‘Mine and Archibald’s usual, then, please, Mickey,’ said Samad. ‘I’ll leave my son to make up his mind. We will be over by the pinball.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mickey, not bothering or able to turn his gaze from Magid’s dark eyes.
‘Dat a lovely suit you gat dere,’ murmured Denzel, stroking the white linen wistfully. ‘Dat’s what de Englishmen use ta wear back home in Jamaica, remember dat, Clarence?’
Clarence nodded slowly, dribbling a little, struck by the beatific.
‘Go on, get out of it, the pair of you,’ grumbled Mickey, shooing them away, ‘I’ll bring it over, all right? I want to talk to Magid here. Growing boy, he’s got to eat. So: what is it I can get you, Magid?’ Mickey leant over the counter, all concern, like an over-attentive shopgirl. ‘Eggs? Mushrooms? Beans? Fried slice?’
‘I think,’ replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and then turning back to Mickey, his face illumined, ‘I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I would love a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown.’
Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey’s kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoylian contortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had and the most hallowed, sacred rule of O’Connell’s Pool House. NO PORK.
Mickey’s left eye twitched.
‘Don’t want a nice plate of scrambled? I do a lovely scrambled eggs, don’t I, Johnny?’
‘I’d be a liar if I said ya didn’t,’ said Johnny loyally from his table, even though Mickey’s eggs were famously grey and stiff, ‘I’d be a terrible liar, on my mother’s life, I would.’
Magid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
‘All right – what about mushrooms and beans? Omelette and chips? No better chips in the Finchley Road. Come on, son,’ he pleaded, desperate. ‘You’re a Muslim, int ya? You don’t want to break your father’s heart with a bacon sandwich.’
‘My father’s heart will not be broken by a bacon sandwich. It is far more likely that my father’s heart will break from the result of a build-up of saturated fat which is in turn a result of eating in your establishment for fifteen years. One wonders,’ said Magid evenly, ‘if a case could be made, a legal case, you understand, against individuals in the food service industry who fail to label their meals with a clear fat content or general health warning. One wonders.’
All this was delivered in the sweetest, most melodious voice, and with no hint of threat. Poor Mickey didn’t know what to make of it.
‘Well, of course,’ said Mickey nervously, ‘hypothetically that is an interesting question. Very interesting.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
Mickey fell silent and spent a minute elaborately polishing the top of the hot plate, an activity he indulged in about once every ten years.
‘There. See your face in that. Now. Where were we?’
‘A bacon sandwich.’
At the sound of the word ‘bacon’, a few ears began to twitch at the front tables.
‘If you could keep your voice down a little…’
‘A bacon sandwich,’ whispered Magid.
‘Bacon. Right. Well, I’ll have to nip next door, ’cos I ain’t got none at present… but you just sit down wiv your dad and I’ll bring it over. It’ll cost a bit more, like. What wiv the extra effort, you know. But don’t worry, I’ll bring it over. And tell Archie not to worry if he ain’t got the cash. A Luncheon Voucher will do.’
‘You are very kind, Michael. Take one of these.’ Magid reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper.
‘Oh, fuck me, another leaflet? You can’t fucking move – pardon my French – but you can’t move for leaflets in Norf London these days. My brother Abdul-Colin’s always loading me wiv ’em an’ all. But seein’ as it’s you… go on, hand it over.’
‘It’s not a leaflet,’ said Magid, collecting his knife and fork from the tray. ‘It is an invitation to a launch.’
‘You what?’ said Mickey excitedly (in the grammar of his daily tabloid, launch meant lots of cameras, expensive-looking birds with huge tits, red carpets). ‘Really?’
Millat passed him the invite. ‘Incredible things are to be seen and heard there.’
‘Oh,’ said Mickey, disappointed, eyeing the expensive piece of card. ‘I’ve heard about this bloke and his mouse.’ He had heard about this bloke and his mouse in this same tabloid; it was a kind of filler between the tits and the more tits and it was underneath the byline: ONE BLOKE AND HIS MOUSE.
‘Seems a bit dodgy to me, messing wiv God an’ all that. ’Sides I ain’t that scientifically minded, you see. Go right over my head.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. One just has to look at the thing from a perspective that interests you personally. Take your skin, for example.’
‘I wish somebody would fuckin’ take it,’ joked Mickey amiably. ‘I’ve ’ad a-fucking-nuff of it.’
Magid did not smile.
‘You suffer from a serious endocrine disorder. By which I mean, it is not simply adolescent acne caused by the over-excretion of sebum, but a condition that comes from a hormonal defect. I presume your family share it?’
‘Er… yeah, as it happens. All my brothers. And my son, Abdul-Jimmy. All spotty bastards.’
‘But you would not like it if your son were to pass on the condition to his sons.’
‘Obviously, no. I ’ad terrible trouble in school. I carry a knife to this day, Magid. But I can’t see how that can be avoided, to be honest with you. Been goin’ on for decades.’
‘But you see,’ said Magid (and what an expert he was at the personal interest angle!), ‘it can certainly be avoided. It would be perfectly simple and much misery would be saved. That is the kind of thing we will be discussing at the launch.’
‘Oh, well, if that’s the case, you know, count me in. I thought it was just some bloody mutant-mouse or sommink, you see. But if that’s the case…’
‘Thirty-first of December,’ said Magid, before walking down the aisle to his father. ‘It will be wonderful to see you there.’
‘You took your time,’ said Archie, as Magid approached their table.
‘Did you come by way of the Ganges?’ inquired Samad irritably, shifting up to make space for him.
‘Pardon me, please. I was just speaking with your friend, Michael. A very decent chap. Oh, before I forget, Archibald, he said that it would be perfectly acceptable to pay in Luncheon Vouchers this evening.’
Archie almost choked on a little toothpick he was chewing on. ‘He said what? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. Now, Abba, shall we begin?’
‘There’s nothing to begin,’ growled Samad, refusing to look him in the eye. ‘I am afraid we are already far into whatever diabolic plot fate has in store for me. And I want you to know, that I am not here of my own volition but because your mother begged me to do this and because I have more respect for that poor woman than either you or your brother ever had.’
Magid released a wry, gentle smile. ‘I thought you were here because Amma beat you in the wrestling.’
Samad scowled. ‘Oh yes, ridicule me. My own son. Do you never read the Qur’ān? Do you not know the duties a son owes to his father? You sicken me, Magid Mubtasim.’
‘Oi, Sammy, old man,’ said Archie, playing with the ketchup, trying to keep things light. ‘Steady on.’
‘No, I will not steady on! This boy is a thorn in my foot.’
‘Surely “side”?’
‘Archibald, stay out of this.’
Archie returned his attention to the pepper and salt cellars, trying to pour the former into the latter.
‘Right you are, Sam.’
‘I have a message to deliver and I will deliver it and no more. Magid, your mother wants you to meet with Millat. The woman Chalfen will arrange it. It is their opinion that the two of you must talk.’
‘And what is your opinion, Abba?’
‘You don’t want to hear my opinion.’