Authors: David Mitchell
‘Are that woman’s boobs for
real
?’ Hugo hissed at us. ‘Or are they a pair of spare heads?’
Mr Rhydd sticks Lucozade-yellow plastic sheets over his windows to stop the displays fading. But his ‘displays’ are only ever pyramids of canned pears, and the plastic sheets make inside his shop feel like a photograph from Victorian times. Hugo and I read the notices on the board for second-hand Lego, kittens needing homes, good-as-new washing machines for £10 O.N.O. and ads promising you hundreds of extra pounds in your spare time. The cold-soapy, rotting-orangey, newsprinty smell of Mr Rhydd’s hits you the moment you’re inside. There’s the post office booth in one corner where Mrs Rhydd the postmistress sells stamps and dog licences, though not today ’cause today’s Saturday. Mrs Rhydd’s signed the Official Secrets Act but she looks quite normal. There’s a rack of greetings cards showing men dressed like Prince Philip fishing in rivers saying ‘On Father’s Day’ or foxgloves in a cottage garden saying ‘For My Dearest Grandmother’. There are shelves of alphabet spaghetti, Pedigree Chum and Ambrosia Rice Pudding. There are packs of toys like blow-football and play-money that never sell ’cause they’re too crap. A Slush Puppy machine makes cups of snow in felt-pen colours, but not in March. Behind the counter are cigarettes and shelves of beer and wine. On high shelves are jars of Sherbert Bombs, Cola Cubes, Cider Apples and Navy Tablets. These come in paper bags.
‘Wow,’ said Hugo. ‘Thrillsville. I’ve died and gone to
Harrods
.’
Just then Kate Alfrick, Julia’s best friend, breezed in, and got to the counter at the same time as Robin South’s mum. Robin South’s mum let Kate go first ’cause Kate just wanted a bottle of wine. She can buy alcohol ’cause she’s turned eighteen.
‘Ta very much.’ Mr Rhydd handed Kate her change. ‘Celebrating?’
‘Not really,’ said Kate. ‘Mum and Dad are coming back from Norfolk tomorrow evening. Thought I’d have a nice dinner ready to welcome them home. This,’ she tapped the bottle, ‘is the finishing touch.’
‘Jolly good,’ Mr Rhydd said, ‘jolly good. Now then, Mrs South…’
Kate passed us on her way out. ‘Hello, Jason.’
‘Hello, Kate.’
‘Hi, Kate,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m his cousin.’
Kate studied Hugo through her Russian secretary glasses. ‘The one called Hugo.’
‘Only three hours in Black Swan Green,’ Hugo did a funny stagger of amazement, ‘and I’m being discussed
already
?’
I told Hugo it was to Kate’s house Julia’d gone to revise.
‘Oh, so you’re
that
Kate.’ He gestured at the wine. ‘Liebfraumilch?’
‘Yes,’ Kate said, in a
what’s it to you?
voice. ‘Liebfraumilch.’
‘Bit sweet. You look drier. More the chardonnay type.’
(The only wines
I
know are red, white, fizzy and rosé.)
‘Could be you don’t know your types as well as you think you do.’
‘Could be, Kate,’ Hugo combed his hair with his hand, ‘could be. Well, we mustn’t keep you away from your revision any longer. Doubtless you and Julia are hard at it. Hope we’ll bump into each other again, some time.’
Kate did a frowning smile. ‘I shouldn’t pin your hopes on it.’
‘Not
all
my hopes, Kate, no. That would be rash. But the world can surprise you. I am a younger man, but this much I do know.’
At the door Kate looked over her shoulder.
Hugo had this cocky
See?
expression ready.
Kate left, cross.
‘How,’ Hugo reminded me of Uncle Brian, ‘
app
etizing.’
I paid Mr Rhydd for the coffee. Hugo said, ‘That’s never
real
crystallized ginger you have in that jar, right up at the top?’
‘Certainly is, Blue.’ Mr Rhydd calls all us kids ‘Blue’ so he doesn’t have to remember our names. He blew his cracked Mr Punch nose. ‘Mrs Yew’s mother was partial to it, so I’d order it in for her. She passed away with a new jar barely touched.’
‘Fascinating. My Aunt Drucilla, who we’re staying with in Bath,
adores
crystallized ginger. I’m sorry to send you up your ladder again, but…’
‘No bother, Blue,’ Mr Rhydd stuffed his hanky into his pocket, ‘no bother at all.’ He dragged his ladder over, climbed up and groped for the far jar.
Hugo checked nobody else was in the shop.
He eeled forwards on his chest, over the counter, reached between the rungs of the ladder, just six
inches
under Mr Rhydd’s Hush Puppies, took a box of Lambert & Butler cigarettes, and eeled back.
Numb, I mouthed at him,
What are you
doing
?
Hugo stuffed the cigarettes down his pants. ‘Jason, are you okay?’
Mr Rhydd shook the jar down at us. ‘This’d be the badger, Blue?’ His nostrils were sockets stuffed with hairy darkness.
‘That would indeed be the badger, Mr Rhydd,’ said Hugo.
‘Jolly good, jolly good.’
I was
shitting
myself.
And
then
, as Mr Rhydd eased himself down the ladder, Hugo snatched two Cadbury’s Crème Eggs from the tray and dropped them in my duffel coat pocket. If I’d struggled
now
or even tried to put them back, Mr Rhydd’d’ve noticed. To top it all, in the moment between Mr Rhydd’s foot touching the ground and Mr Rhydd turning round to face us, Hugo swiped a packet of Fisherman’s Friends and stuffed
that
in with the Crème Eggs. The packet rustled. Mr Rhydd wiped dust off the jar. ‘What’ll it be, Blue? Quarter of a pound do you?’
‘A quarter of a pound would be
excellent
, Mr Rhydd.’
‘Why d’you’ (Hangman blocked ‘nick’
then
‘steal’ so I had to use the naff ‘pinch’) ‘pinch the fags?’ I wanted to scarper away from the crime scene as quick as possible, but a slow queue of traffic’d built up behind a tractor so we couldn’t cross the crossroads yet.
‘Plebs smoke “fags”.
I
smoke cigarettes. I don’t “
pinch
”. Plebs “pinch”. I “
liberate
”.’
‘Then why did you “liberate” the—’ (now I couldn’t say ‘cigarettes’).
‘Ye-es?’ prompted Hugo.
‘The Lambert & Butlers.’
‘If you mean “Why did you liberate the cigarettes?” it’s because smoking is a simple pleasure, with no proven side effects except lung cancer and heart disease. I intend to be long dead by then. If you mean “Why choose Lambert & Butlers in particular?” it’s because I wouldn’t be seen
homeless
smoking anything
else
, except for Passing Cloud. Which that tragic old dipso doesn’t stock in his village grocery, of course.’
I still didn’t get it. ‘Haven’t you got enough money to buy them?’
This amused my cousin. ‘Do I
look
like I haven’t got enough money?’
‘But why take the risk?’
‘Ah, the liberated cigarette is the sweetest.’
Now I knew how Aunt Alice felt in the garage earlier. ‘But why’d you take the Fisherman’s Friends and the Crème Eggs?’
‘The Fisherman’s Friends are insurance against Mr Tobacco Breath. The Crème Eggs were insurance against you.’
‘Insurance against me?’
‘You’ll hardly grass on me if you also had liberated contraband on you, would you?’
An oil tanker inched past, puking out fumes.
‘I didn’t grass you off when you made Nigel cry earlier, did I?’
‘Made Nigel cry? Who made Nigel cry?’
Then I noticed Kate Alfrick’s house, or rather a silver MG parked round the side. This guy who definitely wasn’t Julia opened the front door for Kate as she walked up her drive, carrying her wine. The upstairs curtains twitched. ‘Hey, look—’
‘Let’s cross.’ Hugo edged towards an oncoming gap. ‘Hey, look what?’
We dashed across the road, to the path to the lake in the woods.
‘Nothing.’
‘No no no no no, you’re holding it like a Hollywood Nazi. Relax! Just hold it like it’s a fountain pen. There. Now, let there be light…’ My cousin reached inside his jacket. ‘Of course, it takes a lighter to impress the quality quim, but lighters do give the game away if found in your blazer pocket by prying Nigels. So Swan Vestas will have to do for this afternoon’s lesson.’
The lake was nervous with riplets and counter-riplets.
‘I didn’t see you liberate those at Mr Rhydd’s.’
‘I took them from that grebo in the pub who called me “mate”.’
‘You pinched Grant Burch’s matches?’
‘Don’t look so appalled. Why would “Grant Burch” suspect me? I’d turned down his mucky cigarette. Yet another perfect crime.’
Hugo lit a match, cupped it and leant towards me.
A sudden jostle of wind snatched the Lambert & Butler from my fingers. It fell between the slats of the bench. ‘Oh, bum,’ I said, bending down to retrieve it. ‘Soz.’
‘Take a new one and don’t say “soz”. I’ll have to donate the surplus tobacco to the local wildlife, anyway.’ My cousin held out the pack of Lambert & Butlers. ‘The wise dealer
never
risks getting caught in possession.’
I looked at the offered packet. ‘Hugo, I’m grateful to you for…y’know, showing me, and everything, but, to be honest, I’m not sure if—’
‘Jace!’ Hugo did a jokey-amazed face. ‘Don’t say you’re backing out
now
? I thought we’d decided to strip you of this shameful virginity of yours?’
‘Yeah…but maybe…not today.’
Blind boars of wind crashed through the anxious woods.
‘“Not today”, huh?’
I nodded, worried he’d be pissed off.
‘Your choice, Jace.’ Hugo pulled the gentlest face. ‘I mean, we’re friends, aren’t we? I’d hardly twist your arm into doing something against your will.’
‘Thanks.’ I felt stupid with gratitude.
‘But,’ Hugo lit his own cigarette, ‘it’s my duty to point out, this isn’t just about smoking a humble cancer stick.’
‘How do you mean?’
Hugo grimaced in a
Should I or shouldn’t I?
quandary.
‘Go on. Say it.’
‘You need to hear some hard truths, cousin,’ he took a deep drag, ‘but first I have to know
you
know I’m telling you them for your own good.’
‘Okay. I’ (Hangman gripped ‘know’) ‘understand.’
‘Promise me?’
‘Promise.’
The green or grey of Hugo’s eyes depends on the weather. ‘This “not today” attitude of yours
is
a cancer. Cancer of the character. It stunts your growth. Other kids sense your not-todayness, and despise you for it. “Not-today” is why those plebs in the Black Swan make you nervous. “Not today” – I would
bet
– is at the root of that speech defect of yours.’ (A shame-bomb blew my head off.) ‘“Not today” condemns you to be the lapdog of authority,
any
bully,
any
shitehawk. They sense you won’t stand up to them. Not today, not ever. “Not today” is the blind slave of every petty rule. Even the rule that says’ (Hugo did this bleaty voice) ‘“
No, smoking is
BAD
! Don’t listen to naughty Hugo Lamb!
” Jason, you
have
to kill “not today”.’
This was so appallingly true I could only try to smile.
Then Hugo said, ‘I was you myself, Jace, once. Just the same. Always afraid. But there’s another reason why you
must
smoke this cigarette. Not because it’s the first step to becoming someone your turkey-shagging schoolmates will respect instead of exploit. Not because a young blood with a mature cigarette is a better proposition to the ladies than a boy with a sherbert dip. It’s this. Come here. I’ll whisper it.’ Hugo leant so close his lips touched my ears and 10,000 volts sang all over my nervous system. (For a split second I had a vision of Hugo the Oarsman out on the water, cathedrals and river banks blurring by, biceps stiffening and loosening under his vest, with girlfriends lining the river. Girlfriends ready to lick him where he told them.) ‘If you
don’t
kill “not today”,’ Hugo did a horror-movie trailer voice, ‘
One day you’ll wake up, look in the mirror and see Brian and Uncle Michael!
’
‘
Atta
boy…breathe in…through your mouth, not your nose…’
The mouthful of gassy dirt left my mouth.
Hugo was stern. ‘You didn’t suck it into your lungs, did you, Jace?’
I shook my head, wanting to spit.
‘You have to
inhale
, Jace. Into your lungs. Otherwise it’s like sex without an orgasm.’
‘Okay.’ (I don’t actually know what an orgasm is, apart from what you call someone who’s done something stupid.) ‘Right.’
‘I’m just going to pinch your nose,’ said Hugo, ‘to stop you cheating.’ His fingers closed off my nostrils. ‘Deep breath – not too deep – and let the smoke go down with the air.’ Then his other hand sealed my mouth shut. The air was cold but his hands were warm. ‘One, two…three!’
In came the hot gassy dirt. My lungs flooded with it.
‘Hold it there,’ urged Hugo. ‘One, two, three, four, five, and—’ he released my lips, ‘—
out
.’
The smoke leaked out, a genie from its bottle.
The wind atomized the genie.
‘And that,’ said Hugo, ‘is all there is to it.’
Vile. ‘Nice.’
‘It’ll grow on you. Finish the cigarette.’ Hugo perched himself on the back of the bench and relit his own Lambert & Butler. ‘As aquatic spectacles go, I am a trifle underwhelmed by your lake. Is this where the swans are?’
‘There aren’t any actual swans in Black Swan Green.’ My second drag was as revolting as my first. ‘It’s a sort of village joke. The lake was
classic
in January, mind. It froze over. We played British Bulldogs actually on the ice. Though I found out afterwards there’s about twenty kids who’ve drowned in this lake, down the years.’
‘Who could blame them?’ Hugo did a weary sigh. ‘Black Swan Green might not be the arsehole of the world, but it’s got a damn good view of it. You’ve gone a bit pale, Jace.’
‘I’m fine.’
The first torrent of vomit kicked a
GUUURRRRRR
noise out of me and poured on to the muddy grass. In the hot slurry were shreds of prawn and carrot. Some’d got on my splayed fingers. It was as warm as warm rice pudding. More was coming. Inside my eyelids was a Lambert & Butler cigarette sticking out of its box, like in an advert. The second torrent was a mustardier yellow. I guppered for fresh oxygen like a man in an airlock.
Prayed
that was the last of it. Then came three short, boiling sub-slurries, slicker and sweeter. Must have been the Baked Alaska.