Материал: nick_hornby_about_a_boy
Twenty-Six
‘I don’t get it,’ said Marcus. He and Will had walked down to an amusement arcade at the Angel to
play on the video machines, and the Angel Funhouse, with its epileptic lights and sirens and explosions
and tramps, turned out to be a suitably nightmarish setting for the difficult conversation Will knew they
were going to have. It was, in a way, a grotesque version of popping the question. He had chosen the
setting, somewhere that would soften Marcus up and make him more likely to say yes, and all he had to
do was spit it out.
‘There’s nothing to get,’ said Will blithely. It wasn’t true, of course. There was a lot to get, from
Marcus’s point of view, and Will could quite see why he wasn’t getting it.
‘But why did you tell her you were my dad?’
‘I didn’t tell her. She just sort of got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘So why didn’t you just say, you know, "Sorry, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick"? She probably
wouldn’t have minded. Why would she care whether you were my dad or not?’
‘Don’t you ever have conversations where someone took a wrong turn at some point, and then it goes
on and on and it becomes too late to put things right? Say someone thought your name was Mark, not
Marcus, and every time they saw you they said, "Hello, Mark", and you’re going to yourself, Oh, no, I
can’t tell him now, ‘cos he’ll be really embarrassed that he’s been calling me Mark for the last six
months.’
‘Six months!’
‘Or however long it is.’
‘I’d just tell him the first time he got it wrong.’
‘It’s not always possible to do that.’
‘How can it not be possible to tell someone they’ve got your name wrong?’
‘Because…’ Will knew that sometimes it was not possible through personal experience. One of his
neighbours opposite, a nice old guy with a stoop and a horrible little Yorkshire terrier, called him Bill—
always had done and presumably always would, right up till the day he died. It actually irritated Will,
who was not, he felt, by any stretch of the imagination, a Bill. Bill wouldn’t smoke spliffs and listen to
Nirvana. So why had he allowed this misapprehension to continue? Why hadn’t he just said, four years
ago, ‘Actually my name’s Will’? Marcus was right, of course, but being right was no use if the rest of
the world was wrong.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, in a brisk let’s-cut-the-crap tone. ‘The point is, this woman thinks you’re my
son.’
‘So tell her I’m not.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re going round and round in circles here, Marcus. Why can’t you just accept the facts?’
‘I’ll tell her, if you like. I don’t mind.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Marcus, but that wouldn’t help.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! Because she has this rare disease, and if she believes something that’s not right
and you tell her the truth, her brain will boil in her head and she’ll die.’
‘How old do you think I am? Shit. You’ve made me lose a life now.’
Will was beginning to come to the conclusion that he was not, as he had always previously thought, a
good liar. He was an enthusiastic liar, certainly, but enthusiasm was not the same thing as efficacy, and
he was now constantly finding himself in a situation whereby, having lied through his teeth for minutes
or days or weeks, he was obliged to articulate the humiliating truth. Good liars would never do that.
Good liars would have persuaded Marcus ages ago that there were hundreds of good reasons why he
should pretend to be Will’s son, but Will could only think of one.
‘Marcus, listen. I’m really interested in this woman, and the only thing I could think of that might
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make her interested in me was to let her believe you were my son. So I did. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I
didn’t tell you straight out.’
Marcus stared at the video screen—he’d just been exploded by a cross between Robocop and
Godzilla—and took a long pull on his can of Coke.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said, and burped ostentatiously.
‘Oh, come on, Marcus. We’ve been here before.’
‘What do you mean, you’re really interested in her? Why is she so interesting?’
‘I mean…’ He groaned with despair. ‘Leave me with just one scrap of dignity, Marcus. That’s all I’m
asking. Just a little tiny, tatty piece.’
Marcus looked at him as if he had suddenly started speaking in Urdu.
‘What’s dignity got to do with her being interesting?’
‘OK. Forget dignity. I don’t deserve any. I fancy this woman, Marcus. I want to go out with her. I’d
like her to be my girlfriend.’
Finally, Marcus swivelled his eyes away from the TV screen, and Will could see they were shining
with fascination and pleasure.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Really, really. He had thought of almost nothing else since New Year’s Eve (not that he
had much to think about, apart from the word Rachel, a vague recollection of lots of long dark hair and a
lot of foolish fantasies involving picnics and babies and tearfully devoted mothers-in-law and huge hotel
beds) and it was a relief to be able to bring Rachel out into the light, even though it was only Marcus
who was up there to inspect her, and even though the words he had had to use did not, he felt, do her
justice. He wanted Rachel to be his wife, his lover, the centre of his whole world; a girlfriend implied
that he would see her from time to time, that she would have some kind of independent existence away
from him, and he didn’t want that at all.
‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know?’
‘Yeah. How do you know you want her to be your girlfriend?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel it in my guts.’ That was exactly where he felt it. He wasn’t feeling it in his
heart, or his head, or even his groin; it was his guts, which had immediately tensed up and allowed for
the ingestion of nothing more calorific than cigarette smoke. If he went on ingesting only cigarette
smoke he might lose some weight.
‘You just met her the once? On New Year’s Eve?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that was enough? You knew you wanted her to be your girlfriend straight away? Can I have
another fifty pence?’
Will gave him a pound coin abstractedly. It was true that something had happened in him immediately,
but what had pushed him over the edge into the land of permanent daydream was a remark Robert had
made a couple of days later, when Will had phoned to thank him for the party. ‘Rachel liked you,’ he
said, and though it wasn’t much to build a whole future on, it was all Will had needed. Reciprocation
was a pretty powerful stimulant to the imagination.
‘What is this? How long should I have known her for, according to you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t really describe myself as an expert.’ Will laughed at Marcus’s turn of phrase, and
the furrowed brow which both accompanied it and seemed to contradict it: anyone who could look that
professional while talking about the minutiae of dating was clearly a twelve-year-old Doctor Love. ‘But
I didn’t know when I met Ellie the first time that I wanted her to be my girlfriend. It took a while to
develop.’
‘Well, that’s a sign of maturity, I guess.’ The Ellie business was news to Will, and suddenly he could
see this was where they had been heading right from the beginning. ‘You want Ellie to be your
girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. Course.’
‘Not just your friend?’
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‘Well.’ He inserted the pound coin into the slot and pressed the one-player button. ‘I was going to ask
you about that. What would you say are the main differences?’
‘You’re funny, Marcus.’
‘I know. People keep telling me. I don’t care. I just want you to answer the question.’
‘OK. Do you want to touch her? That’s got to be the first thing.’
Marcus carried on blasting away at the monster on the screen, apparently oblivious to Will’s
profundities.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. Go on.’
‘That’s it.’
‘That’s it? There’s only one difference?’
‘Yeah. Marcus. You have heard of sex, haven’t you? It’s kind of a big deal.’
‘I know, I’m not stupid. But I can’t believe there’s nothing more to it. Oh, piss.’ Marcus had lost
another life. ’ ‘Cos I’m not sure if I want to touch Ellie or not. But I still know that I want her to be my
girlfriend.’
‘OK, so what things do you want to be different?’
‘I want to be with her more. I want to be with her all the time, instead of just when I bump into her.
And I want to get rid of Zoe, even though I like Zoe, because I want Ellie to myself. And I want to tell
her things first, before I tell anyone, even you or Mum. And I don’t want her to have another boyfriend.
If I could have all those things, I wouldn’t mind if I touched her or not.’
Will shook his head, a gesture that Marcus missed because his eyes were still glued to the video
screen. ‘I tell you, Marcus, you’ll learn. You won’t feel like that forever.’
But later that night, when he was home on his own and listening to the sort of music he needed to
listen to when he felt like this, music that seemed to find the sore spot in him and press up hard against
it, he remembered the deal Marcus was prepared to strike. And yes, he wanted to touch Rachel (the
fantasies which involved enormous hotel beds definitely involved touching as well), but right now, he
thought, if he had the choice, he’d settle for the less and the more that Marcus wanted.
The conversation in the video games arcade at least had the virtue of creating a mutuality between
them: they had both confessed to something they wanted, and those somethings were, when all was said
and done, not entirely dissimilar, even though the someones connected with the somethings evidently
were. Will couldn’t get a very clear sense of Ellie from Marcus’s descriptions—he always ended up with
the impression of an angry ball of black-lipsticked motion, an unimaginable cross between Siouxsie of
the Banshees and the Roadrunner—but he could picture her well enough to see that Ellie and Rachel
would not pass as twins. This mutuality, however, seemed more than enough to persuade Marcus that it
would be disloyal of him, and some kind of curse on his own desire, not to act as Will’s son for an
afternoon. So Will made the call, heart thumping, and wangled a Saturday lunch invitation for the pair of
them. Marcus came round just after midday, in the hairy jumper Fiona had given him for Christmas and
a disastrous pair of canary-yellow cords that might have looked cute on a four-year-old. Will was
wearing his favourite Paul Smith shirt and a black leather jacket that he liked to think made him look a
little like Matt Dillon in
Drugstore Cowboy
. What was going on here, Will reckoned, was that Marcus
was showing a refreshingly rebellious disregard for his dad’s dandyism, so he tried to inculcate a feeling
of pride, and to ignore the urge to take him out shopping.
‘What did you tell your mum?’ Will asked him in the car on the way over to Rachel’s place.
‘I told her you wanted me to meet your new girlfriend.’
‘And she was all right about that?’
‘No. She thinks you’re mad.’
‘I’m not surprised. Why would I take you to meet my new girlfriend?’
‘Why would you tell your new girlfriend I was your son? You can think up your own explanations
next time, if mine are no good. Listen, I’ve got some questions. How much did I weigh at birth?’
‘I dunno. It was your birth.’
‘Yeah, but you should know, shouldn’t you? If you’re my dad, I mean.’
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‘Surely at this stage in our relationship we’re a bit beyond birth weights, aren’t we? If you were twelve
weeks old it might come up, but twelve
years
old…’
‘OK, so when’s my birthday?’
‘Marcus, she doesn’t suspect we’re not father and son. She’s not going to be trying to catch us out.’
‘But suppose it came up. Suppose I said, you know, Dad’s promised me a new Nintendo for my
birthday, and she said to you, when’s his birthday?’
‘Why is she asking me? Why isn’t she asking you?’
‘Just suppose.’
‘OK, when’s your birthday?’
‘August the nineteenth.’
‘I’ll remember, I promise. August the nineteenth.’
‘And what’s my favourite food?’
‘Tell me,’ Will said wearily.
‘Pasta with the mushroom and tomato sauce my mum makes.’
‘Right.’
‘And where did I go the first time I went abroad?’
‘I don’t know. Grenoble.’
‘Doh,’ said Marcus scornfully. ‘Why would I want to go there? Barcelona.’
‘OK. Got it. Barcelona.’
‘And who’s my mum?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who’s my mum?’
The question was so basic and yet so pertinent that for a moment Will was completely thrown.
‘Your mum’s your mum.’
‘So you were married to my mum and you’ve split up.’
‘Yeah. Whatever.’
‘And does that bother you? Or me?’
Suddenly the absurdity of the questions got to both of them. Marcus began to giggle, a peculiar high-
pitched miaow that sounded nothing like himself or any other human but proved to be extraordinarily
infectious. Will launched into his own version of a giggling fit.
‘It doesn’t bother me. Does it bother you?’ he said eventually.
But Marcus was unable to reply. He was still miaowing.
One sentence, the first sentence she said, was all it took to bring the whole thing, the elaborate past,
present and future he had created for the two of them, crashing to the floor.
‘Hi. It’s Will and… Mark, is that right?’
‘Marcus,’ said Marcus, and nudged Will meaningfully.
‘Come in, both of you. Come and meet Ali.’
Will had remembered every single tiny detail that Rachel had offered him that first night. He knew the
names of the books she had illustrated, although he wasn’t absolutely sure whether the first one was
called
The Way
to
the Woods
or
The Way
Through
the Woods
—he would have to check—and her ex’s
name, and where he lived, and what he did, and… It was unimaginable that he could have forgotten
Ali’s name. That was one of his principal facts. That would be like forgetting when England had won
the World Cup, or the name of Luke Skywalker’s real father—it just couldn’t be done, no matter how
hard you tried. But she had forgotten Marcus’s name—Mark, Marcus, it was all the same to her—and it
was thus perfectly clear that she hadn’t spent the last ten days in a sleepless fever of imagining and
remembering and wondering. He felt crushed. He might as well give up now. These feelings were
exactly what he had been so afraid of, and this was why he had been so sure that falling in love was
rubbish, and, surprise surprise, it was rubbish, and… and it was too late.
Rachel lived just up the road from Camden Lock, in a tall, thin house full of books and old furniture
and sepia photographs of dramatic, romantic Eastern European relatives, and for a moment Will was
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grateful that his flat and her house would never get a chance to meet, current north London
seismological conditions prevailing. Her house would be warm and welcoming, and his would be cocky
and cool, and he’d be ashamed of it.
She shouted up the stairs: ‘Ali!’ Nothing. ‘ALI!’ Still nothing. She looked at Will and shrugged. ‘He’s
got his headphones on. Shall we go up?’
‘He won’t mind?’ Will would have minded, when he was twelve years old, for reasons he didn’t
necessarily want to remember.
Ali’s bedroom door was indistinguishable from all the other bedroom doors: no skull and crossbones,
no ‘Keep Out’ signs, no hip-hop graffiti; once inside, however, there was no question but that the room
belonged to a boy stuck between the equally wretched states of childhood and adolescence in early
1994. Everything was there—the Ryan Giggs poster and the Michael Jordan poster and the Pamela
Anderson poster and the Super Mario stickers… A social historian of the future would probably be able
to date the room to within a twenty-four-hour period. Will glanced at Marcus, who was looking
bewildered. Standing Marcus in front of posters of Ryan Giggs and Michael Jordan was like taking an
average twelve-year-old to look at the Tudors in the National Portrait Gallery. Ali himself was slumped
in front of his computer, headphones still on, oblivious to his guests. His mother went over and tapped
him on the shoulder, and he jumped.
‘Oh, hi. Sorry.’ Ali stood up, and Will immediately saw that this wasn’t going to work. Ali was cool—
basketball boots, baggy skatepunk trousers, shaggy grunge hair, even an earring—and his face seemed
to darken when he took in Marcus’s yellow cords and hairy jumper.
‘Marcus Ali, Ali Marcus,’ said Rachel. Marcus offered his hand, and Ali took it almost satirically. ‘Ali
Will, Will Ali.’ Will raised his eyebrows in Ali’s direction. He thought Ali might appreciate the
understatement.
‘Do you guys want to hang out up here for a while?’ Rachel asked them.
Marcus glanced at Will and Will nodded once, while Rachel’s back was turned towards him.
‘Yeah,’ Marcus shrugged, and for a moment Will loved him, really loved him.
‘OK,’ said Ali, with even less enthusiasm.
Rachel and Will went downstairs; ten minutes later—time enough for Will to have dreamed up a
whole scenario whereby the four of them took a house in Spain for the summer—they heard a door
slam. Rachel went to investigate and came flying back into the sitting room seconds afterwards.
‘I’m afraid Marcus has gone home,’ she said.
Twenty-Seven
Marcus had meant to try. He knew the lunch with Rachel was a big thing for Will, and he knew too
that if he did well today, acted out his part, then Will might feel that he had to help him out with Ellie
somehow. But this Ali kid never gave him a chance. Will and Rachel went downstairs, Ali stared at him
for a few seconds and then started on him.
‘There’s no fucking way,’ was the first thing he said.
‘No?’ said Marcus, in an attempt to buy himself some time. He had obviously missed something
already, although he wasn’t quite sure what.
‘I’ll tell you, if your dad goes out with my mum you’re fucking dead. Really. Dead.’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Marcus.
Ali looked at him as though he were mad.
‘I don’t care if he’s all right. I don’t want him going out with my mum. So I don’t want to see him or
you round here ever again, OK?’
‘Well,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m not sure it’s really up to me.’
‘It better be. Or you’re dead.’
‘Can I have a go on the computer? What games have you got?’ Marcus knew that a change of subject
wouldn’t necessarily work. It worked sometimes, but maybe not when someone was threatening to kill
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