The Memory Game Part 10

'Yes,' I admitted. 'It makes everyone less likely.'

They always say that if you started public hangings again, they would attract hordes. The ICA was packed out. The audience was mostly young. Television cameras were being set up near the stage, and a large man wearing round wire-framed gla.s.ses like Bertolt Brecht's was wandering around the stage with a clipboard. I squeezed along the row towards the two empty seats in the middle. Theo still hadn't arrived. The man sitting in the seat next to mine was almost invisible in a large tweed overcoat. I stepped on his foot and tripped over a plastic bag on the floor.

'Sorry,' I said irritably, and he nodded briefly, before going back to his ceiling-gazing.

Theo arrived. In his black suit, carrying a briefcase, he looked formal and out of place. He kissed me on the cheek, and whispered: 'I've just been with Alan. He's drunk.'

'Drunk?' I squawked.

'a.r.s.eholed.'

'What do you mean, he's drunk? drunk? He's due on stage in about one minute.' He's due on stage in about one minute.'

'He can still talk,' Theo said. 'Ms Judd will have a hard time stopping him.'

I moaned. Why had I come?

A minute or two after eight, Lizzie Judd walked purposefully onto the stage, a severely beautiful woman in a slim grey suit. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face, she wore no jewellery or make-up, and she wasn't carrying any notes. She sat down in one of the two chairs, and poured herself a gla.s.s of water. Then Alan bounded onto the stage, as if he were making an entrance on a chat show.

'What is he wearing, Theo?' I whispered.

I knew the answer. A velvet smoking jacket he sometimes wore in the evening at home. On his grizzled head was a black fedora. He reminded me of a Toulouse-Lautrec poster I had had on the wall of one of my student bedsits. I felt a rush of emotion for this undignified, truculent old man. Not many people clapped, though the man beside me was one of them. Alan sat heavily on the empty chair next to Lizzie Judd. He had a large tumbler in his hand three-quarters full of something whisky-coloured. He sipped from it and his eyes swept the hall.

Lizzie Judd expressed her ('and I'm sure the audience's') sympathy over the discovery of Natalie's body. She gave a brisk account of The Town Drain The Town Drain ('anti-romantic... tradition of comic realism... lower-middle cla.s.s... essentially male'). She referred to the, much less well-known, successors in a sentence, and concluded that the long publis.h.i.+ng silence was doubtless something we would get on to later. ('anti-romantic... tradition of comic realism... lower-middle cla.s.s... essentially male'). She referred to the, much less well-known, successors in a sentence, and concluded that the long publis.h.i.+ng silence was doubtless something we would get on to later.

'Mr Martello,' Lizzie Judd began.

'Call me Alan,' Alan interrupted.

'All right, Alan. John Updike has said that mere is no need to write funny novels. What would you say to that?'

'Who's John Updike?' Alan said.

Lizzie Judd looked a little startled.

'I'm sorry?'

'Is he American?'

'Yes, he is.'

'Well then.'

'Is that your answer?'

Alan was lying back in his chair when she said this (I noticed that his socks were different colours). He sat up slowly, sipped some whisky, and leant towards his interrogator.

'Look, Lizzie, I wrote a f.u.c.king good novel. A f.u.c.king f.u.c.king good novel. Have you got a copy of it here? No?' He turned to the audience. 'Has anybody got one?' There was no response. 'All of you, open your copies of good novel. Have you got a copy of it here? No?' He turned to the audience. 'Has anybody got one?' There was no response. 'All of you, open your copies of The Town Drain The Town Drain at the copyright page and you'll see that it has been reprinted year after year after year. It seems to make people laugh. Why should I care what some pofaced American says?' at the copyright page and you'll see that it has been reprinted year after year after year. It seems to make people laugh. Why should I care what some pofaced American says?'

Lizzie Judd was icily calm.

'Perhaps we should move on,' she said. 'Your novels have recently received some feminist criticisms.'

Alan snorted.

'I'm sorry?' she asked.

'No, it's all right, go on.'

'It has been said that women feature in your work either as shrews or as big-breasted objects of the s.e.xual attention of your heroes. Even some of your admirers have said that, forty-five years on, the s.e.xism of your novels remains a problem.'

Alan took a large gulp of whisky, which prevented him from speaking for a surprisingly long time.

'Why should that be a problem?' he asked after his final swallow. 'I'm glad that they still seem s.e.xy. Is there anything wrong with finding large-breasted women s.e.xy? Jolly good thing.'

I put my head into my hands. There was a suppressed giggle beside me. Not from Theo, from the man on my other side.

Alan had paused, apparently enjoying the embarra.s.sed silence. Judd remained expectantly silent.

'I was only joking, Lizzie. I'm not supposed to talk about things like b.r.e.a.s.t.s, am I? It's not allowed. Are you saying I hate women, Lizzie, love?'

'Why should you think I'm saying that?'

'That's what people like you say. Are we talking about me or are we talking about my books, Lizzie? I love women. I like f.u.c.king. Or at least I used to, when I could manage it. Is that what you want to hear? Now, shall we talk about my book?'

My head was between my knees now and I began to consider blocking my ears. I heard a shuffling sound. Was he standing up?

'I wrote that novel from my heart.' A fist banged against a chest. Hugely amplified by the radio microphone he was wearing, it sounded like a battering ram against a castle gate. 'And I wrote it when I was very young, and I don't give a f.u.c.k about people who use the book to argue about what Alan Martello thinks about women. I'm bored, bored, f.u.c.king bored with discussions which say that one novel is better than another because it's nicer. nicer.'

There was an agitated murmur in the audience. I looked up to find myself at the centre of a forest of raised arms. Lizzie Judd pointed at a young woman sitting to one side.

'Would you say then that morality has nothing to do with literary merit?'

'Oh f.u.c.k off,' Alan said. 'This isn't the Oxford f.u.c.king Union, is it? I thought we were here to talk about my books. Or are we going to talk about s.e.x? Lizzie, do you want to tell us what you do in bed and with whom, if anyone?'

There were shouts now from different parts of the auditorium. Lizzie Judd remained calm as she called for quiet like a tennis umpire.

'Mr Martello, do you want to continue with this discussion?'

Alan raised his gla.s.s, as if in a bizarrely inappropriate attempt at a toast.

'I'm all right,' he said. all right,' he said.

Hands waved in the air. A pale and slender young man stood up, his scarf was wrapped around his neck so many times I could hardly see his face.

'I'm a man too, Mr Martello,' he said.

'Yes?' said Alan dubiously.

'But I'm not of your generation,' the man continued in a quavering voice. 'I think women have often been damaged by the affection you say you have for them, by the predatory s.e.xuality that you portray with approval. Is the world ever going to change if people like you, with a voice that others listen to, maintain your chauvinism dressed up as the writer's freedom?'

Murmurs of agreement rippled round the theatre. The TV lights shone hotly down. Alan was sweating; Lizzie Judd looked immaculately cool.

'You pompous pillock,' said Alan, slurring his words now. 'If women are relying on you to defend them, they must be in trouble. You're just encouraging them to be victims. Crying hara.s.sment and rape and all that at the drop of a hat. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.'

A female cry of 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d' came from the back of the auditorium. Lizzie Judd remained alarmingly cool.

'This is your position on the issue of rape, is it, Mr Martello?'

Alan finished his whisky, and put his gla.s.s down, slightly missing the table so that it fell and shattered on the stage.

'Don't mind that,' he said. 'b.a.l.l.s! Women like strong men and a bit of violence. Only complain afterwards. Make 'em feel better to complain. Don't like to admit they like rutting like sows. I've never heard a woman complain. We're not supposed to say that, are we? Not politically correct, is it?'

'This is your position as a respected novelist, is it?' Lizzie Judd asked, showing some signs of alarm at what she was unleas.h.i.+ng.

'I'm not a f.u.c.king respected novelist,' Alan shouted thickly. 'I haven't finished a f.u.c.king novel for thirty years. But yes, we're not social workers. We work in a world where ordinary men are killers, where women want to be f.u.c.ked or want to be raped and don't know the difference. It's the world of the f.u.c.king imagination.'

'Some people might say that there is a continuum between the abusive fantasies that are dramatised in fiction such as yours and the actual violence suffered by women.'

Alan stood up unsteadily.

'You want to see a continuum? I'll show you a f.u.c.king continuum.'

Like a toppling tree he fell down on Lizzie Judd, put a hand on her breast and kissed her noisily on her startled mouth. Her microphone must have been close to her face because the smacking kiss echoed loudly around the auditorium. I had several impressions simultaneously. Cameras rolling. Shouts from the crowd. People jumping up and running forward. Alan being pulled off Lizzie Judd. He shook somebody off and began to shout: 'You think I don't know about rape? My daughter was raped and murdered and the man who did it has been released. He claimed his f.u.c.king right to silence, he wouldn't answer any questions and the police let the rapist and murderer go. Now you can f.u.c.king crucify me.'

Alan continued to shout unintelligibly and flap around until he was restrained by several members of the audience that now filled much of the stage. Theo ran forward and fought his way through the crowd to his father. Lizzie Judd was being helped to her feet, her hair in disarray, her face smeared with lipstick. She was holding her eye. I alone stayed in my chair. I felt incapable of movement.

'Jesus Christ,' I said aloud. 'What a complete f.u.c.king disaster.'

'It wasn't so bad.'

I looked round, startled. It was the man next to me.

'Hang on a minute. I've just watched my father-in-law defend rape and a.s.sault a famous feminist in front of a paying audience. That's bad enough for me.'

'I was just trying to say...'

'Just go away.'

He went and I was left alone.

Fourteen.

Neville Chamberlain Comprehensive School in Sparkhill. A disaster in grey concrete. Probably no more than twenty years old, already stained with moisture, like underarm sweat. An East German police interrogation centre dropped into a world of towerblocks, crouching red-brick houses and bypa.s.ses. I'd left home in the dark and now, as I parked outside, it was still before eight. No one was about.

The steamed-up, rapidly cooling interior of the car was depressing. I had nothing to read except an A-Z, A-Z, so I crossed the road to a tiny cafe opposite the main school gate. I ordered a mug of mahogany-coloured tea, fried egg, bacon and grilled tomato. Almost all the tables were occupied by men in donkey jackets and the air was smoky and steamy. I looked at the front page of the so I crossed the road to a tiny cafe opposite the main school gate. I ordered a mug of mahogany-coloured tea, fried egg, bacon and grilled tomato. Almost all the tables were occupied by men in donkey jackets and the air was smoky and steamy. I looked at the front page of the Sun Sun being read by the man opposite me. I wondered if there would be anything in the press about Alan's fiasco. being read by the man opposite me. I wondered if there would be anything in the press about Alan's fiasco.

By twenty past eight I was back outside on the pavement, walking up and down to keep warm. Ten minutes later I saw him, on a bicycle. He was wrapped in a large coat, heavy gloves, helmet, but Luke's pale, thin face was unmistakable. As he approached the gate, he swung his right leg deftly back over the bike and rode the final few yards standing on the left pedal, swinging between the groups of pupils who were gathering. I had to run across the road to intercept him. I called his name and he turned his head. He didn't seem surprised and just gave a slightly sarcastic smile. He pulled off his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his long hair which was streaked with grey.

'Don't you have a job to go to?'

During the drive up, my mind had buzzed with things I wanted to learn from Luke. Now that I was here, it was difficult to think of what to ask.

'Can we talk?' I said.

'What are you doing here? What do you want?'

'I mean, can we talk privately? privately?'

A vein throbbed in his temple. He flushed deeply and I thought he was going to shout at me, but then he looked around and made an obvious effort at self-control.

'Come with me,' he said. 'I can give you five minutes.'

Luke chained his bike to a stand and led me through a heavy swing door. We walked noisily down a school corridor whose grey aridity was relieved by paintings and collages on the walls.

'Have you seen the papers today?' he asked, without turning his head.

'No.'

'I could sue Alan, you know.'

'You might lose.'

Luke responded with a curt laugh and led me into a room that was so small that when we both sat down we were almost touching each other. We were surrounded by shelves with bright new exercise books and sheaves of drawing paper.

'Well?' he said.

'Did you co-operate with the police?'

Luke laughed again, in apparent relief.

'That's it?' he said. 'You haven't got anything, have you?'

'Well, did you?'

'I've been questioned by the police, my name has been in the papers. I'm afraid that I'm not very interested in talking to you about this. Look, I don't know what it is you're trying to discover, but if you're trying to prove something out of some girlish fantasy about Nat, just forget it.'

'If it wasn't your baby, whose could it possibly have been?'

Luke hardly seemed to be listening to me.

'I always liked you, Jane. The others, Nat's brothers, they looked down on me. I used to feel in my innocence that you didn't.'