The Museum of Doubt (12 page)

Helmet came back. I could tell there was someone still on the line from the way he stood in the doorway. It’s the man, he said. D’you want to put something on the 1979?

Tell him to call back. Let’s talk more about your plans for tonight.

I’m putting a tenner on Callaghan.

I got up and went out into the hall where the receiver hung bobbing on the end of its wire, stotting gently against the woodchip. Helmet watched without saying anything while I picked it up.

Could you call back, I said.

Minimum stake’s a fiver, said a voice like stones grinding
together. Callaghan 5–1, Thatcher 3–2, Steel 100–1, Wilson 100–1. Ten minutes to the off so make up your mind, eh? Your pal took me for fifty quid last week.

Fifty, eh?

Backed Reagan in the 1980 at Washington on 2–1. The old guy was ahead by three furlongs. So’re you in or what? The voice went into a coughing fit. It sounded like someone was stirring his guts with a poker.

I asked Helmet what the year was. He said 1997. I asked him what we were betting on.

1979 general election results, he said.

It was Thatcher, I said. Thatcher won it. You remember. You were already born then. Was he born? You couldn’t imagine him with an umbilical cord. With some people you could. With some people you didn’t have to imagine, they still had it, they were sitting in the pub and you looked down and you noticed this long, manky, trodden-in bit of fleshy string leading to the door, and you’d see it twitch a couple of times, and your drinking companion’d drain his pint and say must be getting back, they’ll be starting to worry. And off he’d go, coiling it in his hands as he went.

How d’you know she won it? said Helmet.

I remember, I said. It happened eighteen years ago. It happened. It occurred. Callaghan lost. He did. He wasn’t prime minister any more. You can’t go back. It’s already been. You know what your trouble is? You don’t go out enough. You sit in here with your records and you think it’s acceptable to murder people and time loses its meaning for you, you can’t tell the difference any more between good and bad and right and wrong and past and future. Don’t think you’ll convince me there’s money to be made betting on Callaghan to win the 1979 general election because these things happen only once, they’ve
been already. D’you think it’s going to get to me because I sit here with you inside your four walls, inside your record collection, for an hour or two? It’s not, because I go outside and I see that what’s broken stays broken, and what’s dead stays dead, and what gets old doesn’t turn young, and that people live with that, they get so used to it they don’t even think about it, and they get by without killing each other and without trying to cheat the past. It can’t be done. And you will get caught if you kill the fisherman. Come out for a drink tonight.

Helmet covered his upper lip with his lower one and looked down at the floor. He went over to the phone and told the guy to call back when he was ready to start. He stepped back on to the bed, scratching his stomach, and lay down. I sat down on the edge, facing away from him. Neither of us said anything for a while. From where I sat I could see a long red freighter gliding at speed upriver, powering flatly through the waves behind the delving pilot boat.

So who d’you reckon’s going to win? said Helmet.

Thatcher, I said. She wins the 1979 general election every time.

Why don’t you put money on it if you’re so sure?

Who’s the bookie?

Don’t know. Just started ringing up. He sends a young lad round to collect the stake or give you your winnings. I’m ahead so far. He got skinned on the 1966 World Cup.

You had your money on England, eh?

There was a tip. What about the 1979?

The phone rang.

Go on then, I said.

How much?

Fifty.

Fifty.

We went together to the phone. Helmet placed the bet and held the receiver between our heads so we could both make out the commentary.

There was a sound like a pistol shot down the line and they were off with the old guy doing the live commentary bit. And it’s Thatcher in the lead followed by Callaghan then Steel from Wilson and Callaghan going strongly and Steel and Wilson fighting for third and fourth place and Callaghan’s pulled level with Thatcher and they’re neck and neck and Wilson now, Wilson coming strongly into third but Steel’s coming up on the outside, now it’s Callaghan from Thatcher and Steel with Wilson trailing, and as they come into the final furlong Thatcher’s out in front and she’s opening up the gap, it’s Thatcher from Callaghan with Steel and Steel’s fallen! Steel’s fallen, and Callaghan’s putting on a sudden burst and he’s pulled ahead of Thatcher, Callaghan’s in front, he’s ahead as they cross the line and it’s Callaghan first, Thatcher in second, Wilson coming in a long way behind in third and the vets now moving swiftly over to David Steel, I’m afraid he’ll have to be shot, but what a superb finish from Jim Callaghan, beating the favourite Margaret Thatcher in a magnificent race which will yet again have the punters tearing up their form books in despair. Give Helmet the cash.

Eh? I said.

Just give Helmet the stake, the voice said. I’ll pick it up later.

That was the 1979 general election.

Plus five quid tax, that’ll be 55 pounds.

That’s not on, I said. Thatcher won.

Fine. You’re barred. D’you understand me? Barred. You heard the result, if you’d like to hand over the money to Helmet there we won’t have any further problems.

I want to know who gave you permission to fuck around with history like that.

If it’s history you want go to the library. This is the past we deal with here, and we can do what we like with it. It hasn’t been nationalised.

I’ll give Helmet the money. But admit she won. I remember.

That’s your business, sir. No-one’s trying to tell you what to put in your memory.

Eighteen years of Tory rule!

It could’ve been a dream. It’s your private business. All we ask is that you don’t try to spoil other people’s free use of the common past by dumping your memories all over it. The bookie hung up.

I fancied Thatcher myself, said Helmet, taking the cash and sticking the notes into his waistband. He went back into his room, put a copy of
Super Trouper
on the turntable and lay down on the bed with his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling. I expected to see fox fur under his armpits but the hairs were black, flat and separate.

Come out for a bit, I said.

No, said Helmet.

If you came out you’d see what I mean about the way things are. It’d all fall into place. You’d see that time only goes one way, the past only happens once, and that killing people is too complicated.

You’re saying I shouldn’t kill him because it’s too complicated? said Helmet, frowning at the ceiling.

Yes, I said. That’s one reason. The sweat was over me again, hot this time. If you came out with me you’d remember there’s more than just you and me and the fisherman. There are so many people, and they’re all connected, and if you kill one of them, others are bound to get dragged in.

I can put your mind to rest on that. It’s not complicated at all. It’s very simple. There’s me and the fisherman, and I kill him, and then there’s just me. That’s it. It’s not a problem.

Are you coming out?

No.

Don’t do anything, I said. It’s not like taking a record off. You can’t put it on again. It’s not like the ships that come up the river and always go back out. It’s not like Thatcher. True enough, we never saw her in the flesh. Maybe she never did win. Maybe she doesn’t exist. But the fishermen does.

Not for long, said Helmet.

I went to the turntable, flicked the arm aside, took off the Abba album and snapped it in two.

That’s what happens, I said.

No it isn’t, said Helmet. I’ve got a couple more of them. That’s a fiver you owe me.

What if I broke them all? I said.

Helmet said nothing but I saw his lips press together and a dark tongue tip zip them up moist.

I’m going out, I said. I’ll come round again before tea.

Helmet was silent.

Brynie was working on fish in the kitchen. I saw the big knife hanging flat vertical on a magnet.

Hi, I said. How’s it going?

All right, said the fisherman.

Helmet said it’d be OK if I borrowed a knife for a couple of hours.

Help yourself.

I took the knife off the magnet. It was shiny stainless steel with a black plastic handle and a broad ten-inch blade. I held it suspended, holding the handle between thumb and one finger.

Take care, then, I said.

Brynie looked at me over his shoulder with his eyebrows arrowed into his nose and went back to his fish. I went out into the street.

The sun had come out. There weren’t so many folk down where I was, near the old lifeboat shed. I saw a rapid movement across the wall of a tenement opposite, like a cursor fleeing across a screen. It was the light reflecting off the blade of the knife swinging in my hand. I was wearing a red woollen jumper and black jeans. I lifted the hem of the jumper and started pushing the blade down the front of my jeans, blade turned out. The thigh cringed from the cold of the metal as it went down. The point pricked me and I drew in breath. A white-haired couple went past looking at me and wondering out loud what the lad was doing. I pulled the jumper over the knife handle and set off for Visocchi’s. It was hard to walk without stabbing myself in the leg. It felt as if I already had. I limped along slowly, looking down every second to see if blood was blooming on my jeans. There was no sign but what an idea for a product: tampons for soccer casuals. I used to be afraid to wear white jeans to the game but now with super-absorbent wound-strength Tampax I can go out tooled up with absolute confidence.

I went into the cafe. I saw the girl from the baker’s on her own in the corner with a pot of tea and a mini-pizza and asked if I could join her. She looked up from under eyelashes lumpy with mascara, like charred fishbones floating on a rockpool. She managed not to smile. She waved with her hand to the seat opposite. I sat down. The girl screamed and her knees snapped up to crash into the underneath of the table as she recoiled.

I held up my hands. It’s OK, I said. There are things which can’t be explained but this isn’t one of them. I snatched a napkin off the table, opened it and spread it over my lap, covering the two inches of knife blade which had pierced the jeans and poked
out into the open air from the top of my knee. I’ll tell you about it once everyone’s stopped looking.

I need to be getting back, said the girl, pale.

I turned my head. One by one folk went back to their food as they met my eye.

It’s not mine, I said, picking up a menu and leaning forward. I just happen to have it on me this one time. And I thought if I walked through the streets of Broughty Ferry with a ten inch kitchen knife in my hands I might cause anxiety.

You could have put it in a bag, said the girl.

I didn’t have time. Listen, I’m going to take it out now, and put it on the table. OK?

I need to be getting back.

Just be calm. I don’t like it either. That’s why I want to take it out of my trousers right now, and put it on the table.

Can’t you wait till I’ve gone?

If I wait any longer I’m going to turn my leg into fajitas. Just be calm.

How should I be calm?

You see me coming into the bakery every morning, don’t you?

That’s what they do! They keep telling you! It could be someone you know!

Wait, I said. I screened my lap with the menu, slid the knife out and laid it on the table.

D’you have to go back right now? I said.

No. What is it you do?

I’m a seal counter. I count seals.

The girl picked a splinter of once-frozen cheese off the mini-pizza and nipped it with her teeth. Her nails were pink. So how many are there? she said.

Enough.

How many seals is enough?

I don’t know. How many people is enough?

Four, said the girl seriously, looking at me and twiddling another bit of cheese between her pink nails. A strand of hair swung in and hooked her lips. She flicked it back behind her ear and put the splinter on her tongue.

A waitress came. I ordered a steak and a pot of tea.

There’s one! said the girl, pointing over my shoulder. I looked round. What? I said.

You missed it, said the girl. There was a seal coming out the charity shop with a drip-dry brown nylon top. She grinned and looked pleased with herself.

The waitress came back and tried to lay down a steak knife at my place. I lifted Helmet’s blade. It’s OK, I’ve got one, I said. The waitress opened her mouth, closed it and walked away.

The girl was angry with me for not being good about her joke. She rested her chin on her hand and looked out the window. I asked her what her name was. She didn’t pay any attention.

Listen, I said. I have this friend. He wears a fox fur hat in bed and taught his dog to fetch the newspaper for him. He’s been indoors for too long. He says he’s going to kill a man tonight. His landlord. It was going to be with this knife. But there are other knives in the house. His landlord’s a fisherman, and they always have a lot of knives about the place. Now I’m wondering how we became friends. I can’t remember how it was an hour ago, before he told me about what he was going to do, whether I thought better of him, or if I always knew he was going to show me one day he didn’t care about other human beings. I can’t remember.

It’s Liz, said the girl.

Wait.

You haven’t told me yours.

Wait. Suppose your friend is about to kill someone. What do you do? This is what I’m most afraid of, that I go to see him later and there’s no fisherman. No blood, no weapon, no clothes, no possessions. And I say to Helmet: what happened to the fisherman? And he says what fisherman? You’re remembering something that you dreamed as if it really happened. And I say: but Helmet, I remember. And he says: a memory of a man doesn’t make the man exist. D’you see what I’m saying?

He sounds like a right wee bastard, this Helmet.