by Dan Kavanagh
Staverton Road, Ealing was a short cul-de-sac of inter-war mock-Tudor semis. Each stretch of pavement supported a pair of lime trees, freshly pollarded. At the end of the street, in front of a decaying brick wall that sealed it off from the railway line, was a car up on blocks; it was shrouded in grey plastic sheeting and its wheels had been removed.
It wasn’t hard to spot the headquarters of the Red White and Blue Movement. One of the semis had a flagpole in its small front garden and was flying the Union Jack. Duffy didn’t even bother to check the number he’d been given by the Anti-Nazi League.
The door was answered by a middle-aged man with a red face and small piggy eyes. For someone answering his own front door at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday morning, he was very smartly dressed. He wore the waistcoat and trousers of a dark three-piece suit, a white shirt caught above the elbows by a pair of elasticated metal armlets, a regimental tie, and well-polished black shoes. He also, for some reason, was wearing a bowler hat. Was this Mr Joyce, the organizing secretary, answering his front door; or was it perhaps some bailiff on the way out?
‘Mr Joyce?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wanted to ask about the Movement.’
‘You press?’
‘No.’
‘You from the Communists?’
‘No.’
‘Come in.’
Mr Joyce turned away, hung his bowler on the hat-rack by the front door, and led Duffy into a sunlit kitchen. Duffy had deliberately not overdone the sartorial elegance this morning: denim jacket, denim trousers, lumberjack shirt, heavy boots. He didn’t look exactly like one of the Layton Road gang; but he looked fairly tough. He also tuned his voice to a plausible frequency.
Joyce sat him down at the small kitchen table and went off into another room. He returned with a fountain pen and what looked like an application form of some sort. As he took a chair opposite Duffy and gave a perfectly normal smile, he suddenly looked less like a bailiff. More like a doctor about to ask your details. How long have you been homosexual, Mr Duffy? How long have you been bisexual? Would you prefer to be homosexual or bisexual? How long have you had this winkle problem? Maybe I’d better have a look at this winkle for you. No, I think I’d better have a look at this skin discoloration first. Yes, rather as I thought. No point worrying about the winkle problem now. Nurse, fetch me a large bowl of Dettol and the humane killer, would you? Aaaargh.
‘And what do you want to ask about the Movement, Mr—er—?’
‘Binyon.’
‘Mr Binyon.’
‘Well, I suppose I want to ask if I can join.’ Duffy had decided that he would play things a bit tough, but indicate that he could be respectful if need be to the proper authorities. Like Mr Joyce.
‘How did you hear about us?’
‘Well, some of the lads on the terraces were talking a bit at half-time. Down at the Athletic on Saturday, down the Layton Road end where I always go; these lads were talking about it at half-time, and I thought, that’s the sort of thing for me.’
‘May I ask what your politics are, Mr Binyon? First name?’
‘Terry. I’m British and proud of it, that’s my politics.’
‘Yes, well that’s a beginning.’ Mr Joyce was looking fairly benign, but Duffy couldn’t glance up without feeling that the little piggy eyes were examining him very carefully. ‘And tell me, what do you think the aims of our Movement are?’
‘Beating up the niggers and the Pakkis,’ said Duffy with a wolfish snigger.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Joyce, laying down his fountain pen, ‘we don’t seem to have a case of advanced political development here.’
‘Nah, it’s all right, Mr Joyce, sir, I was just having you on a bit. From what I could gather from the lads and the way they were talking, it’s about being a patriot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, you could start like that.’
‘I mean, I may be out of order here, Mr Joyce, but as far as I understand it, one of the problems with this country is all the politicians are corrupt. Lining their own pockets, going around in big cars, never listening to the people. I mean, if the people want something, then it’s their job to give it us, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what they’re there for. Like hanging. Everyone wants hanging, but they won’t give it us.’
‘I’m with you on that,’ said Mr Joyce.
‘Or repatriation. Everyone wants that, but they won’t give it us.’ Duffy tried to remember the handbill he’d been shown by Jimmy Lister. ‘I mean, my generation’—Duffy lopped ten to fifteen years off his age, and hoped he could get away with it—‘My generation, it’s all, you know, apaffy, that’s what it’s like. Apaffy. What’s the difference between one set of liars and another set of liars? What we need is where the politicians listen to the people and do what they tell them, that’s what we need. I mean I want to be proud of being British. I am proud of being British,’ he added hastily, ‘but I’m pissed off with the way this country’s been dragged through the mud lately. It is Great Britain, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed, Mr Binyon. And how are we going to put that Great back into the name of our country?’
Duffy appeared to give the matter some thought.
‘Well, I’m only guessing, here. I mean, you must know a lot more about all this than me. But it looks to me that you’ve got to kick out all the politicians and get in a new set. And it’s gotta be Britain for the British. And repatriation. And putting the Great back into Great Britain. And also if they give you too much agg, then it’s beating up the niggers and the Pakkis.’
This time Mr Joyce allowed himself a conspiratorial chuckle. Duffy felt he wanted a wash.
‘But only if they give us, as you put it, too much agg, Mr Binyon.’
‘Oh yeah. I mean, fair’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Fair’s fair indeed.’
Mr Joyce unscrewed his fountain pen and began to take Duffy’s details. To Binyon’s name he added a false address in Paddington and a false age. He confessed to being unemployed. He denied, truthfully, any earlier political affiliation to any other movement. He promised to pay ten pounds annually, or five pounds half-yearly, or three pounds quarterly, and handed over three pounds. He signed where indicated. Then Mr Joyce went away again and returned with two books, one held in each hand: the Bible and Shakespeare. Duffy was asked to stand, and to lay one hand on each book.
‘I solemnly swear …’
‘I solemnly swear …’
‘That I shall be loyal to Her Majesty the Queen …’
‘That I shall be loyal to Her Majesty the Queen …’
‘And follow the aims and principles of the Red White and Blue Movement …’
‘And follow the aims and—what?’
‘Principles.’
‘Principles. Aims and principles of the Red White and Blue Movement …’
‘And obey its officers.’
‘And obey its officers.’
‘Very good. Now we have the medical. Take off your shirt.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, come on, take off your shirt, just a quick once-over. I am a qualified doctor.’
Duffy reluctantly stripped to the waist.
‘Yes, very nice, won’t take a minute. No sickle cell anaemia, I hope? Ha ha.’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, no chance of that with you.’
Joyce produced an aged stethoscope and applied his attention to Duffy’s pectorals. He laid cold fingers on his shoulderblades and tapped. He made Duffy extend his arms full out and checked his fingertips for tremble. Maybe the bloke was a doctor. As well as being a whacko, of course.
‘Fine, fine. Don’t bother to get dressed again for the moment.’
As Duffy was wondering what came next, Joyce opened his fridge and took out a loaf of sliced white bread. He extracted two pieces and slipped them into the toaster.
‘I’ve had breakfast, Mr Joyce, sir.’
‘This isn’t breakfast.’
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br /> ‘I think I’d better be off.’
‘You’ve just sworn to obey the officers of the Red White and Blue Movement. Sit down again, Binyon. This won’t take long. We’ve had the medical. Now we’re going to have the physical.’ Duffy looked at him. Mr Joyce looked at the toaster. ‘This,’ he announced, ‘is the amusing bit.’
He cleared the few remaining things off the kitchen table and wiped it down with a J cloth. When the toast was done, he lifted the slices out, buttered them thickly, and spread a lot of marmalade on top. He carried them to the table and placed them in the middle, about two feet apart. Then he wiped his hands on the J cloth.
‘Arm-wrestling,’ he announced. ‘Just a little fad of my own. You could call it an initiation ceremony, if you like.’
‘Can I put my shirt on?’
‘Let’s stay as we are, shall we?’
Mr Joyce, one steel armlet glinting in the sun, extended his elbow to the middle of the table, white-shirted forearm rising vertically. Duffy, naked to the waist, put forward his own arm.
‘Just a moment,’ said Mr Joyce, and carefully adjusted the two pieces of toast. Then he repositioned his elbow next to Duffy’s; they locked palms and thumbs.
‘On a count of three, shall we say? I leave you the count, Mr Binyon.’
Right, you fucking whacko, thought Duffy, and said very quickly, ‘One two three.’
Duffy was fit, extremely fit; and the weight training had no doubt strengthened his forearms. But his initial surge made no impact on Mr Joyce, who held the vertical without trouble. Mr Joyce had clearly done this before. So had Duffy, though probably not as often. After the opening surge that failed, Duffy applied steady pressure, but the opposing arm remained immovably vertical. A minute or so of this, and Duffy changed his tactics. He released his pressure, let his arm fall back from midday to one o’clock, and then sharply reapplied the kick. The first two times he did this he got back to the vertical position with no difficulty, but couldn’t make any further progress. The third time he tried it, his arm remained stuck at one o’clock. The next time, it was pressed smartly down to two o’clock. The marmalade was only a couple of inches away. Duffy didn’t look at Mr Joyce. It was clearly the time for heroics, he decided, for the killer punch. He gathered his strength and surged. Half a second later his forearm was being mashed into the marmalade.
Joyce got up, wiped the palm of his hand on the J cloth, and tossed it to Duffy.
‘I didn’t want to mess up that nice shirt of yours,’ he said.
On their way to the door Joyce explained about the monthly newsletter and about next week’s march from Tower Hill. Duffy couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough, and gained a yard or so on Mr Joyce in the short corridor leading from the kitchen. He opened the door and turned to say goodbye—or if not goodbye, at least Fuck off. When he turned, he noticed that Mr Joyce was wearing his bowler hat again.
‘You know, there are some days when I feel quite normal,’ said Duffy.
‘Don’t let it worry you, love,’ replied Carol.
While they were waiting for Duffy’s latest culinary creation—frozen pizza from Marks & Spencer—to cook, he told her about his visit to Ealing.
‘Lucky he didn’t keep his hat on while you were wrestling, Duffy,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’d have been able to handle it.’
‘Do you think I am normal?’
‘What’s normal? There isn’t any normal, is there? And if there was, no you wouldn’t be normal, course you wouldn’t.’
‘Oh.’ Suddenly, Duffy wanted very much to be normal, even if normal didn’t exist.
‘But you’re not crackers, if that’s what you’re asking. You’re not even odd. Not to me any more. I mean, you probably are odd, but I suppose I’ve got used to it.’
Duffy took the pizzas out of the oven, and put the baking tray to soak before he sat down to eat.
‘Very good, Duffy. Delicious. I like the way you’ve arranged the bits of green pepper.’
Duffy smiled, and accepted the compliment. They often played this game. He liked playing it. For himself, he thought he’d overdone the pizzas. The base was all crispy. Sure, it was meant to be crispy, and he’d cooked it for precisely the length of time it said on the box; but it was so crispy that when you cut into it with your knife bits of it went in all directions. Bits of it even went on the floor; and if there was one thing Duffy hated, it was food trodden into the floor. Not that you could exactly tread things into a tile floor, but you could certainly squash them on to it, which Duffy didn’t like, and you could also pick them up on your shoes and walk them into other rooms, which Duffy liked even less.
‘Ever heard of Charlie Magrudo?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘No reason. He’s apparently some sort of legit villain around here.’
‘No. Too far out for West Central to know about him. Unless he was really big.’
‘Sure.’
Carol didn’t really like hearing about Duffy’s jobs. He talked so little about them that when he did she felt she ought to listen, because there was probably something worrying him; but she didn’t really like it. It stirred memories. Old memories of when they’d been colleagues at West Central; courting colleagues. And every so often, Duffy would ask her for a bit of help. Help which meant her breaking police regulations. She didn’t like that either. She didn’t like divided loyalties. She wished he’d got a job which was quite different, which had nothing to do with the Force. She wished he kept a pub—that was what some ex-coppers did. Except that the brewing companies probably weren’t looking for publicans whose careers in the Force had ended the way Duffy’s had. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her for help; if only because she knew she’d probably give in.
‘Oh, Duffy, by the way, I found out about lymph nodes.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Did he really want to know now? Put to the test, he wasn’t sure.
‘Yes, I asked someone at the station and they said to ask Dr Hawkins.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘They’re sort of clumps of things. Under your arms and in your neck and in your groin. That’s where they are.’
‘What are they for?’
‘I couldn’t really follow it, but they sounded sort of … useful, from what Dr Hawkins said.’
‘Did he say how big they’re meant to be?’
‘How big? No, I don’t think he did. I mean, I think they’re pretty small from what he was saying. Do you think you ought to see the doctor?’ Carol didn’t mention the word cancer, which had come into Dr Hawkins’ explanations.
‘No.’
‘I mean, if you’re worrying, I think you ought to see the doctor.’ By ‘worrying’, Carol meant ‘worrying more than usual’. If Duffy went to the doctor every time he worried, he might as well rent space in the surgery for a camp bed.
Duffy knew he shouldn’t have asked about lymph nodes in the first place. That was always the trouble: you always found out just enough to make things worse, never enough to make things better. Still, at least he knew where these node things were now; that was one step forward. On the other hand, he didn’t know how big they were meant to be, so how could he tell if they were swollen? That was one step back. If you could actually feel them, did that mean they were swollen? Or did that mean they were normal, and that if they got any bigger, then they were swollen?
Still, he wasn’t going to any doctor, thank you very much. He didn’t want them getting out the leper’s bell and packing him off to the Welsh mountains.
‘No, I’m not worrying, love, I’m fine. Really, I feel fine.’
She looked as if she didn’t believe him, so he came round and bent over her and put his arm round her shoulders. He looked at her and smiled, and in a funny sort of way almost felt like kissing her; but they washed up instead. She washed, and he wiped; her wiping was still a bit hit-or-miss, in Duffy’s judgment, though her washing was fine. Very thorough.
Carol had an early start the next morning, and by
the time Duffy came to bed she was almost asleep. As he climbed in and settled down, he felt something sharp against his leg. He turned on the bedside light again and felt round the sheet a bit. He might have known. He might have known. A small piece of pizza crust. That’s exactly what he meant. He really would have to give the pizzas five minutes less the next time. There’s nothing wrong with soggy crust. People with false teeth must always cook it like that. Unless … unless you didn’t kill the bacteria properly if you didn’t cook it for the length of time they said on the box. Perhaps Dr Hawkins would know about that. He’d get Carol to ask him. He snuggled up to her back and half-curled round her.
Duffy fell asleep quickly, and the dreams came quickly too. He saw Binyon standing on the bar at the Alligator wearing a black bra and knickers, suspender belt and black stockings. He saw yobboes marching down Layton Road carrying Union Jacks. He saw Binyon and Mr Joyce arm-wrestling. He saw himself keeping goal for the Reliables and every time he went to pick the ball out of the net it had turned into a soggy pizza. He saw Binyon again on the next barstool at the Alligator turning to him and saying, ‘The thing about you, Duffy, is that you’re a lymph node. You may pretend not to be, but that’s what you are.’ He saw Melvyn Prosser in his gold Rolls-Royce Corniche reversing over Danny Matson’s leg. He saw …