by Deborah Levy
Chapter 10
Billy
I hate the English weather. I don’t see the point of smiling about something so tragic. The English people stop me on the streets and say, ‘It’s a bit rainy, if you know what I mean?’ Well, I don’t know what they mean because sometimes it’s not raining. They say it even when the sun is shining. What the fuck are they talking about? Is it just always ‘a bit rainy’? Even when it’s not?
I’m young. My teenage bones need sun verbs, not damp. You buy a sausage, one hundred per cent heritage beef, and make tragic plans to barbeque the crazy fucker. It rains like they said it was going to. You retire indoors with a stoopid English smile on your face and your sausage is reciting from Hamlet. Look, I don’t want to run about in white shorts like an Australian and say to every bloke I meet, ‘See you around,’ like we all live on a beach or something. But I would like the English people to stop me on the street and say ‘It’s a bit sunny, if you know what I mean?’ God, it’s so fucking sad. Not to have language for better weather.
I’m telling you I spray aerosols (flea spray) up at the ozone and chant in Hindi, learned from Raj in exchange for teaching him the meaning of the word ‘mad’. Raj says if me and Girl ever achieve a car he will strip it down for us free. Practise for his mechanic course. The only thing I love about England is Raj. I can’t stand his father’s shop where I have to buy my aspirins and skimmed milk, but Raj is good value. He has given me a piece of his mind free of charge. Respects my analytical skills. Even seeks them out. We have had many a breakthrough in the Pickled Newt. Raj buys me shandy and pretends it’s lager because he wants my best attention. Wants me to be sober and serious and I oblige, keeping an eye on my watch. Take the white boys who hid razor blades in the lid of his school desk. Raj wants to pulp ’em on tarmac when he gets his first Jag. I say, ‘Look, Raj, those razor blades are still inside your head. You got to take ’em out and slit your lousy dog’s throat with ’em.’ He’s got the grace to attempt a laugh (I know all about having to simulate mirth from the Grand-Dad episode) but he insists his mom likes to have the dog in the shop for protection. Even though the dog once chewed her knees under the sari. Five stitches and a tetanus. She needs another dog to protect her from this dog.
England is a nation of dogs. When the monarchy goes, it will be a republic of dogs. The Dog Coast. The United Church of Dog. Dog Mansions. The Dog Café. Dog University. Don’t know why the bulldog is supposed to represent my country. Frankly I would prefer a gonk. At least I could back-comb its blue hair, put it in curlers and tease it up with a bit of lacquer. A French pleat. A quiff. Gonk ponytails. Gonk plaits. Gonkery. Yep, I’ve coined a new word for the British people. The Gonkery Dental Practice. The British School of Gonkery. BA Hons in Gonkery specialising in a variety of hairstyles.
Look, my dad bashed me and no one cried except Girl and Mom. No one’s demonstrating outside Boots the Chemist from the Billy Rights Organisation, are they? There are citizens out there who would rather cry over dogs than me. Why? Cos dogs can’t talk back. They can’t say, Fuck off, you fat cunt, you know I hate meaty chunks. Back to the weather.
If the rain stops you get a weird flash of courage and hope. You think you will find a park to read the newspaper in, like they did in the early nineteenth century. Giggling when they fell off their penny farthings. You shiver under a tree whilst reading the paper (particularly the weather reports) because you want to believe this is a pleasurable experience. To believe this simple task has made you happy and emotionally stable. When you stand up you find you’ve been sitting in a pile of dog shit. Your new suede shoes are fucked. You stink. You’re damp. Your hands are shaking cos it’s cold. Your newspaper is the only thing you’ve got with you to wipe the dog shit off your chainstore clothes. You walk home staring at the sky with crazed, betrayed eyes. I want ozone to open wide and zap me with all it’s got. Cook me, hotness. Take my weedy little body and tan it. Give my white-boy face an unhealthy flush. C’mon, Big O! Gentle over the biceps and then pulp ’em. I can take it.
Yeah. Things are a bit rainy if you know what I mean. Mom. I dreamt her skin was dry. And I dreamt she died. Two glossy purring animals lie on her bed, surrounded by exotic plants with browning leaves. Under the Xmas tree are some presents wrapped up for her children. Mine is a chocolate stretch limousine. Girl hasn’t got anything in hers. It’s just wrapping paper. Sometimes I torment Girl, say hers is a chocolate minicab with three wheels. I am very sad about Mom’s absence in my dream. I remember her taking calcium pills to strengthen her bones. Painting her toenails. Teasing up her hair for her famous beehive style with a special comb. Sitting with her baby girl on her lap watching the weather on TV. I remember her perfume. It was called Moth. All I know is that moths smell blue. Like the night. I remember sweet complicity with Mom in cafés. She ate a full English breakfast and dunked her toast in the yolk for me.
It’s a bit rainy, if you know what I mean. Bitter filthy wet fucking rain. No. It’s not funny. All that scrambling to shelter under the shitty striped awnings of butcher shops. The giant turkey drumsticks piled up and covered in clingfilm. Blue and goose-pimpled. It’s raining. The sweating Dublin chops on special offer just about to pass their sell-by date in a big way. The sticky thick blood of livers and kidneys on silver trays, the second-rate eggs laid out on the counter, the pale rubbery slabs of Cheddar, the bundles of lard dripping in their wax wrappers – and it’s still raining. The clambering onto buses full of the insane mumbling upstairs and mothers screaming at their kids and fathers who’ve lost their kids cos they just haven’t been up to it and all the sad city dwellers queuing for fried chicken in crappy fast-food chain stores and hardware shops selling mops that don’t work to women who can’t afford them. Women with broken zips. Mom preferred buttons, like me.
This is not the Wonderland I’ve been put on earth for. The men in phone boxes with a suitcase between their legs. The boxes of strawberries with all the rotten ones at the bottom. The newsagents with tit mags crammed on the top shelf and little jars of instant coffee and bottles of bleach and lottery tickets and packets of stale factory biscuits.
It won’t do. It’s not worth having lungs to take breath for. It’s not worth waking up for. It’s not worth having the vote for. Just one big fucking spectacle of pain.
I remember Mom putting conditioner in her hair and combing it through to the ends. She was always complaining about split ends on account of all the teasing she had to do. Mom had the highest hair in the road. Planting sunflowers that never grew. Bending over to tuck me in. Trying to whistle but it never came out right. It can’t when you shop with the pain of thrift in your bones. Mouth. Eyes.
Soon we can have anything we want because we are going to do FreezerWorld with the help of Louise and her retard rage. I will be a citizen with big shopping potential, hmming along with the Muzak. Makes the shopper contemplative. Assists the shopper with his thorts. Here’s one. Nearly there. Thort coming up.
What’s the point of England?
There ain’t no empire or industry – not that I want to be a coal slave, as Girl would say, nor do I want to work in a gas showroom – I’ve seen through it and thru it. Mom wouldn’t have liked that for me. Naaa. She wouldn’t have liked to think of her clever boy on the shop floor twitching so she has to wash my clothes every day. I don’t want wages to starve in a civilized fashion: SPECIAL OFFER: 500 CHICKEN WINGLETS FOR £2.99 – THEY DIED TO FEED THE WORKING POOR. Unless you’re just a high income chickaholic and can’t get enough of chicken in the form of winglets. Just crazee for the winglet experience, BUSTING FOR A WINGLET graffitied on all the toilet doors – Citizen Winglet fought a short but victorious war in order to defend his lifestyle. Battery birds. I earned ’em.
Billy the beastie in his English lair. The only self-defence is to lie on the straw and get introspective. Go into your self. Snuffle your head deep inside the straw and yawn till you feel strong enough to yawn again. To build something for yourself in your lonely wasted min
d, put on a hard hat and enter the architecture on the lookout for wonder. In comparison with that adventure, does Billy want to ride a tank and conquer Haiti or what’s left of Russia?
Come off it. I’m not losing a drop of Billy blood for the nobs. Got enough to do, thanks. Fanks. What’s the point of England? There ain’t the weather like I’ve discussed with you in an easy-going manner. The only way Billy the beast is going to crawl out of his pain lair is for a snack. I, Billy, fifteen years old, prime cut of English beef, a sirloin amongst boys and boyz, no fat on this lean dude kitted out in his grotty underpants – waist twenty-six inches and that’s only if I stick my stomach oot. Ooot for England.
Dad bashed me. That’s all. After he bashed me, something happened. But it’s gone. Gone to gonkery. Mom set fire to Dad and then she disappeared. Walked through the enchanted garden and out the other side. The wild heath where winds howl and owls shriek. Mom, in the form of her soul, has disappeared into me. I must take maternal care of Girl and make her better.
English pain has opened up a whole crack in the world for me. Cleanse me with swabs of cotton wool, please. Yeah. I’m ready for California. Ready to lie flat out on the blond American sand and become spiritual. Improve my inner being. Like chin implants to improve my profile. ’S long as I never have to wear a baseball cap the wrong way round. Better off with a little plastic chicken winglet around my neck on a chain.
Chapter 11
‘You don’t know how to make a margarita?’
Billy and Girl are sitting perched on the chrome and plastic stools at the bar of the Holiday Inn. Girl sulks in shades with striped zebra-patterned frames. Billy wears a herringbone suit. Always dress smart when you’re about to rob a superstore.
‘You don’t know how to make a margarita?’ Girl repeats in disbelief.
The barman shakes his head. ‘Never had cause to make ’em here. Folk want a gin and tonic, or a scotch usually.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Girl is getting hysterical. ‘You don’t make cocktails in this hotel?’
‘Nope.’
‘What’s the point of him?’ Girl shouts at Billy, who just shakes his head incredulously.
‘Look, do you know what a cocktail is?’
The barman nods wearily. ‘Yep. It’s mixers.’
‘Jeeezus! Where are you from?’
‘Devon, madam.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Girl looks at him sorrowfully through her new shades. ‘Suppose you only drink milk in Devon. Milk!’
‘Is there something else I can get you, madam?’
‘Cocktails are martinis and gimlets, manhattans and margaritas. Martinis have been drunk for ever. It’s not like cocktails are a new thing! Everyone loves a drink shaken up. You should have a juicer behind the bar for starters and a briefcase busting with bartending tools inside it! You need a bar spoon, a blender, a jigger, measuring cup, mixing glass, paring knife, standard shaker and a strainer. Got any of those things, Mr Barman?’
‘I have some lemon slices, madam, if you would like a gin and tonic?’
‘Lemon slices?’ Girl is amazed and disgusted. She looks at the ceiling and shakes her head tragically. ‘You telling me that if I want a garnish for my cocktail all you can offer me is a lemon slice? Got any celery? Cinnamon sticks? Pickled jalapeño peppers? Almond syrup? You think tonic is a mixer? Got any coconut cream? Clamato juice? Guava nectar? Bitter lemon soda?’
‘Nope.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you what.’ Girl lowers her voice and winks at him, giving him a chance. ‘If you can’t make a margarita, mix me a Mermaid’s Song instead.’
The barman looks nervous. ‘I can give you a martini, madam.’
Girl stares at him coldly. ‘We want a margarita. Have you got Triple Sec?’
‘I’ve got Cointreau.’
Muzak leaks out of the speakers.
‘Okay. Have you got tequila?’
‘Nope. Not much call for it, madam.’
‘Not much call for it! Did you hear that, Billy? This is a bar, isn’t it? Have I got this wrong? Is this not a bar? Am I wrong about this? Am I in a dry cleaner’s? Am I asking the dry cleaner for a margarita and he is telling me there’s not much call for it or am I in a bar where you ask for things like a margarita and it is perfectly normal?’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ Billy says to the barman, who is backing away now, busying himself washing glasses in boiling water, scalding his hands, trying to remember if his horoscope said today was going to be a good day.
‘And don’t fucking give it to me in a hot glass.’
Girl bangs her hand on the fake-marble tabletop. Adjusts her new sun shades. Runs her fingers through her blond fringe. Twitchy.
‘Billy, it’s easy. So damn easy I don’t know why we didn’t do it years before. FreezerWorld. It’s like this, Billy – are you listening?’
‘Yep.’ Her brother knows exactly what she’s going to say. They’ve already planned it four times. It’s been well discussed. They’re having a cocktail and then they’re going to do FreezerWorld. Except Girl is losing it. Taking her nerves out on the barman.
‘Sooner we get out of this country, the better. I’m telling you, Billy, this is the last straw. England is fucked. I was really looking forward to a margarita.’
When the barman brings Billy his beer, Girl asks for a triple vodka and lime on the rocks.
‘I honestly feel like crying, Billy. I was just so excited at the thought of enjoying a margarita. It’s too much to take disappointments about small things. It’s the big things supposed to crack you up, but this is too much.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Billy says. ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t cry!’ He gulps down his beer. ‘We’ll torch the place one day. Any time we ask for onions with our burger and they don’t do onions, we’ll torch that place as well. Any time we ask for avocado and prawns and they give us pink cream, we’ll torch that place too.’
Girl takes off her shades to watch all the more closely as the barman pours lime cordial into her vodka.
‘We’ll torch Devon,’ she says.
Billy smirks behind his hand. ‘Lucky I put my vest on.’
‘Why’s that?’ Girl slamming her zebra shades over her eyes again.
‘Cos we’re going to do FreezerWorld.’
His sister orders another triple vodka.
‘Louise. Louise, Billy. It’s a sign. It’s a sign under superstore neon. For us. LOUISE. Louise works on the Cash Only till for us. A real princess, big blue eyes and a gold hair slide in her gold hair. She’s only been on the tills a week and she hates it. The lights make her eyes hurt. The manager treats her like a retard. She wants to do the store damage, Billy. It’s called retard rage! She doesn’t know it but she does! That’s the most important thing. She doesn’t know she wants to help us, but she does. Very much so.’
Billy wonders if she’s got a temperature because her cheeks are flushed, the red creeping into her nose and ears. And Girl is a pale girl.
‘Remember, her tea break is only fifteen minutes. We got to work quickly. Get it right. Not fuck up. What does Louise do for her fifteen minutes, Billy? She eats an apple. She combs her lovely gold hair. She puts cream on her hands. She takes a deep breath and walks back to the till. That is fifteen precious minutes in the life of Louise. At four o’clock the Saturday girl takes over from her. The till is busting with cash. The supervisor empties it at four-thirty. I’ll take over from her at five to four, Billy, understand?’
Her brother nods. Let her get it out of her system. Run through the plan again. Just hope she remembers to take her shades off and not have a Mom catastrophe at an awkward moment.
Girl takes out a checked overall from a plastic bag, FREEZERWORLD emblazoned on its side. ‘Louise gave it to me, Billy! I didn’t even ask for it. I saw it rolled up by the side of the till. Louise said, “It’s my spare. You can have it if you like.” She’s working with us, Billy.’
She holds up the overall. ‘Louise and I have got the same slave garme
nt. Girl slaves wear ’em all over the world. The Saturday Girl – get it, Billy? That’s me. We’re all set up, Billy boy.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Girl, you’re making me nervous. Keep your voice down. Jeezus. The barman already knows exactly where we’re going and what we’re going to do. Why don’t you run it through again with a friendly constable just to clear your mind?’
Girl takes off her shades and lowers her voice. ‘Okay. Tell me once more what you are going to do?’
‘I’m gonna create a disturbance in the store. The staff gather to help me. You’re filling a FreezerWorld bag full of cash and you’ll just walk it.’ Her brother smiles. ‘It’s so crazy. Sooo crazy.’ He whistles.
Girl crunches the ice from her vodka nerve molotov.
‘Another thing, Billy. Are you listening?’
‘No.’
‘When I checked out the shopping last time, there was an announcement. If ever there was a sign burning for us, it was this one: “We want our customers to feel that FreezerWorld belongs to them.”’
‘Let’s take ’em up on the offer.’ Billy leans towards the barman. ‘I know this is a glass. I’m not asking you to agree with me. I’m asking you to fill it up.’
‘Be with you in a moment, sir.’
‘Why does FreezerWorld sell garden furniture?’
‘How should I know?’
‘If something’s called CatWorld you don’t expect to find parrots and goldfish there, do you?’
‘God, you’re driving me crazy.’ Girl’s lips are cold and wet.
‘You’re already crazy,’ Billy says.
‘Even crazier. For God’s sake, Billy, have a chaser with your beer. We’ve got a lot on our plate this afternoon.’ She takes a delicate sip of her vodka. ‘I’m just off to change into my Saturday slave-girl overalls.’
