In Pieces (6 page)

They slouched side by side on the faded sofa having cleared a space among the debris of Si's life. Beer cans stood on the low table before them, reflecting in the glass top. A few fraying shirts hung off the back of the chairs caught in limbo between the washing and ironing which Si had promised himself he would do yesterday; somehow there never seemed to be time for such household chores. On her bimonthly visits, his mother chided him to do better: ‘Get a cleaner, Simon, if you don't have time to do it yourself.' Si normally nodded in acquiescence but then failed to do anything about it. Anyway, he liked his flat: it was, as he liked to describe it, ‘lived in'. And it was very much an extension of his personality, from the framed prints on the wall to the books piled up in the corners having overflowed the packed shelves, and to the CD collection spilling out all over the rush matting on the floor; each object was associated with an event or period in Si's life.

‘That's just ridiculous,' Si moaned, pointing at the TV accusingly.

‘What is?' Jimmy sounded apprehensive, probably fearing that he was about to be taken to task again for sleeping with Brenda.

‘Didn't you notice? Most of the Top Ten are bands we first saw fifteen years ago when we were kids.'

Jimmy lightened up. Si had let him off the hook. ‘Yeah, I guess so. But what's wrong with that, eh? They're good songs.'

‘What's wrong? What's wrong? It's the death of western civilisation, mate, that's what's wrong. Pass us another can, will you? Cheers.' Si unlatched the ring pull and sucked hard on his lager.

Top Of The Pops
was playing out with this week's number one. A Bee Gees cover sung by four lads who looked like their mothers were backstage handling their wardrobes and haircuts.

‘Pathetic,' moaned Si. ‘Punk might as well never have happened.' He was in a boisterous mood and enjoying his self-appointed role as arbiter of modern British culture. There was scope for some light-hearted Diary pieces somewhere in all this.

‘I don't see what the big deal is. I like Gary Numan and the Beatles are the greatest thing ever. You told me that yourself once.' Jimmy wasn't about to give way in an argument about pop music.

‘Did I? It must have been when I was a kid. Tastes change, you know.'

‘Actually it was about ten years ago,' conceded Jimmy. They looked at each other and cracked up laughing.

‘I suppose some of them are pretty good,' agreed Si grudgingly. ‘I liked that neo-punk band that was just on. The one where the singer looked like that girl who sang
Happy Birthday
years ago. D'you remember her? Clare someone, that's right… Clare…' He sifted the dregs of his memory for the surname but in vain. ‘She was from Scotland,' he offered lamely.

‘Yeah, they were good. Didn't last long, though.'

‘Never do. I think that was their only hit. I remember someone gave me it for my sixteenth birthday. It was really big then.'

‘But I see what you mean,' said Jimmy, looking unusually thoughtful. ‘There's not a lot new about. Kind of depressing, really.'

‘That's my point. All this rehashing of old anthems, styles and so forth. Nothing new. I mean pop music is dead really. There's only dance and then all this retro stuff. And look at the kids today…'

‘Yeah,' nodded Jimmy.

Warming to his theme, Si went on: ‘They all look daft wearing those baggy flares, trainers and seventies haircuts. Grunge… I mean, some of the music's okay. I like that band Nirvana. Kurt Cobain. Really cool, he is.'

‘Didn't he top himself?'

‘Oh yeah, he did. So that wasn't one of the coolest things to do, but the music's okay.'

‘Kind of modern Jimmy Hendrix.'

Si looked doubtful. ‘Maybe, kind of… Anyway, I saw my cousin the other day; he's seventeen. Nice kid, Paul, but totally brain-dead like the rest of his generation. They think they're the first to ever
hear of these bands… As if history began in 1992. Know what I mean? And what's more, they're so serious. Really depressing talking to Paul. He wants to be an accountant. Can you believe it? Seventeen and wants to be an accountant. We may as well top ourselves now. The world's going to be a pretty boring place in ten years time if everybody's holding down serious jobs and the height of their aspirations is being an accountant. When I was seventeen…'

‘Yeah?' challenged Jimmy.

‘When I was seventeen I wanted to be a rock star.'

‘Really?' Jimmy sounded interested. He thought he knew most things about Si but he'd never known about this teenage ambition. Despite himself, Jimmy felt irritated. He tried not to show it. ‘Like Kurt Cobain?'

‘Well, sort of.'

‘Fat lot of good that did him.'

‘Well, or a writer. But not an accountant.'

‘You're beginning to sound a right old codger, you are. Moaning about the younger generation. All you need is your pipe and slippers. You're not one to talk anyway, are you? Look at you, twenty-eight and a respectable journalist. That's pretty serious.'

‘No, it isn't. Journalism's a totally different kettle of fish. Far more adventurous and individual. And in a way I'm a writer like I always wanted to be. It's creative too. Not like accountancy. And I'm far from respectable. You should have heard what someone said about me the other day.'

‘Right.' Jimmy scoffed and Si could understand why. He hadn't even convinced himself. Perhaps today's kids had just realised earlier than his generation that life no longer offered anybody an easy ride. Nothing could be taken for granted anymore. Perhaps they were just more on the ball than he had ever been and his grumbling was a pathetic attempt to express envy? Si pushed this thought to one side.

‘When I was seventeen I wanted to be a professional soccer player. And there I am. Well, I reckon being a soccer player is pretty creative.'

‘Could be,' agreed Si.

‘I mean, when I went round that Bury defender the other day and lobbed the keeper the write-up in
The Sun
described it as poetry in motion.'

‘Yeah, it was pretty good,' said Si supportively, although he'd not seen the goal and
The Sun
had devoted less than fifty words to the match. He wanted to build up Jimmy's confidence. Somehow, although his friend was a talented striker, he'd been overlooked by all the top rank teams. Now, at twenty-seven, Jimmy's time was running out.

It had not escaped Si that as Jimmy's career seemed to have plateaued and, barring miracles, was unlikely to progress much further, his own star was rising quickly. Si felt sorry for his friend and slightly embarrassed by the good luck he had experienced recently. If only Jimmy could get the break he deserved. After all, this season he'd averaged a goal a match and was top scorer in the Second
Division, but as far as anybody at Millwall football club knew, no First Division or Premiership clubs had expressed any interest in signing him. Although
The Sun
described him as a poet of the feet today, in five years time Jimmy would be nowhere. If he was lucky, he'd be looking to open a pub somewhere, cashing in on past glories and resigning himself to maudlin stories of what could have been. The thought was sobering.

‘If I score a few more like that, maybe I should publish a video of my greatest goals and call it
Jimmy Sweeny's Poetry Collection
.'

‘
Anthology
. Sounds better. More intellectual.
Doctor Jimmy's Poetry Anthology
. Or better still, how about
The Collected Poems of James Sweeny
?'

‘Yeah, great,' grinned Jimmy. ‘That's great. But it'd have to be Jimmy. Not James. Nobody, not even my mum, calls me James.'

They smiled foolishly at each other, united by a bond of friendship that spanned more than two decades. But in their hearts both knew that nobody but the keenest Millwall fan would buy the video and, rather like Jimmy himself, it would end up on the Woolworth's remaindered shelf, undesired, unsold. Even if Jimmy was the top scorer in the Second Division. These days only the Premiership clubs and their players mattered to the public. And, for the moment, Si seemed to have as much chance of signing for one of them as Jimmy.

~

Si shuffled the morning papers. Mad cow this and mad cow that. Had the world gone crazy? A few spongy brain cells and the bottom had dropped out of the beef market.

‘Government Beefing About Mad Cow Ban' trumpeted one tabloid. The picture beneath it showed the Agriculture Minister wearing a pair of bull's horns. Even the broadsheets had been infected by the hysteria. Si chucked the pile of newspapers under his desk in disgust.

‘Write about anything but bloody cows,' Dougy had instructed him last week when panic first swept through the newsprint. It had been like a wave of sewage pushing all before it. Even serious editors had been covered in the effluence.

Thank God he worked on the Diary. Otherwise he too would have been out pestering politicians about whether they would feed their families beef from now on. The level to which journalism could sink was distressing. Pandering to public fears rather than doing the real job.

When Bill came in, half an hour later than usual because of another suicide on the Northern Line, Si tried this argument out on him.

Bill just grunted. ‘Serves them all right for eating meat in the first place. Personally I don't give a toss. I'm a vegetarian.'

‘Oh.' That took the wind out of Si's outraged sails. He noticed for the first time a definite resemblance between Bill and his cousin Paul. Clearly a generational thing. Luckily, I'm more broadminded, he comforted himself. And, for the time being, his generation ruled over the upwardly thrusting accountant-brains fresh out of college. ‘How about a coffee, Bill?'

‘Yeah, sure.' And taking his cue, Bill drifted off towards the coffee machine.

Si wondered what he could write about. Something unconnected to bovine diseases. Each day was the same. A pile of faxes from self-publicists, most of which were unusable, a few half-baked stories left over from yesterday and a large empty space to fill—approximately fifteen hundred words worth of white space—in tomorrow's paper.

‘Shit, I don't know why I do this,' he groaned. This was always the hardest part of the day. It was when he felt the full weight of responsibility upon his shoulders and sometimes, if he was honest with himself, it failed to excite him.

He shuffled through yesterday's scraps. Bill had started a story about Madonna in Argentina. Improbably she was cast as Evita in Lloyd Webber's film of his musical. But although this sounded promising material, Bill hadn't found an angle to bring the story to life. Si put it to one side. Perhaps he'd have another look at it himself later on. Then there was a half-hearted attempt to lampoon the Russian Ambassador, who had been blatantly pursuing an opera singer performing at Covent Garden. This had looked a dead cert until Si had phoned the Russian Embassy for a comment.

‘His Excellency is not well today and we have nothing to say,' stonewalled a nameless attaché.

Si scented blood. ‘Could you say what is wrong with the Ambassador? Is he perhaps love sick?'

‘I think your question is impertinent. His Excellency is in hospital since three days. He will be operated.'

‘What type of operation?' pushed Si, hoping that it was something ambiguous. A vasectomy was too much to hope for, but perhaps something to do with the heart?

‘I can say no more. His Excellency is very unwell. Now if you please I have work to do… Thank you, good-bye.'

Si wondered what to do. If the Ambassador was really ill, perhaps with cancer or even mad cow disease, it would be in bad taste to print the story. Even so, the idea of a great-chested diva mopping the convalescing diplomat's brow would be a winner.

He decided to wait until he could find out what was wrong with the Russian. Better safe than sorry. So far he'd avoided a bollocking from Dougy, but the editor's tantrums were legendary. Si didn't want to be on the receiving end because of some poxy Russian envoy infatuated with an obese, singing tart. The easiest way would be to phone the hospital and pretend to be a relative. Yesterday in the rush to finish the Diary there hadn't been time, but there would be later. Not that the idea of deception filled him with great joy; it was one of the necessary, seedier sides of his job. Si put the story to one side for later. At least that was one piece that would probably make it into tomorrow's paper. Two hundred words down… Only thirteen hundred to go.

Si had one other story which he was determined to use. His first religious piece since Dougy had given him those instructions.

A passing comment of Roberta's had inspired him to take an interest in the Moslem convert Cat Stevens. Roberta claimed that the singer was just one of thousands of people who had switched to Islam in the UK each year. Si found this hard to believe, but Roberta cited the authority of her father; Si realised he should not laugh this off too lightly for fear of offending his lover. She was too good to lose so easily. He accepted her assertion, but then went off to dig around.

Si found that there were a number of Islamic preachers based in London spreading propaganda via certain Arabic newspapers. They described London and Western society generally as fragmented, soulless and godforsaken. Inhabited by sodomites, whores and devils of all kinds. But among these lost peoples the light of Truth was shining, and each day the number of conversions was miraculous. Allah's mercy was manifest regularly.

Si rang up the Grand Mufti and asked him what he thought about these preachers and their claims. The Mufti told him that all the people of The Book were really members of the same faith and that Muslims, Christians and Jews could live harmoniously together. ‘All will be revealed in the fullness of time to the true believers,' he intoned softly and declined to expand further.