How to Be Bad (2 page)

A
T MIDDAY,
I closed for lunch, got onto my bike, and pedaled into Barnes. The sun was shining on all the nice clean middle-class people. Say what you like about the middle classes, but they'll never take a dump on your front lawn. At Barnes Pond, I leaned my bike against a bench and sat down. I found a pack of chewing gum in my pocket and rammed three pieces into my mouth, trying to calm my nerves. I tried to tell myself that the police officer was right, that I shouldn't let a lunatic book-burner ruin my day. As I was sitting, chewing, and sulking, I noticed the boys.

There were five of them, four of them about fourteen and one at least a year younger. The older four were all ganging up on the younger kid, who looked like Elvis in a shabby school uniform. Little Elvis was blushing in embarrassment, while the leader of his attackers, a fat kid with the thin mouth, tiny eyes, high cheekbones, and jutting jaw of an SS torturer, gripped him by the throat and uttered threats.

Hitler Youth gave Elvis a shove, causing a pile of coins to tumble out of his victim's pockets. The other kids stooped to retrieve the money, and in the confusion Elvis broke free and started to run. But physical fitness wasn't exactly Elvis's thing—if it had been, perhaps no one would have bullied him in the first place. Elvis had barely reached the curb before Hitler Youth headed him off. Then all four boys escorted Elvis back toward the trees. They passed right by me. There was a resigned look on Elvis's face. The poor little fucker knew he was in for a kicking. I guessed it wasn't the first time. But it was the first time it had happened while I was around.

I can't abide bullies. I left my bike where it was and ran over to them. Little Elvis was lying on the ground with Hitler Youth squatting on his chest, slapping his victim's face with horrible relish. The other kids were just standing around, enjoying the spectacle.

“Get off him,” I commanded.

Hitler Youth looked up, his left hand gripping his victim's collar, right hand hovering above his tear-stained face. It was a blank look, devoid of thought or curiosity.

“I said get off him.”

Dismissing me as a hallucination, Hitler Youth turned back to Elvis and gave him another slap. I grabbed hold of his arm and hauled him off so violently that he rolled backward and hit his head on the concrete path. “Now go,” I demanded. “And if you ever lay one finger on him again, you'll answer to me.”

Hitler Youth and his friends slouched off, waiting until they were a hundred yards away before shouting, “Fuck off, Lulu.” (I have no idea why they were calling me Lulu.)

I helped Elvis to his feet and dusted him down. There was a red mark under his right eye where Hitler Youth had slapped him. Elvis seemed pathetically grateful for my intervention, acting as if tackling a bunch of fourteen-year-olds required exceptional courage. I was so touched that I gave him a fiver and wheeled my bike alongside him for a few minutes until I was satisfied he was safe.

*   *   *

F
EELING VIRTUOUS,
I cycled back beside the pond. There were about a dozen pigeons on the path ahead. I was pedaling along at a fine rate and didn't bother to slow down when I saw them, certain that even birds as stupid as pigeons would fly away on my approach. But one bird, evidently a pigeon with severe learning difficulties, stayed right where it was. I felt a nauseating bump as both the wheels of my bike plowed over it.

I didn't want to stop, but nor did I want to leave the stupid bird in pain. So I braked, laid down my bike, and walked back to the scene of the accident. The pigeon was lying flat on its belly, right in the center of the path. Its wings were outstretched, its head to one side. I could see immediately that it was dead. My eyes were drawn to a flash of color about eight inches to the right of the body. It was a blob of bright, fresh blood. Eight inches farther on lay another vivid little spatter. And to the right of that, still beating, lay the pigeon's heart.

I jumped back in revulsion. My amazing powers of deduction told me that the weight of my bike had burst open the bird's breast, sending its heart skimming over the concrete path like a bluey-pink stone.

A couple of middle-aged women came up behind me. Seeing that I was shocked, they commiserated with me. “Pigeons are vermin, dear,” one informed me helpfully. “Dirty, dirty things. I wouldn't worry about it.”

I was unconsoled. A pleasant cycle ride had turned into a real-life urban myth. “The Legend of the Heartless Pigeon.”

The two ladies headed for the snotty shops, and I was about to remount my bike when I heard the pounding of feet. A small, wide guy of about forty with tattoos all over his face and neck ran up to me. He gripped the handlebars of my bike with both hands. His head looked like a potato with jutting ears. His teeth were little more than knarled green stumps, making it look as if he had a mouth full of pistachio nuts. His wrists were as thick as thighs. “Ya fingy faggin har, yeh?” he said. I could smell beer on his breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yoo erd ya cant. I sez yer fingy faggin har? Yer bigugly cant, wod ar ya?”

“Sorry?”

I had no idea why he was addressing me or what he was saying, but I was pretty sure he wasn't inquiring after my health. Then I glanced to my left and saw Hitler Youth standing there, grinning. I felt my guts churn. “Dis der twad, our Darren?” said the guy with the tattoos to Hitler Youth. “Dis da cant wod ad ya? Yeah?”

Darren nodded grimly.

The man with the tattoos hurled my bike to the ground. He didn't need to do that. Breathing on it would have been enough.

“If that bike's damaged, you'll have to pay for the repairs,” I warned him sternly.

“Repair mah cantin ring. Yer lige hiddin liddle cants, wod yer lige with someone a bit fackin denner, yer gaylor?”

“Excuse me?”

“Scuse yer twat, ya VD scab.”

“I really don't understand what you're saying to me.”

“Oh. Yewa fig baster? Iddaddit?”

“I think you should hear what happened,” I began. “Your son was picking on another kid. All I did was drag him off.”

“No one cobs mah sunny bud me. Laid nuvver fing on im I'll splay ya awl ova da fackin grarn.”

“I can't make out what you're saying,” I said.

“Der grarn!” he yelled.

“I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't speak working class.”

I don't know why I was surprised when the man with the tattoos punched me in the forehead and I fell over. It had never occurred to me that the forehead was a sensitive area, but the blow hurt like hell, so I decided to remain horizontal for a few moments until I felt better. Someone touched my face and, thinking it was the illustrated scumbag, I told him to fuck off and die.

“Now, there's no need for that. I'm only trying to help.”

I opened my eyes. A female paramedic was leaning over me.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What's your name, love?”

I told her.

“My name's Sue,” she said, “and this is Geoff.”

I was vaguely aware of a male colleague standing behind her, looking bored.

“Mark, I'm not being funny,” said Sue, “but you can't stay here.”

“I only just this minute lay down.”

“No,” she said. “You've been here for at least half an hour. That's why we're going to take you for a nice little ride in an ambulance.”

“No need to be patronizing,” I said. “And I don't need an ambulance. There's nothing wrong with me.”

“Mark,” explained Sue patiently, “you're lying flat on your back in a public place with a lump the size of a grapefruit on your head.”

*   *   *

T
HERE WAS
an enormous queue at the hospital. Everywhere you looked there were ill bastards. After showing such initial concern, the paramedics just dumped me on a chair in a corridor and left. While I was waiting, a police officer turned up to question me. One of the paramedics had phoned in to say I'd been assaulted. To our mutual dismay, I was attended by the same twelve-year-old constable who'd visited my shop that morning. Obviously thinking he had wasted enough time on me for one day, the rude bastard sighed again as he took out his notebook. “So this man who attacked you. Did he look like Jesus as well?”

“No. This one looked like a tattooed Martian.”

The police officer gave me a long, quizzical stare. “Mark, I'm going to ask you a question. I don't mean anything by this, but I've got to be sure.”

“Fire away.”

“You wouldn't be inventing these attackers of yours, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Only I wouldn't be cross with you if you were. In fact, I could put you in touch with some trained counselors who might be able to help you.”

“I am not a fucking nutcase!”

“On the other hand, I must warn you that wasting police time is a very serious matter.”

“What about the police wasting my time? I haven't invented anything. I've had a terrible day. The Son of Man came down from heaven to insult me. A nasty tattooed cunt hit me in the face and stole my fucking bike. I suppose that's not a crime, either?”

The constable nodded and stared at the wall for a while. I assumed he was just humoring me, but when he looked at me again there was a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “This man with the tattoos? When he spoke, did it sound as if he was talking a foreign language?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn't happen to have his son with him, did he, sir?”

“Yeah! That's it. A horrible fat little Nazi.”

“Ah.” With an air of hopelessness, the constable closed his notebook. “OK. The man who hit you is called Nigel Barker. Known locally as Wuffer. He's already well known to us, unfortunately.”

“Well known as what? Someone else you do fuck-all about?”

“Mr. Madden, if you want to make a complaint about Mr. Wuffer—I mean, Mr. Barker—that's fine with me. But the fact is, people like that aren't like you and me, are they? They can't be reasoned with. It's not just the father. The whole family is competely out of control. You could make a complaint, but what good would it do? These people are the lowest of the low.”

“So do you ever do anything about anything?” I said.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is this how you spend your days? Every time someone makes a complaint, you try to persuade them there's not really any point?”

The young police officer looked affronted. “I never said anything of the kind, sir. All I was trying to suggest was that there's no real harm done. And the fact is, a person like Mr. Barker simply will not learn, no matter how many times we fine him or send him to prison.”

“So you wouldn't advise me to press charges.”

He cleared his throat. “That's up to you.”

“I suppose no real harm's done,” I said wearily. “I've still got my arms and legs.”

Then he smiled. “Exactly. That's exactly the way I look at it.”

When the police officer had gone, I went to the coffee machine and bought myself a cup of steaming brown water. When I got back, a young woman with her wrist in plaster walked up the corridor looking for an empty seat. I watched her approach from a distance, saw the heads turning to stare after her. As she passed by, her loveliness hit me full in the face like the heat from an oven.

The only empty chair was next to mine. She sat down without so much as a glance at me, took a book out of her bag, and began to read. She had pale skin and razored pale hair and an aura of casual insolence. Her name was Caro Sewell, and when I was eighteen years old she broke my heart.

Caro was frowning at the paperback in her lap as if it had just said something stupid. It was some kind of self-help book, so it probably had. She must have known she was being stared at, but she didn't look up. I cleared my throat and spoke to her. “Caro?”

She turned to glance at me, then did a double take and almost smiled. “Oh, it's you,” she said. The way she said it, you'd have thought she hardly knew me. You'd have thought we had never cried together at parties or taken drugs or lain in a field next to a railway embankment, fucking joyfully as the trains went by. Caro raised the level of her gaze, and I realized she had noticed the bump on my forehead.

“It's just a bruise,” I explained quickly.

Caro nodded tersely, and I guessed she didn't want to ask how I'd got it in case I questioned her about her injury. I wasn't that interested, really. It sounds shit when you say it, but I'll say it anyway. At that moment, I was only interested in her face. She was twenty-three, the same age as me. Still young but old enough to start counting the fucking birthdays.

I hate those supermarket philosophers who tell you what a great healer time is. Time is a mere anesthetist. The years numb the pain, but the wound remains. I may no longer have ached for Caro, but nor had I forgotten everything she meant and took away. She had been an exceptionally pretty schoolgirl. She had turned into a startlingly beautiful woman. Just looking at her turned my mouth dry.

“I thought you were at uni,” she said. “Weren't you doing English or something?”

“English lit. I left after the second year. I had to. They were putting me off reading.”

“What do you do now?”

“I own a top retail outlet in Sheen.”

“You mean you work in a shop?”

Ouch.

“It's a bookshop. Mark Madden Books. You can't miss it. My name's above the door in bloody big letters!”

She half-nodded. “I think I've passed it. I didn't think it could be the same Mark Madden. I pictured some fat middle-aged man in a cardigan. Your very own shop. How did you get the money together for that?”

“Um, my dad helped me out. I'm going to pay him back, though.”

A nurse appeared and called out my name.

I got up and started to mumble a miserable farewell.