Flamingoes in Orbit

by Philip Ridley

  It’s Clyde’s money, of course. That’s how Clyde can get someone like the blond boy. Clyde flashes his cash and the boy thinks, ‘Hey! I want to be part of that!’ And he’s willing to do anything to get it. He bends over backwards (or, should I say forwards) to get in Clyde’s good books (or should that be ‘graphic novels’).

  Clyde said, ‘There it is!’ I looked to my right and saw the oak tree. I parked the car. Me and Clyde got out. Clyde was holding the rosewood box from the boot. We walked over to the tree. Clyde said, ‘Do you want to do the scattering or shall I?’ I said, ‘You do it.’ Clyde opened the rosewood casket and took out a plastic bag full of Dad’s ashes. He opened the bag, then looked at me. He said, ‘Do you want to say anything?’ I said, ‘About what?’ He said, ‘About Dad.’ I said, ‘No, not really.’ He nodded, then sprinkled the ashes, saying, ‘We love you, Dad. Enjoy the park.’

  We stood in silence for a while. I could hear some ducks on the nearby lake. I said, ‘So . . . this Luke . . .’ Clyde said, ‘Oh, he’s a great kid. He went to St Jude’s, you know. I met him when I did the prize giving. Luke got the sports prize. You should see him swim, brov. He won a medal last year in the East London Schools’ Swimming – ’ I interrupted, ‘And you just got to talking with him, did you?’ Clyde said, ‘Well, he had lots of questions about how I made it from a kid in the East End to a graphic novelist in San Fran – ’ I interrupted, ‘So you offered him a job?’ Clyde said, ‘He was looking for work experience. And he’s a bloody good office runner, brov. He never forgets anything you ask him to do.’ I said, ‘Oh, yeah. I bet he does everything you ask him to do.’ Clyde hesitated a moment, then said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said, ‘You know what it means! You come back here and – Pow! – you’ve got a sexy teenager as your new boyfriend!’ Clyde said, ‘Brov, I don’t know what’s brought this on but – ’ I interrupted, ‘You don’t give a shit about anyone in this fucking family except yourself!’ He said, ‘What?!’ I said, ‘Where were you when Dad was ill? Eh? At university or . . . or in America! It wasn’t you who had to deal with any of that! It was me! You never offered me any help! Not with anything. You didn’t even phone to ask me how I was!’ Clyde said, ‘I did phone, brov. I phoned all the time.’ I said, ‘You phoned Mum! You didn’t phone me.’ Clyde said, ‘Because I knew Karen didn’t want me to phone.’ I said, ‘Oh, yeah. That’s typical you. It’s always someone else’s fault.’ Clyde said, ‘Brov, I don’t think we should be discussing this right now.’ I said, ‘No! I want to discuss it now! Fuck what you want!’ Clyde said, ‘Brov, please – ’ I interrupted, ‘You’ve never fucking taken any interest in anything I’ve done. Not my wife. Not my job. Not my son.’ Clyde said, ‘That’s not true, brov.’ I yelled, ‘You’ve only seen Todd once – once! – in his whole fucking life!’ Clyde yelled back, ‘And whose fault’s that! Eh? I tried to see him umpteen bloody times after he was born. And every time I came back to London to do it, you and Karen fucked off somewhere.’ I said, ‘That was only a couple of times!’ Clyde said, ‘It was seven times, brov. I came down seven times. And every time Karen had a distant relative you just had to go and see. I’m not bloody stupid, brov. I know what was going on. Karen didn’t want me to see Todd.’ I said, ‘That’s bullshit!’ Clyde said, ‘She didn’t want me near him. Perhaps you didn’t either. And when I finally do get to see him – that “once” you mentioned, at your housewarming – I only get to do it from the other side of the room because your mate Melv puts a stop to it. He all but called me a “filthy queer” to my face.’ I said, ‘That had nothing to do with it!’ Clyde said, ‘Oh, it had everything to do with, brov! It still has! Everything!’

  There was a silence. Some birds swooped nearby.

  Clyde said, ‘Let’s go.’ He started heading for the car. I said, ‘Missing your blond boyfriend?’ Clyde stopped, his back to me. Slowly, he turned. He stared at me. Then, very slowly and very deliberately, he said, ‘Luke is not my boyfriend. Not because I don’t want him to be, but because I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to put anyone that young through what I went through with Neville.’ He opened some buttons on his shirt and exposed his chest. There were three red blotches on it. He said, ‘I’m ill, brov. The treatment is getting better all the time, but there’s still no cure. Neville lasted a year after he was diagnosed. So far I’ve lasted two. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got. There’s certain things I want to do, though. I want to make sure Inkfever Inc is successful enough to keep Neville’s work in print. And my work too, if it’s good enough. I want to spend the rest of my time – however long it is – here, in East London, where I was born, where I grew up and where my family is and where – ’ I interrupted, ‘Jesus, Clyde, stop giving a speech. You’re not in a film. You’ve got AIDS, I’ve got sciatica. You don’t hear me feeling sorry for myself, do you?’

  There was another silence. No birds swooped nearby.

  Clyde said, ‘No, brov. You don’t feel sorry for yourself at all. You never have. You’re amazing.’ I thought, ‘Jesus! A compliment at last!’ I said, ‘Come on! I’ll drive you back.’ Clyde said, ‘I think I’ll stay here a bit longer, brov. I’ll walk back.’ I said, ‘It’s a long walk.’ Clyde said, ‘Yeah. I know.’ I went back to my car. I got in and turned the radio on. Young Turks by Rod Stewart was playing. I liked that song. I turned the volume up real loud.

  It was only when I’d left the park that I realized I’d walked to the car without limping. In fact, I was feeling better than I’d felt in a long time. I felt happy, and I hadn’t even taken any tablets. By the time I got home – having stopped off to get the chocolate gateaux­ Karen wanted – I had a proverbial spring to my step. Even Karen noticed it. She said, ‘You look in a good mood! What’ve you taken?’ I said, ‘It must be all the fresh air in the park.’

  I’ve been feeling pretty good ever since that day. Even now, a couple of months later, I still walk with that ‘spring’. The sciatica pain’s totally gone. I’ve been thinking of having the bungalow re-decorated. I might even be able to afford a kitchen extension if Todd and me can keep copying vids at the rate we are. I feel such pride when I look at my son. I could watch him digging in the garden – digging for monsters! – all afternoon. Come to think of it, I have been watching him all afternoon. I’ll have to start preparing dinner soon. Oh, yes. I’ve started cooking. My specialty is Barbecue Turkey Enchiladas. They’re so easy and Todd loves them. I asked him earlier if he wants them tonight and he said, ‘Yeah!’ I also asked him, ‘Do you like the bucket and spade your Gran gave you?’ He said, ‘They’re shit.’ I said, ‘Your Uncle Clyde and me once made a brilliant sand­castle and – ’ Todd interrupted, ‘I know, Dad. You’ve told me. You both made a brilliant sandcastle, and you made out you lived in it. Boring!’ And he goes back to the garden. He makes a big point of not using the bucket and spade. He might like them better if they still had all their bright paint. If they were still covered with starfish and dolphins. If he was on a beach. If the sun was shining. If Mum and Dad were close. If he was with a brother. A brother he loved. The way I loved mine. But that’s another story.

  WONDERFUL INSECT

  ‘Wake up!’

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘Look at this!’

  ‘Wh-what, Mum?’

  I’m eleven years old. I’m asleep in bed. Or, rather, I was until Mum woke me. I can tell by the angle of sunlight through the window that it’s earlier than I usually get up. Especially during the school summer holidays.

  ‘Come on!’ Mum says, opening the window. ‘Look outside.’

  I struggle out of bed and join her at the window.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dazzle. Then I see –

  Everything in the street – the roofs of the houses, the window ledges, the cars, the pavement – is a pale, golden colour (like an old sepia photograph), and it’s all glistening . . . shimmering . . .

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes.


  ‘There was a storm,’ Mum says. ‘It started miles and miles away. In the Sahara desert. And this storm sucked desert sand into its clouds. And then these clouds – they travelled all the way here. And last night . . . they rained sand on us.’

  ‘Sand,’ I say, softly, running my fingertips over the grains on the window ledge. My fingertips gleam like they’re covered with crushed diamonds. ‘Sand from the Sahara.’

  ‘Imagine!’ Mum says. ‘Camels were probably walking on this only yesterday and now – Look!’ She points. ‘Mrs Skinner’s cat is walking on it.’

  At the other end of the street, Mrs Skinner’s cat, Diva (because it wouldn’t stop whining when a kitten), is jumping about on the pavement, trying to catch the sparkles.

  ‘I’m going to explore!’ I say.

  ‘I thought you might,’ Mum says, smiling. ‘Do you want some breakfast first?’

  ‘There’s no time. The wind might blow the sand away!’

  ‘It’ll take a pretty strong gust to do that. Have something to eat. Toast? Cornflakes? Boiled egg?’

  ‘Cornflakes, then.’

  I wash and dress as quickly as I can, then rush to the kitchen and start eating breakfast.

  The portable television has a news report about the storm. The headline across the bottom of the screen is, ‘THE SAHARA COMES TO EAST LONDON.’ There’s footage of sand in a car park I don’t recognize.

  I say, ‘The sand looks much better in real life. Telly can’t capture the glitter of it— Finished!’ I push the empty plate away from me and dash for the street door. ‘See you later, Mum!’

  ‘Where’s my kiss?’ Mum says.

  I dash back to kiss her.

  ‘And be careful,’ she says.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Everything!’

  I walk down the street. My feet crunch and skid on the sand.

  I see Mr Cashman from No 21, wiping sand from his car windscreen.

  He looks at me and says, ‘It’s from the Sahara.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘I just hope it hasn’t got into the engine, that’s all.’

  I walk down the street a bit more.

  I see Miss Treadwell, from No 35, throwing a bucket of water over her window ledge.

  She looks at me and says, ‘It’s come from the Sahara, apparently.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Amazingly annoying! I’ve just had these windows cleaned.’

  I walk down the street some more.

  I see Mrs Branning, from No 44, sweeping her doorstep.

  She sees me and says, ‘You know where all this has come from, don’t you?!’

  ‘The Sahara,’ I say. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘It’s going to get into all my carpets,’ she says. ‘Just like the pine needles from that Christmas tree I bought last year. They went everywhere. I’m still finding them.’

  I turn the corner and head for ‘the Bombsite’ at the end of the road. It’s where a doodlebug hit (and destroyed) a row of houses years and years ago, during the Second World War. No one’s bothered to build anything new there since. It’s just rubble and old furniture (and anything else people want to throw on it). It’s where all the local kids play.

  I always imagine it to be an alien planet, and my spaceship crashed and now I have to survive, all alone. Today, of course, with everything golden and gleaming, it looks more like an alien planet than it ever –

  Something moves!

  Something in the rubble.

  Is it a mouse? A rat?

  No! It’s an insect. The largest insect I’ve ever seen. Its body is smooth and glittering. Its eyes are like tiny black pearls. Its wings keep changing colour – blue, silver, red, green – like oil on water. And when they flap – so fast they become a blur – they make a buzzing sound.

  I kneel beside it, watching.

  It’s crawling across some concrete.

  Its wings blur and buzz, but it doesn’t fly away.

  I look closer. It doesn’t look injured. Perhaps it’s too tired. Or still in shock at being picked up by a cloud, travelling thousands of miles, then being put down on an old bombsite in Bethnal Green.

  Carefully, I pick it up.

  I cup my hands around it.

  It vibrates and buzzes inside –

  ‘WHAT YOU GOT THERE?’

  A voice from the other side of the bombsite.

  It’s one of the boys from the nearby estate. I don’t know his name. He’s older than me and a lot bigger. He’s a bully. He’s bullied me. He’s with two of his mates. I don’t know their names either. But they’re both bigger than me too. And bullies. The three of them are making their way across the rubble towards me.

  I call back, ‘It’s nothing!’

  ‘Why’re you picking it up then?’ says the first boy.

  ‘We want to see it!’ says the second.

  ‘Show us!’ says the third.

  They’re getting closer. I know they’re going to hit me. They’re going to hit me and take what I’ve got in my hands. I can’t let that happen. They’ll kill the insect if they get it. They’ll pull its wings off and burn it with matches. That’s what boys like them do. They like hurting things.

  I run.

  It’s difficult to keep balance with the insect cupped in my hands. But I know this terrain so well – my alien planet! – that I manage not to fall. I plough through weeds. I jump over a hole. And then – at last! – I slip through a small gap in a corrugated iron fence and –

  I’m on the road.

  I still keep running.

  I can hear the boys shouting from behind the fence.

  ‘We’ll hurt you!’

  ‘We’ll kill you!’

  ‘You’re dead!’

  They’re pushing and pulling at the corrugated iron, trying to make the gap big enough for them to get through. They’ll do it eventually. Perhaps sooner than eventually.

  I run faster.

  I run past the post box and the corner shop and the telephone box and the butchers and the dry cleaners and school and the old warehouse.

  I’m getting out of breath now. I won’t be able to run for much longer. I see some stone steps down the side of the warehouse. The building has been abandoned for years. It’s covered with graffiti. There’re weeds growing out of the brickwork. I go down the stone steps.

  I see a door. It’s off its hinges.

  I go through the doorway.

  It’s dark inside and I can smell damp.

  ‘Where’d you come from?’ says a voice.

  It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

  Then I see –

  Declan Knox is stepping out of the shadows. He goes to my school. He’s fifteen years old. He’s in the football team. He’s not wearing a shirt.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m being chased . . .’ I say.

  Now a girl is stepping out of the shadows. I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her before. She lives in the tower block at the end of the road. She looks about fifteen too. She’s wearing a blouse. It’s got some buttons undone.

  ‘Chased by who?’ the girl asks.

  ‘Kids from the estate.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Declan.

  ‘They want to see what I’ve got in my hands.’

  ‘And what have you got in your hands?’ Declan walks up to me. His chest is gleaming with sweat and I can smell his aftershave. ‘Show me.’

  ‘Don’t order him like that,’ the girl says, coming up behind Declan. ‘Ask him. Be polite.’

  Declan says, ‘Can I see what you’ve got in your hands, please?’

  ‘That’s better,’ says the girl, wrapping her arms around him.

  I say, ‘It’s an insect. I don’t want it to fly away.’

  ‘What sort of insect?’ Declan asks.

  ‘I don’t know. It must’ve come over with the sand. It’s big. And it sort of buzzes.’ I hold my hands out. ‘Can you hear it buzzing?’
<
br />   Declan leans closer. ‘Yeah.’ He smiles. ‘Just open your hands a bit, so I can have a peek. It won’t fly away. And if it does . . . I’ll catch it!’

  I open my hands a crack.

  Declan peers inside.

  The girl asks, ‘Can you see anything, Dec?’

  She’s running her hands over Declan’s stomach now.

  ‘A little bit,’ Declan says. ‘It’s sparkling like a piece of jewelry.’ He looks at me. ‘I want to touch it! Can I? Please.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Declan leans even closer.

  Slowly, he squeezes one of his fingers into my hands.

  I push my cupped hands towards him.

  I can feel his breath against my cheek. His lips part. I see his tongue. His eyes are half closed.

  The girl is running her fingertips over his nipples now.

  Drops of sweat fall from Declan and onto my shirt. Onto my neck. Onto my face. The drops smell of his aftershave.

  Declan’s finger goes deeper.

  The insect’s vibrating intensifies.

  It vibrates between Declan’s skin and mine.

  ‘There!’ Declan gasps.

  ‘Can you feel it, Dec?’ asks the girl.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ He laughs. ‘I feel it all right!’

  He withdraws his finger and kisses the girl.

  Then he looks at me and says, ‘Let’s see if the coast’s clear up above, shall we? Come on.’

  I follow him to the unhinged door.

  ‘Be careful,’ the girl says from the gloom.

  ‘That’s what my mum said,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, your mum was right.’

  I go through the unhinged door.

  Declan is at the top of the stone steps. He’s looking around. ‘Coast clear,’ he says. ‘No nasty boys from the estate in view.’

  I go up the steps. ‘Thank you.’

  I watch him go back down the steps.

  He goes into the dark room.

  I run back to my street.

  Mrs Skinner, at No 64, is standing outside her house.

  ‘Have you seen my Diva?’ she asks.