‘I don’t,’ said Brodie. ‘It sounds like some creepy church.’
‘You see?’ said Lady Arrow. ‘No theories. It’s as simple as football. I love her directness. You should listen to her, Araba.’
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ said Araba. ‘We’ve got plenty of room.’
‘She can‘t.’
‘If Hood don’t find out, it’s all right,’ said Brodie.
‘No, you’re coming with me,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘We can come back tomorrow. Or better still, Araba might like to visit Hill Street.’
‘Did you say Hood?’ Araba knelt in front of Brodie, who still held the dog on her lap.
‘It’s this bloke,’ said Brodie.
‘You’re going to miss your lesson,’ said Lady Arrow standing up.
Araba looked at her watch and frowned in impatience. ‘Damn,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to go. But tell me something, Brodie —’
Lady Arrow went to the door and called Brodie: she was insistent, demanding in the tone a tired mother might use that Brodie follow her, but the fucking girl wouldn’t move. She said, ‘I’m going,’ but didn’t go. She watched the small girl on the floor answering the actress’s questions. ‘Don’t keep her, my darling,’ said Lady Arrow sharply. ‘She’s learning to fly!’
19
They arrived late at Paddington Cemetery in Kilburn, and walking down the central path between the close rows of tombstones — following Mayo’s instructions — Murf was apologizing to Hood for having caused the delay. At Queen’s Park Station Murf had said, ‘Wait,’ and when the other passengers had gone he took a felt-tipped pen from his pocket and wrote ARSENAL RULE on the wall. He did it purposefully, clinging to the tiles with one hand and making the letters line by line like a child copying his name. He inked them in heavily. Then he walked away and turned to squint at it. He was not satisfied; he wrote it again on the wall next to the door, while Hood watched him with puzzled amusement.
‘I’m really sorry about that,’ Murf was saying in a low voice. His feet scuffed the gravel regretfully. The long black raincoat he had bought to match Hood’s flapped about him, beating like a cape in the wind. ‘I think I made us late.’
Ah fink. He slouched ahead, his coat rising, and he kicked at the path as if blaming himself by punishing his feet. The cemetery was in darkness; the lights shining just above the wall put the whole place in shadow, whitening only the tops of the tombstones so that they were like the peaks of ice chunks frozen in a still black pool. Outside the cemetery the air was soaked pale yellow, like a low cloud of poison, the effect of the sodium street lamps. The sound of their footsteps was deadened by the baffles of the tombs and they could hear their words ring once at the edge of the path and die as the echoes were stifled against the dark marble blocks. A black pool of ice; but when they had crossed it several times Hood saw the cemetery as a walled-in ruin, the sturdy cellar of an ancient toppled building, with the rows of its foundation stones exposed — these broken steeples and cracked posts, and their chains and scabs of moss, pushed up to the path. The ones that caught the light were chalky and pitted like old bones, and the wind groaned through them making the cluttered place seem mournfully empty. This was how the whole of London might look if it was devastated by bombs: miles and miles of shallow moaning cellars.
Hood said — and he was careful not to laugh — ‘Do you always write that?’
The previous night, at the dog track, Murf had stopped running to make the same slogan on the exit gate — a rash afterthought, since they had no way of knowing whether they were being chased by Rutter’s men. Even fleeing, Murf had paused to use his felt-tip! On the platform at Catford Bridge he had explained, ‘If you do it right, it sort of jumps out at you.’
‘Habit,’ Murf said. He gathered his coat against the wind. ‘Couple of years ago I lived up in Penge. Arfa and me. And we had these mates. We called ourselves “the Penge Boys” — boot-boys, like. I was a kid, about fifteen at the time, I was. Yeah, I was had up — threatnen behaviour, utterin menaces — but I got off easy. We just hung out and we used to write stuff on the walls, “Penge Rule”, “Wankers Support Palace”, that kind of shit. Then, you started calling the house a flipping arsenal — remember? When you saw me clocks? “Don’t let no one in this arsenal without permission,” you said. So I got this idea. Let’s start advertising. Arsenal Rule, and that. It’s like I say — it’s a habit.’
In the whole time Hood had known him he had never said so much about himself. Murf was silent for a minute, as if wondering about his own candour, discovering embarrassment.
Finally, Hood said, ‘But won’t people think it’s the football team?’
‘Right,’ said Murf. ‘That’s the funny part.’
‘I get it,’ said Hood, but he was glad it was too dark for Murf to see his face.
‘Like no one knows. You write down Arsenal and everyone thinks it’s the team. Right? Only it ain’t. Right? It’s our secret family, like, and no one has a fucking clue.’ He chuckled. “ ‘Right on,” they’re saying, “Up Arsenal” and they don’t even know they’re supporting us. That’s the best part.’ He showed Hood his shadowy face, his lighted ears, the glint of his ear-ring, then he burped. ‘They don’t know nothing, the wankers.’
Hood said, ‘Some advertising.’
They walked to the upper end of the path and paused for a moment. Nothing moved, and in that enormous tract of shadows there was no sound but the wind tearing at the half-hidden stones and grass. Startled by the silence they turned and headed down the path, as if seeking to be calmed by the muffled crunching of their own footsteps.
Murf said, ‘I hate this boneyard.’
He tramped against the wind, with his small head down and his black coat wrapped around him. He tottered forward, hunched like a deaf bat. And Hood could hear his murmured singing, ‘Boom widdy-widdy, Boom widdy-widdy, boom-boom.’
Hood had not said anything about the night before, but he could see that Murf was glad to have been able to do him the favour. They were friends; now there was no question of it. Before, he had shown his loyalty in unlikely ways. Hood had stuck by him, defended him against Mayo’s sneers, and to show his thanks Murf had redecorated the bathroom. The little deception over the painting — Lady Arrow’s intrusion — had secured their friendship. Murf had tagged along behind him for that; and the fight at the dog track had lifted Murf’s mood and made him candid. Yet Hood wondered how he had gone from being a boot-boy in Penge to a bomber for the Provos. He had no particular belief; he had a crude skill. Hood was amazed that Murf had been able to follow him for an entire day without once showing himself. He was small, but not that small. Tonight Murf was especially grateful. Before they left the house Mayo said that Murf was to stay behind, but Hood insisted he come and said, ‘He’s my secret weapon.’
Now, Hood said, ‘You saved my life, squire.’
‘You mean that punk?’ Murf laughed, a little bark in his throat.
‘I thought you were going to put his lights out.’
‘He was dead scared.’ Murf laughed again. The laughter carried to the tombstones and was flattened into a mirthless snort that thudded at the far wall, as if someone watching from the shadows had choked. Murf said gruffly, ‘I would have cut him and all.’
‘Did you recognize him?’
‘No. I thought you knew him.’ Murf looked to Hood for a reply, but there was none and Murf went on, ‘He scared your chick. I felt sorry for her.’
They had gone to New Cross together in the train, saying nothing. Lorna sat, sniffing with fright into a hanky she held in her fist. Then Murf had gone back to the house, and when they were alone in the street Lorna said, ‘Who are you?’ It sent a chill through him, as it had that first day when she had caught him prowling upstairs. Walking her home he tried to explain — telling her how he had once quarrelled with Rutter, inventing reasons for the pretence of Rutter’s not knowing him. And though she half believed him she was fearful — the casual violence was too great a reminder of her old life. She repeated that Hood was no different from Ron: a thug, a villain, dangerous, putting her at risk. At the door she said, ‘I never want to see you again.’ He didn’t care; he was just playing about, using her. ‘I’m not even pretty,’ she said. ‘But I know what you are — you’re a fucker, just like the rest of them.’