Calabash

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Celestial heavens, I believe you may have solved the conundrum. If this is true, then the Lord Chancellor must have chosen to side with the General long ago, and his plans have been slow to reach fruition. There has been so little intrigue in the court these past few years, we have quite grown out of the habit. And now that Rosamunde has performed her duty, Peason’s power has been gathered, ready to harvest. But answer me something. Why did the Princess give you her mother’s gem?’

  I must have reddened.

  ‘You didn’t,’ whispered the doctor.

  I reddened further.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t.’

  ‘We were secret lovers before she took her marriage vows, and I wish we could be again.’

  ‘But this is terrible—don’t you see what you’ve done? If you have lain with the Princess, then Septimus knows of the affair. Scammer watches the royal apartments night and day.’

  ‘I don’t see your point,’ I said dimly.

  ‘He has been toying with you, foolish boy! He knows you have committed high treason, and he can have you both beheaded.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he come after me?’

  ‘I imagine you still serve some useful purpose to him.’

  ‘But I’ve presented his General with the scientific advancement he requested.’

  ‘Just presented him…’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘If all that you’ve said is true, Bassa’s men will be coming for you right now—and that will be just the start of our troubles.’

  I rose in a panic. ‘But why did he have me bathed instead of killed?’

  ‘He had you bathed?’ The doctor’s eyes widened. ‘You were bathed?’

  ‘Just before I came here.’

  ‘He cannot kill you while you still bear the sweat of your motherland. You have to be cleansed in the waters of Calabash before execution.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a tradition that goes back to the sekban, the military auxiliaries who once occupied the land of Nicodemus Tapica. Tapica was a notoriously smelly ruler who once decreed that—’

  ‘I don’t think there’s time for your histories now, Doctor.’ I looked back at the city. I was sure I could see dust rising from horses’ hooves. ‘I must go.’ I ran to the gate. ‘This is all turning out wrong. Forgive me.’ And, like a rat deserting a ship of state, I fled, not trusting myself to look back.

  Even so, Trebunculus and Menavino managed to catch up with me as I reached the foot of the great statues at the dock. ‘What are you doing?’ asked the doctor breathlessly. ‘You can’t just leave us like this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m leaving for good this time, I’m afraid.’

  Trebunculus was dumbfounded. He brushed the dust from his velvet hat and shook his head in wonderment. ‘But what will become of us? Don’t you care? I thought we were your friends. Menavino, don’t just stand there gawping, run and tell the royal emissaries. We must talk some sense into this poor deluded boy before it’s too late. We must find a way to fight back, if fight we must.’

  Menavino’s eyes widened as if he had been slapped, and he set off at a great pace.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ I explained. ‘I just came back to sort a few things out.’

  ‘Heaven inside the Earth, you’re serious.’

  ‘I need to be in my own world, Doctor. I fear for my sanity.’

  Trebunculus looked about himself wildly. He hopped back and forth as if trying to impart a secret. ‘And suppose I told you that we need you too? What do you say to that? Suppose I told you that our very lives depend upon your staying?’

  ‘But they don’t. You were happy before I arrived. And I will die if I stay.’

  ‘There is no before, just as there won’t be any after.’

  My God, I thought, he knows that I’ve imagined all of this. He’s the only one who sees the truth. The thought of never seeing Rosamunde again was heartbreaking, but leaving someone who knew that he would shortly cease to exist was even worse. Drawn by the panic in the doctor’s voice, a crowd was starting to gather around us. Menavino was spreading the word, although quite how the dumb boy was managing it was a mystery. I had to leave before the Lord Chancellor’s men arrived.

  ‘What am I going to tell the Sultan? Who knows how he’ll react? Someone will pay, someone will be chastised.’

  ‘Not slow compression—’

  ‘—of the testicles, no, much worse: the punishment of the hooks.’

  I knew about the punishment of the hooks. The great French artist Alexandre-Gabriel Descamps, who specialised in Eastern scenes, had painted bodies being thrown over a wall from which protruded hundreds of steel hooks.

  ‘Isn’t there anything at all we can do to make you stay and help us fight back?’

  ‘I wish there was, believe me, but I have to go. I will miss you all so much. I can’t do anything to help you. This is your land, not mine. I’m sure everything will sort itself out the moment I’ve gone.’

  ‘And suppose it doesn’t? Suppose General Bassa and the Lord Chancellor stage a military coup and have us all beheaded?’

  ‘The invention I gave them is unworkable. You’ll be protected from its use. I’m sorry, Doctor.’ I turned and looked down at the little boat. I knew that the moment I stepped into it, I would be returned to the fishing platform below the Cole Bay pier for the very last time.

  I looked up at the sad, expectant faces around me. A hush had fallen on the assembly and a sense of puzzlement charged the air. I knew I was letting everyone down, yet it was the doctor who looked most as if he had failed.

  ‘It’s best for all of us if I do this quickly. You’ve been so kind, and I’ve failed to repay you. If you hear from the Sultan’s daughter, please tell her—’ I hastily checked the thought. ‘Send Rosamunde my fondest regards, and extend the poor unworthy thoughts of this lowly commoner’ (for I had learned the language of paying respect) ‘to all the royal family. Tell Parizade that she will always hold a special place in my heart. It’s best for all of us this way.’ What I meant was that it was best for me.

  In the distance, I could indeed see the gleaming pikes of several horsemen galloping towards the harbour. I took one final long look at the shimmering spires of the distant city, the verdant fields, the muted villagers, the sad face of the doctor, who stood clutching the brim of his velvet hat.

  Ashamed, I turned away from them all and began my descent to the boat.

  Part Two

  Now I have nothing. Even the joy of loss—

  Even the dreams I had I now am losing.

  Only this thing I know; that you are using

  My heart as a stone to bear your foot across…

  I am glad—I am glad—the stone is of your choosing.

  —Stella Benson

  Chapter 31

  Real Time

  And so my real life began.

  I put Calabash out of my mind. All childhood fantasies were stored away. No more jollies and follies, no amber-eyed girls and trotting horses, no valleys of smoky ambergris, no cobalt skies, no golden kingdoms. It was eyes down, nose to the grindstone, all aboard the workers’ bus for the dungeons. And the perfect time to do so.

  1972 was the year in which the country grew angry. Protestors burned the American flag in Grosvenor Square. In the North, traditional industries began shutting up shop at an accelerated pace. In the South, rapacious property developers began to rip the capital apart. Inflation and the new decimal currency doubled prices. British Rail shut down its services, the miners went on strike, and power cuts caused the Heath government to declare a state of emergency.

  For the first time since rationing, national crises managed to affect us in Cole Bay. Most noticeable was the change of mood, a new pessimism on the streets. Militancy reached its highest peak since 1926. A Clockwork Orange opened at the Roxy, and nobody was really that shocked. The first computers began to appear in the offices of the Scheherazade Hotel. Britain began to package its history in prepara
tion for the coming of mass tourism. In America, the Watergate break-in started a chain of events that would lead to a worldwide loss of faith in leadership. A crafty kind of dumbing down began. It was no longer a time to be innocent.

  On the day of my birthday I opened a bottle of sparkling wine and drank it alone, watching from the smeary window of my flat as the pier lights flicked on with the settling of night. I had furnished my lounge with a rickety table and chairs that the Ocean Breeze restaurant three doors down had thrown out during their refurbishment. I had scrubbed and varnished them, but the odour of stale batter lingered. In the weeks that followed, I slouched into my new life. It was easier than I’d expected; all I had to do was stop thinking.

  I grew my hair long. I reached an uneasy truce with Bob and Pauline, visiting them on Saturday mornings, usually with my laundry. Sean stopped writing once he discovered I’d moved out, and his only contact with the family was the odd reverse-charge phone call to my stepfather asking him for money. Even the dog got stomach cancer and had to be put down, which left Bob without a legitimate excuse for escaping the house.

  Everything seemed to be going wrong. In addition to setting my fantasy life aside, I should have stayed on at school and studied hard, but decisions never work out that neatly. One morning while I was seated on my stool at the back of the arcade reading the paper, Danny came in looking for me. He had cropped his hair short, and was dressed in the kind of clothes he never normally wore: a black roll-neck sweater, boots and tattered old blue jeans. He looked casual, natural, even unfashionable. The lapels of his scruffy afghan coat were covered with Gay Liberation Front buttons. Instinctively I knew that he was leaving town and had come to say goodbye.

  ‘Doesn’t the noise in here get on your nerves?’ he asked, glaring at some children who were rowdily playing the nearest pinball machine. ‘Couldn’t you just strangle these kids?’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Look, I wanted you to be the first to know, I’m going off to work in London.’ He grinned. ‘How about that, then? But not as a window dresser. Press officer for a monthly magazine, very radical and new. The pay’s not much, but it’s for a good cause.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to work in a big department store.’

  ‘I did too, but the major shops are having a lean time of it. Quite a few are closing down. Well, what happened was—’

  He had fallen in love with somebody called Dennis who lived in a squat in Notting Hill and was involved with gay liberation. Dennis had persuaded him to come and lend a hand to the movement. It sounded to me as though Dennis was dodgy.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, right, he’s using his sexual charisma to enlist cheap labour. Well, maybe he is, and maybe I’m using him to get out of Cole Bay. Is that so wrong?’

  ‘You’re always going on about sex these days,’ I complained.

  ‘I’m just getting the amount of sex that straight men would get if women would let them,’ he replied tartly. ‘Anyway, you never think about sex at all. You’re a late developer, you.’

  I decided not to answer. I had too many other things to worry about.

  ‘Dennis has found me a flatshare. I can’t move in with him because he’s still with his old boyfriend. They’re sorting things out. We’ll see what happens. It’s all terribly adult.’ He sighed. ‘And to think I used to imagine that lunch at the Buckingham was the height of sophistication. They had tomato juice down on their menu as a starter, for God’s sake. Anyway, what I wanted to know was, do you want my facial solarium? I’m not taking anything with me. It needs a three-pin plug.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but no, I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ he sniffed. ‘Very pale and thin, but you always were thin. Is Janine not feeding you cream buns any more?’

  ‘She’s stopped going round to my mother’s. I think she’s finally realised Sean isn’t coming back.’

  ‘I thought so. I saw her on the front last week with some lad who works at Pickfords. They were snogging so hard I thought their teeth were stuck together. She’s the size of a bungalow. He’d have to be as fit as a butcher’s dog to climb up on her. Listen, when I get settled I’ll send you my address, how would that be?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll come up to town. I know you’ve got your lungs and everything, but maybe for a short visit.’

  I smiled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Don’t close the door on any friendship, Kay. Who knows when you may need someone?’

  ‘Haven’t you got a bus to catch?’ I said, only half joking.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He turned to go, then stopped. ‘I don’t get you sometimes. You’ve got so much going in your favour, and you’re pissing it all away in this dump. It’s like you’re doing it deliberately, just to spite yourself. There are kids sleeping rough on the streets of London, and it’ll happen down here eventually, you wait. Things were going forwards for a while but now they’re sliding back again. We’re going to have to fight for what we want. The sexual revolution is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s a bad time to be without a purpose.’

  I knew that this was not Danny talking. He’d been fed some rhetoric by his new man. The idea of discovering a cause through a lover was new to me. Up until that moment I assumed most people got their opinions from reading or watching television.

  ‘It’s easy for you,’ I replied hotly, ‘swanning off without any worries. I can’t do that.’

  ‘You think it was easy for me? I told my dad at the dinner table I didn’t fancy girls, and he stuck a fork in my arm. I had to have stitches. The only person in my family who’ll still talk to me is my mother, and she’s just been diagnosed with cancer. She hates my old man. I’m all she lives for. I feel like I’m running out on her, but what will happen if I don’t take my chance? I might never get another one. It tears me up to think of letting her down.’ He stared at me oddly. ‘I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath. I thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  ‘I am, Danny.’ I didn’t sound as if I meant it.

  ‘You say that but look at you, the light’s gone from your eyes. I’ve seen that look all over this bloody town.’ He stared around at the beeping machines. ‘This bloody town.’ And he was back on the street, walking briskly away before I could find the right response. The kids came over to complain about losing their money in one of the pinball tables. I shouted at them for tilting it.

  Losing Danny wasn’t the worst thing that happened that month. There was no telephone in the flat, and the only way of contacting me quickly was to ring through to the cashier in the arcade, so I was surprised to be called to the phone a little after eight o’clock one morning.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from your brother,’ said Bob, sounding strange. ‘I think you’d better come over.’

  The typed sheet lay unfolded in the middle of the kitchen table. Bob was pacing about, unsure of what to do. Pauline was nowhere in sight. I carefully picked up the letter. ‘He’s in a hospital in Bangkok,’ said Bob, pre-empting the contents. ‘Some kind of overdose. He very nearly died. The police are involved. They’re talking about pressing charges.’

  I was so used to taking vast amounts of tablets for my condition, my first thought was that Sean had accidentally swallowed some kind of medication. ‘What do you mean, press charges?’ I asked.

  ‘They haven’t decided what to do with him yet. That’s his bloody so-called pal for you, O’Donnelly, getting him into bad ways. Employing him as a courier. Courier! Bloody drug courier.’

  The letter was from the British consulate. Sean had been caught smuggling cocaine out of the country and had tried to swallow the evidence. He had passed out in a public toilet. He was expected to pull through but there was a possibility of lasting damage. If he survived, he faced a minimum jail sentence of ten years, and there was even talk of a death sentence. There was a telephone number for Bob to ring, but it was clear that he had no idea how to go about making an international call. Eventu
ally we worked out the time difference and arranged for the operator to complete the connection. A series of tinny British voices peeped from the phone as the call was shifted around various extensions. Finally, they found someone who seemed to know about Sean. I edged as close as I could to the earpiece.

  ‘I’ve been to see him, he was in relatively good spirits, and I think it’s safe to say that he is going to be all right…’ a posh voice at the British consulate explained.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘…but he has had to lose his left arm below the elbow.’

  ‘What? They’ve not—chopped it off?’ asked Bob incredulously.

  ‘No, no, when he became unconscious in the toilet he cut off the blood supply to his arm. It’s quite a common occurrence in these cases, apparently. You understand that your son will need legal representation. There’s no question of his pleading not guilty, and drug smuggling carries a mandatory sentence in these circumstances. Only the severity of the punishment is open to negotiation.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord.’ Bob settled on his chair like a deflating balloon. He listened to the consul for a few more minutes, then replaced the receiver as though he was afraid of breaking it. ‘I might have to go over there,’ he said, clearly horrified by the prospect. ‘I shall have to get a passport.’

  And so it was that the good name of our family was dragged into disrepute when the local press mysteriously got hold of the story and milked it for human interest. ‘Local Couple Tell of Son’s Drug Tragedy,’ read the headline on page seven. Photo caption: Robert Goodwin, seen here receiving top catering management award. ‘I can’t believe my son was mixed up in drug trafficking.’ Distraught mother unavailable for comment. Younger son not asked to provide one, unfortunately. ‘My faith in him is gravely diminished,’ brother of tarnished hero figure would have admitted.