The Back of His Head (23 page)

The price lies somewhere else. In these years there slowly evolved between us what I came to think of as a
lash of love
. I don't think I've ever been so
close
to anyone in those moments when, somehow, I got something right—except in those moments when I got something wrong. Almost, I began to yearn for these failures: not quite, not exactly, but very nearly so. I became less and less able to know what I felt, who I was: whatever had happened, that moment of feeling close to him—of being forgiven and feeling loved, even—put it all right again. I yearned for them. When he
punished
me, and then
forgave
me, and I was shriven and made whole once more.

And, slowly, as I grew older and came to terms with my youthful passage through his strange, strange imaginary life, it became for me the price of greatness, the price of knowing it, of living with it. I came to understand that if I hadn't accepted the things he made me do and the things he did to me when I first came into his life, I would never have walked with gods. We all did, the four of us, I know that, the four who have become the Trust: and I know that in their different, limited, fumbling ways, they know it, too. I tell them so, from time to time.
Look where he took us
, I tell them.
He took us to Stockholm
—

Back then, I was just starting out, see, I hadn't got to the stage when I shifted into the Chicken Coop to look after him full-time, it was early days and I was in and out like I told you. It was just a job—except the bullshit-
chauffeur
business, that wasn't in the original contract, and I was starting to do more and more of that. And I really fell for it, I almost wished I had a uniform so people could see I was official, so they could see I was with him. I've got to admit, it was a big buzz. I remember I drove him to some interview on the riverbank, all these people hanging round watching, and he says,
stand behind me and look staunch
. On the news that night it was up close and you couldn't see I had shorts on. He says to me,
you know you've made it when they stop asking you about books and they start asking you about the Middle East—what do I know about the Middle bloody East, I'm just a writer?
You sounded good, I told him, and I meant it, he just rattled stuff off.
That's because I was talking bullshit
, he said. And then he says to me,
you look pretty good yourself, standing there. But, d'you know what, you've got a weak mouth?
I didn't mind that, I know my head's a bit on the small side for my body, or maybe my body's a bit big for my head. It's more a facial expression sort of thing, though. Now and then I've caught myself in a shop window and I've always got this stupid grin like I'm waiting for something to happen. That's what he said to me.
It's like you've got no thoughts of your own
, he tells me.
I'm going to shape you up, you're my private bodyguard, remember that—what's that programme with the bodyguard?

It really helped when he told me that because I just started to be like the actor who was the bodyguard in this series except I wasn't losing my hair like he was. The old boy told to me to chew gum to help with my mouth, too,
make it look less weak
, he told me,
make it do something, maybe even tighten your lips up a bit after a while
. So I drove him round and I chewed gum, and I sort of fell into his way of life, I sort of fell into this part I had in his life, and soon that was all I had. That was the start of the problem. To tell the truth, I didn't notice till Raewyn started to moan about it. We're not seeing each other enough, she starts telling me, you're always up at Cannon Rise, isn't it meant to be a part-time job? And that suit, she says. It's too big on you, it's too loose, you look like David Byrne. Mr Lawrence'd bought me a couple of suits, see, and a whole lot of other stuff, shirts and even undies? Socks, too, and hankies because he said I should be ashamed of my old snotrags—
what, you only own the one or something
, he says to me.
Look at it, what did you do, deep-fry it or something?
Him and Mr Orr had a row about buying me clothes, I listened through the wall of his office and Mr Lawrence, he give him as good as he got.
I'll do what I want
, he kept saying.
I'm not dead yet, and you're nothing till I am, if you're not careful I'll change things
. That shut him up, Either-Or, he's saying
oh, oh, well then, well
, and
that
made me laugh. But it put another edge on things between me and him, me and Either-Or, specially if I turned up in the new clothes. I'd be loading the old man into the Dodge and I'd be dressed up in my new duds, and he'd be watching from up in the Residence, and I'd feel his eyes boring into my back.

I'll tell you some of the things we did in town, the old man and me. I'd leave the car in that personal parking spot he's got at the uni—he'd remember where everything was that'd used to be there.
There was a bike shop over there
, he'd tell me,
and this was Warner's
. A pub, I guessed, because in a minute we'd be in some walk-in bar and he's ordering
Ouzo
, would you believe that? And there's this guy there and he says
Roger, how are you?
And he shakes hands and then he says,
this is Thomas Hamilton, my bodyguard
, and he points to me. Pleased to meet you, Thomas, this Roger says to me, and he shakes my hand. And I didn't say back to him,
no, it's Thom Ham
, and I'm not quite sure why. I didn't stop him. Thomas Hamilton. After that it's back to the uni, he's striding along ahead like we weren't togther, me with this big white David Byrne suit flapping each time I took a step—Raewyn was right, it
was
too big, even for me, but that was the size Mr Lawrence reckoned he wanted. Over the road we go and into this bookshop, and he's looking round and then he spots something and he says
ah
and he goes over to this stand that's full of his books! Big cardboard cutout next to it of him much younger, and this sign saying
Nobel Prize-Winning Author
and so on, and all these books, and quotations written up in capitals.

This crap
, he mutters to me, and he's pulling books out and looking at them.
This fucking new edition my publisher's brought out
, he says,
meant to be a standard edition, will you look at it?
He shows me one of the books, and it's real leather-looking with this gold lettering. Why's it in its own little box? I ask him, and he says,
oh, that's called a slipcase, how fucking pretentious can you get?
Then he looks round and he says,
here
, and he shoves it inside my jacket! He shoves a couple more in, and looks round, and shoves in some more—hold on, hold on, I'm saying to him, but of course you've got to keep your voice down, this guy's stuffing books into the jacket of your David Byrne outfit as fast as he can go and you don't want to start telling people he's doing
that
—

Then,
come on
, he says,
let's get out of here
!—and we're scrambling out with six or eight books in my jacket! I was shitting ball bearings, I can tell you. But the same time, I was excited. I thought,
that's why he made me buy the David Byrne suit, for shoplifting!
That's all we stole first off, and just
his
books, books he'd written himself. Once we're away from the bookshop we find a dumpster and he makes me shove the books in.
Go on, go on!
he's telling me.
Hurry up!
—and he's looking round the place. But they're good books, I told him, they're brand new books—
throw 'em in
, he says to me.
You stupid prick—that's the point, that's why we're getting rid of them, can't you understand that? I sold my soul to the fucking devil
, he says.
Getting involved in all of this, it's the only way to put it right. I sold myself for thirty pieces of fucking silver
, I remember him saying that to me but not then.
The Judas of world literature
, he tells me,
I should fucking change my name and put it up in lights, Judas Lawrence
.

Course, I'd no idea what the hell he was talking about at that stage, I was just caught up in all the excitement, and I tell you what, he was
bloody exciting
. We shoplifted that much stuff, I feel really bad about it now, we never had a drink in a bar he didn't slip the empty glasses into one of my pockets when we were done. We pinched
that much
—sometimes I'd just about cack my David Byrne outfit. What if we get caught? I ask him, back in the car, what do we do then?
What d'you mean, we?
he says, and he's laughing up at my face with his teeth out.
Remember the turd and the orange peel!
he tells me.
Remember them, on the way to Baton Rouge! The glasses are in your pockets
, he says,
it's you that's wearing the suit—why d'you think I bought it for you in the first place?
But later on he gets all serious with me.
You're breaking through something
, he says to me.
That's the first thing we're doing here. You've never done anything real in your life
, he tells me,
hardly anyone has, that's the trouble. Prostitutes of the unconscious, that's what you all are
. I'm saying
what? Who?
And he tells me,
never mind
.

Death, are you afraid of death?
he says to me one time. We're sitting outside a McDonald's with each of us a double meat burger with cheese and fries and a Coke, and he asks me that!
I'm
not, he says,
are you?
Well, I didn't like to say anything, like, you know—what's the point?
I'm not
, he says. I am, I said, and I don't know why, it just sort of blurted out either side of my double meat burger and cheese. And he's staring up at me and chewing away.
And you a meat-eater
, he says.
You accept death every time you eat meat
, he says.
You know that? That's why they fill me up with that shite up the hill
, he says.
Fucking walnuts. They're afraid of death and they give me walnut loaf
. Isn't that because of your cholesterol and your heart? I ask him. He stares and stares at me and all the time he's getting rid of the last bit of the burger.
Ever kill anything?
he says. Just like that, out of nowhere—he's wiping his hands together and he's still chewing away and looking up at me.
Ever kill anyone?

He's asked me this before but I just about choke on my bun all the same.
Kill
anyone? I ask him. What
d'you
think? He stands up and gets his hankie out.
I think you need to kill something
, he says.
That's how I overcame my fear of death. I killed someone
. What? I'm asking him. What are you talking about? And it turns out he reckons he's killed this boy while he was in North Africa.
A youth
, he says.
Walad, they call them, just the scrapings off the streets. I caught the little shit stealing off me. Life's cheap over there, he knew that
. And then he says to me,
I knew he'd knife me if I let him, so I shot him. I took him out the wasi and I shot him, I played around with him for a while, I shot him in the gut and I waited a while, then I shot him in the balls. Right up close, bang, like that. I took my time
, he says.
I wanted to watch someone die, so I took my time with it. I shot him again a couple of times and he died of blood loss, that's how he went in the end
. And then he says to me,
the death agony's quite something, it's like listening to Bruckner
—

I'm just sitting there staring at him while all this is coming out. There's people around and I guarantee they can hear everything, and I'm thinking,
this place'll be crawling with cops in a minute
—so I get him up and walking, and after a minute he takes the lead, like,
come this way
sort of thing, and all the time he's telling me over his shoulder about the guy he reckons he murdered. Keep your voice down, I'm saying to him, and I'm looking around the place. It's partly because I don't want to hear him myself, see—like, he's telling me where the blood came out of this guy when he shot him, and you just don't want to know, Patrick. In the end I put my hand across his mouth and he got that angry I remember thinking, maybe it's not all bullshit, maybe he
did
kill that kid? Because he did look like he could do it, not so much when he was really angry but the minute he closed all that down, he switched it off like it'd never been there—he goes from one thing to another and he's looking up at me and it was just the eyes, I can't explain it. Of course it might've been his condition, I've never known him before he got Parkinson's so I don't know, do I? But his eyes were flat, not dead but flat, blue like I've said. They used to give me the shits, those pale eyes. They could go
dead
, like
that
. Just staring up at me like a cod on a block. He'd stare right at you, he'd stare right through you and then just go on staring. Right through you.

Anyway, all this time, he's taken us back to the varsity again, you know, where the college is, where we left the car. You going to kill someone here, then, I ask him—you know, he's been talking about murdering someone all this time, I thought, maybe he's got someone in mind?
Not yet
, he tells me, and you can see why I'd remember to tell you
that! Not yet
, is what he said. He's walking on ahead of me, past the bookshop and on a bit, and through under the archway again—you know where he's taking me, Patrick, you know what's going to happen. Yup, the writing school building. That's the first time I had a good look at it, we'd parked the car up against it the first few times we'd been there and we'd walked away. It was the first time he really talked about the place. The Raymond Lawrence School of Creative Writing—that's what it said, there was this sign on the building. You know where I mean. What's this? I ask him. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets and he's looking up at the place.
My biggest bloody mistake
, he says, but it's like he's not saying it to me.
Lending my name to this fucking abortion
, he says.

And that was the first time I knew he had a problem with it. At that stage, I didn't even know what creative writing was—I'm still not sure! And I still don't know why he was the way he was about it, either, the way he was talking it was the worst thing in the whole wide world. As far as I could see when he told me what it was, it was just these people trying to be writers. Just writing stuff out of their heads? I ask him.
Well, it's what I've spent my life doing
, he says.
Difference is, I didn't need some stupid prick to tell me how to do it, and d'you know why?—because you can't, you can't teach some fucker inspiration, you can't teach technique, you can't give them something to write about. You can't let them think they're going to be fucking famous when they'll be off selling cars in five years' time or insurance door to door or crockery
. This is right outside his own school he's saying this, yelling it out, this angry little old geezer with crumbs all round his mouth, and there's me next to him in my big white suit, leaning over him going
shh, shh
—