Will Self - The Butt

‘There’s some news you, ah. . might like to tell the folks back home,’ he said. ‘It’s, ah. . concerning Mr Lincoln.’

Tom marvelled at how such a heavy lunch could rise up his gorge so easily: here it came, another hateful display of amateur dramatics by the Queen Ham. ‘What?’ Tom yelped. ‘Has the old man died?’

‘On the contrary.’ Adams chose his words as fastidiously as a spinster selecting Scrabble tiles. ‘Dr Loman spoke with one of his colleagues in Vance this morning. It would appear that Mr Lincoln has, regained, ah. . consciousness. It’s an astonishing case — the infection is, ah. . subsiding. It’s early days, but the feeling is that he may well make a full, ah. . recovery. Of course, the consequences for your own, ah. . situation — especially now an initial reparation payment has been made — can be nothing but, ah. .’ — the longest pause, dry-stick fingers fondling the slack vocab’ bag — ‘. . good.’

And with that Adams resumed his other communication duties, rapping out a call sign into the mic’ once, twice, a third time. Between each announcement his equine face quivered with the strain of listening. He pointed to some other headphones, and Tom put them on. He was in time to hear the radio operator in Trangaden say: ‘. . receiving you RAL20–40. You’re faint — but you’re there, yeah. How can I help ya today, Winnie? Over.’

Adams read out the Brodzinskis’ home phone number and asked to be patched through. The sounds of the Trangaden man dialling were suddenly very loud: each digit a klaxon beep, then there came the leonine purring of the ringing phone. ‘WE’LL LEAVE YOU TO IT,’ Adams mouthed exaggeratedly, and Tom revolved to see him hoik Prentice unceremoniously to his feet and lead him out the door.

Tom pressed the headphones firmly against his ears, and the purring lion padded into his head: ‘pprrrupp-prrrup; pprrrupp-prrrup; pprr—’ Then stopped. ‘Martha Lambert speaking,’ said Martha’s voice. Hearing it, Tom allowed himself to fully accept what Prentice had said: it wasn’t long, now. Long before he would be back in Milford; long before he would be able to mend this crazy breach between them; long before he would be at home with her — and the kids.

He pushed his mouth into the mic’s steel mesh: ‘Martha, it’s me, Tom, can you hear me, honey?’ The etheric birds had been netted; every one of his words sounded as clear as a bell that resonated with cravenly hopeful expectation.

‘Tom, is that you?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m in Ralladayo, where Atalaya’s — Mrs Lincoln’s — people live. Lissen.’ He couldn’t stop himself gabbling. ‘There’s fantastic news — it’s incredible. The old man — Mr Lincoln — he’s, he’s making a recovery, and I’ve, I’ve made the, like, restitution I hadta, so, it looks as if — I mean, I can’t be certain — but it looks like I might be home soon.’ He stopped. There was no sense of the half-world that separated them, only a voracious nullity, sucking on his ears with foam-padded lips.

‘That’s. . excellent news, Tom. .’ Had her voice ever sounded more like her ? More completely Martha : each snicked syllable and sharply enunciated consonant a tight brush stroke, vividly describing her slim body — so very dear, so very familiar, so utterly strange. ‘I’m so happy for you. .’ There was a small yellow-tinted perspex window in front of the table the transmitter sat on. As he listened to his wife, Tom Brodzinski stared at this acrylic of an alien land: the streaks of the gum trees’ trunks, the pointillism of their foliage, the brown splodge of a humpy in the mid-distance, the painterly distortions of the sun’s own strokes. ‘It’ll be good to have you back home, sometimes I think you don’t realize. .’ Looking like Death, a figure in a black native toga walked into the picture from the left. ‘. . how much the kids’ve. .’ It turned towards the comms shack, and in the shadow of the hood bloomed a pale face. It was Gloria Swai-Phillips, talking on a cellphone. ‘. . missed you. .’ Martha’s words, which had pulsed along wires, been thrown into space, bounced off a satellite, then cast back down to earth, were now dubbed precisely on to Gloria’s lips. Tom registered this, because Gloria completed Martha’s sentence: ‘. . especially Tommy Junior.’ Then she looked through the window straight at him and gave him a playful little wave.

Hispid and viscid: the sweat-damp hairs on Tom’s nape lifted and stretched themselves, each chafing against its neighbour. Hispid and viscid: Beelzebub’s proboscis was nuzzling at the sweet nooks and crannies of Tom’s cerebrum. It tickled.

Tom found himself outside without any awareness of having torn off headphones or slammed through doors. He was temporarily blinded — than he groped his way, hands on sunbeams, to where Gloria stood in her sack. The race was over; she snapped the cellphone shut and disappeared it in the folds of her robe.

‘You — she. . W-What? W-What have you done? Are you — have you been fuckin’ copying my wife?’ He spluttered his childish accusation.

Gloria looked him up and down matter-of-factly. ‘If you want me to be your wife, Tom, then that’s fine, yeah?’

‘I–I dunno. . Have you been talking — on the phone, to me?’ He ranged back in time to the night before the prelim’ hearing in Vance, and the rhythmic jingling trudge he had heard when he held his own cellphone to his ear. The Martha voice impersonating Gloria. What was it she — they — had said: you’ve gotta say these things to keep ’ em happy, yeah? I mean, their pathetic little egos require it, yeah?

But that was then.

Gloria Swai-Phillips led Tom back towards the Technical College by the arm. She guided him between the gum trees, holding him firmly in case he should trip on their roots. As they walked, she gave him an explanation — at least, that’s how she saw it.

‘Squolly — Commander Squoddoloppolollou — he read your rights to you when you were arrested, right?’

‘Rights?’ Tom murmured. All he remembered was Swai-Phillips ridiculing him for even raising the matter.

‘What I mean is, Squolly would’ve told you how the police were gonna investigate you, yeah? How they were gonna tail you, check out what your intentions were, yeah? Figure out what kinduv a guy you are.’

‘And those were my rights ?’

‘So far as the Tugganarong and Anglo communities here are concerned, yeah, those are your rights. The thing is, Tom’ — still holding his arm, Gloria drew Tom round so that he was facing her — ‘Squolly’s men’ve been tailing you for a long time now — years in fact, yeah? Y’see, when you were a young bloke, Tom, you kinduv took your eye off the ball.’

‘Eye off the ball?’

They had reached the low wall that bounded the Technical College. Tom’s eye — still off the ball — rolled over crab grass, cracked earth, the sawn-off stumps of a mulga thicket. The thrift-shop donation that was Prentice was piled on top of the wall, smoking. There was something different about this small prospect — a change that bothered Tom. He fixated on this, instead of listening to the harpy.

‘Not acting — y’know, that can reveal a lot concerning a bloke’s intentions. After her miscarriage, when Martha came to visit us in Liège, then, when she came back, and a few months later you guys adopted Tommy Junior, well, you didn’t act: you never asked the questions a conscientious man — a man with good intentions — would’ve asked, yeah?’

It was the SUV — that was the difference. It was gone. Tom scrutinized the patch of dirt where the little vehicle had been standing only half an hour before. Why were there no tyre tracks to show that it had been driven away?