2O Of Mice and Memory -1
It's just like on TV! And that is the most superlative compliment Archie can think of for any
real-life event. Except this is just like on TV but better. It's very modern. It's so well designed you
wouldn't want to breathe in it, no matter fart in it. There's these chairs, plastic but without legs,
curved like an 5; they seem to work by means of their own fold; and they fit together, about two
hundred of them in ten rows; and they snake around you when you sit in them soft yet supportive!
Comfy! Modern! And you've got to admire folding like that, Archie thinks, lowering himself into
one, a far higher level of folding than he'd ever been involved with. Very nice.
The other thing that makes it all better than TV is it's full of people Archie knows. There's
Millboid at the very back (scoundrel), with Abdul-Jimmy and Abdul-Colin; Josh Chalfen nearer the
middle, and Magid's sitting up at the front with the Chalfen woman (Alsana won't look at her, but
Archie waves anyway because it'd be rude not to) and facing them all (near Archie Archie's got the
best seat in the house) sits Marcus at a long long table, just like on The V, with microphones all
over it, like a bloody swarm, the huge black abdomens of killer bees. Marcus is sitting next to four
other blokes, three his age and one really old bloke, dry-looking desiccated, if that's the word. And
they've all got glasses to a man, the way scientists do on the telly. No white coats, though. All very
casual: V-necks, ties, loafers. Bit disappointing.
Now he's seen a lot of these press conference larks, Archie has (weeping parents, missing child,
or, conversely, if it was a foreign-orphan-scenario, weeping child, missing parents), but this is miles
better because in the centre of the table is something
quite interesting (which you don't usually get on TV, just the weeping people): a mouse. Quite a
plain mouse, brown, and not with any other mice, but it's very active, scurrying around in this glass
box that's about as big as a television with air holes Archie was a bit worried when he first saw it
(seven years in a glass box!), but it turns out it's temporary, just for the photographs. Irie explained
there's this huge thing for it in the Institute, full of pipes and secret places, space upon space, so it
won't get too bored, and it'll be transferred there later. So that's all right. He's a cunning-looking
little blinder too, this mouse. He looks like he's pulling faces a lot of the time. You forget how alert
looking mice are. Terrible trouble to look after, of course. That's why he never got one for Irie when
she was small. Goldfish are cleaner with shorter memories. In Archie's experience anything with a
long memory holds a grievance and a pet with a grievance (that time you got the wrong food, that
time you bathed me) just isn't what you want.
"Oh, you're right there," agrees Abdul-Mickey, plonking himself down in the seat next to Archie,
betraying no reverence for the legless chair. "You don't want some resentful fucking rodent on your
hands."
Archie smiles. Mickey's the kind of guy you want to watch the footie with, or the cricket, or if
you see a fight in the street you want him to be there, because he's kind of a commentator on life.
Kind of a philosopher. He's quite frustrated in his daily existence because he doesn't get much
opportunity to show that side of himself. But get him free of his apron and away from the oven,
give him space to manoeuvre he really comes into his own. Archie's got a lot of time for Mickey. A
lot of time.
"When they gonna get on wiv it, then?" he says to Archie. "Taking their time, eh? Can't look at
a mouse all bloody night, can you? I mean, you get all these people here on New Year's Eve, you
want something resembling entertainment."
"Yeah, well," says Archie, not disagreeing but not completely
agreeing either, "I spe ct they've got to go through their notes and that.. Snot like just getting up
and telling a few howlers, is it? I mean, it's not just about pleasing all the people all of the time,
now, is it? It's Science." Archie says Science the same way he says Modern, as if someone has lent
him the words and made him swear not to break them. "Science," Archie repeats, handling it more
firmly, 'is a different kettle offish."
Mickey nods at this, seriously considering the proposition, trying to decide how much weight
he should allow this counter argument Science, with all its connotations of expertise and higher
planes, of places in thought that neither Mickey nor Archie has ever visited (answer: none), how
much respect he should give it in the light of these connotations (answer: fuck all. University of
Life, in nit and how many seconds he should leave before tearing it apart (answer: three).
"On the contrary, Archibald, on the bloody contrary. Speeshuss argument, that is. Common
fucking mistake, that is. Science ain't no different from nuffink else, is it? I mean, when you get
down to it. At the end of the day, it's got to please the people, you know what I mean?"
Archie nods. He knows what Mickey means. (Some people Samad for example will tell you not
to trust people who overuse the phrase at the end of the day football managers, estate agents,
salesmen of all kinds but Archie's never felt that way about it. Prudent use of said phrase never
failed to convince him that his interlocutor was getting to the bottom of things, to the
fundamentals.)
"And if you think there's any difference between a place like this and my cafe," Mickey
continues, somehow full throated and yet never increasing above a whisper in terms of decibel,
'you're having a laugh. "Sail the same in the end. "Sail about the customer in the end. Exempli
frickin' gratia: it's no good me putting Duck a. I'orange on the menu if nobody wants it. Vis-a-vis,
there's no point this lot spending a lot of money on some clever ideas if they're
not going to do some nicking good for someone. Think about it," says Mickey, tapping his
temple, and Archie follows the instruction as best he can.
"But that don't mean you don't give it a bloody chance," continues Mickey, warming to his
theme. "You've got to give these new ideas a chance. Otherwise you're just a philistine, Arch. Now,
at the end of the day, you know I've always been your cutting-edge type of geezer. That's why I
introduced Bubble and Squeak two years ago." Archie nods sagely. The Bubble and Squeak had
been a revelation of sorts.
"Same goes here. You've got to give these things a chance. That's what I said to Abdul-Colin
and my Jimmy. I said: before you jump the gun, come along and give it a chance. And here they
are." Abdul-Mickey flicked his head back, a vicious tick of recognition in the direction of his
brother and son, who responded in kind. They might not like what they hear, of course, but you
can't account for that, can you? But at least they've come along with an open mind. Now, me
personally, I'm here on good authority from that Magid Ick-Ball and I trust him, I trust his
judgement. But, as I say, we shall wait and see. We live and fucking learn, Archibald," says Mickey,
not to be offensive, but because the F-word acts like padding to him; he can't help it; it's just a filler
like beans or peas, 'we live and fucking learn. And I can tell you, if anything said here tonight
convinces me that my Jimmy might not have sprogs wiv skin like the surface of the fucking moon,
then I'm converted, Arch. I'll say it now. I've not the fucking foggiest what some mouse's got to do
with the old Yusuf skin, but I tell you, I'd put my life in that Ick-Ball boy's hands. I just get a good
feeling off that lad. Worth a dozen of his brother," adds Mickey slyly, lowering his voice because
Sam's behind them. "A dozen easy. I mean, what the fuck was he thinking, eh? I know which one
I'd've sent away. No fear."
Archie shrugs. "It was a tough decision."
Mickey crosses his arms and scoffs, "No such thing, mate. You're either right or you ain't. And
as soon as you realize that, Arch, suddenly your life becomes a lot fucking easier. Take my word for
it."
Archie takes Mickey's words gratefully, adding them to the other pieces of sagacity the century
has afforded him: You're either right or you ain't. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.
Can't say fairer than that. Heads or tails?
"Oi-oi, what this?" says Mickey with a grin. "Here we go. Movement. Microphone in action.
One-two, one-two. Looks like the man neth begin neth
uy> I
'.. . and this work is pioneering, it is something that deserves "
public money and public attention, and it is work the significance of which overrides, in any
rational person's mind, the objections that have been levied against it. What we need
What we need, thinks Joshua, are seats closer to the front. Typical cuntish planning on the part
of Crispin. Crispin asked for seats in the thick of it, so FATE could kind of merge with the crowd
and slip the balaclavas on at the last minute, but it was clearly a rubbish idea which relied upon
some kind of middle aisle in the seating, which just isn't here. Now they are going to have to make
an ungainly journey to the side aisles, like terrorists looking for their seat in the cinema, slowing
down the whole operation, when speed and shock tactics are the whole fucking point. What a
performance. The whole plan pisses Josh off. So elaborate and absurd, all designed for the greater
glory of Crispin. Crispin gets to do a bit of shouting, Crispin gets to do some waving-of-gun,
Crispin does some pseudo-Jack Nicholson-psycho twitches just for the drama of it. FANTASTIC.
All Josh gets to say is Dad, please. Give them what they want, though privately he figures he'll
have some room for improvisation: Dad, phase.
I'm so fucking young. I want to live. Give them what they want, for Chrissake. It's just a mouse .. .
I'm your son, and then possibly a phoney faint in response to a phoney pistol-whip if his father
proves to be hesitant. The whole plan's so high on the cheese factor it's practically Stilton. But it
will work (Crispin had said), that stuff always works. But having spent so much time in the animal
kingdom, Crispin is like Mowgli: he doesn't know about the motivations of people. And he knows
more about the psychology of a badger than he will ever know about the inner workings of a
Chalfen. So looking at Marcus up there with his magnificent mouse, celebrating the great
achievement of his life and maybe of this generation, Joshua can't stop his own perverse brain from
wondering whether it is just possible that he and Crispin and FATE have misjudged completely.
That they have all royally messed up. That they have underestimated the power of Chalfenism and
its remarkable commitment to the Rational. For it is quite possible that his father will not simply
and unreflectingly save the thing he loves like the rest of the plebs. It is quite possible that love
doesn't even come into it. And just thinking about that makes Joshua smile.
'.. . and I'd like to thank you all, particularly family and friends who have sacrificed their New
Year's Eve ... I'd like to thank you all for being here at the outset of what I'm sure everybody agrees
is a very exciting project, not just for myself and the other researchers but for a far wider ..."
Marcus begins and Millat watches the Brothers of KEVIN exchange glances. They're figuring
about ten minutes in. Maybe fifteen. They'll take their cue from Abdul-Colin. They're following
instructions. Millat, on the other hand, is not following instructions, at least not the kind that are
passed from mouth to mouth or written on pieces of paper. His is an imperative secreted in the
genes and the cold steel in his inside pocket is the answer
to a claim made on him long ago. He's a Pandy deep down. And there's mutiny in his blood.
As for the practicalities, it had been no biggie: two phone calls to some guys from the old crew,
a tacit agreement, some KEVIN money, a trip to Brixton and hey presto it was in his hand, heavier
than he had imagined, but, aside from that, not such a head fuck of an object. He almost recognized
it. The effect of it reminded him of a small car-bomb he saw explode, many years ago, in the Irish
section of Kilburn. He was only nine, walking along with Samad. But where Samad was shaken,
genuinely shaken, Millat hardly blinked. To Millat, it was so familiar. He was so unfazed by it.
Because there aren't any alien objects or events any more, just as there aren't any sacred ones. It's
all so familiar. It's all on TV. So handling the cold metal, feeling it next to his skin that first time: it
was easy. And when things come to you easily, when things click effortlessly into place, it is so
tempting to use the four-letter F-word. Fate. Which to Millat is a quantity very much like TV: an
unstoppable narrative, written, produced and directed by somebody else.
Of course, now that he's here, now that he's stoned and scared, and it doesn't feel so easy, and
the right-hand side of his jacket feels like someone put a fucking cartoon anvil in there now he sees
the great difference between TV and life, and it kicks him right in the groin. Consequences. But
even to think this is to look to the movies for reference (because he's not like Samad or Mangal
Pande; he didn't get a war, he never saw action, he hasn't got any analogies or anecdotes), is to
remember Pacino in the first Godfather, huddled in the restaurant toilet (as Pande was huddled in
the barracks room), considering for a moment what it means to burst out of the men's room and
blast the hell out of the two guys at the checkered table. And Millat remembers. He remembers
rewinding and freeze-framing and slow-playing that scene countless times over the years. He
remembers that no matter how long you pause the split-second of Pacino reflecting, no matter how
often you replay the doubt that seems to cross his face, he never does anything else but what he
was always going to do.
'.. . and when we consider that the human significance of this technology .. . which will prove, I
believe, the equal of this century's discoveries in the field of physics: relativity, quantum
mechanics .. . when we consider the choices it affords us ... not between a blue eye and a brown eye,
but between eyes that would be blind and those that might see .. ."
But Me now believes there are things the human eye cannot detect, not with any magnifying
glass, binocular or microscope. She should know, she's tried. She's looked at one and then the other,
one and then the other so many times they don't seem like faces any more, just brown canvases
with strange protrusions, like saying a word so often it ceases to make sense. Magid and Millat.
Millat and Magid. Majlat. Milljid.
She's asked her unborn child to offer some kind of a sign, but nothing. She's had a lyric from
Hortense's house going through her head Psalm 63 early will I seek thee: my soul thirtieth for thee,
my flesh longethfor thee .. . But it asks too much of her. It requires her to go back, back, back to the
root, to the fundamental moment when sperm met egg, when egg met sperm so early in this history
it cannot be traced. Irie's child can never be mapped exactly nor spoken of with any certainty. Some
secrets are permanent. In a vision, Me has seen a time, a time not far from now, when roots won't
matter any more because they can't because they mustn't because they're too long and they're too
tortuous and they're just buried too damn deep. She looks forward to it.
"He who would most valiant be. "Gainst all disaster
For a few minutes now, beneath Marcus's talk and the shutters of cameras, another sound
(Millat in particular has been attuned
to it), a faint singing sound, has been audible. Marcus is doing his best to ignore it and continue,
but it has just got considerably louder. He has begun to pause between his words to look around,
though the song is clearly not in the room.
"Let him with constancy, follow the master ..."
"Oh God," murmurs Clara, leaning forward to speak in her husband's ear. "It's Hortense. It's
Hortense. Archie, you've got to go and sort it out. Please. It's easiest for you to get out of your seat."
But Archie is thoroughly enjoying himself. Between Marcus's talk and Mickey's commentary,
it's like watching two TVs at once. Very informative.
"Ask Irie."
"I can't. She's too far in to get out. Archie," she growls, lapsing into a threatening patois, 'you
kyan jus led dem sing trew de whole ting!"
"Sam," says Archie, trying to make his whisper travel, "Sam, you go. You don't even want to be
in here. Go on. You know Hortense. Just tell her to keep it down. "Sjust I'd quite like to listen to the
rest of this, you know. Very informative."
"With pleasure," hisses Samad, getting out of his seat abruptly, and not troubling to excuse
himself as he steps firmly on Neena's toes. "No need, I think, to save my place."
Marcus, who is now a quarter of the way through a detailed description of the mouse's seven
years, looks up from his paper at the disturbance, and stops to watch the disappearing figure with
the rest of the audience.
"I think somebody realized this story doesn't have a happy ending." As the audience laughs
lightly and settles back into silence, Mickey nudges Archibald in his ribs. "Now you see, that's a bit
more like it," he says. "A bit of a comic touch liven things up a bit. Layman's terms, in nit Not
everybody went to the bloody Oxbridge. Some of us went to the '
"University of Life," agrees Archie, nodding, because they were both there, though at different
times. "Can't beat it."
Outside: Samad feels his resolve, strong when the door slammed behind him, weaken as he
approaches the formidable Witness ladies, ten of them, all ferociously be-wigged, standing on the
front steps, banging away at their percussion as if they wish to beat out something more substantial
than rhythm. They are in full voice. Five security guards have already admitted defeat, and even
Ryan Topps seems slightly in awe of his choral Frankenstein's monster, preferring to stand at a
distance on the pavement, handing out copies of the Watchtower to the great crowd heading for Soho.
"Do I get a concession?" inquires one drunken girl, inspecting the kitschy painting of heaven on
the cover, adding it to her handful of New Year club fliers. "Has it got a dress code?"
With misgivings, Samad taps the triangle-player on her rugby forward shoulders. He tries the
full range of vocabulary available to an Indian man addressing potentially dangerous elderly
Jamaican women (iflcouldplease sorrypossiblypleasesorry you learn it at bus stops), but the drums
proceed, the kazoo buzzes, the cymbals crash. The ladies continue to crunch their sensible shoes in
the frost. And Hortense Bowden, too old for marching, continues to sit on a fold-up chair,
resolutely eyeballing the mass of dancing people in Trafalgar Square. She has a banner between her
knees that states, simply,
THE TIME IS AT HAND Rev. 1:3
"Mrs. Bowden?" says Samad, stepping forward in a pause between verses. "I am Samad Iqbal.
A friend of Archibald Jones."
Because Hortense does not look at him or betray any twinge of recognition, Samad feels bound
to delve deeper into the
intricate web of their relations. "My wife is a very good friend of your daughter; my step-niece
also. My sons are friends with your'
Hortense kisses her teeth. "I know fe who you are, man. You know me, I know you. But at dis
point, dere are only two kind of people in de world."
"It is just that we were wondering," Samad interrupts, spotting a sermon and wanting to sever it
at the root, 'if you could possibly reduce the noise somewhat... if only '
But Hortense is already overlapping him, eyes closed, arm raised, testifying to the truth in the
old Jamaican fashion: Two kind of people: dem who sing for de Lord and dem who rejeck 'im at de
peril of dem souls."
She turns back. She stands. She shakes her banner furiously in the direction of the drunken
hordes moving up and down as one in the Trafalgar fountains, and then she is asked to do it again
for a cynical photo-journalist with a waiting space to fill on page six.
"Bit higher with the banner, love," he says, camera held up, one knee in the snow. "Come on,
get angry, that's it. Lovely Jubbly."
The Witness women raise their voices, sending song up into the firmament. "Early will I seek
thee," sings Hortense. "My soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and. thirsty
land, where no water is .. ." Samad watches it all and finds himself, to his surprise, unwilling to
silence her. Partly because he is tired. Partly because he is old. But mostly because he would do the
same, though in a different name. He knows what it is to seek. He knows the dryness. He has felt
the thirst you get in a strange land horrible, persistent the thirst that lasts your whole life.
Can't say fairer than that, he thinks, can't say fairer than that.
Inside: "But I'm still waiting for him to get to the bit about my skin. Ain't heard nothing yet,
have you, Arch?"
"No, nothing yet. I spe ct he's got a lot to get through. Revolutionary, all this."
"Yeah, naturally .. . But you pays your money, you gets your choice."
"You didn't pay for your ticket, did you?"
"No. No, I didn't. But I've still got expectations. The principle's the same, in nit Oi-oi, shut it a
minute ... I thought I heard skin just then
Mickey did hear skin. Papillomas on the skin, apparently. A good five minutes' worth. Archie
doesn't understand a word of it. But at the end of it, Mickey looks satisfied, as if he's got all the
information he's been looking for.
"Mmm, now that's why I came, Arch. Very interesting. Great medical breakthrough. Fucking
miracle workers, these doctors."
'.. . and in this," Marcus is saying, 'he was elemental and indispensable. Not only is he a
personal inspiration, but he laid the foundations for so much of this work, particularly in his
seminal paper, which I first heard in .. ."
Oh, that's nice. Giving the old bloke some credit. And you can tell, he's chuffed to hear it.
Looks a bit tearful. Didn't catch his name. Still, nice not to take all the glory for yourself. But then
again, you don't want to overdo it. The way Marcus is going on, sounds like the old bloke did everything.
"Blimey," says Mickey, thinking the same thing, 'fulsome praise, eh? I thought you said it was
this Chalfen who was the Mr. Big."
"Maybe they're partners in crime," suggests Archie.
'.. . pushing the envelope, when work in this area was seriously underfunded and looked to
remain in the realms of science fiction. For that reason alone he has been the guiding spirit, if you
like, behind the research group, and is, as ever, my mentor, a position he has filled for twenty years now
"You know who my mentor is?" says Mickey. "Muhammad All. No question. Integrity of mind,
integrity of spirit, integrity of
body. Top bloke. Wicked fighter. And when he said he was the greatest, he didn't just say "the
greatest"."
Archie says, "No?"
"Nah, mate," says Mickey, solemn. "He said he was the greatest of all times. Past, present,
future. He was a cocky bastard, All. Definitely my mentor."
Mentor .. . thinks Archie. For him, it's always been Samad. You can't tell Mickey that, obviously.
Sounds daft. Sounds queer. But it's the truth. Always Sammy. Through thick and thin. Even if the
world were ending. Never made a decision without him in forty years. Good old Sam. Sam the man.
'.. . and so if any one person deserves the lion's share of recognition for the marvel you see
before you, it is Dr. Marc Pierre Perret. A remarkable man and a very great.. ."
Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories. Archie
does recognize the name, faintly, somewhere inside, but he is already twisting in his seat by then,
trying to see if Samad is returning. He can't see Samad. Instead he spots Millat, who looks funny.
Who looks decidedly funny. Peculiar rather than ha-ha. He's swaying ever so slightly in his seat,
and Archie can't catch his eye for a you-allright-mate look because his eyes are locked on to
something and when Archie follows the path of this stare, he finds himself looking at the same
peculiar thing: an old man weeping tiny tears of pride. Red tears. Tears Archie recognizes.