Eating Air

by Pauline Melville

  At exactly eleven o’clock he saw a motorbike approaching in the distance from the direction of Dungeness. Hector felt a prickle moving up from the back of his neck behind his left ear to the top of his head, as if an insect were walking along the inside of his skull. The rider dismounted, parked the bike at the roadside and came over. He lifted the visor of his crash helmet. Hector barely recognised him. The heart-shaped face had lost its clear definition and grown puffier and coarser, although those black-framed glasses were the same. The two men held each other in an awkward embrace. A look of exhaustion passed over Mark’s face and his shoulders sagged for a moment.

  ‘Have you found somewhere?’

  Hector felt suddenly protective towards his old comrade. He looked across at the row of empty holiday houses.

  ‘I’d like you to stay with us but my wife is desperate to leave that part of our life behind. I daren’t risk it. I’ve had a look in one of these houses. Most of them are empty this time of year. It’s not The Ritz but I hope it will do.’

  ‘Great stuff.’

  ‘I can bring you bedding later. A sleeping bag or something.’

  The two men walked around the house inspecting the facilities. Mark tried to switch on a fan heater. The electricity was still on. Upstairs the beds had mattresses but no other bedding. After a while, when they came down again, the small front room felt warmer.

  ‘Why did you risk coming back?’

  Mark looked at Hector with weary resignation.

  ‘My best friend Sam Jones has just been arrested in Australia. We worked together for ten years in the touring theatre group I founded. At one point he left to spend time in Afghanistan. His wife is Afghani. He joined Islam. You might have seen his picture in the papers – a bluff-looking Welshman with a beard. Good bloke. You’d like him. Last month he was charged with conspiracy to cause explosions at the American embassy. I had to leave.’

  ‘Is there still a warrant out for you here? By the time I was released you’d disappeared. Your mother never gave anything away. She just said “Australia”. I don’t think she wanted me to be in touch.’

  ‘I’m not sure about any warrant. The others have all been out for some time now, haven’t they? Do you see any of them?’

  ‘No. I’ve pretty well lost touch.’

  Mark looked through the window and scanned the road outside where his motorbike was parked. Two large suitcases were strapped onto the passenger seat. Beyond the road the wind whipped the grey wave-tops into white froth.

  ‘I’d better bring my bags in. And the bike. It feels very strange to be back. For the time being I don’t want to be seen with my mother. She’s too well known. There’s press around her.’

  Hector decided to challenge him on the question that had haunted him for thirty years or more: ‘Did you know anything about the Agnelli murder?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ Mark spoke with quiet certainty.

  Hector relaxed in the presence of Mark’s calm. It was the same soft voice and steadfast unflappability that used to reassure him in Italy, although he sensed a new harshness in him. They went into the kitchen. Mark picked up a kettle and examined it. It was furred and needed descaling. He shook the contents out into the sink and turned on the tap. The cold water rattled the metal sink.

  ‘Well, guess who I’ve just seen,’ Mark grinned. ‘Victor Skynnard. Do you remember him? The quickest way I could make contact with my mother when I arrived was through Victor Skynnard.’

  ‘Oh my god. Victor Skynnard.’ Hector began to laugh. ‘The only man in the history of the counter-culture who mimed taking drugs. Well, oddly enough, I saw Khaled again the other day. Everyone’s turning up at the same time.’

  ‘Is Khaled over here? That’s interesting. I know some people here who’d like to meet him.’

  ‘Does your mother know you’re in England?’

  ‘Yes. I’m meeting her later. She was shocked. She’ll have had time to calm down by the time we meet. Thanks for all this, mate. Much appreciated.’ He turned to look appraisingly at Hector. ‘Do you still feel the same about things?’

  ‘Khaled asked me that.’ Hector smiled. ‘I do but the world has changed. Definitely not a revolutionary situation any more. Not even suitable for propaganda of the deed. We did our bit. Capitalism won.’

  Mark stared out of the window. ‘Oh I don’t know. Maybe it just needs one more big shove. Look how it’s collapsing worldwide. But true, the baton’s been handed on to a different generation. A different set of people. The swing doors of the world’s jails let some out as they let others in. Our lot are coming out now and the Muslims are going in.’

  ‘They’re not anti-capitalist.’

  ‘Some are. More than you might think.’

  Hector looked at his watch.

  ‘Listen. Will you be all right here for a bit? I have to go into work for a couple of hours and then pick up some shopping. I have a child, a little girl with Down’s syndrome. We have to organise things around her needs. I’ll come back later tonight with a sleeping bag and food and stuff. I’ll whistle at the back and knock twice. Be careful about putting the lights on. People might notice. These houses are usually empty at this time of year. And don’t phone me at home. My wife will get suspicious. Text me if you need anything.’

  ‘Sleeping bag would be great,’ Mark smiled. ‘I’m used to roughing it in Australia. I don’t expect I’ll have to do all this for long. But better safe than sorry. Do you know this guy Alex Hamilton who is my mother’s partner? I presume he’s OK.’

  ‘He’s fine. On our side I think. I’ve met him a couple of times.’

  Mark checked his motorbike from the window. ‘By the way, do you know anyone who can do passports these days?’

  ‘I might do. Don’t know if the guy still does them. But I know a fisherman working out of Dungeness who could take you across the Channel for the right price.’

  ‘Good. Might need someone like that.’

  Mark went and fetched his bags. Hector left him manoeuvring the burly motorbike through the back door so that it was safely hidden in the hall.

  *

  Hector whistled as he drove his old Renault back to Hythe. He felt buoyant. It had been an ordinary Saturday morning and then life had opened up in this unexpected direction. Seeing Mark again and breaking into the house had brought back that old sense of adventure, of having his mettle tested. It produced in him an excitement and flamboyant daring as if he were part of the hunt or the chase again. He picked up some shopping and headed for the printers.

  That morning Hector had arranged to go into work and tackle the backlog of student PhD theses that needed binding. The only other person present in the open-plan workspace was the plump receptionist. After making himself coffee he stood at the long table under the neon strip lighting and started cutting and gluing pages.

  The doorbell jangled. An elegant woman in her fifties wearing a lime green dress walked in and went over to the reception desk. She had wide, slanting sloe-black eyes and sleek black hair pulled up into a French knot. A spike of hair stuck out at the top like an Indian feather. She asked to look through a folder of various type settings for funeral programmes. Hector was struck by the particular grace of her hand movements as she flicked through the brochure.

  ‘What date do you need the funeral notices by?’ asked the receptionist.

  The woman threw the receptionist an embarrassed look. Her expression was both amused and shamefaced.

  ‘Actually, my mother is not dead yet. But the doctor has warned us she is dying. I was passing your print shop and I thought I’d check whether you did funeral programmes. It’s a bit premature.’

  Hector stopped work. The woman looked directly at him. Her face lit up suddenly with a smile. His heart lifted and he smiled back. Something shifted in his solar plexus. Hector watched her make her way down the high street. There was a confidence in her walk; a physicality that reminded him of a different century and a different continent. He wanted to run
after her but she was already out of sight. Back at his workbench he opened the PhD thesis he was binding. On the front page was typed a quotation from Neruda: ‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.’

  Ten minutes later he abandoned work. Instead of going straight home he followed the route she had taken down the high street, but there was no sign of the woman.

  *

  When he arrived home Barbara was hanging out washing in the garden. Hector stood sipping a cup of tea. He was aware that an element of chance had entered his life and that things were reconfiguring in ways that he could not entirely grasp.

  Chapter Seven

  It was evening when Hector returned to the house on the Littlestone coastal road. He grew uneasy at the sight of a dim light visible through cracks in the downstairs shutters. The other houses on that stretch of road were in complete darkness. He went round to the back with the sleeping bag under his arm and gave the arranged whistle and knock. After a few minutes Mark opened the door. Without the bulky armoury of his leather biking gear Mark had the familiarity of the figure he remembered from his youth.

  ‘You can see some light from outside,’ warned Hector as he followed Mark into the front room.

  The light came from the gas fire which was hissing in the chimney breast and from the table lamp next to an armchair. The shock of seeing other people seated there made Hector’s heart leap for a moment but he managed to conceal his surprise. There were two men seated in armchairs. They got up when Hector entered. Mark introduced them:

  ‘This is Shahid.’ A short young man of Asian descent with a beard and long girlish hair that almost formed ringlets proffered a hesitant hand.

  ‘And this is Massoud,’ said Mark turning to the second man, a robust genial man of about forty with a grizzled beard and great warmth in his smile. They all sat down, except Hector who remained standing.

  ‘What is going on?’ Hector looked from one person to another.

  ‘Do you remember me mentioning a Sam Jones in Australia who converted to Islam and who was arrested in Perth?’ Mark leaned forward in his chair. ‘Well these are good friends of his who want news of him. That’s all. I’ll go and make us some tea.’

  Mark got up and went out into the kitchen. The gas fire hissed continuously. The shadows of the three men were thrown large against the walls. Hector listened uneasily. His attitude hardened into distrust as he looked from one man to the other:

  ‘I’m afraid I’m a convinced atheist myself.’

  Shahid tossed his long black hair back over his shoulders and laughed. There was a light in his dark eyes as he jabbed his finger towards Hector.

  ‘It’s possible to be a believer and a revolutionary, you know. You should check out the website. Nida’ul Islam. It’s Australian. Sam Jones helped us set it up.’

  Hector looked sceptical. Shahid’s elated high giggle annoyed him. Shahid continued:

  ‘Mark told us you were a reliable comrade of his. Islam is not just a religion. It’s a political ideology similar to yours. Look. Communism didn’t work. Capitalism doesn’t work. The only solution left is Islam.’ He laughed again and his eyes widened. ‘We’re jumping into the void left by the Soviet Union. You wait and see. It will be the sword of Islam that slashes the bellies of the fat. It’s an amazing feeling when you understand that – when the walls of everyday life fall down and there is exposed in front of you a sort of uplifting glory – a massive feeling that you yourself can stream out into eternity and join with Allah.’

  Massoud gave Hector a sympathetic look and remonstrated with Shahid. He spoke with an even stronger Lancashire accent than Shahid’s.

  ‘Don’t bend the poor man’s ears like that. He just came for a cup of tea and to bring his friend a sleeping bag.’

  But Shahid’s eyes were gleaming in the light from the gas fire. He leaned forward in his chair, his long hair streaming down in front of his shoulders. He waved his arms around in the air.

  ‘No. No. Shut up, Massoud. Let me go on and explain to him. Everything falls away from around you. All materialism, even anything to do with your family. It is you and Allah alone in clouds of glory. Did you see that young Muslim sentenced to death for the Bali bombing? On television I watched him. He was radiant as the judge read out the sentence of execution. Euphoric. He turned and gave a thumbs-up to the public assembled behind him. He was longing for death, for martyrdom. Fearless. Ecstatic. As I watched him I saw the bricks of the judicial court around him crumble in the face of his belief. The court of God was smiling on him. The power of those earthly judges completely evaporated. They executed him. So what?’ Shahid gave a shrill laugh of delight and jumped up. ‘All man-made institutions shrivelled and withered at that moment, brother.’ He snapped his fingers in a derisory gesture. ‘He is in heaven. That martyr has transcended it all. There is nothing anyone can do against the power of such beliefs. It is unconquerable. When your life means nothing compared with the … glory of Allah. Then it is easy to throw your life away. Look at what happened in Mumbai.’ Then Shahid added slyly, ‘I believe you’ve done the same sort of thing in your time.’

  Hector was taken aback and angry that Mark had landed him in this situation. He was about to protest that his actions hadn’t resulted in indiscriminate slaughter when Shahid changed his tone to become more conciliatory.

  ‘Look. I’m sure you once had these same feelings. What you only dreamed of we made happen. The attack on Wall Street? Our actions need to be spectacular, designed for the media age.’

  ‘Wall Street didn’t collapse because of the attack on the Twin Towers. As far as I know it collapsed under the weight of its own corruption.’ Hector could hear the tone of priggish disapproval in his voice.

  Mark came back in with mugs of tea on a tray and handed them out.

  ‘If you had to choose between Islam and capitalism then which would it be?’ Massoud turned to Hector with a broad smile as he stirred his tea.

  ‘Neither. I would choose some form of libertarian and democratic communism.’

  ‘That’s so last century,’ said Shahid. ‘That’s so over.’

  Hector was stung.

  ‘For argument’s sake let’s say you have to choose one or the other. Islam or capitalism,’ Massoud pressed him. Out of a sort of perverseness and to his surprise Hector heard himself saying, ‘I’d choose capitalism. Almighty power is always barbaric. No exceptions. Execrable. God’s the worst. A total totalitarian.’

  Shahid lowered his eyes to hide the scorn in them. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They say all people become conservative as they get older.’

  Hector suppressed a rush of fury. He had no wish to become embroiled in an all-night argument. He finished his cup of tea and stood up.

  ‘Mark I have to go. I want to see my daughter before she goes to bed. I’ll come over and see you tomorrow.’ He turned to the others. ‘Sorry about this everyone but I must go. Good to meet you all.’ Hector raised a hand in farewell. The others remained seated and raised their hands in response.

  Hector drove as far as Dymchurch before he pulled into the side of the road trembling with rage. He got out of the car and crossed the road to climb some steps and stand on the high concrete sea wall. To his annoyance he recognised in Shahid something of his younger self: the fervour, the exultant righteousness, the willingness to sacrifice, the ardour of shared beliefs, the millenarian glint in the eye, that last push to utopia. To his left he could see the lights of Hythe further along the coast. There was a warm rain-bearing wind in his face. In front of him the sea was an enormous blackness which marked its presence now and then with a shushing sound. He realised how much he missed the great transforming idea – the intoxicating idea that explains the whole world – that touch of the gods. Enthusiasm. En theos – the god within. Hector’s head was spinning. He walked back to the car and drove home.

  At home Dawn was still up and in her pyjamas. She was laying out her school photographs on the dining roo
m table. She pointed one out to Hector.

  ‘Mum doesn’t like that one.’ Her tongue lolled as she talked.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She said she was going to get it blown up.’

  Hector laughed. ‘Do you want me to carry you upstairs to bed or are you too big for that now?’

  ‘Carry me.’

  He felt her warm face resting on his neck. She smelled of soap and milk. He took the hairclip out of her hair and put it on the bedside table before putting her into the bed and pulling the duvet printed with pink panthers over her, tucking it in at the sides.

  After she was asleep he phoned Khaled on impulse to tell him what had happened.

  Khaled was laughing.

  ‘Leave them alone. Don’t have anything to do with them. They’re crazy. Especially don’t try and argue with them. You’ll never win. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses, they never give up. What makes people turn to religion? At least we were secular. By the way, do you know where I am?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m in Notting Hill in my ex-stepfather Eddie Sursok’s house. He invited me to stay the night which was surprising as I hadn’t seen him for years and he seems to be a recluse now. Anyway, tomorrow I’m going north to try and track down my half-brother. Go to bed, Hector. Forget the crazies and try to get a good night’s sleep.’

  Chapter Eight

  Khaled had been accurate in his judgement of Eddie Sursok as a recluse. Sursok was a heavy, brooding man with a laid-back walk and black eyebrows like two brush-flicks of Chinese calligraphy; a slow-moving titan who dealt in excess; a melancholy despot who wore a trademark loose shirt that almost reached his knees and which billowed slightly as he walked. When Khaled was shown into the spacious kitchen area in the basement of the house Sursok was sitting in a large wicker chair wearing a silk dressing-gown and paisley socks, gazing over his stomach at the wood-burning stove. He nodded towards Khaled and beckoned him to sit down. Nothing was said. The wood crackled in the flames. The room was pleasantly warm. Sursok was adream and remote. After a while he asked Khaled how his mother was and then lapsed back into silence. Khaled refrained, out of politeness, from enquiring whether the turmoil in international banking had affected Sursok’s private finances. Eventually, Sursok got up, pointed out where Khaled would be sleeping and padded away over the stone flags to disappear into some other part of the house. Khaled made his way to the bedroom. He found the house oppressive. The floors had been gutted leaving an enormous well in the centre of high brick walls. High in one wall was a solitary window. In the dim light Khaled felt his way along the iron gallery and up some metal steps to his room. He drifted into a restless sleep.