The Museum of Doubt

by James Meek

  I got up and walked towards the creature. It was an immature seal, not long dead, its eyes missing, otherwise whole. I’d never learned how to sex them.

  Thanks, I said. I’m a coward.

  Yeah, you are, said Liz. I’ve never seen one this close before.

  Neither have I.

  What a shame.

  They do die.

  I know, said Liz, but it’s still a shame. I suppose when my granny was laid out in the lounge you would have been the one to put your head round the door and tell us: Well, they do die.

  I wish I could’ve. Only as you said, I’m a coward.

  We walked on and I started telling Liz the dream. I was a detective angel, I said. An investigator. I could go anywhere, even through time, but I couldn’t go into alternatives: only God could do that. The thing was I suspected he’d made the world – you know, earth – and then changed his mind, it’d just been one of the avenues he was exploring. But I couldn’t prove it.

  My dad’s always doing that, said Liz. He makes things, then changes his mind and hides them. You should have looked in God’s attic.

  But I was sure I remembered the world. Even though I’d never seen it, the idea of it had got into me somehow, and it was killing me to think of how it’d been and then wasn’t and I never would see it. Then I woke up, and instead of being relieved I was in the world I’d thought I’d lost, I felt terrible about losing the false memory of a real world.

  How about not losing me? said Liz. Is there some point to this? What was God like?

  Like someone who pretends to be very hospitable, but makes it obvious they can’t wait for the guests to leave.

  I like the real, real world, said Liz.

  You only get to touch it in one place at a time, though, and the rest crumbles away behind you.

  You expect too much.

  It was the best thing I’d heard about myself for a long time, and the place I was touching, the beach, seemed very wide and deep.

  Look, said Liz. There’s another dead seal.

  Another dark body lolled on the waterline a hundred yards further on.

  Let’s take a look, then, I said.

  Are you not scared? she said.

  We have to look, I said, taking her hand and leading her on.

  Management Secrets of the

  Nazi Generals

  On the morning of the eve of repeal of the cannabis laws, Leila Menimonie woke early and lay in bed, too afraid to go back to sleep and too tired to get up. A tall man dressed in a dark blue military pullover and sharply ironed slacks entered the room and began to undress. He had the body of a man who did weights, and a moustache the shape and size of a large postage stamp. He was a security guard called Lester Bee. He’d been living with Leila for a little short of a month.

  Hi, said Leila, propping herself up on her elbow and watching him.

  Hi gorgeous. Lester tossed a carton of Silk Cut on to the quilt. Leila picked it up sleepily and turned it over.

  Very nice of you, she said. Since when did they start handing these out to the night shift.

  One-off, said Lester.

  You nicked them, didn’t you. She clawed at the packaging.

  I did not nick them. They were trying to get rid of them. They needed the space for a special consignment. I’ve got 5,000 more in the car.

  Leila ripped the carton in half, took out a box and withdrew a cigarette. She put it in her mouth, lit it, opened the library copy of Heart of Darkness on the bedside cabinet, ripped out the first page, fashioned it into a cone and began using it as an ashtray.

  You shouldn’t do that, said Lester. It’s public property. It comes off taxes.

  I’m not taking it back to the library. It shouldn’t be there. It’s racist rubbish.

  How can it be racist? said Lester. It’s a Penguin Classic.

  You woke me up.

  I wish I hadn’t when you call me a thief and a liar after I bring you a present.

  Ach, I was awake anyway. Get your clothes off.

  Lester hung up his trousers, taking a minute to get the creases exactly in line, folded his shirt, socks and pants, placed them carefully on top of the pile of Leila’s dirty knickers in a sports bag in the corner, took off his gold crucifix, kneeled down nude with his back to Leila to pray in a whisper, touched his moustache and lay down in bed facing her. There was a powerful crinkling as his naked flank crushed the cigarette carton wrapping.

  Hope you thanked him for your bum, she said. She stubbed out her cigarette and ran her fingers over the freckled skin on his deltoid, over his downy trapezius, down the spine and over the smooth, warm, narrow compactness of his gluteus maximus. Lester gave his moustache a touch with the side of his index finger and let his hand stray to his groin. Leila slapped his wrist.

  That’s mine, she said. Leave it alone. She lit up another cigarette. What’s this special consignment you’re dying to tell me about?

  It’s confidential.

  Leila pouted and raised her eyebrows. Confidential? Between Lester and Leila?

  Lester frowned and picked at the bobbles on the bedcover. I know you wouldn’t tell anyone, Leila, he said. So I’ll tell you. The warehouse is stacked with ready-made spliffs to the rafters. They’ve been trucking them in all week. I don’t know where they come from. Word is they’ve got a floating factory moored off Casablanca. It’s incredible. They’re all ready to go. They’ve got them in cartons, in packs of twenty, like cigarettes, only the paper’s not white, it’s different colours, green, purple, orange. The packs look the same, foil and everything, but inside the purple square there’s a silver cannabis leaf and instead of Silk Cut it says Hemp Cut.

  Hemp Cut? That’s terrible. What’s it like?

  We’re not allowed to touch them.

  Lester! She punched him in the shoulder. Who’s breaking the law! No-one’s supposed to start warehousing the stuff till tomorrow.

  Leila. Leila. Lester was earnest. This is a multinational corporation. They’re intelligent, responsible people. There must be a good reason for what they’re doing.

  If only they knew what a treasure they had in you, said Leila, smiling and shaking her head, they’d have to pay you double.

  Seven pounds an hour! What would I do with that?

  Buy yourself some nice things, said Leila, putting her arms round his neck and tickling the tip of his prick with her slit.

  They had sex, which, as long as Leila didn’t let herself think about Lester’s beliefs, opinions, uniform, job or employers, was unfailingly good. She even managed to forget her fear, until it was over, and she was lighting up, and the fear came back.

  There’s something I should’ve told you before, she said, gazing at Lester. I’m expecting a visitor today. Kind of like an old flame. An admirer. I don’t want to see him. He’s despicable. But he might come here. In fact he will.

  Well, we won’t let him in, said Lester.

  He’s got his own key.

  We’ll change the locks.

  I’ve sort of got to let him in.

  How?

  The house sort of belongs to him.

  Lester’s forehead was so contorted it seemed to have a hole in it. He got up, looked around, and sat down again on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, biting his nails. He would nibble a sliver free and try to tear it off with his other fingers.

  Why are you living in his house if you don’t want to see him? he said.

  Well, I sort of married him. He’s sort of my husband.

  Lester massaged the side of his head with his knuckles and took deep breaths.

  You’re living with me in your husband’s house for six months, and he doesn’t come round once, he said. He can’t care much about you.

  Leila cleared her throat and licked her lips. He’s been sort of unable to visit, she said. He’s been sort of locked up. In prison. He gets out today. I’m supposed to meet him. She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through Lester’s hair. Want to see what he looks like?
r />   Lester looked down at the floor and shook his head.

  C’mon. Take your Jackie Chan tape out of the video. See that cassette there? The one that says On Golden Pond? The one you never touch? Yeah. Put that one in and switch it on.

  Lester did as he was told. Noise bars sailed across the screen and there was a sound from the TV speaker of screaming, a scuffle and breaking glass. The picture steadied. The camera was looking down the aisle of a short-haul passenger jet. A dark, powerful figure with a stoop, tangled masses of black hair and a Hawaiian shirt, if Hawaiian shirts could show winter scenes from rural Poland, stood braced at the far bulkhead, trying to stop a drinks trolley behind him from ramming its way past him. Beyond the drinks trolley it was just possible to make out a Hydra of uniformed anxiety waving its hands.

  That’s him, said Leila. This was taken just before he was arrested.

  On screen Melvin began to speak.

  Ladies and gentlemen, he said. I’d like to welcome you aboard this Ganja Airlines flight from that desert place smelling of sewage where they can’t cook chips, sunburn capital of the world, to your mean, rainsoaked, debt-ridden real lives in the United Kingdom. My name’s Lord Lucan, and I’ll be your air rage incident on today’s flight. Our journey time today is two hours and ninety-nine minutes, but it will seem longer. Before I join my lovely partner and the female cabin staff in a drug-fuelled orgy in the toilets to the rear of the aircraft, I’d like to draw your attention to some of the safety features on board this aircraft, which is a minty Cadbury’s Aero. Please keep your safety belts unfastened at all times, since in the event of a crash they’ll hinder the task of the police when they come to extract your charred corpse from the wreckage. There are exits to the rear, middle and front of the plane, and they’re locked, so don’t fucking try opening them, less you want to be sucked out like the lumpy bit at the bottom of a milkshake. Please remember that you are economy-class passengers, and therefore expendable. Babies and small children should be stowed in the overhead lockers or under the seat in front of you with their hands securely tied behind their backs and hankies stuffed in their mouths to prevent crying or chatter which would annoy the cabin staff. In the event of a failure of the cabin air supply, tiny green dwarves will descend from hatches above your head and cover your nostrils and mouths with their sly wee fingers, suffocating you within minutes. Enjoy your flight. I am now proceeding towards the cockpit, where I shall pit my cock against those of the pilots.

  You can stop it now, said Leila.

  Lester switched the video off and started putting on his clothes. Leila asked him what he was doing.

  Leaving, said Lester.

  Baby, said Leila, getting out of bed and putting her arms round him. I don’t want you to go. I’ll just explain to him that things have changed.

  Did you visit him in prison?

  Couple of times.

  Did you mention me?

  Nope.

  Will he like me?

  Nope.

  Leila watched Lester’s fingers as he stroked his moustache. She bit her lip.

  If you’re off work sick for six months, will they look after you? she said.

  Zebedee unlocked the last locks between Melvin Menimonie and the big world. Zebedee for the moustache but then when he did the rounds at lights out in B wing a Mexican wave of sound boomed around the stale cloister: Time for beeeeeed!

  Score me some for the do tonight, eh, Melv, said Zebedee. Mind I did you a few favours.

  Melvin stopped with his shoulder resting against the last door. Zebedee had a scrotum curly head of hair on top but the moustache was sleek and straight. It looked like a case of the hot tongs.

  You can’t send me back inside now, can you? said Melvin. You’ve got to let me out, right?

  I have to, aye.

  In that case, fuck off.

  The prison officer clucked and drew in breath between his teeth, cocking his head. You’re confrontational, he said. That means you’ll be back inside. Just trying to do you a favour. Tomorrow they’ll be selling it pot-fresh in Tesco like rosemary and folk’ll be going up to you getting change for dods of resin out of vending machines.

  You’d better open the door, else I’ll have the civil liberties on you.

  That’s got me panicking, said Zebedee. He opened it, though.

  In the free world, prickly rain billowed over the land from the boundless sky. Melvin ran his hands over his face like a Muslim before prayer, felt the air and the water, knelt on the shining black car park, bent forward and kissed the tarmac. When he stood up he took in the café au lait Rolls Royce parked opposite. The door swung open and a chauffeur in cream-detailed dove-grey livery, with a peaked cap, jodphurs and black patent leather jackboots, unfolded from the driver’s seat.

  Mr Menimonie?

  That’s me, said Melvin, hoisting his sports bag over his shoulder and moving towards the car.

  Your wife said to tell you she got fed up waiting. She said you could take the bus. She left the fare for you.

  A chamois fist bloomed and shat silver.

  When Melvin reached the stop there was only an old man with a long coat, a walking stick with the varnish worn away in the crook, and gummy eyes. He was leaning on the stick.

  Seen my wife? said Melvin.

  The old man shook his head.

  Tall, good-looking woman with long black hair. She’s called Leila. Leila. Her hair was long the last time I saw it. That was a month ago. She couldn’t come the last few times, her shifts were wrong, so she missed a few visits. Maybe she’s cut the hair short now. Maybe she’s even dyed it. She did dye it once, before I went inside. I went out in the morning and she was a beautiful woman with long black hair down her back, she wore dresses that showed her shoulders and her back. The hair came down between her shoulderblades. I used to get jealous of the hair stroking the skin of her back all day long, every time she moved. One day I came back and it was like she was a different woman, she had short blonde hair. So I say you could have warned me. She says why, it’s my hair, anyway I wanted to surprise you. I say it’s my hair too, you’re my wife, you could have warned me. She says just because I’m married to you doesn’t mean I can’t change my hair. I say you can you can but you should have told me, it was the woman with the long black hair I was in love with, remember. You’re not just for yourself to look at. You’re for me as well. I get a say. And she says you’re talking about me like the lounge, like we have to agree on my hair like the colour of the curtains. And I say right, right, the next thing is you go back through our photos, like Stalin with his big fucking moustache, and you make all the old pictures of you with the long black hair disappear, is that how it’s going to be? And she looks down at the carpet, ’cause by this time of course I’d broken something, a vase or something, and she says: You’re weird and dangerous. D’you think I’m weird and dangerous?

  The old man swallowed, hunched his shoulders, sniffed and stayed silent. The bus came. Melvin took the old man’s arm, led him on board, dug into the coat’s big pockets with their moist, gritty interiors to find the bus pass, chucked his cash in the slot and moved down the bus.

  Let’s sit upstairs, he said.

  No, said the old man, wrapping his fist like a sucker round a silver pole as the bus whined into motion. Melvin tugged at his wrist, then prised the cold fingers off the pole one by one. He took his bag in his teeth, hooked his hands under the old man’s tobaccoey armpits and started climbing the stairs backwards, dragging the old man after him and explaining what a grand view was to be had from the top deck. The old man struggled. Melvin warned him to keep a tight hold of his stick because he didn’t want to lose it. When they reached the bend at the top of the stairs the bus took a tight curve and Melvin teetered. The old man looked up sharply and they saw each other’s faces in the round mirror, Melvin wide-eyed, saliva dripping from his mouth on either side of the bag handle, like a crazed stallion champing at the bit, the old man being forced to believe that only he coul
d save them. Before the bulk of the falling Melvin could send them both to the floor far below, the old man gripped the rubber end of his walking stick with both hands, raised it above his head and grappled the crook onto the chrome rail. For a few seconds Melvin rode like a demon on the old man’s back, then recovered and hauled the old man up and into the front seats.

  There you go, said Melvin. Great view from up here, eh. What was I saying?

  Did I think you were weird and dangerous.

  Aye, right. You know me well enough now to form a judgement. Melvin drummed his feet on the floor, rubbed his hands together, folded and unfolded his arms and beat out a free form mambo rhythm on the screen of the driver’s periscope. He kept throwing his head sharply round to look out of the window while he was talking. I’m just out the jail. Not going back. Didn’t like it. On my way home to my wife. I love her. I really love her. Been inside six months. Didn’t milk myself once. Holding myself back for her, you see. We did have problems but not any more. From now on, I’m going to make her happy all of the time. I’m going to be an entrepreneur. I did a course in the jail. I’ve got an idea. It’s WHY NOT PLANT A FUCKING SHRUBBERY ON YOUR FACE, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE. Melvin was on his feet, pressed against the glass, screaming at a guy in an anorak walking his dog along the pavement below. They left him behind and Melvin sat down, tugging at his lower lip and frowning.

  See the fucking ’tache on that one? he said. Jesus. I didn’t like moustaches before I went into the jail but once I was in there and saw what the hombres with face furniture were like, screws and prisoners both, my eyes were opened. I saw the whole thing. Moustaches equate with evil. By the way, don’t try and catch me out when I’m on moustaches. Don’t try. Are you going to try and catch me out? Eh?

  No, said the old man.

  Good. Melvin brooded. Stalin – moustache, he said. Hitler – moustache. Saddam Hussein – moustache. It’s so fucking obvious. Lord Kitchener – moustache. Neville Chamberlain – moustache. Lord Lucan – moustache. Genghis Khan – moustache.