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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Part 1: Bad

  Chapter 1: What Little Boys are Made of

  Chapter 2: About a Girl

  Chapter 3: Fever Bitch

  Chapter 4: About a Bastard

  Chapter 5: My Murderous Girlfriend

  Chapter 6: The Way of the Worrier

  Chapter 7: And When Did You Last Kill Your Father?

  Chapter 8: Man and Whore

  Chapter 9: Hi, Infidelity

  Part 2: Badder

  Chapter 10: Happiness In Seven Days

  Chapter 11: About a Corpse

  Chapter 12: Father Figure

  Chapter 13: How to be Bad

  Chapter 14: Iron Mark

  Chapter 15: Thirty-One Sentences

  Also by David Bowker

  Copyright

  To Barbara J. Zitwer, agent and muse

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my editor, Marc Resnick, for making many vital suggestions. I am extemely grateful to Dr. Alan Wheeler from Oklahoma who really did accidentally kill a pigeon in the manner described in chapter 1. Jane, I love you. Thanks for being a cheerleader when no one was cheering. My sincere admiration goes to my son Gabriel who, at the age of eight and a half, invented the term “butt wax.”

  A terrible grahzny vonny world, really, O my brothers.

  —Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

  PART 1

  BAD

  CHAPTER 1

  WHAT LITTLE BOYS ARE MADE OF

  AT NINE o’clock that morning, the bell above the front door rang to tell me someone had entered my shop. It was my second customer in two days. Running a rare bookshop can be like that. No customers for an entire year, then two turn up in the same week.

  A big man with long auburn hair strode over to me. His neatly trimmed beard was the same color as his hair, and his blue eyes were bright and observant. There was something naggingly familiar about him, but I couldn’t think what.

  The stranger wore a dark, expensive-looking suit, and rings flashed on his big, brutal hands. He walked up to my desk, smiled, and said, “Aren’t you a little young to be running a bookshop?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How old are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? You should be out fucking and getting high. What are you doing in this place, surrounded by other people’s dusty old shit?”

  I looked at him sternly. “Can I help you at all, sir?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’d like to see your most horrible book.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He spoke really slowly to make sure I understood. “What—is—your—most—horrible—book?”

  I looked into his frank blue eyes, still trying to place him. He had massive, square shoulders. Despite his daunting appearance and the strangeness of his request, his voice was light and intelligent-sounding. “C’mon. Books with really nasty pictures. What’ve you got?”

  I thought for a moment. “I’ve got a copy of Peter Pan and Wendy, illustrated by Mabel Lucie Atwell. The pictures in that are truly sickening.”

  “No, no.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, not looking into my face but glancing at the display case to his left. Returning his attention to me, he said, “Perhaps I should explain. My auntie was a midwife, and she had this old textbook full of pictures of malformed babies and vaginal warts. Man, you know the kind of thing.”

  “Not really,” I said, not entirely happy with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “I like books like that. Books that make people feel sick,” he said. “About Nazi atrocities. Or botched executions. You know. The kind of books that shouldn’t be allowed.”

  I looked up at him. He was beginning to worry me. “Look. What do you want? I’m busy.”

  He gave a light snort of amusement as he glanced around the empty shop. “Yeah, it looks like it.”

  “I haven’t got any books for sick human beings,” I said grandly. “Nor am I interested in selling them.”

  My customer wasn’t listening. He was peering into the cabinet on his right. “What about this?”

  “What about what?”

  “Tortures and Torments of the Christian Martyrs. Any photographs in that?”

  “Hardly,” I said disparagingly.

  “What? Not even engravings by Antonio Tempesta, after the original images by Giovanni de Guerra?” He saw the surprise on my face and laughed. “That’s a famous book you’ve got there.”

  “Well, obviously not as famous as the original.”

  He looked at me again, and his eyes darkened. “Obviously. Because the original was printed in 1591. The version you’ve got was published by the Fortune Press of Paris in 1903.”

  “You’re a serious collector?”

  He smiled. “No. I looked it up on your Web site. It caught my attention. Could I have a look at it?”

  “Only if you’re seriously interested in buying it.”

  “Man,” he said reasonably. “You know I can’t answer that. Not without seeing the book.”

  I was flooded by the familiar misgivings that always plagued me when a sale was imminent, knowing unsold books would always mean more to me than ready cash. And would I charge eighty pounds for it today, only to discover a week later that a similar copy had sold at Sotheby’s for thirty thousand?

  I took a key from the drawer in front of me and opened the case. I passed the dubious volume to my dubious visitor, and he sat down on my desk, smiling at the nasty pictures. He laughed and pointed at the image of a naked woman hanging by her hair with weights tied around her feet. “Now, that’s got to hurt.”

  “I expect so,” I said.

  “What does this thing cost? I can’t find a price.”

  “It’s a rare book,” I said. “Writing in it would lower the value.”

  “Look. All the fun of the fair,” he said, pointing at a picture of a man being broken on a wheel. “What’s this book worth?”

  “In that condition? Eighty pounds.”

  He looked at me, smiled, and tore out a page. “How much is it worth now?”

  With a yell, I tried to grab back the book. He slapped my hand away. “Right,” I said. “Now you’re going to pay for it.”

  “How much?” he said.

  “I’ve already told you. Eighty pounds.”

  “But it’s got a page missing,” he said. “You’re selling substandard goods.”

  “Eighty pounds,” I said. “Or I’ll call the police.”

  “What will you call them?” he said, laughing at his own pleasantry.

  Then he took a lighter from his pocket. Before I could react, he held the book open by the spine and set fire to the pages.

  “You mad bastard!” I said, instinctively snatching at the book. He shoved me, not roughly, just hard enough to return me to my seat. When the book was properly ablaze, he let it fall to the floor. I ran round my desk and stamped on the flames until they were extinguished.

  “That’s not a rare book,” said the stranger. “It’s a well-done book.”

  “Right!” I said. “Right!”

  “Right what?” The arsonist beamed down at me.

  I thought for a moment. “Out!” I said. “Now.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” he said. He turned to leave, his back soaring above me like a
sheer cliff face. He must have been about six feet seven inches tall.

  At the door, he turned to look at me.

  “What was the point of what you just did?” I said.

  He winked at me. “Hey. Butt Wax.”

  Butt Wax?

  “You don’t like your name?” He smiled and cocked his head to one side, quietly relishing my bewilderment. “Well, why don’t you hit me?”

  He waited a while, looking down at me. “Are those muscles of yours just for show?” I looked at him, my throat clogged by fear. This was obviously the response he was expecting, because he gave a good-humored laugh and shook his head. “Thought so,” he said as he walked into the street.

  A pastel blue Porsche was illegally parked on the pavement outside. A young guy with metal studs in his nose and eyebrows was leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets. Nodding to me politely, the young man opened the passenger door, and my visitor got in. As the car moved off, I noticed the registration plate. It read saveya. It was then that I realized who the book-burner looked like. He was the spitting image of the Son of God.

  * * *

  WHILE I was waiting for the police to arrive, I made myself a calming cup of green tea and sat down at my desk. To my right, in a locked display cabinet, stood fine copies of some of the best books ever written by and for men. There was a signed first edition of The Little White Bird by James Matthew Barrie, about a lonely and selfish bachelor who pretends he has a son to impress a woman, and Nick Hornby’s About a Boy, which, purely by coincidence, tells the story of a lonely and selfish bachelor who pretends he has a son to impress a woman. A signed first edition of Fight Club stood beside Iron John, both books highlighting the spiritual crisis of the contemporary Western male.

  There was the seminal And When Did You Last See Your Father by Blake Morrison, signed by the author in his nervous, spidery scrawl, and From Stockport With Love, David Bowker’s haunting journey through spying and fatherhood. Also for sale were the complete works of Tony Parsons, not yet collectible or ever likely to be, yet fairly representative of what men who didn’t like reading were reading. Apart from the Barrie, none of these books could command a high price—at least, not yet. Like any collector, I hoped I was ahead of my time. In fact, I was banking on it.

  In a case to my left were the first editions that people actually wanted to buy, by people like Patrick O’Brian, Tolkien, and that bloody Rowling woman.

  The bell above the door clanged again, and a uniformed constable came in, carrying his helmet underneath his arm. He had rosy cheeks and a frank, unassuming stare. He looked about twelve years old. I mean, I was only twenty-three myself, but at least I possessed pubic hair. Worryingly, the constable didn’t seem aware of the seriousness of what had just occurred. “And you say this book is valuable, sir?”

  “Yes. Or rather, it was.”

  “Is your stock insured?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “Well, that’s good. The fact you’ve reported the incident to us will satisfy the insurers. If you want to pursue it in court, we’ll support you. But I can tell you now, it’ll be difficult to prove. There were no witnesses. It’ll just be your word against his.”

  I stared at him in silence for a few moments while his words sank in. “So that’s it?”

  “That’s up to you. Do you want to make a complaint or not?”

  “Yes, I bloody well do. People can’t be allowed to just wander about setting fire to private property.”

  The constable sighed as he took out his notebook.

  “What are you sighing for?” I said. (Forgetting that one should never end a sentence with a preposition.)

  He seemed reluctant to explain. I insisted.

  “Well,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you think you’re getting things a bit out of proportion? It’s only a book. You’ll get reimbursed. Try counting your blessings. What’s the matter with you? You’ve got all your arms and legs, haven’t you?”

  * * *

  AT MIDDAY, I closed for lunch, got onto my bike, and pedaled into Barnes. The sun was shining on all the nice clean middle-class people. Say what you like about the middle classes, but they’ll never take a dump on your front lawn. At Barnes Pond, I leaned my bike against a bench and sat down. I found a pack of chewing gum in my pocket and rammed three pieces into my mouth, trying to calm my nerves. I tried to tell myself that the police officer was right, that I shouldn’t let a lunatic book-burner ruin my day. As I was sitting, chewing, and sulking, I noticed the boys.

  There were five of them, four of them about fourteen and one at least a year younger. The older four were all ganging up on the younger kid, who looked like Elvis in a shabby school uniform. Little Elvis was blushing in embarrassment, while the leader of his attackers, a fat kid with the thin mouth, tiny eyes, high cheekbones, and jutting jaw of an SS torturer, gripped him by the throat and uttered threats.

  Hitler Youth gave Elvis a shove, causing a pile of coins to tumble out of his victim’s pockets. The other kids stooped to retrieve the money, and in the confusion Elvis broke free and started to run. But physical fitness wasn’t exactly Elvis’s thing—if it had been, perhaps no one would have bullied him in the first place. Elvis had barely reached the curb before Hitler Youth headed him off. Then all four boys escorted Elvis back toward the trees. They passed right by me. There was a resigned look on Elvis’s face. The poor little fucker knew he was in for a kicking. I guessed it wasn’t the first time. But it was the first time it had happened while I was around.

  I can’t abide bullies. I left my bike where it was and ran over to them. Little Elvis was lying on the ground with Hitler Youth squatting on his chest, slapping his victim’s face with horrible relish. The other kids were just standing around, enjoying the spectacle.

  “Get off him,” I commanded.

  Hitler Youth looked up, his left hand gripping his victim’s collar, right hand hovering above his tear-stained face. It was a blank look, devoid of thought or curiosity.

  “I said get off him.”

  Dismissing me as a hallucination, Hitler Youth turned back to Elvis and gave him another slap. I grabbed hold of his arm and hauled him off so violently that he rolled backward and hit his head on the concrete path. “Now go,” I demanded. “And if you ever lay one finger on him again, you’ll answer to me.”

  Hitler Youth and his friends slouched off, waiting until they were a hundred yards away before shouting, “Fuck off, Lulu.” (I have no idea why they were calling me Lulu.)

  I helped Elvis to his feet and dusted him down. There was a red mark under his right eye where Hitler Youth had slapped him. Elvis seemed pathetically grateful for my intervention, acting as if tackling a bunch of fourteen-year-olds required exceptional courage. I was so touched that I gave him a fiver and wheeled my bike alongside him for a few minutes until I was satisfied he was safe.

  * * *

  FEELING VIRTUOUS, I cycled back beside the pond. There were about a dozen pigeons on the path ahead. I was pedaling along at a fine rate and didn’t bother to slow down when I saw them, certain that even birds as stupid as pigeons would fly away on my approach. But one bird, evidently a pigeon with severe learning difficulties, stayed right where it was. I felt a nauseating bump as both the wheels of my bike plowed over it.

  I didn’t want to stop, but nor did I want to leave the stupid bird in pain. So I braked, laid down my bike, and walked back to the scene of the accident. The pigeon was lying flat on its belly, right in the center of the path. Its wings were outstretched, its head to one side. I could see immediately that it was dead. My eyes were drawn to a flash of color about eight inches to the right of the body. It was a blob of bright, fresh blood. Eight inches farther on lay another vivid little spatter. And to the right of that, still beating, lay the pigeon’s heart.

  I jumped back in revulsion. My amazing powers of deduction told me that the weight of my bike had burst open the bird’s breast, sending its heart skimming over the concrete path like a bl
uey-pink stone.

  A couple of middle-aged women came up behind me. Seeing that I was shocked, they commiserated with me. “Pigeons are vermin, dear,” one informed me helpfully. “Dirty, dirty things. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I was unconsoled. A pleasant cycle ride had turned into a real-life urban myth. “The Legend of the Heartless Pigeon.”

  The two ladies headed for the snotty shops, and I was about to remount my bike when I heard the pounding of feet. A small, wide guy of about forty with tattoos all over his face and neck ran up to me. He gripped the handlebars of my bike with both hands. His head looked like a potato with jutting ears. His teeth were little more than knarled green stumps, making it look as if he had a mouth full of pistachio nuts. His wrists were as thick as thighs. “Ya fingy faggin har, yeh?” he said. I could smell beer on his breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yoo erd ya cant. I sez yer fingy faggin har? Yer bigugly cant, wod ar ya?”

  “Sorry?”

  I had no idea why he was addressing me or what he was saying, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t inquiring after my health. Then I glanced to my left and saw Hitler Youth standing there, grinning. I felt my guts churn. “Dis der twad, our Darren?” said the guy with the tattoos to Hitler Youth. “Dis da cant wod ad ya? Yeah?”

  Darren nodded grimly.

  The man with the tattoos hurled my bike to the ground. He didn’t need to do that. Breathing on it would have been enough.

  “If that bike’s damaged, you’ll have to pay for the repairs,” I warned him sternly.

  “Repair mah cantin ring. Yer lige hiddin liddle cants, wod yer lige with someone a bit fackin denner, yer gaylor?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Scuse yer twat, ya VD scab.”

  “I really don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”

  “Oh. Yewa fig baster? Iddaddit?”

  “I think you should hear what happened,” I began. “Your son was picking on another kid. All I did was drag him off.”

  “No one cobs mah sunny bud me. Laid nuvver fing on im I’ll splay ya awl ova da fackin grarn.”