The Museum of Doubt Page 22

  He laughed. Oh – too loud. Smithery snapped her head round and Julie was up like a bloodhound and Kenneth, he was rising out of the chair, they’d heard him. He ran back round the house and was out the gate and into the Jag. Charlie was gabbing away on the mobile.

  Let’s get going, said Gordon urgently, shrinking down into the seat and checking the wing mirror. Come on.

  Right, fine hen, tattie bye, see you there, aye, best behaviour now, guide’s honour, remember we’re respectable men, Charlie said into the phone, nodding and winking and grinning at Gordon.

  Come on, said Gordon. In the mirror he saw Kenneth poking his head out from behind the hedge, still holding the glass. Kenneth stepped out onto the pavement and stood there looking at the Jag, one hand in his pocket. He raised the glass and emptied it slowly, rinsed the whisky round his mouth, swallowed, drew in breath between his teeth, put the glass down on the ground, hitched up his trousers and began to move towards the car with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  Charlie, it’s time to go, said Gordon. I’ve been spending too much time with the family lately. Could you not talk and drive at the same time, eh?

  Kenneth was trotting towards them now. Charlie started the car and pulled away, still havering to the lassie on the phone. Aye, I know you’re respectable too, I know that, uhuh, but eh, not too respectable, eh? Oh that’s a lovely laugh you’ve got, aye, no, really, absolutely sincerely, I’ve never heard anyone laugh like that. I didn’t mean that, of course I’ve heard you laugh before, I have, aye, uhuh. No no. No no no. Never. Not with the clients, hen, never with the clients, I don’t know who’s been saying that to you, they’re too young, they’re just wee lassies, that’d be bad business, conflict of interest, aye. No, that’s not true, not true, I couldn’t. Who’s been telling you that? I couldn’t. No hen, I don’t mean couldn’t like that, I could, I’ve had offers, don’t get me wrong, of course I’ve had offers, I mean I couldn’t take advantage of them, they’re too young, aye, aye. They’re not like us, d’you understand what I’m saying, not like us, aye. It’s not different ages it’s different speeds, different speeds hen, we just walk, right, see what I mean, we just breathe like normal people, but they don’t, they move awful slow sometimes, awful slow, aye, for the ambient, it’s too slow for me, and they move awful fast when the techno’s on, it’s terrible, terrible, like a tape that’s gone wonky, slow, fast, asleep, double time, slow, fast, asleep, triple time. It’s the drugs. No of course not, of course not, drugs, aye, you can’t stop them coming in, they’re awful small, oh yes, yes, awful small, you can’t search everyone, I’m telling you you can’t. OK. OK. Aye. Of course. Of course. Me too. Me neither. Aye. Run and get your knickers on hen else we’ll still be talking and I’ll already be there. Aye. Me too. Bye.

  The Jaguar slipped without friction through the black wet afternoon. Gordon settled back. Kenneth running in the mirror was far behind. Maybe he was still running. Running was good. Gordon’d done a lot of running when he was wee, running for the sake of running. Look at all those poor drenched folk walking and looking in shop windows. Don’t walk: don’t look – run! Run! Run back! Run back and find the thing you left before they take it!

  So how’s eh, how’s eh, how’s Kenneth? said Charlie.

  Not so good. Had a run in with the boys in blue.

  Never! He never did. What the eh, the police, aye? Never.

  Assault.

  Tsh. That’s terrible. Was there, I mean, was there no way your eh, your eh, brother could he maybe sort something out, keep it quiet, aye, ’cause when it’s family and all that you need to don’t you, as long as it wasn’t serious, the law’s the law, aye, right enough.

  Right enough.

  Aye, right, right enough.

  Gordon fidgeted with the ventilation and heating controls. He said: Do you ever feel like you’ve broken into your own mind to try and steal something and then you find it’s a terrible place, but you can’t get out of it?

  Sounds a bit deep, Gordon m’man, said Charlie.

  Deep. Gordon didn’t want to be deep. Deep was when your feet didn’t touch the bottom and you were treading water and getting tired. Shallow wasn’t good either. That was you standing there like a prat with the water lapping round your knees and the wee kids flapping round you with their water wings. Gordon wasn’t deep or shallow. He was in it just up to his neck.

  They pulled up in a side street on the edge of the zone parking area. Charlie led him to a place called Muriel’s Tea Shop. In the window were chintz curtains and two white-haired old women practising octogenarian fellatio with slices of cake.

  Always one for the high life, eh, Charlie, said Gordon as they went inside. A bell tinkled when they opened the door and Gordon had to duck his head.

  Not to worry, not to worry, your Charlie man’s got the old flask, aye, the magic flask, and eh the crumpet you sometimes see in here, the crumpet it’s something else, you’d be amazed Gordon, and I’m not meaning the eh the cakes with butter on, no. There they are.

  One of the women looked hellish familiar. She was in black. A black dress and a serious face even though she was smiling. The other one he didn’t know at all. She was a looker in an old kind of way. Better than the one in black, who couldn’t be his wife, the wifeness was elsewhere, and his mother died a long while back. She’d been better looking.

  Hi Gordon, said the one in black, smiling but looking as if she was about to greet. Haven’t seen you since the funeral.

  Aye, said Gordon, sitting down opposite her. Gordon Stanefield. He put out his hand. The woman took it in her dry smooth palm and squeezed it. I know, she said, I know who you are. Gordon opened his mouth in wonder. It was like the harder she squeezed his hand, the more tears fell from her eyes, like juice from a lemon. Better to stop.

  Here now, here now, come on, let’s not have this, said Charlie. No tears, hen, come on, we’re all friends, aye, it’s eh, it’s right you’re upset but it’s happened now, it’s all over, you’ve got to move on, move on and look forward, it’s what he would have wanted.

  It’s good to cry, said the other woman.

  Aye Betty but not all the time, eh.

  Smithie grat, said Gordon.

  Part of him he didn’t control came up with the solution: he remembered.

  Smithie. Your brother. Jean.

  Yes, he did cry, said Jean. More after he came back from that trip to Bangkok with you. Thought his heart was broken. She sniffed and touched her face with a hankie clenched in her fist. I don’t understand.

  The heat was too much for him, said Gordon. Lot of spicy food out there. Chillis. Make your eyes water.

  My brother loved a curry, said Jean.

  Look now, let’s eh, let’s eh, draw a line, said Charlie. Aye, a line. Here’s your tea and we’ll have a toast. Toast everyone. There you go. He poured whisky into their cups. Here’s to Cedric Smith. Lovely man, great golfer, top salesman, Jean’s favourite wee brother, our friend, liked a drink and a laugh. Here’s to him. They drank. Charlie aaaahed and winked at Betty. Life’s short, hen, he said.

  I hope you’re not short, said Betty.

  No, I’m not short. I’m not short at all. He drawled. I’m longgggg.

  Betty laughed. Getting longer, she said.

  Could be, said Charlie, getting up. The two of them shuffled off through a set of curtains. A door opened and closed.

  Jean sniffed and smiled, looked over the way they’d gone and looked back at Gordon. She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. You men, eh, she said.

  What men?

  All you men, Gordon, said Jean. She took one of his hands in hers and laid it palm up on the table. She traced his life line with the blade of her index fingernail.

  Aye, all us men, said Gordon. What men are we? Jean was writing circles on his palm. Her hands were cool like the inside of a fresh bed. What men were they. It was the club he belonged to, the club of men, only he was forgetting the rules, and there were rules. It was men
only, that was for sure. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a good night out at the club of men. Aye he could. That Asian lassie. She’d punched his ticket. What’d been good was she’d been the rules. No need to know the book by heart, or even find where it was kept. The Thai girl’d been the regulations come to life. When she’d taken him by the hand and led him into another shape of light and sat him down and released his flies and begun to suck, he hadn’t had to do anything: he was only entering the rules of the club of men. He was deep inside the clubhouse and the other men were all around, glad, deserving and taken care of. Then it turned out Smithie’d never known the rules at all and hadn’t been a member of the club of men. He’d been sneaking in all that time and never paid his subs, never got his card. Like he was trying to get Gordon kicked out as well. Like he knew Gordon was already getting lost in the club, not knowing anyone there any more. Here was Smithie’s sister working the same plan, stroking his hand, saying You and Mary, you were never swingers, were you. Jean wasn’t like the Thai girl. She was a hell of a lot older for a start. She had him by the hand and was wanting to drag him out of the club of men where he was lost already and into some more difficult world. When she was doing the gypsy doodling on his palm the tearoom sharpened, grew and brightened. The stainless steel teapot shone like chrome at noon and the white china teacups were surely about to melt, the sugar lumps took on the span of sea defences, every stalk and seed in the bunches of dried flowers pinned to the walls could be numbered. Jean’s eyes, they were terrible, finding him in the peaceful murk of himself like sun intruding on a midnight room. He knew fine he couldn’t find his way any more, he’d lost the measure of other beings and all the scales of life, but he didn’t want to be found by her, he didn’t want to be found by anyone. Best to doze in the shadows. Except to be fetched by Thai girls and Julie for a session in the club of men under red lampshades, with romps on velvety wall seats.

  You’ve got a long line of life, Gordon, said Jean. Still stroking his hand she looked over her shoulder at the curtains. They’ve been gone a while, eh. She giggled. Wonder what they’re up to.

  Must be penetration, said Gordon.

  Jean opened her mouth, boggled eyes at him and bowed into the table in mute heaves of laughter. You’re the devil.

  I am not.

  We’ve got to spend less time thinking about Cedric, bless’m.

  Did Smithie have a long line of life?

  I never did my brother’s fortune.

  Did he?

  Yeah, I think he did.

  What happened to him?

  You know what happened. He shot himself.

  Aye, I forgot.

  How could you forget, said Jean, eyebrows sliding all over the place. You were the first there after the police. They had to stop you putting your fingers in the blood. You were asking if you could have the gun since he wouldn’t be needing it any more. You were in shock, Gordon.

  It’s OK now, said Gordon.

  I know.

  I bought one up at the garden centre.

  Jean took a packet of Benson & Hedges out of her bag and lit up. She flooded her bronchi with smoke, touched her hair.

  How are things at home? she said.

  Fine.

  How’s Mary?

  I couldn’t tell you.

  That doesn’t surprise me, Gordon, said Jean. She folded her left arm under her bosom and leaned forward, cigarette standing to attention in her other hand. You’ve been through a hard time what with your best friend, and your brother, and your Kenneth, and Mary’s not helped you, has she? She smiled, blinking, put her hand on Gordon’s and squeezed it. I haven’t helped you either. I’m sorry I was suspicious. Would you look at me when I’m talking to you?

  Eh? said Gordon, still staring at the cigarette. If it was a cigarette and not the chalk of a cartoon artist, drawing Jean, drawing her badly, struggling with her fingertips, about to crumple up the sketch and throw it away. Cartoon ideas: there’s this old woman and this old man, she’s always trying to catch him, but no dynamite, no mallets, no irons involved, so not a good idea.

  Hey, said Jean, clicking her fingers, stubbing out the cigarette.

  The artist, said Gordon, reaching for the fag and holding himself back.

  What artist?

  You looked like you were being drawn by this.

  Mmm. Jean took Gordon’s face in her hands and shook it from side to side. She brought him very close to her sunbed tan, the dark spots on her skin, the dryness of lips under the crimson. I was never sure if you were a boy or a poet or out of your head. She let him go. But you are the devil.

  I am not.

  I’m not talking about evil, Gordon. Evil is not on. I don’t fancy it. Dangerous is another matter. And loose. You’ve come loose from all the things they’d like you to be fixed to. Being nice. Being tolerant. Being a good shopper. You’re nasty, greedy, selfish and lonely, and maybe so am I. How’s about we make something of it.

  Make what?

  L. O. V. E. whispered Jean. Love. By which I mean S. E. X. You and me. Like Betty and Charlie.

  You’re too old for me, said Gordon. I couldn’t with a woman with as many wrinkles as you. What I like is girls in their late teens.

  Jean’s lower lip started to beat up and down and her shoulders shook. She folded up, bowing towards the table. She lifted her face with eyes red raw as picked scabs.

  I suppose you’d fuck my granddaughter, she said.

  I’d have to take a look at her first, said Gordon.

  Jean hunched in and pawed fags and lipstick for hankies. There was a scuffling and shouting from behind the curtains and Charlie came through them backwards as if he’d been pushed. Betty came out after him and shoved him in the middle of the chest. There was no blood in her face at all. She screamed at Charlie that he was a liar. A solid scream, half a mile’s worth, with rasping lowlights.

  I don’t agree with what you’re saying, hen, said Charlie. I can’t eh, I can’t, aye, it’s nothing to do with anyone else, no, I know, I know, you’ve got to, eh, you’ve got to eh give it time, no, it’s not cause I’m seeing anyone else, men my age have their days and they have their days, no there’s no need to be striking me.

  Betty screamed that she deserved to be treated with respect, and that Charlie was a cunt. Charlie glanced at Gordon, who got up and moved towards the door.

  Just you sit down, love, aye, sit with Jean a while, she looks, eh, looks, eh, maybe wee bit of cake went down the wrong way. The walnuts here can be murder. Charlie’s away to get you a good proper drink, aye that’s right, there you go. That’s right.

  Gordon slipped out of the door and waited by the car. In a moment Charlie strode out of the tearoom. They got in and drove off. Charlie shook his head a few times and blew breath noisily from his lips.

  Aye, he said. I got, eh, got distracted for a moment, fatal, aye. Betty feels me getting, eh, getting soft, and there’s no sympathy at all. None, uhuh. She knows a man my age can’t be turning, eh, can’t be putting in, eh, gold medal performances every day of the week, and she’s eh, she’s eh, making all these accusations, aye, she is, about me having used it once today already, on someone else. Not saying, Gordon, between eh, between you and me, might not have done that other days, but no way today, not this time. Just, eh, just got distracted. Started thinking about the golf.

  I birdied the twelfth last week, said Gordon.

  Aye? Did you now? I holed it in one once, aye, I did. Best day of my, eh, best day of my life, uhuh, it was. What was up with Jean?

  Who?

  Jean. Smithie’s sister. The woman opposite you.

  They weren’t drawing her properly, said Gordon.

  Aye? Is that right? said Charlie, sucking in air through his teeth, shaking his head, thinking about the swing, the impact, the flight and the gentle falling into the lap of the green.

  Waterland

  Charlie parked at the back of Waterland, on a narrow shining stretch of cobbles, black and flexed l
ike patent crocodile hide restored to the living crocodile. Rain scratches swarmed about a lamp above the door. Charlie creaked in his seat and flicked the chrome leaping salmon keychain swinging from the ignition. He sighed and made a remark about the weather. He took a cheap cigar out of a tin, offered Gordon one, and lit up. Gordon took his and put it in his pocket.

  Almost lost the house with one of these, I did, aye, said Charlie. He opened the window a few inches to let the smoke go. Fell asleep on the settee. Poor quality materials. Burned patch that wide and a filthy smell when I woke up. You’re eh, you’re surrounded with risk, everywhere. Death traps in the home and work. Bad electrics in the club, for instance. Could eh, could eh, could go any time. Doesn’t matter what you do, the old health and safety, uhuh, get out of bed in the morning, might as well be setting off up the Amazon in a canoe.

  It starts in bed, said Gordon.

  Does it, aye, for you?

  You’ve got no control over who’s in there with you.

  Well eh Gordon my man I know what you mean but, eh,

  I don’t in fact. There’s eh, there’s the old Mary, is there not?

  That’s it. You’ve got no control.

  She’s your wife, Gordon. You thinking of giving her the old big E, the old widescreen Divorcerama, aye, ’cause that’s an awful dear business, it is, uhuh, did it once myself, if you mind that, Gordon. D’you, eh, d’you mind that?

  The bed’s the most dangerous place, said Gordon. That’s when you have to get closest to Smithie.

  Smithie?

  Mary.

  Who’s in your bed?

  Smithie.

  What’s your wife’s name?

  I could murder a drink, said Gordon.

  I’m wondering if eh, I mean, if you weren’t in danger of kind of losing the old place, Gordon.

  There’s an old one in the bed with me, said Gordon. An old one I know. Mary. Smithie. The names slide off them. The names slide off when they get old. I want a new one.