Dancing Towards the Blade and Other Stories by Mark Billingham Page A
Authors: Mark Billingham
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‘Your quickest way home is via the airport.’ The smile that Vincent had thought he’d seen now made itself very evident. ‘You want the Piccadilly line to Heathrow, mate.’
Vincent chuckled softly, pretending to enjoy the joke. He saw the boy’s face harden, watched him raise a hand and jab a finger back towards the main road.
‘Go round.’
Vincent knew what he meant. He could walk back and take the path that led around the perimeter of the estate, approach his block from the other side. It would only take a few minutes longer. He could just turn and go and he would probably be home before they’d finished laughing.
‘You heard.’ The skinny boy leaned back against a bollard.
He could easily turn and go round.
‘Now piss off…’
The edges of Vincent’s vision began to blur and darken and the words that spewed from the mouth of the boy with the shaven head became hard to make out. A distant rhythm was asserting itself and as Vincent looked down at the cracked slabs beneath his feet, a shadow seemed to fall across them. A voice grew louder, and it was as if the walls on either side had softened and begun to sway above him like the tops of trees.
The voice was one Vincent knew well. The accent, unlike his own, was heavy, but the intonation and tone were those that had been passed on to him and to his brothers and sisters. It was a rich voice, warm and dark, sliding effortlessly around every phrase, each dramatic sentence of a story it never tired of telling.
His father’s voice…
Looking out from his bedroom window, the boy could see the coffee plants lying like a deep green tablecloth across the hillside, billowing down towards the canopy of treetops and the dirty river beneath. If he raised his eyes up , he saw the mountain on the far side of the valley, its peaks jutting into the mist, the slopes changing colour many times a day according to the cloud and the position of the sun. Black or green or blood red. Other colours the boy had no name for.
A dozen views for the price of one, and he’d thought about all of them in the time he’d been away. He’d tried to picture each one during the bone-shaking, twelve-hour bus ride that had brought him home from school five days before.
‘Hey! Stand still, boy. This is damn fiddly.’
Uncle Joseph, on his knees in front of him, his thick fingers struggling with the leather fastenings, as they had every morning since they’d begun. It was hard to tie the knots so that the strings of beads clung to the calves without slipping, but not so tightly that they would cut into the flesh.
When he’d finished with the beads on the lower legs, Uncle Joseph would move onto the thick bands of dried goatskin, each heavy with rows of bells and strapped around the thighs. These were expensive items, hand-made like everything else. Lastly, Joseph would wrap the dark highly-polished belt around the boy’s waist. On three out of the last four mornings, much to the boy’s amusement, he’d sliced a finger on one of the razor-sharp shells sewn into the leather.
Behind him, Uncle Francis worked on attaching the beads that crossed his back and chest in an X, like brightly-coloured bandoliers. Francis was always cheerful, and the boy imagined that he too looked forward to that moment when Joseph would cry out, curse and stick a bleeding finger into his mouth. It was always Francis and Joseph that dressed him. The rest of his uncles waited outside. He’d been amazed at quite how many uncles he had, when they’d gathered on the night after he’d got back; when the family committee had met to organise it all.
There had been lots to decide.
‘Do we have drummers?’
‘Of course. This is important. He is important.’
‘Grade A. Definitely Grade A.’
‘These drummers are not cheap. Their damn costumes alone are a fortune.’
‘I think they should come with their costumes. It isn’t fair. We shouldn’t have to pay for the costumes separately.’
‘We should
Vincent chuckled softly, pretending to enjoy the joke. He saw the boy’s face harden, watched him raise a hand and jab a finger back towards the main road.
‘Go round.’
Vincent knew what he meant. He could walk back and take the path that led around the perimeter of the estate, approach his block from the other side. It would only take a few minutes longer. He could just turn and go and he would probably be home before they’d finished laughing.
‘You heard.’ The skinny boy leaned back against a bollard.
He could easily turn and go round.
‘Now piss off…’
The edges of Vincent’s vision began to blur and darken and the words that spewed from the mouth of the boy with the shaven head became hard to make out. A distant rhythm was asserting itself and as Vincent looked down at the cracked slabs beneath his feet, a shadow seemed to fall across them. A voice grew louder, and it was as if the walls on either side had softened and begun to sway above him like the tops of trees.
The voice was one Vincent knew well. The accent, unlike his own, was heavy, but the intonation and tone were those that had been passed on to him and to his brothers and sisters. It was a rich voice, warm and dark, sliding effortlessly around every phrase, each dramatic sentence of a story it never tired of telling.
His father’s voice…
Looking out from his bedroom window, the boy could see the coffee plants lying like a deep green tablecloth across the hillside, billowing down towards the canopy of treetops and the dirty river beneath. If he raised his eyes up , he saw the mountain on the far side of the valley, its peaks jutting into the mist, the slopes changing colour many times a day according to the cloud and the position of the sun. Black or green or blood red. Other colours the boy had no name for.
A dozen views for the price of one, and he’d thought about all of them in the time he’d been away. He’d tried to picture each one during the bone-shaking, twelve-hour bus ride that had brought him home from school five days before.
‘Hey! Stand still, boy. This is damn fiddly.’
Uncle Joseph, on his knees in front of him, his thick fingers struggling with the leather fastenings, as they had every morning since they’d begun. It was hard to tie the knots so that the strings of beads clung to the calves without slipping, but not so tightly that they would cut into the flesh.
When he’d finished with the beads on the lower legs, Uncle Joseph would move onto the thick bands of dried goatskin, each heavy with rows of bells and strapped around the thighs. These were expensive items, hand-made like everything else. Lastly, Joseph would wrap the dark highly-polished belt around the boy’s waist. On three out of the last four mornings, much to the boy’s amusement, he’d sliced a finger on one of the razor-sharp shells sewn into the leather.
Behind him, Uncle Francis worked on attaching the beads that crossed his back and chest in an X, like brightly-coloured bandoliers. Francis was always cheerful, and the boy imagined that he too looked forward to that moment when Joseph would cry out, curse and stick a bleeding finger into his mouth. It was always Francis and Joseph that dressed him. The rest of his uncles waited outside. He’d been amazed at quite how many uncles he had, when they’d gathered on the night after he’d got back; when the family committee had met to organise it all.
There had been lots to decide.
‘Do we have drummers?’
‘Of course. This is important. He is important.’
‘Grade A. Definitely Grade A.’
‘These drummers are not cheap. Their damn costumes alone are a fortune.’
‘I think they should come with their costumes. It isn’t fair. We shouldn’t have to pay for the costumes separately.’
‘We should
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