Starter For Ten Part 28

'But I thought you didn't like her?'

'Och, she's all right, once you get to know her.' Giggling, she prods me in the chest with the whisky bottle, and I realise that she's very drunk; not gloomy drunk or surly drunk, but frisky drunk, playful drunk, which is a good sign, I suppose, but still a little strange and unsettling, like seeing Stalin on a skateboard. 'Why, d'you think I'm being a hypocrite'} D'you think I should go, Brian?'

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'No, not at all, it's nice to see you, I just thought it wasn't really your thing.'

'Ah, well, you know me, there's nothing I like more than two hundred p.i.s.sed-up drama students all having a singalong,' and she nods her head at the lounge, where Richard III, the multi-faceted Neil whatsisname, has produced an acoustic guitar from somewhere and is starting to play 'The Boxer' by Simon and Garfunkel.

The na-na-nas are still going on some forty-five minutes later. It's actually gone beyond a fade-out, and has turned into something else, a kind of trance-like mantra, harmonies and all, that may yet go on for several days. Rebecca and I don't mind too much though, because we're squeezed on the sofa at the other end of the room, pa.s.sing the bottle of whisky back and forth, and laughing.

'Och, I don't f.u.c.kin' believe it - that w.a.n.ker Neil Maclntyre's found a tambourine . . .'

'Where did he get a tambourine from? . . .'

'From up his own f.u.c.kin' a.r.s.e, presumably . . .' she says, and swigs whisky. 'D'you think it will ever end?'

'I think we'll be fine as long as they don't start on "Hey Jude".'

'If they do, I'll take a pair of pliers to the f.u.c.kin' guitar, I swear.'

The party's reaching critical ma.s.s now. All the rooms in the house are heaving, and here in the lounge, people are clinging to the furniture like it's The Raft of The Medusa by the French nineteenth century realist painter Gericault. I should get us more drink, but Rebecca and I are in prime positions, wedged in between the six other people on the two-seater settee, and I can tell the booze has run out anyway because people keep scampering into the lounge, looking for bottles and holding them up to the light, or checking discarded cans of lager for cigarette ash on the rim. Also I don't want to move because 255.

Rebecca's drunk, and very funny and a little bit flirty I think, breathing her whisky breath in my ear, which is helping me take my mind off 'The Boxer' and Alice and Spencer, who at this very moment are almost certainly having breathless intercourse on a pile of coats.

'. . . you know, if I ruled the world, which I fully intend to do one day by the way, first thing I'd do 's ban acoustic guitars all right, not ban, but at least limit access, introduce a licensing system, so 's like owning a shotgun or a fork-lift truck, and there'd be these really draconian rules; no playing after dusk, no playing on beaches or near camp fires, no "Scarborough Fair", no "American Pie", no harmonies, no more than two persons singing at any one time . . .'

'But won't legislation just drive it under ground?'

'Which's 'xactly where it belongs, ma friend, 'xactly where it belongs. And I'd ban marijuana too. I mean, as if stuuuudents weren't fatuous and self-obsessed enough already. Yeah, I'd definitely ban marijuana.'

'Isn't it banned already?' I say.

'That's a very good point, my friend. Objection sustained!' and she drains the last of the whisky from the bottle. 'Now, alcohol, alcohol and nicotine, they're the only proper drugs. 'S there anything in that can of lager by your foot?'

'Just f.a.g ends . . .'

'Ah'll leave it then,' and she catches me smiling at her. 'What's funny?'

'You are . . .'

"N what's funny about me, mister?'

'Your opinions. D'you think you'll mellow? You know, with age?'

'Absolutely no way Ah'll tell you one thing, Brian Jackson. You know that load of c.r.a.p they tell you about how you're meant to be left-wing till you're thirty, then you're suddenly meant to realise the error of your ways and go all right-wing? Well, big fat b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to that. If we're still friends in the year 256.

2000 which is, what, fourteen years' time - and I hope we will be, Brian, my of' pal - anyway, if we're still friends, and I have in any way altered or compromised my political, ethical or moral views about tax or immigration or apartheid or trade unions, or if I've stopped marching, or attending meetings, or have turned even remotely right-wing, then I give you permission to shoot me,' and she taps the centre of her forehead. 'Right. Here.'

'Okay. I will.'

'Do. Do.' Then she blinks very slowly, licks her lips, and attempts to swig from the empty bottle before saying, 'Hey, listen, I'm sorry about getting all heavy with you this morning.'

'What d'you mean?'

'You know what I mean - getting all Sylvia Plath on you.'

'Oh, that's all right . . .'

'I mean, I still think you're a complete p.r.i.c.k and everything, but I'm sorry for giving you a hard time.'

'And why am I a complete . . . ?'

'You know why . . .'

'No, go on, tell me . . .'

She smiles at me sideways, from under heavy black eyelids. 'For not having it off with me when you had the chance.'

'Ah, well . . .' and I think about kissing her for a moment, but there are too many people looking, and Alice upstairs, so I say '. . . maybe . . . some other time?'

'Oh no, you blew it, I'm afraid. Once-only offer, pal . . .' and she bops me on the shoulder with her head. 'Once. Only. Offer . . .' and we sit there, not looking at each other, until Rebecca says 'So where's your friend then?'

'Spencer? No idea. Upstairs, I think.'

'I thought he was meant to be having some kind of mental breakdown or something . . .'

'Yeah, well, Alice is helping him get over it.'

'So do I get to meet him or what?'

Rebecca and Spencer isn't a combination I'd imagined 257.

before, and the consequences could be disastrous, but 1 need to know where he is and what he's doing and how far down Alice's top his hand is, so I say, 'If you want,' and we heave ourselves up out of the depths of the sofa and start to look.

We peer into each of the rooms in turn, until we find them, in a small, packed back bedroom at the top of the house, over in the corner, about two inches apart. All around them people are dancing, or not dancing, because there's not enough room, but bobbing their heads to 'Exodus' by Bob Marley, and Alice is waggling her shoulders too, slightly out of time, biting her lower lip, and, okay, they're not kissing as such, just 'talking', but they might as well be, considering how close they're standing. Spencer's got that annoying lop-sided charm-boy expression on his face, like he's The Fonz or something, and Alice is mooning up at him all cow-eyed and interested with her arms crossed over her leotard, as if auditioning for the role of 'country wench', shoving her cleavage up under his chin, just in case he'd missed it.

'That's him, in the corner,' I say.

'The suede-head?' says Rebecca.

'He's not a fascist,' I say, though I don't know why I'm defending him, he probably is a fascist, or as good as.

'Good-looking isn't he?'

'Oh, right, well, yeah, right, thanks for that, Rebecca,' I say.

'Aw, shut ya face, ya daft sod. You've got nothing to worry about on that score.' Is she being sarcastic? I can't tell, and I can't concentrate anyway because now Alice is actually running her hand over the top of Spencer's head, and giggling, and trying to pull her hand away in a sort of pathetic, girly, oooh-doesn't-it-feel-fuzzy kind of way, and Spencer's stooping, taking her hand again, and putting it back on top of his head, and grinning his stupid lop-sided Fonzie grin, and saying no, go on, have a feel, have a feel. He'll be showing her his scars from that gla.s.s-fight next, and I think, 258.

what a scam, shaving your head to make your rnends think you were having some kind of crisis or breakdown, when in fact it's just a cheap trick to get beautiful women to stroke your scalp. I wonder how long it would take me to go downstairs, fill the was.h.i.+ng-up bowl with cold water, come back and throw it over them when, G.o.d bless him, Patrick Watts goes over and does it for me by starting a conversation.

'. . . Oi, are you listening to me, you nutter?' says Rebecca.

'Uh-huh.'

'So are you going to introduce me or what?'

'Absolutely, let's go. Just don't get off with him though, will you?'

'Och, what do you care?' she says, and we head over.

'. . . and Patrick is the captain of our team!' Alice is announcing proudly, as we arrive.

'Yeah, I heard,' says Spencer, not looking Patrick in the eye.

'Oh, hiya, Rebecca!' says Alice, and, bizarrely, throws her arms around her. Rebecca hugs her back, but pulls a face at me over her shoulder.

'Spencer, this is my good friend Rebecca,' I shout over the music, and they shake hands.

'The famous Spencer. Pleased to meet you at last,' says Rebecca. 'Brian's told me a lot about you.'

'Right!' says Spencer and there's a little pause, and the five of us just stand there, all bobbing slightly, and then from out of nowhere, I find myself shouting . . .

'Hey, you should talk to Rebecca about your LEGAL PROBLEM, Spencer!'

I'm not sure why I say it, but I do. I think, in fact I'm pretty sure, it's because I'm trying to be helpful and friendly and keep the conversation going, but I say it anyway, and after a little pause, still smiling, Spencer asks, 'Why's that?'

'Because she's a lawyer.'

'I'm studying law, that's not the same thing . . .'

259.

'No, but still 'So what's your legal problem then?' says Patrick, interested now.

'Spencer's getting done for fiddling his dole . . .' I say.

'You're joking. . .' says Alice, coming over all righteous and left-wing all of a sudden, and squeezing Spencer's arm '. . . the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. You poor thing . . .'

'Nice one, Brian . . .' mouths Spencer, smiling but not really.

'Well, if you didn't do it, then I'm sure you'll be fine,' says Patrick, loftily.

'But he did do it,' I say, just to clarify things.

'So you've got a job then?' says Patrick.

'Just cash-in-hand. Petrol station,' mumbles Spence.

'Except he got caught with . . .' but Spence's eyes flick across at me, and I stop speaking.

'Well then . . .' Patrick sn.i.g.g.e.rs, shrugging his shoulders, 'I have to say, best of luck, mate.'

Spencer's glaring at me steadily now as Rebecca starts on Patrick: 'So what if there's no work out there?'

'Well, there obviously is work out there . . .'

'No, there's not . . .'

'I think you'll find there is . . .'

'There's four million unemployed!' says Rebecca, turning nasty now.

'Three million. And he's clearly not one of them, is he? That's the whole point. If he was working cash-in-hand, he obviously could get a job, but it seems that the pay wasn't good enough for his particular lifestyle, so he decided to take money from the state instead' - is he going to keep calling him 'he' I wonder? - 'you can hardly blame the state for wanting something back when they find it's been stolen. It is my money after all . . .'

Bob Marley is singing 'No Woman, No Cry', and I watch Spencer as he necks his lager, glowering at Patrick all the time 26O.

from under hooded eyes. I catch his eye for just a second, then quickly look back to Rebecca, who's gone red-faced and is belligerently jabbing her finger into Patrick's chest in an attempt to tear out his still beating heart.

'It's not your money, you don't pay tax!' says Rebecca.

'No, but we will, we all will, a great deal of tax in fact. And call me old-fas.h.i.+oned, but I think I have a right to demand that it doesn't go to "unemployed" people who aren't really unemployed . . .'

'. . . even if the job pays below the breadline?'

'Not my problem! If the employee wants a better job, then there's a great deal he can do about it; join a Youth Opportunities Scheme, get some qualifications, get on his bike and look for ...'... and the next words Patrick says are 'PLEASE-GET-HIM-OFF-ME-PLEASE!' because Spencer has stepped forward suddenly, jammed his forearm hard under Patrick's chin and is holding him high, high up against the wall, and even though I've seen Spencer get into fights maybe seven or eight times now, it still takes me by surprise, like suddenly discovering that he can tap-dance. In this instance, it all happens so quickly and deftly that for a while no one else outside our circle sees what happens, they just keep bobbing away to 'No Woman, No Cry'. But then Patrick starts kicking out with his legs, denting the plasterboard walls, and Spencer's forced to brace Patrick's body with his own, and is pus.h.i.+ng his free hand into Patrick's face, squeezing his mouth together.

'Come on mate, for Christ's sake . . .' I say.

'Okay then, question number one, who's "he""}' hisses Spencer, his face inches away from Patrick's.

'What d'you mean?' lisps Patrick.

'Well, you keep talking about "he" - who's "he"?'

'You, of course . . .'

'. . . just let him go,' I say.

'And what's my name?'

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'What?'

'. . . come on, please, just pack it in . . .'

'My name, what's my name, you pompous little p.r.i.c.k . . . ?' says Spencer, squeezing Patrick's cheeks for emphasis, pus.h.i.+ng his head back hard against the wall. The record comes off with a scratch, and people start to turn to watch. Patrick's face is bright red now, his teeth clenched, his toes searching for the floor, and he's spluttering through saliva and orange juice as he says, 'I ... can't . . . remember . . .'