The Wasp Factory Read online

  So nowadays I can say it was a German bomb of five hundred kilograms and it was dropped by a crippled He. 111 trying to get back to its Norwegian base after an unsuccessful attack on the flying-boat base farther down the firth. I like to think it was the gun in my bunker that hit it and forced the pilot to turn tail and dump his bombs.

  The tips of some of those great splinters of igneous rock still stick above the surface of the long-returned sand, and they form the Bomb Circle, poor dead Paul’s most fitting monument: a blasphemous stone circle where the shadows play.

  I was lucky, again. Nobody saw anything, and nobody could believe that I had done it. I was distracted with grief this time, torn by guilt, and Eric had to look after me while I acted my part to perfection, though I say it myself. I didn’t enjoy deceiving Eric, but I knew it was necessary; I couldn’t tell him I’d done it because he wouldn’t have understood why I’d done it. He would have been horrified, and very likely never have been my friend again. So I had to act the tortured, self-blaming child, and Eric had to comfort me while my father brooded.

  Actually, I didn’t like the way Diggs questioned me about what had happened, and for a few moments I thought he might have guessed, but my replies seemed to satisfy him. It didn’t help that I had to call my father ‘uncle’ and Eric and Paul ‘cousins’; this was my father’s idea of trying to fool the policeman about my parentage in case Diggs did any asking around and discovered that I didn’t exist officially. My story was that I was the orphaned son of my father’s long-lost younger brother, and only staying on occasional extended holidays on the island while I was passed from relative to relative and my future was decided.

  Anyway, I got through this tricky interval, and even the sea co-operated for once, coming in just after the explosion and sweeping away any tell-tale tracks I might have left an hour or more before Diggs arrived from the village to inspect the scene.

  • • •

  Mrs Clamp was at the house when I got back, unloading the huge wicker hopper on the front of her ancient bike which lay propped against the kitchen table. She was busy stuffing our cupboards, the fridge and the freezer with the food and supplies she had brought from the town.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Clamp,’ I said pleasantly as I entered the kitchen. She turned to look at me. Mrs Clamp is very old and extremely small. She looked me up and down and said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ and turned back to the wicker hopper on the bike, delving into its depths with both hands, surfacing with long packages wrapped in newspaper. She staggered over to the freezer, climbed on to a small stool by its side, unwrapped the packages to reveal frozen packs of my beefburgers, and placed them in the freezer, leaning over it until she was almost inside. It struck me how easy it would be to — I shook my head clear of the silly thought. I sat down at the kitchen table to watch Mrs Clamp work.

  ‘How are you keeping these days, Mrs Clamp?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m well enough,’ Mrs Clamp said, shaking her head and coming down off the stool, picking up some more frozen burgers and going back to the freezer. I wondered if she might ever get frostbite; I was sure I could see little crystals of ice glinting on her faint moustache.

  ‘My, that’s a big load you’ve brought for us today. I’m surprised you didn’t fall over on the way here.’

  ‘You won’t catch me falling over, no.’ Mrs Clamp shook her head once more, went to the sink, reached up and over while on her tip-toes, turned on the hot water, rinsed her hands, wiped them on her blue-check, bri-nylon work-coat and took some cheese from the bike.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of something, Mrs Clamp?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Mrs Clamp said, shaking her head inside the fridge, slightly below the height of the ice-making compartment.

  ‘Oh, well, I won’t, then.’ I watched her wash her hands one more time. While she started sorting out the lettuce from the spinach I took my leave and went up to my room.

  • • •

  We ate our usual Saturday lunch: fish, with potatoes from the garden. Mrs Clamp was at the other end of the table from my father instead of me, as is traditional. I sat halfway down the table with my back to the sink, arranging fish bones in meaningful patterns on the plate while Father and Mrs Clamp exchanged very formal, almost ritualised pleasantries. I made a tiny human skeleton with the bones of the dead fish and distributed a little ketchup about it to make it more realistic.

  ‘More tea, Mr Cauldhame?’ Mrs Clamp said.

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Clamp,’ my father replied.

  ‘Francis?’ Mrs Clamp asked me.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. A pea would do for a rather green skull for the skeleton. I placed it there. Father and Mrs Clamp droned on about this and that.

  ‘I hear the constable was down the other day, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Mrs Clamp said, and coughed politely.

  ‘Indeed,’ my father said, and shovelled so much food into his mouth he wouldn’t be able to speak for another minute or so. Mrs Clamp nodded at her much-salted fish and sipped her tea. I hummed, and my father glared at me over jaws like heaving wrestlers.

  Nothing more was said on the subject.

  • • •

  Saturday night at the Cauldhame Arms and there I stood as usual at the back of the packed, smoke-filled room at the rear of the hotel, a plastic pint glass in my hand full of lager, my legs braced slightly on the floor in front of me, my back against a wallpapered pillar, and Jamie the dwarf sitting on my shoulders, resting his pint of Heavy on my head now and again and engaging me in conversation.

  ‘What you been doin’, then, Frankie?’

  ‘Not a lot. I killed a few rabbits the other day and I keep getting weird phone calls from Eric, but that’s about all. What about you?’

  ‘Nothin’ much. How come Eric’s calling you?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ I said, looking up at him. He leaned over and looked down at me. Faces look funny upside down. ‘Oh, he’s escaped.’

  ’Escaped?’

  ‘Sh. If people don’t know, there’s no need to tell them. Yeah, he got out. He’s called the house a couple of times and he says he’s coming this way. Diggs came and told us the day he broke out.’

  ‘Christ. Are they looking for him?’

  ‘So Angus says. Hasn’t there been anything on the news? I thought you might have heard something.’

  ‘Nup. Jeez. Do you think they’ll tell people in the town if they don’t catch him?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ I would have shrugged.

  ‘What if he’s still into setting dogs on fire? Shit. And those worms he used to try to get kids to eat. The locals’ll go crazy.’ I could feel him shaking his head.

  ‘I think they’re keeping it quiet. Probably they think they can catch him.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll catch him?’

  ‘Ho. I couldn’t say. He might be crazy, but he’s clever. He wouldn’t have got out in the first place if he hadn’t been, and when he calls up he sounds sharp. Sharp but bonkers.’

  ‘You don’t seem all that worried.’

  ‘I hope he makes it. I’d like to see him again. And I’d like to see him get all the way back here because . . . just because.’ I took a drink.

  ‘Shit. I hope he doesn’t cause any aggro.’

  ‘He might. That’s all I’m worried about. He sounds like he might still not like dogs an awful lot. I think the kids are safe, though, all the same.’

  ‘How’s he travelling? Has he told you how he’s intendin’ to get here? Has he any money?’

  ‘He must have some to be making the phone calls, but he’s stealing things mostly.’

  ‘God. Well, at least you can’t lose remission for escaping from a loony bin.’

  ‘Ay,’ I said. The band came on then, a group of four punks from Inverness called the Vomits. The lead singer had a Mohican haircut and lots of chains and zips. He grabbed the microphone while the other three started thrashing their respective instruments and screamed:

  ‘M
a gurl-fren’s leff me an ah feel like a bum,

  Ah loss ma job an when ah wank ah can’t cum. . . .’

  I nestled my shoulders against the pillar a little more firmly and sipped from my glass as Jamie’s feet beat against my chest and the howling, crashing music thundered through the sweaty room. This sounded like it would be fun.

  • • •

  During the interval, while one of the barmen was taking a mop and bucket to the front of the stage where everybody had been spitting, I went up to the bar to get some more drinks.

  ‘The usual?’ said Duncan behind the bar, Jamie nodded. ‘And how’s Frank?’ Duncan asked, pulling a lager and a Heavy.

  ‘OK. And yourself?’ I said.

  ‘Getting along, getting along, You still wanting bottles?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve got enough for my home-brew now.’

  ‘We’ll still see you in here, though, will we?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. Duncan reached up to hand Jamie his pint and I took mine, putting the money down at the same time.

  ‘Cheers, lads,’ Duncan said as we turned and went back to the pillar.

  • • •

  A few pints later, when the Vomits were doing their first encore, Jamie and I were up dancing, jumping up and down, Jamie shouting and clapping his hands and dancing about on my shoulders. I don’t mind dancing with girls when it’s for Jamie, though one time with one tall lassie he wanted us both to go outside so he could kiss her. The thought of her tits pressed up against my face nearly made me throw up, and I had to disappoint him. Anyway, most of the punk girls don’t smell of perfume and only a few wear skirts and even then they’re usually leather ones. Jamie and I got pushed about a bit and nearly fell down a couple of times, but we survived through to the end of the night without any scrapes. Unfortunately, Jamie ended up talking to some woman, but I was too busy trying to breathe deeply and keep the far wall steady really to care.

  ‘Yeah, I’m going to get a bike soon. Two-fifty, of course,’ Jamie was saying. I was half-listening. He was not going to get a bike because he wouldn’t be able to reach the pedals, but I wouldn’t have said anything even if I could have, because nobody expects people to tell the truth to women and, besides, that’s what friends are for, as they say. The girl, when I could see her properly, was a rough-looking twenty, and had as many coats of paint over her eyes as a Roller gets on its doors. She smoked a horrible French cigarette.

  ‘Ma mate’s got a bike – Sue. It’s a Suzuki 185GT her brother used tae have, but she’s saving up fur a Gold Wing.’

  They were putting the chairs up on the tables and wiping up the mess and the cracked glasses and limp crisp-bags, and I still wasn’t feeling too good. The girl sounded worse the more I listened to her. Her accent sounded horrible: west coast somewhere; Glasgow, I shouldn’t wonder.

  ‘Naw, I wouldn’t have one of those. Too heavy. A five hundred would do me. I really fancy a Moto Guzzi, but I’m not sure about shaft drive. . . .’

  Christ, I was about to do the Technicolor Yawn all over this girl’s jacket, through the tears and rusting her zips and filling her pockets, and probably send Jamie flying across the room into the beer-crates under the speaker stacks with the first awful heave, and here were these two trading absurd biker fantasies.

  ‘Want a fag?’ the girl said, shoving a packet up past my nose towards Jamie. I was seeing trails and lights from the blue packet’s passing even after she brought it back down. Jamie must have taken a cigarette even though I knew he didn’t smoke, because I saw the lighter go up, igniting in front of my eyes in a shower of sparks like a fireworks display. I could almost feel my occipital lobe fusing. I thought of making some smart remark to Jamie about stunting his growth, but all lines to and from my brain seemed to be jammed with urgent messages coming from my guts. I could feel an awful churning going on down there, and I was sure it would only end one way, but I couldn’t move. I was stuck there like a flying buttress between the floor and the pillar, and Jamie was still gibbering away to the girl about the sound a Triumph makes and the high-speed runs she’d done up the side of Loch Lomond at night.

  ‘You on holiday, like?’

  ‘Aye, me an’ ma mates. Ah’ve got a boyfriend but he’s oot on the rigs.’

  ‘Aw aye.’

  I was still breathing hard, trying to clear my head with oxygen. I didn’t understand Jamie; he was half the size I was, half the weight or less, and no matter how much we drank together he never seemed to be affected. He certainly wasn’t dumping his pints on the floor on the sly; I’d have got wet if he was. I realised that the girl had finally noticed me. She poked my shoulder for what I gradually comprehended wasn’t the first time.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I struggled.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Aye,’ I nodded slowly, hoping to content her with this, then looked away and up to one side as though I had just found something very interesting and important to look at on the ceiling. Jamie nudged me with his feet. ‘What?’ I said again, not trying to look at him.

  ‘You staying here all night?’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘No. How, are you ready? Right.’ I put my hands behind me to find the pillar, found it and pushed myself up, hoping my feet wouldn’t slip on the beer-wet floor.

  ‘Maybe you’d better let me down, Frank lad,’ Jamie said, nudging me hard. I looked sort of up and to the side again, as though at him, then nodded. I let my back slide down the pillar until I was virtually squatting on the floor. The girl helped Jamie jump down. His red hair and her blonde looked suddenly garish from that angle in the now brightly lit room. Duncan was coming closer with the brush and a big bucket, emptying ashtrays and mopping things. I struggled to get up, then felt Jamie and the girl take me one under each arm and help me. I was starting to get triple vision and wondering how you did that with only two eyes. I wasn’t sure if they were talking to me or not.

  I said, ‘Aye,’ just in case they were, then felt myself being led out into the fresh air through the fire exit. I needed to go to the toilet, and with every step I took there seemed to be more convulsions from my guts. I had this horrible vision of my body being made up almost completely of two equal-sized compartments, one holding piss and the other undigested beer, whisky, crisps, dry-roasted peanuts, spit, snot, bile and one or two bits of fish and potatoes. Some sick part of my mind suddenly thought of fried eggs lying thick with grease on a plate, surrounded with bacon, curled and scooped and holding little pools of fat, the outsides of the plate dotted with coagulated lumps of grease. I fought down the ghastly urge coming up from my stomach. I tried to think of nice things; then, when I couldn’t think of any, I determined to concentrate on what was happening around me. We were outside the Arms, walking along the pavement past the Bank, Jamie on one side of me and the girl on the other. It was a cloudy night and cool, and the streetlights were sodium. We left the smell of the pub behind, and I tried to get some of the fresh air through my head. I was aware I was staggering slightly, lurching sporadically into Jamie or the girl, but there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it; I felt rather like one of those ancient dinosaurs so huge that they had a virtually separate brain to control their back legs. I seemed to have a separate brain for each limb, but they’d all broken off diplomatic relations. I swayed and stumbled along as best I could, trusting to luck and the two people with me. Frankly, I didn’t have much faith in either, Jamie being too small to stop me if I really started to topple, and the girl being a girl. Probably too weak; and, even if she wasn’t, I expected she would just let me crack my skull on the pavement because women like to see men helpless.

  ‘You tae alwiz like rat?’ the girl said.

  ‘Like what?’ Jamie said, without, I thought, the correct amount of pre-emptive indignation.

  ‘You up on his showders.’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s just so I can see the band better.’

  ‘Thank Christ fur ’at. Ah thought maybe ye went tae ra bog l
ike rat.’

  ‘Oh, aye; we go into a cubicle and Frank goes in the bowl while I do it into the cistern.’

  ‘Yur kiddin’!’

  ‘Aye,’ Jamie said in a voice distorted by a grin. I was walking along as best I could, listening to all this garbage. I was slightly annoyed at Jamie saying anything, even jokingly, about me going to the toilet; he knows how sensitive I am about it. Only once or twice has he taunted me with what sounds like the interesting sport of going into the gents in the Cauldhame Arms (or anywhere else, I suppose) and attacking the drowned fag-ends in the urinals with a stream of piss.

  I admit I have watched Jamie doing this and been quite impressed. The Cauldhame Arms has excellent facilities for the sport, having a great long gutter-like urinal extending right along one wall and halfway down another, with only one drainhole. According to Jamie, the object of the game is to get a soggy fag-end from wherever it is in the channel along to and down the coverless hole, breaking it up as much as possible en route. You can score points for the number of ceramic divisions you can move the butt over (with extra for actually getting it down the hole and extra for doing it from the far end of the gutter from the hole), for the amount of destruction caused – apparently it’s very hard to get the little black cone at the burned end to disintegrate – and, over the course of the evening, the number of fag-ends so dispatched.

  The game can be played in a more limited form in the little bowl-type individual urinals which are more fashionable these days, but Jamie has never tried this himself, being so short that if he is to use one of those he has to stand about a metre back from it and lob his waste water in.