A SHORT NOVEL ABOUT THE THINGS

WE DO FOR LOVE

BY SIMON HOWARD





© SIMON HOWARD




‘Man’s pleasure is like the noonday halt under the shady tree; it must not – it cannot – be prolonged.’

Arab proverb.


****

CHAPTER 1

HOUSE OF LLASTE




I left the hospital with an envelope on my nose. It was white and made of lint overlaid with gauze, and I felt pretty foolish stepping into the taxi wearing the thing, especially as a patch of red marked the place where my hidden nostrils seeped their coagulating blood. But I’d been hallucinating for three days and deeply regretted having the operation to remove the cartilage and scrape my sinuses. Now I just needed to get away. All the great British myths tumble in time, and today it was the turn of nursing. They’d messed me up with pain and pills and cruelty – so I had to get away.


***


The cab set off for Wimbledon, a place I didn’t know at all well. In fact, I was out of touch with most of London since I’d lived abroad so much in recent years. Apart from stints in India, Egypt and South America, I had spent the last two in the States, writing about some of Hollywood’s lesser-known and shadier characters. Now my publisher had hired me to ghost the memoirs of the once great Leontine Llaste who had completely dominated the West End stage during the Fifties. Since then she’d become obscure. At present she was away on holiday, and I was due to recuperate at her house before getting down to the mammoth task of resuscitating her fame. It seemed a crazy scheme to me, but it had been dreamed up by the publisher and my agent, Julian, who probably feared I’d move into his place for a couple of weeks and drive him crazy with questions about foreign rights and royalties. (Every time I’d visited his office during the last few years I found myself staring at a plaque on the wall proclaiming: ‘Any idiot can write a book but it takes a fucking genius to sell it.’) To make matters worse, I was now arriving at this unknown address a day early and hadn’t even rung to say so because my voice sounded like a Dalek’s, thanks to the bloody envelope over my nose.
We pulled out of Gray’s Inn Road and drove towards the West End, scene of Lleontine Llaste’s greatest theatrical triumphs. Once I’d known this part of London well – its bars, restaurants, clubs and gutters – but now all was new to me again, in the winter of 1983, though I’d dropped into London a few times on Concorde. However, the pills made me doze off and I missed seeing Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square. Just as the cab passed Big Ben my eyes fluttered open and I heard the bell toll something or other a.m. – then I wasn’t properly conscious again until I saw the green of Wimbledon Common slipping past the window.


***


The taxi stopped outside a large Victorian house with a garden and drive in front, giving me the feeling there was a good deal more building hidden away at the back. It was like one of those Hammer Horror houses, and looking at the tall windows I expected some awful face to appear at one of them. I was disheartened to see most of the curtains drawn shut though it was daytime. Suddenly I thought I saw one of them twitch, as though someone were spying on me, but I decided it was just a bit of gauze fluttering on my envelope.
The driver placed my suitcase by the front door, and as I watched him pull away I rang the doorbell which produced a deep moan in what must have been a cavernous hall. Pain stabbed inside my nose. As there was no answer I rang again, producing another moan. I was right about the size of the hall: the sound of slippered footsteps took an age to cross it. Then chains clanked and bolts slid noisily. Eventually the door creaked open, and my heart sank further.
Facing me was a flat-featured young man who could have been anything from eighteen to thirty. Boy, was he ugly. A single eyebrow threatened to take over the whole of his forehead and might have succeeded if it hadn’t already been covered in spots and an unnaturally low hairline. The acne covered the rest of his face, whose last line of defence against it was an insipid moustache, but even beneath this a couple of pus-white pimples showed on his trembling upper lip. As prominent as all these spots were, however, their effect was reduced by a pair of very dry black eyes. I was startled, to say the least.
‘Is this Mrs Llaste’s house?’ I asked, hoping it wasn’t.
‘I’m her son,’ he answered, without giving his name.
Desperately I tried to remember something about the family background which Julian had given me before I went into hospital, but the operation had made me forget most things. It was all I could manage to remember my own relations, let alone who this hideous gargoyle might be. Just as alarming was the sense that he seemed not to be expecting me at all, never mind a day early, though his manner was excessively polite.
‘Come into the drawing room,’ he said, ignoring my suitcase and turning away from me to pad across the enormous hall on slippered feet.
Relieved not to have to look into his troubling face, I studied his curious shape instead. My nose began to pound and I felt a quiver of revulsion shoot through me as I stared at the long back and broad thighs which reminded me of Dr Moreau’s sad and horrible mutations. Picking up my case, I followed him, but put it down again almost immediately.
Even in the gloom of the huge hall I could see that the few pieces of furniture gleamed with polish. The staircase was like the one in Psycho, so of course I started to think of this grisly young man as Norman Bates seen through cracked glass. As if you were in any doubt, I really didn’t take to him.


***


The drawing room was seriously under-furnished, giving the effect of a spartan stage set, possibly even a Wagner opera space. A row of three tall windows all had their heavy velvet curtains drawn shut. Was it from one of these that I thought I’d been spied on for a moment? The strange young man grabbed a wad of velvet and hauled it across the middle window, allowing light to spill through the netting behind into the centre of the room. My nose gave another stab of pain, and I dreaded the thought of having to make conversation with him.
He sat at one end of a sofa in a half-lit part of the long room, the whites of his eyes standing out from the dry, threatening black irises. Plunged into this mixture of darkness and light, his face appeared like a mottled lunar landscape. Staring at it I was overcome by horror, depression, drowsiness and another shaft of nasal pain. In the hospital a visitor had given me a book on Jackson Pollock. Now I saw one of the pictures flash before my exhausted eyes, superimposing itself on the young man’s face, framed by his greasy hair, spotty chin and ears. Then I heard the Voice for the first time.
‘Jack the Dripper,’ it said, and I remembered that this was the painter’s nickname in the Fifties.
Hearing these words made me want to laugh, which in turn caused me to panic a little. Coughing, I raised my hand to my mouth and accidentally knocked the lint envelope. It stabbed my wounded nose. I yelled. Through watering eyes I saw blood on my hand and knew that the lint dressing must have turned completely red by now.
I glimpsed the horrible Son of Llaste, sitting upright and staring blankly at me, his expression immutable – a bit like Boadicea’s, perhaps, on her statue beside Big Ben at Waterloo Bridge. A drowning man would remember an expression like that as he vanished into the Thames’s murderous swirl.
‘Excuse me,’ I croaked, ‘I think I’ll have to go and change my dressing.’ No response, so I got up. ‘Could you show me to my room?’
‘You want to go upstairs?’ he asked, rising from the sofa in one swift movement. The whites of his eyes were larger than ever, and the black irises drier.
‘Yes, it’s time for my pills.’
‘You’d better change your dressing as well. It’s covered in blood.’
As he led the way out of the gloomy room I noticed a yellow duster lying on top of a mahogany chest and another on the floor.
‘Do you employ someone full-time to keep the house so clean?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘I just wondered. Everything’s so neat and polished.’
‘I do it.’
Something like an attempt at a smile peeped out from his eyes, but swiftly vanished. My nose fluttered.
‘I congratulate you,’ I muttered. ‘You don’t do all the cooking too, I hope?’
‘You hope?’
‘For your sake…’
He stared at me.
‘No. There’s a Mrs Poe for that.’
I didn’t believe it.
‘Mrs Poe? As in Edgar Allan –?
‘Yes.’
I thought I was going to laugh again but was saved by another searing pain. I followed him towards the front door, where he made no attempt to pick up my suitcase, even though I was holding the bloody dressing in place with one hand. He loitered at the bottom of the Psycho staircase, looking at me as I carried the case towards it, staying put when I tried to place my foot on the first step. We were uncomfortably close.
‘By the way,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Ebb with two Bs.’
‘Ebb?’
‘Yes.’
‘With two Bs?’
‘It’s short for Ebenezer.’
‘Isn’t there only one B in Ebenezer?’
His dry black eyes looked at me for some time.
‘Yes. But who’d want to be called Ebenezer?’
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ I said, trying to be optimistic on his behalf.
‘Who?’
I surrendered.
‘I see your point,’ I said.
‘My mother had just done a stage version of A Christmas Carol when I was conceived. My father played Scrooge, so that made her feel sympathetic towards him and they decided to call me Ebenezer. Where were you conceived?’
‘Where?’
‘Yes. And when?’
‘Er, it must have been Autumn, but I don’t know where.’
‘Everyone should know where they were conceived. It’s very important.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I never knew that. How very original.’
‘What is?’
‘All that,’ I said cautiously.
‘All what?’
‘That. What you’ve just said.’
‘Yes, it is.’
A long uncomfortable pause followed, during which I felt pain in my nose, arm, back and brain. Then he suddenly span round and bolted up the stairs two at a time. When he reached the top he turned around again and watched me trudge wearily up with my suitcase.
‘By the way,’ I puffed in my Dalek voice, ‘why the two Bs?’
‘Ah…’ said the hideous Ebenezer Llaste.
By the time I arrived on the first floor of my recovery home I was completely worn out.


***


Upstairs, theatrical prints and photographs covered the gloomy walls, including several of his mother in various productions. Their glass shone brightly, despite the drab surroundings. Ebenezer vanished into a doorway.
‘Here’s your bedroom,’ said his voice.
The room was medium-sized and sparsely furnished. A single bed lay along one wall. The chest of drawers, table and wardrobe were unimpressive, and so were a couple of dull cane chairs. There was a basin but no looking-glass above it. Suddenly I realised that I hadn’t seen a single mirror so far. The only picture hanging on the wall was of his mother in the part of Regina Giddens in The Little Foxes, which I thought strange because I knew that she had never played the role, at least in the West End.
After placing my suitcase on a chair with some difficulty because one hand was still clasping the nose dressing, I turned to Ebenezer who was looking at the lock on the front of the case. I didn’t want to open it in his presence, so I gave a mock yawn.
‘Well, thanks awfully,’ I said, stretching. ‘I might try and get a little sleep.’
‘I’ll leave you then,’ he said, shifting his eyes from the lock to me. ‘You could probably do with some sleep.’
Not having the strength to look him in the eye, I focused on his hands, whose fingers danced nervously with one another. A touch of Tourette’s, I thought. Just then I remembered that there was a second brother, but I couldn’t be bothered to ask about him. I felt a momentary flash of fright, but told myself it was caused by my injured nose gnawing away near my brain.
‘This used to be my room,’ he said.
The words sounded in my ears like a death knell, making me freeze and feel I’d become a little clairvoyant. I tried a feeble reply.
‘I’m sure I’ll be very happy in it.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to rest…’
There was another delay before he actually moved towards the door, and I bent down to unlock my suitcase.
‘Goodbye, Jack.’
I span round, shocked.
‘Jack?’
My heart and nose were pounding.
‘Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. The bandage on his nose.’
‘Oh…’
He slid away.


***


Not wanting to put down even temporary roots in this awful house, I couldn’t bring myself to unpack, so instead I swallowed two painkillers. These were replacements for the ones which had made me hallucinate in the hospital. I changed the dressing on my nose, but found it incredibly difficult without a glass to look into. Perhaps in another two days I wouldn’t need any more dressings. When I took off my shoes I realised that I was still wearing my overcoat, so I pulled out my notebook, sat on the bed and started to write down my first impressions about this ghastly place and its awful inhabitant. Then I replaced the notebook in the coat pocket, lay my head on the pillow and conked out.
About forty minutes later I was awake again, gazing at the overcoat. It looked exactly the same as before, but I had an uneasy feeling that my notebook had been read by someone. An object can sometimes give you that sensation. I’ve been tampered with, it seems to say. What are you going to do about it? Paranoia. Maybe, or maybe not. I took the notebook from the pocket and stared at its red cover. It gave no firm clue. My nose hurt, and so did my head.
As I got up I saw blood on the pillow. Lots of it. And I knew I’d have to change the dressing all over again, but I couldn’t face doing it without a mirror. There had to be one somewhere – so, picking up the bandages and a pair of long scissors, I bolted from the room and made my way down the dark corridor, a high-pitched whine screeching in my ears. Sight and hearing seriously impaired, I pushed open a door and found myself in a large bathroom. Blood was dripping from my nose onto the floor. The screeching in my ears was getting worse. I was hallucinating again, but even more than I had in the hospital. I stumbled around the room and began to fall. A brightly coloured shape loomed in front of me, and I felt something repulsive cling to my face. I yelled in horror and heard a deep, ripping sound and thought I was going completely mad.
Then, a moment’s clarity. I was aware of holding in one hand a plastic shower curtain, and in the other the pair of long dangerous scissors. It was as though I’d walked into Psycho. But it got worse. Standing in front of me with an alarmed look on his face was a naked boy of about sixteen, shivering under a jet of water which cascaded onto the bloody dressing lying on the tiled shower floor and bathing his feet in pink water.
I think it would be true to say that time stood still for a bit as I tried to make sense of what was going on and avoid his nakedness by looking around at my new surroundings. Several times I attempted to start a sentence, eventually mumbling:
‘I’m terribly, terribly sorry…’
A feeble response to what was, after all, a rather epic encounter. Surprisingly, the boy’s look of alarm changed to one of relief and he smiled brilliantly at me.
‘I thought you were someone else,’ he said.
Helplessly I stood there, lethal weapon in my shaking hand, my blood bathing his feet, and gazing into his smiling eyes. I realised he must be the younger Llaste boy, though he bore no resemblance to the loathsome Ebenezer. Extraordinarily beautiful, I saw now, and perfectly proportioned, he showed no embarrassment at his nakedness and was obviously comfortable in his body. I must admit his eyes were black, but they gave out immense warmth, and I became their slave immediately.
‘I’m Anthony,’ he said, flirting wildly.
‘James Ferrago.’
Curiously, he didn’t seem to know anything about my visit either, but he was obviously pleased I’d come. I even thought I was by this point. However, I was almost immediately reminded of his horrible brother when the whole house shook with his piercing scream from downstairs. Anthony’s expression changed, and we both ran from the bathroom as Ebenezer’s scream was replaced by a dog’s howl. Blood dripped onto my shirt as we reached the top of the stairs, from where we saw the monstrous Ebenezer bent over a Golden Labrador, quivering with rage. Furiously shaking his clenched fist, his hideous face was pressed against the unfortunate dog’s muzzle.
‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ he seethed, spitting into its ear.
Its head pinned to the floor, the terrified dog was staring straight ahead, too scared to look its hysterical master in the eye. It lay there, trapped and whimpering, its one visible eye now looking up at Anthony and me. Dizzily gripping the banister, I started to descend the stairs but I stopped when I felt a tingling in the palm of my free hand and I glanced down to see that Anthony had placed his own hand there. His look told me not to go.
Crouched over the miserable dog, Ebenezer was staring back at us, his dry black eyes gazing at our joined hands and his evil expression turning into a smirk. Quickly I released myself from Anthony’s grip. Ebenezer, still looking at us, dragged the poor dog out of sight along the passage.
‘Come on,’ Anthony said softly, leading me away.


***


In the bathroom the water still hissed from the shower but the blood had drained away. We bent down to pick up the soggy bandage, and the dry new one I had dropped on the floor in the middle of the room. Despite the winter cold Anthony still made no attempt to dress or even dry himself. Instead he worried about my injury and helped me to apply the new dressing to my nose. After first dabbing the dried blood with damp cotton wool, he cut out a small pad of lint with the scissors and made a little cushion which he placed between the bridge of my nose and the gauze.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
‘I had the cartilage removed and the lining scraped. I don’t recommend it. When I came round it felt like I’d been banged in the face by an axe.’
For a second his body stiffened and the warmth left his eyes. But only for a second. Then he told me that he’d been walking the dog when I arrived. After he got back he hadn’t seen Ebenezer and had gone straight to the shower, so didn’t know I was here. My dressing finished, he tied a neat bow in it and at last wrapped a towel around himself.
‘I’d better go and dress,’ he said.
As we left the bathroom together, I noticed that there was no mirror there.


***


Back in my room I changed out of the bloody shirt and soothed my face with eau de Cologne. Exhaustion gripped me again as I heard the Voice for the second time.
‘A very singular day,’ it said in a dry Victorian tone.
Then, bracing myself for another encounter with Ebenezer Llaste, I went out into the passage and headed for the stairs. I passed an open door and stopped to peer inside. Unlike the other rooms I had seen, this one was small and stacked full of things neatly piled up, some of them reaching to the ceiling. Books, boxes, ornaments, chairs, a desk. Feeling uneasy, I moved on along the corridor then halted again, this time beside a photograph of Leontine Llaste kissing a dagger menacingly. I couldn’t identify the role.
Humming to give myself false courage, I went downstairs, the tune almost managing to put me in a perky mood. Low Ebb, I thought jauntily, I can deal with you. I discovered him in a large dark dining room, furiously polishing the long table. When he looked up, I fell silent because I’d suddenly recognised the tune I was humming. It was I’ve Got You Under My Skin. I shuddered.
Again his manner was excessively polite.
‘I do hope you slept well. Let’s have some tea.’
Abandoning his duster, he walked round the table, and I saw his face reflected in its gleaming surface. It looked almost handsome as it progressed liquidly over the grain of the wood and became distorted. I even thought his body seemed better than earlier, but I still hated it.
Already laid out in the drawing room was tea: a cake on a plate, surrounded by biscuits and ugly china; a silver teapot glimmering in front of a small anthracite fire crackling in the huge grate. Lying on the hearth rug was the Golden Labrador, which immediately got up and bounded towards me, her tail beating against an armchair as she crossed the room, beaming her greeting.
The tea tasted disgusting. Stewed and cold. The cake, rock-hard. We drivelled on about my nose and his mother. He seemed to have a vague idea about someone coming to ghost her memoirs, but I couldn’t tell whether he realised it was me or not. Foolishly, I tried to explain.
‘My job will be to –‘
He interrupted me.
‘I’m expecting to start a job myself quite soon.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Being a stockbroker. I’m waiting to hear from a firm in the City. They’re friends of Mummy’s.’
‘You haven’t thought of the theatre?’
His eyes suddenly looked drier than ever.
‘The theatre isn’t respectable,’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ I began, but decided to let it go.
The dog nuzzled his hand, and he slapped her on the nose. She waddled over and licked mine instead. I used this as an excuse to change the subject.
‘What’s her name?’ I asked, stroking her ear.
‘Lucky.’
You’re fucking joking, I thought, but I just eyed him for a moment and tried very hard not to laugh. I even shoved more of the rock-hard cake in my mouth.
‘Did Mrs Poe make this?’ I was trying hard not to spit any out as I spoke.
‘No.’
I winced at the sharpness of some sort of dried fruit buried in the cake, but soldiered on.
‘Does she live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it her day off?’
‘No.’
‘Oh – is she here?’
‘No, she’s away.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Just away.’
To call what followed a pause wouldn’t do it justice, but it gave Lucky enough time to drench my cuff in saliva and, I noted with huge satisfaction, moult over the carpet while I endlessly patted her as the cleaning-obsessed Ebenezer glared at her. Eventually he broke the silence.
‘I do hope you’re not bored.’
‘No, Good Lord no, not at all. No, no, no… Whatever makes you think that?’
‘You must find me very boring. You’ve obviously led an interesting life.’
‘On the contrary, I look forward to getting to know you.’
He started to play with his chin and picked at one of his spots.
‘I’d really like to be a pilot,’ he said, looking down at his feet.
‘Why don’t you become one, then?’
‘I won’t be able to.’
‘Why not?’
‘I wouldn’t pass the medical.’
At that moment Anthony entered the room looking so beautiful it was as if he’d strayed in from a completely different movie. Lucky bounded over to him, and he sat down on the sofa beside me, smiling the most radiant smile I’d seen in years. (Don’t forget I’d lived in Los Angeles, and Hollywood radiance isn’t the same.) Ebenezer handed him a cup of tea.
‘Thanks, Henry,’ he said, reaching for the hideous cup and saucer. Ebenezer looked furious. ‘Sorry – Ebb.’ He turned to me. ‘That’s his first name, you know – Henry – but ever since Daddy died he’s called himself Ebenezer. It’s his middle name.’ He winked at me cheekily as Ebb glared at both of us. ‘How’s the nose?’
He moved closer to me on the sofa and inspected the bandage he’d made earlier. I could smell his soft breath against my face as one of his hands brushed my leg. Not by accident.
‘There’s been another rape on the common,’ he said suddenly. ‘I heard it on the radio.’
‘When was it?’ asked Ebenezer.
‘This afternoon, probably while I was walking Lucky. It was a news flash.’
‘In broad daylight?’ I asked.
‘Yes, the second time this month. They chased the man but he got away.’
‘I wonder when Mummy’s coming back,’ said Ebb.
‘Another four days.’
‘I think I’ll write her a letter.’ He got up from his armchair. ‘Clear the things away, Anthony.’
‘Let me help,’ I said, rising from the sofa.
‘No! Sit and relax,’ ordered Ebenezer as he left the room.
Anthony smiled at me and helped himself to some cake.
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he said, pushing his thigh into mine and twinkling as he munched.
This is a game I’m not going to play, I told myself, knowing I probably would.
‘I can’t find a mirror anywhere.’
‘I’ll let you have one. Henry doesn’t like them around the place.’
‘What does he look at himself in?’
‘The furniture, picture glass – anything that distorts.’
‘Why?’
‘He hates his body. Can’t you tell?’ He stood up. ‘Come on, let’s clear this lot away,’ he said, chucking a piece of cake to Lucky.
The dog jumped up to catch it. Her jaws clamped with a cracking sound against the stone of some sour fruit planted there by the hand of Ebenezer Llaste.


***


I followed Anthony as he carried the tray into a gothic kitchen. At the old sink, he washed and I dried. As I handled the awful china, I thought about his brother’s self-hatred. I saw his pimply face, the charmless look and the cruel, dry black eyes. I could almost feel him willing me to despise him.
‘Let’s go and find you a mirror,’ said Anthony when we’d finished and he led me upstairs.
His room contained none of the little luxuries I’d expected. Instead, it was a schoolboy’s tip. Scattered across the floor were cricket bats, a football and a collapsed punch-bag. A pile of dirty rugby clothes was stiffening on the rug. Books had been dropped everywhere. Dog-eared and worn, they were mostly about war or sport.
‘No Catcher In The Rye?’ I asked.
‘Read it last year,’ he said, pulling a book from under the bed. ‘You can borrow this if you like.’ It was Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. ‘It’s very good, if you like that sort of thing.’
And he looked at me for a full thirty seconds to check whether I did like that sort of thing. I wasn’t a poker player for nothing. Then I looked around the room some more. There were three mirrors. One of them was lying on the bed, pointing towards the ceiling, with a jock-strap and a crumpled towel lying beside it. I knew what he’d used them for, and he knew that I knew. His beautiful eyes smiled at me, and I was astonished by the level of intimacy this boy wanted to share with me on such a brief acquaintance. I’d known him less than an hour, and already he’d admitted me to his precious world.
He picked up the mirror and handed it to me, without letting go himself. He gazed into my eyes, which were dazzled by the glare reflected in the glass. I changed the angle so that it shone into his eyes instead, making me feel limp. I looked at the photographs on the wall behind him. They showed schoolboy sports teams.
‘You’re obviously quite a sportsman,’ I said, slightly breathlessly.
‘Yes, but I’m not always in the best team. I’m a bit uncoordinated sometimes. I tend to go to pieces.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true,’ he whispered, his elegant hand tightening on the looking-glass between us. ‘Tomorrow I think we’ll try a dressing without the envelope, don’t you?’
‘All right.’
It never crossed my mind to disagree with him.


***


On the way back to my room I passed the door of the tidy little cell I’d peered into earlier. It was closed, but from the other side I could hear a faint rhythmic sound. The idea of Ebenezer sexually exciting himself behind that door was so horrible that I moved on swiftly.
When I reached my own room I froze. The suitcase was nowhere in sight. My books and notebooks had been unpacked and laid out neatly on the chest of drawers, with my envelopes and pens arranged at right angles to them. It sent a shiver through me, and my nose went off like a police siren. Ebenezer had invaded my world and my privacy in the way that his brother wanted me to invade his. But Ebenezer was not me, and I was not Anthony.
Pulling open drawers I found my clothes stacked in primly folded piles which I hardly noticed as my things at all. I flung open the wardrobe doors. My coats and trousers were hanging inside, the shoes placed beneath them so the whole looked like three human dummies.
‘The Furies,’ said the Voice.
‘Christ!’ I roared through gritted teeth.
But I prayed I couldn’t be heard, although that didn’t stop me slamming the doors shut. I spotted my black suitcase above me, on top of the wardrobe, jumping a little with the force of the slam. Then I heard the Voice again.
‘We’re here to stay,’ it said. ‘For the duration.’
My nose was hurting so badly by now that I had to throw myself onto the bed – which hurt it even more – and write notes about this extraordinary house and its inhabitants. Frequently I was distracted by noises in the passage, but the silences between were just as annoying. In the end I gave up and opened a book about Whiting, Rattigan and Fry, who had all been important influences in the life of Leontine Eleonora Llaste, née Bradshaw. I took in virtually nothing, despite rereading some sentences ten times.
Eventually I guessed it was time to go downstairs again. It had grown even colder, so I put on a warm pullover, then stuffed the notebook into the back pocket of my trousers. Still feeling angry, I strode down the passage. The door of the cell was closed as before, but this time I couldn’t hear anything from the other side. Suddenly Anthony came up behind me and slipped his arm through mine. I quickly released myself. He was dressed in a tracksuit and holding a squash racquet.
‘Oh, hello,’ I said politely.
‘They’ve caught the rapist,’ he said. ‘I’ve just heard it on the news.’
‘Thank God.’
‘I’d better rush. I’m late for my game.’ He called back to me as he ran down the stairs two at a time. ‘You’ll find Henry somewhere!’ At the bottom he stopped and looked up. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘Yes, yes. Have a good game.’
He skipped out of the house, and I felt incredibly alone.


***


Ebenezer was standing outside the drawing room, holding a comic book about a wartime RAF hero.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
‘I’m not meant to drink alcohol with these pills. Perhaps something soft.’
‘Rightio, soft it is then. Orange? Go on in, and I’ll bring it in to you.’
Scattered over the sofa were dozens of books about warplanes and fighter ace comics. On a velvet cushion sat a half-made Airfix Harrier jet. Ebenezer entered with a glass of watery orange squash. I pointed at the stuff on the sofa.
‘You’re a bit of an enthusiast.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said with that annoying primness religious people show when atheists make the mistake of asking about their faith.
‘Do you have a large collection of models?’
‘One hundred and fifty eight.’
‘That’s very impressive.’
‘I do my best.’
‘Well done.’
‘I’ve written to Mummy and told her you’ve arrived.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Germany. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve been there a few times.’
‘I think the Germans are the most intelligent people in the world,’ he said, fixing me with his dry black eyes.
My nose started to tickle and I assumed I would disagree with everything this revolting specimen said. I thought about all my younger German friends warning me not to be fooled by their countrymen. Nights spent in bierkellers at German film festivals when I, the liberal, said we’re all the same; they, the cautious children of Nazis saying don’t trust our parents. And I thought of Tillie, my wonderful lost German girlfriend who should have been employed by the West German government to travel the world saying I’m German – we can create me too. How I missed her. How I hated Ebenezer.
‘They mar their intelligence with a failure of the imagination,’ I said pompously, and imagined Anthony whacking his squash ball against the noisy metal wall below the red line of the squash court.
‘I think they’re the most intelligent people.’
‘No foresight,’ I said, trying to block out Anthony who was trying to break into my thoughts. ‘Destructive of others and self-destructive.’
‘For me, they’re more intelligent than any other race.’
‘What makes a race?’
That was a concept too far for Ebenezer, who gripped one of his comics. I almost felt sorry for him, then remembered he was a dog-beater, so I ploughed on.
‘Throughout their history they’ve had to choose between what you might call reason and riot. They’ve always chosen riot though they boast of their self-discipline.’ I thought about making love to Tillie. ‘A very selective intelligence,’ I said, remembering her perfect body and almost losing my thread. ‘Short on foresight.’
‘I find them very intelligent.’
‘You don’t question an intelligence which excludes reason and foresight – let alone compassion – at important historical moments?’ I remembered her fantastic capacity for fellatio in unexpected places.
‘They’re so bright.’
I exploded.
‘That’s the stupidest load of fucking bollocks I’ve ever heard!’
Then I couldn’t stop myself. I launched into a fantastic tirade against everything I hated at that moment. I attacked him, the Germans – all of them – the National Health Service, which I blamed for my injured condition, and I blamed Germany for the condition of the NHS. I didn’t tell him that I always went private, or that I hadn’t paid National Insurance stamps in Britain for years. Throughout this Ebenezer was imperturbable. He knew fuck all about anything, so he saw me as a ranting maniac. Just like one of those religious people.
And then Anthony walked in, beaming, bringing my diatribe to an instant close. He shone like a child visiting the circus for the first time, and made me believe he had never before seen anyone vigorously defend a belief in this way. And the realisation made me feel incredibly protective toward him.
‘My opponent didn’t show up,’ he said.
For no reason whatever I decided that this missing opponent was the rapist. My brain could make alarming connections in this house. Far away the telephone rang, and Ebenezer left the room to answer it. Anthony had lots of unused energy to burn up which I, however enchanted, found a little wearying under the present circumstances. I was tired, but listened politely to his enthusiasms. Before long, Ebenezer returned, bubbling.
‘That was Mummy,’ he squealed in an excited, little boy voice. ‘She’s coming back a day early.’
‘Did you tell her I’m here?’
‘Oh, I forgot.’
‘What?’
‘I was so excited, I forgot. But I mentioned it in my letter.’
‘There’s not much point sending a letter…’
But the words died on my lips as I watched the lunatic Ebenezer stalking around the room, making jerking movements with his legs like a hideous clockwork geisha. A geisha gargoyle which wrung its hands in a fluid, oily way as they tidied away the comics.
‘Anthony, come and help me get dinner.’
‘I’ll go and change first.’
‘Do that afterwards.’
‘But I’m sweating. I ran there and back.’
His knee brushed mine, and I came to his rescue.
‘Can’t I help?’
‘No,’ said Ebenezer firmly. It was almost a threat.
‘I’ll come and make a start,’ said Anthony, and they left the room.
Soon I heard Ebb’s hysterical screams from the kitchen, and the sound of Anthony running down the passage. Lucky sloped in and then hurried over to me, burying her head under the sofa. Depressed, I sat still for a long time, wondering whether I should telephone friends. But I realised that I couldn’t bear the idea of listening to the sound of their happiness. You’ll just have to stick it out for three more days, till the mother gets back, I told myself, then start work with her straight away. As you grow stronger, joy will follow. Or so I hoped…
Ebenezer’s slippered feet were on the move along the passage. He entered the drawing room with a dead expression in his eyes, holding a writing pad and pen. Sitting down on the edge of an armchair, his long back rigid, earnestly he completed the letter to his mother. As he wrote, he mouthed the words like a child and occasionally bit his lower lip. At last he stood up, closed the pad and put it on a small table beside the pen. From a desk he took an envelope, sat down again, placed the letter in the envelope, sealed it and stuck on a stamp. Then he meticulously wrote the address, placed the envelope on the table and stared at it for two whole minutes. It was exhausting to watch.
‘I’ll just go and see how the food’s getting along,’ he announced.
‘Can I help?’
‘No. Relax.’
A tall order.


***


Left alone, my thoughts turned to Sarah who was once behind every thought I had. Every one. Now I just wanted to avoid her. When I came round from the operation, she was sitting at my bedside, spitting out her ultimatum like a curse.
‘Do you want to go on with it? Just answer yes or no!’
Great timing. My welcome back to the conscious world. An ultimatum. I decided to stall for time.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, looking woozy.
‘Yes or No!?’
For a moment I thought I was back in Africa because I know she cursed me that day. Four days ago. And then she hit me. She actually hit me. In a hospital, for Christ’s sake. In the E.N.T. ward. Just before I passed out I looked around the ward at the other patients whose noses had been operated on. A sea of white envelopes. A snowfall. I couldn’t make out a single face – except for Sarah’s, consumed by hatred.
‘You always hated her.’ It was the Voice again.
Then Anthony came back, thank God. I thought he’d given himself cause to use the crumpled towel again, up in his bedroom: he had that kind of look in his eye. He reminded me of Sarah.
‘You must be terribly bored,’ he said.
‘No!’
‘I’m just going to lay the table.’
‘Do you want any help?’
‘No, thanks. Just relax.’


***


Ten minutes later, after I’d been called into the gloomy dining room, I found myself seated in darkness between two sad candles lighting opposite ends of the table, which was covered with sparkling silver and dark porcelain. In their separate pools of light, the two brothers looked like rival angels from the battle between Lucifer and Saint Michael.
The food, disgusting muck prepared by Ebenezer, made me feel sick. I’ve no idea what it was. My energy was fading fast under these conditions, even more so when Ebenezer started droning on about social issues he was unable to affect, corruption he would become the victim of once he went to work in the City.
‘Why go and work there, then?’ I asked logically.
‘What can I do?’
‘You could make a stand.’
‘Ha ha. It’s all right for you. You’ve lived such an interesting life.’
I’d had enough. I was hungry and I was in pain, so I stood up. Heading for the door, I wandered into Anthony’s pool of light and froze when I heard Ebenezer’s next words.
‘Be careful of your diary.’
I span round to confront him.
‘What?’
‘It might fall out of your back pocket.’
My hand felt the notebook and pushed it down further into the pocket, then I turned away once more from Lucifer’s end of the table. Saint Michael’s seraph was smiling at me with his warm black eyes.



*****




CHAPTER 2

CITY OF GOD




That night I dreamed that Anthony was the rapist. I saw him naked in the shower, washing away his victim’s blood which rolled down his perfect torso, staining his genitals a deep crimson. He scrubbed his body with his hands, and the sacred fluid of his sperm rolled across his raised thigh. Then I, the monster, loomed towards him through the plastic shower curtain and bathed his feet with my own white blood.
‘He’s here now,’ said the Voice, ‘sitting on the bed, watching you. Watching over you.’
Opening my eyes, I saw him smiling serenely at me, his hand resting on the blanket, near the top of my thigh. He was naked beneath his dressing-gown. The Voice spoke again, crudely this time.
‘More than your nose is throbbing now.’
It was true. And Anthony knew it. His other hand moved towards my face and almost caressed my cheek as he undid the knot of my dressing.
‘We can do without the envelope now,’ he said softly.
Light poured into the room through the window. Two crows sat on its sill outside, like a pair of gargoyles. One had its back to us, as though on guard, while the other looked directly into my eyes – and possibly right into the darkness of my soul. When I turned away, Anthony’s smiling eyes were waiting for me, full of love. Even with my body a foot away from his I could feel the warmth of his blood. Stretching softly, I gave myself up to his care as he placed a small dressing on the bridge of my nose. I no longer looked ridiculous.
‘You’re good-looking,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
He adjusted his dressing-gown in case I doubted his erection. I nearly panicked.
‘I’d better get up,’ I mumbled.
He gave me a knowing look at what he took to be a double entendre.
‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ he whispered, leaning forward.
His beautiful mouth was now only a couple of inches from mine, making my heart pound. I thought he was going to try and kiss me and I feared I might prove too weak to resist, so I gripped the sheet with my shaking hands. Pathetic for a man of thirty to behave like this, but I’d never met a boy like Anthony before – or not since I was at school. Apart from the fact that this was completely illegal in 1983, my dream had reminded me of The Marquise of O by Heinrich von Kleist, in which an innocent-looking boy subaltern turns out to be an evil rapist and a fore-runner to Mr Hyde.
‘Henry will give you breakfast in the dining room when you’re ready,’ he whispered with terrifying intimacy.
‘Is Mrs Poe still away?’
‘Mrs Poe! That’s Henry. She’s actually called Mrs Poland. Florence Poland, otherwise Flo – Flo Poe.’
‘Ebb and Flo.’
‘Good one. Yes, she’s still away.’
He hurriedly kissed my cheek and stood up, adjusting his dressing-gown again so that I was still in no doubt. (And a very impressive, beautiful sight it was too.) Smiling his brilliant smile he left my room, and I, in need of distraction, switched on my radio and tuned it into a London station for news of the rapist’s arrest. Slowly I got out of bed and took a pill because my nose was hurting now. The radio made no mention of the rapist.


***


Half dressed, I wandered along the corridor to the bathroom and found the door closed. Two nasal voices sounded on the other side, both with American accents and apparently produced through cupped hands. The Ebenezer Llaste bathroom show.
‘Okay, Control, we’d like permission to land, please.’
‘Go ahead, Tango Charlie. Bring her in!’
‘Oh, thank you very much, Buffalo…’
Followed by childish aircraft noises and heroic music, all produced by Ebb and his cupped hands. It made me feel sick. Since I didn’t know where to find another bathroom, I returned to my bedroom and pissed in the basin. That’ll teach you, you cunt, I thought. He made me so angry.
I lay down on the bed. You’ve got to stop thinking of him as a monster, I told myself. He’s just a slightly weird, immature bore, and the pills are fucking up your judgment. I cogitated for a while. Just a slightly weird, immature bore, my arse! He’s a fucking lunatic – absolutely out to lunch. And then I became alarmed in case I’d said it out loud. God, this house was driving me mad. I wondered if words could be trapped forever in the rooms where they’re uttered, waiting there as evidence until Ebenezer came to dust them away. Once more I got up and slowly finished dressing.


***


Ebenezer was laying the table in the dining room. His black hair was wet from the shower and brushed back from his low forehead, making him look like a spotty Dracula.
‘You slept well?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Would you like eggs and bacon?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Corn flakes?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Milk?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Right, I’ll just go and get it. You relax.’ He stopped at the doorway. ‘You don’t want powdered milk because of your pills?’
‘No, thank you.’
Exhausted, I looked around the gloomy room, but was soon disturbed by the Voice.
‘Someone once said that freedom is not having to make choices,’ it said.
Then Ebenezer was at the door once more, bringing in a copy of the Daily Express.
‘You can catch up with what’s going on,’ he said. ‘It must be very boring for you here, away from all the excitement.’ He stopped again at the doorway. ‘Do you want toast?’
‘Yes. Great.’
‘Butter?’
‘Excellent.’
‘Marmalade?’
‘Please.’
‘Brown or white?’
‘Either.’
‘Rightio.’
He left the room.
I opened the paper and saw that Tennessee Williams had died. I envied him.


***


Ten minutes later Ebenezer returned with a tray. He placed a bowl of corn flakes in front of me. They were stale. I poured milk from the jug. It was sour. He started his little boy act again. It was repulsive.
‘Oh, I do so want you to meet Mummy,’ he twittered. ‘You just wait. She’s such fun. You must find us very boring, but just wait till you meet Mummy. She’ll have us in stitches all the time. I’m longing to see what you think of her…’
I think you should stop lumping yourself with Anthony is what I think, and I certainly don’t find him boring. Not remotely. In fact, I suspect he could rock my universe if I don’t watch out.
‘Tennessee Williams has died,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
He left the room again, without stopping in the doorway this time. Mournfully I chewed the sour soggy corn flakes, wincing at every bite. After a while he was back, carrying a pot of inevitably stewed tea. He poured me a cup. You won’t want to know what it tasted like, especially with the sour milk.
‘No bread I’m afraid. Do you mind crackers?’
‘Nnnmmmm.’
Five minutes later two square stale biscuits landed on my plate.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘I’ll just go and get mine.’
Eventually he was seated at one end of the table, pouring himself some stewed tea. I offered him the sour milk.
‘Just a wee bit,’ he said, pouring it from the jug.
Methodically he crunched the crackers between his teeth which banged against each other rhythmically. As he ate, his dry black eyes never left the plate. It was like watching a cave man eat. The telephone rang out in the cavernous hall: he didn’t respond, as though he couldn’t hear it or it wasn’t ringing at all. Eventually it stopped. I wanted to murder my agent Julian who had got me into this. I remembered another plaque hanging on his office wall: ‘Keep calm and carry on!’ Brave wartime words from the MOD.
Ebenezer stood up and started to clear the table.
‘Well, I must get on,’ he said. ‘So many things to do.’
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘Not now, but I will this afternoon.’
I started to clear away the plates.
‘No, no. You relax. Read the paper. Find out what’s going on.’
‘Why won’t you let me help?’
‘I feel uneasy being served in my own house.’


***


I was lying on the bed, writing in my notebook, when he knocked on the door.
‘I’ll just make your bed.’
Instinctively I hid my notebook inside the Daily Express and went to sit on one of the chairs. I didn’t offer to help. Ebenezer removed all the blankets and the eiderdown, and straightened the bottom sheet. Then, standing at the foot of the bed, he flicked the upper sheet so that it glided down, but he was unhappy that it didn’t land perfectly. After seven attempts he got it right. The perfect landing. Pretending to copy something from the paper, I wrote it all down in my notebook, though I noticed him glancing at me as he tucked in the sheet. When he’d secured all the blankets he placed the eiderdown on top, standing at each corner and pulling it into exactly the right position. You fucking nutter, I thought, and then I was overcome by an evil impulse.
‘I think I’ll go back to bed,’ I said.
Slowly Ebenezer unbowed himself. His stare travelled from my feet to my eyes.
‘If you wish…’
I’ll have to do it now, I thought. Then the Voice returned.
‘That’s right,’ it said. ‘Go back to bed. Time to read you a dream.’
‘On second thoughts,’ said Ebb, ‘it’s probably a good idea.’
He left the room, and I hid the notebook under the pillow before undressing again. Sliding between the tight folds of the sheets, I lay on my back like a corpse and felt the cold shroud strain across my bare skin. Some sort of weight seemed to travel into my head, and a calmness settled upon me like a black dove landing, while I cast off from the shore.


***


The battered rape victim was Anthony, desperately struggling on the common with his attacker whose head had been gashed by a thorn-bush caught in his hair. Blood flowed down his face, making it impossible to recognise him. Anthony, naked and terrified, pulled at the thorn-bush with his bleeding hands, and it cut deeper and deeper into the rapist’s wound. I moved my gaze from the lethal thorns along Anthony’s beautiful arm until it transformed into Sarah’s. Then Anthony’s whole body became Sarah’s, and hers eyes looked at me in terror. I was like a camera: when my eye panned back it saw the rapist with his crown of thorns smothering inside the shower curtain. A booming noise rent the air and the participants, bathed in blood and shadow, looked up at the sky where they saw the sun obscured by the great dark bird of Concorde, freeze-framed and terrible, within the troposphere…


***


When I awoke, I thought I was in the garden of Joseph of Arimathea, watching the stone roll away from the tomb’s mouth. The bedroom door swung towards me, and there stood Anthony in the wardrobe of the Cross, his hair wet, a minute towel tied around his provocative loins.
‘The baptised Saviour stepping from the Jordan,’ said the Voice.
Is this conversion, I wondered – all this imagery, all these associations, all this temptation? The Temptation of Anthony. Or is it the pills?
‘You called out,’ he said.
‘Did I?’
‘It sounded like Eli!’
‘What?’
‘Eli!’
‘I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘Twice.’
I groaned.
‘You probably meant Ebb but got confused in your sleep.’
‘It all sounds highly unlikely.’
‘Would you like to come for a walk?’
‘Yes.’
Wrenching the tightly tucked sheets from their moorings, I leapt from the bed and grabbed my trousers.
‘You look like Jesus,’ said Anthony, gazing at me in my underpants (and unshaved since before I went into hospital).
A tiny cry of panic left my dry throat.
‘Anthony, that’s quite enough of that.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound blasphemous. I’ll go and dress.’
I put on warm clothes and, ready to leave, thought of locking the door against Ebenezer. Good manners prevented me. I saw Ebenezer and Lucky moving about in the half-light of the corridor. Blood glistened on his forehead, where he’d picked one of his spots.
‘Did you rest?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Get behind me, Lucky!’
The dog pulled back and we all descended the stairs in single file, Lucky looking up at me conspiratorially. Anthony bounded up, overtook us and tore downstairs three steps at a time. Then he whisked Lucky and me through the front door, leaving Ebenezer to scowl in solitude.
As we strode out of the drive, the frosty air stabbed my nose.
‘Shall we go to the common?’ I asked.
‘Not today.’
We marched on in silence, Anthony falling into a deep concentration. Lucky danced ahead of us. Suddenly Anthony turned to me.
‘You’re not bored?’
‘For Christ’s sake, NO! I’m very comfortable with you.’
That made him happy, and he led me, beaming, into a newsagent’s so that I could buy all the serious papers for the Tennessee Williams obituaries. I also took down a copy of the local rag, printed that day, for news of the rapist. Anthony stopped me.
‘We get it delivered,’ he said.
Passing the rest of our walk in contented silence, I soon felt tired because this was the first exercise I’d taken in days. My good spirits plummeted as we entered the drive. Ebenezer’s revolting body was stretched across one of the drawing room windows like a hideous, pinned moth. He was cleaning the window. I remembered with horror that I’d left my notebook under the pillow, and he’d have gone in to make the bed again, I was sure.
‘I must take a pill,’ I said to Anthony, rushing inside.
The bed had been re-made all right. The same precision. The same anal exactness. On top of the pillow, red and guilty, lay the notebook.
My biros had been tested on the writing paper, with the radio now sitting beside them on the chest of drawers. Switching it on, I found it tuned to a different station. I sat down on the bed, almost feeling Ebenezer’s twitching fingers on me. Downstairs, the telephone rang, and after a while Anthony knocked on the door.
‘Henry says there’s a call for you.’
As I stood up I gently patted the dent I’d made in the bedclothes. Then I gritted my teeth resolutely and gave the eiderdown a short, sharp tug which set it wildly askew. Anthony winked at me.


***


Ebenezer held the telephone away from him as though it were impure and causing him great offence. He spoke to me in an extraordinary stutter. I moved towards him cautiously.
‘I-i-t’s a w-woman f-for y-y-you. B-b-by the n-name of S-S-Sarah.’
‘Hello?’ I said, taking the receiver and looking at him first in amazement, then anger when he failed to bugger off.
‘It’s me,’ said an ice-cold English voice which made me stiffen. ‘What do you want to do?’
At last Ebenezer shuffled away in his slippers.
‘What?’ I said.
‘What do you want to do?’ she rasped at me.
‘About what?’
‘About us, of course!’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know how I am?’
‘How are you?’
‘Awful.’
‘Oh.’
A short pause while I thought about the fairer sex, and she thought about killing me, no doubt.
‘Now what do you want to do?’
‘Er…’
‘Do you want to go on?’
‘I don’t think this is a good time to make decisions. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘If you’re going to be like that, I’d better say no.’
‘You mean that, do you?’ she rasped.
‘No, I’m only saying it to protect my health.’
‘Oh, balls!’
‘I’m in pain,’ I pleaded. ‘You visited me in hospital – remember? You lay in wait for me while I had the operation. I thought you were in Los Angeles. You punched me! I had to have double Penthadol after that.’
‘You’re a drug addict.’
‘Sarah –‘
‘I’m going to ring off. You won’t see me again.’
‘Never?’
‘Ever!’
She hung up, leaving the telephone buzzing loudly in my ear, until its din was replaced by the mischievous Voice.
‘Whenas in silks my Sarah goes
Then, then methinks how sweetly flows
That putrefaction in your nose.’
Ebenezer re-materialised at my side.
‘Your nose looks bad,’ he said with a mean smile.
‘You’re so good for morale.’
‘Well, I just like to put the facts in front of you.’
‘They’re already there.’ What a cunt.
At that moment I noticed with alarm syringe marks on the inside of his arm.
‘Don’t think about them,’ warned the Voice. ‘He can read your thoughts.’
Hurriedly I thought up a question to distract me.
‘Where are you going this afternoon?’
‘Actually, I’m not going anywhere.’ My heart sank. ‘It’s all been cancelled. I won’t be going out till Friday. So I’ll just have to chalk up a few things to do around the house instead. Would you like some tea?’
God knows why, but I said yes and followed him into the gothic kitchen. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he busily wiped all the surfaces of all the cabinets with a damp cloth. Anthony joined us.
‘Why don’t we go into the drawing room?’ he said.
‘No!’ screamed his mad brother. ‘I’ve just cleared up in there!’
Lucky cringed beside me, but suddenly Ebenezer’s mood changed and he gasped in horror.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ he said. ‘Barney Clark has died.’
‘Who’s Barney Clark?’
He was astonished.
‘Who’s Barney Clark?’
‘Yes. Who is, or was, Barney Clark?’
‘You don’t know who Barney Clark was?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’ve never heard of Barney Clark?’
‘No.’
‘Oh…’
‘Well, who was he then?’
He grew more incredulous.
‘Who was Barney Clark?’
‘Yes.’
‘You really don’t know who Barney Clark was?’
‘No, I don’t. Who the fuck was he?’
‘He was the first man in the world to be given an artificial heart, that’s who Barney Clark was!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that’s not very important, is it? He was only the guinea pig – not the surgeon. Anyone could be the guinea pig. He’ll soon be forgotten.’
‘No, he won’t!’ shouted Ebenezer, outraged.
‘Can you remember the name of the first person who had a heart transplant?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Or the first person given a pace-maker?’
‘No…’
‘Or the first test-tube baby?’
‘No!’
‘Well, then…’
I didn’t ruin my argument by telling him that I did actually remember the name of the world’s first test-tube baby. Or that my measure of intelligence, knowledge and wisdom was knowing exactly what I knew. That to be well-read you had to have read exactly the books that I had read. I was the measure. But I wouldn’t try telling a thing like that to Ebenezer Llaste. Instead, I went on.
‘Being one of those people isn’t the same as being Tennessee Williams.’
‘Who?’
‘What?’
I was gasping, possibly a little over-dramatically, but I felt Tennessee Williams deserved a few stage effects. And I wanted to show off to Anthony, and maybe give him another hard-on just through the power of my mind.
‘You’re going too far,’ said Ebenezer.
I turned to Anthony.
‘Have you heard of Barney Clark?’
He smiled.
‘No.’
‘You’re going too far,’ Ebenezer said again, striding over to the window.
Standing with his hands behind his misshapen back, he gazed out at the common, like the captain of a doomed ship. Lucky got up and trotted towards the kitchen door. My eyes followed her and caught sight of Anthony’s beautiful, elegant arm resting on the table. I jumped in horror. It had needle marks on it.
To my fuddled mind they bore the eloquence of stigmata.


***


That night I dreamed I was a vicar in the Church of England, longing for death to unite me with my Saviour. When the Angel called, he took me down a long corridor with rooms leading off it where people either screamed or fornicated, lost souls who were terminally forbidden any sight of God. When at last we reached a great chamber I saw, among the host of angels and the redeemed, the bearded face of God, the Holy Ghost fluttering above His silver head. I longed for a glimpse of Jesus, and I was surprised to see the figure on the right hand of God the Father was dark and hooded, His back turned towards me. I trembled with excitement, though I couldn’t understand why His clothes were so dark. As He started to turn around, I realised that the first sight of my Saviour was imminent. My hands shook and my teeth chattered. His beatific face was still hidden, and I was close to fainting. Slowly He removed His hood, and I beheld the austere countenance of Mohammed.
The door flew open and Lucky bounded into the room. Through half-sealed eyes I saw her run to the window, behind whose curtains the two crows’ silhouettes fluttered away in outrage. She turned and smiled at me, then, noticing a moth, stamped her boisterous paw and crushed it on the floor. And I remembered another dream, buried underneath the last one.
Saint Veronica was wiping the face of Jesus, but when she looked at the image on her cloth she saw Rasputin’s face. His features crumpled as the cloth became Ebenezer’s duster polishing the Cross. Then it changed again, becoming Christ’s loin-cloth, speckled with blood. At last it metamorphosed into Anthony’s minute, provocative towel, wrapped seductively around the Cross itself and turning it into a sensual item, as though the sacred wood were Anthony’s perfect flesh.
‘Here he is,’ said the Voice.
And here he was, standing in the doorway, fully dressed and smiling.
‘It sounded like Efi! this time,’ he said. His lovely eyes sparkled. ‘And mo-something.’
I recalled with a shock that Efimovich was Rasputin’s name. And then I remembered something else. Last night Anthony had introduced me to the needle, and it eased my pain. Staring down at me now was the picture of his mother as Regina Giddens. The Voice spoke, higher in pitch this time, a woman’s voice.
‘I am God the Mother,’ She said, ‘and this is my Son in Whom I am well pleased.’
Anthony sat down beside me and inspected my dressing. He smelled of lavender.
‘The healing has begun,’ he said.
Then he leaned forward and gently kissed the bridge of my nose and inside my punctured arm, my own stigmata – and I knew that I had slipped into his tender clutches. I wished that I could pray for salvation, but knew that it was impossible.
‘Stop,’ I whispered, knowing it was too late. That only time separated me from my fate. That I was both saved and doomed. That you can’t have one without the other. ‘Sto–‘
I tried to recall the details of the previous day, most of which had become blurred. I couldn’t even remember writing in my notebook. Looking round, I suddenly realised it was gone. My heart pounded. Then Lucky burst in again, the red notebook gripped between her strong white teeth. I couldn’t tell whether she’s just taken it, or whether it had gone last night.
‘Lucky!’ screamed Ebenezer’s horrible voice from outside, giving me the feeling he’d had my notebook since yesterday.
My ally the beaming Lucky dropped it on the bed and ran out again. Anthony caressed the notebook’s cover with his beautiful hand.
‘I want to know you,’ he said, smiling and almost irresistible.
‘You can’t have my thoughts,’ I said, taking back the notebook and knowing it was only a matter of time before he would have all of them, that he’d become completely irresistible to me. He’d strip my soul naked and gently rape it with his love. I knew that.
Already I felt more intimate with him than I’d ever felt with Sarah. I had to admit she wasn’t really the intimate type. Intimacy wasn’t what I’d wanted from her anyway, to be honest. Anthony gave himself, offered himself – like a sacrifice? – without shame. Not many people can do that. Maybe Tillie could, but she was a reaction against her national shame, of course. And he accepted my faults without flinching, which would take some doing. He could give because he felt no shame in taking. I had come to him wounded and violent and he, in return, had simply desired me like a child desires things, loves things. Yet he had baptised me with the waters of my own desire – because we’re talking two-way desire here, believe me. And it was as both man and woman, boy/girl, that he had healed and nursed and tempted me. She/he, s/he had shown me the way, given me choice, led me to the needle – enthralled me. He was filling the landscape, and I was in danger of becoming satisfied.
‘Anthony, stop…’ I said without conviction. It was an echo of what I’d said moments earlier. A sound hanging in the air, waiting for Ebenezer’s duster to come along and flick it away.
‘Anthony!’ screamed his odious brother from the corridor. Wearily he raised himself from the bed and left the room.
In a frenzy I flicked through the notebook to yesterday’s last entry. When I saw it, my heart jumped in alarm. I have come to the conclusion, it read, that he’s mad.
‘He’s seen that,’ said the Voice. ‘He’ll make you pay for it.’
I couldn’t remember writing it, but I’d thought it enough times.


***


Half an hour later, spruced up and whistling for courage, I went downstairs where I found Ebenezer holding his pimply chin and stroking his nose. He stopped when he saw me and started to wring his hands in that oily way instead. Ugh.
‘Now what about breakfast?’ he asked with excessive politeness.
‘Absolutely no breakfast for me today, thank you.’
‘We’ll go for a walk, then. I’ll just iron my trousers.’
From a broom cupboard he took an ironing board and disappeared. I went into the gothic kitchen and pottered about. Ten minutes later he reappeared. The trousers had not been ironed.
‘You know, London is like a great honey pot,’ he said. ‘The question is will it be eaten up or will it be spilled?’ And with that staggering philosophical conundrum ringing in my ears, he vanished again.
After another five minutes, Anthony came in.
‘What are you doing, sitting here alone?’
‘Waiting to go for a walk with your brother.’
‘He won’t go out! Come on, we’ll go.’
And so we led Lucky through the front door and headed for the common.
‘Why haven’t I heard anything about the rapes?’ I asked as we walked along.
‘Because…’
Gradually I became aware of a roaring sound, and as we approached the common we saw a police helicopter hovering about thirty feet off the ground. Lucky barked and ran towards it, but almost immediately it flew off. As the noise receded, we began to hear the normal sounds of the common: other dogs barking, kids shouting, a football being kicked, rooks crawing. No sign of whatever might have drawn the helicopter’s attention. Anthony spoke.
‘Do you want to go to the newsagent’s?’
‘No, I can’t be bothered.’
Gazing at his beautiful face I realised I’d already forgotten what Sarah’s looked like.
‘Since knowing you,’ said the Voice, ‘I’ve become capable of Transubstatiation.’


***


Back at the house we found Ebenezer still in his un-ironed trousers. His shoes were very shiny, though.
‘They look very smart,’ I said.
‘I’ve had them for twenty-three days.’
And I bet you haven’t been outside in them yet, you silly cunt, I thought. Then, as if to rubbish my thought, he made a surprise announcement.
‘Anthony and I have to go out later.’
‘Really?’
‘To a prayer meeting.’
‘What sort?’
‘Our group.’
‘What sort is that?’
‘Our group’s sort.’
‘It’s dreamtime,’ said the Voice. I excused myself and left him.


***


My room was as neat as ever. I tore at the bedding and threw myself between the sheets. The dream consisted of one extraordinary film image: a medium-long shot of Christ on the Cross. The wind howled, and He looked at the camera which slowly tracked in towards Him, then took down His arm and placed His nailed hand inside the Savioural loin-cloth from which He produced a wad of ten-pound notes. Licking His thumb, He began to count the money, then winked and gave Himself up to a state of ecstasy, the notes dropping from His hand and fluttering around Him in the wind. Watching in amazement I, the camera, saw His beautiful face become Ebenezer’s, whose single barb of eyebrow interwove itself with the tragic Crown of Thorns.


***


It was already dark when I awoke. The curtains were drawn shut and my clothes folded on the chair, the red notebook sitting on top of them. Christ, I thought, I’m starting to live the hours of Dracula.
‘Halleluiah!’ cried the Voice.
A door slammed downstairs, and I heard giggling.
‘Shhh!’
‘Oh shoosh…’
Someone fell over. More giggles. Putting on my dressing gown I went to the top of the stairs and saw below me in the cavernous hall the brothers Llaste falling about with laughter. Lucky danced around them. Ebenezer placed a huge cushion on the highly polished chest and climbed onto it, giggling manically in a high-pitched squeak, a lord of misrule. Anthony sat on the bottom step of the staircase, gently rocking.
‘Shoosh,’ he said from time to time. And I felt that I had lost him.
‘Tadzio…’ I wanted to say, as von Aschenbach did in disappointment when he saw him playing roughly on the beach with the other boy who pushed him and made him sad. Oh, Anthony.
Suddenly Ebenezer jumped down from the chest and grabbed Lucky’s collar before running off with her towards the kitchen. Looking tired, Anthony got up and went over to the chest, awkwardly picking up the cushion, as though his beautiful body weren’t quite co-ordinated. He winced as he twisted his arm slightly. It seemed as though Ebenezer had thrown madness into the air, and I was waiting to see if it landed on Anthony. He turned and saw me. His great black eyes burned into me, and I felt weak. I gripped the banister.
Just then Ebenezer came running into the hall, clasping one of his Airfix models and making aeroplane noises through his mouth. He ran up the stairs two at a time, his plastic fighter soaring through the mad air above him.
‘Good evening,’ he said as he passed me and vanished into his tiny cell. Soon I heard American voices emerging from behind the door.
I turned back to see Anthony’s eyes still burning into me. Slowly he ascended the stairs. His beautiful eyes never left mine, and I was terrified of my weakness. My heart beat so fiercely that I thought it would burst. But still he came…
Reaching me, he smiled and kissed me on the lips. They swelled with desire. I thought of George Herbert meeting God. But the iron left my soul. I fled to my room and locked the door.


***


I wondered what to do. I wanted a stab of pain to come and drive me from this house since I knew I would never take the decision to leave on my own. I had a job to do and I wasn’t going to be driven away from my work either by Ebenezer’s madness or Anthony’s passion. I’d had a decent advance because I’d never worked without one, and I’d never missed a deadline. I wasn’t going to ruin my reputation now. All my working life I’d been a hired writer: when people bought me they got the goods. I don’t care if it sounds like whoring. Despite Sarah, I was enjoying a good life in America, and I intended to go on with it. Call me a hack if you like.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
‘You haven’t eaten all day,’ Anthony said from the corridor. ‘I’m going to cook you something.’
It was true. I was very hungry now. I was missing his eyes already. I opened the door, and there they were, gazing at me.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, ‘you’re safe.’ I let him lead me down to the kitchen.
‘Isn’t Ebb cooking tonight?’
‘He always fasts after a prayer meeting.’
Together we made scrambled eggs and tea while we chatted about his school.
‘I’m very bad at remembering conversations and lessons,’ he said. ‘I can only learn by revising. In my notes I find things I don’t remember writing.’
I knew the feeling.
‘Can’t you remember what Ebb and I argued about last time?’
‘No.’
‘Can you remember our first conversation?’
‘No, I can’t remember that far back. But I remember you.’
‘Do you remember what was said at the prayer meeting tonight?’
‘No, but I remember the feeling.’
‘Do you think you’re at a disadvantage?’
‘No, I don’t need to know what people have said. I’d much rather know what you’re thinking. Now.’
‘Perhaps you’d forget.’
‘I’d feel it. It wouldn’t leave me.’
‘How can a sixteen-year-old boy be so wise and speak so intimately?’
‘Because I know what I want.’
And I truly believed that he did.


***


When at last I returned to bed and slept, I dreamed of Christ on the Cross again. This time He was dressed in a dinner jacket and He kept looking at His Rolex watch.



*****