He asked, “How are the voices?”
Albert and Sid the Nerve shuffled closer to listen. The barber's ears twitched.
“I'm afraid they're getting worse.”
“That's not good.”
“He's been watching the news, the famine in Africa.”
“It could be worse.”
“Could it?”
“It could be in a country we cared about.”
“I see what you mean.”
“But it's not good.”
“Why is that?"
“Famine in any country isn't good, is it?”
“Well, there’s China, I suppose, or India, or any one of the Arab countries. But I see what you mean. But Paul, is Paul mad?” “Mad? Madness is a state of mind. We all go through periods of madness, when we're angry or in love or chasing money in a slot machine. Insanity is different. Only if we're mad all the time are we insane. But if we're insane we can be mad some of the time.” Sid frowned.
So did Albert as he nodded thoughtfully.
So did the barber. He pulled at his right ear, searching for loose hair.
“But it's getting worse. What can I expect?”
The man bunched his shoulders, as though it helped his concentration. “Does he dress up? Perhaps as a woman? Like, for instance, Norman Bates?”
Roger the manager heard the name and edged over.
“I haven't seen him in woman's clothes.”
“Well, watch out for it.”
“It's not something I'd fail to notice.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“Anything else?”
“Reminiscence.”
“He's got a good memory. He knows lots of chess openings.” “Not memory, old boy. It's a medical term used to describe inhibition dispersion.”
Sid the Nerve said, “Right. Nice One. I remember. It's the String Theory, right? Yeah. Wormholes. Know where you’re coming from.” The salesman shook his head and continued, “Most of our actions are inhibited by negative thoughts – boredom, lack of motivation, understanding and so forth. In the normal person a short break, a rest period, from a given task will give renewed vigour. With the psychotic this isn't the case. Basically, he picks up from where he left off. The rest period has made no difference. The reason is that the psychotic needs a much longer rest period for his inhibitions to disappear. Slowness, therefore, is a definite sign.”
Roger said, “So we're talking about politicians, Gordon Brown and Jack Straw in particular?”
“Anything else?”
“Extroverts, watch out for the slow extrovert.”
“What can be done?”
“Pills. Lots of them. Phlebotomy for the politicians.”
The street door opened and a blast of air shot in, followed immediately by Mrs Puzey. She waded in with her considerable bulk and people were flattened against the bar. She waved a threatening umbrella.
“You led my little girl astray!”
The crowd at the far end of the bar turned to look.
Mr Lawrence swayed this way and that as a professional boxer might have done, keeping well away from the point. He stuttered, “I beg your pardon?”
“You! You! You evil man! My little girl was innocent until she met you!”
He tried to pacify her by throwing up his hands in his best gesture of geniality. Mr Lawrence knew all about body language, the language of management. Keep eye contact, keep your knees pointing toward the opposing genitals, lick your lips and leave your tongue hanging – that sort of thing. She saw the streaky bandage and was momentarily distracted. Albert ducked out of the way.
“Calm down, Mrs Puzey, for goodness sake. No one is leading your daughter anywhere.”
“She lives in your house of sin. I know. Don't you try to tell me otherwise. All them filthy pictures on your walls. I can hardly bring myself to clean them. Oh, sweet Jesus, what am I to do? My little girl is at the mercy of this… this…”
Roger helped her out. “Pervert,” he suggested.
Mrs Puzey said, “Exactly. Pervert!”
Roger's smile spread out and spread to the others. Within moments the hilarity reached the far corners.
Such bracing acerbities were too much for Mr Lawrence and in a weighty and determined voice which was most unlike his and had the others that knew him quite nonplussed, he said, “Listen to me, woman!”
The shock of his sudden stand had her backing off but she managed, “Don't you make none of them clever excuses to me.” “Mrs Puzey, Laura is staying at the shop for a while until she can sort herself out. I have laid down strict ground rules. She has to be in at a certain time, an early time, and she can have no one back at any time. She has given up all her other activities. What is more, she is serving in the shop and I am teaching her about art. She stands on the verge of a new career. For goodness sake, have her back. Come and get her things. I thought I was doing you all a favour. I'm certainly not putting up with this nonsense.”
She seemed flustered now, at once concerned that she had reached the wrong conclusion and that it might jeopardize her cleaning contract.
“Did I say that, Mr Lawrence?” She turned to Albert. “Did I say I wanted her back?”
Albert, crouching almost, shook his head. Dandruff took off. The air was still unsettled by the waving umbrella. The layers of smoke spiralled this way and that.
She turned to Sid the Nerve. “And you?”
Nervous Sid said, “I didn't hear you say that.”
“There you are, then. What’s all this about? How could I know she was learning to paint the pictures? You didn't tell me that. I thought she was in them filthy pictures!”
“No. Good Lord, no. I wouldn't have her in the paintings, Mrs Puzey.”
“And why not? Are you telling me my little girl isn't good enough to be in them pictures, just because she's black? Is that what you're telling me?”
She turned to Albert again. “Did he say that? Did he?”
Albert beamed and nodded. “It sounded like it.”
She turned back to Mr Lawrence and said, “I take you to Race Relations.” She stormed to the door, muttering.
Mr Lawrence wiped perspiration from his forehead. Sid shook a large drink and some of it made his lips.
Roger said, “Bloody hell.”
The salesman said, “Now, that is madness and not insanity. You see the difference?”
With no little endeavour Roger gained a little composure and addressed Mr Lawrence. “Mr Lawrence,” he said. “You might think that on account that I have a couple of South African wines on my wine list, that this place resembles that place in South Africa where Michael Caine beat off the Zulus, but you would be mistaken. You might think that VCs are easily earned in here. But you would be mistaken. If I have any more trouble with the Zulus or anyone resembling a Zulu, then you are banned along with Liverpool supporters and the singing of Ferry Across The Mersey.”
Mr Lawrence thought about an appeal but instead shook a defeated head. er pants.
The mannequin in his shop window was different. She looked a little shop-worn. A few black strands sprouted from her panty line. Mr Lawrence thought he was seeing things and put it down to the drinks in The British and the cold night air.
Susan, the freckle-faced girl from the art class, looked worried when she walked into the shop shortly after it opened. It was drizzling and her fawn-coloured raincoat was freckled too. With her was a muscular man in jeans and dust-covered T-shirt. He looked like a builder. She looked worried and he looked angry.
“Mr Lawrence, you haven't seen Sandra, have you?”
“Not since the class, my dear. Why?”