by Deborah Levy
Counting the notes, skipping numbers to avoid the catastrophe of counting in sequence. Girl saying, ‘It’s a respectable cash haul, Billy.’ Big smile on. Big smile off. ‘It’s a respectable cash haul, Billy.’ On. Off. Billy waving his bandaged arm, whining. Wanting haddock. Moaning for haddock. Haddock? What the fuck is haddock? It’s a fish, isn’t it? Is it? Nothing is certain any more. California? You grind it with glass, don’t you? Chat shows? That’s one of seventeen words for snow, isn’t it? The doorbell ringing. Another aborted cab. Counting the money over and over.
Six hundred pounds.
Not exactly a mega robbery. Not exactly. If they’re lucky, it’s two cheap fares from a bucket shop. Plane diverted via nine destinations, having to endure the company of cheery sunseekers spilling airline boeuf stroganoff over their hideous T-shirts. Girl dressed in her Jackie Onassis outfit. Shades and a little red suit with white trimming. No tights, just her silver loafers. Complaining bitterly to the stewardesses about the lack of cocktail know-how. Doing her nut when she asks for a bloody Mary and the air hostess hands her a miniature Smirnoff and a can of tomato juice. Screaming for real service. Demanding half a teaspoonful of horseradish, tabasco sauce and a lime wedge in her fucking bloody Mary. Billy howling, biting the cushions when she changes her mind and insists on a Bosom Caresser. Five parts brandy, two parts madeira, etc. Girl might look like Jackie and Billy does his best to act presidential, but they’re not exactly set up for idle luxury once they arrive in California, are they? Only Grand-Dad’s envelope of cash, and that’s not predictable if he hasn’t had much luck on the horses. No. Unless they luck out and get spotted immediately? Like at the airport, showing their visas to immigration. A Pain Agent behind them. Her big blond hair gleaming with the latest monkey-gland sheen spray. Yards of fingernails painted orange. Tapping them against her perfect teeth. Sussing them out. Converting their English pain potential into US dollars. Pain Agent’s best catch yet! Whispering into her mobile. ‘Al, I jus’ hauled in the biggest tuna the Golden State’s ever clapped eyes on. Buy a new freezer, I’m draggin ’em home.’ Not exactly.
Six hundred miserable English pounds.
FreezerWorld let them down. The Basket People let them down. Louise let them down. The Express till to nowhere. A robbery to nowhere.
The morning after, Girl cleaned the skirting boards and Billy swept the kitchen floor. Billy scrunched up newspaper, soaked it in meths and scrubbed every window in the house. Girl washed down the sofa, armchair and curtains. Billy collected every odd sock he ever owned and rinsed them in biological. Girl took all her bras out of the drawer and soaked them in bleach. Billy undid his bandage and gawped at his stitches. Girl trimmed her fringe and then burnt the blond ends in an ashtray. Neither of them answered the telephone. The answermachine whirled and clicked and the voice droned on and on. Always the same voice. Girl rubbed suntan oil into her cheeks and lay on the carpet reading a thriller. Billy sliced one mushroom for ninety minutes. Girl washed the suntan oil off her cheeks. Billy put his bandage back on. Six hours and four messages later, Girl pressed the play button. Yes. Definitely the same voice on all the messages. Girl searched for Pause, and then she called Billy. As soon as he saw his sister’s face he knew he shouldn’t have rushed slicing that mushroom. Sat himself down on the most comfy armchair, crossed his legs, fiddled with the laces on his red trainers, asked his sister whether she wanted to rub more suntan oil into her face before she pressed Play? No, but she has just spotted a speck of dust on the woodwork and would he mind if she takes a moment to dampen a J Cloth and remove it? Of course not. And while she’s in the kitchen looking for the J Cloths, would she be so kind as to put a lid on the dish with the sliced mushroom inside it? With pleasure. In fact, she’ll clean out the fridge while she’s there to make room for the dish with the mushroom in it. Perhaps while she’s doing that, Billy could take the gold bands off the butts in the ashtray and save them to make a Christmas card with? What a good idea. Why doesn’t he make a little box to save the gold bands in?
Girl presses Play. The same message, four times. Dad’s voice in their front room. Speaking to them. Dad leaving a message for his kiddies.
Chapter 2
THIS IS A MESSAGE FOR WILLIAM AND LOUISE ENGLAND.
I THINK YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN A CAR I HAVE TO SELL
YOU. MY PHONE NUMBER IS 0115 676767.
WILLIAM AND LOUISE, I CALLED EARLIER WITH A CONTACT
NUMBER. I KEENLY ADVISE YOU TO TELEPHONE ME.
YES, I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO BILLY AND LOUISE. MY NUMBER IS 0115 676767.
BILLY AND GIRL. THIS WON’T BE MY LAST MESSAGE.
AS I SAID, I HAVE A CAR YOU MIGHT LIKE. I HAVE REASON TO
BELIEVE YOU HAVE SOME MONEY TO BUY IT WITH.
‘Call him, Girl.’
Billy’s gone blue like he does when he’s painwalking. Trailing his mind across a landscape of soft ash. It’s warm where he is. Warm and chalky. White birds hover above, flapping their wings, making wind for the ash to rise and scatter.
Billy is naked. Rolling in the ash. A small boy. Face down, rolling over and over, blue skin covered in ash, like talcum powder, fifteen years old, perfect and tiny. Rolling the pain out of his baby fifteen-year boy body, fifteen summers and winters.
‘I can’t.’ Girl punches her blond head, eyes shut, lips shut.
‘We must.’ Billy is nearly home from his walk. The blue is leaking out of his face. He takes a breath, wants to sound weary and assured. ‘We must. I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why?’
‘Mom.’
‘He doesn’t know where she is.’
‘He might.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I will then.’
Billy stands up. Walks to the telephone. Cradles it under his chin. 0115 676767. Waits. Thinks about all the mushrooms in the world that need to be sliced. His sister can see the blue creeping back into his fingers. Painwalking again. Someone’s interrupted his stroll. Up to his waist in ash. Saying something.
‘Hello. This is William.’
Pause.
‘When?’
‘Ten o’clock?’
Pause.
‘Ten o’clock.’
Billy puts down the phone. The important thing is not to look at Girl. Look at the telephone cord instead.
Girl says, ‘What happened in the pauses, Billy?’
Billy counting every whirl in the spiral of white cord. It could be the intestine of a small animal. Something that scampers in the woods and hides in trees.
‘Dad says he saw an artist’s impression of us in the papers. Wants to reassure us it isn’t very good. Nothing like us. But he’s our daddy and dads know.’
Girl cheers up. ‘Oh, really? An artist has done a drawing? That’s fantastic, Billy! We’re famous! I wonder who decribed us to the artist? Some basket person, I reckon. Probably the one with the ginger eyes. He saw us in ginger!’
Billy wants to give the plastic cord a little saucer of milk. Anything to distract himself from the terror scraping at his throat. Terror to do with Girl.
‘Thing to do,’ he begins, pushing down the fear coming at him from somewhere forgotten, ‘is to go and see a film now.’
‘Yeah.’ Girl nods.
‘Cos we got to leave for Nottingham early tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’ Girl nods again, freaking her brother out.
‘We got to be there by ten o’clock.’ Billy knows he’s got to leave the room. Now. He’s beginning to tremble. Not because of Dad. Because of Girl. Because of what Dad told him about Girl in the pauses.
‘Pass me my menthols, Billy. I think I’ll have a smoke and think about Dad.’
Billy needs to take a walk. There’s no way he really wants to see a film with his sister. It scares him the way she’s sitting there, drawing on her cigarette, smiling to herself. ‘Thinking about Dad.’ He puts on his coat, suprised to find his feet pressing extra soft on the carpet, moving stealthily towards the front door. Closing
it in slow motion so as not to disturb Louise. Taking a breath hurts his boy mouth. He’s never called Girl Louise. So why is she suddenly Louise? Why everything? Dad called Girl Louise. Please please make it Raj’s day on.
Billy opens the door of Patel’s English and Continental Groceries with dread in his heart. What if Mr Patel is at the till today? Raj’s father treats him like a kid. No respect for his analytical skills. Last time Billy told Mr Patel he ‘was in denial’ (Mr Patel was laughing over something Billy thought was extremely sad), the old man doubled up with hysterical laughter and suggested Billy take up judo at the local sports centre. Today Billy doesn’t feel up to the Mr Patel treatment. He doesn’t want to be given a complimentary mini choc bar. The old man feels sorry for him. Jeezus. Doesn’t Patel know he’s been straightening out his son this past year?
It’s Raj all right. Billy can hear the stress in his voice. Trying to take the money for a packet of Quavers that a prominent member of Stupid Club is reading.
‘Anything else, George?’
‘But then again, Raj, I had an uncle who was a scientist and he said take no notice of the sell-by date.’
‘Yip.’
‘He said if it smells off, don’t eat it. If it smells right, who cares if it’s a month past the date?’
‘Yeah. Bye.’ Raj looks in desperation at Billy, pleading with him to do something.
Billy obliges. ‘Fuck off, Professor. Closing time.’
George’s mouth quivers. He turns to Raj. ‘Want me to punch him, son?’
‘No, George. I’ll set the dog on him. See you tomorrow.’
At last. At fucking last Stupid Club George fucks off out of the fucking shop.
‘Fancy a half, Billy?’
‘A pint, Raj.’
Raj raises his eyebrow. Never seen Billy like this before. In fact, his pal looks like he’s swimming in the insanity lane. Worst of all, he’s playing with a little mushroom. Keeps transferring it from one palm to the other, like he’s thinking something through. Raj tries to keep an open mind. Okay, so what’s the big deal about using vegetables in unpredictable ways? Why not carry a carrot in your pocket for luck? Why not hang a broccoli floret around your neck to ward off the evil eye? He takes out a packet of bacon from the fridge and throws it to the Alsatian, who catches it between his sharp crusted fangs. Dog saliva dribbling down his mangy black gums. Raj switches off the lights and locks up the shop.
‘Good boy. Don’t forget to say your pork prayers.’
Chapter 3
‘What’s up then?’
Raj is patient. Just sits there drinking his third pint of strongest draught lager, waiting for when Billy’s ready.
Billy strokes his mushroom with the ball of his thumb and then shuts his eyes. For a long time. Three pints’ worth of time.
‘Did you know that Girl’s real name is Louise?’
‘That’s a lovely name.’ Raj smiles. ‘Suits her.’
‘What would you say, Raj, if I told you that Louise set fire to my dad?’
He’s still got his eyes shut.
‘Set fire to him?’
‘That’s what I said. Burned up his face so he had to have a new one grafted on. The skin from his chest put on his face.’
Raj is feeling dizzy. It really has been a hard day. Truth is, he feels like sobbing into a cash ’n’ carry Kleenex. What with Stupid Club George and now Billy with his fire stories, Raj can’t walk. He staggers to the bar and orders another pint and a half. Zigzags back spilling beer on the carpet.
‘Why did she do that then?’
‘Cos Dad tried to kill me.’
Raj suddenly wants to go home. To sit at the kitchen table and eat a tasty chicken curry. Drink a mug of milky tea. Watch TV with his father and little brother and ask his mum what she wants for Christmas. In fact Raj bursts into tears. Lays his head on the table and sobs, cheek pressed into a beer mat.
‘It’s all right, Raj. Was a long time ago.’
Raj shakes his head, searching for words to slur and slide into each other. Drunk. Bloody legless. ‘I just can’t take any more of Stupid Club.’
Billy chucks his mushroom under the table. It’s an effort to open his eyes, it really is.
‘Listen, Raj. You’re the best thing England’s got. Don’t give up hope.’
Raj lifts up his head and vomits over the table.
Billy just can’t believe how unhelpful his pal is being. He’s going to have to carry him out of the pub. Billy, who’s not supposed to be there in the first place. Billy, who only comes up to Raj’s belt buckle. Stupid Club are really doing Raj damage. Cos what they do, Billy reckons, is dump their collective pain on Raj, in the shape of Quaver and sell-by-date talk. Look at him. That’s what comes of being an unpaid pain counsellor. What a day. Billy stands up, grabs hold of Raj’s arm and flings it over his weedy shoulder. Starts to drag him across the balding carpet, past the jukebox, past the builders staring at him with cement in their nostrils.
Outside in the cold, Raj sobers up, loosens his shirt buttons and wipes his mouth.
‘If your dad tried to kill you, then Girl saved your life.’
‘Maybe.’ Billy’s turning blue again. ‘I don’t think she remembers what she did.’
‘Probably a good thing.’
Blueness sliding into Billy’s cheeks. He looks tiny out in the fresh air. Shrinking or something. He’s beginning to look like a plastic toy in a cereal packet.
‘You all right?’
‘No, I’m definitely not all right, Raj. Do I look like someone who’s all right?’
‘No.’
‘See, Raj, I don’t want to be anywhere near Girl when she remembers.’
Chapter 4
Girl
Dad didn’t look like Dad. He came to the door and we didn’t know who he was. Dad used to be the best-looking prince in the kingdom. He had a new face. God must have zapped him. Stretched his arm through the sky and lightning bolts exploded from his fingertips onto Dad’s head.
His eyes were small. Dad had big eyes. This Dad had a face sewn on. Lips too near his nose. Slime dripping from his ears. This Dad had no hair. Smiling with his wrong lips. Staring with his wrong eyes. Staring but not looking. This Dad was shrunken. Shrunken but not small. His eyes kept poking at us. First Billy. Little jabs. Then me. Staring but not looking.
Billy said something about how we’ve come to the wrong house. This Dad shakes his wrong head. ‘No. You’ve come to the right house,’ he says. Dad’s voice. Deep. A prince’s voice.
It was the voice that got to me. The same as the answermachine voice. Dad’s looking at me from out of his ears. I told you his face is put on the wrong way. I say, ‘I don’t want to come in.’
He nods. ‘Didn’t think you would.’
Billy says, ‘Show us the car then.’
This Dad stinks of beer. This Dad’s voice is coming out of his fingers. He’s starting to walk. One two. One two. We’re following him. Dad in front, his kiddies behind. My father.
Takes half an hour opening a garage. Tries five different keys. Perhaps his fingers don’t work properly? When he got burnt he must have put his fingers over his face.
Staring but not seeing. Staring at his son’s tattoo with Mother on it. Beckons us inside. It’s dark in the garage. We don’t want to go in. Dad stands there calling us. He stinks of paraffin and beer. We’re not budging. Just standing while he calls us. Calling us with a different name each time. William. Louise. Bill. Lou. Billy. Girl.
‘Well, you come on your own then, lad.’
Lad? Billy is rooted to the fucking concrete. Lad? Dad might just as well have said Tin. Even without the ‘lad’ bit he’d never go near Dadness. Last time he got too near he wound up with a broken arm. As far as Billy is concerned LAD PIEQUALSPI BROKEN ARM. We all had to draw hearts with a biro on his plaster-of-Paris sling.
This Dad shrugs. Just calling out version of our names. ‘Bill, Lou-Lou, Will, Girl.’ Changes his mind and gets into the car himself.
Starts the engine. Nothing happens. Tries again. Nothing happens.
Billy says something in my ear. Stupid stuff like we shouldn’t buy a car that doesn’t start. Oh, is that right? Billy should edit an automobile journal with inside knowledge like that. The car-owning public really need him. So I whisper the sad facts into my brother’s ear. ‘We got no choice. He’s blackmailing us.’ Just as Dad manages to start the car and backs it out onto the street. Don’t get too excited. Once upon a time it was a car. A Merc, 1959. Would make a lovely minicab.
Dadness is getting out of the Merc wreck like a car-crash survivor. I don’t know what he’s thinking because his face is probably somewhere else on his body. I might be looking at his arse for all I know. ‘Thought you might like this,’ he whimpers. But his voice is teasing us. Teasing and whimpering.
What does Billy do? He looks at this Dadness, trying to figure out where he begins or ends, and says, ‘Where’s Mom?’
A complete fucking pig-squealing silence. Dad is going to disintegrate and restructure himself in front of our eyes. He’s going to melt down and shape into something worse. This Dad says, ‘Mom had to disappear, didn’t she?’
What does Billy do? Boy detective? Deadpan voice. ‘What have you done with Mom?’ Jeezus. This Dad has probably eaten her. He’s going to burst out of his skin and splatter the Merc with slime.
‘Took the blame, didn’t she?’
Stop Dad talking. Saying things. Better to buy the Merc and go.
‘After Louise burnt me up. Mom said it was her who did it, didn’t she?’
Take out the cash. Take out the cash. Take out the cash.
