Archie nods. He knows what Mickey means. (Some people – Samad for example – will tell you not to trust people who overuse the phrase at the end of the day – football managers, estate agents, salesmen of all kinds – but Archie’s never felt that way about it. Prudent use of said phrase never failed to convince him that his interlocutor was getting to the bottom of things, to the fundamentals.)
‘And if you think there’s any difference between a place like this and my caff,’ Mickey continues, somehow full throated and yet never increasing above a whisper in terms of decibel, ‘you’re having a laugh. ’Sall the same in the end. ’Sall about the customer in the end. Exempli fuckin’ gratia: it’s no good me putting Duck à l’orange on the menu if nobody wants it. Vis-à-vis, there’s no point this lot spending a lot of money on some clever ideas if they’re not going to do some fucking good for someone. Think about it,’ says Mickey, tapping his temple, and Archie follows the instruction as best he can.
‘But that don’t mean you don’t give it a bloody chance,’ continues Mickey, warming to his theme. ‘You’ve got to give these new ideas a chance. Otherwise you’re just a philistine, Arch. Now, at the end of the day, you know I’ve always been your cutting-edge type of geezer. That’s why I introduced Bubble and Squeak two years ago.’
Archie nods sagely. The Bubble and Squeak had been a revelation of sorts.
‘Same goes here. You’ve got to give these things a chance. That’s what I said to Abdul-Colin and my Jimmy. I said: before you jump the gun, come along and give it a chance. And here they are.’ Abdul-Mickey flicked his head back, a vicious tick of recognition in the direction of his brother and son, who responded in kind. ‘They might not like what they hear, of course, but you can’t account for that, can you? But at least they’ve come along with an open mind. Now, me personally, I’m here on good authority from that Magid Ick-Ball – and I trust him, I trust his judgement. But, as I say, we shall wait and see. We live and fucking learn, Archibald,’ says Mickey, not to be offensive, but because the F-word acts like padding to him; he can’t help it; it’s just a filler like beans or peas, ‘we live and fucking learn. And I can tell you, if anything said here tonight convinces me that my Jimmy might not have sprogs wiv skin like the surface of the fucking moon, then I’m converted, Arch. I’ll say it now. I’ve not the fucking foggiest what some mouse’s got to do with the old Yusuf skin, but I tell you, I’d put my life in that Ick-Ball boy’s hands. I just get a good feeling off that lad. Worth a dozen of his brother,’ adds Mickey slyly, lowering his voice because Sam’s behind them. ‘A dozen easy. I mean, what the fuck was he thinking, eh? I know which one I’d’ve sent away. No fear.’
Archie shrugs. ‘It was a tough decision.’
Mickey crosses his arms and scoffs, ‘No such thing, mate. You’re either right or you ain’t. And as soon as you realize that, Arch, suddenly your life becomes a lot fucking easier. Take my word for it.’
Archie takes Mickey’s words gratefully, adding them to the other pieces of sagacity the century has afforded him: You’re either right or you ain’t. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over. Can’t say fairer than that. Heads or tails?
‘Oi-oi, what this?’ says Mickey with a grin. ‘Here we go. Movement. Microphone in action. One-two, one-two. Looks like the manneth beginneth.’
‘… and this work is pioneering, it is something that deserves public money and public attention, and it is work the significance of which overrides, in any rational person’s mind, the objections that have been levied against it. What we need…’
What we need, thinks Joshua, are seats closer to the front. Typical cuntish planning on the part of Crispin. Crispin asked for seats in the thick of it, so FATE could kind of merge with the crowd and slip the balaclavas on at the last minute, but it was clearly a rubbish idea which relied upon some kind of middle aisle in the seating, which just isn’t here. Now they are going to have to make an ungainly journey to the side aisles, like terrorists looking for their seat in the cinema, slowing down the whole operation, when speed and shock tactics are the whole fucking point. What a performance. The whole plan pisses Josh off. So elaborate and absurd, all designed for the greater glory of Crispin. Crispin gets to do a bit of shouting, Crispin gets to do some waving-of-gun, Crispin does some pseudo-Jack Nicholson-psycho twitches just for the drama of it. FANTASTIC. All Josh gets to say is Dad, please. Give them what they want, though privately he figures he’ll have some room for improvisation: Dad, please. I’m so fucking young. I want to live. Give them what they want, for Chrissake. It’s just a mouse… I’m your son, and then possibly a phoney faint in response to a phoney pistol-whip if his father proves to be hesitant. The whole plan’s so high on the cheese factor it’s practically Stilton. But it will work (Crispin had said), that stuff always works. But having spent so much time in the animal kingdom, Crispin is like Mowgli: he doesn’t know about the motivations of people. And he knows more about the psychology of a badger than he will ever know about the inner workings of a Chalfen. So looking at Marcus up there with his magnificent mouse, celebrating the great achievement of his life and maybe of this generation, Joshua can’t stop his own perverse brain from wondering whether it is just possible that he and Crispin and FATE have misjudged completely. That they have all royally messed up. That they have underestimated the power of Chalfenism and its remarkable commitment to the Rational. For it is quite possible that his father will not simply and unreflectingly save the thing he loves like the rest of the plebs. It is quite possible that love doesn’t even come into it. And just thinking about that makes Joshua smile.
‘… and I’d like to thank you all, particularly family and friends who have sacrificed their New Year’s Eve… I’d like to thank you all for being here at the outset of what I’m sure everybody agrees is a very exciting project, not just for myself and the other researchers but for a far wider…’
Marcus begins and Millat watches the Brothers of KEVIN exchange glances. They’re figuring about ten minutes in. Maybe fifteen. They’ll take their cue from Abdul-Colin. They’re following instructions. Millat, on the other hand, is not following instructions, at least not the kind that are passed from mouth to mouth or written on pieces of paper. His is an imperative secreted in the genes and the cold steel in his inside pocket is the answer to a claim made on him long ago. He’s a Pandy deep down. And there’s mutiny in his blood.
As for the practicalities, it had been no biggie: two phone calls to some guys from the old crew, a tacit agreement, some KEVIN money, a trip to Brixton and hey presto it was in his hand, heavier than he had imagined, but, aside from that, not such a headfuck of an object. He almost recognized it. The effect of it reminded him of a small car-bomb he saw explode, many years ago, in the Irish section of Kilburn. He was only nine, walking along with Samad. But where Samad was shaken, genuinely shaken, Millat hardly blinked. To Millat, it was so familiar. He was so unfazed by it. Because there aren’t any alien objects or events any more, just as there aren’t any sacred ones. It’s all so familiar. It’s all on TV. So handling the cold metal, feeling it next to his skin that first time: it was easy. And when things come to you easily, when things click effortlessly into place, it is so tempting to use the four-letter F-word. Fate. Which to Millat is a quantity very much like TV: an unstoppable narrative, written, produced and directed by somebody else.