Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

In a chair drawn up to an electric fire, and still in his raincoat, was Sweeney. The man sat clutching a drink against his chest with his mutilated hand. He frowned and sat up, finished his drink, then stared into the empty glass. Bastard, thought Hood. He trembled and fought an urge to break in and kill him. Sweeney! But another thought cautioned him, and he slipped away.

‘— Because it wasn’t Rutter,’ Hood was saying on the way back, in the echoing footway tunnel under the river.

‘Bloody Arfa,’ said Murf. He kicked the tunnel floor. ‘But who was it?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Hood angrily, his voice ringing on the wall. ‘I don’t know these creeps.’

‘You should have stuck him, just for the hell of it,’ said Murf. He saw Hood’s rage and seemed anxious to calm him.

‘I want to get the right man,’ said Hood.

‘Maybe it was the geezer you seen.’

‘Maybe,’ said Hood. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘But where’s Rutter?’

Hood said, ‘That’s the funny part. He’s probably out looking for me.’

‘Eyes front,’ said Murf. ‘It’s Bill.’

A policeman in a helmet and gleaming rain-cape was coming towards them, wheeling his bicycle through the tunnel.

‘Nice old pushbike you got there,’ said Murf, and grinned showing the scowling policeman the stained pegs of his teeth.

The house on Albacore Crescent was lighted; its plump stove-shaped front, with the windows’ brightness sloping across the leafless hedge, had never looked safer or more snug, and the glow on the curtain folds gave it a stove’s warm flicker. In the rising curve of the road those bright ledges attracted him; then the instant moved and he remembered he lived there. All the rest of London drifted on the shallow swell of night, hidden places that were only inaccessible-sounding names, like Elmer’s End and the Isle of Dogs; but the house was secure, and the enlarging light gave it a cheerful fortified look in the darkened road.

He had just left Lorna’s with Murf. After his night and day there, in the locked house where she sat like a child baffled by the pain of a nightmare; and after that glimpse of Sweeney at Rutter’s in the bare room of dead air set in a reach of the river — those island prisons — he was astonished to return to his own house, which he had convinced himself was another uncertain island, and find Mayo in an apron cutting vegetables for a stew and Brodie lying in front of the television set — home! It was a cosy picture composed of safety and warmth, the stewpot bubbling on the stove, the television’s blue hum, the gas-fire’s simmering. He had not noticed before how they were protected, and though he could see Lorna’s from his upper window her house was an island as shadowy as Millwall, where she crouched, a castaway with her own wreckage. The last thing she had said to him was, ‘Now I’m going to give the fuckers their money back.’ He couldn’t help her that way anymore. Upstairs, the man in the painting stared, and in another room the small arsenal was stacked; but these were props for another play. Downstairs, a more ordinary drama met his eye. He came in with Murf, and entering like labourers after a long day’s work they shouted, ‘It’s only us!’ Murf looked around and said, ‘Now, where’s me slippers and me pilchards.’

Murf kicked off his wet shoes and sat on the sofa with his legs outstretched. He squinted at the television and tapping his stash began making a joint.

‘Where you been?’ Brodie rolled sideways and screwed up her face for the reply.

‘Hanging out.’ Murf lit the cigarette and inhaled. He passed it to her. ‘Anything on?’

‘Nah.’ She puffed and winced at the smoke.

Hood was at the doorway, smiling at the litle scene: Murf slumped in the chair, sucking at the joint, Brodie on the floor with her chin in her hands, her thin jersey riding up her bony back. It was a zone of complete calm, warmed by the sizzle and smell of the frying meat from the kitchen. Murf and Brodie’s postures gave it a look of slatternly innocence.

‘Have a seat, guv. It’s lovely in here.’

‘I’ve got to talk to Mayo.’

Murf swallowed smoke. He gulped as if stifling a belch, then waved the cigarette at Hood and said, ‘Hit.’

‘Give it to her,’ said Hood. He peered at Brodie. ‘Okay, angel? How’s your tattoo?’

Brodie said, ‘You know what you can do.’

‘Shut up,’ said Murf, digesting more smoke. ‘He’s just trying to be matey.’

Hood left them quarrelling. In the kitchen, Mayo said, ‘I hope you haven’t eaten already. I’m making something special.’ She worked at the counter, cutting carrots and potatoes, and as she spoke she reached over and shook the frying pan of meat cubes.

Hood saw Murf pass the kitchen door, headed for the stairs.

‘Irish stew,’ said Mayo. ‘I make it with beer.’

Hood said, ‘How did you know I’d be here.’

‘This,’ she said. She took a letter from her apron pocket and handed it to him. ‘I knew you’d be back to collect it. It came this afternoon — express. Looks like money.’

‘You should know.’ He glanced at it — the return address was indecipherable (but a London postmark: another from Mr Gawber?) — and stuffed it into his pocket without opening it. He continued to watch Mayo slicing the carrots into discs. The knife was new and there were more, all sizes, in a rack over the counter. He said, ‘A new set of knives.’

‘Cutlery,’ she said, and he wondered if she was correcting him. ‘The old ones were getting dull.’

‘What a cosy place,’ he said.

Mayo grunted and added the meat to the simmering broth.

The kitchen door burst open. Murf came in, laughing crossly, high and angry at the same time, and swinging an alarm clock in his fist. He said, ‘Who’s been fucking with me clocks?’

‘What is it, squire?’ said Hood, putting a hand on his shoulder to quiet him.

‘Me clocks,’ said Murf. ‘I always leave them a certain way, like. But someone’s been messing around — me drawer’s open, like it’s been fucked about. There’s one on the floor, just flung there, and look at this one I found on the stairs. She’s bust.’

Hood took it. The glass was broken, the hands twisted. He rattled it and handed it back to Murf. ‘Too bad, squire.’

‘But who done it that’s what I want to know.’ Murf was panting. He spoke to Mayo. ‘Was it you?’

She laughed and swiped with her vegetable knife. ‘I expect it was Brodie.’

‘Brodie keeps her hands off me hardware.’

‘An intruder,’ said Hood, keeping a grip on Murf, who was making furious leaps at Mayo.

‘He probably forgot where he left it,’ said Mayo. ‘Admit it, Murf — you pig it up there.’

‘I ain’t lying!’ cried Murf. He stepped near to her and shook the clock in her face, making the bell rattle.

‘Don’t you shout at me,’ said Mayo, sternly, her voice dropping into a tone of command. ‘I’ve been cooking since six o’clock while the rest of you have had a little holiday. You’ll want to eat it, too, but a lot of help I get! So don’t come around screaming at me.’ She had been holding the knife at Murf. She turned and whacked at the vegetables, making the cutting-board jump. ‘Go away — I’m busy.’

Murf’s face was pained. He said, ‘I ain’t lying, but she’s laughing at me.’

‘What’s all the noise?’ Brodie hung at the door, scratching the bluebird on her upper arm.

‘Yeah,’ said Murf, ‘and I expect I know who it was that fucked with me clocks. Your mate, the hairy giant.’

‘So what?’

‘So what, she says.’ The clock rattled in Murf’s hand.

Mayo said to Brodie, ‘Was someone here?’