Will Self - Shark

inky-pinkying one out. David leaps up, rubs his hands on his black sateen matador pants, stretches to his full six feet and says, ’Cause she never sucks cock, Sue, never. I can give you that on the best authority: my own. As for Waldorf, they think he’s a bloody civilian and I ain’t about to put ’em straight, y’see, Genie. . He circles round behind her and, lifting a greasy bunch of her curls with one hand, lays his other palm on her hot throbbing neck. The gun is still in plain view — her cigarette wags, amplifying the fishy twitches of Genie’s nerveless lips. She knows enough to. . keep still an’ keep shtum . . She’s been done over for her stash enough times to understand this: kicking off only gets you . . a kicking . . iss all about i-den-titty, innit. — Why d’you say that, David? — The hair falls, he dances back in front of her, snatches up the gun and strikes a. . harder-they-fucking-come pose, aiming at the big poster of Dennis Bovell nailed to the crumbling plaster. Don’t be dumb, Genie, he says. You may be smacked out of your mind, but don’t act like it’s a tiny fucking one — like I say, it’s all about identity: Babylon come looking for me and they get that toe-rag instead! David sings: They blew his mind out inna car. . then says: Right location too. . He sticks the muzzle in his mouth and yodels: as it ’appens, guys and girls. . then taps ash from the trigger guard. You’ve gotta understand, he says, it weren’t really that they thought Waldorf was me — it was fucking Sue! See — he snags the wig with the gun-sight — she’s a blonde, she’s tall, she’s a known associate, so the stupid cunts stake out her gaff, they clock me going about my business, they see her farting around — and they know I’m a master of bloody disguise so they reach the obviously wrong conclusion: she’s me. Waldorf — the pistol droops and the wig flops back on to the table — he was just in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time. It was a blue-on-blue action — mistaken i-den-titty, yeah? But what you gotta understand, girl, is that nobody — and I mean ab-so-lute-ly nobody — is who anyone thinks they are. — His face. . back in mine . . is plucked eyebrows. . cemetery gates , and the red ironwork of veins in his bugging eyes. He ticks them off on his lock-picker’s fingers: The dingo ain’t a dingo, it’s a religious nutter, the terrorists ain’t terrorists, they’re freedom-fucking-fighters, the shrink ain’t a shrink, he’s a fucking nut-job. As for that other nut-job, the one they nabbed in Her Maj’s boo-doir, he ain’t just some pond life chancing his arm, oh no — she asked him up, didn’t she, ’cause if there’s one thing a queen likes it’s a bit of rough. We all like a bit of rough —. David stops short and consults his wrist. . ’ ands an’ chins — they’re always too big, that’s ’ow you spot a trannie . Stupid me, he resumes, I never wear a watch — he plucks up the wig — I’d know that about myself if I’d any idea who the fuck I was. What’s the time? — Genie looks over at the sink, where a Teasmade sits on the crusted draining board. She has to stagger up and limp halfway there before she can read the clockface set between its cracked china columns: 8. 15, she says. . and that’s the time it’s always been. We got your message on the ra-di-o, Conditions normal and you’re coming home . . The synthesisers tootle an accompaniment as David reassumes his disguise. . doodle-oodle-oodlie-oo, doodle-oodle-oodlie-oo . . over and maddeningly over again. . doodle-oodle-oodlie oo, doodle-oodle-oodlie-oo . . aimlessly again. . boodle-oodle-boodlie oo, boodle-oodle-boodlie-oo . . Genie thinks: I’d welcome the bullet — I’d enjoy watching all the boodles and boos spurting outta my cracked china bonce. . Deathsmade . — He’s kitted out and standing by the stairs. . ready for the drop . Your gaff ’s a right shit-hole, he says, kicking at the charred laths rising up to the smutty ceiling. For myself, I want to have it with ’em somewhere with a bit of class — Kensington or Knightsbridge, fitted kitchen, en suite, all mod-fucking-cons, me serving Pina Coladas to the Old Bill. . He looks her full in the face — his eyes are deeply submerged in his green shades. He says, You think I dunno I’m on my way out, girl. . I’m brown bread, I am — fucking toast. That’s why I don’t give a shit about shooting up your manky claret, you sad little slag. — He pulls down his hat brim and shifts his handbag so it dangles, a patent-leather medallion, from the gold chain buried in his synthetic chest. I’ll let myself out, he says, but Genie follows him down the five flights, his high heels chattering as they. . chew the ’ouse a new arsehole . — Through this tight aperture she sees: bloodstains from carelessly flushed works spattering the staircase — worse, the potty by her never-made bed she pisses in when she can’t make it to the bog — and worst of all the open wardrobe door that reveals dresses she’ll never wear. .’ cause they’re short-sleeved . — She unlocks the front door, shoots the bolts, and the January night scours their faces. David flattens against the porch wall, then skips to the other side. She sees what he does: split black plastic bags, a squeezed half-lemon, a crushed milk carton, dented bins, a wild shrubbery tossing in the wind. Genie hugs the meagreness inside her dressing gown my sad tits , which, when surprised in the bathroom mirror, are. . old men’s chins . A single streetlamp has pitched its orange flysheet over the park gates. . Where the fuck’s Mister Tumnus? — David turns back to Genie, and, grabbing her chin roughly between his thumb and forefinger, he lilts, I want your bod-y, I want it in parts, I want your thighs and hips — I want your tender lips, I want your bod-y — I’m not a queer — I want your tender heart, I want your tits that sag. . I want ’em all wrapped up. . inside BLACK PLASTIC BAGS —. He’s gone. Struggling with the door, she almost blacks out. She thinks: Mumsie’s not coming and thank fuck for that — as for Daddy, who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome? — At the top of the house she crashes on a broken-down old couch. . golden syrup of time. . dripples , her eyes ooze over to the Teasmade: it persists with 8. 15. Broke, she thinks, it must be broke. She sings aloud, Conditions normal and we’re coming home! — But what was normal? When you’re little, she supposes, you don’t know nothing else. — Miss Philbeach, whose nose twisted at a peculiar angle. . deformed, really . . taught them domestic science at the two-room primary in Little Gaddesden. One time it was elderflower wine: they mixed up the ingredients, let it sit. Weeks later they took turns helping her to pour it out of the demijohn, through a funnel and into flat, clear-glass medicine bottles — Miss gave them one each to take home to their parents. On the way Jeanie and Hughie did the sums and drank one between them. When the sweet green juice was gone. . we thought we could speak Oddle-Poddle , which was what they did, stagger-zagging back along the lanes to the cottage, where they found. . Big-fucking-Weed with Mumsie, who laughed uproariously as they came tottering up the garden path. Well, she said, whose idea was this, then? Was it you, Bill? She grabbed Jeanie’s chin roughly. Or was it you, Ben? Hughie’s she only gave a gentle tweak. Kins hovered in the background, a thin smile stitched across his. . stuffed scarecrow face . Cray-zee kids, Mumsie said approvingly, and Kins, shuffling his big stupid feet, said something non-committal. . Weeee-eeed! He was around a lot at that time — always prepared to run errands for Mumsie and her cray-zee kids. Kins, Mumsie would order him, drive us over to. .Читать дальше