Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [224]
“What kind of boozer is this?” said Macfee.
Lanark stood and stared. He would have turned and walked out if it hadn’t been for women. They filled the place with laughing, alert, indifferent young faces and throats, breasts, midriffs and legs in all kinds of clothing. He felt he had never seen so many girls in his life. Looking closely he saw there were as many men but they made a less distinct impression. For all he cared they were duplicates of the same confident long-haired youth and Lanark hated him. He stood transfixed between fascination and envy until someone shouted his name from a corner. He looked across and saw Gilchrist, Pettigrew and Miss Maheen standing at a bar quilted with red plastic.
“Listen,” he told Macfee. “That tall man is my boss. If anyone can help you it’s him. Let’s try anyway.”
He led the way to the bar, and said “Mr. Gilchrist, this is an old friend of mine—-Jimmy Macfee—I knew him as a boy. He’s a client of mine, a really deserving case, and—”
“Now, now, now!” said Gilchrist cheerfully. “We’re here on pleasure, not business. What would you both like?”
“A whisky as big as yours,” said Macfee.
“The same, please,” said Lanark.
Gilchrist gave the order. Macfee was clearly attracted by Miss Maheen who turned her head at regular intervals, smiling at each of them in turn.
“Why are you not drinking?” he asked when her split-second smile reached him.
“She doesn’t drink,” said Pettigrew dourly.
“Can’t she speak for herself?” said Macfee.
“She doesn’t need to.”
“Are you her husband or something?” said Macfee.
Pettigrew coolly emptied his whisky glass and said, “What do you do?”
“I’m a maker. I make mohomes,” said Macfee boldly. “And I live in one.”
“Mohome makers aren’t real makers,” said Pettigrew. “My father was a real maker. I respect real makers. You’re in the luxury trade.”
“So you think a mohome is a luxury?”
“Yes. I bet yours has colour television.”
“Why shouldn’t it have?”
“I suppose you came to us because you wanted a house you could stand up in, with an inside lavatory, and separate bedrooms, and wooden window frames, and maybe a fireplace?”
“Why shouldn’t I have a house like that?”
“I’ll tell you. When mohome users get a house like that they crowd into one room and sublet the others, and rip out the plumbing to sell as scrap metal, and rip out the window frames and chop up the doors and burn them. A mohome user isn’t fit for a decent house.”
“I’m not that sort! You know nothing about me!” cried Macfee.
“I knew all about you as soon as I clapped eyes on you,” said Pettigrew softly. “You, are an obnoxious, little, bastard.” Macfee stared at him, clenching his fists and inhaling loudly. His shoulders swelled and he seemed to grow taller.
“Miss Maheen!” said Pettigrew loudly. “If he threatens me, chop him.”
Miss Maheen stepped between Macfee and Pettigrew and raised her right hand to throat level, holding it flat and horizontal with the small finger outward. Her smile widened and remained. Gilchrist said hastily, “Oh, there’s no need for violence, Miss Maheen. Just look at him.”
Lanark heard a snapping sound inside Miss Maheen’s head. He couldn’t see her face but he saw Macfee’s. His mouth fell open, the lower lip trembled, he clapped his hands over his eyes. Gilchrist said quietly, “Lead him out, Lanark. This isn’t his kind of pub.”
Lanark gripped Macfee’s arm and led him through the crowd.
Outside the door Macfee leaned against the wall, dropped his hands and shuddered. “Wee black holes,” he whispered.
“Her eyes turned into wee black holes.”
“She’s not a real woman, you see,” said Lanark. “She’s a tool, an instrument shaped like a woman.”
Macfee bent forward and was sick on the pavement; then he said, “I’m going home.