I'm listening to the new UNKLE album (The Road, part II, NME link here as I write this, and it doesn't really fit Derby. It fits Mac much more....
The dispersal Shadows rose and fell as the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling swayed from side to side. It was a dim light, the crystals made semi-opaque by years of accumulated dust and the electrical wiring so old now that it was debatable if it travelled along the copper cable or if it made its way to the light-fitting by sheer force of habit. The paintings hanging on the wall in plain wooden frames were of people in stern dress and were yellowed by deposits of old fat and cigar smoke. Even so, as the shadows pulsed rhythmically around the room the painted eyes seemed to widen and narrow as though expressing surprise and disapproval at the people they watched. The smell of cooling bacon competed with something animal, perhaps musky, all cut through periodically by high notes from the aftershaves of the men in the room as the waiters moved quietly from one formica-topped table to another carrying plain white plates on which sat predominantly beige food. I drew idly in the grease on the table-top, his finger leaving behind a smear rather than cleaning it off. A plate of food, half-finished was to his left, and a glass of pink gin, flavoured with raspberry and its coloured intensified by the blood dripping from a cut above his right eye was in his other hand. The food on the plate was beige: beige bacon, beige eggs, and something the waiter claimed was toast but tasted and has the texture of hummus. In another room music started up: bass guitars, a keyboard, and choral singing. A man sat down at my table and stuck a sweaty hand out, waiting for a handshake. "I don't shake," I growled. "At least, not unless you dry that trotter off and --" I broke off to cough, splattering the hand with phlegm, "-- sanitise it first." The man pulled his hand back, his porcine face reddening and he looked for a napkin. I'd used them to mop up a slick of ketchup that had been here when I sat down; I'd been more successful at pushing it off the table onto the chair where he was now sitting. But I figured ketchup usually goes well with pork. "You're MacArthur?" He looked around for a waiter, but they'd all vanished through the swinging doors back into the kitchen. The doors are heavy-duty plastic, the kind you find at the entrance to cold rooms in the backs of supermarkets or morgues. I sometimes wonder if that's part of the reason that all the hot food here is luke-warm, and there's never a shortage of ice. "I'm Mother bloody Theresa," I said. "I'm all bleeding heart and warm, fuzzy thoughts." It's not completely untrue as I was definitely bleeding and the alcohol was fuzzing my thoughts just a little.
"You're... exactly what I was told to expect," said the man. "Which I thought was hyperbole, and perhaps even jealousy." "I pay my lawyer for the big words," I said. "When I can find him." I looked around me carefully. "No, the little rat ain't here, bub. You're gonna hafta speakee Inglee." "I think that's racist," said the man. He gave up looking for a napkin or a waiter and rubbed his hand on his trouser leg. "I think you've got ten seconds to tell me why you're interrupting my dinner." He looked at my plate, then picked up my fork and prodded the egg cautiously. I have to admit, even I watched to see if it recoiled. "La disperse," he said, putting the fork back down. He hadn't noticed that I'd picked the knife up. "Or, the dispersal if you prefer English. MAGA, haha." "What do you want dispersed? BOGOF." "No no, you misunderstand dear chap, La disperse is a nineteenth century manuscript that I would like... retrieved." He looked puzzled. "Buy One Get One Free?" "Sure," I shrugged. "Why not? Why can't you get it yourself?" "Ah, now there's a story," he said, settling into his seat. I stuck the knife in the back of his hand.
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I'm listening to the new UNKLE album (The Road, part II, NME link here as I write this, and it doesn't really fit Derby. It fits Mac much more....
The dispersal
Shadows rose and fell as the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling swayed from side to side. It was a dim light, the crystals made semi-opaque by years of accumulated dust and the electrical wiring so old now that it was debatable if it travelled along the copper cable or if it made its way to the light-fitting by sheer force of habit. The paintings hanging on the wall in plain wooden frames were of people in stern dress and were yellowed by deposits of old fat and cigar smoke. Even so, as the shadows pulsed rhythmically around the room the painted eyes seemed to widen and narrow as though expressing surprise and disapproval at the people they watched. The smell of cooling bacon competed with something animal, perhaps musky, all cut through periodically by high notes from the aftershaves of the men in the room as the waiters moved quietly from one formica-topped table to another carrying plain white plates on which sat predominantly beige food.
I drew idly in the grease on the table-top, his finger leaving behind a smear rather than cleaning it off. A plate of food, half-finished was to his left, and a glass of pink gin, flavoured with raspberry and its coloured intensified by the blood dripping from a cut above his right eye was in his other hand. The food on the plate was beige: beige bacon, beige eggs, and something the waiter claimed was toast but tasted and has the texture of hummus. In another room music started up: bass guitars, a keyboard, and choral singing.
A man sat down at my table and stuck a sweaty hand out, waiting for a handshake.
"I don't shake," I growled. "At least, not unless you dry that trotter off and --" I broke off to cough, splattering the hand with phlegm, "-- sanitise it first." The man pulled his hand back, his porcine face reddening and he looked for a napkin. I'd used them to mop up a slick of ketchup that had been here when I sat down; I'd been more successful at pushing it off the table onto the chair where he was now sitting. But I figured ketchup usually goes well with pork.
"You're MacArthur?" He looked around for a waiter, but they'd all vanished through the swinging doors back into the kitchen. The doors are heavy-duty plastic, the kind you find at the entrance to cold rooms in the backs of supermarkets or morgues. I sometimes wonder if that's part of the reason that all the hot food here is luke-warm, and there's never a shortage of ice.
"I'm Mother bloody Theresa," I said. "I'm all bleeding heart and warm, fuzzy thoughts." It's not completely untrue as I was definitely bleeding and the alcohol was fuzzing my thoughts just a little.
"You're... exactly what I was told to expect," said the man. "Which I thought was hyperbole, and perhaps even jealousy."
"I pay my lawyer for the big words," I said. "When I can find him." I looked around me carefully. "No, the little rat ain't here, bub. You're gonna hafta speakee Inglee."
"I think that's racist," said the man. He gave up looking for a napkin or a waiter and rubbed his hand on his trouser leg.
"I think you've got ten seconds to tell me why you're interrupting my dinner."
He looked at my plate, then picked up my fork and prodded the egg cautiously. I have to admit, even I watched to see if it recoiled.
"La disperse," he said, putting the fork back down. He hadn't noticed that I'd picked the knife up. "Or, the dispersal if you prefer English. MAGA, haha."
"What do you want dispersed? BOGOF."
"No no, you misunderstand dear chap, La disperse is a nineteenth century manuscript that I would like... retrieved." He looked puzzled. "Buy One Get One Free?"
"Sure," I shrugged. "Why not? Why can't you get it yourself?"
"Ah, now there's a story," he said, settling into his seat. I stuck the knife in the back of his hand.
Greg - ah, Mac, as charming as ever.
Am I mistaken in thinking that you haven't previously written him in first person? Either way, I quite enjoyed this viewpoint :)
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