Ned Beauman - Boxer, Beetle

There was another long silence and then Sinner said softly, ‘I don’t want that prick to get my body.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your brother.’

‘What about your body?’

‘I sold myself to him.’

‘Philip?’

‘He owns me. For ever. For his experiments and everything else. I made a bargain.’

‘My God, I thought you were with him because—’

‘I don’t give a toss what he does with me now. But after. …’

‘After?’

‘After I’m dead. He’s going to keep me. Probably wants to measure my bones or something. Like in that picture of his. I don’t want that. I’d rather be buried alive like your slug.’

‘You want a Jewish burial?’

‘I don’t give a toss about any Yid burial. I just don’t want him to have me for ever. I want to be buried in a hole with no name on it so he can never find me. I could run away now, but if I’m in a hole with my name on it then he’ll find me and dig me up. He’ll take what belongs to him.’ Then Sinner got to his feet. ‘I need a drink.’

‘Please don’t. I must go and wash, but it’s too depressing to think about you getting drunk on your own.’

‘Who the fuck am I going to drink with around here?’

‘There’s always Casper Bruiseland,’ said Evelyn.

She’d suggested it as a joke, but Sinner said: ‘Will he have booze?’

‘He invariably does.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Locked up upstairs.’

But when Sinner arrived at the door of the observatory, which Erskine’s father had installed at the top of the east wing in 1914, he found it ajar. Inside were Millicent Bruiseland, on the sofa, and two unctuous costly pale limp shiny things, one of which was a silk dressing gown that contained the other.

‘Hello, Sinner,’ said Millicent.

‘You’re Erskine’s boy,’ said the unctuous costly pale limp shiny thing that was not a silk dressing gown. ‘I watched you arrive.’

‘Who are you?’ said Sinner.

‘Didn’t they tell you about me? I’m the monster in the attic.’

‘Casper’s not allowed downstairs,’ said Millicent. ‘Father says he has a chronic disease. Battle has to bring him all his meals. It’s not very nice for him.’

‘Yes, my father always feels obliged to bring me with the rest of the family, although I thank my lucky stars he at least bothered to find me a room with a lavatory this time. Still, I’m happy to say that dear Millie has always been very kind to her brother. She runs errands for me,’ said Casper, lifting up a fat brown bottle with Polish writing on the label.

‘Is that booze?’

‘Straight to the point, I see. Yes, it is. Would you like some? I’ve quite a lot of it.’

Sinner sat down in an armchair and took the bottle from Casper, who opened a new one for himself.

‘Careful with that. It’s Polish honey mead. Very strong. It’s hardly the best stuff in the house, but I only ask Millie to steal what no one else would ever think to drink, otherwise Battle might notice. Before you know it you’ll be absolutely desolated.’

‘I ain’t easily “desolated”,’ said Sinner, overconfident for the third time that evening. ‘And my dad’s Polish.’

‘Oh, really? Well, then, na zdrowie! ’

They both drank. ‘You ever been to the Caravan?’ Sinner croaked, wiping his mouth. He had managed not to gag but he felt as if his adam’s apple were about to fall out of his neck and roll down the stairs.

‘Don’t torture me. I’ve heard so much about it.’

‘You’d do all right.’ Though not with Sinner, who hated Casper’s type.

‘I hope I would. You, on the other hand, could do a lot better than my cousin,’ said Casper. ‘You’re a perfect vision and he’s such a creepy-crawly. I made a pass at him myself once — just out of pity, I thought it would do him good — but he didn’t notice, or at least he pretended he didn’t. Evelyn and I have always agreed that her brother could be perfectly happy if he could just admit to himself what the rest of us already know, but he’s so spineless. In fact, I’m astonished he had the courage to bring you here. Astonished, and pleased. I would certainly make advances on you myself, but I’m afraid I’ve been almost powerless in that respect for some time. …’

Casper rambled on in his damp spidery voice. About an hour later, Sinner finished his bottle. He looked up. Millie had departed at some point, but Casper had never stopped talking: ‘… And of course they were just about to legalise buggery in Germany if it hadn’t been for the silly old stock market crash.’ Sinner hurled himself forward out of the armchair, then crawled to the door on his hands and knees. It was seven or eight months since he’d drunk anything stronger than Erskine’s second-rate beer, and he felt like a child again.

‘Oh, are you off?’ said Casper. ‘Well, it was delightful to meet you. Send my regards to Philip.’

‘They really … they really keep you locked up because you drink too much?’ slurred Sinner.

‘Because I drink too much? God, no. As you can see, my dear, I have no trouble holding my alcohol. I’ve dined with all the drinking societies in Oxford. One learns.’

‘Why, then?’

‘I kept getting caught wanking off farmhands. Father said it was this or the sanatorium.’

Sinner staggered down the stairs. He remembered that he was supposed to be sleeping in Erskine’s room, but he didn’t want to go there, so he decided to find somewhere he could safely pass out until morning without anyone finding him. Doors and oil paintings and umbrellas and lamps and books swerved past him at reckless speeds; the moonlight came in at odd angles and his shadow seemed to bark at his heels like a dog.

Some while later, he found himself vomiting into some sort of complicated metal cage. He pursued the vomit inside and curled up into a ball, spikes digging uncomfortably into his ribs and shins. He dozed off; but no more than ten minutes later he was awoken by lights and voices. He already felt much more clear-headed for having voided his stomach. He tried not to make any noise, wondering where he was. Inside a torture device? An experimental piano? A very advanced safety coffin? A mechanical model of Evelyn Erskine’s womb? He couldn’t really see out.

‘Couldn’t we do this tomorrow?’ said the first voice. ‘I’m very tired and I’m sure there’ll be time for a chat between the lectures.’

‘I’m afraid privacy is of the utmost importance to this discussion,’ said the second voice. ‘That’s why we had to wait for everyone else to go to bed. Pour yourself a drink and sit down.’

‘I say, something smells a bit odd.’

‘I can’t smell anything.’

‘I think it’s coming from Mr Erskine’s calculating machine.’

‘Please do sit down and pay attention, Morton.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Good. Now, I’ll get straight down to business. You’re familiar, I trust, with the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?’

‘Superficially.’

‘Do you believe in them?’

‘Of course not. They’re thoroughly discredited, as every schoolboy knows. Copied from a nineteenth-century satirical dialogue about Napoleon. You don’t mean to say you think differently?’

‘I think they have the ring of truth, and I think it’s very easy bargh glargh glargh bargh snargh to trump up evidence for a charge of plagiary. But it’s not for me to say. The point is, the average man has been taught to scoff at them. They’re no use to us any more.’

‘To us?’

‘To fascism.’

‘I’m not sure they were much use to fascism in the first place.’

‘Perhaps not to your brand. But to those of us who aren’t in bed with the Jews—’