Maggie Gee - The White Family

‘Excuse me, Sunshine,’ I say to him. ‘Can’t you read English? Can’t you see this sign?’

‘Yes. I recommend removing it.’

‘You what?’ I say, not believing my ears. ‘You bloody what? Did you hear that, George?’

‘It’s giving a bad impression,’ the man says, smiling as he says it, cool as anything.

‘I’ll give you a bad impression,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a very bad impression! I’ll thank you to vacate this shop.’ It’s not coming out quite right, I realize, perhaps the third pint was a bad idea, but I go right up to him and stare him in the face, his little brown face, his ugly face, in case he’s in any doubt of what I meant.

‘George,’ he goes, ‘will you introduce me? I’m very interested to meet this young man.’

And that was the point when everything changed. That was the point when my heart began to thump. I thought, he’s mad. He has to be. But I swung round to George, and he had this funny look, sort of beaten, shamed, like a wheezy old dog that had pissed its bed, and I started to realize, I started to see, and I thought, if it’s that, I’ll kill you, George, but of course it can’t be, come on George –

‘Er, yes,’ he said. ‘This is Dirk White. He’s been giving me a hand. Just for a bit. Sort of work experience.’ The greasy little man held out his hand, he smiled and held out his hand to me, his pin-striped suit, white shirt, gold cuff-links, laughing at me, looking down on me … Laughing with George behind my back.

What did George say? Giving me a hand … Just for a bit … Work experience …

He said, ‘This is Dinesh. Mr Patel.’

It was all so sudden, I wasn’t ready — and before I knew what, I had taken his hand, just because he was sticking it under my nose, and his other paw still clutching Big Ones International . I wanted to break his frigging fingers, but because I couldn’t decide what to do I stood there right next to him holding his hand , we were holding hands like a couple of pansies!!

George was still talking, but it didn’t make sense. ‘He’s going to buy the shop, you see. Mr Patel is — going to be buying the shop. It’s my health, as you know. You’ve always known I couldn’t go on like this forever …’

‘Buying the shop? Are you winding me up?’ I finally managed to drop his hand, which had stuck to mine as if with glue, but I swear I never actually shook it. I suppose there was a moment when we joggled up and down because he was trying so hard to shake mine, but I never shook his. I’d rather die. Or kill him. Kill them. Kill them all .

George was shitting himself. He was scared of me. I realized then he was scared of me. He looked like an old red wrinkled balloon, slowly going down, shrinking, disgusting. He was trying to get out another cigarette, but his hand was shaking so much he dropped it. ‘It’s the truth, Dirk,’ he said. ‘I meant to tell you. I was going to tell your dad tomorrow.’

Everything was falling around my ears. My dreams of the future. My … expectations . My own legitimate expectations . That’s what Spearhead says; we are losing our birthright , and suddenly it was all happening to me, beneath my very ears, in broad daylight.

The words that came out weren’t right at all. ‘But I like this shop. I love this shop.’ It felt like pepper at the back of my nose, it felt as if I had been punched in the stomach, it felt as if I was going to — break down, but I’d do the breaking, I’d do the punching –

‘Well if you have a strong commitment to this shop. We could probably come to some arrangement. At least in short-term, see how things work out. See if we can rub together, and so forth.’ The Paki was talking like a radio.

‘What?’ I said, looking at him, so he knew what I meant, just looking at him as hard as nails.

‘I might be needing a manager.’

I didn’t bother to answer him. It was George that I was talking to. ‘You make me sick. You disgusting old man. You disgusting old pimp. You fucking old queer. You —’

The Paki butted in. ‘I think you are saying things you regret, young man.’

George was trying to say something. ‘Dirk,’ he managed, but wheezing so much it sounded like ‘Ergh’, it sounded as though he was having an attack, and then he was right in the middle of it, rising to his feet, one hand in the air, one hand straight up as if he wanted to wave or give me the salute, the old Heil Hitler, but really he was reaching for his inhaler, I knew where he kept it, on a shelf at the back, I had fetched it for him so many times over the years, I had wanted to vomit through so many attacks, and that I suppose was my giving a hand, just for a bit , my work experience … Everything seemed to slow down, for a second. He was very red, sort of roaring, roaring, and then the roars had long gaps in between, and then all the red has gone from his face and he goes all white, and not roaring, not wheezing, not breathing at all, just sort of frozen, clutching his throat with one great fat hand and sort of clawing away with the other one, and horribly quiet, the quiet was horrible, clawing at me or the inhaler or both, and then I see his lips going blue, all round his mouth this awful blue colour.

I always wanted him to die. I’ve imagined it for years, George dying in front of me.

But in the end, I couldn’t do it. Thing is, he’s been around all my life, I knew him when I was a toddler –

I got his inhaler down from the shelf. I pulled him down on to his stool, I pushed his chest forward on to the counter, I touched his head, his greasy bald head, and laid it on its side on a pile of Sun s, a great thick pile of unsold Sun s, I put him in the correct position and shoved his inhaler into his hand. ‘Use it, you bastard,’ I said to him. ‘I’m fucking saving your fucking life. USE THE INHALER OR I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!’

I would have been justified. I had a right. But sometimes things just don’t work out.

I couldn’t kill him. I just wasn’t ready. It probably takes practice, killing someone.

Maybe each time you get a little bit closer. You can lose a battle and still win the war.

We shan’t lose the war. It’s too important. The future of England depends on us. Never forget what Spearhead says … We are many, and our reach is long .

Thomas worked every other Saturday. Today he was working on two hours’ sleep, but he felt amazing, he felt fantastic …

Until he awoke with his head on the keyboard, and looked around hastily, to see if he’d been spotted. He’d been asleep for forty minutes, but everyone was busy with their own machines. The air in the office was hot and torpid, but Thomas was instantly awake, and buzzing –

It wasn’t a dream. It had really happened.

After the grim evening at the hospital, Melissa had descended, in the middle of the night, like a sensual angel, all ruffled feathers, and stood on his doormat, and asked to come in.

Around 3 a.m. Thomas was still glued to Postmodernism and the Death of Meaning . How on earth could he refute Fred Burnett’s point in his review of Kevin J Vanhoozer: ‘I remain unconvinced that either speech-act theory or Trinitarianism is the way to spiral out of the (postmodern) hermeneutical circle …’ Thomas felt trapped, with Fred and Kevin, in the coils of a hermeneutic hell.

But it had begun. The familiar pattern. It sounded like next door, on the same level. First they would quarrel, rumbling on for hours, like an earth tremor passing from one room to another. Thomas almost managed not to notice it. But last night the man had started to shout, then the woman screamed, then the child started crying … Then it had died down for a minute or two. Then erupted again, only slightly quieter.