He looked up at me with a flash of paranoia, unusual in its candour, its bluntness. I don’t blame him really, in this pub. It’s full of turks, nutters, martians. The foreigners around here. I know they don’t speak English—okay, but do they even speak Earthling? They speak stereo, radio crackle, interference. They speak sonar, bat-chirrup, pterodactylese, fish-purr.
‘Sorry?’ he said.
‘Sold a million yet?’
He relaxed. His off-centre smile refused to own up to something. ‘Be serious,’ he said.
‘What you sell then?’
‘Oh, a reasonable amount.’
I burped and shrugged. I burped again. ‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Pardon me.’ 1 yawned. I stared round the pub. He returned to his book.
‘Hey,’ 1 said. ‘Every day, do you… Do you sort of do it every day, writing? Do you set yourself a time and stuff?’
‘No.’
‘I wish I could stop fucking burping,’ I said. He started reading again.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘When you, do you sort of make it up, or is it just, you know, like what happens?’
‘Neither.’
‘Autobiographical,’ I said. ‘I haven’t read any of your books. There’s, I don’t really get that much time for reading.’
‘Fancy,’ he said. He started reading again.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Your dad, he’s a writer too, isn’t he? Bet that made it easier.’
‘Oh, sure. It’s just like taking over the family pub.’
‘Uh?’
‘Time,’ said the man behind the bar. ‘Time. Time.’
‘Here, you want another?’ I asked him. ‘Have a scotch.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Yeah well I’m pretty well pissed myself. My girl’ll be back soon. She’s having one of her business dinners. She got this, a boutique. They’re, she’s trying to get people to invest in it.’
He made no reply. I yawned and stretched. I burped. As I got to my feet, I caught the table with my kneecap. His drink wobbled, like a coin, but he caught it. It didn’t splash much.
‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Well, see you around, Martin.’
‘No doubt.’
‘… What’s that mean?’ I didn’t much like his superior tone, come to think of it, or his tan, or his book. Or the way he stares at me in the street.
‘Mean?’ he said. ‘What do you think it means?’
‘You calling me a cunt?’ I said loudly.
‘What?’
‘You called me a cunt!’
‘You’re mistaken.’
‘Ah. So you’re calling me a liar now. You’re calling me a liar!’
‘Hey, take it easy, pal. Christ. You’re fine. You’re great. I’ll see you around,’
‘… Yeah.’
‘Take care now.’
‘Yeah. All right then, Martin,’ I said, and swayed out through the open door.
Eleven o’clock: the rioting hour. Policemen in shirtsleeves (we are all so relaxed, so informal, about crime these days), standing in six-packs round the white vans, the money-ambulances with their single smart red stripes, waited in the turnings off the trench of the main road. Somewhere the kids, the why-bovver boys, were massing to launch their show. Apparently there was a full-scale revolution on this strip last Saturday night. I was dining alone at a window seat in the Burger Bower, and I didn’t notice a thing. If you ask me, there’s a riot here every night. There always has been and there always will be. At eleven o’clock, London is a storm, a rave, a knees-up, a free-for-all. … Here they come again. Yes, I say, go on, go on. I’m shattered, you’re shattered — it’s a gas. Go on.
Rip it up.
‘Right, Selina,’ I explained, when my own riot was done, ‘I want you to listen to this and I want you to listen good. While I’m away you young lady are going to behave. Do you read me, Selina? No more shit! You’re on the payroll now and you damn well do as I say, God damn it. No one fucks my race! NO ONE fucks with John Self! You hear me? NO ONE!’
‘Hark at him. I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Get your great face out of the pillow.’
‘Anyone cheats on me, they’re soon sorry. They find they’ve taken on a little more than they —’
‘What? Get your — oof. Right. You were saying.’
I rolled over with a grunt. Selina said sharply, ‘Did you see Martina Twain in New York?’