The Quantity Theory of Insanity: Reissued

by Will Self

  I registered all these junctures, but only vaguely. There was an unreal, static sensation to the journey. The long London roads were panoramic scenery wound back behind us to provide the illusion of movement. The MZ and the Sierra stood still, occupying a different zone.

  We reached Shootup Hill in about seventeen minutes. The facility with which Carlos had led us was unnatural. At every juncture where there was an opportunity for a choice, he took the right one. Time and again we turned one way and I saw in the rear-view mirror that if we had gone the other, more obvious way, we would have been frozen in a tail-back, eroding synchromesh for five minutes or more. Even stranger than that was the realisation that the idiosyncratic directions we did take, always took time off our journey. Carlos had not only apprehended every road, he had anticipated every alleyway, every mews, every garage forecourt and the position and synchronisation of every traffic light. He could not possibly know what he seemed to know – the only way he could have seen the route we took was from the air, and even then he would have had to have made constant trigonometric calculations to figure out the angles we seemed to have followed intuitively.

  We were going up Shootup Hill towards Kilburn doing about forty, when suddenly Carlos put his right leg down and yanked the bike round in a tight turn. Jim followed suit, without even looking at the oncoming traffic, and before I’d had time to register the extent of the risk we’d run, we were heading back down and under the railway bridge.

  The swish of an underpass, the whirr of an overpass, a long row of wing mirrors reaching out to us, the rise and fall of identically gabled roofs. Jim’s arms – the inside of the forearm pressed against the wheel – insectoid and manipulative. The child’s counterpane world of London’s roads – where a turned corner can mean a distant prospect, a sudden impression of pillows in the distance, or a dip into a hollow can completely enclose you in a tiny world where the light quality never changes and spindrifts of sweet-wrappers chase one another in a tireless pavane.

  As we crossed Blackfriars Bridge, the water glinted for a second; to the right a glimpse of banked-up buildings, circumstantially pompous – an encrustation of administration which could belong to any city on earth – and then gone, back into the homogeneous, the undifferentiated London, where twee shopping parade succeeds arterial road, in turn flanked by the dusty parade ground of a municipal park where single, silent figures stand, tied to stuffed dogs.

  No frenzy, no hurry. No giving anyone the finger. Carlos weaved and we weaved with him, cutting up whole files of traffic, ignoring feeder lights, insinuating ourselves on to roundabouts. The outward stretch to Shootup Hill had presented itself as an elegant piece of geometry. The downward swipe to Horniman’s Gardens was guile and outrageous nerve. I felt chilly in the stuffy, corrupted car. Chilly and scared.

  Through Dulwich Park the Sierra’s engine phutted into the cleaner air and Carlos’s trousers dappled in the sunlight that fell through the trees.

  We pulled up at the Hornimans Museum exactly forty-five minutes after we had started from Soho Square. Carlos banked his bike on to the tarmac lip that curled up from the road and we followed suit. Behind us the prospect opened out for the first time since we had crossed the river. In the middle distance a ridge of crenellated, oblong buildings stood out above the sea of tree- and rooftops. Beyond them London washed away towards the northern horizon, bluer and greyer.

  Carlos was pulling off his gloves as I jack-knifed myself out of the door of the Sierra in an attempt to jerk myself out of the strange trance. Carlos wore two gloves on each hand. The cheap vinyl of the outer glove had worn away exposing the tufts of the wool gloves inside. For some reason these worn patches fixated me, they were somehow anatomical. The blood rushed to my temples – I stared at the gloves. I felt sick. Carlos leant up against the signboard advertising the museum’s exhibits.

  The irritating Welsh voice: ‘You see boy, when I trance like that,’ he rolled his eyes back in his head exposing a network of veins under the pink ball, ‘I assess the flow, at one location, for one brief moment. But because I know, you see, I know so much about this,’ he gestured towards the horizon, ‘it means that all the movement stands still. I know ev-ery-thing.’ He rolled out the syllables with fluting emphasis. ‘All the tail-backs, all the hold-ups, every burst water-main and dropped lorry load in the metropolis – at that moment I realise them all. Take me to any street, any street in London whatsoever where there is a constant traffic stream and just by looking at it I can know the state of every other road in the city. Then there’s no waiting. You understand? I never have to wait.’

  The albino’s leeched brow moved to one side, exposing the signboard. A poster was tacked on it, advertising some forthcoming exhibition of Amazonian artefacts. A double-decker bus laboured up the hill from Forest Hill Station. I looked at my watch, it was 1.50. The dreamlike state I’d been in since I met Jim and Carlos in Soho fell away as suddenly as stepping out of a bath. I started running for the bus.

  ‘Don’t you see!’ Jim was shouting after me, ‘he doesn’t have to wait! Don’t you understand, he’s beyond waiting; however far he travels he’s already arrived! Oh, you bloody fool …’

  The last words were a scream. I paid no attention and swung myself up on to the platform of the bus as it pulled away from the stop and started the long descent to East Dulwich.

  A week passed and then a month. There was no news from Jim and I made no attempt to contact him. Then a Post-it note appeared stuck to the keyboard of my computer. It asked me to ring a Mr Clifton at a Camden-based legal practice. Before I could respond, Clifton called me. He had an appalling phone manner, breathy and inaudible and his legalese sounded put on.

  ‘It’s concerning our client Mr Stonehouse.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Jim. What’s he done?’

  ‘He has been convicted of failure to stop; one count and two counts of aggravated assault.’

  ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘He made a statement to that effect to the police, he appeared before the magistrates’ court at Highgate who have passed the matter of sentencing over to Snaresbrook.’

  ‘I see, I see. That’s a bit rough. Still, I can’t say I’m surprised.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Well, he had been behaving rather erratically lately.’

  ‘That’s just it. It would appear that the best course of action for Mr Stonehouse would be for us to apply for further psychiatric evaluation.’

  ‘What if you don’t?’

  ‘It could be three to six years.’

  ‘I see, I see … What I don’t see is where I come into this …’

  ‘Well, as you said yourself, Mr Stonehouse has been behaving erratically recently and you’ve been a witness to this. A statement in court from someone like you, with your position, could be the deciding factor.’

  ‘That’s it then – you want me to turn up in court?’

  ‘And supply us, if possible, with a written statement.’

  ‘Presumably you want that on a letterhead.’

  ‘It may well be a decisive factor.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, it would be up to Mr Stonehouse to tell you the details. Were we to say anything, it would be in direct breach of client confidentiality.’

  Jim called later that morning. He was wholly unrepentant.

  ‘Just a little bust-up coming off the Marylebone Flyover. It’s absurd really that the thing’s got as far as Crown Court.’

  ‘Your brief says that he wants you remanded for psychiatric observation.’

  ‘Yes, well, err … it does seem the best course of action. Personally, I don’t mind – I mean I could use a few weeks’ rest. You know, making ashtrays and rapping with some jejeune shrinks.’

  ‘What happened, Jim?’

  ‘Well, I was coming in to work. I’d stayed the night with Carlos in Acton and it was only about half-seven. I was on the Westway and everything told me that I’d b
e clear to go the full length and come off at Marylebone rather than taking the Paddington exit. But when I got to the top of the Marylebone Flyover the traffic was backed up solid, at half-seven in the morning! I don’t know, I guess I just felt humiliated. I sat in the stack waiting to get off for about five minutes. It was infuriating, the sense of being contained to no purpose, and it was all the fault of an intellectual decision. If I’d tranced the way Carlos taught me, I’d have been all right.’

  ‘What happened, Jim?’

  ‘Well, I was coming off the end of the flyover at last, when this character tried to muscle in from the left, from the slip road that leads to the Edgware Road. He was a short, fat creep driving one of those midget Datsun vans. I remember it distinctly, it had a dirty cream paint job and a badly stencilled sign saying, “Exodus Fruiterers, Crouch End & Stanmore”, then a phone number. This character was all pushy and hunched over the little wheel. A bundle of senseless dingle-dangles swinging from his rear-view mirror, rinky-dink bazouki music blaring out of the window, eugh!

  ‘I’d been in that jam for five full minutes! So I just sort of herded this little van man with my front bumper, just sort of herded him … across on to the side of the road. I didn’t damage his stupid van at all, just a scrape of paint, really, but he went absolutely mad, came out of it like a sweaty little grub. “Why you do that! Why you do that!” Over and over and poking me as well. I told him, “Because I felt like it.” And this enraged him more. He was a nothing, he was a Waiter, he meant nothing. So eventually I hit him, just to shut him up.’

  ‘Just to shut him up … ?’

  ‘Like I say, he was a Waiter, he was a nothing.’

  ‘So explain why you’re pleading insanity?’

  ‘Well, when the police took my statement I told them the truth and they started grinning at each other and making silly faces – so it sort of suggested itself, logically, as it were. Let me tell you, this could be a lot more than a stupid assault case. This could be the end of waiting for a lot of people.’

  There was a lot more of the same before I managed to get shot of him. I wasn’t convinced. I was becoming more and more inclined to think that he was bad rather than mad. The bizarre trip I’d been on with Jim and the fluting failed albino stayed in my mind as something sinister. I didn’t like Carlos and I didn’t like his influence on Jim. Jim was becoming twisted and distorted; he was a personality viewed in a ‘fun house’ mirror. His mechanical arms were getting longer, his epicene hips wider and fuller.

  I resolved to write Jim his reference, but not to turn up at Snaresbrook, unless he showed a willingness to break with Carlos and the whole perverse philosophy of waiting that he had built up. I wanted Jim to admit that he needed help – and use it.

  Over the next couple of weeks I called Jim a number of times, both at home and at his office. He was always out. Carol was very distant, but not unsympathetic. I think she felt as I did, but with the added twist of having shared a bed with the man for five years. I modified my position and told her that I would write the statement, but I still wouldn’t turn up in court unless Jim showed some willingness. I told her to give Jim the message. He never called back. I left messages for him at his work; he must have ignored them. Eventually, I washed my hands of the whole thing.

  Mr Clifton wrote and thanked me for my statement – which stated quite clearly the way I felt about Jim Stonehouse – and told me the date he was due to appear and the court number. I did my best to forget this information. But on the morning itself I sat in my office completely distracted. I wandered around the room picking up the Post-it notes that were stuck to every available surface and mashing them up into thick wadges of yellow paper and tackiness. I knew I was right not to go to court, I knew it was the strong – and ultimately caring – thing to do. At 9.30 Jim called up.

  ‘Just called to say goodbye, I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you for a while.’

  I was choked with salty guilt. ‘Jim, I’m sorry about this…’ I was about to relent.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry. Clifton’s got his own little ideas, but, really, I’d positively like to go down. Carlos was inside for a couple of years and he says it was the formative experience that really made him fully understand the nature of the millennium. It’s waiting in a class of its own!’ There was an exultant, manic edge to his voice. He was laughing when we said our goodbyes and hung up.

  As soon as I’d put the phone down it rang again. This time it was Clifton.

  ‘I really would like to make one last appeal to you. Ignore what my client says; he is undoubtedly an unstable man. I have personal reasons for believing that he has fallen under the influence of people who are …’ his voice trailed off ‘… evil. I urge you to come to Snaresbrook for 10.30. Mr Stonehouse needs help. He is not a man who will adjust well to prison.’

  When Clifton had rung off, I sat at the desk spasmodically ripping up my wadded Post-it notes. After a while I looked at my watch, it was 9.50. I ran out of the office and down into the street. I was on the Gray’s Inn Road before I managed to find a cab.

  ‘I need to be at Snaresbrook Court by 10.30 – do you think we’ll make it?’

  ‘Hard to say, mate.’ It was a flat, laconic statement. The cabby’s hand circled lazily and brought the cab neatly into the traffic stream. ‘We could do it, it really depends on getting through past Clapton.’

  ‘Why not head north and cut across the Marsh to Leyton.’

  ‘Nah, nah, not worth it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Trust me. Anyway, what’s the hurry?’

  ‘It’s a friend, he needs me as a character witness, he could go down.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  We sat in silence. The cab juddered its way through the morning traffic, purring noisily like a vast, bronchitic panther. I fidgeted with my lip, my cheeks. Smoked and flicked, squinted out the window at the facades of buildings growing and retreating. The cabby took my advice after all. We turned off Green Lanes and cut across Stoke Newington to Tottenham High Road. The rows of semis and villas gave way to unfinished areas of warehousing and light industrial premises as we dog-legged round on to the Lea Bridge Road. It was 10.25. I sat forward in my seat, willing the traffic ahead to part for us.

  ‘What’d he do then, this friend of yours?’

  ‘He got fed up with waiting.’

  ‘Ha! If that was a crime we’d all be bloody banged up, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose so. He reacted rather drastically though. He shunted some bloke’s van and then took a poke at him, then when the Bill came to get him he took a poke at them as well.’

  ‘I bet he did. Listen, that’s nothing. I was at this wedding on Saturday down the Roman Road, and one of the guests took a knife to the bride’s father ’cause he couldn’t stand waiting for a drink.’

  ‘Really … ?’

  ‘Straight up. Gave him it in the neck. Poor man’s still in a coma. The bloke then ran out into the road. But some of the other guests caught up with him. They held him down and then one of them ran him over in his car. Now he’s in a coma too.’

  ‘Too?’

  ‘Like the bride’s father.’

  ‘Nice friends you have.’

  ‘Well, they weren’t anything really to do with me. The groom was a mate of my son’s. I just went along for the hell of it.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  We relapsed into silence again. The cabby was doing his best. Every time we got mired in the traffic he got his A–Z out and started looking for a shortcut. It wasn’t his fault that this part of north-east London was one tortuous, twisting high street after another. There were hardly any alternatives.

  It was 10.30. We were stuck in a jam on Leyton High Road. I’d more or less given up. There was sixteen quid plus up in red on the meter. An artic was stranded across the intersection. A roar from behind us and a file of motorcycles came dodging through the stalled traffic, very fast. A blur of dayglo faring, leather shoulders
, dirty visors, vinyl tabards and in front, already fast disappearing, the flapping flares of some familiar corduroys.

  There was a jolt in the queue. The lights changed and two minutes later we were pulling up outside the court. I leapt out and shoved some bills at the cabby. Jim was being sentenced in Court 19, in the modern annexe. I ran through the car-park and into the building. I slowed to a walk going up the stairs, labouring to capture my breath. In the upper hall a tall black man with a wispy beard approached me. It was 10.40.

  ‘You must be … ?’

  ‘Yes, yes …’

  ‘I’m Clifton.’ He extended his hand. It was Jim’s brief. Carol was in a corner with a knot of people standing around a robed barrister.

  ‘But the case … ?’

  ‘We’ve had to ask for a slight postponement. Mr Stonehouse isn’t here yet.’

  ‘Isn’t here! Then where the bloody hell is he? The judge is going to take a pretty dim view of this.’

  ‘I should imagine he will.’

  I went over to the corner where Carol was talking to the barrister – a rather hepatitic-looking woman.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said Carol and introduced us.

  ‘Didn’t Jim stay at home last night?’

  ‘No, I was just saying. He’s more or less moved in with Carlos now. He’ll have been coming from Acton. It’s a long haul across town.’

  ‘I hope he’s at least managed to put a suit on for the occasion.’

  At that moment, the devil we spoke of appeared at the end of the room and walked down it, erect, head swivelling mechanically from side to side. He beamed contempt at the motley bunch of defendants, lawyers, plaintiffs, witnesses and police who waited their turns.