Clint said, ‘A mystery wrapped in an enigma, Chief.’
‘The sampling varies as in no other sphere,’ Mackelyne went on. ‘There’s only one thing we know for sure.’
‘Which is?’
‘They all hate nuns.’
‘… Well I’m glad we’ve joined the fray. The smell of cordite at last,’ said Heaf. ‘Now. Can we at least have a filler on Russia-China?’
Smoker sat smoking in Room 2011 of the Bostonian Hotel on Meagure Street. Darius, the seven-foot Seventh Day Adventist, lay shoeless on the sofa, reading the Gideon Bible: Book of Revelation … In Room 2013 Ainsley Car was supposedly in the process of having Donna, prior to doing Beryl.
‘“Words”,’ keyed Clint, ‘“cannot convey the torment I am going through,” said a sickened “Dodgem” Car last night in an exclusive interview with the Morning Lark. “The pressures on the pro footballer of today are something you wouldn’t believe. And as the world knows, I’ve had a long and painful struggle with my ‘demons’. Football isn’t about winning. It isn’t about losing. It’s about glory. And yes, I’ve feasted on the recognition. Runner-up in the Premiership with Wanderers. A winner’s medal in the Ivatex Data Systems Cup with United. That ‘banana’ consolation goal for Wales in the quarter-final at the Bernabéu.
‘“And God knows I’ve had my share of grief. The endless months in hospital wards and prison yards. The tragic death of Sir Bobby Miles a scant ten days after my ‘challenge from hell’ and the crippling civil action that followed. Relegation with United. Tell me about it — the booze, the birds, the brawls. I’ve been there. And who’s stood at my side through thick and thin, through the good, the bad, and the bubbly? My childhood sweetheart and now my bride. Little Beryl.”’
‘“For the time is at hand,” ‘said Darius conversationally. ‘Her in there: that’s Jezebel. “And the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and burn her with fire.”’
‘Charming.’
‘It’s coming, man. The hour is at hand. “And, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; and the stars of the heaven fell unto the earth …”’
‘Oh. That. The comet. Your lot were a bit quick off the mark with the last one. Didn’t they all top themselves in advance, your lot, over in California?’
‘Not my lot. My lot won’t even be here, man. It’s all yours.’ For a moment Darius laughed quietly. ‘You think America’s powerful. Taste the wrath of the big guy, bro. Coming to getcha …’
‘Where’s the meaning in it? Just blind natural forces.’
‘No blind. The comet is like me, man. Muscle. Muscle of God.’
The room — the hotel — was postmodern, but darkly, unplay-fully so. It seemed that the gunmetal furniture was trying to look like the refrigerator, the television, the safe. Among the gaunt gadgets on Clint’s worksurface was an anomalously ovoid Babicom (supplied by the Lark‘s lone parent, Desmond Heaf). He reached for the dial. You could hear Ainsley’s slurred and labouring baritone, Donna’s bold alto.
… for the both of them. The uh, the mongrel’s Bena. The Alsatian’s Mick. Know why I love dogs?
Tell me, love.
Dogs don’t kick you when you’re down.
That’s true.
Dogs don’t nag at you. Dogs don’t rip you fucking off. Dogs don’t give you bullshit.
They give you dogshit.
Yeah but … yeah but … Dogs don’t—
‘Jesus. Well at least they’re in bed by the sound of it.’
‘How long’s he got?’ asked Darius. ‘You’d think he’d be making a pig of himself. Donna Strange?’
‘“I always enjoy the Lark’s annual Top Titcrack Competition (pages 19–26),” ‘typed Clint. ‘“It’s a chance to have a few drinks and a laugh and generally relax. After the lunch and the playoff, we sat around with the proud winner, Donna Strange, and had a few drinks. Spirits were high. And it was hard to take your eyes off Donna’s cleavage. Talk about Silicone Valley! A bit later someone suggested that we move on to the bar for a few drinks. At this stage, the thought of any monkey business was the last thing on my mind. I’m a happily married man. And after all, little Beryl was due to join me at seven.
‘“After a few drinks Donna suggested we move on to the restaurant for a snack and a few drinks. Call me naïve, but I thought little of it when Donna complained of hoarseness in the foyer and asked for a glass of water. We went up to my room on the twentieth floor. I don’t know if she was having me on about the tickle in her pipe. But this was for certain. Five seconds after that door closed behind us, Donna Strange had a frog in her —”‘
— I’ve nutmegged their number two and come haring into the box. The goalie’s come out to close me down but I’ve gone and chipped him. Two-all. The crowd’s going spare. In the eighty-sevemf minute, Gibbsy’s played a long ball out to the left …
‘The time is nigh.’
‘Yeah, well. Donna knows what time it is.’
Clint now typed very fast for fifteen minutes. ‘“At last,” ‘he went on, ‘“she smiled up from beneath my sopping knackers. I needed no second invitation when she offered to start taking her clothes off. In all the excitement I clean forgot that …”’
‘Five to,’ said Darius.
… with a power header just before half-time. Shortly after the resumption I—
Where are we now, Dodge? Kestrel Juniors?
Kestrel Juniors? No, love, this is the Under Nines. Shortly after the—
Here, darling, we’d better get started.
… I’m uh, I’m not bothered.
Pardon?
I’m not bothered. With Beryl due. Bit embarrassing for a bloke, his wife seeing him with his arse in the air. No offence.
I don’t mind, sweetheart, but it’s not up to us, is it? Look … Undo your … If I … Just get your …
‘He’s not even got his clobber off!’ cried Darius.
‘She’ll have him. Donna Strange? She’ll jack him up. She’ll be there.’
And now they could hear her, through the Babicom (its red light straining), through the matt walclass="underline" Donna, gathering it up from the depths.
Ainsley Car had impressed it upon Clint that Beryl was a woman of pathological punctuality — especially in her dealings with things like Central London, and public spaces, and Ainsley Car when he was putting himself about … Clint approached the door and opened it narrowly. The hand-mirror he held gave him a flickering view of the empty passage. He stuck his head out — his head, like the shaved hump of a camel. The Bostonian had recently been dragged into the twenty-first century, but it remained an old, sprawling, fire-haunted hoteclass="underline" the corridor unreeled itself like an opium vision, as if to infinity. Clint waited. At 7.58 the specklike pixel of Beryl Car began to detach itself from the distance. So small; and already so strafed by fears. Funny: she’s getting nearer — but no bigger. And shit nerself, he thought… Her want of inches was like an exertion of humility; and the stride, too, was just a series of starts and hesitations, buffeted by invisible fingerstabs of mockery or reproach.