch, Beeper) – whispering them to a complete stranger I’m fucking. I used every one of our names on him last night. Some betrayal, eh?
I’ll buy the drinks. Mmmm and kisses.
Like that one? I’ll transcribe another later, after I’ve fed the baby. Autolactation, it’s a scream, Father.
I’m not going to tell you where I’m hiding out. You’re too dumb ever to find me; besides, I hear you’ve developed agoraphobia and can’t leave the village limits! Hysterical. The place I am has lots of stones. All its monuments are stone too. There’s a big stone up the mountain round the back. Local myth has it, if you can put your arms round and touch fingies you can make a wish! I got my long monkey arms round it . . . obviously the wishing front is pretty bleak for pregnant women! Christ, I could barely see my toes at the end but the weight just fell off after I dropped the egg. I’ve been cycling up to the stone and making a wish each day. As I’ve got skinnier my rings chink thegether.
Becoming a fat cow fair gets you out a few niggling situations. I had a crappest job ever on yon island, housemaiding, kitchening, and a waitress. Housemaiding ended in wrapping all the mattresses in newspaper at the finish of season to keep damp out all winter long; the words ‘pillowslip’ and ‘bolster’ leave my nose curled and always will. What a pain in the cunt, beyond all belief, but better than the alternative: sleeping with creepy John Brotherhood the owner. You know how Robinson Crusoe thought that print in the sand came from Satan? Well it was more likely John’s! I set down my terms: ‘Just go rampant on me if you want but it’ll be from the behind; my rear-end out, with me curled on my side and, though I doubt it, if there’s anything down there in the piston department you’ll be going real easy else the tip punctures me inside and the foetus comes spilling all out and Hotel Linen Service’ll be loving you again for the most messed in the west AND talking of which, you’ll be wearing not just one condom but two Superstrongs, one over the other so I doubt you’d feel much even if you were balling the mincer in the kitchen; I might have messed up in the contraceptive department in the past, but I’m fucked if I’m getting the virus offof a Tory.’