It is as if I had always known you; if I were a Hindu I would suspect we met in some former life. – Magid.
You think like me. You’re precise. I like that. – Marcus.
You put it so well and speak my thoughts better than I ever could. In my desire to study the law, in my longing to improve the lot of my poor country – which is victim to every passing whim of God, every hurricane and flood – in these aims, what instinct is fundamental? What is the root, the dream which ties these ambitions together? To make sense of the world. To eliminate the random. – Magid.
And then there was the mutual admiration. That lasted a good few months:
What you are working on, Marcus – these remarkable mice – it is nothing less than revolutionary. When you delve into the mysteries of inherited characteristics, surely you go straight to the soul of the human condition as dramatically and fundamentally as any poet, except you are armed with something essential the poet does not have: the truth. I am in awe of visionary ideas and visionaries. I am in awe of such a man as Marcus Chalfen. I call it an honour to be able to call him friend. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking such an inexplicable and glorious interest in my family’s welfare. – Magid.
It is incredible to me, the bloody fuss people make about an idea like cloning. Cloning, when it happens (and I can tell you it will be sooner rather than later) is simply delayed twinning, and never in my life have I come across a couple of twins who prove more decidedly the argument against genetic determinism than Millat and yourself. In every area in which he lacks, you excel – I wish I could turn that sentence around for a vice versa effect, but the hard truth is he excels in nothing apart from charming the elastic waistband off my wife’s knickers. – Marcus.
And finally, there were the plans for the future, plans made blindly and with amorous speed, like the English nerd who married a nineteen-stone Mormon from Minnesota because she sounded sexy on the chat line:
You must get to England as soon as possible, early ’93 at the very latest. I’ll stump up some of the cash myself if I have to. Then we can enrol you in the local school, get the exams over and done with and send you off post-haste to whichever of the dreaming spires tickles your fancy (though obviously there’s only one real choice) and while you’re at it you can hurry up and get older, get to the bar and provide me with the kind of lawyer I need to fight in my corner. My FutureMouse© needs a staunch defender. Hurry up, old chap. I haven’t got all millennium. – Marcus.
The last letter, not the last letter they wrote but the last one Irie could stomach, included this final paragraph from Marcus:
Well, things are the same round here except that my files are in excellent order, thanks to Irie. You’ll like her: she’s a bright girl and she has the most tremendous breasts… Sadly, I don’t hold out much hope for her aspirations in the field of ‘hard science’, more specifically in my own biotechnology, which she appears to have her heart set on… she’s sharp in a way, but it’s the menial work, the hard grafting, that she’s good at – she’d make a lab assistant maybe, but she hasn’t any head for the concepts, no head at all. She could try medicine, I suppose, but even there you need a little bit more chutzpah than she’s got… so it might have to be dentistry for our Irie (she could fix her own teeth at least), an honest profession no doubt, but one I hope you’ll be avoiding…
In the end, Irie wasn’t offended. She had the sniffles for a while, but they soon passed. She was like her mother, like her father – a great reinventor of herself, a great make-doer. Can’t be a war correspondent? Be a cyclist. Can’t be a cyclist? Fold paper. Can’t sit next to Jesus with the 144,000? Join the Great Crowd. Can’t stand the Great Crowd? Marry Archie. Irie wasn’t so upset. She just thought, right: dentistry. I’ll be a dentist. Dentistry. Right.
And meanwhile Joyce was below deck trying to sort out Millat’s problems with white women. Which were numerous. All women, of every shade, from midnight-black to albino, were Millat’s. They slipped him phone numbers, they gave him blow jobs in public places, they crossed crowded bars to buy him a drink, they pulled him into taxis, they followed him home. Whatever it was – the Roman nose, the eyes like a dark sea, the skin like chocolate, the hair like curtains of black silk, or maybe just his pure, simple stink – it sure as hell worked. Now, don’t be jealous. There’s no point. There have always been and always will be people who simply exude sex (who breathe it, who sweat it). A few examples from thin air: the young Brando, Madonna, Cleopatra, Pam Grier, Valentino, a girl called Tamara who lives opposite the London Hippodrome, right slap in the middle of town; Imran Khan, Michelangelo’s David. You can’t fight that kind of marvellous indiscriminate power, for it is not always symmetry or beauty per se that does it (Tamara’s nose is ever so slightly bent), and there are no means by which you can gain it. Surely the oldest American sentence is relevant here, pertinent to matters economic, politic and romantic: you either got it or you don’t. And Millat had it. In spades. He had the choice of the known world, of every luscious female from a size 8 to a 28, Thai or Tongan, from Zanzibar to Zurich, his vistas of available and willing pussy extending in every direction as far as the eye could see. One might reasonably expect a man with such a natural gift to dip into the tun-dishes of a great variety of women, to experiment far and wide. And yet Millat Iqbal’s main squeezes were almost all exclusively size 10 white Protestant women aged fifteen to twenty-eight, living in and around the immediate vicinity of West Hampstead.
Initially this neither bothered Millat nor felt unusual to him. His school was full of girls who fitted the general description. By the law of averages – as he was the only guy worth shagging in Glenard Oak – he was going to end up shagging a large proportion of them. And with Karina Cain, the present amour, things were really quite pleasant. He was only cheating on her with three other women (Alexandra Andrusier, Polly Houghton, Rosie Dew), and this was a personal record. Besides which, Karina Cain was different. It wasn’t just sex with Karina Cain. He liked her and she liked him, and she had a great sense of humour, which felt like a miracle, and she looked after him when he was down and he looked after her too, in his own way, bringing her flowers and stuff. It was both the law of averages, and a lucky, random thing that had made him happier than he usually was. So that was that.
Except KEVIN didn’t see it that way. One evening, after Karina had dropped him off at a KEVIN meeting in her mother’s Renault, Brother Hifan and Brother Tyrone crossed Kilburn town hall like two man- mountains, determined to deliver themselves at the feet of Muhammed. They loomed large.
‘Hey, Hifan, my speed, Tyrone, my man, why the long faces?’
But brothers Hifan and Tyrone wouldn’t tell him why the long faces. Instead they gave him a leaflet. It was called: Who is truly free? The Sisters of KEVIN or the Sisters of Soho? Millat thanked them cordially for it. Then he stuffed it in the bottom of his bag.
How was that? they asked him the following week. Was it a good read, Brother Millat? Truth was, Brother Millat hadn’t got round to reading it (and to be honest, he preferred leaflets called things like The Big American Devil: How the United States Mafia Rules the World or Science versus the Creator: No Contest), but he could see it seemed to matter to Brother Tyrone and Brother Hifan, so he said he had. They looked pleased and gave him another one. This one was called: Lycra Liberation? Rape and the Western World.
‘Is light broaching your darkness, Brother Millat?’ asked Brother Tyrone eagerly, at the following Wednesday’s meeting. ‘Are things becoming clearer?’
‘Clearer’ didn’t seem to Millat to be exactly the right adjective. Earlier in the week he had set
