White Teeth (63 page)

‘Hunger-strike? Gran, when you go without elevenses you get
nauseous
. You’ve never gone without food for more than three hours in your life. You’re eighty-five.’

‘You forget,’ said Hortense with chilling curtness, ‘I was born in strife. Me a survivor. A little no-food don’ frighten me.’

‘And you’re going to let her do that, are you, Ryan? She’s eighty-five, Ryan.
Eighty-five
. She can’t go on a hunger-strike.’

‘I’m tellin’ you, Irie,’ said Hortense, speaking loudly and clearly into the mouthpiece, ‘I
want
to do dis. I’m nat boddered by a little lack of food. De Lord giveth wid ’im right hand and taketh away wid ’im left.’

Irie listened to Ryan drop the phone, walk to Hortense’s room and slowly ease the receiver from her, persuading her to go to bed. Irie could hear her grandmother singing as she was led down the hallway, repeating the phrase to no one in particular and setting it to no recognizable tune:
De Lord giveth wid ’im right hand and taketh away wid ’im left
!

But most of the time
, thought Irie,
he’s simply a thief in the night
. He just taketh away. He just taketh the fuck away.

Magid was proud to say he witnessed every stage. He witnessed the custom design of the genes. He witnessed the germ injection. He witnessed the artificial insemination. And he witnessed the birth, so different from his own. One mouse only. No battle down the birth canal, no first and second, no saved and unsaved. No pot-luck. No random factors. No
you have your father’s snout and your mother’s love of cheese
. No mysteries lying in wait. No doubt as to when death will arrive. No hiding from illness, no running from pain. No question about who was pulling the strings. No doubtful omnipotence. No shaky fate. No question of a journey, no question of greener grass, for wherever this mouse went, its life would be precisely the same. It would not travel through time (and Time’s a bitch, Magid knew
that
much now. Time is
the
bitch), because its future was equal to its present which was equal to its past. A Chinese box of a mouse. No other roads, no missed opportunities, no parallel possibilities. No second-guessing, no what-ifs, no might-have-beens. Just certainty. Just certainty in its purest form. And what more, thought Magid — once the witnessing was over, once the mask and gloves were removed, once the white coat was returned to its hook — what more is God than
that
?

So said the banner on the top of the newspaper. So proclaimed the revellers who danced through early evening streets with their shrill silver whistles and Union Jacks, trying to whip up the feeling that goes with the date; trying to bring on the darkness (it was only five o’clock) so that England might have its once-a-year party; get fucked up, throw up, snog, grope and impale; stand in the doorways of trains holding them open for friends; argue with the sudden inflationary tactics of Somalian minicab drivers, jump in water or play with fire, and all by the dim, disguising light of the street lamps. It was the night when England stops saying
pleasethankyoupleasesorrypleasedidI
? And starts saying
pleasefuckmefuckyoumotherfucker
(and we
never
say that; the accent is wrong; we sound silly). The night England gets down to the fundamentals. It was New Year’s Eve. But Joshua was having a hard time believing it. Where had the time gone? It had seeped between the crack in Joely’s legs, run into the secret pockets of her ears, hidden itself in the warm, matted hair of her armpits. And the consequences of what he was about to do, on this the biggest day of his life, a critical situation that three months ago he would have dissected, compartmentalized, weighed up and analysed with Chalfenist vigour — that too had escaped him into her crevices. He had made no real decisions this New Year’s Eve, no resolutions. He felt as thoughtless as the young men tumbling out of pubs, looking for trouble; he felt as light as the child sitting astride his father’s shoulders heading for a family party. Yet he was not with them, out there in the streets, having fun — he was here, in here, careening into the centre of town, making a direct line for the Perret Institute like a heat-seeking missile. He was here, cramped in a bright red minibus with ten jumpy members of FATE, hurtling out of Willesden towards Trafalgar Square, half listening to Kenny read his father’s name out loud for the benefit of Crispin who was up front, driving.

‘ “When Dr Marcus Chalfen puts his FutureMouse on public display this evening he begins a new chapter in our genetic future.” ’

Crispin threw his head back for a loud, ‘Ha!’

‘Yeah, right, exactly,’ continued Kenny, trying unsuccessfully to scoff and read simultaneously, ‘like, thanks for the objective reporting. Umm, where was I . . . all right: “More significantly, he opens up this traditionally secretive, rarefied and complex branch of science to an unprecedented audience. As the Perret Institute prepares to open its doors around-the-clock for seven years, Dr Chalfen promises a national event which will be ‘crucially unlike the Festival of Britain in 1951 or the 1924 British Empire Exhibition because it has no political agenda’.” ’

‘Ha!’ snorted Crispin once more, this time turning right around in his seat so the FATE minibus (which wasn’t officially the FATE minibus; it still had KENSAL RISE FAMILY SERVICES UNIT in ten-inch yellow letters on either side; a loan from a social worker with furry animal sympathies) only narrowly missed a gaggle of pissed-up high-heeled girls who were tottering across the road. ‘No political agenda? Is he taking the fucking
piss
?’

‘Keep your eyes on the road, darling,’ said Joely, blowing him a kiss. ‘We want to at least
try
to get there in one piece. Umm, left here . . . down the Edgware Road.’

‘Fucker,’ said Crispin, glowering at Joshua and then turning back. ‘What a
fucker
he is.’

‘ “By 1999,” ’ read Kenny, following the arrow from the front to page five, ‘ “the year experts predict recombinant DNA procedure will come into its own — approximately fifteen
million
people will have seen the FutureMouse exhibition, and many more worldwide will have followed the progress of the FutureMouse in the international press. By then, Dr Chalfen will have succeeded in his aim of educating a nation, and throwing the ethical ball into the people’s court.” ’

‘Pass. Me. The. Fuck. Ing. Buck. Et,’ said Crispin, as if the very words were vomit. ‘What do the other papers say?’

Paddy held up Middle England’s bible so Crispin could see it in the rear-view. Headline: MOUSEMANIA.

‘It comes with a free FutureMouse sticker,’ said Paddy, shrugging his shoulders and slapping the sticker on his beret. ‘Pretty cute, actually.’

‘The tabloids are a surprise winner, though,’ said Minnie. Minnie was a brand-new convert: a seventeen-year-old Crusty, with matted blonde dreads and pierced nipples, whom Joshua had briefly considered becoming obsessed with. He tried for a while, but found he just couldn’t do it; he just couldn’t leave his miserable little psychotic world-of-Joely and go out seeking life on a new planet. Minnie, to her credit, had spotted this straight off and gravitated towards Crispin. She wore as little as the winter weather would allow and took every opportunity to thrust her perky pierced nipples into Crispin’s personal space, as she did now, reaching over to the driver’s cab to show him the front page of the daily rag in question. At one and the same time Crispin tried unsuccessfully to take the Marble Arch roundabout, avoid elbowing Minnie in the tits, and look at the paper.

‘I can’t see it properly. What is it?’

‘It’s Chalfen’s head with mouse ears, attached to a goat’s torso, which is attached to a pig’s arse. And he’s eating from a trough that says “Genetic Engineering” at one end and “Public Money” at the other. Headline: CHALFEN CHOWS DOWN.’

‘Nice. Every little helps.’

Crispin went round the roundabout again, and this time got the turning he required. Minnie reached over him and propped the paper on the dashboard.

‘God, he looks more fucking Chalfenist than ever!’

Joshua bitterly regretted telling Crispin about this little idiosyncracy of his family, their habit of referring to themselves as verbs, nouns and adjectives. It had seemed a good idea at the time; give everybody a laugh; confirm, if there was any doubt, whose side he was on. But he never felt that he’d betrayed his father — the weight of what he was doing never really hit him — until he heard Chalfenism ridiculed out of Crispin’s mouth.

‘Look at him Chalfening around in that trough. Exploit everything and everybody, that’s the Chalfen way, eh Josh?’

Joshua grunted and turned his back on Crispin, in favour of the window and a view of the frost over Hyde Park.

‘That’s a classic photo, there, see? The one they’ve used for the head. I remember it; that was the day he gave evidence in the California trial. That look of
total
fucking
superiority
. Very Chalfenesque!’

Joshua bit his tongue. DON’T RISE TO IT. IF YOU DON’T RISE TO IT, YOU GAIN HER SYMPATHY.

‘
Don’t
, Crisp,’ said Joely firmly, touching Joshua’s hair. ‘Just try to remember what we’re about to do. He doesn’t
need
that tonight.’

BINGO.

‘Yeah, well . . .’

Crispin put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Minnie, have you and Paddy checked that everyone’s got everything they need? Balaclavas and that?’

‘Yeah, all done. It’s cool.’

‘Good.’ Crispin pulled out a small silver box filled with all the necessaries to roll a fat joint and threw it in Joely’s direction, catching Joshua painfully on the shin.

‘Make us one, love.’

CUNT.

Joely retrieved the box from the floor. She worked crouching with the Rizla resting on Joshua’s knee, her long neck exposed, her breasts falling forward until they were practically in his hands.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asked him, flicking her head back once the joint was rolled.

‘How d’you mean, nervous?’

‘About tonight. I mean, talk about conflict of loyalties.’

‘Conflict?’ murmured Josh hazily, wishing he were out there with the happy people, the conflict-free people, the New Year people.

‘God, I really
admire
you. I mean, FATE are dedicated to extreme action . . . And you know, even now, I find some of the stuff we do . . .
difficult
. And we’re talking about the most firmly held principle in my life, you know? I mean, Crispin and FATE. . . that’s my whole life.’

OH GREAT, thought Joshua, OH FANTASTIC.

‘And I’m still
shit scared
about tonight.’

Joely sparked the joint and inhaled. She passed it straight to Joshua, as the minibus took a right past Parliament. ‘It’s like that quote: “If I had to choose between betraying my friend or my country, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.” The choice between a duty or a principle, you know? You see, I don’t feel torn like that. I don’t know if I could do what I do if I did. I mean, if it was my
father
. My first commitment is to animals and that’s Crispin’s first commitment too, so there’s no conflict. It’s kind of easy for us. But you, Joshi,
you’ve
made the most extreme decision out of us all . . . and you just seem so
calm
. I mean, it’s admirable . . . and I think you’ve
really
impressed Crispin, because you know, he was a little unsure about whether . . .’

Joely kept on talking, and Josh kept on nodding in the necessary places, but the hardcore Thai weed he was smoking had lassoed one word of hers —
calm
— and reined it in as a question.
Why so calm, Joshi
? You’re about to get into some pretty serious shit —
why so calm
?

Because he imagined he
seemed
calm from the outside, preternaturally calm, his adrenalin enjoying an inverse relationship with the rising New Year sap, with the jittery nerves of the FATE posse; and the effect of the skunk on top of it all . . . it was like walking under water, deep under water, while children played above. But it wasn’t calm so much as inertia. And he couldn’t work out, as the van progressed down Whitehall, whether this was the right reaction — to let the world wash over him, to let events take their course — or whether he should be more like
those
people, those people out there, whooping, dancing, fighting, fucking . . . whether he should be more — what was that horrible late twentieth-century tautology?
Proactive
. More proactive in the face of the future.

But he took another deep hit on the joint and it sent him back to twelve, being twelve; a precocious kid, waking up each morning fully expecting a
twelve hours until nuclear apocalypse
announcement, that old cheesy end-of-the-world scenario. Round that time he had thought a lot about extreme decisions, about the future and its deadlines. Even then it had struck him that he was unlikely to spend those last twelve hours fucking Alice the fifteen-year-old babysitter next door, telling people that he loved them, converting to orthodox Judaism, or doing all the things he wanted and all the things he never dared. It always seemed more likely to him, much more likely, that he would just return to his room and calmly finish constructing Lego Medieval Castle. What else could you do? What other choice could you be certain about? Because choices need time, the
fullness of time
, time being the horizontal axis of morality — you make a decision and then you wait and see, wait and see. And it’s a lovely fantasy, this fantasy of no time (TWELVE HOURS LEFT TWELVE HOURS LEFT), the point at which consequences disappear and any action is allowable (‘I’m
mad
— I’m fucking
mad for it
!’ came the cry from the street). But twelve-year-old Josh was too neurotic, too anal, too
Chalfenist
to enjoy it, even the thought of it. Instead he was there thinking: but what if the world
doesn’t
end and what if I fucked Alice Rodwell and she became
pregnant
and what if—