Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

The next he knew it was morning, he was being shaken. Mayo stood over him, all teeth and hair, pulling his shoulder and saying, ‘It’s gone — the picture’s gone!’

Across the room his suitcase lay open, the clothes were strewn; his briefcase was unzipped — disorder where he had left a neat pile of his belongings.

‘Who did that?’ he said slowly.

‘I did,’ said Mayo. ‘Well, if you didn’t take it, who did?’

He got out of bed cursing, righted the suitcase and rearranged the clothes. Then he went to the cupboard and saw the empty space where the painting had been, and it was as if a hollow was carved in his stomach. He had been robbed, and on his eye a dim after-image of the loss. Feeling very tired, he sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. He said, ‘When did you see it last?’

‘I don’t know.’

He loathed her for saying that. ‘It must have been Brodie’s friend,’ he said. ‘She was here yesterday. And it’s hers.’

‘The bitch,’ said Mayo. She was packing now. She pushed clothes into her suitcase.

He was glad she wouldn’t have the painting, but sorry to think that he might never see the self-portrait again. He tried to picture it, but his imagination simplified it, and all he saw was a nearly expressionless face, a gesture, obscurely lit; already it was gone. He knew he would have to see it for it to speak to him. And it was odd, because in all the estrangements he had known this was the most severe. His spirit had been thieved and in its place was fatigue. He was assailed by another feeling — unexpected — an enormous sense of himself, his own smell and weakness, an absence of light; a brown reminder of mortality. The theft was like a death, and his feeling — that shabby weight of flesh, that futile sigh that did not even have anger’s strength — was close to grief.

‘I knew it,’ said Mayo, with her scream of petulance. ‘As soon as my back is turned —’

‘Dry up,’ said Hood, not looking at her.

She grumbled and finished packing. She had several suitcases, a large cardboard box, and in three tea-chests the dishes, the pots and pans. He had always wondered who the kitchenware belonged to — who owned the towels, the sheets, the blankets? They were in her luggage: all the furnishings were hers. The house was stripped; the furniture that was left looked useless and dirty in the empty house. But it had seemed empty from the moment he saw the painting was missing.

Brodie came downstairs carrying a shopping bag of her belongings and a guitar he had never seen her play. Murf followed with more of Brodie’s things and he and Hood began to load the van. Entering the house for more of Mayo’s boxes he heard her shouting in the kitchen: I’m the one who has to answer for it, not you! And Brodie’s whine: I couldn’t help it. Anyway, it’s hers, ain’t it? It’s not yours . When they came out, breathless from the quarrel, Mayo still blustering and Brodie sheepishly dragging her feet, Hood said, ‘Off you go then, Sandra.’

‘I don’t even know where I’m going,’ said Brodie. ‘I’m going to get anorexia again, for shit sake.’

Mayo took the keys from her handbag. She started for the van, then stopped and walked back to him. He wondered what she was going to do — kiss him, slap him, shout. She was beyond caring about risk. But she said in a controlled voice, ‘Last night you said this is the beginning. Well, you’re wrong — this is the end, but you’re just too cowardly and selfish to admit it.’

‘Don’t you believe that,’ said Hood. Murf had run to the bottom of the crescent. Hood saw him running back, holding a paper bag. He handed it to Brodie: toffees. Brodie started to cry.

‘It’s no big deal that you’re handling this offensive,’ Mayo was saying. ‘There’s no war here. It’s happening in Ulster. If you had any guts you’d go there.’

‘I’m counting on you to do that.’

‘I’m staying in London,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll be hearing from me,’ said Hood. ‘But one last thing — don’t come back here. Stay away from this house.’

She said, ‘You’ll never be happy,’ and started the engine.

They sat side by side, not speaking, mother and daughter, a pair of enemies. The van jerked forward, then disappeared at the turning of the crescent.

Murf said, ‘Now what do we do?’

‘We make the house burglarproof.’

‘Yeah,’ said Murf. ‘Good idea. If you can find the locks.’

Hood said, ‘You’ve got the lock, squire.’

‘Yeah.’ Murf smiled. ‘Nah. I ain’t got a clue.’

Hood said, ‘We’re leaving a bomb behind.’

‘Yeah.’

‘A trip-wire,’ said Murf. Now they were in the spare room, standing among the stacks of crates and televisions, the two large metal trunks. ‘Maybe use that wall-socket there for juice. Beautyful. Go like anything.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Or else a battery, self-contained like. But sometimes it’s hard to get a spark.’

‘Just one thing, Murf. Make it a fat one.’

‘About ten pounds should crack it. It’s an old house.’

‘Make it thirty,’ said Hood.

Murf cackled. ‘A thirty-pounder would get this fucking pile to the moon. Yeah, with knobs on.’

‘Let’s get started.’

Murf opened his leather satchel and took out wire, a small transformer, pliers, a spool of tape. Hood indicated the trunks and said he wanted the bomb wired to the lids, so that opening the trunks would detonate it. Murf nodded and set out sacks of powder, one bone-white, the consistency of detergent, the other a fine grey zinc-like dust.

‘This here’s your explosive,’ he said. ‘Safe as anything as long as you don’t pack it too tight and don’t smoke, like.’ He uncoiled the wire. ‘This here’s your trip.’ He took another small object, with a spring, a switch and a tightly wound spool of wire. He handled it and showed Hood. He was obviously enjoying himself and his enjoyment was tinged with an oddly pedantic way of speaking. ‘Explosive? Well, it’s just a word, ain’t it? You can use fertilizer, any shit really. The world, like,’ — was he quoting Sweeney? — ‘it’s explosive right the way through. Now this,’ he said, and smacked his lips, ‘this here’s your mousetrap. Remember that. Mousetrap. Trip. Power supply. Explosive. Put them together and what have you got?’

‘Come on, Murf. Step on it.’

‘You got a circuit,’ said Murf, taking his time. ‘Okay. But there’s a choice. Your trip-wire. String that bitch on the door — they fling it open — ba-boom ! Or your mousetrap under that floorboard there — one step and they’re fucking airborne. That’s a beauty — no wires showing — but it’s bloody dangerous to leg. I know a geezer who done himself that way. McDade. His picture was in the paper. The Stickies give him a funeral.’

‘Hurry up.’

‘You mentioned them trunks,’ said Murf. ‘Quite honestly, I could cut some holes in them lids. For wire. They’re unlocked. Fucker lifts them up. Circuit breaks. She sparks, and it’s all over.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Put the powder under the floor. Get this lino up and jam a charge down there. Beautyful.’

‘Wouldn’t it be quicker if we put the explosive in the closet?’

‘Neighbours,’ said Murf. ‘Fuckers would be up in the sky — fucking astronauts. Kill innocent people. Hey, I’m telling you, the walls are thin in these here terraces. No, put the charges under the floor, then she goes straight up — whoosh!’ He took a small drill from his satchel and made holes in the sides of the trunks, then threaded a wire and joined the lids. ‘No,’ he was saying, ‘can’t kill the neighbours. They never done anything wrong.’