225.

'And are you still working at the petrol station?'

'Well, not exactly, no.'

'Why not?'

'Because I got caught.'

'Caught doing what?'

He takes a large gulp of the vodka. 'With my hand in the till.'

'You're jokingV 'Brian, why d'you keep asking me if I'm joking? D'you think this is the kind of thing that I'd find funny?'

'No, I just meant . . .'

'They had a camera hidden over the till, and I got caught taking the cash out at the end of the night.'

'How much?'

'I don't know, a river, tenner sometimes, a little bit here and there from not ringing in sweets and crisps and stuff.'

'So are they going to prosecute you as well?'

'No, they can't, 'cause I wasn't on the books. But let's just say my manager wasn't very happy. He's kept a load of my wages back and told me if he ever saw me again he'd break my legs . . .'

'So how much does he think you took?'

'A couple of hundred?'

'And how much did you take?'

Spencer exhales smoke. 'Couple of hundred sounds about right.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Spencer . . .'

'They were paying me one pound f.u.c.king eighty an hour, Brian, what the f.u.c.k did they expect?'

'I know, I know!'

'Anyway, you're a Communist, I thought you didn't agree with private ownership.'

The don't, but Marx is talking about the means of production, not the contents of the till at a petrol station. And besides I don't disapprove, and anyway I'm a socialist. And I just 226.

think, well, it's a shame, that's all. What do your mum and dad say?'

'Oh, they're very, very proud of me,' and he drinks about half a pint in one go. 'Anyway. The point is I'm well and truly f.u.c.ked.'

'But you'll get another job though, won't you?'

'Oh, definitely - an unqualified, unemployed petty thief with a criminal record. In terms of today's compet.i.tive job market, I'm absolute f.u.c.king gold dust. Want another pint?'

'A half, maybe.'

'Well, you'll have to get them, I find myself a little embarra.s.sed, financially speaking.'

So I head to the bar again, and get the pints in, and accept that I'm probably not going to get round to reading The Rape of the Lock tonight after all.

Needless to say we're the last to leave the pub. After they've called last orders, Spencer takes it upon himself to pour the remnants of other people's discarded drinks into our gla.s.ses, something I haven't done since I was sixteen maybe, so that by the time we get back to Richmond House, we're both pretty p.i.s.sed. There we finish off the mugs of milky home-brew, and open the two cans of Special Brew that make up Spencer's luggage, along with the Daily Mirror and a half-eaten pasty. I tell him all about New Year and Alice, and my version of the encounter with her naked mum in the kitchen, and Spencer unclenches a bit, and laughs for the first time, a proper, generous laugh, rather than a sneer or a sn.i.g.g.e.r.

Then I get up to change the record, and put on The Kick Inside, Kate Bush's remarkable but challenging debut alb.u.m, and he reverts to type, laughing all the way through 'The Man With The Child In His Eyes', and taking the p.i.s.s out of my record collection and the postcards on my wall. To distract him I put on the tape he made me, 'Bri's College Compilation', and we both slump drunkenly back on the futon and watch the 227.

ceiling buckling, warping and revolving over our heads as we listen to Gil Scott-Heron singing 'The Bottle'.

'You know you're in this, don't you?'

'In what?'

'This song - listen . . .' and he crawls on his hands and knees over to the music system, presses stop and rewind. 'Listen very carefully . . .' and the song starts, a live recording, the first sixteen bars just electric organ and percussion, and then a jazz flute solo starts, and Gil Scott-Heron says something I don't quite hear . . .

'Get it?' says Spencer, excited.

'No ... ?'

'Listen again, cloth-ears, listen properly,' and he presses rewind, stop, play, turns the volume to full and this time I hear Gil Scott-Heron say, quite clearly, 'Brian Jackson on flute for ya!' and the crowd applauding.

'Get it?'

'Yeah!'

That's you!'

'Brian Jackson on flute!'

'Again . . .'

And there it is again - '. . . Brian Jackson on flute for ya'.

'That's amazing, I've never heard that before.'

That's because you never listen to the compilation tapes I make you, you philistine b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' and he crawls back to the futon, flops on his back, and we listen to the song for a minute or so, and I decide I quite like jazz after all, or soul or funk or whatever this is, and resolve to explore the world of black music more fully in the future.

'So's Alice the one you fancy then?' says Spencer, eventually.

'I don't fancy her, Spence, I love her . . .'

'You love her . . .'

'I looooove her . . .'

'You loooooove her . . .'

228.

'I absolutely, completely, totally love her, with all my heart 'I thought you loved Janet Parks, you fickle tart . . .'

'Janet Parks is a cow compared to Alice Harbinson. "Not Janet Parks but Alice do I love/Who shalt compare a raven to a dove?"'

'Wha.s.sat then?'

'Midsummer Night's Dream, act two, scene three.'

'Jackson, you pillock. So will I meet her then, this Alice?'

'Maybe. There's a party tomorrow night if you're still around.'

'Want me to put a word in for you, mate?'

'No point, mate. Like I said, she's a G.o.ddess. What about you, though?'

'Not me, mate. You know me, I'm a robot.'

'You must love someone . . .'

'Only you, mate, only you . . .'

'Yeah, well I love you too, mate, but that's not s.e.xual, romantic love is it?'

'Oh, yeah, definitely s.e.xual. What d'you think I've come all this way for? It's because I want you. Give us a kiss, big boy,' and Spencer jumps on me and sits on my chest, making wet, smacking noises, and I try to push him off, and it turns into a scuffle . . .

'Come on Bri, give in, you know you want to . . .'

'Get off!'

'Kiss me, my love! . . .'

'Spencer! That hurts! . . .'

'Don't fight it, my darling . . .'

'Get off me! You're sat on my keys, you bender . . .'

And then there's a knock on the door, and Marcus stands blinking in the doorway, mole-eyed behind lop-sided aviator specs, in his ruby-red towelling dressing gown; 'Brian, it's two-fifteen, is there any chance of you turning the music off?'

229.

'Sorry, Marcus!' I say, and crawl across the floor towards the stereo.

'Heeeeelloooo, Marcus,'' says Spencer.

'h.e.l.lo,' mumbles Marcus, pushing his specs up his nose.

'Marcus's a lovely name, Marcus . . .'

This's my best mate Spencer, Marcus!' I say, slipping on all the S's.

'Just keep it down, will you?'

'Okay, Marcus, nice to meet you Marcus . . .' and, once he's closed the door '. . . bye, Marcus, you wwwww.a.n.ker . . .'

'Shhhhh! Spencer!'

But with the music off, it doesn't seem so much fun any more, so with some difficulty, and quite a lot of noise, we get the heavy iron bed-frame out from behind the wardrobe, and tip it over next to the futon. There's a brief debate as to who should sleep where, but Spencer gets the futon, because he's a guest after all, and I lie on the bare wire bed-frame, fully clothed, beneath a pile of coats and towels, with my head on an inch thick polyester pillow, feeling the floor buck and spin underneath me, and longing to be sober again.

'So how long you staying for, Spency?'

'Don't know. A couple of days maybe? Just till I can get my head sorted out? 'S that all right, mate?'

'Course's alright. Stay's long's you want. 'S what friends are for, isn't it?'

'Cheers, mate.'

'Cheers.'

After a while, I say, 'But you're all right, mate, aren't you?'

'Don't know, mate. Don't know. Not sure. How 'bout you?'

"M all right.'

And after a while, he says, 'Brian Jackson on flute!'

And I say, 'Brian Jackson on flute . . .'

And he says, 'And the crowd go wild . . .'

And then we fall asleep.

23O.

27.

QUESTION: How is the 'calumet', a central ceremonial object in Native American culture, more commonly known?

ANSWER The peace pipe.

At about four-thirty in the morning I throw up.