The Memory Game

I put my head into my hands. There was a suppressed giggle beside me. Not from Theo, from the man on my other side.

Alan had paused, apparently enjoying the embarrassed silence. Judd remained expectantly silent.

‘I was only joking, Lizzie. I’m not supposed to talk about things like breasts, am I? It’s not allowed. Are you saying I hate women, Lizzie, love?’

‘Why should you think I’m saying that?’

‘That’s what people like you say. Are we talking about me or are we talking about my books, Lizzie? I love women. I like fucking. Or at least I used to, when I could manage it. Is that what you want to hear? Now, shall we talk about my book?’

My head was between my knees now and I began to consider blocking my ears. I heard a shuffling sound. Was he standing up?

‘I wrote that novel from my heart.’ A fist banged against a chest. Hugely amplified by the radio microphone he was wearing, it sounded like a battering ram against a castle gate. ‘And I wrote it when I was very young, and I don’t give a fuck about people who use the book to argue about what Alan Martello thinks about women. I’m bored, bored, fucking bored with discussions which say that one novel is better than another because it’s nicer.’

There was an agitated murmur in the audience. I looked up to find myself at the centre of a forest of raised arms. Lizzie Judd pointed at a young woman sitting to one side.

‘Would you say then that morality has nothing to do with literary merit?’

‘Oh fuck off,’ Alan said. ‘This isn’t the Oxford fucking Union, is it? I thought we were here to talk about my books. Or are we going to talk about sex? Lizzie, do you want to tell us what you do in bed and with whom, if anyone?’

There were shouts now from different parts of the auditorium. Lizzie Judd remained calm as she called for quiet like a tennis umpire.

‘Mr Martello, do you want to continue with this discussion?’

Alan raised his glass, as if in a bizarrely inappropriate attempt at a toast.

‘I’m all right,’ he said.

Hands waved in the air. A pale and slender young man stood up, his scarf was wrapped around his neck so many times I could hardly see his face.

‘I’m a man too, Mr Martello,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ said Alan dubiously.

‘But I’m not of your generation,’ the man continued in a quavering voice. ‘I think women have often been damaged by the affection you say you have for them, by the predatory sexuality that you portray with approval. Is the world ever going to change if people like you, with a voice that others listen to, maintain your chauvinism dressed up as the writer’s freedom?’

Murmurs of agreement rippled round the theatre. The TV lights shone hotly down. Alan was sweating; Lizzie Judd looked immaculately cool.

‘You pompous pillock,’ said Alan, slurring his words now. ‘If women are relying on you to defend them, they must be in trouble. You’re just encouraging them to be victims. Crying harassment and rape and all that at the drop of a hat. Bloody hell.’

A female cry of ‘Bastard’ came from the back of the auditorium. Lizzie Judd remained alarmingly cool.

‘This is your position on the issue of rape, is it, Mr Martello?’

Alan finished his whisky, and put his glass down, slightly missing the table so that it fell and shattered on the stage.

‘Don’t mind that,’ he said. ‘Balls! Women like strong men and a bit of violence. Only complain afterwards. Make ’em feel better to complain. Don’t like to admit they like rutting like sows. I’ve never heard a woman complain. We’re not supposed to say that, are we? Not politically correct, is it?’

‘This is your position as a respected novelist, is it?’ Lizzie Judd asked, showing some signs of alarm at what she was unleashing.

‘I’m not a fucking respected novelist,’ Alan shouted thickly. ‘I haven’t finished a fucking novel for thirty years. But yes, we’re not social workers. We work in a world where ordinary men are killers, where women want to be fucked or want to be raped and don’t know the difference. It’s the world of the fucking imagination.’

‘Some people might say that there is a continuum between the abusive fantasies that are dramatised in fiction such as yours and the actual violence suffered by women.’

Alan stood up unsteadily.

‘You want to see a continuum? I’ll show you a fucking continuum.’

Like a toppling tree he fell down on Lizzie Judd, put a hand on her breast and kissed her noisily on her startled mouth. Her microphone must have been close to her face because the smacking kiss echoed loudly around the auditorium. I had several impressions simultaneously. Cameras rolling. Shouts from the crowd. People jumping up and running forward. Alan being pulled off Lizzie Judd. He shook somebody off and began to shout:

‘You think I don’t know about rape? My daughter was raped and murdered and the man who did it has been released. He claimed his fucking right to silence, he wouldn’t answer any questions and the police let the rapist and murderer go. Now you can fucking crucify me.’

Alan continued to shout unintelligibly and flap around until he was restrained by several members of the audience that now filled much of the stage. Theo ran forward and fought his way through the crowd to his father. Lizzie Judd was being helped to her feet, her hair in disarray, her face smeared with lipstick. She was holding her eye. I alone stayed in my chair. I felt incapable of movement.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said aloud. ‘What a complete fucking disaster.’

‘It wasn’t so bad.’

I looked round, startled. It was the man next to me.

‘Hang on a minute. I’ve just watched my father-in-law defend rape and assault a famous feminist in front of a paying audience. That’s bad enough for me.’

‘I was just trying to say…’

‘Just go away.’

He went and I was left alone.

Fourteen

Neville Chamberlain Comprehensive School in Sparkhill. A disaster in grey concrete. Probably no more than twenty years old, already stained with moisture, like underarm sweat. An East German police interrogation centre dropped into a world of towerblocks, crouching red-brick houses and bypasses. I’d left home in the dark and now, as I parked outside, it was still before eight. No one was about.

The steamed-up, rapidly cooling interior of the car was depressing. I had nothing to read except an A-Z, so I crossed the road to a tiny cafe opposite the main school gate. I ordered a mug of mahogany-coloured tea, fried egg, bacon and grilled tomato. Almost all the tables were occupied by men in donkey jackets and the air was smoky and steamy. I looked at the front page of the Sun being read by the man opposite me. I wondered if there would be anything in the press about Alan’s fiasco.

By twenty past eight I was back outside on the pavement, walking up and down to keep warm. Ten minutes later I saw him, on a bicycle. He was wrapped in a large coat, heavy gloves, helmet, but Luke’s pale, thin face was unmistakable. As he approached the gate, he swung his right leg deftly back over the bike and rode the final few yards standing on the left pedal, swinging between the groups of pupils who were gathering. I had to run across the road to intercept him. I called his name and he turned his head. He didn’t seem surprised and just gave a slightly sarcastic smile. He pulled off his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his long hair which was streaked with