Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

Finally, Hood said, ‘But won’t people think it’s the football team?’

‘Right,’ said Murf. ‘That’s the funny part.’

‘I get it,’ said Hood, but he was glad it was too dark for Murf to see his face.

‘Like no one knows. You write down Arsenal and everyone thinks it’s the team. Right? Only it ain’t. Right? It’s our secret family, like, and no one has a fucking clue.’ He chuckled. “ ‘Right on,” they’re saying, “Up Arsenal” and they don’t even know they’re supporting us. That’s the best part.’ He showed Hood his shadowy face, his lighted ears, the glint of his ear-ring, then he burped. ‘They don’t know nothing, the wankers.’

Hood said, ‘Some advertising.’

They walked to the upper end of the path and paused for a moment. Nothing moved, and in that enormous tract of shadows there was no sound but the wind tearing at the half-hidden stones and grass. Startled by the silence they turned and headed down the path, as if seeking to be calmed by the muffled crunching of their own footsteps.

Murf said, ‘I hate this boneyard.’

He tramped against the wind, with his small head down and his black coat wrapped around him. He tottered forward, hunched like a deaf bat. And Hood could hear his murmured singing, ‘Boom widdy-widdy, Boom widdy-widdy, boom-boom.’

Hood had not said anything about the night before, but he could see that Murf was glad to have been able to do him the favour. They were friends; now there was no question of it. Before, he had shown his loyalty in unlikely ways. Hood had stuck by him, defended him against Mayo’s sneers, and to show his thanks Murf had redecorated the bathroom. The little deception over the painting — Lady Arrow’s intrusion — had secured their friendship. Murf had tagged along behind him for that; and the fight at the dog track had lifted Murf’s mood and made him candid. Yet Hood wondered how he had gone from being a boot-boy in Penge to a bomber for the Provos. He had no particular belief; he had a crude skill. Hood was amazed that Murf had been able to follow him for an entire day without once showing himself. He was small, but not that small. Tonight Murf was especially grateful. Before they left the house Mayo said that Murf was to stay behind, but Hood insisted he come and said, ‘He’s my secret weapon.’

Now, Hood said, ‘You saved my life, squire.’

‘You mean that punk?’ Murf laughed, a little bark in his throat.

‘I thought you were going to put his lights out.’

‘He was dead scared.’ Murf laughed again. The laughter carried to the tombstones and was flattened into a mirthless snort that thudded at the far wall, as if someone watching from the shadows had choked. Murf said gruffly, ‘I would have cut him and all.’

‘Did you recognize him?’

‘No. I thought you knew him.’ Murf looked to Hood for a reply, but there was none and Murf went on, ‘He scared your chick. I felt sorry for her.’

They had gone to New Cross together in the train, saying nothing. Lorna sat, sniffing with fright into a hanky she held in her fist. Then Murf had gone back to the house, and when they were alone in the street Lorna said, ‘Who are you?’ It sent a chill through him, as it had that first day when she had caught him prowling upstairs. Walking her home he tried to explain — telling her how he had once quarrelled with Rutter, inventing reasons for the pretence of Rutter’s not knowing him. And though she half believed him she was fearful — the casual violence was too great a reminder of her old life. She repeated that Hood was no different from Ron: a thug, a villain, dangerous, putting her at risk. At the door she said, ‘I never want to see you again.’ He didn’t care; he was just playing about, using her. ‘I’m not even pretty,’ she said. ‘But I know what you are — you’re a fucker, just like the rest of them.’

To Murf, kicking at the cemetery path, Hood said, ‘She was upset. She’ll get over it.’

‘She seemed quite nice,’ said Murf, ‘I wouldn’t want to see her messed up.’

‘She’ll be okay.’

‘Those punks,’ said Murf. ‘They’re a bad lot. Hey, you wouldn’t believe it, but punks like that are always pestering the Provos.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They got hardware,’ said Murf. ‘They got connections. Like they know Arabs.’

And Hood thought of Weech’s two trunks of guns; it had been a puzzle, but now he saw that he might solve it like a crossword, adding a dozen names to make a word with their key letters.

Murf looked at the cemetery shapes and sucked at the wind and said, ‘They probably come up here already and left, Sweeney and them. It’s all my fault.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sweeney: another name. He knew nothing, but he was almost relieved to think they might not come. He wondered if he really wanted to see them and commit himself further. Once, when he had acted alone, it had all seemed very simple. His present anxiety was like a fear of crowds, the mob that would sweep him from his own motives. The origin of his doubt was the discovery weeks ago that he had made a passport for that wealthy actress he had taken a dislike to. So they were linked. But there was more: the painting stolen by the rich girl from the titled woman. They were all related! And what of Weech’s arsenal? Was it also part of the family now? He resisted assigning it ownership as he had resisted anything final with Lorna, to preserve some distance and avoid the complicating sympathy of kinship. Yet it was as if by degrees he was waking to the true size of his family and seeing it as so huge and branched it included the enemy. To harm any of them was to harm a part of himself. A family quarrel: if he cut them he bled.

That was how he saw the man slipping through the gate at the far end of Paddington Cemetery, the shadow hurrying along the path. What mad cousin was this who had dragged himself from the past to plead with him?

He said, ‘Heads up, squire.’

Murf moved behind him, whispering, ‘Boom widdy-widdy —’

The man approached and as he stepped close to them he flipped his cigarette away. It glanced against a tombstone and the tip came apart, making a shower of sparks, lighting for seconds a jar of wilted flowers and the dagger of a cross in the ground.

Murf said, ‘Easter —’

‘Stuff your bloody password — what are you doing here, man?’

‘He’s with me,’ said Hood.

‘You’re supposed to be alone. The man turned.’ ‘Hop it, Murf.’

‘Hold the phone, squire.’

‘They won’t like it,’ said the man.

‘That’s tough,’ said Hood. ‘He’s staying.’

‘Then follow me,’ he said. ‘But I ain’t responsible.’

They walked out to Lonsdale Road, where Murf stopped briefly to chalk ARSENAL RULE on the cemetery wall. In the cemetery the man had a threatening voice, a villainous shape. In the street Hood saw him wince; he was uncertain, with thinning hair, a battered jacket. The light removed any suggestion of threat and showed his labourer’s stoop — a careworn limping. He turned to Hood, peering up: small, close-set eyes and a wrinkled nose, a large dented chin and a crooked Irish mouth — then he looked away. He skipped slightly, getting ahead of Hood and Murf and led them down a side street to a pub.

Before they entered he said angrily, ‘I ain’t responsible.’ Then he pushed at the door.

The pub was full of hollering men, most of them red-faced and standing in wreaths of smoke, gesturing with pints of beer. A juke-box played — not music, but a throb that repeated against the floor and shook the windows. Hood was used to strangers’ stares, but here there was an unusual break in the chatter as they crossed the pub; he sensed attention, a sharpening of suspicion — a pause in the darts’ game, heads turning, low mutters — as if they had entered a private club and were intruding on a closely guarded ritual. In a corner of the bar the man said, ‘Wait here,’ then walked away.