Anansi Boys

That may have been the wrong thing to say. Rosie began to sob into her tissues once again. Her mother went on, “Anyway, it would be my treat. I know you’ve got holiday time you haven’t used at work. And you said things were quiet right now. At a time like this, a girl needs to get away from everything and simply relax.”

Rosie wondered whether she’d misjudged her mother all these years. She sniffed and swallowed and said, “That would be nice.”

“Then it’s settled,” said her mother. “I shall come with you, to take care of my baby.” In her head, underneath the grand finale of the fireworks display, she added, And to make sure that my baby only meets the right sort of man.

“Where are we going?” asked Rosie.

“We’re going to go,” said her mother, “on a cruise.”

FAT CHARLIE WAS NOT HANDCUFFED. THAT WAS GOOD. EVERYTHING else was bad, but at least he wasn’t in handcuffs. Life had become a confused blur filled with too-sharp details: the duty sergeant scratching his nose and signing him in—“Cell six is free”—through a green door and then the smell of the cells, a low-level stench he had never before encountered but which was immediately and horribly familiar, a pervasive fug of yesterday’s vomit and disinfectant and smoke and stale blankets and unflushed toilets and despair. It was the smell of things at the bottom, and that was where Fat Charlie seemed to have ended up.

“When you need to flush the lavvy,” said the policeman accompanying him down the corridor, “you press the button in your cell. One of us’ll be by, sooner

or later, to pull the chain for you. Stops you trying to flush away the evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Leave it out, Sunshine.”

Fat Charlie sighed. He’d been flushing away his own bodily waste products since he’d been old enough to take a certain pride in the activity, and the loss of that, more than the loss of his liberty, told him that everything had changed.

“It’s your first time,” said the policeman.

“Sorry.”

“Drugs?” said the policeman.

“No, thank you,” said Fat Charlie.

“Is that what you’re in for?”

“I don’t know what I’m in for,” said Fat Charlie. “I’m innocent.”

“White-collar crime, eh?” said the policeman, and he shook his head. “I’ll tell you something the blue-collar boys know without being told. The easier you make it on us, the easier we make it on you. You white-collar people. Always standing up for your rights. You just make it harder on yourselves.”

He opened the door to cell six. “Home sweet home,” he said.

The cell-stench was worse inside the room, which had been painted in the kind of speckled paint that resists graffiti and contained only a shelflike bed, low to the ground, and a lidless toilet in the corner.

Fat Charlie put the blanket he’d been issued down on the bed.

“Right,” said the policeman. “Well. Make yourself at home. And if you get bored, please don’t block the toilet with your blanket.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I often wonder that myself,” said the policeman. “Why indeed? Perhaps it breaks the monotony. I shouldn’t know. Being a law-abiding sort with a police pension waiting for me, I’ve never actually had to spend much time in the cells.”

“You know, I didn’t do it,” said Fat Charlie. “Whatever it was.”

“That’s good,” said the policeman.

“Excuse me,” said Fat Charlie. “Do I get anything to read?”

“Does this look like a lending library to you?”

“No.”

“When I was a young copper, bloke asked me for a book, I went and found him the book I’d been reading. J. T. Edson, it was, or maybe Louis L’Amour. He only went and blocked up his toilet with it, didn’t he? Won’t catch me doing that again in a hurry.”