William Boyd - Stars and bars

He walked round to the back to open the boot and noted that the small flap over the petrol cap was ajar. He looked closer. The cap was loose. He strongly doubted whether any petrol remained in the tank. He opened the boot. The spare tyre had gone.

He made a couple of circuits of the car muttering and nodding to himself with an expression of sardonic wisdom on his face, like a man whose worst suspicions about human kind have just been unequivocally confirmed.

“Everything OK?” It was Shanda standing at the doorway of her mobile home fanning herself with a magazine. She came carefully down the steps and teetered over in her high heels, like a soft-soled bather on a cruel shingle beach. Henderson pointed to the petrol tank.

“No pet…No gas,” he said.

“I know. Duane syphoned it out this morning. He said to tell you.”

“Why? Good God. What’s he playing at?”

“He din’t have no gas in his car.”

Henderson put his hands on his hips and looked round at the scenery.

“He took your spare, too. He said you’d got all different types of French tyres on your car. He’s trying to get them matched.”

Henderson rubbed his eyes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said.

“Look, your jacket’s fallen on the ground.” Shanda bent down to pick it up, but, for some reason — her high heels and the disequilibrium of Freeborn Gage jnr — she fell over, giving a little squeal of alarm. Henderson helped her up. Shanda was giggling, and he wondered suddenly if she were a little drunk. Her pregnant belly bulged against his hip bone. It was soft and springy, in strong contrast to his own cast-iron gut. She put an arm on one of his shoulders while, wobbling on one leg, she attempted to adjust the strap of a high heel. Henderson stood there patiently, a reliable leaning post. He heard a car and looked round. Duane, he earnestly hoped, with two wheels and some fuel. But no: it was Freeborn.

The car thumped to a halt and Freeborn bounded out, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Shanda gave a low groan — she was still struggling with her shoe.

“Hi, darlin’,” she called. “Get your friends?”

Henderson saw two suited, smart-looking men get out of the car behind her advancing husband. Shanda became bipedal. Freeborn’s ten spread fingers pronged fiercely into Henderson’s soft chest, bruising, and propelling him with disturbing ease back against his car.

“ Ouch! Steady on!”

Freeborn now had a forefinger practically up Henderson’s left nostril. His large face loomed three inches away. Henderson had a close-up view of the fjord-like contours of his carved and clipped facial hair. What painstaking efforts it must require, the thought entered his mind, unbidden, to shave around those gulfs and promontories, those peninsulae and bays each morning-surely defeating the ostensible purpose of growing a beard in the first place, namely to rid one of the necessity of that tedious chore.

“I fuckin’ warned you, scumbag!” Freeborn’s breath had a curious antiseptic tang. Perhaps the result of a judicious swilling of the mouthwash he peddled along with his medical wadding.

“Come on ,” Henderson said, hurt. “She fell over. I helped her up.”

“You don’t touch her, heah?”

“What was I meant to do? She couldn’t get up, she was like a turtle on its back or something. Helpless.”

“You calling Shanda a turtle? Bastard!”

Freeborn hit him in the stomach, and something terrible happened to his jammed intestines. He fell to his knees. Everything went red and fizzing for an instant. He heard Shanda scream. His vision cleared and he blinked away his tears. It hadn’t really hurt. How remarkable! He stood up unsteadily. He backed off. Pingings and rumblings were coming from his gut, like a dam about to break. He farted uncontrollably. Freeborn advanced on him rubbing his sore fist. There was only one thing for it now, Henderson calculated. Total panic. He turned and ran.

Too late he realized he should have run down the road to Luxora Beach. He sprinted up to the trees at the park’s edge and looked back. Ungainly Freeborn lumbered after him yelling imprecations. More gainly Henderson dodged his swinging punches easily and ran back towards the house.

“Stop him, stop him!” Shanda beseeched. Freeborn’s two guests looked on in open-mouthed astonishment.

“Who?” Henderson shouted.

“You, you!”

Did she want him to stop, or stop Freeborn?

Freeborn pounded up, his face florid, his breath coming in hoarse, phlegm-rattling gasps. Henderson looked quickly about him, then snatched a bamboo cane prop from a flower bed. The large sunflower it supported keeled gently over as if in slow motion.

Henderson held the cane in front of him. Left elbow on hip. Controlled relaxation: fleche attack, cuts to the head. Freeborn stopped abruptly, a look of puzzlement on his face. Shanda’s whimpering died away as they all contemplated Henderson on guard.

Henderson flourished his cane, wiggling the tip at Freeborn’s face. Nobody moved. Then Henderson suddenly felt tired and foolish. He sensed the beginnings of a blush through his sweat.

Freeborn turned away.

“Get me a beer, honey,” he said and spat two or three times on the ground. He turned to his guests. “Gentlemen, let’s go inside.” With uneasy smiles the two men skirted Henderson and went into the trailer. Freeborn followed, and Henderson was left alone.

He stuck the cane back in the border and attempted to right the fallen sunflower. As he picked it up, the great nodding head, the size of his own face, came away in his hand.

♦

That afternoon, after a lunch of pan-fried nut rissoles and turnip slaw, Henderson went in search of Duane. Mobility was his chief concern now: he had to be in Atlanta in twenty-four hours for Irene.

“He ain’t here,” said Alma-May. She didn’t know nothing about ‘no tize’.

On the way back into the hall from the kitchen he met Freeborn and his two guests. There were no introductions. Freeborn ignored him as he ushered the two men up the stairs. Henderson assumed they were going to see Gage. He wondered what for.

He went outside and made his way to a ramshackle collection of old sheds some distance away from the main house. Here he found the old black gardener who kept the grounds in order. Henderson asked him if he knew where he might lay his hands on a spare tyre and a gallon of petrol.

“Luxora.” The old man said. “Dr Tire. They’s a gas station there too. You can get gas there.”

“Thank you,” Henderson said, smiling politely.

Returning to the house, he quickened his pace when he heard the dull throb of music emanating from Duane’s bedroom.

He knocked on the door, failed to make out any reply and pushed the door open. The walls were covered with shiny posters of rock stars and sportsmen. There was a lingering foetid smell of unwashed, overused sheets garnished with a hint of ashtrays long unemptied. The noise of the music was immense and palpable. It seemed to stir strands of his hair. Four speakers the size of travelling trunks stood in each corner of the room. Bryant sat alone on the bed, crosslegged, smoking, bobbing her head to the rhythms of the drums.

“Bryant!” he shouted.

She looked round, got up and turned the music down.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I’m looking for Duane.”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that. What are you doing here?”

“He said I could listen to his records any time I want.”

“Well, he’s got two of my tyres and a tankful of petrol and I’d like them back.”

“I know. God, he’s only trying to help,” she said disgustedly.

“It’s a funny way to render assistance. Why did he have to syphon my petrol?”