‘Well said. The Honourable Member for Acton in the Sky.’

  Now we could hear the rising noise from the auditorium. I said, ‘I tell you this: We’re the only bastards discussing the miner’s strike at this show. It’s Vogue meets Caligula in there.’

  We ambled back and slid in the door, affecting nonchalance. The lighting had been reconfigured. Behind the dramatically lit catwalk a huge projected backdrop in sharp light read Death Ship.

  ‘They’ve ripped off fucking Traven’s novel,’ I shouted.

  ‘It’s an abomination.’ Lou shook his head.

  We both stood as if at a funeral. All the model boys looked like extras in Fassbinder’s Querelle. A skinny Artful Dodger in lime trousers and a yellow vest of leather had electric torches strapped to his skull – facing in different directions; as he crouched through a farting scoosh of blue dry ice, the beams of torchlight went out like huge chopsticks from his hair.

  ‘I don’t believe it! The shameful cunts are even ripping Scargill off. Death to fashion. Up the miners!’ Lou yelled.

  The music was overbearing but one or two people at the back of the crushed crowd turned to look at us.

  Now came a bunch of girls done out as Amazons, tits showing through diaphanous blouses, moving slowly ahead; any one of them could have been Abby. Stepping in a group, they suddenly burst free and began to patrol the edges of the catwalk in a laughably threatening manner. People whooped extravagantly, their own sense of vast self-regard confirmed by the wallowing on stage. Lou and I looked at each other, turned our backs and stepped out.

  At least there was free booze at the post-show party. Lou and I stood, steadily downing it, ignoring everyone else. Abby did a lot of screaming and said ‘You silly sausage’ to many people, then she went on to some party which we were excluded from. We hung around a bit too long and Aoife had to phone the babysitter’s parents from another call box to apologise.

  Despite being so late for the babysitter, we couldn’t afford a taxi. We walked up to Notting Hill – Aoife in her high heels – and we waited on the night bus. I was cold and Aoife had the macintosh laid over her shoulders. Lou playfully dropped the trilby hat on my head; he stood there in his shirt, smoking and laughing at me.

  The night bus had an empty beer can rolling around on the floor upstairs. Then it was a long walk from Acton High Street down towards Conrad Flats with Aoife in heels, so I gave her a long piggy back while Lou, who was excused for medical reasons, thrashed at her ass with the hat. She felt very light at first on my back – but not for long – and when I put her down I had to lean over and breathe whilst she laughed and laughed.

  Slowly we climbed the stairs of the Conrad Flats, Aoife’s heels echoing clearly up ahead. We heard voices above but they ceased a long time before we reached them on the third floor. On the landing stage some teenage kids were talking in the open doorway of a flat, even though it was three in the morning.

  ‘All right?’ said one of the kids, in that London manner which dares you to contradict. He was a guy with a vague look that I suddenly recognised as a bad squint.

  ‘Hello,’ said Lou, who knew them.

  I always thought voices sounded strange on those landing levels of Conrad Flats. The elevated outside air, sometimes with birds hanging, right there, drifting in the thermals – all that mass of genuine sky existing up so close seemed to mute the human voice. Exchanging words on these windy landings had the similar temporary, rushed feel to conducting a breathless conversation on a mountain.

  All three teenage lads eyed Aoife in high heels. My grim face must have shown that I could feel them storing the image. In a jealous way, I was childishly glad she still had on Lou’s coat, mostly covering herself. She nodded at them.

  ‘Lo, Mrs Smith,’ the one stood at the doorway in his socks called.

  ‘Hello,’ Aoife replied.

  Lou let Aoife go on up the stairs first, then he followed. I looked back over at the youths. They were watching me, but expressionless. I groundlessly believed they didn’t approve of me. All the same, I nodded at them. I had put my foot on the step when one of them called something to me which I didn’t hear. I stopped and looked back. I put on the Scottish accent a bit defensively: ‘What was that, pal?’

  ‘Hear about Thatcher, then?’

  ‘Thatcher?’

  ‘They blew her up.’

  Lou had stopped on the stairs above and was looking back down.

  I called across, ‘What?’

  ‘Thatcher was in some hotel down Brighton and my old man says it’s Irish IRA have gone and blown her up, but she’s still alive.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I said out loud.

  Lou stepped back down, passing Aoife. ‘When?’

  ‘Just a bit back. It’s all on the radio and on telly now. Brilliant, eh?’

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re taking an interest in contemporary politics,’ Lou told him.

  The kid smiled maliciously.

  Lou strode into the flat and shouted, ‘Sorry we’re so late, Mary. We phoned your dad.’

  ‘Shush. You’ll wake her,’ Aoife said.

  The younger girl-voice stated, ‘Dad’s mad at you, Mr Smith. Lily’s sleeping.’

  The television wasn’t even switched on. Young Mary was at the living-room table looking through – or doubtless pretending to have been looking through – Aoife and Abby’s archive of Vogue back issues. Some were in French and Italian and I’d caught Lou reading them once or twice before.

  Lou loomed above the portable television set and switched it on. He and I stood looking at a newsreader talking, with an image of the Grand Hotel in Brighton behind him.

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘She’s alive though?’ asked Aoife, quietly kicking off her shoes.

  I nodded and then strode out of the room and down the hall but glancing back at the television. Aoife was bustling up behind me. For an insane second I thought she was going to kiss me.

  She whispered, ‘Will you check Lily?’

  I nodded. ‘I was just going to.’

  ‘Ta. I’m bursting,’ and she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I turned the other way, into their bedroom. It was quite cold in there and I immediately saw Lily’s eyes were open and she’d been listening to her mum’s voice. The baby wasn’t sleeping at all and she hadn’t been for some time – I could tell by the alert face and the clarity of her eyes. I turned round and looked back. The bathroom door had an opaque patterned glass window which was usually covered by towels hung on hooks inside the door, but the towels had fallen because Aoife had shut the door so quickly. I could see the seated shape of her directly ahead on the toilet seat, could roughly distinguish the material of her dress pulled up and the whiteness of her bare legs angled down at the knees. I turned away. I heard Lou’s voice. He was talking on the phone to the babysitter’s guardians. I slid my hand in behind Lily and lifted her up easily. She made a little gurgle of exhilaration.

  ‘Yes. Beautiful lady,’ I whispered. ‘Both of you.’ I slipped my hands round Lily’s little Babygro until they were under her fat, short arms, then I lifted her higher, turning her, let her bum move in towards my nose and I took a real hard sniff and screwed up my face. I heard Lou coming down the corridor. I twisted my whole self to Lou and passed Lily to him as he came in. I was shaking my head. I whispered, ‘She needs changed. Wonder how long?’

  Lou shook his head and made a face at me which criticised the babysitter. He held Lily near to the ceiling, which always made me cringe as the Artex was spiky. ‘My little poupee,’ he said, looking up at her.

  The toilet flush went. As usual, Aoife had peed in some utterly silent way. Now I could hear the sink tap running.

  He said, ‘They’ve blew up the whole fucking hotel. She’s alive but there could be dead.’

  ‘Wonder how the bomb got in past security?’

  ‘Will you take Mary down and wait with her? Her dad’s coming now to get her in the car. Take the smelly nappies down too, will you? Where are we going to buy champagne at this time of night?’

  I put on one of Lou’s hanging macs; it had the rusty bloodstains on its inside lining. I went down the stairs with that young girl.

  ‘Don’t you have a coat?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, I get lifts. We’ve got two cars. Don’t you have a car neither as well as no decent telly?’

  ‘No I don’t. You should put that in your pocket before it blows away.’ She was holding the ten-pound note payment between her fingers. I thought that was an excessive amount and I didn’t want those boys to see it, but the door was closed on the landing beneath and they were gone.

  ‘You speak weird. Mr Smith will give me another if I lose this.’ She looked up at me, testing. Little brute. Cone-like tits.

  ‘No he won’t.’

  ‘My dad’s going ga-ga. I might get off school now. It’s after four in the morning. It’s brill.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’re so late.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Is Mrs Thatcher dead, then?’

  ‘No. But her hotel was blown up by a bomb and some people might be.’

  ‘She was a right snotty cow.’

  ‘She’s still alive.’

  ‘It could’ve been them miners of the coal got her.’ She smiled with glee at the conspiracy.

  ‘You shouldn’t wish physical harm on anyone, Mary. Even a bitch like her. Even though they are the ones who deal in violence.’

  She laughed loudly, enjoying the volume, and I cringed as the sound rang down the stairs.

  ‘Would we get a day off school cause Mrs Maggie Thatcher was dead?’

  ‘She’s not dead. I’m sure you won’t get a day off either way.’

  ‘Mrs Smith’s right nice, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like she looks real dead lovely.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s wait here, not on the street or that.’

  We were on the first-floor landing and she stood by the lattice of concrete bars looking out, down onto the street-lamp poles and the road. She put her hands up and gripped the concrete as if she were trapped in a prison. Maybe she was imagining that? I was uneasy about standing there beside her. Probably in case another adult materialised – perhaps from one of the apartment doorways – and found me loitering with a young girl. Both of us were very still in the shadows there, glaring down. The noise of a train could be heard going very slowly but there was no flash.

  ‘Why do you live with Mr and Mrs Smith? Do you sleep on that tiny toy bed thing?’

  ‘That it’s any of your business, Mary. I do. Lou and I are working on things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Never you mind. To do with books.’

  ‘Books. Cause he’s been in the hospital? My mum said he was dead ill.’

  ‘Yeah. He was. But he’s better now.’

  ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? Are you too scared to ask one out?’

  I just gave her a look.

  ‘I would tell you if I had a boyfriend.’

  I wasn’t falling into any traps. I could hear her saying to her dad: That strange Scotchman guy asked me if I had a boyfriend, etc., etc.

  ‘Lily’s nappy needed changed.’ I hoisted the carrier bag full of smelly nappies.

  ‘I changed her.’

  ‘Yes. Hours ago.’

  ‘How do you know she needed changing? She’s not your baby.’

  ‘Don’t you be cheeky, now, or you won’t make ten pound again.’

  She looked up at me. She had shadows on her face, cast by the street lights outside coming into the landing. Silently, a yellowish car with illuminated headlights drew up Bollo Lane and to a halt.

  ‘Is that your dad?’

  ‘See ya.’ She dashed down the last flight. I went after her but by the time I was walking up the path, past the sheds, and had tossed the carrier bag of nappies into one of the big swing bins, the girl was closing the car passenger door. I stopped still and raised a hand in cautious greeting. I was frowning into the car to try to see who was in it. After all, it could be anybody. Jack the Ripper’s great-great-great-grandson. I would be blamed.

  The driver’s door opened and a man stood up, one hand resting on the top of the door as he looked across the roof. ‘Bit late, Lou. Oh. You’re not Lou. Who are you?’ I heard Mary’s voice say something about me within the vehicle, using her dismissive tone.

  I held both my hands up, as if surrendering to a man with a firearm. ‘Douglas. Friend of Lou’s. I was just seeing your daughter down safely.’

  ‘She isn’t my daughter, mate; I’m her brother.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Bit late, though.’ He shrugged, looking up into the sky. As if all was in some higher power’s control and already written in the lavender-tinged night. ‘She’s got school.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry. The night bus took bloody ages to come.’

  He looked at me suspiciously then lowered himself into the car.

  I walked slowly back up the stairs so I wasn’t out of breath when I got there. In the living room I said, ‘Ten quid. That was a bit generous.’

  Lily was on the table with her legs in the air as Lou changed her.

  ‘That was the ten you gave us for food.’

  ‘I’ll do babysitting from now on then,’ I said.

  He pointed down at Lily. She was turning her round head from side to side and then holding it still, as if trying to listen for the same elusive night spirit in the sky which the car driver down on the street had sought. Now the infant was looking at me. ‘See if she calls you Daddy before me, you bloody Protestant. Sit down, open us a Guinness. We’re in for a long night in front of the telly.’ He smiled.

  ‘Eeef gone to bed?’

  ‘Now the government’s blown up she’ll sleep soundly.’

  ‘It’s not that funny. Could be folk dead? Could even be just hotel workers dead, Lou.’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t be such a fucking Mennonite. Look. Three cans of Guinness left and a little of that vodka you bought on the night you appeared here, beneath your own star of Bethlehem.’ He knocked over the talcum-powder drum, made a gurgling noise down at Lily, buttoned her Babygro then lifted her high in the air and trotted, speeding off down the corridor, holding her up. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Say it, like Chomsky says you should.’

  I heard their low voices along in their bedroom, then Lou returned without his daughter, ran up to the black windows and looked over the city with his arms held out in demand. ‘Where are the GLC fireworks? Come on!’

  We both stood, never sitting, holding our cans of Guinness, looking down on the small telly like two old men in a village high street studying a new model of some low, unfathomable sports car.

  The hotel with its prolapsed centre was on the screen, tender, powder-blue light from flashing police cars casting up onto the whitewashed walls.

  Lou shook his head and bared his teeth. ‘Now we’re going to get the plucky survivor theme for a year. Napoleon was right – a nation of shopkeepers and we’ve got one running the bleeding country. Big sign up: Sorry No Credit Here, her stood behind the scales.’ He changed his voice: ‘Get out my shop, you malingerer. And go eat with the miners.’

  I nodded. ‘Eat from the plate that is largely empty.’

  ‘Telling you, mate, it’s the sale of the century; they’ll bring us to our knees one day, this lot, selling off everything we built up since the war, just so the management class can scoop the top and hide in the shires behind lawns and wisteria. Always money for wars but not for education or welfare, so off to Las Malvinas to boost her popularity and get some Union Jacks waving. Well this a joyous turn of the tables on them for once.’ Lou leaned toward me. ‘Gotcha.’

  6

  We were in The Five or Six Bells – as we were every day – at our favourite table beneath the windows, pints of Guinness with their yellowish discs afloat, cigarette smoke like a baldachin in the sunbeams above us. I felt immense nostalgia for the pub already, with its early afternoon light guiltily pouring in the windows.

  ‘That’s Llewellyn Smith from up by the railway. Myrtle’s grandkid. Old man was the Taffy. The sidekick’s a Jock.’ I heard a pensioner insist on all this to his comrade. These old fellows were mostly pretty deaf, so Lou and I overheard everything: their fluctuating but always poor opinions of us as they sat along the walls in their twos, looking ahead, drinks before them, firing out proclamations. Larger groupings than two seemed to confuse and disgruntle them. They virtually waved away any third man who approached. Yet it was more tranquil than any downmarket city pub of my homeland – certain Scottish pubs, with their windowless, bunker architectures and the imprecation of edgy calamity to the drinking.

  Sometimes in The Bells, during my brief enough tenure there, multi-conversations would cease as if they were a stilled roulette ball. A random quietness would suddenly materialise in the centre of that great pub space. One of the old fellows would hulloo across to Lou then speak a few words and we would call back ourselves across the distance: a few words only and no more. Our day’s course set at our tables, we were all like passing boaters on some inland waterway, calling through a slight mist from one vessel to another.

  Without self-consciousness, Lou was deeply scrutinising an old copy of the TLS he’d brought over from Conrad Flats. He looked belligerent. ‘The book world is a big digestive system. The review pages are the anus at the bottom of the alimentary canal and the critics, Cunningham, are the haemorrhoids upon that anus.’ The publication was violently slapped upon the seat. ‘TLS never reviewed Ulysses. You know that? What are these critics and book reviewers? Just the town councillors of literature.’

  Before we got much drunker, and with the wedding coming up, Lou took me round for the first time to meet his old gran. His dad’s mother. I’d only heard mild hints of it before but now he stated it flat: ‘Me and the big brother, Rhys, were brought up by our gran. We’re orphans.’