‘With such a matter as this, Des, you got to consider you objectives.’ He sat back. ‘Which are. One. Put an end to the nonsense with the sexual relations. Obviously. Two. Keep it quiet. Fucking hell, I’d have to emigrate. The States, I suppose. Or Australia. A paedo for a mum? A nonce for a mum. Nice … Three. Ensure, beyond doubt, that nothing of this nature happens again. Ever … It’s like — like a puzzle. A labyrinth. You consider you objectives. Then you turn to you options.’
From experience Des half-subliminally sensed that something fairly bad was on its way. Lionel’s linear style, his show of rationality, even the modest improvements in his vocabulary and enunciation (‘labyrinth’, for instance, came out as labyrinf, rather than the expected labyrimf): whenever Lionel talked like this, you could be pretty certain that something fairly bad was on its way. Now he reached for a torn pack of Marlboro Hundreds, on which a clump of capital letters had been grimly scored.
‘Long black hair. Wears a lip ring. And cowboy boots. And shorts. Who is he?’
‘Uh, let me think.’
‘Ah come on. How many kids wear cowboy boots with they shorts? I ask again. Who is he?’
Des had no doubt: it was Rory Nightingale. It could only be Rory Nightingale … Rory was a chronic truant (and just fourteen), but everyone at Squeers Free was aware of Rory Nightingale. Shapely-faced, and sidlingly self-sufficient, and far more than averagely wised up. He always reminded Des of the youths you saw behind the scenes at funfairs and circuses — in their own sphere, with their own secrets, and with that carny, peepshow knowledge in the thin smile of their eyes.
‘Yeah, I know him.’
‘Name?’
‘Name?’ The window of latitude — of air and freedom — was already closing. ‘Uh. Uh, put it down to your influence, Uncle Li. But this is like grassing someone up. You know. Playing Judas.’
Lionel arched his eyebrows as his gaze rolled slowly ceiling-ward, and he joined his hands round the back of his neck (revealing two vulpine armpits). ‘Fine words, Des. Fine words. But you know, son, life’s not as uh, straightforward as that. Sometimes, sometimes you high ideals have to … Okay. How often’s he go to school? Cowboy boots and shorts. Lip ring. I can pick him out meself.’
‘About once a fortnight.’
‘… Well I’m not going to stand there at the gates for a fucking fortnight, am I. Think of the effect that’d have on me temper … Listen, Des. I want to put you mind at rest. I’m going to do this neat. Clean. And I won’t lay a finger on him. All right? So next time he shows up, you give me a call on you nice new phone. Will you do that at least for yer own uncle? Bloody hell, boy. She’s you fucking nan.’
A rough-edged wind frisked him down as he made his way back up Skinthrift Close. The dumped rocking horse, the dumped dodgem. And now, in just the last half-hour, a consignment of dumped kiddies’ dolls, heat-damaged, in a gummy pink mass.
The new development entailed a new perplexity. Although Des very seldom engaged with Rory Nightingale, he happened to be on friendly terms with his parents — with Ernest and Joy. It was nothing out of the way: Mr and Mrs Nightingale used the corner shop, under the shadow of Avalon Tower, and they first hailed Des simply on the strength of his Squeers blazer. And so it went on — greetings, small talk, encouraging words …
Rory himself was on the very tideline of the modern, but his parents seemed to have waddled out of the 1950s. Both about forty-five, both about five foot four, and both unprosperously but contentedly tublike in shape. You never saw them singly; and on the streets they always walked in step, and hand in hand. Once, as he ate an apple that Joy had just given him, Des watched the Nightingales negotiate the zebra crossing. Halfway over, a dropped handkerchief and a passing truck contrived to separate them; Ernest waited attentively on the far curbside, and then off they went again, in step, and hand in hand. And Rory (Des knew) was their only child.
How’s it going to go? he wondered as he approached the main road. Ahead of him a succession of white vans flashed past. There were many white vans in Diston, and many white-van men — and they were white white-van men, too, because Diston was predominantly white, as white as Belgravia (and no one really knew why). Lionel had a white van, the Ford Transit. Amazing, thought Des, how all the white vans wore the same thickness of soot, just enough to coat them in a shadow of grey. Clean Me, a wistful finger had written on the Transit’s smudged breast.
‘I left the door open — just a crack. Half an inch. First Jeff has a go, then Joe has a go. They’re mashing their noses in the gap. And ten minutes later they’re inside!’
‘There. You condemning youself out of you own mouth. Would they do that if I was in here? It’s wide open now and are they coming in? You too soft on them, Des. You like a girl when it comes to the dogs. And don’t change the subject.’
The subject. Night after night Des faced moody and repetitive interrogation on the subject of Rory Nightingale. Tensions glided under the fluorescent tubes at the same speed as the shifting silks of Lionel’s cigarette smoke. With a Marlboro Hundred in one hand and a fork in the other, he broodingly consumed great quantities of the only dish he ever consented to cook (or at least heat up): Sweeney Todd Meat Pies. And these pies, these quantities, were not without significance. Des was too close in to see the pattern clearly, but Lionel’s appetite always climbed sharply when he was readying himself for something fairly bad.
‘So he’s clever,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. Mr Tigg reckons he’d be very clever if he tried. But he’s never there.’
‘So he’s always after everyone for money,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s always after everyone for a couple of quid. Trying it on.’
‘So he’s a chancer. Like Ringo,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s a bit like Uncle Ring. In that respect at least.’
‘… Tell me, Des. Do girls like him? Or just old boilers? … Come on, Des, you hiding something. I can tell. I can always tell.’
‘Well, yeah, Alektra says they’re all mad for him. But he likes them older. He says when it comes to sex, kids are crap.’
‘Continue, Des. Let’s have it.’
‘He — he’s always saying he’s bi. I’m adventurous, he says. I’m a sexy boy.’
After an intermission (chewing, smoking, nodding), Lionel said, ‘Nah. I won’t lay a finger on him. Wouldn’t demean meself. I wouldn’t demean meself, Desmond.’
‘… What’ll it be then, Uncle Li? Warn him off?’
‘Warn him off? Warn him off what? He’s already done it! Round there again last night. Gran must think I’ve gone soft in me old age.’ He licked his lips. ‘Sexy boy, is it. I’ll give him sexy.’
This was on the Thursday. On the Friday, who should show up at Squeers Free but Rory Nightingale.
10
IT WAS THE kind of morning that the citizens of this island kingdom very rarely saw: an established and adamant clarity, with the sun pinned into place, as firm as a gilt tack; and the sky, seemingly embarrassed by such exalted pressure, kept blushing an even deeper blue … Dark and gaunt, like his shadow, Desmond (to whom lovely skies always whispered of loss and grief) stood on the patch of sandy astroturf beyond the gym. Rory Nightingale was here. And Des made the call. He failed to see what else he could do.
Three fifty-five. Crisply dressed, with his face half-obscured by a copy of the Diston Gazette, Lionel sat waiting in the open-fronted bus shelter across the street. Des approached.