The Museum of Doubt Read online

  Ringo Starr’s got a moustache, said the old man. He’s a nice fellow.

  What did I say? said Melvin. What did I just say? Did I or did I not say don’t try to catch me out when I’m on moustaches? Eh? And now what are you trying to do? You’re trying to catch me out, aren’t you? OK. Listen. When did the Beatles start to go down the toilet? How did they mark their descent into pretentious wankery and destructive egoism? Eh? By growing moustaches. And who was the least useful of the Beatles? Was it the one who had the ’tache first and kept it on for ever? It was. It was Ringo fucking Starr. Do you agree with me? Do you get my point?

  I suppose so, said the old man.

  Aye. Now I’ve warned you. Don’t try to catch me out when I’m on moustaches. You can catch me out when I’m on anything else. You can catch me out on politics, football, the horses, philosophy, music, whatever you like, but don’t try to catch me out when I’m on moustaches. See I know what’s going on. Cast your mind back to puberty. My guess is we’re talking about the Thirties, right? Excellent. So the big day’s arrived, your balls drop and your voice drops and then something else happens. Down there, on that wee soft bit your prick hangs out of, bristles appear. What an exciting moment that is. At first the skin’s a bit rough, then downright coarse, and hairs start sprouting. The young lad is fascinated. He keeps reaching down inside his pants to touch the place where the hair is. He can’t leave off stroking it. It’s at this moment that mankind, the sex to which you and I belong, divides into two separate halves. One half grows up. They lose interest. They stop stroking the hair. They forget the days of first growth. They don’t have the urge to put their hands inside their pants any more, except to employ the tool there for its various natural uses. But the other half, they don’t lose interest. They can’t shake off the memory of those days when their fingertips first stroked those tender, springy curls. They try to forget. They try to put it out of their minds. But in their every waking hour it’s there, needling them. They want to be running their fingers through their pubes. Their hands are always straying to their crotch. Socially, it’s problematic. What chance d’you have at work, making friends, getting into college, getting the interest of the lassies, when you’re going round with one hand stuck down the front of your trousers? On the other hand, if your deprive yourself of that scrotal buzz, you’re fit for nothing, your nerves are shot, no confidence, nothing. What’s the answer? Melvin slapped his hand and snapped his fingers. A pubic substitute in a socially acceptable place. Pubic in public. That’s it. That’s the definition of a moustache. A beard! A beard’s no good! It’s too much! But a moustache, now, that’s just about the right size, and with the nose and the mouth, what you’ve got there is a complete mirror image of the arrangement down below. What a comfort! What a relief! You can make sure everyone knows how proud you are of your little scrotal bush, you can reassure the girls of your manhood, and most importantly, when the going gets anxious, you can raise your fingers to your upper lip and … aaaaahhhh.

  As the bus languished in centre traffic, Melvin laid it out for the old man. Apart from the shouting, the breakages, the tendency to mix drugs, incompatibility of friends and irreconcilable views about Joseph Conrad, he and Leila had been perfect together. The missing ingredient in their life had been money. He had started out as a concert promoter, moved into dealing coke and grass in a small way. She had failed to weld the rich fragments of her education – the convent school, the unfinished psychology degree, the half-done farrier apprenticeship, the self-taught Polish – into a professional career, and took jobs in call centres.

  The jail sentence was a blessing, a kind of sabbatical for Melvin, a chance to refine his drugs use and reflect. When they offered vocational classes, he took them up. He took a course in word processing and a course in writing. After six weeks of the writing course, the tutor asked his students to talk about long-term projects. Chutney, the recidivist car stereo recycler, waved a page torn out of a glossy Brazilian homemaker’s journal, showing a cod flan with Ronnie Biggs’ signature scrawled across it, and said he wanted to write a book of recipes by celebrity criminals. McKeldy, a lifer who’d been unlucky enough to stick his kindergarten-sized blade in the one place in Concrete Shelbo’s body where it’d kill him, had never read anything written after he was sentenced in 1990 and had started work on an upbeat, episodic, autobiographical novel about young Edinburgh junkies struggling to deal with violence, addiction, AIDS, sex and their parents. Saldino, who was there for kicking somebody’s head in, wanted to write a cheap advice booklet for teenagers called How To Avoid Getting Your Head Kicked In. Wetherburn, subsistence dole farmer, was agreed by C wing to be a fucking excellent poet, and was already acknowledged to have played a blinder with his epic work in the style of Hart Crane, A74(M).

  All sounds brilliant, said the tutor. How about you, Melvin?

  I’m going to write a best-selling business book, based on my experience of the prison and justice system and the management of holiday charter airlines, said Melvin. It’s going to be called Management Secrets Of The Nazi Generals.

  After several days, they managed to talk him down from his inspiration, and Melvin enrolled for classes in starting your own small business.

  That’s where I sorted out the idea that’s going to put me and Leila on easy street for the rest of our lives, he told the old man. I’d tell you, but this is my stop.

  Melvin ran downstairs with a light heart. He didn’t see the old man giving him the fingers. He spent his tiny stock of cash in the shop, getting a bunch of red and white chrysanthemums, a box of seashell-shaped chocolates, a couple of baguettes, a carton of humous and a box of deluxe frozen veggie burgers with cheese. He took his purchases to the counter and asked Faisal about the immediate whereabouts of certain key individuals in the community.

  They don’t do it any more, said Faisal. The bottom’s dropped out of the freelance market. What’s the point? Tomorrow it’s going to be legal.

  Very true, said Melvin, winking. I reckon you and me are going to have a chat tomorrow about that.

  About what?

  Top secret, my friend. All will be revealed. What’s that space for? He pointed to a row of empty shelves behind Faisal’s head, next to the cigarettes.

  Faisal looked round. Marlboro doing a big promotion tomorrow, he said. New line of ready-made joints called Marin. Come to where the high is. Come to Marin County. You know. Reeferettes.

  Melvin’s jaw went slack and he blinked. Then he creased up and shoved Faisal in the shoulder. You had me, he said, backing away from the counter, farting with laughter. You really had me there. Reeferettes! He fell out of the shop.

  Faisal’s dad put his head through the bead curtain. What was that? he said.

  Melvin Menimonie went mad in prison, but they let him out.

  Oh. Listen, when you go to the cash and carry tomorrow, get a couple of boxes of those McVities Chocolate Hashish Digestives, eh?

  Milk or dark?

  Melvin walked to his house and stood there for a moment, pressing his palm against the maroon gloss paintwork of the front door, stroking the stone chips of the pebble dash, tracing the white grooves in the black rectangle fastened to the door which read: M & L MENIMONIE. He smiled and a tear from each eye splashed onto his chest. He rang the doorbell.

  Hi, said Leila.

  Melvin stood still and silent. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and seemed to be trying to say something. A guttaral moan came from his throat. He dropped the bag, flowers and French bread went flying, and he had his arms round Leila, squeezing the breath out of her, lifting her off the ground. I’m back, he said, eyes pressed shut, head tight against her neck. I’m back.

  Too hard, croaked Leila, as Melvin walked her down the hall to the bedroom.

  I’m sorry, love, said Melvin. He let her go and she sat down sharp, coughing on the edge of the bed. Melvin knelt beside her, took off her slippers and began kissing her feet and ankles. I’m sorry. He looked up. I wa
s going to sing you something. Guns N’Roses. But when I saw you I couldn’t make a word come out. I missed you so much. He hugged her legs, kissed her jeans and promised never to leave her again.

  Melvin, said Leila.

  Yes, my love? said Melvin, taking her hands.

  Leila nodded to something over his shoulder. Melvin looked round and saw Lester standing there in his uniform. Lester put one hand in his pocket and ran his free index finger over his moustache.

  Melvin got up. He walked round Lester, scanning him in narrow bands from sole to scalp. He leaned forward and sniffed Lester’s jumper. He didn’t like the smell. He ran his finger down Lester’s jaw and put the finger in his mouth. Tasted bad. He put his hand on Lester’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake, such as you might give a fragile tree on the verge of yielding fruit. He sat down on the bed next to Leila and put his arm round her.

  Let me tell you what I want to hear, he said. I want to hear that while I’ve been inside there’ve been remarkable advances in the field of sex toys. I want to hear that, understandably, you were lonely without me, and in an effort to recapture some of the lost ecstasy of our time to together, you went out and acquired a large, ugly, synthetic prick, in the shape of … a security guard. I want to hear that only because you were very, very lonely, and because this was the very, very last one they had in stock, did you have to buy one with, with, with … he put his head in his hand. With one of them on his face.

  One of what? said Lester.

  Oh! said Melvin. The dildo speaks.

  I’m not a dildo.

  Then what the fuck are you doing in my wife’s bedroom?

  She never told me she was married!

  I see. So first you go into a strange woman’s bedroom and then you ask if she’s married?

  She’s not strange.

  I KNOW SHE’S NOT FUCKING STRANGE! screamed Melvin, going up to Lester so the guy could feel the spit spraying on his face. ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF NOT KNOWING WHETHER MY OWN FUCKING WIFE IS STRANGE? I THINK AFTER FIVE YEARS OF MARRIAGE I MIGHT KNOW MY WIFE BETTER THAN A SECURITY GUARD IN HER BEDROOM.

  Two years, said Leila.

  Eh? said Melvin, thrown off his rhythm.

  It’s two years we’ve been married. Not five.

  What is it I’ve got on my face? said Lester.

  That Hitlerish patch of scrotal scum infesting your upper lip, said Melvin. Yeah, that’s right, touch it.

  It’s not Hitlerish, said Lester. It’s what the top racing cyclists wear.

  Don’t do that, said Melvin. I’m warning you. Do not try to catch me out on moustaches.

  It’s true.

  I warned you, said Melvin, and lunged for Lester’s moustache.

  Don’t touch it! shouted Lester, dancing back, but Melvin had got a firm grip on the tight short hairs with his thumb and knuckle and was using the other hand to fend off Lester’s attacking paws.

  Get the scissors, love! called Melvin, tugging at the moustache.

  No man touches that, said Lester between his teeth, trying to get Melvin off balance.

  No-one tries to catch me out on moustaches, muttered Melvin, who was starting to take punishment and was getting ready to bite his opponent.

  Who can say for certain what went into the French sticks in town that day? Nobody who used one for its traditional purpose complained that they were heavier than usual, that the brittle crust yielded to the teeth with anything but the familiar light rain of flakes and crumbs, that the white of the bread was not, as always, an airy, almost tasteless sponge that shrank under incision until the last moment when it and the inner crust formed a tough, chewy pith. Despite that, when Leila smacked Lester and Melvin almost simultaneously on the side of the head with the baguettes, they stopped trying to hurt each other and stood pondering the nature of the thing, the truncheon-shaped object with the serrated edge, which had hurt them. Melvin bled from a cut in his cheek.

  Sit down the both of you, said Leila. Listen.

  Leila told Melvin that she had been in love with him once, when she’d seen him in rooms full of strangers, making the good ones laugh and the bad ones angry, not to impress her and not to impress them but for the sake of the thing itself, because he could do it, because in those days the things he could do, the things he wanted to do and the things he should do were very close to each other. She’d been in love with him most of all because it was just when he’d captured the kindest, the sharpest and the truest people there that he turned round and gave all his attention to her.

  I’ll do it again, love, I promise, said Melvin.

  Leila went on, saying it was then that catastrophes began to happen. Melvin got so used to winning people over that he started putting less effort into it. He started expecting people to love him before he’d opened his mouth, and got angry when they didn’t. When he got angry he raised his voice and mocked people he didn’t know. He still drew people to him but they were different people, they demanded more entertainment and maintenance and time, and there was less room for Leila. Melvin was trying to make it as a promoter, it worked at first, but as the crowd he hung out with evolved there was more mutual flattery, more play, more self-indulgence. Melvin’s circle got smaller, more brilliant and more bitter, chest-deep in cocaine, and the world beyond the circle got more contemptible. Melvin and Leila’s rows escalated to the brink of murder. Melvin’s finances imploded in a puff of white powder, credit card bills and half-empty venues, and his friends strolled on without him. He stayed at home, sleeping till the afternoons, never cleaning anything, including his hair, drinking strong tea and weak lager, living off Leila’s earnings and occasional small-scale dealing. Leila threw him out several times. He slept in the garden and came back. The holiday, bought on credit, was a last throw. Maybe the sun and the pool and holiday sex would restore something. It failed. Leila came home broke, watched her husband taken away in handcuffs, and felt happy for the first time in a year. She never wanted to see him again.

  And I’m being replaced by a security guard with a Hitler moustache? said Melvin.

  He’s nice, said Leila. What else matters?

  Love, love, you don’t know what you’re doing. I’ve changed. I’m not going to be an arsehole any more and I’ve got a business plan. We’re going to be rich. No, we’re going to be better than rich, we’re going to be comfortably off.

  Melv––

  Here’s what we’re going to do. Starting tomorrow, we dig up the garden, and we roof it over with plastic. We weed it, we hoe it, we draw furrows, and we plant cannabis. Enterpreneurs, love! You don’t think anyone else round here will’ve thought of it, do you? They haven’t got the vision. When they change the law tomorrow, we’ll be ready. If we plant next week, we’ll harvest by September. We become the number one local producer of legal, organic, top quality, original flavour, ready to smoke marijuana. We supply all the shops and pubs round here. That’s phase one. We cover our costs. Then, we start leasing the neighbours’ gardens.

  Melvin.

  I know what you’re going to say. How do we make it to September? Love, when the bank managers see my business plan, and my diploma, we’ll be fighting them off, begging them to leave because they want to lend us more money than we can possibly use. This cannot fail. The people demand, and we supply. I’ve designed a logo for us here, look. Menimonie and Sons, Organic Cannabis Growers, suppliers to Fortnum & Mason, by appointment to His Royal Highness King William. I’m thinking ahead with the endorsements, of course.

  Melvin.

  It could be Menimonie and Daughters.

  Melvin, have you heard of a company called Philip Morris?

  Aye, run a garage up the road.

  Philip Morris, the multinational tobacco corporation which makes billions of cigarettes every year? And BAT? And all the others?

  Well.

  What do you think they’ve been doing in the past two years they’ve known what was going to happen tomorrow? At midnight tonight, the trucks begin to roll, and tomorrow
morning, if you’re over 17, every newsagent and kiosk and pub from Dover to the Outer Hebrides is going to be able to sell you five different kinds of name brand reeferettes, over the counter, duty paid, in a pretty fliptop pack, foil-sealed for freshness, factory-cut, regular or light, quality guaranteed, government-approved, health warning added, many as you like, £4.99, thank you very much, have a nice day.

  No, said Melvin. You’re winding me up, like Faisal.

  Lester does nights at the bonded warehouse, said Leila. He’s seen it! They’ve been stockpiling containerloads of pre-rolled joints in among the fags.

  No, said Melvin. I don’t believe it.

  It’s true, Mr Menimonie, said Lester. If customs and excise found out they’d be in trouble.

  You, snarled Melvin. I’m going to shave that groin off your face, so help me. He lunged.

  A few hours later, closed circuit TV cameras at the bonded warehouse tracked a man approaching bay 5 and punching in the correct entry code to open the door. The man was dressed as a security guard, but long, tangled black hair flowed from under the peaked hat tilted back on his head. The supervisor in the TV room leaned forward and marshalled his camera views as the intruder crept through the aisles of cigarettes and reached the inner sanctum where the Rothmans reeferette stash was located. He zoomed in. The bogus guard wrenched up the flap of a stapled box, took out a carton, ripped it open and unwrapped one of the packs inside. The changing expression on his face when he saw the reeferettes, took one out, examined its slightly bulbous, filterless form, encased in sky blue paper printed with rosy clouds and passed it under his nose to smell it, was something that would haunt the supervisor for years to come: horror yielded to rage, which dissolved into nausea and grief at the scale of man’s injustice to man. The intruder sank to a squat, held the joint up to eye level, took out a lighter and lit up. As he inhaled, his face grew more peaceful. Slowly, he stretched out his arm and held the flame of the lighter to the flap of the box he had opened. The dry cardboard gave birth to fire.