‘Which are those?’ Harry said.
‘Which what?’
‘Those ones. Are those the Sontarans?’
‘No. The Sontarans are the ones with the big heads. These are the—’
‘Are they the ones who are made out of human fat?’
‘No, those are the—I can’t remember what those were called.’
‘I liked those.’
‘Can you just shut up and watch, darling?’
‘I can’t watch it if I can’t follow it.’
‘I don’t know why you can’t follow it. Children of six can follow it. It’s made for children of six.’
‘You knew where you were with the Daleks. Why can’t they bring the Daleks back? I enjoyed those.’
‘They were on only last week.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘Taking over the world.’
‘Are they still at that old game?’
‘You mean—’
‘I mean, they must have tried dozens of times now, and they never succeed. Don’t you think someone might advise them that they might be being too ambitious, aiming at taking over the world?’
‘Sort of interplanetary Peter Principle, you mean?’
‘Every alien is promoted to the level of its incompetence. Exactly. If they started with something a little bit smaller—say if they decided just to take over Kansas, or Malta—they might be a bit more successful. Work up from there.’
‘What just happened?’
‘I’ve no idea. Something blew up. Was it Queen Victoria?’
‘No, she’s not in it this week either.’
‘Well, I can’t understand a single thing that’s happening, I must say. I only understand it when there’s gays in it.’ Harry took a deep judicious drink. ‘I bumped into that John Calvin this afternoon,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Did you know they’re moving?’
‘Really? Sudden decision?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘He said they’ve been thinking about it for a while. But I don’t know that they really have. And now Doctor Who’s finished, and I didn’t understand a word of it. I’m sure it was all very exciting.’
‘I’ve seen it before, actually,’ Sam said. ‘It was something to do with a parallel universe.’ Just then the doorbell rang; a fierce possessive ring. ‘I was just on the verge of remarking how nice it is to have a Saturday evening in for a change, without having to think about what to wear or what to talk about, just you, me and that thing not stinking the place out for a change. And then off it goes.’ Out in the street, a grunting roar, a car with inadequate silencing, sounded, and was off. The doorbell rang again, querulously, and Sam heaved himself up. ‘God, I’m getting fat.’
‘The two of us,’ Harry said. ‘It’s probably the coppers, come to get you for throwing the camera into the estuary.’
‘You’re not supposed to say that,’ Sam said, opening the door. The man from the other month—Spencer—the man from the garage, he was standing there with a grin on his face. He was in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of low-cut jeans, which, between them, opened in a gap, showing his belly button and a firm, directionally furred upper pubis. He had a bottle of wine in his hand.
‘Hello, guys,’ Spencer said.
‘Hello there,’ Sam said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Spencer, isn’t it?’
‘Are you going to ask me in?’ Spencer said. ‘Are the other guys here yet?’
‘What other guys?’ Sam said. ‘Did we know you were coming?’
Harry was not the world’s best diary-keeper, and it was just possible that he had forgotten about an invitation.
‘Come on,’ Spencer said. ‘It’s the first Saturday of the month, isn’t it? It’s time to party. OK?’
Harry had been drawn out into the hallway by Spencer’s noise; standing in the door to the sitting room, a glass in his hand, barefoot and in a cardigan and an unironed shirt, he was not at his most sexually irresistible. ‘What’s up?’ he said eventually.
‘Isn’t it tonight?’ Spencer said. ‘I thought it was tonight. I thought it was going to be round here tonight. I thought I was going to be late, and all the other lads, here already, getting on with it.’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Sam said. ‘I haven’t heard from any of them for a month. Peter asked us all round, six weeks ago, but we couldn’t go. No one’s mentioned anything since then. God, I hope they aren’t all on their way.’
‘Yeah,’ Spencer said, dropping into a low growl, and advancing on Sam, giving his neck a good pinch between thumb and forefinger. ‘Yeah, I hope they aren’t, too—just the three of us, eh? That’d be good, too—just you, and me, and—’
‘It’s a nice idea,’ Harry interrupted. ‘But I don’t think so. Maybe some other time.’
‘Oh, come on, man,’ Spencer said. ‘I’ve come all the way from Ottery. My—my lift’s gone now. Don’t waste my journey, mate.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Sam said. ‘You should have phoned first. Sorry about that. Some other time.’
‘You never gave me your number. So fuck you,’ Spencer said, dropping his hand and opening the door behind him.
It was cold outside, and Spencer was only wearing a T-shirt, so Harry called after him, ‘You can wait inside while you call your wife—oh, he’s gone.’
‘That must have been a disappointment,’ Sam said, as they went back into the sitting room. Casualty was just beginning.
‘Yeah, poor old Spencer.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘What—turning him out into the cold? No. Not at all.’
‘Sexy bugger,’ Sam said.
‘But mental,’ said Harry. ‘More trouble than he’s worth. Nice evening in, just the two of us, that’s the ticket. She won’t have got far, his wife.’
‘That’ll be an interesting conversation on the way home. You’re not saying we’re giving up on all that, are you?’
‘What—the lads, the gathering, the sexy mechanic someone’s once had? What do you reckon?’
‘You’re not saying that you and me, we’re never going to have sex with anyone else, the rest of our lives? You’re saying that from now on, it’s just you and me and being faithful to each other?’
‘No, darling,’ Harry said. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I would never say something like that to you. I couldn’t hurt you like that.’
‘Love you,’ Sam said, and almost crushed Stanley as the two of them kissed on the sofa. When they were done, Sam got up, in his stockinged feet, and went into the kitchen with their empty glasses. In the fridge, there was a nice leg of lamb. It had been for Sunday lunch, but it might be rather nice to have it on a Saturday night with some roast potatoes and some green beans. The nights were really drawing in now: he pulled down the blinds over the sink, though they looked out on nothing but their garden, and nobody would be looking in from there. All around the house, the curtains were closed; the phone, the doorbell could be ignored; from now until tomorrow morning, they could be on their own, undisturbed and unobserved. Sam filled up Harry’s glass, and then, with Campari, gin and red vermouth, his own. It was his third: but the important thing about a Saturday night in with Harry was that there was no one counting, or watching.
London-Geneva
March 2010
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Philip Hensher is a columnist for the Independent, chief book reviewer for the Spectator and a Granta Best of Young British novelist. He has written six novels, including The Mulberry Empire and the Booker-shortlisted The Northern Clemency, and one collection of short stories. He lives in South London.
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PRAISE FOR THE NORTHERN CLEMENCY
‘As emotionally engaged as a political satire and as compulsively readable as a saga … extraordinary’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Engrossing and hugely impressive’
The Times
/> ‘Philip Hensher’s new book shows that the epic, exciting, deeply engaged novel of society is not dead in England’
Andrew O’Hagan
‘Dazzling … a piercingly insightful group portrait’
New York Times
‘Not only extremely funny, but also deeply humane … a virtuoso display of sympathy’
Sunday Times
OTHER WORKS
The Northern Clemency
The Fit
The Mulberry Empire
The Bedroom of the Mister’s Wife
Pleasured
Other Lulus
Kitchen Venom
CREDITS
Author photograph © Eamonn McCabe
Photography © Mat Taylor
www.mat-taylor.co.uk/photography
COPYRIGHT
KING OF THE BADGERS Copyright © Philip Hensher 2011
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Fourth Estate
Visit our authors’ blog: www.fifthestate.co.uk
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The right of Philip Hensher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-00-730133-1
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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007432240
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