SERIES
My Name is Mr. Anger
Fiction — part 3
About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.
8. PARLIAMENT
The duel had lasted less than six minutes. “Enough,” my adversary had said. Quite! The sun had melted the morning mist and was now shining brilliantly. My one wound was beginning to make itself felt. My valiant adversary appeared to be bleeding from everywhere. There were three wounds in his arm, two in almost the same spot, and three in his chest. How I reached his body without hurting him seriously is a mystery, or a miracle, which I have never been able to explain. That evening, he and I drank champagne together. (Aldo Nadi, Olympic fencing champion after his first duel, 1923)
“Alright cunt, I think I’ll buy you a drink,” said a voice behind the shoulder that hit him.
Henry turned, his hand instinctively going inside his jacket, but there was nothing there.
“Ha!” In a whisper, the voice continued. “You're not really carrying here are you, Henry?”
He forced himself to relax. He wouldn’t bite, not to this one, nor here of all places, so he smiled and scratched at his balding pate.
“Ah David,” he replied. Of course, you would be here. “Fuck you very much.”
Henry leaned off the bar but continued to stare at his slimline tonic, readying himself. Both men stood in the Smoking Room, one of three bars inside the Houses of Parliament, that ancient seat of the British government lying beside the River Thames. The room’s lights were low pools of gold across a landscape of green leather and polished wood. Henry had been here only once before, and ever since that day, he’d promised himself he’d stand here again when he came back an official representative. Ironic given his fight with the drink. But many stupid decisions framed Henry’s life.
He turned and looked at David.
He wondered again how this man — more than any other besides Father Dominic or his old man — had shaped him. If circumstances were different, he should thank him. But Henry could never admit such a truth. Especially to himself.
He’d hated the man once. That night he’d watched David win his election on the little TV Tash had grudgingly let him buy. He’d stood up and left the house, Tash’s screaming a distant echo and walked and walked and walked till he left that life. Quit everything. Quit the booze, quit his job, quit Tash.
Feeling David standing there beside him was like a terrible magnet. Pulling him back into his memories, back into his old life. Back to the anger, and hurt. He felt his muscles flex, and his heart rate spike. Tasted iron, tasted the old hate. Felt himself pounding David’s head into the bar. He looked at the bottles behind the bar and hunger gripped him. He let go of his glass before he ground it to dust. Christ, give me strength.
No. Not here. This was like holy ground to them both, in their current incarnations.
Henry let out a breath. He turned instead and decided to share a drink with his very own demon.
David had gotten old. We both have, Henry realized. David’s hair had thinned well beyond the point where most men — proper men a chorus of memories concluded — shaved their heads. He wore grey worsted pinstripe trousers, his shirt sleeves already rolled up. How long had he been here, waiting for him? His left eye still had the red spider from their encounter outside the football grounds. How long ago was that? Ten years. How they both wore that decade now. And how far they’d both traveled?
“I want to congratulate you on following in my footsteps right into the Chambers upstairs,” David said. “How many votes did you actually win in the end hem?”
He was sure David knew exactly the margin he’d won by — maybe even before he had. And yes, 2,268 votes was a bloody tight victory, but a win was a win.
“Well David, I think I’ll stick to the Commons benches and steer clear of the river of shit you’re swimming through eh,” Henry said, now the one smiling. “Did I read there’s a possible prison stretch? Actually the idea of you inside…” he left the thought out there as bait.
“Got any tips, Henry? How long were you–”
“You know well David. Remember my interview prick?”
“Let’s not descend into–”
“Name calling?”
The two men looked at each other, sizing the other. Never had they been this close and not come to blows. Maybe it was the location, but it stayed their fists for now. Neither would care to admit it, but they were wearing the same clothes, doing the same job, becoming more than equals, they were becoming the other. Anyone entering the bar would assume they were old friends. And yet, their spirits had descended down different paths.
“Do you ever see anyone from your Firm?” David asked over his pint.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Na. You?”
“No, our job, the optics. As you mentioned there is some scrutiny on me right now. But I miss them.”
“Why?” It just escaped from Henry’s mouth and he couldn’t retract it, so he plowed on. “You didn’t seem the type for a football Firm. You were–”
“A limp fuck eh” David replied. “Just as you followed me in here, well I…I needed to toughen up for our next encounter. I knew it would come.”
Henry turned his mind back to the offered memories. Both men smiled at their recollections. “When I saw you in the stands,” Henry said “your Firm all about you, us three-nil down, I couldn’t believe it. But then later, when we fought in the street, you were almost a Geezer…”
David looked back at Henry, now himself a little surprised, and put his face in his glass and drained it. “Well — ” David put his empty pint glass back down on the bar too quickly, the crack on the wood clear across the bar.
“This little chat changes nothing” David added quietly, steel knives back in his stare.
Henry watched the moment slip away, like a flimsy bridge collapsing, the gap between them stretching again. Henry felt a sudden sharp loss.
David stood, stepping down hard with one boot heel onto Henry’s toes. Henry welcomed the pain and kept his foot still. Instead, it was David’s face that turned red. Then his hand was around Henry’s chin, pushing him back against the bar.
But Henry didn’t stop him, just smiled and casually wrapped one oversized hand around David’s, saying “Holy ground Highlander!”
“Damn right!” said the barman. “Do you know where you are?” picking up their spilled glasses.
Henry pulled David’s hand away, and stepped back, straightening his jacket.
“Good luck with your trial David,” he said and left the bar, heading back to his office, repeating again his favorite litany. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…
Author’s note: read part 4 of 5 — our cast meets on a TV panel show and there will be fireworks tonight!
