Outside they continued laughing. Leo laughed so hard that his mouth grew gummy.
‘I need water,’ he yelled joyously, ‘right now Teddy.’
Ted heard Leo shouting, but he didn’t move immediately. What a small room this is, he found himself thinking. His back was still jammed firmly against the door; his head, his hands, his heels, his buttocks, all hard up against it.
It was solid behind him. And reassuring.
His breath returned gradually. His palms stopped sweating. His eyes moved down slowly from their temporary refuge in the uncontentious angles of the ceiling, and turned, ineluctably, to catch the pitiful half-formed blur of his reflection in the mirror.
He gulped several times — his trembling lower lip curling down clownishly — then he reached out his hand — inhaling deeply, pushing his chin up, sticking his chest out — and hooked his shaking fingers around the smooth metal of the sink’s cold tap.
‘Water,’ he whispered quietly, resting his hand limply on the faucet for a moment, his damp, brown eyes scanning the room for a suitable receptacle to hold it in.
But then he froze. Because suddenly — out of nowhere — he was beset by a vision. And it was a queer vision. It was plush. It was singular; as strange and unexpected as it was outlandish.
Water. Yes. Water. A vision of a pond. A small pond. With a bayonet-toting regiment of green reeds on its periphery, white lilies the size of soup bowls floating effortlessly on its surface, exotic carp — in bright golds and oranges — twisting sinuously just underneath.
A pond. A beautiful pond. An image of infinite calm. A picture of pure serenity, of boundless peace, of wonderful — of endless — of exceptional tranquillity. An astonishingly complex biosphere, just… just hanging in mid-air.
He closed his eyes for a while, felt a warm breeze on his skin carrying the scent of wild jasmine, heard the infernal gnats buzzing… So how on God’s Earth, he found himself thinking, do you set about stealing a pond? A garden pond?
His mind struggled to embrace the viability of such an undertaking — the logistical problems, the practical details, the horrible technicalities — and while it battled to do so, his fingers began cohering; his palm contracted (like a woodlouse, furling up, at the first sign of danger), his hand tightened, then squeezed, then twisted…
His eyes flew open as the tap began gushing; he smiled broadly, bent over, splashed his face in cool water, straightened up again, felt it drip off his chin, down his neck, onto his collar. He thought about Wesley — Him
To steal a pond.
To steal an antique pond.
Now that was truly something.
Eight
There’s lamb and lynx and lion,
Yet no fowl and no fish, either,
Left on my terra firma.
So wait awhile —
Malinger —
And if you stay a loser,
Then plant your feet firmly on Daniel’s Candy
To find a pill that’s sweeter still,
A sugar far more bitter
Suddenly…
Huh-huh
HAH!
… having a little trouble…
Huh-huh
HAH!
… inhaling…
Huh-huh
Tired.
HAH!
Huh-huh
He was tiring. Had to regulate his…
HAH!
… breathing…
Huh-huh
Slow things down…
HAH!
… a little…
Almost always happened…
Huh-huh
… five hours…
Huh-huh
… in…
HAH!
Arthur checked his watch. Four and three…
Huh-huh
… quarters…
HAH!
Approximately.
Huh-huh
He checked it again. Four…
Huh-huh
… hours fifty…
HAH!
Precisely. There you go. Just as he’d predicted. Five hours. Only ten…
Huh-huh
… minutes…
Huh-huh
… under. Not bad going. Simply had to regulate…
Huh-huh
Had to focus. Had to stop pushing. Just…
HAH!
… cruise…
Huh-huh
… awhile. Just cruise. Just…
Okay.
Okay
Yes.
HAH!
And…
Phew!
… better.
Candy Island? Jeeeesus! (Pulse was racing. Chest pumping.
Heart banging like… heart throbbing like… fragile-pink-shuddering-hairless-newborn-rodent… Stop! … rat… Stop!.. fieldmouse… Stop — HAH! — thinking!)
Huh-huh
Candy? What the heck was that all about, anyway? Yes he knew it was a nod to Defoe (Arthur hawked, then expertly spat the dense yet compact globule over his shoulder) but the actual meaning of the reference…
Huh-huh
… as Defoe used it, originally?
Of course — and this was the worst part — Wesley himself probably didn’t have the first…
HAH!
… idea about the phrase’s basic etymology. He was so damn slap-happy, so relentlessly superficial. A cunning magpie. A stinking plagiariser. And so determinedly cheerful about it. Such a blissful bloody…
HAH!
… philistine.
Arthur bent down abruptly to tighten one of his shoelaces — so abruptly, in fact, that the weight of his rucksack almost toppled him. He quickly stiffened his legs, his thighs, stretched out his arms; palms pushed forward — grumbling furiously — rapidly re-located his centre of gravity, tapped the ground lightly with his fingertips — just to make certain — then yanked hard at the lace and firmly re-tied it.
Wasn’t the poor — Huh-huh — lace’s fault, was it!
Defoe? A preposterous seventeenth century opportunist, a loose cannon, an incorrigible hypocrite. And that — let’s face it — was putting it politely.
Candy.
Candy…
Arthur stood up. His face glistening. He grimaced. He re-adjusted his back-pack. He walked on again.
Presumably there was some vague historical connection with the sugar industry, but in truth he was pretty uncertain as to the finer details. I mean wasn’t everybody? He was fairly sure, though, that Defoe hadn’t ever been explicit about the origin of this phrase in his copious writings, or its actual…