And then a Chinesey girl was sort of bowing in front of me, although it looked more like she was ducking projectiles being fired at her. She was taller than you’d expect, and did a lot of stooping as if she was ashamed of it. In her land she was probably a giant, and that was why she had come here, so she could look more normal. Funny that, how sometimes you have to go somewhere else to be more yourself.
She took me by the arm over to a row of sinks. I’d never had a haircut where they washed your hair first.
The Chinesey lady was actually pretty cool-looking, in a manga kind of way. She had on this sort of bandolier across her front with her scissors and combs in it, which gave her a martial-arts look, and the sound of her voice was like a bird chirping, and about as meaningful. Sometimes she’d say one of her chirruping things and then look at me as if I was supposed to answer, and so I’d say yes or no, or sometimes just laugh, and everyone seemed happy with the arrangement.
She may or may not have said that her name was Miko.
Once I’d got over the embarrassment and weirdness of having a girl person who wasn’t my mum messing about on top of my head, I began to quite like having my hair washed. I had to lie back, and there was a semicircle cut out of the sink for your neck to go in, and it all meant that I was looking up at Miko as she looked down at my hair. She was putting a lot of concentration into it, as if she had to work out exactly how much cleaning each individual hair needed. Jack was liking it too, and kept up a distracting commentary, along the lines of: THAT’S IT, BABY, SQUEEEEEEEZE, YEAH, ONE MORE TIME, SQUEEEEEEEEEEEZE.
And then Miko was toweling me, and moving me to another chair in front of a mirror, and I’m pretty sure she said, “What we do here?” sort of holding up two bits of hair like horns.
For about seven seconds I couldn’t think of anything to say. And then I saw the Hoxton man, and I pointed at him and said, “I want one of those,” and he stopped and pulled a little face and wiggled his hips. “A Hoxton Fin,” I declared loudly. Miko giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. All the other hair-dressers within earshot looked around, some with shocked expressions, some with wry amusement. Hoxton himself shimmied off.
Well, to cut (some kind of pun in there, but I can’t quite pull it out) a long story short, I was out of there two hours later with the sort of haircut you might see on a pop star or trendy hair-dresser but not, usually, on a nerdy kid.
I felt different.
I kept checking myself out in shop windows. I liked what I saw. And so did Jack.
COOL.
People don’t say “cool” anymore. It’s not cool.
GOD’S TEETH, YOU SPEAK SOME ERRANT SCUT. “COOL” HAS BECOME A CLASSIC WORD. IT CAN NEVER GO OUT OF FASHION. ANYWAY, YOU SAY “COOL” ALL THE TIME.
Well, the cool kids in my school don’t say “cool.” They say “hectic,” or “cushie,” or “boo.”
MERE EPHEMERA.
Mere what?
EPHEMERA. HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW. “BOO,” “CUSHIE,” “HECTIC,” SHALL PASS; THEY SHALL VANISH. THERE WILL COME A DAY WHEN NO LIVING PERSON CAN EVEN BEGIN TO RE-CREATE THE TIME WHEN SUCH WORDS HAD A MEANING. BUT COOL IS COOL IS COOL. WE LOOK COOL, AND THAT’S AN END TO IT. BUT OUR WORK HERE CONTINUES—HAIR MAKETH THE MAN, BUT CLOTHES GETTETH THE GIRL: WE MUST COMPLETETH THE IMAGE.
Free Market
Economics
So, we went shopping. And real shopping. Not to the discount shops or department stores but to what could only be described with a shiver of fear and trepidation as boutiques, the places where not so much the cool shopped, as the rich.
It wasn’t my choice: Jack was in charge.
I’d seen some of these places before as I mooched around town. I’d even been into a couple of them at sale time, looking for a T-shirt or a pair of socks. But I’d never lingered long. I didn’t know how to behave in them, how to move, what to do with my face. And I’m not saying that the sales assistants actually sneered at me, but, well, if they didn’t it was because their expressions were set permanently in a state of bored condescension. Let’s say at least that they knew I wasn’t about to flourish my gold Amex card and start buying racks of silk-and-cashmere suits, and so they didn’t spend a lot of time helping me out. Which was good, because that would have set me off sweating and panicking, like a scared bunny about to be squashed by a truck.
Well, I don’t know if it was the new haircut or having Jack on board to steer me, but today I just seemed to glide through the fashionable boutiques as if I’d been doing it all my life. I knew where to go and what to get, and I tried on things and experienced a Zenlike calm.
In fact, there was unquestionably a weirdness about the whole thing, a dreamy quality. I couldn’t feel my legs moving, or the coldness of the air, but I was definitely going from shop to shop.
And then suddenly I was myself again.
RUN, YOU BOZO, RUN!
What?
Panic. Heartbeat like a bongo drum.
RUN!
And I looked down, and saw that my arms were full of trousers, shirts, tops, and there were new Pumas on my feet. And then I was running, running like I’d never run before. And running was something I was good at, from all the practice. Yeah, I could run all right.
And curse.
What the bollocking pissing arsing hell have you done?
HEY, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING. I’M JUST A PASSENGER HERE.
If Jack had had shoulders, he’d have shrugged them.
You’ve stolen these clothes. We’re a shoplifter.
WE JUST LIBERATED THEM.
You bastard. You’ve turned me into a thief. I’m taking them back.
BACK TO THE SHOPS?
Yes.
But I was still running.
AND WHAT WILL YOU SAY?
I’ll say it was a mistake.
WHAT, YOU GRABBED A LOAD OF STYLISH CLOTHES FROM THE MOST EXPENSIVE SHOP IN TOWN BY ACCIDENT?
I’ll say it was you.
YOU’LL SAY YOUR TUMOR STOLE THEM?
I’ll say you made me do it.
SO, YOU’D RATHER GO TO THE LOONY BIN THAN THE YOUNG-OFFENDERS UNIT? TOUCH AND GO, IF YOU ASK ME. IS IT BETTER TO BE KNIFED BY A JABBERING PSYCHOTIC WHO THINKS THE TELETUBBIES ARE SENDING HIM MESSAGES TO KILL, KILL, KILL, OR HUMPED IN THE SHOWER BY A TWO-HUNDRED-KILO FOOTBALL HOOLIGAN WITH SWASTIKAS TATTOOED ON HIS SCHLONG?
They won’t send me anywhere. I’m sick.
YOU SAID IT.
I hate you. I hate thieves. They . . . they . . . steal things.
I was still running. People were staring at me as I flashed by, but I was gone before what had happened registered. I didn’t know if anyone was behind me, chasing me, and I wasn’t stopping to look.
THAT’S A TAUTOLOGY, AND BENEATH YOU. LISTEN, THESE WERE FANCY SHOPS WITH BIG PROFITS. THE BENEFIT TO YOU FROM THIS IS MASSIVE. WE GET TO LOOK GOOD. WE GET TO SCORE. WE FIND IMMORTALITY THROUGH THE JOYS OF REPRODUCTION. ALL THE SHOP LOSES IS A FEW QUIDS’ WORTH OF GEAR THAT THEIR INSURANCE COVERS ANYWAY. YOU’RE MAKING THE WORLD A HAPPIER PLACE. YOU KNOW IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO. THE MORAL THING.
I don’t care what the effect is, I just don’t want to be a thief. It’s not about what happens in the world, it’s about what I think of myself.
THINKING? YOU’RE NOT THINKING. YOU’RE REASONING WITHOUT REASONS, AND THAT’S JUST ANOTHER WORD FOR PREJUDICE. WHAT YOU HAVE IS A SLAVE MORALITY, AND THAT’S NOT THE ONE FOR US. WE’VE MOVED BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL, INTO THE REALM OF THE ÜBERMENSCH. ANYWAY, IT’S TOO LATE. OH, AND WE’RE SAFE NOW. YOU CAN STOP RUNNING.
I looked around me. I was in an alleyway near the bus station. There were trash bins and filth and me and my stolen clothes.
I SUGGEST YOU CHANGE.
What, here?
YES, HERE. THEN DUMP YOUR OLD RAGS.
It made sense. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous with my piles of designer clothes, labels flapping in the breeze. So there and then in the dingy alleyway I changed myself and threw what I’d been wearing into one of the bi
g wheelie bins and put all the spare new stuff in my rucksack.
When I came out blinking into the cold light I felt as though more than my clothes had changed. I was wearing a black top and a black jacket and black jeans. And, what with my hair, I looked like a mini version of the Hoxton guy in the hair-dresser’s. I felt sick, but also excited. And sordid. I’d never stolen anything before in my life.
Until the bus actually got going I was convinced that a posse of store detectives and armed police would come galloping up to cart me off to jail. Of course, no posse came, and nor were we stopped by a frantically nee-nawing pursuit car, or strafed by the RAF.
In fact, nothing happened. I got a funny look from the bus driver, but then you expect that.
NOt StinkIng
I was desperate to get home before Mum so she didn’t think I’d been up to no good. No good like the Genghis Khan–scale pillaging I’d been doing. She usually got back at five, and I made it by four-thirty. I rushed straight upstairs and looked in the mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet.
What had I done?
YOU LOOK LIKE A PRINCE.
Who wants to look like a prince?
A FIGURE OF SPEECH.
I look like a moron.
THE GIRLS’LL LOVE IT.
I’m going to be a laughingstock, a figure of fun. And that’s the good part.
AND THE BAD PART?
I’m going to get punched to the ground and then stamped on, and then spat at. And that’s going to be my life until my hair grows normal again. You don’t understand. Hair is a battleground at our school. Like the Somme. It’s a great way to get yourself slaughtered.
I’VE TOLD YOU—YOUR DAYS OF GETTING SLAUGHTERED ARE BEHIND YOU. FROM NOW ON IT’S ALL CHAMPAGNE AND ROSES.
But—
ENOUGH! NOW, UNLESS I’M MISTAKEN, THE DELECTABLE MISS UPSHAW WORKS AT HER FATHER’S FISH AND CHIP SHOP ON PRESTON STREET AFTER SCHOOL.
Yeah, I think she does . . . Why? What are you thinking?
THAT WE SHOULD GO A-COURTING.
No way. You are simply out of your mind, and I wish you were out of mine. I can’t believe you want me to go and chat her up. Smurf! I won’t. I can’t. I don’t know how.
LET ME TAKE CARE OF THAT. IT’S WHAT I DO.
What’s what you do?
REPRODUCTION. IT’S MY MIDDLE NAME.
Okay then, Jack Reproduction Tumor, just how do you think she’s going to feel about me turning up while she’s battering the haddock . . . ?
THAT’S ONE WAY TO PUT IT.
Stop, for Christ’s sake. Look, working in a chip shop isn’t exactly the coolest job in the world, and she isn’t going to be best pleased when I turn up to see her in her shame. I thought you were supposed to be a brain tumor, as in intelligent.
I QUITE TAKE YOUR POINT, said Jack in a prim and precise voice, THAT, IN GENERAL, TO BE OBSERVED IN A MOMENT OF EMBARRASSMENT BREEDS HATRED FOR THE OBSERVER IN THE OBSERVED, BUT I THINK YOU ARE UNDERESTIMATING THE RESILIENCE OF UMA’S EGO. SHE IS NOT SOME FRAGILE GIRL WHOSE SELF-RESPECT CRUMBLES AT THE FIRST CHALLENGE. SHE’S MADE OF STERNER STUFF, UMA UPSHAW. BLOOD AND IRON.
I’ll bow to your greater knowledge, I retorted sarcastically, but I had to admit, for internal consumption only, that Jack really did seem to have greater knowledge when it came to girls. And blood and iron.
Anyway, I replied feebly, I probably stink.
As I’ve said, my concerns with not stinking had led me to rebel against Mum’s policy on hair washing, but I still worried quite a lot about stinking, although I knew it was irrational, as I had a bath every other day, which made me a bit of a hygiene freak at my school.
EASILY FIXED. LOOK IN THE CABINET.
Mechanically, I opened the mirrored door to the bathroom cabinet. It was full of the usual things: ancient toothbrushes, their bristles splayed like a chorus line doing the splits; various tubs of potions employed by Mum for some unfathomable lady-purpose; the Bic razor that Mum used guiltily to shave her legs, thereby cruelly betraying the whole feminist movement. And, dusty with age and neglect, two bottles.
One was a white bottle of Old Spice aftershave with a picture of a sailing ship. It had been there since we moved into the house. Sometimes, if there was a bad smell in the bathroom, I sprinkled it around the toilet, to help freshen things up a bit. It definitely smelled better than poo.
SPLASH IT ON.
But I don’t shave.
DOESN’T MATTER, JUST POUR SOME OUT ONTO YOUR HANDS AND HIT YOURSELF.
I did so.
I don’t know if the Old Spice was supposed to smell this bad, or if it had been in the cabinet so long it had gone off, but either way I felt as if I’d walked into a cloud of ammonia. My eyes began to water and I went briefly deaf.
PHEW, BIG MISTAKE.
What? It was your idea.
EVERY GREAT ENTERPRISE HAS ITS REVERSALS. READ ANY EPIC POEM: THERE’S ALWAYS THE SECTION WHERE THE HERO HAS TO GO BACKWARDS BEFORE HE CAN GO FORWARDS. IT’S HOW YOU DEAL WITH THEM THAT COUNTS. ALL WE HAVE TO DO IS TO BLOCK THIS OUT, SOMEHOW. TRY THE OTHER BOTTLE.
The other bottle was perfume, given to Mum years before by someone who couldn’t have known what she was like. She didn’t use products that might have been tested on animals, although putting perfume on a rabbit and sending it out to a nightclub in a slinky dress to see if it scores doesn’t seem too cruel to me. Only kidding. I know they pour it in their eyes. When I was little, Mum used to make me say prayers for them. It was called Tramp—the perfume, I mean, not the rabbit, although now I think about it, Tramp would be quite a good name for a rabbit.
But it’s for girls.
YES, BUT THE OTHER BOTTLE WAS FOR BOYS. THE TWO SMELLS WILL EXACTLY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT. IT’S BASIC SCIENCE—I THOUGHT THAT WAS YOUR FIELD.
It is, but . . .
Well, I wasn’t thinking too clearly, you know, brain tumor, etc., etc., and that was why I opened the top and dabbed a helping of the perfume on my face in the hope it would counteract the cold pissy smell of the aftershave.
It didn’t work.
THAT’S BETTER.
“Are you mad?” I yelled, out loud this time, choking and gagging. It was horrible. I’d learned that Old Spice + Tramp = Old Tramp.
CALM DOWN, CALM DOWN. I’M SORRY, BUT I HAVEN’T QUITE GOT A GRIP ON YOUR OLFACTORY AREA YET, SO I ACCEPT THAT MAYBE SMELL ISN’T MY STRONG POINT. BUT IT’S NOT THAT BAD. IT CAN’T BE. AND IT’S PROBABLY BETTER THAN YOU SMELLED BEFORE. ANYWAY, IF I’M NOT MISTAKEN, THAT’S MUM COMING IN, WHICH I SAY MEANS IT’S TIME TO GET YOUR ARSE IN GEAR.
I quickly tried to wipe off the Old Tramp with a sponge. It seemed to help. I smeared some extra gel in my hair, trying to bring my Hoxton Fin into a state of perfection, and then I had a last check to make sure there weren’t any booger stalactites working their way out of my nose, or any obvious food deposits in my teeth, and down I went.
Clytemnestra
and Other Heroines
Mum was in the kitchen. She’d been to Sainsbury’s, and the grocery bags were on the table, but she wasn’t doing anything with them.
“Help you unpack, Mum?” I asked.
She turned slowly to face me. She looked about a hundred years older than usual.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, that would be nice.”
“And I’ll make you some mint tea.”
“Tea. Yes.”
She hadn’t noticed my hair.
Or the stench.
As I was putting things away (and it was odd, because Mum had bought things that we never had but I’d always wanted— things like Pop-Tarts and Coco Pops and Pot Noodles; the good stuff where they actually go to the effort of jazzing them up with nice colors and chemicals to stop them going off, unlike the things that Mum usually buys, where they can’t be bothered putting any extra stuff in at all, the cheapskates), I heard a noise and I looked at Mum and saw that she was crying, which was hardly unusual, but this seemed like a different sort of crying. I gave her a hug. She just
sat there and didn’t hug back with her arms, but I felt her fingers grip me and her nails dig in.
“It’s all right, Mum,” I said, although I don’t know what I was reassuring her about.
Me, I suppose.
Me and my head.
Her fingers were hurting me, so I pulled away as gently as I could, and I went and put the kettle on and got the mint tea bags from the cupboard, and while I was doing that Mum started talking.
“There are some things I need to tell you,” she said.
From the sound of it she didn’t mean a new type of organic shoe polish she’d discovered that actually made your shoes less shiny whilst simultaneously helping out with the world’s global warming problem.
HURRY HER UP, CAN’T YOU? WE’VE WORK TO DO. IMPORTANT WORK. THE WORK OF LIFE.
I ignored him, but I could feel a little surge of impatience, which was Jack doing his thing to my brain chemicals.
“Okay, Mum.”
“You know for a long time I haven’t been myself.”
I moved my head in a sort of noncommittal way, so it didn’t look like I was agreeing that she was crazy as a loon. And the truth was that she’d never been herself, as far as I was concerned. At least not if herself was someone different to the person I’d always known. Unless . . . perhaps if I thought back really hard, there might have been a time when she was, I don’t know, more together. A bit. I had a half-memory of a trip to a park, and I was sitting on a big stone lion, and she was tickling me, and whenever I laughed so much that I slipped off she caught me and put me back and began tickling me again, and I was laughing so much I thought I would wet myself, but I don’t think I did. She seemed more normal then.
But memory is deceptive, and I don’t even know if the lion was real. Well, I know it wasn’t a real lion, of the eating-you variety, but I mean a real stone lion, and not an imagined stone lion.
“Well, there’s a reason for that,” she continued. “It goes back a long time, back to when I was at the peace camp . . .”