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‘Look at Walter, he seems alright.'

‘Walter is very frail and always in danger.'

‘Walter's as strong as an ox.'

‘He is
frail
If he carries on smoking he will die.'

‘He's ninety-eight years old.'

‘Precisely. How much longer can it go on?'

She peered closely at Theo and he shut his mouth to hide his teeth. ‘When was the last time you had a check-up?'

'Sorry?'

‘If cigarettes do more good than harm, like you say, then when did you last see a doctor?'

‘I'm fine,' Theo said. ‘Fit as a fiddle. Never been ill in my life.'

‘That's what my husband always said.'

‘Ah yes, your husband.'

She stood up and handed Theo her mug. Theo said,

‘More tea? Biscuits?'

‘No doubt I'll be seeing you at the Estates. Thanks for the tea.'

‘We have biscuits.'

But Emmy was already closing the door behind her. Theo listened to her footsteps on the staircase, then sniffed at the tea left in her mug. He raised it to his lips and sipped. He swallowed, then sighed, almost as if it was the first cigarette of the day.

‘You liar,' I said. ‘We never have biscuits.'

Dad: ‘Well how was I supposed to know? They all look the same and they all wear make-up and they all act so bloody grown-up all the time.'

Mum: ‘That's not the point.'

Dad: ‘And they all lie. It's not as though I'm selling acid drugs, for God's sake.'

Often, though usually while lying in the bath, I had pretensions to brilliance so extreme and absolute they were brilliant in themselves. Exploring my latent greatness, I became enthralled by long sequences of imagined triumphs which weren't to be disturbed by doors slamming downstairs, or by heated voices rising clearly through the floor-boards from the kitchen below.

Dad etc: ‘And I suppose you've never made a mistake in
your
life?'

Mum etc: ‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Never peeked out of the bedroom window?'

‘That was fifteen years ago.'

‘And watched him parade naked, entirely for your benefit.'

‘He was never naked.'

‘You used to drool.'

‘Nothing happened and I never used to drool.'

‘Only because you wouldn't kiss a smoker.'

‘Now you're being silly.'

‘He wouldn't have lasted ten minutes with your nagging.'

I turned on the hot tap with my toes and slipped my ears under the water until all I could hear was the whale-song of the water-pipes. I was the centre of the universe, poised to rescue beautiful women, and in this place there was no death and no loneliness and I believed it was my destiny to live forever.

Too Good To Be True came in first at twenty to one, leaving Theo a great deal richer than when he arrived at the race-track. The following day, undeterred by God's perversity, he bet on the outcome of a Hamilton by-election. A surprise win by the Scottish Nationalists meant that he more than doubled his money. He tried to lose it again by joining an illegal blackjack game in a Pollokshaws cafe, followed by roulette in Glasgow's only licensed casino, the Rubicon. He later moved on to greyhound-racing, bingo, push-pennies, and one-armed bandits.

To ensure that the outcome was uniquely the responsibility of his mother's God, he decided that none of his bets should involve any skill. He could therefore bet on football and horses and the Embassy World Darts because he knew absolutely nothing about them. His second rule was never to back outsiders, so as to avoid the possibility of an enormous win. The obvious disadvantage of this was that it made winning more likely.

He once had a bet on a four-way distance-spitting contest outside a pub in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh. He knew nothing about the spitting backgrounds of any of the competitors, so he bet on the favourite. The favourite won.

In two years of gambling he always won a little more than he lost, and there came to be a type of wildness in both the gambling and the winning. He let his hair grow longer. More than once he declined offers of teaching posts at the University, because he was never satisfied that he'd established unequivocally the existence of a benign God suffering constant remorse for the injustice of his mother's death.

He therefore carried on gambling even though he missed the more consoling results of research into plant cells. It was only in 1962, after a coincidence completely outside his control, that he was unexpectedly rescued from this desperation of good fortune by the Royal College of Physicians.

‘You never used to be like this. Come on, Theo.'

‘May be she's right.'

‘You're the one who started it. You can't just stop.'

‘What's the point? Emmy says we kill people.'

‘We haven't killed anybody.'

‘Make them dependent.'

‘You think they're free? They need us.'

‘We created the need.'

‘Cigarettes help. You've heard the stories.'

‘A poor substitute for real help.'

‘There is no real help.'

‘We addict them.'

‘We're all more addicted to water.'

‘What?'

‘It gets us through the days.'

‘We die earlier.'

‘Understanding satisfaction.'

‘Children suffer.'

‘Less than being beaten.'

‘There's no connection.'

‘In an irrational rage by parents desperate for cigarettes.'

‘Yes, well. But. It's still a risk.'

‘It's not drugs, Theo. It doesn't break up homes.'

‘Increased risk of fire then.'

‘It's only one mad woman, and friends.'

'She's not mad.'

‘They're all the same.'

‘Only married.'

‘They hate one smoker and take it out on everyone else. We just have to keep on going until she gives up and leaves us to our own devices.'

‘Would you say she hates me?'

‘Who knows? She's not normal.'

‘Have you seen the way she waves a banner? Amazing.'

'Stop tormenting yourself. Look, let's have a fag, before Bananas rips up the sofa.
Theo:

'Sorry. What?'

‘Let's have a fag, alright?'

‘I'm trying to cut down.'

‘You're
what?

‘They say that cigarettes are sometimes a substitute for affection.'

‘Last request, soldier.'

I blame myself. Feeling sorry for him I actually
asked
for it.

1916 etc. The officer pulls his silver cigarette-case from the upper left hand pocket of his tunic, and then asks Walter for his last request. Walter says nothing.

'Speak up, soldier. D'you want a cigarette or don't you?'

‘I don't smoke,' Walter says.

‘I don't smoke,
sir'

‘I don't smoke,
sir'

‘Of course you smoke. You're about to be shot. Take one of these.'

It wasn't the ideal moment for Walter to point out that he didn't smoke because it was bad for his health, so he took the cigarette from the officer and put it between his lips. The officer then pulled out a silver wheel-lighter and spun the wheel. It was out of petrol.

‘Damn,' he said.

He asked the caterers if any of them had any matches, and unfortunately they did. The officer took a box from a pastry chef, who then returned to his place in the line, rifle at the ready.

These matches are damp,' the officer said. ‘Where have they been?'

‘In a trench, sir.'

The officer struck a match, just to check they still worked. He threw the first match away and walked back to Walter. He struck a second match and held it in front of Walter's cigarette just as Walter exhaled, practising how to smoke. The match blew out.

'Sorry,' Walter said.

'Sorry,
sir.'

'Sorry,
sir.'

The officer struck a third match and was shot dead by a German sniper.

‘Can I sit in your bean-bag?'

‘No, Mum, please.'

‘I've never sat in a bean-bag before. It's a long way down.'
‘Mum.'

‘It's very comfy really. Am I meant to lean forward? Or lie back like this?'

‘Don't
sit in my bean-bag.'

‘I'm only
seeing. 
Well help me up then.'

She picked up some clothes and folded them. She came and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. She took a book from the bedside table and looked at the cover-picture of a melting clock. Then slowly, as if reaching out her hand to trap a living thing, she plucked Julian's cigarette from the open Helix tin. She held it up accusingly.

‘Gregory.'

I said Mum.

‘What is
this?

‘You know what it is, Mum. It's a cigarette.'

‘And why is it here in your room?'

‘It's mine. And it's only a cigarette.'

I took it away from her and put it back in the pencil-box. Mum said she didn't understand me, and I had the feeling she was making a big effort to be understanding.

‘First cigarettes,' she said, ‘and then
New York.
It's a girl, isn't it?'

I didn't answer.

‘You know you could work in the shop?'

Her arm, by motherly guile, crept around my shoulders as she patiently explained to me that visiting idealists were shot to death every day on the streets of New York, mostly by realists. She also reminded me that I was completely middle-class and therefore totally unskilled. I should remember who I was: Gregory Simpson, son of Mr and Mrs Simpson, tobacconists.

‘I don't want to work in the shop,' I said.

‘I'll ask your father.'

‘I don't want to work in the shop.'

‘What
do
you want then? What is it you really want in life?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Whatever it is you want,' she said, ‘you can't have it. Not exactly how you want it. You know that, don't you?'

She gave my shoulder a little squeeze.

‘There's always something missing, and feeling dissatisfied is just, well, it's the same for everybody. You could do a lot worse than work with your father.'

‘What does Dad think?'

‘He thinks he's a drug-dealer.'

‘It's a tobacco shop. I'd probably take up smoking.'

‘As if you hadn't already,' she said, staring significantly at the Helix tin. ‘Cigarettes won't help, Gregory.'

‘I don't smoke, Mum,' I said. ‘I promised, remember?'

She didn't look totally convinced.

‘It's kind of a sentimental cigarette,' I said.

She gave me a big hug, jamming my throat against her shoulder.

‘I love you, Gregory,' she said. ‘Don't forget I love you very much.'

10

'Surrounded by a wall.'

'Sounds nice,' Theo said.

‘You must be mad,' Walter said.

We were in No. 47 at the end of another charitable evening and I'd been describing my dream-house by the bridge. I still ran past it twice a week on my way to the Research Unit, and amazingly it was still empty. It was flat and square, made of brick scuffed orange like cigarette filters. The outside was blank and unornamented, which made it seem like an inside house, discreet, with no outside heart.

I could buy it too, if I wanted. If they gave me an advance on next year's money I could easily afford it. At the very least I could get a surveyor's report, even though Theo was bound to beg me to stay on at the flat.

‘Theo?'

‘It's haunted,' Walter said. ‘That's why they can't sell it.'

‘Theo, what do you think?'

‘It's a well-known local fact,' Walter added, ‘that two previous houses have stood on exactly that same spot.'

I wanted Theo to say something, anything, but Walter was already launched into a description of the original house, a grey mansion with tall spires and a slate roof stained dark by rain. At dusk, from the barred windows, screeching vampire bats flew wildly, desperate for blood.