Remember Why You Fear Me (62 page)

And suddenly the noose broke. The towels fell on him in a heap, and Roger gibbered with fear, pushed them off, ran to the cabin door and the safety of the corridor outside. He got his breath back in a series of shuddering gasps. He saw that the name on his door had been obliterated, crossed through so many times and so ferociously that he could no longer make out any letters at all.

Up the corridor Roger could see the names on all the other doors had been left respectfully intact, and that each one represented a person safely asleep in their beds having a lovely holiday. He read a few of them. And without making any real decision about it, began looking for the name Irene Knowles.

It was a large ship, composed of over a thousand staterooms. He had no real sense of the passing of time, but when he finally found Irene Knowles’ cabin, on Dolphin Deck, it was four in the morning Southampton time, five in the morning Vigo time, and God only knows what time where the ship was now headed.

Roger hesitated. Then knocked. There was a good minute’s wait, and he thought there wouldn’t be an answer. But he didn’t move away, he had nowhere to go, after all. And eventually the door opened.

The old woman looked at him. Except she wasn’t that old, she wasn’t even what you’d call mature, she looked rested and calm and secure. She was in a nightie, and he only now thought to check what
he
was wearing. To his surprise he was still dressed in his suit, he hadn’t changed since dinner, but it was now all rumpled from where he had slept in it, the jacket creased, the tie askew.

“I got all dressed up for you,” he said uselessly.

She asked him what he wanted, and he didn’t know how he was going to answer. And then he replied anyway, “I want my wife. I want my wife back.”

She thought about this for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Give me a moment,” she said, and closed the door. He supposed she was putting on some clothes, but when she opened up a couple of minutes later she was still in her nightie. It was Jesus who was now dressed. Jesus stepped out of the cabin, and Roger moved aside to make room for him; Jesus gave him a smile, Roger couldn’t tell how mocking, and then disappeared down the corridor. “You’d better come in then,” said Irene Knowles.

Her cabin was exactly the same as his, except hers had a porthole, and his a hanged man on the bed. “Jesus finds me my widowers,” Irene said. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” admitted Roger. “I still don’t,” he added.

“Why do you want Deborah back?” Roger had been pretty sure he’d never told her his wife’s name. “Is it to say goodbye? It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“Or because you love her? You’re in love with a little pile of ash?”

“No, I don’t love her,” and it was true. “I haven’t loved her for years,” and that was true too, but a bit of a shock for him, all the same.

“Then why do you want her?”

“I don’t know,” said Roger. “But I put up with her for over twenty years, so I think she’s
mine.
”

Irene thought about this. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said. “All right,” and she gave a sigh, “all right,” and her hand went for his fly.

Roger began to tell her that he wasn’t in the mood, but as she pulled his penis out from its little hiding place it made a liar of him and stiffened. “Oh,” he said, and Irene gave a humourless smile. And then she swallowed it whole.

Once again he felt he really ought to do something to help. But her hair was no longer silver grey, but a shiny gold blonde, and he wasn’t sure how she’d feel about his getting his hands over it. His penis felt warm in her mouth, and then she
started—
and it was as if the warmth had been turned off. And her breath became cold, almost icy, and she wasn’t sucking at him this time, she was blowing. His cock was still stiff in there, he could feel it, but he worried that it was because it was getting frosted. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he didn’t dare—it wasn’t a breath now, it was a wind, he looked down at Irene’s face and her cheeks were all puffed out with the effort, her eyes were bulging too—and it was almost
funny
, it was the least erotic thing he had ever seen, this beautiful woman with her face all swelled up like a trombone player in mid-blast. But he was too scared to laugh, too scared that she’d blow harder, or that she’d stop blowing altogether before she was done, and that might even be worse. But just as he felt he couldn’t stand any more, that he’d either cry out with the pain, or laugh at the very look of her, it was all over—and she pulled away.

She sat there on the floor, saying nothing.

“What now?” he asked.

“Give me a moment, can’t you?” she snapped. She got up, went to her bathroom. “Toothpaste,” she said, and she closed the door on him, he wasn’t welcome to look this time, but, sure enough, he soon heard her brushing away for all she was worth.

When she came out, his penis was still erect. He couldn’t believe how erect—it was embarrassing, to be honest. She sized it up, nodded. “It’s ready,” she said.

She knelt back down, took hold of it. And began to tap on it with her finger. Not too hard, but firm. Tap tap tap along the stem. She did this for about ten seconds, and just as Roger was about to ask what she was doing, she took hold of his hand. “Cup it,” she said, “no, under here,” and moved it into position under the tip. And that’s when the ash began to spill out.

He was so surprised he almost dropped it. “Careful,” she said. “Do you want your wife or not?” And on she tapped, and out of the end of his penis poured a steady trickle of ash. Truth be told, it didn’t feel like anything very much, he felt detached from the process. He just sat there and felt the ash stream hot into his palm, and waited for it to stop.

After a few minutes the cock at last began to droop. “Just the dregs,” she said, holding it straight, and shaking it out. And she’d finished. She got to her feet and walked over to her dressing table. Reached inside her handbag for a cigarette, lit it.

Roger looked at the mountain of ash in his hands. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an urn, or some sort of container?” he asked. “I sort of lost mine.”

She said nothing for a while, her back to him, hardly seemed even to notice he was there. When she turned around she seemed surprised he’d stayed. She frowned at him through the veil of smoke. “There you are,” she said. “Much good may it do you. Or me.” It may have been the light, but she looked very tired, and very frail. She didn’t smoke the cigarette, just tapped at it, tap tap tap.

He made his way up to the top deck, dribbling ash all along the corridors. He kept his two fists tight, holding on to as much of Deborah as he could, but as he climbed the stairs and the ship lurched, he decided it’d be prudent to use the handrail and that one fistful would be enough. He sat on a lounger in the dark, staring out at the sea. He considered letting the remaining ash go over the side, but he looked down at the waves, and at the still beauty of the water, and then he thought of his wife—and he realized that the Mediterranean deserved better.

And so he just sat there, with Deborah, until dawn. And when the sun appeared so did the waiters, setting up the burger ’n’ BBQs, the ice cream sundae bar. The ship neared land. It reached a port. It docked. Roger didn’t know where.

About an hour later an announcement was made that passengers were free to disembark, to explore the city with their tour guides. Roger queued up with the rest of them. He knew he was supposed to take his passport, but that was back in the cabin, and he knew he’d never be going there again. No one asked for it anyway; in fact, no one gave him a second glance.

The first thing he did was find himself a litter bin. It was marked with a language he didn’t recognize. He opened his fist at last, emptied the ashes inside. There weren’t many ashes left, to be honest. Then he went off to find a local.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Where do all the people from the cruises go?”

The man stared at him, didn’t understand.

“The tourists,” he said. “Where?”

The man pointed.

“Thank you,” said Roger. And set off in the opposite direction. He wondered where he was, and how far he would get before he found out.

You’ll never hear me complain about children, they’re my bread and butter. And I know there are many people out there who are a lot worse off than me. Teetotal barmaids. Surgeons who are scared of blood. Bakers who are sickened by the smell and very consistency of dough. I have to work with children, there’s no getting around that; it’s an occupational hazard, and I shan’t complain, I won’t. No matter how much I personally can’t stand the little creeps.

Besides, in my case, I feel that my antagonism may even be a good thing. When I go out to meet them it’s usually in anger, disguised anger, and smiling so widely at them through the hatred probably gives a bit of
grit
to what I do, makes my mind clearer, my instincts sharper. “Today I’m going to slaughter them,” I say, before I go on, “today I’m going to knock the little shits dead,” and out comes the grin, out flows the patter, and I’m in the right mental spot for the magic to begin.

Some people tell me that children are the voice of the future. Some of these people are even in the same profession as me, they should know better, they say it’s a privilege we spend so much time with them, that if we look carefully into their faces we might glimpse a prime minister-to-be, the cure finder for AIDS or cancer. And I’ve tried, I’ve honestly tried. I let the patter take over and sometimes I go on autopilot, the words tumble out as they always do, and I give my prepubescent audience a good long hard look. In turn they just sort of stare back. It’s not that they’re bored, I could cope with bored, we all get bored. What I’m met by is indifference. They’re listening to what I’m saying, maybe, they might even respond to some of the tricks, some of the jokes. But they really don’t care whether I live or die. Yes, that’s it—as I stand out there before them, struggling to raise a little bit of awe, they’re thinking, I know, they’re thinking that by the time they’ve reached my age I’ll be dead, or dying, and they’ll be so much more accomplished, they won’t need to work so hard just to get the approval of infants, maybe they really will all be prime ministers at that.

The voice of the future, and maybe they’re right, and maybe that’s exactly the problem.

When you go to work, it’s important to look the part. You must always be smart, and at least as smart as the smartest dressed man in the room. If you perform at a wedding, for example, you must take care not to be outclassed by the bridegroom, you’ve got to find a suit that is just that little bit nattier. If the audience think you’re one of them, then the first illusion is spoiled, even before you bring to the table all the illusions of your own. With children it’s easy, children
never
dress well, so you’re already ahead of the game—but the danger there is that if you turn up in your coat and tails you just look a little silly. So I go the whole hog. I take silly to the nth degree. My suit is velvet trimmed, my polished shoes long and pointed. I never wear a belt but braces, there are gold cufflinks on my sleeves. And there’s the top hat. I don’t keep the top hat on during the show, my head would get too hot under there, and you don’t want to be caught sweating in front of children, they might see it as fear, never let them think you’re afraid. But I make sure I’m seen to
arrive
in one. If the children are going to take the piss, give them something to take the piss out of—and if it’s extreme enough, you might catch them off guard, they might even be a little frightened. “You got a rabbit in there, mate?” one of them may ask, a teenager probably, probably male, and you can be nonchalant about it, you can take off your hat with genuine curiosity as if you’ve no idea
what
you’ll find—“so there is,” you’ll say, “I’d been wondering what had been nibbling at my ears,” and you reach inside, and you pull out a
toy
rabbit, and give it to the child. “Would you look after him for me?” you can say. “He gets nervous around cheeky children.” If you’re lucky, the teenager in question will be too old to want a stuffed toy, but now he’ll be so embarrassed he can’t say no, and he’ll be forced to sit there through the show with this little Bugs Bunny on his lap, a stroppy fourteen year old cut down to the age of six.

We’re not allowed to work with real rabbits anymore. Thank God. I wouldn’t trust children with a real rabbit. They’d probably pull its ears off.

The top hat is also useful, then, for flushing out the enemy. The basic rule for dealing with children is to locate the troublemakers, right away, and then destroy them mercilessly, before they have a chance to corrupt any of the others. (I’m not just talking about performing to them either, I mean any social interaction with children whatsoever.) At a children’s party there’s always a couple of loudmouths, especially if there’s been cake and fizzy drinks—usually not, in fact, the birthday child, they’re drowning in far too much attention already and are feeling a bit exposed, and besides, their mummy is waiting next door to tell them off if things get out of control—no, nine times out of ten, the ringleader will be just some utterly ordinary random anonymous innocent-looking little tit. Destroy him, humiliate the bastard, and do it right at the start, you’ll have a better time of it if you do, even the
children
will have a better time of it. And, technically, giving a good time to the kids is sort of the reason you’re there. The number of kids at the party is also vital. Too many and they run riot, they think they can get lost in the crowd. Too few and they’re probably with close friends and family, people who make them feel safe. Twelve is a good size, I think, just big enough and small enough to play on their insecurities. Twelve and you’re laughing.