by Deborah Levy
He’s sobering up now. ‘I don’t know anything about your till or whatever. I sold them a car. You got to get the money off them.’
‘Naaaaa. You took it all, didn’t you? Took the whole fucking lot off your kids.’
DONT FUCK ABOUT. PUT THE NOTES ON THE TABLE.
Mr England is staring at her moist-eyed now. ‘I ain’t got nothin’ for ya,’ he croons in a good ol’ Southern boy voice, unbuttoning his healthy man shirt. Revealing a spotless white vest. ‘I haven’t got any of the money. It’s gone. I had a few debts, Louise.’
Throwing the shirt on the carpet over the bottles. Taking off his vest. Turned away from her so she can only see the slack muscles turned to fat. A broad back. Turning towards her now. Full of self-exhaustion, the world-weariness of an ex-heart-throb.
Dad is just a hole. He hasn’t got a chest. Putting his face close to hers. She can see the scars on his face now. His face has been built up. Layers of skin taken from his chest and put on his face. Layers of skin scraped from his chest.
‘See, Louise. My girl set fire to me.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise replies.
‘I lost my own flesh. I don’t owe nothing.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise says again.
‘Ey?’ Mr England completely bewildered. He’s backing away. Moving his hands over the holes in his chest. A man full of holes. A manhole.
‘You’re not Louise,’ he whispers.
‘I am.’
‘You’re not my Louise.’
Louise is shaken. Snow falling over the Christmas scene. She’s on a pain pathway. Can’t get off it.
‘I’m as evil as a blonde can get,’ she whispers.
‘What you saying?’
‘I said I’m as evil as a blonde can get.’
The mister, the man, ghost Dad, manhole, something man staring at her, all beer and confusion, the smouldering bits of him, burning up, combusting.
‘Go on. Say it to me.’
‘Say what?’
‘Say you’re as evil as a blonde can get.’
Mr England searching for his vest. Staggering about for his checked lumberjack shirt. Louise has placed her orange boot over it and he doesn’t dare ask her to move. He’s been here before. Girl Danger announcing itself. The holeman remembers.
‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’
‘Say it more.’
‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’
‘Say it over and over.’
‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde evil evil can get.’
He stops. Some kind of knowledge pulling through the manhole. ‘I’m not your dad, Louise. You know I’m not. Pull yourself together now. C’mon now, there’s a good girl.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. It’s happening. I can see it’s beginning. I’m not him, okay? I don’t think you’re evil.’
Louise sobbing into her see-thru cleavage. ‘Where’s their Mom?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘You got to tell me for them.’
He grabs his shirt and starts to struggle into it, taking his time, doing up the buttons at his own pace. Wiping the beer off his lips with the back of his hand. Forget the gas fire and brown hundred per cent wool carpet. It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s what’s inside that matters. He is a rugged individualist, with a past. The stranger who swings open the saloon doors and the guys at the bar know he’s seen a bit. Been through it. Don’t ask any questions. A loner, living in the suburbs with coyotes and his horse. Except this is the moment Mr England has been dreaming about these past few years. He’s played it over and over in his head. Practised his TV interview to the nation till he knows exactly what he’s going to say. If he imagines the cameras are rolling he can get across his point of view. Mr England makes an attempt to get a media-friendly tone into his voice. Preparing himself to touch the hearts of the five-o’clock viewing population. Puts a comb through his hair. Rubs his hands over his face. Does a few excercises to relax his jaw. Makes sure he’s sitting straight and not like some slob from Bumford. Checks out where the cameras would be if they were actually there. Positions them in his head so he never looks straight at them. Takes a deep breath. Caressing Louise with his eyes, and, by implication, the viewing public. Best to use everything you got in this life.
‘I don’t know why I’m supposed to be the big bad wolf in all of this. Up to a point I’ll take my share. I’ll take fifty per cent but not a hundred. Like Elvis said, I wasn’t made to be married. I don’t like it. Husband walking around farting. Wife walking around scratching. Kids going around hollering. Yes, I hit my lad because he ran away with my wife. In a manner of speaking, you understand. I’m not a basket case. I was out of order. But he provoked me.’ Dad pauses. Shaking his handsome head at the pathos and beauty of being a dysfunctional. ‘I loved my wife. She used to have a beehive and that. After the birth of the lad, I lost her. She had eyes only for him. I went on an eating binge. Stuffing myself with mashed potato and gravy, nine Suffolk porkers in one sitting followed by a packet of biscuits.’
Louise doesn’t know how to conduct this interview. What tone of voice or questions to ask. She doesn’t even know about bringing in the studio McPsychologist to tell the nation how Mr England did not have a reliable role model for fatherhood and masculinity. Boring. Well, if it’s so damn fucking boring, why are they all watching?
Information to make the viewers gawp, coming up.
‘My girl, my daughter, twelve years old, I loved her above myself, would have done anything for her, my little princess even though she was a secret smoker, set fire to me after I went a bit far with the lad. I went to have a lie-down. My girl poured paraffin over my head, set fire to me with my very own Elvis lighter, the one with “Don’t Be Cruel” printed on it. A collector’s item. No one helped me. Not the lad, not the wife, not the daughter, not the neighbours. The bed sheets on fire. By the time the ambulance finally pulled up with a puncture and three so called medics – poets in white coats who’d just done a first-aid course – I was nearly gone. They carried me on a stretcher down the stairs trying to work out what rhymes with dead.’
The nation holds its breath. That’s quite something, isn’t it?
Mr England thinks he’s doing well. When the time comes for the real cameras he’ll be well rehearsed. Word-perfect.
‘My wife took the blame, didn’t she? Said she was provoked. Got a doctor’s report on the boy’s bruises. They let her off, but she wasn’t allowed to stay with her kids. Had to live separate. Her father’s looking after them.’
Mr England looks directly into the lightbulb so tears will roll down his cheeks.
‘Yes, I have had a few girlfriends since. Thing is, I never like to go to sleep with them in the house. It’s a panic thing. Case they do something to me while I’m sleeping.’ Mr England shifts his focus. Imagines where the McPsychologist will be sitting. Should he give him a sly wink? Probably a few housewives out there who want to marry him. Credits coming up. Chat-show theme tune coming up.
‘Look, fuck off, will you? I haven’t a clue where their mother is. Piss off out of my house now. Any more trouble from my family sending people over here, I’ll hire a security guard. Going to put a sign on my door: ARMED RESPONSE.’
‘Yeah?’
Louise believes him. He hasn’t a clue. Got no curiosity. Mr England has shut himself in his castle for ever. Patiently tying the bin liners with little strips of green plastic wire. Doing his weekly shop for one. Pint of milk and little tin of butter beans. Watching the chat shows. Singing old Elvis numbers. She’s got no information for the girl and Billy. Billy’s voice coming into her head. Telling her about the man who gave a name to his pain. Called it dog. Kicked and screamed at it. She can’t find a name for her pain. ‘They’ hurt her and she ran away. Princess Louise of FreezerWorld. Cooling down – calmed by the murmuring. Fridges humming Louise lullabies to her
broken heart, all day long. Hush little baby don’t say a word. Hush little baby. Hush. Atgam, Cleocin, Didrex, Povera Quinidine, glass vials, white gloves, Lidocaine, Darvocet, Phenurone, diagnostic manuals, the free market, free love or the essential English dictionary, they’re not going to do it. Mrs O’Reilly might just do it. Taking her in. Folding her into her Mom arms. Cleaning up the snot and tears. Yeah, the Girl and Billy voice channelling through her as one voice, they’re in this together. What did Girl say? ‘Soon all the kids in England will be pushing up daisies.’
Someone’s knocking at the door. Ringing the bell.
Mr England looks worried now. Punching his fist into his own thigh.
‘Only Danny.’ Louise lets him in, princess eyes squeezed into pain slits. Biting her nails.
‘You all right, Lou?’ Danny, who’s taken the day off work on her behalf and everything.
‘I’m all right.’
Mr England just about manages to stand up and stagger to the corridor. Complete fucking strangers coming to his house. It’s got to stop. Why’s the bloke staring at him like that? Mr England slugging another premium lager.
Danny checking him out. Sneaking side glances at Louise. He’s used to getting into situations with her. She’s a wild girl. Knows he mustn’t ask too many questions. Sometimes you can’t, got to keep ventilation between knowing and not knowing when you love someone. Ask when you have to, otherwise leave it. Danny’s never believed he has to know everything. I mean, he’s not some fucking private dick on the Louise File, is he? Louise. Danny loves the smell of her hair. Holding her tight in her bad times. A man in love. Walking proud, heart busting with Louise. Teenage runaway. Those orange ankle boots the other girl gave her. He was just pretending when he said he liked them but it all went wrong because she believed him and he didn’t want to be cruel. There are limits to love. It’s not good for a bloke to have a girlfriend who looks like Marc Bolan.
Chapter 11
Billy
The Merc is now ‘all there’. It’s a good thing I’ve got my books and pain research to keep me preoccupied because I’ve stopped talking. My voice is in hiding and only Mom is going to drag it kicking and screaming out of me. This happened ever since Raj kissed my crazy bitch sister in the back seat of the Merc. Look, Raj is not just my best friend, he is also a patient. I’ve been working on him for some time which is why I didn’t pay a penny when he delivered his bill for the motor. I couldn’t anyway because Grand-Dad cash has stopped. We have not received an envelope for two weeks now. The two-thirty has not come home. It’s probably being mashed up for cat food because in all this time Grand-Dad has never not sent us cash.
Look, if my sister gets intimate with Raj, it’s like me getting intimate with him, and that’s not ethical. Never ever sleep with your patients. Go down that road and you’re a professional without a profession, an omelette without eggs. Time to take myself off to a film. Sit in the dark. Take out my lickle Billy knife and slide it into the seat. It’s known as ‘cutting’ in the mind trade. I have been looking into this knife thing, come to a few conclusions if you’ve got the time to hear me out? I think my little knife is to protect me from being castrated by my mother. Yep, I’ll wait while you fix yourself a Pernod and open the cocktail-hour Twiglets. See, if anyone’s gonna castrate this boy, it’s gonna be me. Gonks. If ever there was a castrated pet toy it’s the gonk. Grew its hair long to cover the severed parts. Honky Gonky. A mummie’s gonk.
I have become my mother in order to prevent my own castration. Someone get me some gripe water, quick! Mom has disappeared but she blinks in my mind all through the night. She never goes to sleep. I study myself through the watchful eyes of my absent mother. She fills the whole screen with her big eye sockets, watching me. Where I score, tho’, is I don’t feel like I’m the wicked son waiting to be punished, nor do I want to destroy her power. I just want some of it. No one is cutting off my dick. No one is even going to lop off my foreskin for religious purposes. One thing I’m sure of: my dick is bigger than Dad’s was. Heh heh heh. Let me explain myself. What I am saying to the distinguished gentlemen assembled here (the local Odeon, as it happens) is that I have access to more masculinities than Dad. I am husband, father, son, brother, virgin, pimp, career man, homme fatale – yep, I’ll wait while you pour yourself another vodka martini. Got any frankfurters? I am a wizard, a vampire, a smart boy with pain problems. So when I cut up the seats, it’s Mom trying to castrate me.
Velvet cinema seats made for watching heroes and heroines fall in and out of love. Girl and I are made for the big screen. We are hero and heroine material and there will probably be a car chase on account of us now having a car because Raj is expressing himself motor manually.
The reason why we are heroic is because we are tragic and flawed. Yep. If there is some kind of catharsis to be had in the future I hope it’s got antiseptic and yards of sterilised gauze waiting for us at the end of it. I have this idea that perhaps the Merc will be like James Dean’s Porsche Spyder. We’ll have an accident, a smash-up, and die young. Word of the tragedy will echo around the world. We will be icons of the alcoholic-lemonade generation. Someone will unearth photographs of us and become famous. A number of these early pics will wind up in the Museum of Modern Art in New York and in the table-tennis club in Rotherham. I want the Merc to smash on account of Girl and Raj. Lost my sister and my patient/best friend in one sitting. I’m not going to ever speak again.
When Raj beeped the born-again Merc hooter, Girl and I were wringing our hands in the kitchen because Grand-Dad has let us down. No money to even do a shop and we are big consumers. We need to shop. Shopping for us is like going on a long walk in the countryside. We feel healthier afterwards. We sleep better. Breathe easy. Even if food rots in our fridge, at least we know it is there. Even if cleaning products are never used and gather dust in the cupboard under the sink, we feel all the more clean for owning them. So we are moody when we go outside to see what all the fuss is about. Frankly, we don’t give a fuck about anything at the moment. Grand-Dad, despite his humour problems, equals survival. The world is about to lose Billy England to malnutrition. While the mediocre stuff themselves with mushroom pies and straight men with a famine of masculinities at their fingertips write literary novels in their second homes in France and their wives bring up the kiddies, Billy England is about to die.
Raj beeping the horn again.
There he is! Raj put our pain inheritance into intensive care and today the master surgeon is wearing a new silk shirt to celebrate new Merc life. Revving the engine, his elbow out of the window and a fat Cuban cigar between his fingers.
‘C’mon on in,’ he drawls in this new self-satisfied voice. My crazy fucked sister. A moment ago she was talking about us drowning ourselves in a canal somewhere, and now she’s opening the Merc door like she’s taking a spin to her health club. She sits next to Raj (purple velveteen seats) who shows her the work he’s done ‘on all the controls’ (like this is an aeroplane or something) and then, worst of all, takes her into the back seat where he’s built her a minibar. A minibar! Raj, who is not only wearing a silk shirt but also new Nikes in the shape of spats, puts his arm around my sister while she fiddles about with the hundreds of miniatures some cousin has given him.
‘Hey, Billy man, drive us somewhere.’
Whaat? He knows I can’t drive. For a start there are so many beads and air fresheners in the shape of apples, weird Gods and pears hanging from the mirror, I can’t see out of the front window. Raj coming on like some French playboy from one of those crummy old movies set in a casino, watching Girl mix the miniatures, shake the mixer and pour ’em both some killer brew, forgetting all about me! Raj knocking it back in one and then kissing my bitch sister full on the lips for about two three four minutes.
What am I supposed to do? Watch? Drive off? Make notes? Go away discreetly on the big day of our Merc delivery? Four minutes is a long time if you live your life intensely. Four minutes. Enough time to let silence fal
l eloquently over the proceedings. I mean, the Merc is supposed to be one third mine. Seems like the back seat ain’t big enough for three.
Chapter 12
Louise feels really hard done by. So she calls on the England children and tells them the truth. Their dad doesn’t know anything. Got no information for them. They’re gawping at her, not believing her, making her feel bad. Worst of all, Billy has stopped talking. Passes little notes across the table to her. HOW MANY TIMES DID YOU ASK DAD WHERE MOM WAS? COME ON! ONE TWO THREE TIMES? WHAT? She can’t even read his writing. Girl has to lean over, swipe the note and read it out loud, making her feel stupid. Who the fuck do they think they are? Girl wants to know what they talked about. Did she get the right house? How can she be sure? Did Dad give her a message for his kiddies? No? Is Louise keeping something back from them? If she is, she better spill the beans. Billy shaking his head. Insinuating she handled it really badly. That she’s no good. Girl snarling at her. The Louise tangle. Okay, what did Dad do when Louise said her name was Louise? But Louise isn’t good at describing things. She doesn’t like setting the scene. It’s not her thing.
‘He said you set fire to him,’ Louise says in a morbid, expressionless voice. ‘For bashing Billy.’
Girl puts her hand on her lip. ‘I did, didn’t I?’
Her brother nods. Writes something. FANKS. THANKS.
Girl’s face starts to cave in on her. The whole Girl thing collapsing. ‘Oh, my God!’
Billy writing more. NO GOD. JUST PAIN.
Tears. Girl’s tears are hideous. Pouring out of her. She’s sobbing into her hands, meowling, even her hair is wet, red welts on her cheeks where she rubs them and cries more.
‘I’m evil, Billy.’
NO EVIL. JUST PAIN.
Girl stamps out of the room. Slamming the door, making everything shake and judder off the shelves, about to fall and break. Everything is trembling at the moment. Juddering to the edge about to fall.
