A Bright Moon for Fools (2 page)

A knock on the door. “What the devil is it now?” he barked. Outside was a man with two large glasses of single malt. “Bravo!” Christmas signed the bill with an
indecipherable glyph. He took the drinks, kicked the door shut and downed one immediately. Gasping with satisfaction, he put the other on the bedside table and took off his hat and his socks. He
examined his feet. He had always considered them to be rather fine – proportioned, elegant – and was pleased once again to confirm his own opinion. He took the remote control from its
holder and turned on the television.

President Chávez, dressed in the colours of state, was making a speech to the assembly about proposed reforms to the constitution. He spoke like a boxing ring announcer, great undulations
of pitch and rollings of the ‘r’.

“
R-r-r-r-r-evolución
!” practised Christmas, turning it off. He drained the second scotch, undressed fully, and flopped back into bed. He yawned at the ceiling and felt
fatigue grind into a deeper gear. Air travel be damned! There would be several palm-fanned evenings of tropical enterprise before he subjected himself again to that kind of institutionalised
maltreatment. Christmas smiled. Yet here he was. He had escaped.

He reached over and turned off the light. His eyes adjusted to the dark.

He stopped smiling.

W
illiam Slade finished his exercises and lay on the floor of his living room, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes for a moment then rolled to his
feet as if from a judo mat. He went to the window. He looked up the street and out into East Grinstead, making eye contact with his elderly neighbour who was getting out of her car. She looked
away. Slade closed his curtains. He checked his watch.

In the middle of the room a rowing machine faced an enormous plasma screen television. On the opposite wall there was a set of barbells next to an IKEA bookshelf rigid with military history,
biographies of war leaders, weapons manuals and books about the Dark Ages. On the floor, a kitbag lay beside neat piles of clothes. A large black leather armchair sat beneath the window and behind
it, in the corner, a yucca plant was slowly dying.

The walls were white and bare except for two framed photographs. One was of fifty men dressed as
thegns
– Anglo-Saxon knights – wearing decorated woollen tunics, leg bindings,
leather turnshoes and cloaks pinned to the shoulder with circular broaches. Some had broadswords, others battle-axes or maces. Slade stood in the middle next to the society’s leader, the
eorlderman
, a retired West Sussex police chief. Under the photograph the caption read ‘Battle of Hastings 2007 –
sle cowere feondas
’, Old English for ‘smite
your enemies’. The second was of his father, Andrew Slade, and his stepmother Diana, taken at their old house in Crawley. His father sat behind his desk while Diana leant against it. Slade
always thought she looked elegant in this photograph – her hair pulled back tight, her head high, the way she was standing with her arms folded, the long fingers of one hand not quite
touching the elbow. His father was smiling and stroking his cat, The General. Beneath the desk, a young William sat cross-legged, hiding something behind him.

Kneeling on the floor beside his packing, Slade carefully pushed his clothes into his kitbag, followed by a travel wallet that could be strapped to his waist, a wash bag, his passport, a
photograph in an envelope, one thousand pounds in cash, a credit card, sleeping pills, an iPod, leads, a charger, a plug adaptor and travel speakers all neatly wound together.

He was a bulky, cumbrous man with sacks of flesh saddled to his frame and a belly from all the pints, takeaways and Tesco meals for one. Thick black hair mossed his scalp above small eyes that
withdrew into the permanent squint he’d been affecting since he was a teenager. He checked his watch again, straightened his back and rotated his shoulders.

Slade inspected the rest of the house, turning off light switches and plugs. Whenever he left a room he said, “Clear”. Finally he came to the broom cupboard under the stairs and
opened the door. Hanging from brackets on the wall there was a crossbow, a baseball bat, a double-headed war axe, a broadsword and twenty-three different knives. He took down an Austrian hunting
knife with a seven-inch folding blade and a hilt made of antler. He selected this one because he had inherited it from his father. Slade shut the cupboard door, locked it and hid the key under the
carpet. He went back into the living room and tucked the knife deep inside the kitbag.

C
hristmas lay in the dark trying to get comfortable. He felt too hot and stuck a leg out. Then he felt too cold and wrapped himself with the duvet.
He rolled over and tried to ignore the steady disappearance of feeling in his right arm while reliving his escape: his arrival at Gatwick airport like a man in need of the toilet; his panicked
purchase of a return ticket to Venezuela; the sensation of being hunted. There was a school sports team idling in front of the check-in desks. “Out of the way, you little shitters,” he
muttered, picking his way through the haircuts. Their extremely tall teacher said something to him in French – one of Christmas’ favourite reasons to ignore someone – and he
proffered his passport to the easyJet representative. With his mouth hung open in a smile and his mind fixed on a drink, he watched with satisfaction as she looked several times between photograph
and subject. Yes, the new moustache made all the difference.

“Anything to check in, sir?”

“No, young lady, I have only my—”

“Did you pack these bags yourself, sir?”

“I don’t have any luggage.”

“Oh yeah!” she giggled, “Sorry. Mind’s gone to pieces. Has anyone given you anything to carry?”

“No.”

“Could anyone have interfered with your luggage?”

“I’ve told you I don’t have any luggage.”

“Oh yeah! Oi, Lisa, you’ll never guess what I’ve just done ...” Christmas looked behind him. No one was in pursuit. There was, however, the lofty Frenchman with his arms
folded, staring straight at him, trying to make some sort of physical point. Christmas pulled a face as if he’d just opened a fridge full of rotting food and then turned back to the desk. The
girl and her colleague were weeping with laughter. An elderly couple looked on blankly. Christmas felt as if he were queuing for execution.

“Dear me, sorry, sir,” the check-in girl said, bringing herself under control, “now then, here’s your boarding pass. Seating code B, watch the departure board for times,
gate number twelve. Have a good flight.” Christmas tried to take the pass, but she held onto the end of it. “Aren’t we going to say ‘thank you’?”

“What?”

“That’s it,” she said, letting go. “And cheer up – it might never happen!” Had he not been so eager to get to the other side of customs, Christmas would have
visited a swingeing verbal punishment on this brassy servant of The Rot. “Nice ’tache,” she added, waving at him like a schoolgirl until the giant Frenchman stepped up to her
counter. “Hello, sir. Right – security question: is it raining up there?”

No sooner had Christmas picked up some speed than he hit a queue. Teenagers in yellow jumpers were ordering people to join different lines. “Got any gels?” said one, “Creams?
Hairsprays?”

“What do you think I am?” grunted Christmas, “An extremely ugly woman?”

Security always infuriated Christmas. Why should he have to prove he existed, the devil take them! He was real. The state on the other hand was pure construct. It should have to prove
its
existence to
him
. Christmas quelled the urge to ask the officer for his passport in return.

Shuffling. Undressing. Dressing. Shoes, belt, arms raised wide. Christmas breathed heavily through the indignity. However, once he was past the last gum-chewing staff member, his considerable
frame was shot through with exhilaration. He looked back at the queue: the polished, empty faces of Europe. He’d made it. He had deliberately bought an indirect and open-ended ticket to
Venezuela. Even if he were tracked to the airport, there was no way anyone could know his ultimate destination.

Gatwick airport departure lounge – an amphitheatre of tat. Christmas headed straight for Yates Wine Lodge for a remedial double scotch, trying to block out the
conversations around him.

“... Don’t watch it at all anymore.”

“Oh God, me neither.”

“I mean I don’t think I’ve watched it in weeks.”

“Did you see that whatsername yesterday? The one from whatsit?”

“God she looked fat!”

“What about those kids being forced to examine what was in their own poo?”

“... in Bangkok, he gets completely wasted and ends up fucking two prostitutes. Un-fucking-believable.”

“But that’s Bangkok, mate. Standard fucking practice.”

“Not when you’re on your honeymoon.”

Christmas stood up in despair, deciding he should eat. He sat down again in Garfunkel’s.

“And how do you want your steak, sir?”

“Right through the heart. And bring me a large scotch, would you? Laphroaig, no ice.” Christmas watched the crowds and remarked to himself with no small sense of wonder how everyone
seemed to be dressed for an amateur sporting event. Were Muslim women the only smart people left in England? A cheerless steak was plonked in front of him by his cheerless waitress. He ate it
cheerlessly, consumed several glasses of scotch and asked for the bill.

“Is the tip included?”

“‘Sh’d’no,” she replied.

“
What
?” but she just shrugged and ambled off. Who were these people? Why the devil did they behave in this way? But Christmas was a man of temporary passions. No sooner had
the hedgehog of disquiet bristled its spines than it was run over by the spirit of adventure. Caracas. No more looking over his shoulder. In Caracas things would be different. In Caracas, perhaps,
The Rot had not taken hold. He might be temporarily potholed in Gatwick airport departure lounge, but soon he’d be riding horseback with dusky-eyed girls from the reef. Christmas enjoyed a
long outward breath until he saw a youth with an Adidas tattoo on his arm. He went insane with fury.

“Are they paying you for that?” he asked, prodding the offence. “Are. They. Paying. You?” After a brief conference of the eyes, the youth fled. “The devil take the
lot of you!” Christmas cursed after him. Moments later, back in Yates Wine Lodge and facing a conspiracy of drinks, he stirred his agitators to a pitch and then dispensed them to the cause.
Damn these children. God damn them all.

From his position Christmas overlooked a couple sitting at one of the tables for McDonald’s. The man had his computer open. The woman was wearing a headset. She was crying, attempting to
look away from everybody but failing as they were sat right in the middle, her body and neck twisted over the seat. “Oh Lesley,” she sobbed into the mouthpiece, holding it close,
“I’m so sorry, love, I’m so sorry, oh that bastard, that bastard – how could he do that? Honestly, Lesley, you’re such a lovely person –”
Rubbish
,
thought Christmas,
Lesley’s an absolute bitch
. “– yeah, yep, that’s right ... You’re always thinking about other people ... so what I’m saying, love, what
I’m saying is let other people look after you a bit too, OK? ... yeah ... when you’re back at work, bit more steady on your pins kind of thing ... yes, yes of course ... and Gary sends
his love.” Her husband had a hand on her knee, but the other was tapping away at the keyboard, his face an expressionless mask. Christmas took out a slim volume of poetry from his inside
jacket pocket and began to read.

“Mind if we ...?” Christmas looked up. Another couple were hoping for the two free seats that other travellers had wisely avoided. In an airport full of people secretly trying to
kill themselves, Yates Wine Lodge had become rather full. Christmas spread the air with the back of his hand and carried on with his poetry book and his Laphroaig. Something in the silence caused
him to look at his guests. They wanted to talk.

“Cheers,” said the man, holding up his drink. Christmas, who was already holding up his drink, bared his teeth with a smile.

“Off anywhere nice?”

“No,” said Christmas. “Paris.”

“We’re going to Spain. To Alicante.”

“We’ve moved there,” said the woman.
Oh have you
, thought Christmas, closing the book, his inner voice already starting to slosh about,
have you really? Oh have you,
have you really? You’ve moved to Spain. Have you really? Spain? Really
?

“Just back from visiting our son.”

“He’s a psychologist.”

“He’s a child psychologist.”

“And they give him the time off school?”

“Pardon me?”

Psychologists. Absolute blackguards. Passed themselves off as scientists when they were little more than witch-burners.

“Our daughter’s at university in London,” continued the woman, “studying theology.”

“Really,” said Christmas. A family of witch-burners. Why were they telling him this stuff? Did he look like the fucking taxman?

“We try to come back as often as we can but – well, London just seems to get worse and worse and worse.” And why oh why did people like this always moan about London? It had
improved considerably since they got a handle on the plague, and at least these days you required a license for the distillation of gin. “All the bombs and everything – and do you know
what happened at my granddaughter’s school?” she continued, “They’ve closed the pool! She absolutely loves swimming and they’ve gone and closed the pool
because,” she lowered her voice, “the Muslim children don’t do it, do they?”

“I have no idea,” said Christmas, wearily sensing the direction of the conversation.

“I mean I’m all for civil liberties, but the police have got to be allowed to do their job.”

“In the swimming pool?”

“Excuse us?”

“There are police operating in your granddaughter’s swimming pool?”

“Not police, Muslim girls.”

“I thought you said they didn’t care much for swimming?”