19 The Final Space

So said the banner on the top of the newspaper. So proclaimed the revellers who danced through early evening streets with their shrill silver whistles and Union Jacks, trying to whip up the feeling that goes with the date; trying to bring on the darkness (it was only five o’clock) so that England might have its once-a-year party; get fucked up, throw up, snog, grope and impale; stand in the doorways of trains holding them open for friends; argue with the sudden inflationary tactics of Somalian minicab drivers, jump in water or play with fire, and all by the dim, disguising light of the street lamps. It was the night when England stops saying pleasethankyoupleasesorrypleasedidI? And starts saying pleasefuckmefuckyoumotherfucker (and we never say that; the accent is wrong; we sound silly). The night England gets down to the fundamentals. It was New Year’s Eve. But Joshua was having a hard time believing it. Where had the time gone? It had seeped between the crack in Joely’s legs, run into the secret pockets of her ears, hidden itself in the warm, matted hair of her armpits. And the consequences of what he was about to do, on this the biggest day of his life, a critical situation that three months ago he would have dissected, compartmentalized, weighed up and analysed with Chalfenist vigour – that too had escaped him into her crevices. He had made no real decisions this New Year’s Eve, no resolutions. He felt as thoughtless as the young men tumbling out of pubs, looking for trouble; he felt as light as the child sitting astride his father’s shoulders heading for a family party. Yet he was not with them, out there in the streets, having fun – he was here, in here, careening into the centre of town, making a direct line for the Perret Institute like a heat-seeking missile. He was here, cramped in a bright red minibus with ten jumpy members of FATE, hurtling out of Willesden towards Trafalgar Square, half listening to Kenny read his father’s name out loud for the benefit of Crispin who was up front, driving.

‘ “When Dr Marcus Chalfen puts his FutureMouse on public display this evening he begins a new chapter in our genetic future.” ’

Crispin threw his head back for a loud, ‘Ha!’

‘Yeah, right, exactly,’ continued Kenny, trying unsuccessfully to scoff and read simultaneously, ‘like, thanks for the objective reporting. Umm, where was I… all right: “More significantly, he opens up this traditionally secretive, rarefied and complex branch of science to an unprecedented audience. As the Perret Institute prepares to open its doors around-the-clock for seven years, Dr Chalfen promises a national event which will be ‘crucially unlike the Festival of Britain in 1951 or the 1924 British Empire Exhibition because it has no political agenda’.” ’

‘Ha!’ snorted Crispin once more, this time turning right around in his seat so the FATE minibus (which wasn’t officially the FATE minibus; it still had KENSAL RISE FAMILY SERVICES UNIT in ten-inch yellow letters on either side; a loan from a social worker with furry animal sympathies) only narrowly missed a gaggle of pissed-up high-heeled girls who were tottering across the road. ‘No political agenda? Is he taking the fucking piss?’

‘Keep your eyes on the road, darling,’ said Joely, blowing him a kiss. ‘We want to at least try to get there in one piece. Umm, left here… down the Edgware Road.’

‘Fucker,’ said Crispin, glowering at Joshua and then turning back. ‘What a fucker he is.’

‘ “By 1999,” ’ read Kenny, following the arrow from the front to page five, ‘ “the year experts predict recombinant DNA procedure will come into its own – approximately fifteen million people will have seen the FutureMouse exhibition, and many more worldwide will have followed the progress of the FutureMouse in the international press. By then, Dr Chalfen will have succeeded in his aim of educating a nation, and throwing the ethical ball into the people’s court.” ’

‘Pass. Me. The. Fuck. Ing. Buck. Et,’ said Crispin, as if the very words were vomit. ‘What do the other papers say?’

Paddy held up Middle England’s bible so Crispin could see it in the rear-view. Headline: MOUSEMANIA.

‘It comes with a free FutureMouse sticker,’ said Paddy, shrugging his shoulders and slapping the sticker on his beret. ‘Pretty cute, actually.’

‘The tabloids are a surprise winner, though,’ said Minnie. Minnie was a brand-new convert: a seventeen-year-old Crusty, with matted blonde dreads and pierced nipples, whom Joshua had briefly considered becoming obsessed with. He tried for a while, but found he just couldn’t do it; he just couldn’t leave his miserable little psychotic world-of-Joely and go out seeking life on a new planet. Minnie, to her credit, had spotted this straight off and gravitated towards Crispin. She wore as little as the winter weather would allow and took every opportunity to thrust her perky pierced nipples into Crispin’s personal space, as she did now, reaching over to the driver’s cab to show him the front page of the daily rag in question. At one and the same time Crispin tried unsuccessfully to take the Marble Arch roundabout, avoid elbowing Minnie in the tits, and look at the paper.

‘I can’t see it properly. What is it?’

‘It’s Chalfen’s head with mouse ears, attached to a goat’s torso, which is attached to a pig’s arse. And he’s eating from a trough that says “Genetic Engineering” at one end and “Public Money” at the other. Headline: CHALFEN CHOWS DOWN.’

‘Nice. Every little helps.’

Crispin went round the roundabout again, and this time got the turning he required. Minnie reached over him and propped the paper on the dashboard.

‘God, he looks more fucking Chalfenist than ever!’

Joshua bitterly regretted telling Crispin about this little idiosyncracy of his family, their habit of referring to themselves as verbs, nouns and adjectives. It had seemed a good idea at the time; give everybody a laugh; confirm, if there was any doubt, whose side he was on. But he never felt that he’d betrayed his father – the weight of what he was doing never really hit him – until he heard Chalfenism ridiculed out of Crispin’s mouth.

‘Look at him Chalfening around in that trough. Exploit everything and everybody, that’s the Chalfen way, eh Josh?’

Joshua grunted and turned his back on Crispin, in favour of the window and a view of the frost over Hyde Park.

‘That’s a classic photo, there, see? The one they’ve used for the head. I remember it; that was the day he gave evidence in the California trial. That look of total fucking superiority. Very Chalfenesque!’

Joshua bit his tongue. DON’T RISE TO IT. IF YOU DON’T RISE TO IT, YOU GAIN HER SYMPATHY.

‘Don’t, Crisp,’ said Joely firmly, touching Joshua’s hair. ‘Just try to remember what we’re about to do. He doesn’t need that tonight.’

BINGO.

‘Yeah, well…’

Crispin put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Minnie, have you and Paddy checked that everyone’s got everything they need? Balaclavas and that?’

‘Yeah, all done. It’s cool.’

‘Good.’ Crispin pulled out a small silver box filled with all the necessaries to roll a fat joint and threw it in Joely’s direction, catching Joshua painfully on the shin.

‘Make us one, love.’

CUNT.

Joely retrieved the box from the floor. She worked crouching with the Rizla resting on Joshua’s knee, her long neck exposed, her breasts falling forward until they were practically in his hands.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asked him, flicking her head back once the joint was rolled.

‘How d’you mean, nervous?’

‘About tonight. I mean, talk about conflict of loyalties.’

‘Conflict?’ murmured Josh hazily, wishing he were out there with the happy people, the conflict-free people, the New Year people.