‘I can see the tabloid headlines,’ said Irie.
‘Seriously though,’ said Marcus, rearranging his photos in the folder and moving towards the cabinet to refile them, ‘the study of isolated breeds of transgenic animals sheds crucial light on the random. Are you following me? One mouse sacrificed for 5.3 billion humans. Hardly mouse apocalypse. Not too much to ask.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Damn! This thing is such a bloody mess!’
Marcus tried three times to shut the bottom drawer of his cabinet, and then, losing patience, levelled a kick at its steel sides. ‘Bloody thing!’
Irie peered over the open drawer. ‘You need more dividers,’ she said decidedly. ‘And a lot of the paper you’re using is A3, A2 or irregular. You need some kind of folding policy; at the moment you’re just shoving them in.’
Marcus threw his head back and laughed. ‘Folding policy! Well, I suppose you should know; like father like daughter.’
He crouched down by the drawer and gave it a few more pushes.
‘I’m serious. I don’t know how you work like that. My school shit is better organized, and I’m not in the business of World Domination.’
Marcus looked up at her from where he was kneeling. She was like a mountain range from that angle; a soft and pillowy version of the Andes.
‘Look, how about this: I’ll pay you fifteen quid a week if you come round twice a week and get a grip on this filing disaster. You’ll learn more, and I’ll get something I need done, done. Hey? What about it?’
What about it. Joyce already paid Millat a total of thirty-five quid a week for such diverse activities as baby-sitting Oscar, washing the car, weeding, doing the windows and recycling all the coloured paper. What she was really paying for, of course, was the presence of Millat. That energy around her. And that reliance.
Irie knew the deal she was about to make; she didn’t run into it drunk or stoned or desperate or confused, as Millat did. Furthermore, she wanted it; she wanted to merge with the Chalfens, to be of one flesh; separated from the chaotic, random flesh of her own family and transgenically fused with another. A unique animal. A new breed.
Marcus frowned. ‘Why all the deliberation? I’d like an answer this millennium, if you don’t mind. Is it a good idea or isn’t it?’
Irie nodded and smiled. ‘Sure is. When do I start?’
Alsana and Clara were none too pleased. But it took them a little while to compare notes and consolidate their displeasure. Clara was in night school three days a week (courses: British Imperialism 1765 to the Present; Medieval Welsh Literature; Black Feminism), Alsana was on the sewing machine all the daylight hours God gave while a family war raged around her. They talked on the phone only occasionally and saw each other even less. But both felt an independent uneasiness about the Chalfens, of whom they had gradually heard more and more. After a few months of covert surveillance, Alsana was now certain that it was to the Chalfens Millat went during his regular absences from the family home. As for Clara, she was lucky to catch Irie in on a week night, and had long ago rumbled her netball excuses. For months now it had been the Chalfens this and the Chalfens that; Joyce said this wonderful thing, Marcus is so terribly clever. But Clara wasn’t one to kick up a fuss; she wanted desperately what was best for Irie; and she had always been convinced that sacrifice was nine tenths of parenting. She even suggested a meeting, between herself and the Chalfens, but either Clara was paranoid or Irie was doing her best to avoid it. And there was no point looking to Archibald for support. He only saw Irie in flashes – when she came home to shower, dress or eat – and it didn’t seem to bother him whether she raved endlessly about the Chalfen children (They sound nice, love), or about something Joyce did (Did she? That’s very clever, isn’t it, love?), or something Marcus had said (Sounds like a right old Einstein, eh, love? Well, good for you. Must dash. Meeting Sammy at O’Connell’s at eight). Archie had skin as thick as an alligator’s. Being a father was such a solid genetic position in his mind (the solidest fact in Archie’s life), it didn’t occur to him that there might be any challenger to his crown. It was left to Clara to bite her lip alone, hope she wasn’t losing her only daughter, and swallow the blood.
But Alsana had finally concluded that it was all-out war and she needed an ally. Late January ’91, Christmas and Ramadan safely out of the way, she picked up the phone.
‘So: you know about these Chaffinches?’
‘Chalfens. I think the name is Chalfen. Yes, they’re the parents of a friend of Irie’s, I think,’ said Clara disingenuously, wanting to know what Alsana knew first. ‘Joshua Chalfen. They sound a nice family.’
Alsana blew air out of her nose. ‘I’ll call them Chaffinches – little scavenging English birds pecking at all the best seeds! Those birds do the same to my bay leaves as these people do to my boy. But they are worse; they are like birds with teeth, with sharp little canines – they don’t just steal, they rip apart! What do you know about them?’
‘Well… nothing, really. They’ve been helping Irie and Millat with their sciences, that’s what she told me. I’m sure there’s no harm, Alsi. And Irie’s doing very well in school now. She is out of the house all the time, but I can’t really put my foot down.’
Clara heard Alsana slap the Iqbal bannisters in fury. ‘Have you met them? Because I haven’t met them, and yet they feel free to give my son money and shelter as if he had neither – and bad mouth me, no doubt. God only knows what he is telling them about me! Who are they? I am not knowing them from Adam or Eve! Millat spends every spare minute with them and I see no particular improvement in his grades and he is still smoking the pot and sleeping with the girls. I try and tell Samad, but he’s in his own world; he just won’t listen. Just screams at Millat and won’t speak to me. We’re trying to raise the money to get Magid back and in a good school. I’m trying to keep this family together and these Chaffinches are trying to tear it apart!’
Clara bit her lip and nodded silently at the receiver.
‘Are you there, lady?’
‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘Yes. You see, Irie, well… she seems to worship them. I got quite upset at first, but then I thought I was just being silly. Archie says I’m being silly.’
‘If you told that potato-head there was no gravity on the moon he’d think you were being silly. We get by without his opinion for fifteen years, we’ll manage without it now. Clara,’ said Alsana, and her heavy breath rattled against the receiver, her voice sounded exhausted, ‘we always stand by each other… I need you now.’
‘Yes… I’m just thinking…’
‘Please. Don’t think. I booked a movie, old and French, like you like – two thirty today. Meet me in front of the Tricycle Theatre. Niece-of-Shame is coming too. We have tea. We talk.’