The Back of His Head (15 page)

‘No, no!' Julian is eager. ‘I can see what Peter means. It sort of recovers the
status quo ante
—'

‘They're just seashells.'

‘
Identical
seashells—'

‘Yes, but
are
they? Really
identical
?'

And so the two of them sit there turning them about, and squinting at them at the ends of their noses and then again at the lengths of their arms. Julian brings down the spectacles on his brow and Semple brings up the half-glasses that always hang from the cord at his neck. With these he has to tilt back to see, and I find myself looking away from the sudden, wild, preconceptual tangle in his nostrils.

‘You know what?' Julian says, after half a minute. ‘They really
are
the same—' He flicks me a glance, full of significance. ‘It really
is
two parts of the original thing—'

Semple thumps his shell onto the tabletop. ‘No, it
isn't
,' he says. ‘They don't fit. They never did. They're—what's the opposite of bivalves?' He cups his hands together. He pulls one away. ‘There's only one of them. They cling to rocks. Like
that
—' He slaps one hand on the tabletop. ‘Just one shell. The whole thing.'

‘Really?' Julian is still fiddling with the shells. ‘I'm sure these're fitting together, though—'

‘They
can't
, they're not
oval
, they're—'

‘Yes they are.' I seize them from Julian. ‘Look—'

‘It's nothing
like
a fit—look, there's an overlap—'

‘Not much of an overlap.' I hand them back to Julian.

Semple leans heavily back in his seat. ‘The point is, someone's playing tricks with us,' he says. ‘That's the point. Whoever sent me the parcel's playing tricks. You're wasting your time.'

‘No, we're not, it's a message.'

‘Message my arse—'

‘I think Julian's right, I think we're being told something.' I didn't really want to say this, but I'm encouraged by Julian's reaction. ‘I think it's a clue.'

‘A clue about what?'

‘Well, we don't
know
, do we, that's what clues are, they're just hints, they're not answers—'

‘Clues from who? Raymond? D'you
really
think he's still out there somewhere like Elvis? Living in a fucking cave in the desert, horribly deformed? With JFK and Hitler?'

‘No, I
don't
think that,' Julian says. ‘But if the shells aren't actually
from
someone, then explain these—' He holds them up like castanets. ‘Explain why they're the same.'

‘
All
shells are the same—the same as all
bananas
are the same. Except wax ones. Look, I could find you a hundred more fucking shells clinging to rocks and they'd all look the same.' Semple struggles up from his usual slump. ‘You know what's happening here, we're back to the last meeting—you know?
Is He present in the wafer?
We're back there, it's just a different way of asking the same question. It's Cavaliers and Roundheads all over again—'

‘We
are
back there!' This is Julian, amazingly.

‘We're
not
—they don't join up, there's no original fucking bivalve—'

‘—and you want to know something?' Julian holds the shells up again, but together this time, closed, as one thing in his hand. ‘I'm changing my mind!'

‘About what?'

‘I'm going back on what I said last time about the furniture. I'm changing my mind because these things
fit
.'

‘Because of two paua shells? What are you
talking
about?'

‘Order—'

‘Oh, fuck off, Norman.'

‘I've been thinking things through since the last meeting, and this'—Julian gestures towards the two shells—‘this seems like, I don't know, a message. It's more than a coincidence.'

‘So we're being told by higher powers we should pay homage to the organic wholeness of the past? As represented by two fucking abalone shells?'

‘They're two
halves
of—'

‘They're
not
, I
told
you, they're only ever one shell, stuck to a rock.' Semple stares at us wildly. ‘That's how they
work
, there's no lost original with two shells waiting to be discovered. You've got one in each hand—that's all you've got, a different animal in each hand—snails, or whatever they were—'

Julian slowly brings the shells together again. ‘I don't think we should touch anything in the house,' he says.

Now there really is a pause.

‘You mad fucking bastard,' Semple says. His voice has dropped—he's really angry, I can see that. ‘I can't believe this. It's a set-up—which one of you planted the shells, which one of you told Marjorie to stay away so she couldn't vote?' He stands up from his chair. ‘There's no vote, anyway—we voted last time, the furniture's up for sale and that's
that
—'

‘There's no vote on the table now because the meeting hasn't started. We're simply discussing the return of the paua shell. And the fact that somehow there's a second one.'

A pause. We look at the shells. Then:

‘Which
is
the second one?'

Julian.

It's an awful moment. I stare at the two shells in front of me. Which the second, which the first? After Julian and Robert have picked them up, and passed them to each other, and passed them back, and returned them to the tabletop—I don't know. I just don't know.

I can feel the panic rise.

‘This one.' I point at the one on my right.

‘You mean that's the second? Or that's the original?'

‘That's the second.' But, really, I'm not sure.

Semple stands and stares across the table. ‘No, it's the one on the right.
My
right. Your left.'

‘No, that's the first.' I hold up the one on my right. ‘This is the second.'

‘No, the second one's the first one.'

‘No—the second one's the
second
one. I can tell.'

‘
How
? If they're the same? You've just said they're exactly the same, haven't you—?'

We sit there, breathing hard at one other.

And Marjorie walks in: unexpectedly, but, given the situation, not at all unwelcome.

‘My reiki man stood me up,' she creaks at us. ‘Just think, I've got nothing better to do than come here.' She dumps her unhappy clutch of bags on the floor. ‘My, there's an atmosphere in here, are you all cross or something?'

‘Norman's having a crisis. He's lost his original.' Semple indicates the seashells. ‘They're both replicas now.'

‘No—no, don't touch them.' I push Marjorie's hand back from the two shells. I'm staring and staring at them.

‘Why are there two ashtrays, anyway?' she asks. “How come they're back? How come there's even one? What's happening?'

It's a long evening, as you might imagine. There's an argument whether Marjorie should take over as Hon. Sec., there's an argument about what to do with the paua shells—eventually it's agreed that they should be placed
à deux
in the Trust's safe, up in the Coop. Julian remains Hon. Sec., with little opposition from Marjorie. By now it's nearly nine and the Trust is showing fatigue. Semple in particular yawns and lolls about, though with him it's never quite clear whether he really means it, and maybe after all these years even he doesn't know whether he's tired or just pretending.

Geneva's name certainly livens them up again, though! Hardly is it out of my mouth at last than Semple is crashing forward in his chair:

‘That slut again?' he cries. ‘What's she want this time?'

‘She is not a
slut
.' Marjorie. ‘She may well be a major pain in the arse but she's not a
slut
—'

‘Let's put it to the vote, then—those who think Geneva's a slut say aye—'

‘You're out of order,' I tell him, and then he makes his out-of-order joke, and Marjorie, as she always does when he does, says
Oh for God's sake, Robert, grow up
. Then I ask:
Well, what d'you
think
she wants?
and, of course, Semple has a schoolboy answer to
that
, too—

Marjorie turns away from him. ‘What's Geneva got cooked up this time?' she asks me. ‘A best-selling sequel?'

I tell them, carefully, paying it out before them, across the two shell ashtrays.

A pause.

‘What d'you mean,' Julian asks. ‘A tape?'

‘A
series
of tapes. She's come across them somehow.'

‘What kind of tapes?'

‘Audiotapes. From a few years ago.'

‘You mean audio cassettes?—who uses
cassettes
now?'

‘Do they still work—is there anything to play them on—?'

‘You'll have something,' I say to Julian. ‘In your studio? Some old tapedecks?'

‘Yes, I do. Has she played them through? Geneva?'

‘She claims to have heard all of them. She claims to—'

‘What's on them—where'd she get them from?'

‘Yes, who's the vendor?'

‘She wouldn't say.'

‘What's all this about—?'

Marjorie looks at me shrewdly. ‘Why are you being so mysterious, Peter—?'

‘Oh, you know Norman, he likes holding his cards.'

But the thing is, I don't
know
what's on the tapes. I know what I
fear
might be on them, but of course I'm not going to mention
that
, not in any company.

When she told me on the phone my hands went cold: my neck, my face, even my feet went cold as I stood there. Many hours of interviews with one source, she told me: identity unknown, relationship with the Master unknown, and one detail revealed, only one, but enough to convince me of their authenticity.

‘She didn't say what was on them,' I tell the others. ‘But I have reason to believe they're authentic.'

Then of course there's the other business as well: her price, I mean.
And your purpose in telling me this
—? I asked her, as coolly as I could manage.
Well
, she said, and I thought of her coyly be-scarfed online image. I'm sure you understand, she said, that I'd like to write another book on Raymond? On Mr Lawrence? I asked. Yes, on Mr Lawrence, she replied. I understand the official biographer hasn't been appointed yet.

So there you are. Either (a) she keeps these wretched tapes and pours their unknown contents into another unauthorised life of the Master over which we have not the slightest control, or (b) we authorise her imperishable new work and get the tapes in return and at least some idea of what is really in them, and, of course, some measure of control of what gets put into print.
Possibly
—

Naturally, I'd prefer the latter, she breathed down the line at me when I spelled things out for her like that. I'm keen to pursue my higher promotion, she said, and an authorised biography would give me even greater standing in my career. It'd acknowledge my status in Raymond Lawrence studies. And that's something I feel has been neglected over the years—a full and proper recognition of the work I've done for Raymond?

All this I spell out now to the other members of the Trust.

A moment's pause, and then an explosion:

‘
Official biographer!
' Semple slams both hands on the tabletop. ‘
Christ
, what a cheek—what a fucking
cheek!
Official biographer! Fuck me
dead!
'

‘Does she
really
say that?' Julian. ‘I can hardly believe she'd come right out and, you know—did she really just
ask
for the job, straight out?'

‘She's holding us to ransom. It's a stick-up—'

‘
Official biographer
—?'

‘That's what she wants, yes. Pretty much.'

Then Julian asks the key question: ‘If she's holding us to ransom, what is it she's got on us—?'

Marjorie looks at Semple. Semple shrugs.

‘Was it that bad, back then?' he asks. He shrugs again. ‘I suppose it was. But how'd anyone know?'

‘It's all in my book,' Marjorie says. ‘Isn't it? The way Ray treated people?'

‘In ravel-me-up—?'

‘You
know
the title, Robert, dear,
do
try to get it right. The love-hate thing, I mean. The way he'd make you kiss his arse and then cut you dead. It's all in
Unravel Me
.'

‘Nice try, Marge.' Semple shakes his head. ‘But it's
not
. There's lots more to it than Ray's charming habit of wiping his backside with his nearest and dearest from time to time. It's usually called sado-masochism, as far as I recall—'

‘There was that rumour, wasn't there? Just before the Prize.'

‘What? Which one's that, Marjorie?'

‘Order—'

‘The kid he brought into the country, he was supposed to have—'

‘No, that was in
Natural Light
.' This is Julian, bless him. ‘And
Other-people
. It was in those two, wasn't it?'

‘No, it really happened, I'm sure of that, he—'

‘You weren't here, you were overseas at the time—'

‘Well, so were you—apparently Ray brought this teenaged kid back from—'

‘Order—'

‘Teenage? I heard he was—'

‘No.' Julian again. ‘It's fiction—what you're thinking of is fiction. It's what he
wrote
.'

‘The North African boy that thing brings back. The hero. What's his name? The protagonist? He brings back that albino boy from Algeria?'