首发偶发空缺 (临时空缺)-第29部分

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‘Fucking　hell；’　said　Fats；　when　he　had　clambered　inside。　He　was　spider…like　in　his　awkwardness；　with　his　long　limbs；　his　skinniness　emphasized　by　the　black　suit。

Andrew　handed　him　a　cigarette。　Fats　always　lit　up　as　though　he　were　in　a　high　wind；　one　hand　cupped　around　the　flame　to　shield　it；　scowling　slightly。　He　inhaled；　blew　a　smoke　ring　out　of　the　Cubby　Hole　and　loosened　the　dark　grey　tie　around　his　neck。　He　appeared　older　and　not；　after　all；　so　very　foolish　in　the　suit；　which　bore　traces　of　earth　on　the　knees　and　cuffs　from　the　journey　to　the　cave。

‘You’d　think　they　were　bum　chums；’　Fats　said；　after　he　had　taken　another　powerful　drag　on　his　cigarette。

‘Cubby　upset；　was　he？’

‘Upset？　He’s　having　fucking　hysterics。　He’s　given　himself　hiccups。　He’s　worse　than　the　fucking　widow。’

Andrew　laughed。　Fats　blew　another　smoke　ring　and　pulled　at　one　of　his　overlarge　ears。

‘I　bowed　out　early。　They　haven’t　even　buried　him　yet。’

They　smoked　in　silence　for　a　minute；　both　looking　out　at　the　sludgy　river。　As　he　smoked；　Andrew　contemplated　the　words　‘bowed　out　early’；　and　the　amount　of　autonomy　Fats　seemed　to　have；　pared　to　himself。　Simon　and　his　fury　stood　between　Andrew　and　too　much　freedom：　in　Hilltop　House；　you　sometimes　copped　for　punishment　simply　because　you　were　present。　Andrew’s　imagination　had　once　been　caught　by　a　strange　little　module　in　their　philosophy　and　religion　class；　in　which　primitive　gods　had　been　discussed　in　all　their　arbitrary　wrath　and　violence；　and　the　attempts　of　early　civilizations　to　placate　them。　He　had　thought　then　of　the　nature　of　justice　as　he　had　e　to　know　it：　of　his　father　as　a　pagan　god；　and　of　his　mother　as　the　high　priestess　of　the　cult；　who　attempted　to　interpret　and　intercede；　usually　failing；　yet　still　insisting；　in　the　face　of　all　the　evidence；　that　there　was　an　underlying　magnanimity　and　reasonableness　to　her　deity。

Fats　rested　his　head　against　the　stone　side　of　the　Cubby　Hole　and　blew　smoke　rings　at　the　ceiling。　He　was　thinking　about　what　he　wanted　to　tell　Andrew。　He　had　been　mentally　rehearsing　the　way　he　would　start；　all　through　the　funeral　service；　while　his　father　gulped　and　sobbed　into　his　handkerchief。　Fats　was　so　excited　by　the　prospect　of　telling；　that　he　was　having　difficulty　containing　himself；　but　he　was　determined　not　to　blurt　it　out。　The　telling　of　it　was；　to　Fats；　of　almost　equal　importance　to　the　doing　of　it。　He　did　not　want　Andrew　to　think　that　he　had　hurried　here　to　say　it。

‘You　know　how　Fairbrother　was　on　the　Parish　Council？’　said　Andrew。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats；　glad　that　Andrew　had　initiated　a　space…filler　conversation。

‘Si…Pie’s　saying　he’s　going　to　stand　for　his　seat。’

‘Si…Pie　is？’

Fats　frowned　at　Andrew。

‘What　the　fuck’s　got　into　him？’

‘He　reckons　Fairbrother　was　getting　backhanders　from　some　contractor。’　Andrew　had　heard　Simon　discussing　it　with　Ruth　in　the　kitchen　that　morning。　It　had　explained　everything。　‘He　wants　a　bit　of　the　action。’

‘That　wasn’t　Barry　Fairbrother；’　said　Fats；　laughing　as　he　flicked　ash　onto　the　cave　floor。　‘And　that　wasn’t　the　Parish　Council。　That　was　What’s…his…name　Frierly；　up　in　Yarvil。　He　was　on　the　school　board　at　Winterdown。　Cubby　had　a　fucking　fit。　Local　press　calling　him　for　a　ment　and　all　that。　Frierly　got　done　for　it。　Doesn’t　Si…Pie　read　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette？’

Andrew　stared　at　Fats。

‘Fucking　typical。’

He　ground　out　his　cigarette　on　the　earthy　floor；　embarrassed　by　his　father’s　idiocy。　Simon　had　got　the　wrong　end　of　the　stick　yet　again。　He　spurned　the　local　munity；　sneered　at　their　concerns；　was　proud　of　his　isolation　in　his　poxy　little　house　on　the　hill；　then　he　got　a　bit　of　misinformation　and　decided　to　expose　his　family　to　humiliation　on　the　basis　of　it。

‘Crooked　as　fuck；　Si…Pie；　isn’t　he？’　said　Fats。

They　called　him　Si…Pie　because　that　was　Ruth’s　nickname　for　her　husband。　Fats　had　heard　her　use　it　once；　when　he　had　been　over　for　his　tea；　and　had　never　called　Simon　anything　else　since。

‘Yeah；　he　is；’　said　Andrew；　wondering　whether　he　would　be　able　to　dissuade　his　father　from　standing　by　telling　him　he　had　the　wrong　man　and　the　wrong　council。

‘Bit　of　a　coincidence；’　said　Fats；　‘because　Cubby’s　standing　as　well。’

Fats　exhaled　through　his　nostrils；　staring　at　the　crevice　wall　over　Andrew’s　head。

‘So　will　voters　go　for　the　cunt；’　he　said；　‘or　the　twat？’

Andrew　laughed。　There　was　little　he　enjoyed　more　than　hearing　his　father　called　a　cunt　by　Fats。

‘Now　have　a　shifty　at　this；’　said　Fats；　jamming　his　cigarette　between　his　lips　and　patting　his　hips；　even　though　he　knew　that　the　envelope　was　in　the　inside　breast　pocket。　‘Here　you　go；’　he　said；　pulling　it　out　and　opening　it　to　show　Andrew　the　contents：　brown　peppercorn…sized　pods　in　a　powdery　mix　of　shrivelled　stalks　and　leaves。

‘Sensimilla；　that　is。’

‘What　is　it？’

‘Tips　and　shoots　of　your　basic　unfertilized　marijuana　plant；’　said　Fats；　‘specially　prepared　for　your　smoking　pleasure。’

‘What’s　the　difference　between　that　and　the　normal　stuff？’　asked　Andrew；　with　whom　Fats　had　split　several　lumps　of　waxy　black　cannabis　resin　in　the　Cubby　Hole。

‘Just　a　different　smoke；　isn’t　it？’　said　Fats；　stubbing　out　his　own　cigarette。　He　took　a　packet　of　Rizlas　from　his　pocket；　drew　out　three　of　the　fragile　papers　and　gummed　them　together。

‘Did　you　get　it　off　Kirby？’　asked　Andrew；　poking　at　and　sniffing　the　contents　of　the　envelope。

Everyone　knew　Skye　Kirby　was　the　go…to　man　for　drugs。　He　was　a　year　above　them；　in　the　lower　sixth。　His　grandfather　was　an　old　hippy；　who　had　been　up　in　court　several　times　for　growing　his　own。

‘Yeah。　Mind；　there’s　a　bloke　called　Obbo；’　said　Fats；　slitting　cigarettes　and　emptying　the　tobacco　onto　the　papers；　‘in　the　Fields；　who’ll　get　you　anything。　Fucking　smack；　if　you　want　it。’

‘You　don’t　want　smack；　though；’　said　Andrew；　watching　Fats’　face。

‘Nah；’　said　Fats；　taking　the　envelope　back；　and　sprinkling　the　sensimilla　onto　the　tobacco。　He　rolled　the　joint　together；　licking　the　end　of　the　papers　to　seal　it；　poking　the　roach　in　more　neatly；　twisting　the　end　into　a　point。

‘Nice；’　he　said　happily。

He　had　planned　to　tell　Andrew　his　news　after　introducing　the　sensimilla　as　a　kind　of　warm…up　act。　He　held　out　his　hand　for　Andrew’s　lighter；　inserted　the　cardboarded　end　between　his　own　lips　and　lit　up；　taking　a　deep；　contemplative　drag；　blowing　out　the　smoke　in　a　long　blue　jet；　then　repeating　the　process。

‘Mmm；’　he　said；　holding　the　smoke　in　his　lungs；　and　imitating　Cubby；　whom　Tessa　had　given　a　wine　course　one　Christmas。　‘Herby。　A　strong　aftertaste。　Overtones　of　…　fuck　…’

He　experienced　a　massive　headrush；　even　though　he　was　sitting；　and　exhaled；　laughing。

‘…　try　that。’

Andrew　leaned　across　and　took　the　joint；　giggling　in　anticipation；　and　at　the　beatific　smile　on　Fats’　face；　which　was　quite　at　odds　with　his　usual　constipated　scowl。

Andrew　inhaled　and　felt　the　power　of　the　drug　radiate　out　from　his　lungs；　unwinding　and　loosening　him。　Another　drag；　and　he　thought　that　it　was　like　having　your　mind　shaken　out　like　a　duvet；　so　that　it　resettled　without　creases；　so　that　everything　became　smooth　and　simple　and　easy　and　good。

‘Nice；’　he　echoed　Fats；　smiling　at　the　sound　of　his　own　voice。　He　passed　the　joint　back　into　Fat’s　waiting　fingers　and　savoured　this　sense　of　well…being。

‘So；　you　wanna　hear　something　interesting？’　said　Fats；　grinning　uncontrollably。

‘Go　on。’

‘I　fucked　her　last　night。’

Andrew　nearly　said　‘who？’；　before　his　befuddled　brain　remembered：　Krystal　Weedon；　of　course；　Krystal　Weedon；　who　else？

‘Where？’　he　asked；　stupidly。　It　was　not　what　he　wanted　to　know。

Fats　stretched　out　on　his　back　in　his　funeral　suit；　his　feet　towards　the　river。　Wordlessly；　Andrew　stretched　out　beside　him；　in　the　opposite　direction。　They　had　slept　like　this；　‘top　and　tail’；　when　they　had　stayed　overnight　at　each　other’s　houses　as　children。　Andrew　gazed　up　at　the　rocky　ceiling；　where　the　blue　smoke　hung；　slowly　furling；　and　waited　to　hear　everything。

‘I　told　Cubby　and　Tess　I　was　at　yours；　so　you　know；’　said　Fats。　He　passed　the　joint　into　Andrew’s　reaching　fingers；　then　linked　his　long　hands　on　his　chest；　and　listened　to　himself　telling。　‘Then　I　got　the　bus　to　the　Fields。　Met　her　outside　Oddbins。’

‘By　Tesco’s？’　asked　Andrew。　He　did　not　know　why　he　kept　asking　dumb　questions。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats。　‘We　went　to　the　rec。　There’s　trees　in　the　corner　behind　the　public　bogs。　Nice　and　private。　It　was　getting　dark。’

Fats　shifted　position　and　Andrew　handed　back　the　joint。

‘Getting　in’s　harder　than　I　thought　it　would　be；’　said　Fats；　and　Andrew　was　mesmerized；　half　inclined　to　laugh；　afraid　of　missing　every　unvarnished　detail　Fats　could　give　him。　‘She　was　wetter　when　I　was　fingering　her。’

A　giggle　rose　like　trapped　gas　in　Andrew’s　chest；　but　was　stifled　there。

‘Lot　of　pushing　to　get　in　properly。　It’s　tighter　than　I　thought。’

Andrew　saw　a　jet　of　smoke　rise　from　the　place　where　Fats’　head　must　be。

‘I　came　in　about　ten　seconds。　It　feels　fucking　great　once　you’re　in。’

Andrew　fought　back　laughter；　in　case　there　was　more。

‘I　wore　a　johnny。　It’d　be　better　without。’

He　pushed　the　joint　back　into　Andrew’s　hand。　Andrew　pulled　on　it；　thinking。　Harder　to　get　in　than　you　thought；　over　in　ten　seconds。　It　didn’t　sound　much；　yet　what　wouldn’t　he　give？　He　imagined　Gaia　Bawden　flat　on　her　back　for　him　and；　without　meaning　to；　let　out　a　small　groan；　which　Fats　did　not　seem　to　hear。　Lost　in　a　fug　of　erotic　images；　pulling　on　the　joint；　Andrew　lay　with　his　erection　on　the　patch　of　earth　his　body　was　warming　and　listened　to　the　soft　rush　of　the　water　a　few　feet　from　his　head。

‘What　matters；　Arf？’　asked　Fats；　after　a　long；　dreamy　pause。

His　head　swimming　pleasantly；　Andrew　answered；　‘Sex。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats；　delighted。　‘Fucking。　That’s　what　matters。　Propogun　…　propogating　the　species。　Throw　away　the　johnnies。　Multiply。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Andrew；　laughing。

‘And　death；’　said　Fats。　He　had　been　taken　aback　by　the　reality　of　that　coffin；　and　how　little　material　lay　between　all　the　watching　vultures　and　an　actual　corpse。　He　was　not　sorry　that　he　had　left　before　it　disappeared　into　the　ground。　‘Gotta　be；　hasn’t　it？　Death。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Andrew；　thinking　of　war　and　car　crashes；　and　dying　in　blazes　of　speed　and　glory。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats。　‘Fucking　and　dying。　That’s　it；　innit？　Fucking　and　dying。　That’s　life。’

‘Trying　to　get　a　fuck　and　trying　not　to　die。’

‘Or　trying　to　die；’　said　Fats。　‘Some　people。　Risking　it。’

‘Yeah。　Risking　it。’

There　was　more　silence；　and　their　hiding　place　was　cool　and　hazy。

‘And　music；’　said　Andrew　quietly；　watching　the　blue　smoke　hanging　beneath　the　dark　rock。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats；　in　the　distance。　‘And　music。’

The　river　rushed　on　past　the　Cubby　Hole。

I
It　rained　on　Barry　Fairbrother’s　grave。　The　ink　blurred　on　the　cards。　Siobhan’s　chunky　sunflower　head　defied　the　pelting　drops；　but　Mary’s　lilies　and　freesias　crumpled；　then　fell　apart。　The　chrysanthemum　oar　darkened　as　it　decayed。　Rain　swelled　the　river；　made　streams　in　the　gutters　and　turned　th