by I K Watson
“Difficult age," Albert said reflectively. "When I was that age it was difficult. Wanking took up most of my time.”
The colonel agreed. “In the army we used to stop the wanking with jungle juice and a standing order. And there was a chemical that they added to your tea, but I forget the name.” He nodded in agreement with himself.
“A sex destroyer,” Roger suggested.
“Exactly,” the colonel said.
“They should have tried married life, mate. Better than any chemical known to man.”
The colonel’s nod was despondent. “The thing is,” he said. “Age is the enemy. It’s not like the krauts. You can’t beat it. You can’t run at it with a bayonet and shout ‘Have that you child-molesting jerry bastard!’ It creeps up on you, more like a Nip or the taxes in a Brown budget, and you don’t see it coming.”
A stranger standing between the colonel and Rasher cut in: “With regard to Paul, it sounds a bit like schizophrenia or something similar.” Albert asked, “What about the something similar?”
“Yes, you're right. I didn't mean similar. I mean he sounds like a raving schizo.”
They were all ears. Even Rasher managed a series of blinks. The stranger, well turned out in a suit and dark coat, had a bedside manner about him and an acceptable accent from the home counties. He was probably a doctor or a double-glazing salesman.
The colonel cut in, “Don’t know about your schizophrenia but it seems to me that half the country is off with stress, the twenty-first century cop out. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned backache or even ME?”
“Ah, indeed,” the stranger said. “Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also known as CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome. Caused quite a stir a few years back with half the establishment denying its existence, much like schizophrenia some years before. Mind you, even now, much of the establishment along with many old soldiers still believe it’s a malingerer’s charter.”
They looked at the colonel who nodded his agreement. “Just like stress, then,” he said. “Just like the vaccines and the Gulf War syndrome. We never complained about DDT in the porridge. So long as they kept it away from the old undercarriage we were happy.” “Mosquitoes?” Albert asked.
“In the desert? No. It kept away the flies. The real soldiers, the professionals, didn’t mind the flies. You could always find an Arab by following the flies. And if you could find the Arab you could find the kraut. The krauts liked to fuck the Arabs. Little bits of information like that won us the war.”
The stranger shook a bewildered head and went on, “The popular press and Hollywood, Hitchcock in particular, created the misnomer of the multiple personality but that has more to do with dissociative identity disorder than schizophrenia. The split personality is very unlikely, largely unfounded. Schizophrenia was originally called dementia praecox – mental deterioration in the early life – praecox. Usually a sensitive, retiring child who starts to develop peculiar behaviour in his early twenties, hallucinations, delusions, general withdrawal from society. When it occurs in later life it generally takes the form of a persecution complex – paranoia.” The stranger swept back his greying hair. It was the narrow sideburns that worried the regulars. Beware of men with narrow sideburns and those who wore brown shoes. The regulars were, however, all ears.
“A steady mental deterioration,” Albert said gravely. “Cured can it be…cured?”
“Doubtful. In some cases drugs can help. Then there's electric shocks and cold water treatment. Then there's leucotomy. Crucifixion, as a last resort, cures it once and for all. But that has nasty side effects
– religious wars and stuff like that.”
“But the voice…?”
“Yes, there is generally a voice.”
“And violence?”
“Sudden violent outbursts, certainly. Can't have a half-decent mental disorder without violence.”
Roger, the manager, something of a movie buff, said, “When Alfred Hitchcock released his Psycho back in fifty-nine, the critics thought it was a joke on them. That at the end of the first reel he killed off his leading lady. That wasn't the done thing. Their cosy world was shattered.”
“Shattered I was too, when that scene I saw,” Albert said. “It's a good thing to shatter the critics,” the colonel said. “They’re as useless as an Eyetie soldier. Having said that, Hitchcock was one of my favourite directors. I also liked David Lean and Robert Young.” “Robert Young?”
“He did that telly thing, GBH.”
“Television doesn't count,” Roger said. “It never did. Not when you’re talking movies. Not even if their movies are better. My favourite film is Paths of Glory, a Kubrick movie. Every time I see that last scene where the German bird sings, I cry.”
“You cry?”
“At the movies, I do. In real life, that’s different, I don’t.” While he had listened to Roger the colonel nodded and his eyes dulled as he recalled another day. He said, “When my wife was alive I had about two thousand films to watch – videos in those days. But by the time she had watched her soaps and all the other crap that was on I was too tired to start a film. I thought about installing a television in the other room but then I’d never have seen her. An odd consideration, but once she died, I couldn’t be bothered watching the films. Came here instead.”
Roger said impatiently, “Get back to the point. What’s your favourite film?”
“OK then”, the colonel said. “I liked Ice Cold In Alex with John Mills.”
Albert was sheepish. Finally he admitted, “All right, all right. Fun in Acapulco.”
Everyone took a step back from Albert and waited for clarification. Albert sucked on his thin lips and, although there was nothing remotely Gallic about him, shrugged a Gallic shrug, playing for time and all the time wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake. “Well,” he said nervously, “He was a nice lad.”
Unfortunately this explanation, when all was said and done, made things much worse. Roger wandered away to the other end of his long bar, the colonel bristled with indignation and Mr Lawrence wondered who the nice lad was but one thing was certain, Albert was left quite alone.
He was out when Mr Lawrence got in. The following morning he was running in the electric cable. The electricity distribution box in the stair recess was open and a coil of black cable snaked out towards the shop. It was a worrying sight and Mr Lawrence was rightly worried. He reached the door when an almighty crash had him ducking for cover and for a moment he wondered if one of the colonel’s krauts had followed him home and lobbed a hand-grenade. The shop lights went out without a flicker and Paul yelped and a bronze ballerina in the shop window pirouetted off her stand.
“It's arced!” Paul screamed. “It's arced!” He vaulted from the recess and crashed into the wall opposite and, as he slid slowly southward, smiled sweetly at Mr Lawrence.
Mr Lawrence thought back to the conversation in The British and wondered whether the double-glazing salesman’s electric shock treatment might help.
Nervous Sid was in The British, Sid the Nerve, playing the devil's drum on the bottom rung of his bar stool. He worried that the DSS or whatever they were called nowadays had cancelled his weekly benefit. How would they like to be black with a little receiving form? It was all right for them with their index-related pay, but what about him? They treated illegal immigrants better than they treated him.
Nervous Sid turned to children; they were on his mind. The ASBOs were a complete waste of time and money; they had become a badge of honour. The kids actually felt out of it if they didn’t own one. Nervous Sid agreed with the colonel. The answer to their worrying ways was a sharp stab in the arse with a bayonet and then three years in a detention centre fed on nothing but green veg, sprouts if possible. No orange squash or trips out to holiday centres.
Children – they seemed wiser, more mature, less child-like. The boys were ill-natured, rude little gits and the girls had contemptuous, knowing eyes. Even twelve-year-olds knew what made the world go a
round. They looked as though they were waiting to get a little bigger so they could pay you back. A frightening thought, the thought of growing old and defenceless, and the only thing to do, he supposed, was to get them first, before they grew up. Devastating, really. It was all these fucking chemicals in the crops. All these E-numbers the colonel and Albert kept going on about. They were modifying the kids and not in a good way. Sod these GM crops. Sid the Nerve would take more notice in future. He made a mental note that if ever his luck changed and his number came in, he wouldn’t buy a motor car from those bastards.
He went on to explain that when he threw stones at a group of them who were climbing on his garage roof they threw them back again. And they were better shots. He lifted the plaster on his cheek to show Mr Lawrence the damage. They were aiming at his eye, he said, because he was black. They were still on his garage roof. He'd made a speedy retreat. The long way round. Sod that for a living. Then he said, “Is that Paul still with you?”
“Yes, I suppose that Paul is. Although, technically, he's in hospital at the moment.”
“Kids?”
“No. Electricity.”
“Oh.” He sipped his shaking pint, spilling a little down his chin. His foot-tapping quickened in tempo.
Mr Lawrence prompted, “Why do you ask?”
Nervous Sid's attention returned from parts of the barmaid. “Someone was asking about him. A very dodgy looking character. Fact is, dodgy isn't the word. Not really. Not at all. Dangerous is probably closer. Fucking dangerous closer still. A big bad bastard.” “My goodness. What did he want?”
“He said he wanted Paul.”
“Did he say what for?”
“No, he didn't say and I didn't ask. You don't prolong the conversation with people like that. I wanted out. Like…out. As soon as poss. Registered mail. Know what I mean?”
“Did you tell him he was staying with me?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Sid the Nerve shook out the words, saddened by the suggestion.
On his way to the door Mr Lawrence passed Albert and the colonel and Rasher who stood studying the tearaway nuts between the bottles. “Mr Lawrence, a moment of your time,” Albert muttered. “For young Paul someone's been looking. An unsuitable type. With more care you should choose his friends.”
“Did you tell this character that Paul was staying with me?” Albert's eyes glinted and his half-hidden lips widened. “Of course.” “That's kind of you, Albert.”
Mr Lawrence left The British early to visit Paul at the hospital. He didn't mind making the odd sacrifice. He picked up a brown paper bag of grapes from a Pakistani shop that opened all night, every night, even Christmas night. He had Christmas lights in his window next to a photograph of Mecca.
Green seedless grapes, brown-bagged, cheaper than Tesco and guaranteed by the foreign gentleman not to contain the fungicide Vinclozolin.
The Salvation Army were playing near the hospital entrance, belting out Jerusalem, and a few patients who could walk or manoeuvre their wheelchairs had gathered to listen. Sensing danger, Mr Lawrence hurried past the uniformed women who were brandishing their collection boxes and War Cries.
Paul sat up straight in his bed, a lonely figure, his gaze haunted, focussed on the hills that his feet and knotted knees made on the blanket. Under the wash of the bright strip he looked pale. Patients in the other beds were involved with their visitors. Paul was in another place. Not in this world.
“How are you?”
His eyes came back slowly. They slid towards Mr Lawrence. Nothing else on his body moved. It took a few moments for recognition and then he smiled and turned and caught up with his eyes. “Mr Lawrence.”
“How are you?”
“Mr Lawrence?”
“You're looking better.”
“Mr Lawrence, what are you doing here?”
“I brought you some grapes. I should have posted them.” “You shouldn't have.”
“You're right. The postman might have squashed them.” “You shouldn't have bothered coming.”
“You're right again. How are you?”
“I'm fine. Just fine. They're keeping me in overnight. I'll be out tomorrow. It's the heart, irregular or something. The shock, I expect.” “I expect it was.”
“Funny that. They use electric shocks to start a stopped heart and they use a pacemaker to keep a heart ticking over yet electricity sent mine the other way. Funny.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. But changing the subject for just a moment, someone's been asking about you.”
He frowned.
“A big chap. A big…chap.”
Paul sighed and shook his head. “You didn't tell him I was staying with you?”
“No. No I didn't and nor did Sid.”
He relaxed.
“Albert did.”
He grimaced. “Everything's going wrong,” he said. “Stuck in here innI? Haven't got time to find a place. Christmas's coming, you want me out by the weekend and now that bastard's looking for me.” “Who is that bastard exactly?”
“Someone I lived with.”
“My goodness, come again, exactly what does that mean?” “Inside, Mr Lawrence. Prison overcrowding, innit? You don't get a cell to yourself. Not unless you write books or something. I knew him inside, see. Shared a cell.”
“And now he's outside. Is he dangerous?”
Paul shrugged white bony shoulders.
“Why is he looking for you?”
Paul looked up appealingly and said meekly, “He's in love with me.”
“Love!”
“He thinks he is. He probably is.”
“Love! Goodness me, now that's a complication I hadn't considered. Do you love him?”
Paul pulled a face. “Leave it out, Mr Lawrence. Do I look like a rear admiral?”
“I can't answer that, dear boy. I wouldn't know what to look for. I have often wondered how you tell.”
“I think it’s an earring in the left ear, or it might be the right.” “I shall look out for that.”
“Or it might even be both ears.”
“Forget the ears, Paul.”
“He forced himself on me. Inside, you don't have a choice. You stick your arse in the air or you get beaten senseless and your arse goes in the air anyway.”
“That’s terrible but that's all right then. Now I know that, you can stay until Christmas, Boxing Day I mean. No longer and, only if you make yourself useful in the shop.”
His face softened in gratitude. “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll teach you to play chess. I'll do the cooking. I'll look after the shop. I'll get us a Christmas tree with lights.”
Mr Lawrence shook his head in wonder. Today’s youth! Who’d have them with their erratic enthusiasm and marvellous ambitions? “Chess. I'll settle for chess.”
“I'm a master at that, innI? The old Reti, the old King's Indian. Sound as a bell, that, that is. You saved me a lot of worry.” “Worry?”
“I was thinking about the turkey in the squat. They keep turning the electric off, see?”
“Well, I hope my electric is back on by then.”
“No sweat, Mr Lawrence. I've got this mate…”
“No, Paul. NO. I'll use the Yellow Pages.”
“Right.”
“But what about this rampaging lover?”
“Come again?”
“The bastard?”
“Yeah. He could be a problem.”
“You'll have to break it gently.”
“Yeah.”
“That his affections are not returned. It’s a sad business when love is not returned.”
“Sad, yeah, that’s it.”
A nurse walked through, stern and alarming. She paused at the end of Paul’s bed and glared at the two of them. Mr Lawrence busied himself with the grapes, slipped one in his mouth and stuck it in his cheek. The nurse shook her head and went on her way. Mr Lawrence watched her go. There was something about women and uniforms. There always had been, he s
upposed, ever since Boudicca had been riveted into her breastplates.
By the time Mr Lawrence left the hospital the Sally Annes had changed their tune. They had moved on to While Shepherds Watched but the women, striding about flat-footed, were thrusting their War Cries and collection boxes with even more aggression. To get back to the bus stop and to avoid the women Mr Lawrence was forced into a detour around the block.
Lunchtime the following day there was bad news to come in The British. Rasher had given the road outside a crimson glow. The tarmac had been washed in claret.
Bad news like that was enough to turn a man to drink but the woman was coming later so that would have to wait.
Rasher was a casualty of the night.
It happened last night, shortly after Mr Lawrence had left. Behind the bar, between the ranks of down-turned bottles riding on their 25ml measures – seventy proof rotors – the packets of tearaway peanuts waited to be plucked from their card. Beneath the nuts was a photograph of a naked lady and every time a packet was pulled a little more of her was exposed. So far on view there was one perfectly formed breast with a sixpenny nipple and three-quarters of a thigh. Next to the nuts was a calendar used to note the up-and-coming darts tournaments and December’s photograph was of a bullfight in Spain. The nuts and the calendar hung directly opposite Rasher's usual position at the bar. And when Mr Lawrence left him the night before, there he was studying the girl, perhaps remembering his wife, then blinking at the bullfight, and then he gave his minders the slip and went bullfighting on the main road. And the bull got him.
His minders were now in mourning.
The bull, a silver 306 turbo-charged diesel Peugeot, driven by a social worker, had hit him and dragged him fifty yards along the steel railings.
Albert was a late arrival that lunchtime. He arrived only moments before Mr Lawrence. His stoop was more apparent, his shoulders rounder. He'd spent a large part of the night searching the road for the gold that had flown from Rasher's broken body. Albert was a prospector. He'd found a finger, he told them, but it was the little finger, the only one of Rasher's fingers that didn’t sparkle. Sod's law, really.