Anansi Boys (Page 19)

But Spider lived in a different world.

They wandered toward the West End, stopping when they reached a crowded pub. The patrons spilled out onto the pavement, and Spider stopped and said hello to what turned out to be a birthday celebration for a young lady named Sybilla, who was only too flattered when Spider insisted on buying a birthday round of drinks for her and for her friends. Then he told jokes ("- and the duck says, put it on my bill? Whaddayathink I am? Some kinda pervert?") and he laughed at his own jokes, a booming, joyful laugh. He could remember the names of all the people around him. He talked to people and listened to what they said. When Spider announced it was time to find another pub, the entire birthday group decided, as one woman, that they were coming with him-.

By the time they reached their third pub, Spider resembled someone from a rock video. He was draped with girls. They snuggled in. Several of them had kissed him, half-jokingly, half-seriously. Fat Charlie watched in envious horror.

"You his bodyguard?" asked one of the girls.

"What?"

"His bodyguard. Are you?"

"No," said Fat Charlie. "I’m his brother."

"Wow," she said. "I didn’t know he had a brother. I think he’s amazing."

"Me, too," said another, who had spent some time cuddling Spider until forced away by the press of other bodies with similar ideas. She noticed Fat Charlie for the first time. "Are you his manager?"

"No. He’s the brother," said the first girl. "He was just telling me," she added, pointedly.

The second ignored her. "Are you from the States as well?" she asked. "You’ve sort of got a bit of an accent."

"When I was younger," said Fat Charlie. "We lived in Florida. My dad was American, my mum was from, well she was originally from Saint Andrews, but she grew up in-."

Nobody was listening.

When they moved on from there, the remnants of the birthday celebration accompanied them. The women surrounded Spider, inquiring where they were going next. Restaurants were suggested, as were nightclubs. Spider simply grinned and kept walking.

Fat Charlie trailed along behind them, feeling more left-out than ever.

They stumbled through the neon-and-striplight world. Spider had his arms around several of the women. He would kiss them as he walked, indiscriminately, like a man taking a bite from first one summer fruit, then another. None of them seemed to mind.

It’s not normal, thought Fat Charlie. That’s what it’s not. He was not even trying to keep up, merely attempting not to be left behind.

He could still taste the bitter wine on his tongue.

He became aware that a girl was walking along beside him. She was small, and pretty in a pixieish sort of way. She tugged at his sleeve. "What are we doing?" she asked. "Where are we going?"

"We’re mourning my father," he said, "I think."

"Is it a reality TV show?"

"I hope not."

Spider stopped and turned. The gleam in his eyes was disturbing. "We are here," he announced. "We have arrived. It is what he would have wanted." There was a handwritten message on a sheet of bright orange paper on the door outside the pub. It said on it, Tonight. Upstair’s. KAROAKE.

"Song," said Spider. Then he said, "It’s showtime!"

"No," said Fat Charlie. He stopped where he was.

"It’s what he loved," said Spider.

"I don’t sing. Not in public. And I’m drunk. And, I really don’t think this is a really good idea."

"It’s a great idea." Spider had a perfectly convincing smile. Properly deployed, a smile like that could launch a holy war. Fat Charlie, however, was not convinced.

"Look," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. "There are things that people don’t do. Right? Some people don’t fly. Some people don’t have sex in public. Some people don’t turn into smoke and blow away. I don’t do any of those things, and I don’t sing either."

"Not even for Dad?"

"Especially not for Dad. He’s not going to embarrass me from beyond the grave. Well, not any more than he has already."

" ‘Scuse me," said one of the young women. " ‘Scuse me but are we going in? ‘Cause I’m getting cold out here, and Sybilla needs to wee."

"We’re going in," said Spider, and he smiled at her.

Fat Charlie wanted to protest, to stand his ground, but he found himself swept inside, hating himself.

He caught up with Spider on the stairs. "I’ll go in," he said. "But I won’t sing."

"You’re already in."

"I know. But I’m not singing."

"Not much point in saying you won’t go in if you’re already in."

"I can’t sing."

"You telling me I inherited all the musical talent as well?"

"I’m telling you that if I have to open my mouth in order to sing in public, I’ll throw up."

Spider squeezed his arm, reassuringly. "You watch how I do it," he said.

The birthday girl and two of her friends stumbled up onto the little dais, and giggled their way through "Dancing Queen." Fat Charlie drank a gin and tonic somebody had put into his hand, and he winced at every note they missed, at every key change that didn’t happen. There was a round of applause from the rest of the birthday group.

Another of the women took the stage. It was the pixieish one who had asked Fat Charlie where they were going. The opening chords sounded to "Stand by Me," and she began, using the phrase in its most approximate and all-encompassing way, to sing along: she missed every note, came in too soon or too late on every line, and misread most of them. Fat Charlie felt for her.

She climbed down from the stage and came toward the bar. Fat Charlie was going to say something sympathetic, but she was glowing with joy. "That was so great," she said. "I mean, that was just a mazing." Fat Charlie bought her a drink, a large vodka and orange. "That was such a laugh," she told him. "Are you going to do it? Go on. You have to do it. I bet you won’t be any crapper than I was."

Fat Charlie shrugged, in a way that, he hoped, indicated that he contained within him depths of crap as yet unplumbed.

Spider walked over to the little stage as if a spotlight was following him.

"I bet this will be good," said the vodka and orange. "Did someone say you were his brother?"

"No," muttered Fat Charlie, ungraciously. "I said that he was my brother."

Spider began to sing. It was "Under the Boardwalk."