Armed with a half-litre bottle of British vodka, two plastic cups and the conviction that suicide would be an appropriate conclusion to his artistic non-career, Gabriel Crome sat on the steps of the Albert Memorial and felt sad.
He had said goodbye to all his favourite landmarks. The Albert Memorial, being the most hideous and therefore the most attractive, was the last.
It was always last; for Gabriel was subjected to his suicide kick with about the same degree of regularity that a healthy child-bearing woman is subjected to ovulation. He recognized the symptoms—headache, tension and a screaming desire to withdraw from the messy cycle of existence. One of these days, he told himself gloomily, the ovum of despair would really be fertilized by his wriggling death-wish. And darkness would lie upon the face of the shallow.
Meanwhile, there was the vodka, the ritual, the angst and the raven. He did not know whether the raven was a permanent squatter in the memorial, an incarnation of Prince Albert or the familiar spirit of all pseudo-suicides. He knew only that it was always there whenever he was and that the wisdom of its silence was only equalled by the wisdom of its utterances on the tragic pattern of existence.
Recently, Gabriel had formed the habit of bringing two plastic cups to the Albert Memorial. He could not remember when he had first begun to corrupt the raven, but it was now well on the way to becoming an alcoholic.
“Salud,” said Gabriel. “A non-death is as unsatisfactory as a non-life, do you not think? Presently, I shall wend—not entirely devoid of hope—to Waterloo Bridge to see if my luck has changed. Meanwhile, bird of ill-omen, frowzy fowl, let us drink the juice that dulls the edge of dullness.” He hiccupped, then slopped more vodka into the plastic cups.
The raven approached warily. It had grown accustomed to Gabriel’s tirades. Sometimes, he was wont to indulge in sudden disquieting gestures. But the bird was in no position to choose its drinking companions. Gabriel was not only its corrupter but also its only supplier.
The raven offered no comment. It dipped its beak in the vodka, flung back its head like a Russian to the manner born, and swallowed, opening and closing the beak several times, as if this was the nearest it could get to smacking its lips. The performance was repeated.
“You are right, little brother,” went on Gabriel. “I am pissed. In fact, I am—by St. Ringo—a litre ahead of you. Furthermore, I propose to stay that way … There is a gulf between us, little brother, a million years wide and a hundred proof deep. I have a soul: you have not. All you have are bloody feathers, pure subjectivity, and a psyche that cannot even contemplate mañana … That’s my trouble, birdie. I can think of the morrow. I can even remember yesterday. Which is why I wish I were dead.”
There were tears in Gabriel’s eyes; but he was not yet maudlin enough to want to shed them.
“What are you, bastard bird?” he demanded aggressively. The raven did not answer. It was too busy drinking.
So Gabriel answered his own question. “You are nothing but a bastard bird. Whereas I, Gabriel Crome, schizoid of this parish, am demonstrably human. Which is to say ambitious, which is to say frustrated. I think, therefore I wish to cease to exist. The world is my oyster—but I do not know how to open oysters. Big joke.”
The raven drank some more. Then it staggered a little and uttered. It said quite clearly: “Kronk!”
“True, indeed,” said Gabriel, raising his own cup. “True indeed. The apocalyptic verdict. I do not know how to open oysters. Kronk! I do not even know if there are any oysters worth opening. Kronk! I want recognition. Kronk! I want someone to love. Kronk! And, failing all that, I just want to bleeding die.”
“Kronk,” said the raven once more.
“You are so right,” said Gabriel. “A meaningful comment not only on my predicament but on the basic tragedy of our time. Artists are suspect, love is redundant, people are obsolete. Consumers are all.” He took another swallow of vodka. “I am a consumer, yes. But I am more than the sum of my consumptions. I am an artist, a book sculptor. And, since no one wishes to acquire a 1984 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica translated—with the aid of two pounds of flour, a pint of water and a roll of Sellotape—into Leda and the Swan, I wish to die. It is symptomatic of the age, dear raven. Michelangelo is without honour in his own credit rating. From them that hath not shall be taken away.”
Gabriel gazed at Albert, sitting on his throne in the memorial. The long summer twilight, the balmy air and the effect of seventy-five proof vodka endowed the petrified royal consort with an illusion of life, a suggestion of movement. Gabriel thought he saw him wink.
“And the same to you, sweet prince … You have got it manufactured, haven’t you, cocky? Sitting up there, watching the rest of us trolley off to the paper dolly farm or get stoned out of our trees … All those children. I have often wondered. Was little Vicky a beautifully bouncy lover, or was there no other outlet for all that royal creative energy? No offence, old sport. Just claim the fifth amendment. By all that is whiter than white, I wish I were you. Dead and dynastic and nirvanic on a cold backside. No matter. I am not Albert the Good. I am Gabriel the superfluous. Such is the whim of time, chromosomes and carelessly opened legs.”
There was still some vodka left in the bottle. Gabriel glanced at the raven’s cup then poured the remains of the vodka into his own. The bird stared at him, he thought, somewhat reproachfully.
“Bird,” said Gabriel severely, “do not presume upon a chance acquaintance. You are nothing to me. I am nothing to you. Yet I am comforted by the fact that when I finally scramble the transistors between my ears, there will be someone who mourns. Will you get the shakes, you feathery fantast? Will you fall about in front of Albert, croaking for a large vodka? And how, dependent creature, will you tell the other tourists that all you need is a fix? Well, these are your problems, you fat black feather bag. Pray for me. I go to see if there are any vacant appointments in Samarra.”
The raven’s legs gave way. There was a subdued gurgling in its throat; but the bird refrained from further comment. It flopped helplessly as Gabriel walked down the steps from the Albert Memorial with care and concentration. Then, as if in seeing its guest off the premises it had concluded its final duty as host, the raven keeled over and slept.
The noble youth standing in the centre of Waterloo Bridge on the right pedway was ten foot tall. He had long, splendid hair, divinely sensuous lips and a pelvic tilt that was out of this world. He stared down the river with the intensity of one looking for an armada that was several centuries overdue. He was made of bronze.
Gabriel looked at the inscription on the plinth.
In Palace Script, it read: Sir Michael Jagger, Bart.
Underneath that, in Old English Text, there was: Let him that is without sin cast the first Stone.
And underneath that was: Jacovus Bierstein facit.
Gabriel followed the glance of Sir Michael Jagger, Bart. The river stank. It stank of time, effluent and the subtle odours of twelve million Londoners. Nevertheless, in the half-light there was a hint of mystery—nay, even magic—on the waters of the Thames. Not enough mystery or magic to inspire one to leap off the bridge without further consideration. But at least enough to make one consider the possibility. Calmly and without haste. The question was whether he would drown first or be poisoned by the toxic waste that, over a few decades, had transformed the Thames into a rich brown syrup. Perhaps all that industrial crap had altered the river’s specific gravity. Perhaps he would simply float like a cork until he died of horror at the variety of unmentionables—even unthinkables—drifting past his nose.
The theory of suicide was excellent: the hard facts were simply repellent. Better to get drunk, take pills and go to sleep in a warm bath. Provided one could be sure of not waking up shivering and with a hangover.
His meditations were interrupted by a bra.
It fell on his shoulder, and it seemed to come from the direction of Sir Michael Jagger, Bart. Though, hitherto, the statue had not displayed any transvestite tendencies. The bra was followed by some lace nonsense and the sound of sneezing.
Gabriel walked round the statue. A dark-haired girl of perhaps twenty-three or twenty-five, clad only in fishnet tights, was tying a rope round her neck. The rope was not very long. Its other end was tied securely to an old five-kilo weight resting on the parapet of the bridge. The rest of the girl’s clothing was strewn on the pedway.
“Good evening,” said Gabriel. “A trifle warm for the time of year, don’t you think? I hope I am not intruding.”
“Please go away. I’m busy.” Her voice shook a little, but otherwise sounded quite normal.
“I don’t wish to intrude. But we seem to have a mutual interest. However, the river stinks, the time is out of joint, and I am sure you would not wish to swallow unwholesome semi-solids.”
She shuddered. Gabriel repressed a feeling of triumph. She could easily leap on the parapet and kick the five-kilo weight over before a vodka-stricken non-hero had time to intervene.
“Please go away. My husband is dead, I have a dread disease and I do not wish the bounty hunters to get any of my body.”
“Self-pity,” said Gabriel, taking another cautious step, “is a destroyer of perspective. As my dear mother at the Yurkuti Embassy used to say, there are few problems that cannot be resolved by a bottle, a tumble, a cup of tea or a good night’s sleep … Unfortunately, having emptied the bottle and enjoyed the tumble, she accidentally electrocuted herself while making a cup of tea prior to a good night’s sleep. The Yurkuti flags were flown at half mast for twenty-one days. I still have not got over her loss.”
The girl burst out laughing. “I don’t believe the Yurkuti Embassy exists.”
Gabriel shrugged, and took another step. “If it did not, it would have been necessary to invent it. My mother existed, though. When she was fifty-three, she thought it was all a great drag. So she flipped to Munich for the Oktoberfest, had a twenty-four carat time and at the end sold her body for twenty-thousand D marks. I had the D marks and she had the last laugh. They found one diseased kidney, cancer of the lung and a heart with about as much mileage in it as a nineteen-twenty Rolls. The eyes were good, though. Her eyes were always good.”
He grabbed the girl, holding her fiercely and idiotically. One moment she had been trying to commit suicide, the next moment she had managed a laugh, and now she was sobbing fit to burst. Some spinhead.
And why should Gabriel Crome, cretin at large, book sculptor without patrons, suicide pretender and amateur alcoholic, step round Sir Michael Jagger to save an adult female from the Thames? Something required to be examined. Possibly, the whole of human history.
“My name is Gabriel Crome,” he said gently. “I undertake not to bore, beat or ravish you until we are in a better place and in better states of mind. I am a failed book sculptor and a failed suicide. Please forgive my intrusion. It is probably entirely due to masculine pride. One simply hates to see a woman succeed.”
She continued to sob with verve and decibels, while Gabriel continued to hold her tightly, convinced that she had not heard a word he had spoken. Naturally, he was wrong. Presently, the sobbing subsided somewhat; and a breast twitched with brief indiscretion against his ribs. He smiled. She was beginning to recall the facts of life once more.
“I have made an idiot of myself,” she said. “Forgive me. I think I had better dress.”
“There is no hurry. I like you as you are.”
“Possibly. But what of the procs?”
Bang on cue, there was the high whine of a hover sled upon the otherwise deserted bridge. It moaned to a halt, then hissed and clanked as the air-cushion died and the sled sank to the pedway.
Two uniformed proctors leaped off the sled. One grabbed the girl and the other squirted an aerosol pencil of freezair into Gabriel’s face.
Gabriel froze. He had no option. The muscles of his body seized and went rigid, as if they had just been dipped in liquid oxygen. He could still think, though. And feel.
He felt considerably as the proctor hit his face three times then prodded him with a jump wand for good measure. The electric shock seemed to echo round his body like thunder in deserted alleyways. He wanted to scream. He would have been very grateful for the opportunity to scream. But the freezair wouldn’t let him. It wouldn’t even let him die mentally. He began to think that there were worse conditions to be in than floating with unmentionables and unthinkables down the Thames.
“What’s this? What’s this? What’s this?” demanded the proctor who had snatched the girl from Gabriel’s arms. His hand lingered accidentally but tenderly over one of her erect if confused nipples. “Rape? Assault? Attempted murder? Coercion? Grievous bodily? You name it, d. . .
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