Read Online The Butt by Will Self - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Will Self
Tags: Contemporary, Azizex666
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it was backing up inside his head, getting inside his eyes.
‘It wouldn’t matter a damn, right,’ Swai-Phillips hectored him, ‘if you were to take up smoking again, so far as the traditional people are concerned. Engwegge – that’s the native tobacco – is used so widely here. Shee-it, they don’t only smoke the stuff, they chew it, sniff it, rub it on their gums. They even mix it up into enemas and squirt it up their black arses, right. No, it isn’t the Intwennyfortee mob you need to worry about on that score.’
He took his feet off the desk and, dropping the cigar in an ashtray, adopted a more lawyerly air. ‘However, should we go to a full trial – which I hope won’t happen – we’ll more than likely be facing a majority Anglo jury; the defence has no rights to veto jurors here; and, as you’ve probably realized, the whole anti-smoking drive is, at root, racially motivated. The Anglos have a lot of things stuffed up their arses, but engwegge ain’t one of them, yeah.
‘So, if you don’t want to risk smoking, yeah, you can always chew a few engwegge leaf-tips. I’ve gotta batch of the finest here.’ The lawyer opened a desk drawer and slung a packet made from a banana leaf on to the blotter. It lay there: grossly organic on the workaday surface.
Tom grimaced. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Jethro,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll take a rain check.’
‘Please yourself.’ The lawyer sounded miffed. ‘This ain’t just a fiery little treat – it’s ritual stuff. My old feller sends them from over there. The tips are dew-picked, then fire-baked. The makkatas of my dad’s mob chew quids as big as tennis balls; then . . . past, present, future’ – he dug his spade-like hands into the ineluctable modality of his own engwegge trance – ‘they can see ’em all at once. Still’ – the lawyer hunched forward and quit desert mysticism for the prosaic office – ‘none of that need concern you – not yet, yeah. I want you to come up to my place tomorrow; there’s a bloke you need to see, right.’
Tom grunted non-committally. He looked at the bland wall: a print of a nineteenth-century hunting scene hung beside a magnetic year planner. The red-jacketed huntsmen were on horseback, racing after a flock of moai, the giant indigenous flightless birds.
‘What’re you gonna do when you leave here?’ Swai-Phillips barked.
‘I – I hadn’t thought . . .’
‘You should go over to the hospital and see Lincoln,’ the lawyer commanded. ‘You may not be able to after tomorrow, yeah.’
When Tom entered the room, he found Lincoln reading a golfing magazine. There was no sign of Atalaya or her desert sorority. An Anglo nurse squeaked hither and thither on the shiny floor, changing the old man’s saline drip with studious efficiency.
‘Lissen,’ Lincoln said, putting his reading material aside and taking Tom’s hand in his own. ‘You must’ve maxed out your credit card getting me in here – and there was no need – my insurance’ll cover it.’
‘I thought, I mean – given that you’re a Tayswengo, it’d be part of the payback.’
The old man laughed. He certainly looked frail, and there was a thick dressing taped to his now shorn head, but his hand continued to gently pressure Tom’s, and his eyes twinkled with amused affection. ‘I’m not Tayswengo,’ Lincoln said. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I love Atalaya, she and me . . . well.’ He shook his head on the snowy pillow. ‘We’re soul mates . . . I wish, I wish I’d met her twenty years ago . . .’
Except for the fact that she’d then have been minus-two, Tom thought – then checked himself, for the old man was being so sweet, he felt craven for not having come to see him before.
He cleared his throat and indicated the supermarket bag he’d put on the bedside cabinet. ‘I brought some fruit, magazines and candy. I got a selection, ’cause I don’t know what you like.’
‘Thanks.’ Lincoln smiled but
‘It wouldn’t matter a damn, right,’ Swai-Phillips hectored him, ‘if you were to take up smoking again, so far as the traditional people are concerned. Engwegge – that’s the native tobacco – is used so widely here. Shee-it, they don’t only smoke the stuff, they chew it, sniff it, rub it on their gums. They even mix it up into enemas and squirt it up their black arses, right. No, it isn’t the Intwennyfortee mob you need to worry about on that score.’
He took his feet off the desk and, dropping the cigar in an ashtray, adopted a more lawyerly air. ‘However, should we go to a full trial – which I hope won’t happen – we’ll more than likely be facing a majority Anglo jury; the defence has no rights to veto jurors here; and, as you’ve probably realized, the whole anti-smoking drive is, at root, racially motivated. The Anglos have a lot of things stuffed up their arses, but engwegge ain’t one of them, yeah.
‘So, if you don’t want to risk smoking, yeah, you can always chew a few engwegge leaf-tips. I’ve gotta batch of the finest here.’ The lawyer opened a desk drawer and slung a packet made from a banana leaf on to the blotter. It lay there: grossly organic on the workaday surface.
Tom grimaced. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Jethro,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll take a rain check.’
‘Please yourself.’ The lawyer sounded miffed. ‘This ain’t just a fiery little treat – it’s ritual stuff. My old feller sends them from over there. The tips are dew-picked, then fire-baked. The makkatas of my dad’s mob chew quids as big as tennis balls; then . . . past, present, future’ – he dug his spade-like hands into the ineluctable modality of his own engwegge trance – ‘they can see ’em all at once. Still’ – the lawyer hunched forward and quit desert mysticism for the prosaic office – ‘none of that need concern you – not yet, yeah. I want you to come up to my place tomorrow; there’s a bloke you need to see, right.’
Tom grunted non-committally. He looked at the bland wall: a print of a nineteenth-century hunting scene hung beside a magnetic year planner. The red-jacketed huntsmen were on horseback, racing after a flock of moai, the giant indigenous flightless birds.
‘What’re you gonna do when you leave here?’ Swai-Phillips barked.
‘I – I hadn’t thought . . .’
‘You should go over to the hospital and see Lincoln,’ the lawyer commanded. ‘You may not be able to after tomorrow, yeah.’
When Tom entered the room, he found Lincoln reading a golfing magazine. There was no sign of Atalaya or her desert sorority. An Anglo nurse squeaked hither and thither on the shiny floor, changing the old man’s saline drip with studious efficiency.
‘Lissen,’ Lincoln said, putting his reading material aside and taking Tom’s hand in his own. ‘You must’ve maxed out your credit card getting me in here – and there was no need – my insurance’ll cover it.’
‘I thought, I mean – given that you’re a Tayswengo, it’d be part of the payback.’
The old man laughed. He certainly looked frail, and there was a thick dressing taped to his now shorn head, but his hand continued to gently pressure Tom’s, and his eyes twinkled with amused affection. ‘I’m not Tayswengo,’ Lincoln said. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I love Atalaya, she and me . . . well.’ He shook his head on the snowy pillow. ‘We’re soul mates . . . I wish, I wish I’d met her twenty years ago . . .’
Except for the fact that she’d then have been minus-two, Tom thought – then checked himself, for the old man was being so sweet, he felt craven for not having come to see him before.
He cleared his throat and indicated the supermarket bag he’d put on the bedside cabinet. ‘I brought some fruit, magazines and candy. I got a selection, ’cause I don’t know what you like.’
‘Thanks.’ Lincoln smiled but
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