The Bell-Boy
Page 19
It was a scene of endings, the strengthening light revealing each detail of his home’s ruin. The cement floor was covered in the snot of burst gourds. Among the leaves and blooms and hacked-off stems were trampled his few clothes. Near the door lay a single cigarette end. He looked down at himself. His uniform was slashed and stiff with brown maps of blood. One hand was a shockingly inflated rubber glove, its palm purple and shiny with tightness. For the moment he didn’t dare examine his other wounds, but he knew what they would be like: welts cracked partly open, lacerations, deep bruising; maybe a bone or two broken in his hand. No real damage, nothing lasting.
What was lasting lay all about him: a view of something which had come to an abrupt end a few hours ago in slime and destruction. His beautiful lair was finished for good. Whatever else, he would have to quit Malomba. The Beetles didn’t warn twice. Back to Saramu to lie low for a bit and recover and then … Who knew? Something would turn up. He felt a sudden relief. He’d wanted a change, hadn’t he? Well, he’d got one. He would never again have to appease Mr Muffy. Just go downstairs, collect his back pay, buy himself a few clothes and get on a bus. He could be home by early afternoon and not empty-handed, either; it was quite a bit he was owed. A shame about Mrs Hemony’s money, of course. But it had come so arbitrarily and he’d had it for so short a time it had never really felt like his. It was an unreal sum, anyway. Things were almost cheerful after all. If only his hip wouldn’t hurt so much. Slowly he reached round and from underneath him pulled his catapult. The pain eased. Good. At least he still had his kancha. It was as well he hadn’t been able to use it. Heaven knew what they would have done if he’d produced a weapon.
Gongs from the city. Bells. An ostrich-skin drum. The familiar patter of falling drops. The water reminded him of an immense thirst. His mouth tasted of rust. A drink and a clean-up. He rolled on to his knees trailing strands of gourd mucus, and found himself looking straight into a smashed fragment of mirror. He confronted his own unlovely image. The top of one ear was torn and dried blood caked a swollen cheek. One eye was puffy, part closed. But the daylight now pouring through the hole showed him something else. It set him back on his heels in the mush, holding up the mirror and moving his head stiffly from side to side so the light could catch his face from every angle.
Gently he brought up his inflated hand and with a finger lightly touched his chin, the corners of his upper lip, his chin once more. There was no mistaking it. Old Raju had been right after all. It really could happen without warning, overnight, just like that. He had a fantasy of going out to the barber and commissioning his first shave. That would definitely be a little premature and might provoke some embarrassing joshing. Nevertheless, there was no doubt. He got painfully to his feet, went to the door and out into the brightness pouring over town. He checked in the sliver of glass again. No doubt whatever. Ān lil-hun.
It hurt Laki to smile, but nothing like enough to stop him.
Downstairs in his office Mr Muffy was also making an early start, full of energy on this the first day of his new régime. He was studying a print-out with satisfaction. It proved clearly in black and white what he had suspected. If he ploughed back the salary he owed that disgraced bell-boy – who need not now be paid – he could begin rebuilding the pigeon loft on the roof. Pigeons were the thing nowadays. Chickens wanted too much room and were always getting ’flu. Pigeons looked after themselves. Only yesterday morning in the Wednesday Market he’d seen pigeon meat on sale at twenty-nine piku a kilo. What was more, next to baby goats pigeons were the most popular sacrificial animal. He’d heard the Vudusumin alone had a standing daily order for thirty.
Demand, supply. No economy could be entirely on the rocks while the priests drank dove blood. He tore off the paper and put the machine back in a drawer. Business efficiency. Realism. A plan. There was no arguing with that.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2014
by Faber and Faber Ltd
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All rights reserved
© James Hamilton-Paterson, 1990
The right of James Hamilton-Paterson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
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ISBN 978–0–571–31754–7