venom. ‘Unfortunately, Phil, London can’t work properly because of the Gaps. Sounding familiar yet?’ I shook my head, although suddenly, strangely, it did begin to sound familiar. Doug. Circles. Doug. The Gaps. It did sound familiar.
In the gravel Saleem had drawn a circle. ‘That’s London,’ the said, completing it. She drew a horizontal line through the centre of the circle, cutting it in half. ‘And that’s the Thames,’ she added. ‘So that’s London and everything connects to everything else. And these are the postal districts, OK?’ She drew them in. ‘We’ve got plain North London, we’v e got plain West London, we’v e got plain East London . . .’ As she spoke she pointed, and I could hear the gravel kissing and knocking.
‘But here’s a problem, right. There’s South-West London postal districts and there’s South-East postal districts, and they, sort of, meet in the middle, which means that there’s no South. No plain South. And Doug’s upset about this. And there’s another problem too, right. There’s North-West and South-West and South-East, but there’s no North-East. Another Gap. No plain South and no North-East. And according to Doug, this is why London doesn’t connect. This is why London doesn’t work. Things aren’t properly linked. See what I’m getting at, Phil?’
I nodded.
‘You see, the city is fucked, Phil, because of this little problem with the postal districts. And Doug is worrying about it, Phil. He’s thinking about it. These Gaps.’
I stopped feeling the soil. I turned.
‘So what’s the problem? Why are you telling me this?’
Saleem’s eyes popped. ‘Because Doug’s going absolutely rucking crazy. He’s got this meeting on Friday. Our whole fucking future depends on it, and he is going crazy. He’s crazy.’
I turned away again.
‘Say something!’
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘No he won’t be fine. And that’s the worst part of it. You seem determined to ignore what’s going on right under your nose. He’s gone mad. I know all about it. I’m living in the same house as him. And no one asked me, incidentally, whether I minded or not. He just moved in and that was that. Anyhow , I can see my way around the whole thing but no one wants to know what I’ve seen.’
Saleem scratched out her Postal District London and prepared the gravel for another design: a large phallus. Medieval. A two-foot phallus pointing west to her north and east to my south. Pointing, I decided, towards Ray, far away, digging his pit.
‘Doug’s OK.‘
‘OK? Jesus! You don’t know anything,’ she said, slitting her eyes, angry now, ‘You’re so in on yourself. There’s stuff going on here that you don’t know anything about. Private stuff. Everything’s a secret with Doug. You don’t know about Mercy and the diarrhoea. You don’t know about that mad man, that Chinaman, slinking about the place, poisoning everything. You don’t see anything through all that fucking hair. You don’t see anything.’
Saleem pushed herself up, used her stick to pull herself up by. She works well without her leg, admittedly, is lithe when she wants to be.
‘And the thing is, she said, ‘I know you love this place. It matters to you. You depend on it the same way I do. But you won’t ever act, you won’t ever do anything. You’re dormant, just blind. Turning in on yourself.’
I was surprised to be connected, all of a sudden, in a rush, like this, with Saleem. It was a curious sensation, this connection.
‘Forget it, then,’ she said, sounding defeated and afterwards, almost instantly, sounding defiant. ‘Looks like I’m going to have to be the one,’ she muttered, turning her back, ‘Me. Saleem. I am the one who’ll have to save things. Ray’s too stupid. You’re just a yak, a blob. And Nancy . . .’ She laughed. ‘I am the one,’ she said, darkly, stalking off, ‘just watch me.’
SO THIS IS the problem, I told the exhaust on the back of Nancy’s truck. The Park’s got another four months to run and we’r e almost broke. On Friday Doug’s going to meet Enfield Council’s Park Management Committee to re-assert our tender.
Doug’s been cryptic about his intentions. He’s said he has plans, big plans, but he hasn’t discussed them with me or Ray, he hasn’t told us what he’s up to. Saleem thinks that he doesn’t care any more, that he’s losing it, that he’s liable to do just about anything. Now he’s left his wife. Now he’s left his home. I can’t help thinking, though, somehow, that Doug’s just like me, that he cares too much. But there’s no telling, not with Doug. Doug won’t tell. His lips are zipped. Like Saleem says, he’s private. He’s impenetrable.
And of course we’re all frightened of him, apart from Saleem. Maybe even Saleem. He’s getting bigger and bigger. Sometimes I glance at his eyes and see the whole world in there, streaming in - light and colour and nature and history. Go d only knows what he might do.
My one compensation is that at least I think I know what he’s capable of. I know the perimeters. There are none.
And I love Doug for that very reason. I see my own smallness reflected in his hugeness, and because we are opposite we are almost the same.
I’m thirty-four years old and I can’t even hold a conversation. I’m soggy and I’m limpid and I’ve never truly believed in anything but the things that I do. My work, this park. And I like plants. I can make them grow, and I like the sky, how it goes up and up with no lid, and I’ve never even kissed a girl. And I’m in love with Nancy.
At least I think I am, and for all the wrong reasons. I love Nancy because she never looks me in the eye. That’s her way. She’s too preoccupied. There’s something in her gaze that doesn’t focus, doesn’t invade. I am only a voice in her head, so I’m safe, it’s a safe love. You see, she isn’t like other girls.
Nancy’s our driver. She has two great passions in her life: to drive her truck and the truck itself. (A Leyland Daf Roadrun ner, ‘Truck of the Year,’ she tells me proudly, ‘when it first came out.’ Seven tons of silver and metal and diesel.)
Also, Nancy likes to run. She has a body like a wasp; so clean so neat, so sharp. She can be very mean, potentially, but she often chooses not to be. She’s a man-woman, an Amazon, an outlaw. She has a small, silver pistol in her truck, in the glove compartment, smokes slim cheroots, wears denim jeans ripped off above the knee, and her muscles, smooth like cream, leg muscles, arm muscles, a tan, darker down one side of her body and face, a driving tan.
In summer she’ll wear a short leather halter-top. Her small breasts, like two beige damsons, jutting up, vibrating as she pulls the truck in, struggling in low gear, still when the engine’s off. She’s a reconstructed Suzi Quatro, a Joan Jett of jammed-up junctions. Sticky and tricky.
She is strong. She moves the load, effortlessly, at speed. She likes picking people up, can even pick Ray up, can do basic judo, play football, baseball, basketball. Has broken both arms, both legs, her collar bone in motorbike accidents. She told me so, she did.
She is covered, like a cactus, in tiny blonde hairs: her face, her arms, her legs. And the light shines off her, and the sweat, when she’s hot (always hot), beads on her and transforms her body into a silken web, so ornate, wondrous, one of the wonders of the world, in the world, out of this very, very world.
Nancy.
