IT IS POSSIBLY WORTH MENTIONING THAT IN FAT CHARLIE’S world, women did not simply turn up. You needed to be introduced to them; you needed to pluck up the courage to talk to them; you needed to find a subject to talk about when you did, and then, once you had achieved those heights, there were further peaks to scale. You needed to dare to ask them if they were doing anything on Saturday night, and then when you did, mostly they had hair that needed washing that night, or diaries to update, or cockatiels to groom, or they simply needed to wait by the phone for some other man not to call.
But Spider lived in a different world.
They wandered toward the West End, stopping when they reached a crowded pub. The patrons spilled out onto the pavement, and Spider stopped and said hello to what turned out to be a birthday celebration for a young lady named Sybilla, who was only too flattered when Spider insisted on buying a birthday round of drinks for her and for her friends. Then he told jokes (“…and the duck says, put it on my bill? Whaddayathink I am? Some kinda pervert?”) and he laughed at his own jokes, a booming, joyful laugh. He could remember the names of all the people around him. He talked to people and listened to what they said. When Spider announced it was time to find another pub, the entire birthday group decided, as one woman, that they were coming with him…
By the time they reached their third pub, Spider resembled someone from a rock video. He was draped with girls. They snuggled in. Several of them had kissed him, half-jokingly, half-seriously. Fat Charlie watched in envious horror.
“You his bodyguard?” asked one of the girls.
“What?”
“His bodyguard. Are you?”
“No,” said Fat Charlie. “I’m his brother.”
“Wow,” she said. “I didn’t know he had a brother. I think he’s amazing.”
“Me, too,” said another, who had spent some time cuddling Spider until forced away by the press of other bodies with similar ideas. She noticed Fat Charlie for the first time. “Are you his manager?”
“No. He’s the brother,” said the first girl. “He was just telling me,” she added, pointedly.
The second ignored her. “Are you from the States as well?” she asked. “You’ve sort of got a bit of an accent.”
“When I was younger,” said Fat Charlie. “We lived in Florida. My dad was American, my mum was from, well she was originally from Saint Andrews, but she grew up in…”
Nobody was listening.
When they moved on from there, the remnants of the birthday celebration accompanied them. The women surrounded Spider, inquiring where they were going next. Restaurants were suggested, as were nightclubs. Spider simply grinned and kept walking.
Fat Charlie trailed along behind them, feeling more left-out than ever.
They stumbled through the neon-and-striplight world. Spider had his arms around several of the women. He would kiss them as he walked, indiscriminately, like a man taking a bite from first one summer fruit, then another. None of them seemed to mind.
It’s not normal, thought Fat Charlie. That’s what it’s not. He was not even trying to keep up, merely attempting not to be left behind.
He could still taste the bitter wine on his tongue.
He became aware that a girl was walking along beside him. She was small, and pretty in a pixieish sort of way. She tugged at his sleeve. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
“We’re mourning my father,” he said, “I think.”
“Is it a reality TV show?”
“I hope not.”
Spider stopped and turned. The gleam in his eyes was disturbing. “We are here,” he announced. “We have arrived. It is what he would have wanted.” There was a handwritten message on a sheet of bright orange paper on the door outside the pub. It said on it, Tonight. Upstair’s. KAROAKE.
“Song,” said Spider. Then he said, “It’s showtime!”
“No,” said Fat Charlie. He stopped where he was.
“It’s what he loved,” said Spider.
“I don’t sing. Not in public. And I’m drunk. And, I really don’t think this is a really good idea.”
“It’s a great idea.” Spider had a perfectly convincing smile. Properly deployed, a smile like that could launch a holy war. Fat Charlie, however, was not convinced.
“Look,” he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “There are things that people don’t do. Right? Some people don’t fly. Some people don’t have sex in public. Some people don’t turn into smoke and blow away. I don’t do any of those things, and I don’t sing either.”
“Not even for Dad?”
“Especially not for Dad. He’s not going to embarrass me from beyond the grave. Well, not any more than he has already.”
“‘Scuse me,” said one of the young women. “’Scuse me but are we going in? ‘Cause I’m getting cold out here, and Sybilla needs to wee.”