on a truly formidable sleeping policeman he pulled up
at a barrier. A man in a serge blue uniform spoke to him
from behind the metal grille of a fortified kiosk. “ID,”
he said. Marlon scrambled for his driving licence in the
glove compartment. “I’ve come to talk to Class 9.” “Sign
this disclaimer,” said the guard, then pointed the way
without removing his gauntlet. As instructed, Marlon
parked up, passed through a metal detector then followed
a line of dried blood splashes to a room at the end of a
basement corridor. Halfway along he spotted his daughter,
who took one look at him—especially at his shoes—and
bolted. Inside the classroom about twenty young teenagers
were sprawled across tables and chairs, scratching and
yawning. Thinking that surprise was his best tactic,
Marlon gulped down a big breath of air, fetched a small rust-
coloured stone out of his pocket and said, “Has anyone here
ever seen a shooting star? Has anyone ever held a piece of
outer space in their hand? Does anyone know what this is?”
A boy at the back in a stabproof body warmer put his hand
up. “What’s your ride, man?” “Excuse me?” said Marlon.
“What kind of car do you drive, granddad?” said the boy.
“A Clio,” Marlon told him. “That’s a pussy’s car,” said the boy,
and the whole class sniggered. Marlon was still holding the
stone between his thumb and index finger, but awkwardly,
like a robot picking up an egg. Another boy with a swastika
tattoo on his earlobe strolled right up to Marlon and said,
“Have you got any money, or no?” “Not on me,” lied Marlon.
“Come on, we’re wasting our time with this muppet,” said the
young Nazi. With their hands rammed in their pockets the
rest of the class followed him out of the room. Only a petite,
bespectacled girl remained in her seat. She was very tiny
indeed—just a dot of a thing. In a voice like the squeaking
wheel of a pram she said, “That’s no meteorite. It’s just a
pebble you picked up on the road. Isn’t it, mister? Isn’t it?”
Marlon said, “Do you know my daughter, Jennifer?” “You’re
not Jenny’s dad. Jenny’s dad’s got no legs,” she piped.
Marlon wasn’t crying exactly, but behind his eyes tears
were streaming like rain down the windows of an all-night
café. “Look, I’ll show you the way to the caretaker’s office
then you’ll have to make a run for it,” said the girl. “But it’ll
have to look like there’s been a struggle. A black eye at least,
and maybe a broken nose, just to be safe.” Marlon thought
about the brittle, porcelain cheekbones beneath the pale
skin of her face. “I could never hit a child,” he said. “Stupid—
it’s me whacking you,” she said, pulling a telescopic
truncheon out of her book bag. Marlon turned away
from the blow. Just then Jennifer’s face appeared in the
panel of safety glass in the classroom door. Suddenly the
meteorite started to glow.
Upon Unloading the Dishwasher
Even though Katy was desperate to end her affair with
Raymond she agreed to a rendezvous at a local gallery.
Standing in front of a canvas onto which the blood of a
dead rabbit had dripped and congealed, Raymond said,
“It’s kind of rabbit-shaped—do you think that’s the point?”
When she didn’t answer, Raymond raised his voice. “I
SAID IT’S KIND OF RABBIT-SHAPED—DO YOU
THINK THAT’S THE POINT?” When Katy finally replied,
here’s what she said:
“Raymond, imagine my surprise when, upon unloading
the dishwasher, I discovered the image of The World’s
Most Wanted Man imprinted on one of my best dinner
plates. I phoned the Customer Service Hotline. This bored-
sounding operative somewhere in the subcontinent said to
me, ‘So let me get this straight, madam, you’ve found The
World’s Most Wanted Man taking refuge in your
dishwasher?’ ‘No,’ I said, and explained again in plain
English. He said, ‘Are you sure it isn’t a gravy stain or the
residue from a pork chop? Meat products can be very
stubborn, and for heavy soiling we recommend a pre-soak.
Also, you might want to try a longer cycle at a higher
temperature, and can I ask which type of detergent you’re
using? Is it tablet or sachet?’ Then maybe he heard my
sobbing because he said, ‘OK, we’ll send somebody
round.’ Five minutes later there was a knock at the door
and in came a policeman and a priest. ‘That’s him all right,’
said the officer, holding the dinner plate up to the light and
confirming the identity of The World’s Most Wanted Man.
‘Is it a miracle?’ I asked. The priest had closed his eyes
and was sitting on the pedal bin with his arms folded
across his chest. The policeman laughed. ‘Are you kidding—
this is the ninth this week. And it isn’t just plates. It’s cups,
dishes, ice cubes, toast, pizzas. A woman in Hull found
him in a wholemeal loaf, all the way through.’ Then he
said, ‘We’ll have to take this appliance away, get the lab
boys to give it the once-over.’ Now I was crying again. I
said, ‘But it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve got a party of twelve to
cater for tomorrow, including Dr. Roscoe and that poor boy
who stands in the park all day flipping a coin. What shall I
do?’ He said, ‘At times like this some people find that
praying helps.’ With his extendable baton he pointed at a
place on the lino where I might kneel. I asked him if he’d
join me, but he replied, ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind. Like
my old man told me, there are only two reasons for putting
your hands together: one’s for ironic applause, the other’s
to scrub up before dinner, and even then the palms don’t
actually touch because they’re separated by an invisible and
infinitely thin film of detergent. What you call soap.’ ”
Every word that Katy had uttered was complete poppycock.
She knew it and Raymond knew it too. But the security
guard had gone outside for a cigarette, and they were the
only living souls left in the great, echoing hangar of the
gallery. And Katy knew with an absolute clarity of
perception that the moment she stopped talking the fresh
and bloody wound of Raymond’s mouth would move
quickly and incisively against her own.
Poodles
They all looked daft but the horse-dog looked
daftest of all. The cute red bridle and swishing
tail, the saddle and stirrups, the groomed mane.
The hair round its feet had been shaved and
fluffed into hooves. Close up, on its hind, there
were vampire bites where the clippers had steered
too close to the skin. Skin that was blotchy and
rude. I leaned over the rail and whispered,
“You’re not a horse, you’re a dog.” It bared its
canines and growled: “Shut the fuck up, son. Forty-
five minutes and down come the dirty bombs—is
&nbs
p; that what you want? Now offer me one of those
mints and hold it out in the flat of your hand.
Then hop on.” I was six, with a kitten’s face and
the heart of a lamb.
The Personal Touch
My cohabitee can be pretty demanding. Asked what she
wanted for our first anniversary she replied, “I want some
space, Paul, and plenty of it.” I said, “Are you absolutely
sure? You wouldn’t rather have a macramé seat cover
for the Mercedes Roadster I bought you for Christmas?
Or one of those metallic-coloured MP3 players I saw you
admiring over at Brett’s house the other day?” She put
aside her nail file and said, “Paul, space is what I want
and space is what I need. Do I have to SPELL IT OUT?”
I went down to the hardware shop in the high street. It
was very manly in there, lots of stern objects made from
uncompromising metals. Lots of “big ticket” items with
throttles and interchangeable blades. “Got any space?”
I asked the man in the brown overalls. “Sure,” he said.
“What kind of thing were you looking for? Doesn’t come
cheap, mind.” He showed me some second-hand space
they were letting go for half price, but one lot appeared
somewhat dog-eared around the edges, and another batch
had been wallpapered with woodchip during the ’70s, and
yet another carried a vague whiff of embalming fluid. He
pulled down a huge pattern book and showed me the
entire range: hexagonal space, deep ocean space, space
that glowed in the dark, vacuum-packed space, space that
had been brought back from outer space, space that
giggled when you poked it, space made out of air bubbles
extracted from core samples of Antarctic ice dating back
billions of years. I just couldn’t decide. The shopkeeper
said, “It’s for a lady friend, right?” I couldn’t even bring
myself to nod—my head felt like a famous but forgotten
church bell sitting in a scrap yard on the wrong side of
the river. He said, “In which case, let me recommend
this. It’s pretty neutral, standard spec., no trimmings to
speak of, but in a situation like your own I always think
it’s better to play safe.” I went for a haircut while he gift-
wrapped the space, then in the newsagents I bought a gift
tag in the shape of a serenading starfish, and wrote on it,
“Here’s what you asked for, my sweetheart. I only hope
it’s enough.” I dropped the package on the doorstep and
pressed the buzzer. Then I zoomed off in the Roadster,
faster than I’d ever travelled in my whole existence,
straight along Quarry Road.
The Last Panda
Unprecedented economic growth in my native country
has brought mochaccino and broadband to where there
was nothing but misery and disease, yet with loss of
habitat the inevitable consequence; even the glade I was
born in is now a thirty-storey apartment block with valet
parking and a nail salon. They scrape DNA from the
inside of my cheek and freeze it, “just in case.” To the
world I’m known by my stage name and am Richard to
family and friends, but never Dick. Well-meaning
tourists visiting the Cavern throw pastries and pieces of
fruit despite notices regarding my sensitive nature and
strict diet. I cried all night when John was shot, rubbed
the tired circles of my eyes till they turned black. Please
do not tap on the glass. The sixties did it for everyone, I
mean EVERYONE, and what people failed to grasp
about Chairman Mao was that despite the drab-looking
suits and systematic violations of basic human rights
he liked a good tune as much as the next man.
Liverpool’s a great shag but you wouldn’t want to marry
it. They named a potato snack in my honour and also a
small family car, how many people can say that? Fans
write to me from as far away as Papua New Guinea and I
insist on responding personally. In fact my “sixth digit”—
an enlarged wrist bone which functions as a thumb—
means that handwriting comes easier to me than it does to
many other creatures, for example the Rolling Stones. If
I didn’t believe there was one more hit record in me I
swear I’d end it now. In the dream, there’s still a Paul
and a George somewhere in the high valleys of Ganzu
Province, classic period white shirts and black ties, mop
tops down to their shoulders, strumming away. These
sunglasses have prescription lenses and are not just for
effect. Reviewing my Wikipedia entry I note that
“Yellow Submarine” and “Octopus’s Garden” anticipated
the absurdist trend in rock ‘n’ roll by at least a decade.
Every first Tuesday in the month the lady vet gives me a
hand job but due to the strength of the tranquilliser the
pleasure is all hers. Years ago they brought Yoko to the
doors of my cage but it wouldn’t have worked; I let the
slow snowball of my head roll sadly eastwards and
stared towards the Himalayas. In the whole cosmos
there’s only me. What hurts most isn’t the loneliness
but the withering disrespect: as if they’d dropped a couple
Sold to the Lady in the Sunglasses and Green Shoes
My girlfriend won me in a sealed auction but wouldn’t
tell me how much she bid. “Leave it, Frank. It’s not
important. Now go to sleep,” she said. But I was restless.
An hour later I woke her and said, “Give me a ballpark
figure.” “I’m tired,” she replied. I put the light on. “But
are we talking like thousands here?” She rolled away,
pulled the cotton sheet over her head, mumbling, “You’re
being silly, Frank.” I said, “Oh, being silly am I? So not
thousands. Just a couple of hundred, was it?” “I’m not
telling you, so drop it,” she snarled. By now I was wide
awake. “Fifty, maybe? A tenner?” She didn’t say anything,
and when Elaine doesn’t say anything I know I’m getting
close to the truth. Like the other day with the weed killer.
I said, “Maybe you weren’t bidding for me at all. Maybe
you were after a flat-screen telly or a home sun-tanning
unit, and you got me instead. Tell me, Elaine. Tell me
what I’m worth, because right now I don’t know if I’m
an original Fabergé egg or just something the cat dragged
in.” Elaine surfaced from under the covers and took a sip
of water from the glass on the bedside table. “Frank, listen.
What does it matter if it was a million pounds or a second-
class stamp? You’re priceless, OK? You’re everything to
me. Don’t spoil it by talking about money.” Then she took
my hand and held it against her breast and said, “Do you
want to make love?” I answered with my body, tipping
every last quicksilver coin into her purse.
But that night I dreamed of the boy-slave winning his
freedom by plucking a leaf from Diana’s golden bough,
and long before dawn, w
ith bread in my knapsack and
the wind at my back, I strode forth.
The War of the Roses
Mancunian Norman had just turned on to the M621 when
he saw a pewter-haired old man in a brown suit sitting on a
signpost, with his hands covering his face. He appeared to
be sobbing. Being a thoughtful sort with a church
upbringing and a diploma in sociology, Norman eased up
then reversed slowly along the hard shoulder. He stepped
out of the car and said, “Couldn’t help noticing how sad
you looked. Can I give you a lift into the city?” The old
man’s face was soggy with tears, some of which had
dripped onto his lapels, leaving black spots like air-pellet
holes on the chocolate-coloured jacket. “I’m sad all right,”
he said. “Did you read about the boy in the sewers?”
Norman shook his head. “Five days he was down there, his
screams coming up through every drain and sink. I heard
him myself one night when I was cleaning my teeth, and a
more sorrowful noise I never knew. They sent in potholers.
They sent in the Moorland Rescue. They even sent in
Rentokil.” “Did they find him?” asked Norman. “Dragged
him out through a manhole cover in Clay Pit Lane last
night. The rats had got him. I don’t think this city will
ever be the same again.” Another tear dithered on the point
of his chin then dripped onto his shoe. “You seem to have
taken it very hard,” observed Norman. “Hit by a train,”
said the man, “and I’ll show you why.” He stood up and
pointed at the sign he’d been perching on. It read,
Welcome to Leeds. Population 715,403. “It’s my job to
keep this sign up to date. As soon as I heard about sewer
boy’s sorry demise I walked here over the meadows,
swishing through the morning dew, with my pocket
screwdriver and my bag of numbers.” He produced a
scrunched-up Tesco’s carrier from his jacket pocket. “But
when I looked there was no number two. I’ve got a five,
I’ve got three sixes and an eight, but no two. And what am
I if I can’t dignify that boy’s agonising demise with the
right number? I’m a useless old gimmer and I’m going to