Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

‘Widdy,’ said Murf, blinking and bobbing forward. ‘Okay.’

‘Finn, take our friend downstairs and buy him a beer. I’ll see you later.’

‘Heads up, squire.’

When they were gone and the door was bolted again, Sweeney said, ‘Let’s talk about Miss Nightwing.’ He had become genial, a mood Hood took to be a cover for his suspicion. He smiled again and said, ‘Jesus, so you know our Araba, do you?’

‘I met her.’

‘I thought she had more sense than to go yapping about her sordid past,’ said Sweeney. ‘But then I never really understood the girl. It’s like I was telling you. We get a hell of a lot of funny people. I don’t think she’s a nutcase in the usual sense, but she’s certainly unstable.’

‘She didn’t tell me anything,’ said Hood. ‘I just guessed.’

‘You guessed, did you? That’s hard to believe.’

‘I was a consul for six years. Do you think she was the first one to try and pull a fast one on me?’

‘I forgot you’ve had training,’ said Sweeney. ‘It must have upset her. She’s an emotional sort of person. Very interested in the poor and oppressed. She sees them and she cries. That is an admirable thing, but it’s the extent of her political consciousness. I’ll tell you, she was much better at entertaining the troops.’ Sweeney winked broadly. ‘Ah, she was wonderful at that, she was. A real morale-builder.’

‘That’s why you gave her a passport, then.’

‘Not exactly. About five months back, when our American supplies dried up, we needed some contacts on the Continent. Our girl Araba claimed to have a lot of helpful friends. Thanks to you we fixed her up with a passport, and off she went.’

‘With an ass like that she must have made a lot of contacts.’

‘Who knows?’

‘You mean she didn’t come up with the goods?’

‘She wasn’t supposed to take delivery,’ said Sweeney.

‘Who was?’

Sweeney waved his mangled hand carelessly. He said, ‘Agents, agents.’

‘What are we talking about?’ said Hood. ‘Arms? Dynamite? What?’

Sweeney smiled. ‘Oh, cabbages, that sort of thing.’

‘And you got burned.’

‘You’re guessing again,’ Sweeney added wearily. ‘You’ve been talking to Araba too much.’

Hood said, ‘I’m probably wrong, but I would have thought that if Araba made a supply deal for you and it went through, I’d have seen a little action. The big London offensive. But I haven’t seen anything.’ He stared at Sweeney. ‘So I guess she burned you.’

‘You’re probably wrong.’

‘I told Mayo you were delaying. She denied it, but now I understand. Araba welshed on you. That’s what you get for trusting the idle rich.’

‘The rich only have money,’ said Sweeney. ‘But you can see why I was hesitant to take you on. Araba was just an actress, but you were a highly paid diplomat. No one had ever heard of you. All we knew was how much money you earned and where your family lived. Mother of God, I thought, he can’t be serious. So we waited.’

‘I think you’re lying,’ said Hood. ‘You talk about the offensive, Mayo talks about the offensive. But what’s the offensive? It’s a couple of teenagers hustling bombs into luggage lockers. Oh, and I almost forgot about Mayo’s painting. That was a brilliant caper — it really had the art world up in arms, right? What an offensive.’

‘Have you been to Belfast?’

‘No,’ said Hood, and he muttered, ‘Booby-traps, Bibles, monkeys —’

‘You should go,’ said Sweeney. ‘You’d learn something. Ever see a father gunned down in front of his wife and kiddies?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Hood solemnly.

‘And what did you do about it?’

‘I came here.’

‘Maybe you can see why we’re militant.’

‘I don’t call stealing paintings very militant.’

‘It’s a tactic. It’s better than cutting people’s throats.’ Sweeney looked closely at Hood, then said, ‘If you have other ideas I’d like to hear them.’

‘I’ll write you a letter,’ said Hood.

‘If you’re worried about Araba you can forget it. We expelled her.’

‘For burning you.’

‘It’s no concern of yours. The fact is she was expelled. She’s on her own now.’

‘Competition,’ said Hood.

Sweeney grinned. ‘Actors.’

‘There are a hundred more like her — aristocrats, suckers and middle-class girls with problems. Like Mayo, who takes her bra off and thinks she’s bringing down civilization. She’s just a can of worms. Once, she saw a pretty picture. Then she became a revolutionary and decided to steal it. She’s like the rest of them, a barbarian with taste.’

‘Hold it,’ said Sweeney. ‘Mayo’s my wife.’

Hood said, ‘Then you should keep an eye on her.’

‘I’ve been told that before,’ said Sweeney softly.

They faced each other and Hood saw an acknowledgement in Sweeney’s grey eyes, a recognition bordering on the saddest affinity: they had slept with the same woman. Hood did not feel guilty; he felt ensnared by a sense of shame, and angry that he had been brought so close to this stranger. What did that make him? Another member of the family. And he could see now how it had all gone wrong, why Mayo had kept him away — or perhaps Sweeney himself, out of pride, had avoided bringing him any further into the plot. He could hardly be expected to welcome his wife’s lover.

‘Her name isn’t Mayo. It’s Sandra.’

Hood said, ‘I don’t have much to do with her these days.’

‘I know, but it wouldn’t bother me if you did. A man sleeps with your wife. It hurts at first — that’s pride. But then you realize what he’s putting up with and you almost pity the poor bastard.’ Sweeney laughed and reached for his glass.

‘I’m going,’ said Hood.

Sweeney faced him. He said, ‘You’re going to help us. You’ve got ideas — the offensive is yours, if you want it.’

‘You’re really in a jam, aren’t you?’

‘It’s up to you. I think we can depend on you.’ Sweeney took a sip of his whiskey. ‘I’m getting used to you.’

‘That’s your problem,’ said Hood.

‘Sweeney’s a great bloke,’ said Murf, in the train back to Deptford. ‘He was like a father to me, he was. He taught me everything I know.’

‘Listen, Murf, most fathers don’t teach their kids to make bombs.’

‘Then they’re useless, ain’t they? ’Cause that’s what it’s all about, ain’t it?’ Murf slumped in his seat. ‘They done my old man. Didn’t give him a chance. He’s Irish, so they nobble him.’

Hood looked over and just before Murf turned away he saw the boy’s face crease with grief: he had started to cry. Hood thought: But what have I taught him? He was going to comfort him — they were alone in the compartment — he was moved by the boy’s size, his small crushed face, the ridiculous ear-ring, and that black raincoat he wore in imitation of his own. Then he saw the handle of Murf’s knife and he held back. Suddenly, as if remembering, Murf sprang from his seat, whipped out the felt-tipped pen and wrote on the compartment mirror, ARSENAL RULE.

At Deptford Station Hood said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘The pubs are shut,’ said Murf.

‘I’m not going to a pub.’

He left Murf and walked up a side street to Lorna’s where, in front of the house, he watched a crumpled sheet of newspaper dragged by the wind from the gutter to the sidewalk. It rasped against the garden wall, altering its shape, then tumbled into a tree and flapped fiercely. Hood waited a moment, studying the caught thing animated by the wind, and he was about to go when he glanced up and saw the kitchen light burning. He rang the bell and the light went off. There was no sound from the house. He knocked, then poked open the letter-slot and called Lorna’s name. She didn’t answer. He drew out Weech’s key and unlocked the door.