Christ.”
I sit up in bed and lean back against the wall and fold my arms. Wally looks at me and tries to express something that is apparently on his mind but without actually saying anything. I stare back at him. Wally keeps flicking his head in D’Antoni’s direction and then back at me but as I give him no response he gives up before he breaks it. D’Antoni’s doing his own share of head shaking as well, but after a while he gets back on the lounger and pours himself some more of his drink and drinks it. I wait a while before I say anything.
“Both finished?” I ask them.
They both look at me.
“I mean,” I say to them, “you’ve jacked it in for the night? You’ve just about tired yourselves out?”
Wally just looks at me and D’Antoni doesn’t look at anybody; the champagne and orange juice is almost finished. D’Antoni takes another large guzzle and then puts down his glass and lies full length on the camp bed.
“There’s nice,” I say.
Wally stays where he is.
“Why don’t you go and get your head down as well, Wally?”
Wally looks at D’Antoni, then back at me, the way he was doing before. I take no notice of him and switch off the light and slide back down between the sheets. In the darkness there is the sound of D’Antoni’s breathing and nothing at all from Wally because he hasn’t moved a muscle, he’s still standing exactly where he was when the light went out. Fuck him, I think to myself. He can stand there all through the night as far as I’m concerned. Then there’s a slight rustling and there’s warm breath on my face because Wally’s squatting down at the bedside and he’s talking to me in a low voice.
“Listen,” he says, “Jack, you can’t clear off in the morning. I mean, you can’t leave me on me own. Supposing some bastards do turn up? I mean, like he says, they ain’t going to ask me what time the next bus leaves after they’ve knocked him off, are they?”
“Go to bed, Wal,” I tell him.
“But Jack,” he says, “I’ll be in dead lumber, won’t I? If they turn up, I’m as dead as he is.”
“How dead do you think you can get?” I ask him.
“Beg pardon?” Wally says.
“Go back to bed, Wally,” I tell him.
“But Jack—” Wally begins, but his protest is cut off by a cracking fart from D’Antoni, followed by a few mumbled words from the back of the American’s throat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, but before I can lever myself up completely Wally is scuttling on his way towards the door. I lean on my elbow for a while, staring at the slightly less darker patch where the curtains are. Outside on the landing there are the sounds of Wally presumably settling down for the night. I shake my head in the darkness, but of course that will have as much effect as a duck breaking wind on the water, a futile gesture in the surrounding darkness of the mountains, an unseen release to my feelings. I stay like that for a few minutes longer, then I lower my weary bones back onto the sheets and close my eyes.
I’m just nodding off when I’m brought back to the land of the living by a voice from the landing.
“Goodnight, Jack,” Wally says. “Anything you want, you know where I am.”
Chapter Seven
I T ’ S RAINING , AND THERE ’ S this delicious smell, a smell of frying fish and damp raincoats, and this terrific sound, the splashing of chip fat and the beating of rain on Akrill’s plate glass window. I’m back in Villiers Street and I’m only third in a full house Saturday-night queue and at home there’s Man waiting with the wireless tuned to Saturday Night Music Hall. The mixed sound of the beating rain and the splashing fat gets louder and louder and the heat from the chip machine gets hotter and then I wake up and I realise that the heat from the frying chips is the breath of Wally on my face and the frying sound is the hissing noise he’s making and maybe the chattering of his teeth could account for the noise of the rain,
I sit up in bed and lean back against the wall and fold my arms. Wally looks at me and tries to express something that is apparently on his mind but without actually saying anything. I stare back at him. Wally keeps flicking his head in D’Antoni’s direction and then back at me but as I give him no response he gives up before he breaks it. D’Antoni’s doing his own share of head shaking as well, but after a while he gets back on the lounger and pours himself some more of his drink and drinks it. I wait a while before I say anything.
“Both finished?” I ask them.
They both look at me.
“I mean,” I say to them, “you’ve jacked it in for the night? You’ve just about tired yourselves out?”
Wally just looks at me and D’Antoni doesn’t look at anybody; the champagne and orange juice is almost finished. D’Antoni takes another large guzzle and then puts down his glass and lies full length on the camp bed.
“There’s nice,” I say.
Wally stays where he is.
“Why don’t you go and get your head down as well, Wally?”
Wally looks at D’Antoni, then back at me, the way he was doing before. I take no notice of him and switch off the light and slide back down between the sheets. In the darkness there is the sound of D’Antoni’s breathing and nothing at all from Wally because he hasn’t moved a muscle, he’s still standing exactly where he was when the light went out. Fuck him, I think to myself. He can stand there all through the night as far as I’m concerned. Then there’s a slight rustling and there’s warm breath on my face because Wally’s squatting down at the bedside and he’s talking to me in a low voice.
“Listen,” he says, “Jack, you can’t clear off in the morning. I mean, you can’t leave me on me own. Supposing some bastards do turn up? I mean, like he says, they ain’t going to ask me what time the next bus leaves after they’ve knocked him off, are they?”
“Go to bed, Wal,” I tell him.
“But Jack,” he says, “I’ll be in dead lumber, won’t I? If they turn up, I’m as dead as he is.”
“How dead do you think you can get?” I ask him.
“Beg pardon?” Wally says.
“Go back to bed, Wally,” I tell him.
“But Jack—” Wally begins, but his protest is cut off by a cracking fart from D’Antoni, followed by a few mumbled words from the back of the American’s throat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, but before I can lever myself up completely Wally is scuttling on his way towards the door. I lean on my elbow for a while, staring at the slightly less darker patch where the curtains are. Outside on the landing there are the sounds of Wally presumably settling down for the night. I shake my head in the darkness, but of course that will have as much effect as a duck breaking wind on the water, a futile gesture in the surrounding darkness of the mountains, an unseen release to my feelings. I stay like that for a few minutes longer, then I lower my weary bones back onto the sheets and close my eyes.
I’m just nodding off when I’m brought back to the land of the living by a voice from the landing.
“Goodnight, Jack,” Wally says. “Anything you want, you know where I am.”
Chapter Seven
I T ’ S RAINING , AND THERE ’ S this delicious smell, a smell of frying fish and damp raincoats, and this terrific sound, the splashing of chip fat and the beating of rain on Akrill’s plate glass window. I’m back in Villiers Street and I’m only third in a full house Saturday-night queue and at home there’s Man waiting with the wireless tuned to Saturday Night Music Hall. The mixed sound of the beating rain and the splashing fat gets louder and louder and the heat from the chip machine gets hotter and then I wake up and I realise that the heat from the frying chips is the breath of Wally on my face and the frying sound is the hissing noise he’s making and maybe the chattering of his teeth could account for the noise of the rain,
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