Disordered Minds

'London.'

The old man gave a derisive snort. 'Timbuktu, more like.'

'It's only two hours by train,' said Jonathan mildly. 'I did the trip this morning. It wasn't that difficult.'

He was rewarded with a suspicious glare. 'You making fun of me?'

'No.'

'You'd better not be. I fought in the war so the likes of you could make something of yourselves. I got medals for it.'

Jonathan took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. The sensible thing would be to move to one of the tables, but he was damned if he'd give the old brute the satisfaction. He loathed senility with a passion. It was rude, it was self-absorbed and it contributed nothing to man's advancement. Rather the opposite, in fact. It was a destructive force, both in families and in society, because of the insatiable demands it made on the next generation.

The finger started jabbing again. 'You listening to me?'

Jonathan took a deep breath through his nose before whipping up his hand and grasping the frail wrist. 'You don't want to do this,' he said, lowering his hand to the counter. 'I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm tired and I am not in the best of moods.' He relaxed his grip. 'I sympathize with your housing problems but they are not my responsibil-ity. I suggest you take them up with your MP, although he'll probably tell you to be grateful to taxpayers like me if you've been living on benefit all your life.'

'Don't you lecture me,' the old man snapped. 'I got rights. More'n you'll ever have. I'm a Christian, I am, and it's a Christian country ... or would be if we didn't keep opening our doors to heathens.'

'This man bothering you?' asked a burly, dark-haired man, appearing through the saloon door.

Jonathan shook his head.

'I wasn't talking to you, mate. I was talking to my regular. I don't tolerate assaults on old guys. Certainly not by jumped-up wogs in fancy dress.'

It was like a punch to the midriff. Jonathan hadn't been called a wog for years.

'That's a bit strong,' said the old man. 'He'll have you in court if you're not careful, Roy.'

'What did he have hold of your hand for? Was he hurting you?'

'No,' Jim admitted fairly. 'Didn't like me poking him.'

'Then I apologize. No insult intended,' Roy said, raising a trap in the counter and moving behind the bar. 'Should have called you a black.' He stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed aggressively, as if pulling a pint for this customer was the last thing he wanted to do. 'What can I get you?'

'Nothing.' Jonathan squashed his cigarette into the ashtray with a shaking hand and reached for his raincoat. 'I'd rather take my chances in town.' He took a card from his pocket and flicked it onto the bar. 'If George Gardener comes in, tell him he can reach me on that mobile number. I'll give him the time it takes me to eat lunch, then I'll leave.'

The landlord's expression changed. 'Christ! Are you Jonathan Hughes? Listen, mate, I'm sorry. You should have said.'

'What?'

'Who you were, for Christ's sake. I've been expecting a white bloke. Does George know you're a darkie?'

Jonathan took another calming breath. 'Don't worry about it,' he said, shrugging into the sodden coat and lifting his briefcase. 'I'll chalk it down to experience.' He retrieved his card and tucked it into his pocket. 'On reflection, you can tell your friend I've changed my mind about meeting him. I don't like the company he keeps.' He headed for the exit.

The landlord called after him, 'Hang on, mate...' But his words were lost in the wind as Jonathan flung open the door.

After two hundred yards his furious pace slackened as a sense of proportion returned. He told himself to follow his own advice and chalk it down to experience. It wasn't the first time it had happened and it wouldn't be the last. His passport was scrutinized by zealous immigration officers every time he entered the country. He'd learned to bite his tongue, particularly since the events of 9/11, but it still maddened him. As a child his brain had churned with hatred every time he was slighted-ignorant racists ... low-grade trash ... foul-mouthed illiterates-but he had never said the words out loud.

If Andrew was to be believed, he should have done it. Holding back anger during adolescence had led to repression.

'You never stood up to your bullies, pal. You'll argue a point to death in an article or a letter, but you won't do it face to face. Christ knows why. You're aggressive enough ... on paper, anyway.'

'I confront my colleagues and students every day.'

'Where it's safe. It's not as if your students are ever going to hit you. You're two different people, Jon. A Rottweiler inside your department, an obedient whippet outside.'

'They're dogs.'

'Don't split hairs. You'll write damning critiques of your colleagues-it's made you a hero with your students-but you shy away from confrontation on the street. You spend a fortune on flashy suits to get yourself noticed, then hunch your shoulders and wear old men's glasses in case you are. You go to the opera, but you always go alone because you think an invitation might commit you to a relationship. It's a pity you didn't deck a skinhead when you were fifteen. You've been suppressing your feelings for so long you don't have any anymore.'

'What makes you think it was whites who were the only problem? The Jamaicans and the Chinese were just as bad, and they ran in bigger gangs.' Jonathan's face hardened at some distant memory. 'They were illiterate and stupid, and none of them could speak English well enough to be understood.' He gave a cynical shrug. 'You try being half Iranian, half Libyan in that kind of environment ... with a dark skin, Caucasian features and an English name that no one believes you're entitled to. Trust me, you keep your head down and work like crazy to get yourself