Ventriloquists (10 page)

For want of a nail the kingdom was lost…
And for want of a roll of plastic pedal-bin liners, Don had almost cooked his own goose. He had made the child her milk; he had given her the cup and a separate portion in a bowl with some nutbread submerged inside; and he had closed the trapdoor and replaced the rug. But the pedal-bin had been full, and he had had no more liners in the drawer; he had put the job off for a next-day task. Tomorrow he would empty the bin; bad knees notwithstanding, he would cycle to the village store and buy some more bin-liners.

Had Vig seen the Cow & Gate box, or not? Don had chewed on this question ever since. A simple peek into the kitchen: this is all it would have taken. And Don could hear Vig’s questions to Dorota:
What the hell’s he doing with baby milk?
Then perhaps Miss Teodorescu would reply:
Something for the birds maybe? A sick bird?
And they’d all live happily ever after. God willing…

While the incident had taught Don some harsh lessons about carelessness and responsibility (and pride coming before a fall), he had known from that day – that hour, that minute, that moment – that his work must be squeaky-clean. He couldn’t afford any unwanted scrutiny of his performance. This was why, when Dorota had invited him to this evening’s barbecue, although his heart had sunk faster than a stone in clear water, he had thanked her and said of course he’d be there; it had even been his idea to volunteer to give brief talks about the birds, should they be required or wished for. The latter at least (Don had reasoned) would keep him near the birds, for most of the time away from the house (or more specifically away from strangers); it might make him feel necessary and useful too.

So it was that Don was standing by the first cage, sipping on a roll-up, savouring a second of balmy solitude, when Eastlight found him, again. He had hoped to be shot of Eastlight for the remainder of the evening; alas, no.

Seeming to swerve through his words – the compounded result of more wine than he was young enough to take anymore, on top of what he’d arrived carrying in his brain – Eastlight said, ‘
Donald,
my man. Are you avoiding me?’

‘Evidently not, sir,’ Don replied.

It took Eastlight a few seconds to find this funny, but when he did it was like a Comedy Krakatoa erupting. At one point Eastlight bent over at the waist, the laughs and his flammable breaths gasping exits in tandem. ‘Evidently…’ he rasped, ‘…not, sir…
Priceless
… Cuzzaye
found
you, Donald Duck…
not, sir…
’

Throughout this kitsch gale Don maintained his decorum; he pouted on the end of his drooping cigarette, silently cursing that use of
Donald Duck
, which instinct told him that should he object, would become part of Eastlight’s lexicon from that nanosecond on. With luck the fat pig was too pissed to remember, the next morning, that he’d coined it and christened Don with its dubious charms.

‘What was it I could do for you, sir?’ Don asked.

‘Oh lighten up, Donald, it’s a party!’ Eastlight wheezed in reply, the tatters of his mirth clinging to his reprimand. ‘Doe shtan… doe shtannon….’

‘Ceremony, sir,’ Don finished on Eastlight’s behalf. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. I can tell you I’m not.’

But Eastlight had other ideas about how to finish his own sentence. He started to sing the chorus from ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’, his voice cracking into more peals of laughter by the end.

Don ground his roll-up in the multicoloured gravel in front of Cage 1. The birds within made sudden busy movements and squawks of protest as their keeper said, ‘You should take your own advice, sir, about standing so close to someone.’

The comment sobered Eastlight almost immediately. ‘Meaning?’ he demanded. ‘There’s two foot between us!’

‘There wasn’t earlier, when you rolled in,’ Don answered calmly. ‘All over me like a rash, you were, sir. I was quite uncomfortable, if you’ll forgive me.’

‘If I’ll forgive you…’ Eastlight smiled. ‘Because I’m one of
them
, no doubt. Your shensh. Your shenshibilities have been affun. Affronted.’

Seeing no obvious way out of this altercation – even welcoming it in a way as something that had to be faced eventually, so why not now? – Don plucked tobacco from his poacher’s pocket and rolled himself another smoke, arguing that he didn’t know what
one of them
meant.

‘A homosexual, Donald Duck! I’m as queer as folk! Good with colours! I’m a
poof
.’

Donald shrugged and lit his cigarette. ‘Easy come, easy go,’ he breathed out with his first lungful of smoke.

It hadn’t been intended as a joke, but it set Eastlight off again. This time the man felt obliged to cling to the cage’s wire mesh for support; the sight of his podgy fingers oozing through the mesh made Don shiver, but it also gave him a brief flash of revengeful fantasy, something like a garrotting, and Don even found it in himself to smile for a second while Eastlight laughed himself into recovery.

Presently a silence fell between them. Eastlight broke it.

‘I’ll tell you what, Donald, how’s this for a proposition? You roll me one of those cigarettes with one hand like you just did, and you
promise
to try to teach me to do the same – and
I
promise not to stand too close to you again like the smelly queer I am.’

‘You’re not smelly, sir. And I didn’t have a clue you made hay with the farmboys –‘

‘Jesus.’

‘ – It’s just, sir… I’m a solitary man. Put the work in my hand and a pound in my pocket, do you know what I mean? Makes me happy the day’s long… But yes, since you asked nicely, I will roll you a smoke. With my pleasure.’

Eastlight laughed again, briefly this time. ‘Make hay with the farmboys,’ he repeated, ‘I’ll try to remember that – tell Mass in the morning,’ he mumbled on, eagerly watching Don execute his party trick. ‘I say it to everyone early, Donald: saves any confusion in the long run. Or embarrassment.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Charlie. Call me Charlie, Donald. The
sir
shit is
so
nineteenth century… Thank you. What tobacco?’

‘Drum.’ Don flicked his lighter for the cigarette now between Eastlight’s lips. A few of the birds flinched at the flare.

‘Thank you, Donald… Nice.’ Eastlight cupped his free hand to his left ear. ‘Soft! What sound from yonder mansion breaks?’ He smiled. ‘I think you’re on call again, Donald: some more on their way to see the birds, if my ears don’t deceive me.’

‘My privilege,’ Don replied, shrugging once more.

‘I’ll see you later, pal. I’m glad we had this chat
ette
.’ With which he turned, and set off to walk back to the house.

‘Just one more thing, sir – Charlie,’ Don called.

Eastlight turned again. ‘Yes?’

‘Call me Donald Duck again and I’ll shatter your knees. Have a good evening.’

Don faced the birds and tried not to laugh.

5.

Phyllie and Roger were getting ready for bed.

‘Did you meet those delightful twins?’ Roger asked, pulling off his boxer shorts. ‘Blond as butter, nine or ten?’

Phyllie was strapping the dildo around her naked waist. ‘They’re Dorota’s sister’s kids; they live in Dunstable… What about them?’

‘They gave themselves a proper scare, that’s what,’ Roger told her. ‘Went walking off alone in the woods; came across a
tiny gingerbread house
.’

Phyllie sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the bottle of baby oil on the nightstand. ‘Must’ve been Don’s – the birdkeeper,’ she said.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Roger tugged at the toes of his socks. ‘I wonder why his wife didn’t go.’

‘He’s not married, Dorota told me. Well, he’s widowed – twenty years or more.’

Roger assumed his position on the bed: all fours, facing the headboard, eyes screwed tightly shut. ‘That makes the twins’ story doubly spooky – for them at least.’

Phyllie oiled the dildo, asking ‘Why?’

‘Because if Don was at the party, and he lives alone, how come the twins swear to their mother they heard a child crying inside his cabin? No other sounds, just crying…’

On her knees Phyllie moved up behind her husband. ‘Do you want to know about crying?’ she asked darkly, her voice grey.

‘…Yes, madam.’

‘It was probably a fox.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘There’s no such thing as a haunted house.’ And Phyllie pressed the end of the dildo to Roger’s puckered flesh; his body writhed.

‘No, madam.’

‘I hate you, Roger,’ Phyllie breathed as the reinforced plastic breached the miniscule entranceway.

‘I know, madam.
Thank
you, madam…
Thank
you.’

Lesser Characters

Headphones applied, his long body grinding to a beat that only he heard, Molecule clicked open a file that added a stuttering violin sample the mix. He was happy. The work was going well. Provided the Job Centre didn’t drop some bullshit on him about having to attend a jobseeker’s progress meeting (or face the consequence of a payout-holdback) he would have the piece ready by Friday, as promised. And he’d be glad to have it finished: from the start it had been accompanied by some pressure bullshit from Fonehacka, but these days he was on his skin every other hour! The last time he’d called to check on Molecule’s progress, Molecule had screamed down the line:
Let me work, man! I’ll have the fucker square by Friday! Jesus!

You better,
Fonehacka warned him.
Or your name as a DJ’s mud, motherfucker.

Yeah, sweet. Now may I be allowed to return to the fruits of my labour? I’m painting some strings as we speak, or I would be.

Yeah yeah.

Molecule knew that he should take it as a compliment: all of Fonehacka’s streetgangsta bullshit was about supply.
Molecule’s
supply, to be specific. Fonehacka had sold tickets on the strength that the world would be treated to a fresh Molecule splat. The people wanted his shit! A
good
thing! The only problem was that he only had two days left to finish it. And if he couldn’t get out of the proposed bullshit meeting at the JobCentre, why that was half of tomorrow afternoon fucked as well. He’d be working past midnight; working like a motherfucking
vampire
.

Then you should’ve done it earlier,
he told himself sharply.

Yeah yeah.

But his inner voice was right, of course. If he hadn’t been chasing that Charlotte all fucking week…

Too late… It was too late to squirm over maybes. Roll with it. Get on with the piece… and those violins are an octave too high as well…

Molecule frowned; he set about lowering the violins, and he sat down at his desk to work through some samples. He reckoned he was about halfway through the mix.

Then the phone rang.

Molecule sang ‘Motherfucker’ in a G Minor 7, riffing off the beat-up in his cans. His mobile vibrated patiently, next to the mouse. Wearied by the burdens on the shoulders of the modern mixer, Molecule ripped off the headphones and took a breath. He was ready to tell Fonehacka his fucking fortune… but the display did not show Fonehacka’s name. The display read SOME BULLSHIT, which meant an unidentified number – maybe the JobCentre!

‘Fuck cakes.’

If he answered and they said he had to go to the progress bullshit, he would have to go. Not even (feigned) illness was sufficient for those wankers! (He knew this because he’d tried to cough his way through a phone call to say that he wasn’t well enough to travel on the bus to sign on. The jobsworth cunt on the blower had said: ‘Get a cab then!’) And Molecule wasn’t one to tempt fate by lying about a dead relative: the last time he had done so (a month ago) his Aunt Esme had been knocked over by a bus the following morning. She’d survived, but fuck.

On the other hand, they might be calling to say the progress bullshit meeting’s been knocked into the long grass. Willy Womble, his case worker (or whatever the fuck) had lost his bullshit head off his shoulders in a weird baking accident…

Yeah yeah.

Like well fucking likely I don’t think.

‘Fuck it.’ Molecule thumbed it and said, ‘What up?’

‘Is that Marvin Green?’

‘Yeah, blood.’

‘Bill Wondle, JobCentre Plus.’

‘…Hello, Mr Wondle,’ Molecule added in his semi-posh voice. ‘I was just about to call you. I’m afraid I’m going to find tomorrow a bit difficult, for work reasons. I have something to deliver – I need to graft.’

‘Oh. Are you being paid?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘…In
what
manner of speaking? Is cash, cheque or a transfer of funds of some description
en route
to your bank account?’

‘Not exactly,’ Molecule answered truthfully: ‘but I made the man a promise. He’s spinning it at a gig on Friday.’

‘Oh your
music
.’

‘Yeah. You thought I meant what you people call proper work, right?’

‘Well wonders never cease, I suppose,’ Wondle muttered. ‘I’ll need his name and details.’

‘Who?’

‘Your employer. If you’re proposing you miss an appointment…’

Appointment bullshit
, Molecule considered. ‘Fonehacka.’

‘Is it really now. Double-barrelled, is that?’

‘What?’

‘What’s his real name, Marvin?’

The fuck should I tell you, Womble…
Molecule spat silently.
Don’t take that fucking tone…
‘His name’s Reggie Green,’ he confessed with a sigh.

‘Any relation?’

‘My brother innit.’

‘And what’s his work address?’

‘His
what
?’

‘I’ll need his details I said. It looks good on your jobseeker spreadsheet.’

‘No it don’t. He’s my brother. He’s
fourteen
.’

‘Oh.’

Molecule sighed. ‘He needs it for his school disco, see. He’s mixing and them kids look up to me a bit. He’s in his room, next to mine.’

Wondle cleared his throat. ‘All right, noted,’ he said, ‘but actually I wasn’t calling about tomorrow. I suppose we can reschedule, though I probably shouldn’t… I was calling about your
other
brother.’

‘Nero? I mean Noel – What about him?’

‘He missed an early school leaver’s appointment yesterday.’

‘I’m not his keeper, Bill,’ Molecule stated confidently but not rudely.

‘No, I appreciate that, but I wanted to… I wanted to run something past you, before I called the police.’

‘Woah!’ said Molecule (he even held a hand up to his computer screen). ‘That ain’t no Fed business! An
appointment
? A
signing-on
?’

‘Calm down, Marvin. You don’t
sign on
at fifteen…’ said Wondle. ‘Not because he’s in
trouble
for missing –‘

‘Then what?’ Molecule demanded. ‘This is my brother you’re…’

‘
Because I called him today and it wasn’t him who answered.’

Molecule chuckled. ‘No I bet it weren’t. Listen. You’ll find out anyway, so who am I protecting? Nero’s banging this chick in Lanzarote for two weeks. Thinks he’s a porn star, right, but I bet she’s worn him out innit. What she say?’

‘
She
say? It wasn’t a lady who answered, Marvin. Or a girl for that matter.’

‘…Who was it then?’

‘I don’t know – that’s what I’m trying to say. A man – slightly drunk would be my guess – a man answered Noel’s phone and said… said we’d better hurry up and
find him
because they’ve
got
him and they’re going to
kill
him. I’m sorry, Marvin…’

‘Those
wankers
…’ Molecule chuckled again. ‘It’s a wind-up, Bill.’

‘Well I
thought
so, but…’

‘But how’d they get his phone?’ Molecule finished the other man’s thought.

‘I don’t know. Who are you talking about?’

Molecule laughed flat-out. ‘Some guys he knows from school: buncha pisstakers, Bill – nothing to sweat.’

‘…What’s her name?’ Wondle asked.

‘Who?’

‘Lucky lady he’s got a shine for.’

‘
I
dunno. Janine or some bullshit.’

‘Could it be Jess?’

‘Yeah man. Jessica I confessica, he says.’

‘They’ve got her too,
they
say.’

Molecule waited; he didn’t feel much like laughing now. Through his headphones came the tinny hiss of his composition on Auto: it sounded like hornets.

‘Marvin? Are you there?’

‘…Yeah.’

‘Do you
know
this Jess?’ Wondle asked.

‘Nah. You’re kidding…’

‘I’m serious. Do you have a number or anything? Do you know her age?’

‘Her
age
? Do you want her bra size?’

‘Listen, Marvin. I’m going to guess one thing: I’m going to guess that most boys of fifteen don’t go out with girls of eighteen or over.’

‘So? Loads of girls do it young. It’s none of your biz.’

‘But Marvin. Loads of
airlines
don’t do it young, not as far as I know. I can check.’

‘The fuck?’

‘What airport did he go from?’

‘Luton, I suppose. I
dunno,
man.’

‘I don’t think airlines allow fifteen year-olds to travel without an adult,’ said Wondle. ‘As I say, I can check… Do something for me, would you, Marvin?’

‘…Okay.’

Marvin listened, then he stood up and walked across the landing, past Fonehacka’s room (he was watching
Countdown
: he had taken a day off school, pleading the sinus trouble to which he was a teenaged martyr), and entered Nero’s den.

Ever since their mother had become less and less a conspicuous presence in their lives (she’d not come home from wherever she’d ended up last night), the three boys had been broadly respectful of one another’s space. This was one of the reasons why Fonehacka phoned Molecule from the next room, rather than knock on the door.) To Molecule it felt strange having to do what Bill Wondle had asked of him. (Even Willy Womble had known that there’d been no point asking to speak to the boys’ mother.) But he did it: because the air tasted strange, he did it. He opened the first of Nero’s drawers. He stroked his fists through bundles of socks. Nothing. Pumped up, he opened the next: T-shirts and tops… A third drawer let Molecule into a glimpse of his younger brother’s private world. Among the junk were some childhood reminders – a few baked conkers on strings, some dobber marbles – along with a pack of blue Rizlas. His heart was straining.

But it wasn’t until he rummaged through a pile of Nero’s underwear that he found the boy’s passport. He hadn’t flown to Lanzarote: even if he’d intended to.