Disordered Minds

'Body shape, stature, eye color, facial type. A true Englishman would have Anglo-Saxon characteristics. He'd be taller and fairer, with blue or gray eyes and a finer bone structure. You have strong Celtic features-wiry dark hair and brown eyes-and your body shape is endomorphic. It's why the Norsemen called the Welsh trolls, because they were short, dark, hairy men with big bellies.' He glanced at George as she made small tut-tutting noises. 'I'd say you're at least seventy-five percent Welsh, Mr. Trent.'

That's rubbish,' said the other man crossly. 'You can't tell an Englishman just by looking at him. I'm fat because I eat too much. It doesn't make me bloody Welsh.'

Jonathan touched his hands to his forehead in obeisance. 'I do apologize. I hadn't realized being Welsh was such a problem for you. It's another area of the English psyche that I've never understood. I thought it was the Scots and Irish you didn't like.'

'I am not Welsh.'

George gave a nervous little wave. 'He's teasing you, Roy. The Angles and Saxons were Germanic peoples who invaded England in the fourth century ... at the same time as the Jutes and Vikings. The Jutes were Danes, the Vikings were Norwegian. Prior to that we were conquered by the Romans-who were Italians-and seven centuries later we were taken over by the Normans who were French.' She squeezed her eyes at Jonathan in painful pleading. 'Dr. Hughes was joking about endomorphs-I'm one, you're one-an Iranian could be one. It's got nothing do with nationality, anymore than color has. For most of us nationality's a choice, Roy ... not a birthright.'

'Not for me it isn't,' he said stubbornly. 'I was born here. It's the asylum seekers who look around for something better that choose.'

George gave a disheartened shrug as if his xenophobia was not new to her. 'At least recognize that it was the whites who invented economic migration, Roy. Everyone who went to America was looking for a better life.'

Jonathan watched the man's mouth set into even more obstinate lines. He was tempted to tell him they both belonged to the same racial group, Caucasian-the non-Negroid peoples of Europe, the Middle East, north Africa and western Asia-including the Welsh-but it would only offend him. Instead he took pity on George's red face and extended a hand. 'Shall we start again? I'm afraid I've been very ill-tempered since last night when I flew in from New York and was put through the wringer by an immigration officer. He asked me my views on Osama bin Laden. When I refused to answer, he kept me hanging around for an hour while he checked to see if my passport was genuine.'

Roy accepted the olive branch. 'Why did you refuse?'

'Because there was only one answer. Even bin Laden's most fanatical supporters are hardly likely to admit it to an immigration officer.'

Roy appreciated the point. 'Did he ask the whites the same question?'

'What do you think?'

'No.'

Jonathan nodded. 'You learn to live with it, Mr. Trent. At times like this, when people are frightened, there's always a presumption of guilt if your face doesn't fit. It's depressing. It happened to the Irish living in England every time an IRA bomb went off. It happened to Howard Stamp when people thought a Manson-style killer was roaming Highdown.'

But mention of Howard Stamp brought an immediate cooling. Roy glanced at his watch. 'I'd better see what's going on downstairs. Can I get you something to drink? Are you allowed alcohol? George suggested a Gevrey- Chambertin to go with the hotpot but perhaps you'd prefer something else? Wouldn't want to offend your religion or anything.'

'I'm an atheist,' said Jonathan, watching him, 'and the Gevrey-Chambertin sounds excellent. Thank you.'

'I'll be back shortly.' He patted George's arm as he passed. 'If you don't take that coat off soon, girl,' he murmured, loud enough to carry, 'you'll spontaneously combust ... and the hat's not doing you any favors either, trust me. If you're going to be judged on your looks, you might as well get it over and done with as quickly as possible.'

Trent closed the door behind him, but listened for a minute or two before he walked away. His first remark to Hughes had been accurate. 'A jumped-up wog in fancy dress.' The man was certainly doing himself no favors with George. Apart from anything else, he was insisting on calling her Miss Gardener. With an amused smile he walked down the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door, only for his amusement to turn to anger when he saw his ex-wife watching the CCTV monitor in the corner.

'What the hell are you doing here?' he asked angrily. 'I told you to stay away.'

She glanced at him. 'I fancied a look at the famous author.'

'Why?'

'So I'd recognize him again. I don't trust you, Roy, never have. When were you planning to tell me he was black?'

'I didn't know myself.' He stared at her for a moment before taking a couple of wine glasses from a cupboard and transferring them to a tray. Age had been kind to her, whereas George looked every one of her years. The difference was character. George was ugly, unassuming and kind; his ex was a good-looking bitch.

She flicked the fringes of her cashmere scarf. 'A sad little anorak, you said, who doesn't know shit except what he's got from old newspapers. Instead Denzel Washington turns up.'

'He says he's an Iranian.'

'Who cares? He's black enough to be a nigger.' The woman's pale eyes narrowed aggressively. 'Your girlfriend's going to bust a gut to help him whatever he is. She's a do-gooder, for Christ's sake, and it's PC to be nice to wogs.'

'Yeah, well this one's an arrogant bastard. I don't think George likes him much.' He grinned suddenly. 'You can thank me for that. I put his back up before she even arrived, and now she's having to grovel.'

The woman looked interested. 'Did you do it on purpose?'

He nodded toward the monitor. 'Seemed worth a shot. I watched that old fool Jim Longhurst needle him for ten