Bob’s talent, such as it is, consists entirely of the few unconscious charms of youth: its energy, audacity and complete inability to recognize its own shortcomings.
Mr B has means to cope. Routine, for instance. Every day begins the same, with two slices of rye toast, unsalted Normandy butter, raspberry jam, two poached eggs, strong coffee. And for the boss, at whatever hour he happens to wake, hot tea and half a box of Coco Pops. Bob’s pet stands by the edge of the table willing food to tumble off into his mouth. He is an odd penguiny sort of creature with the long elegant nose of an anteater, beady eyes and soft grey fur. The Eck is always hungry; no quantity of leftovers can fill the eternal emptiness of his gullet.
From Bob’s room, Mr B can hear thrashing and sighing. Since the discovery of Lucy, God has slept fitfully, unable to escape the iron jaws of sexual desire. The transformation from needy teenager to weapon of mass destruction is nearly complete.
Eventually he wakes. With a sigh, Mr B gets up from his desk and carries tea to Bob’s bedside because it is his job to do so.
‘It’s noon, sir.’
‘Oh, sir, is it?’ He’s cranky. ‘Wasn’t sir yesterday, was it?’
‘The flood?’
Bob screws up his face and farts. ‘Your job is to know in advance that I’d forget to turn off the bath.’
‘Eck?’ Eck looks from Bob to Mr B, hoping for a fight.
But there will be no fight. The older man may not accept responsibility for the calamity, but Bob does not actually care.
God pouts. His thick adolescent hair has fallen over one eye, and his skin has the greyish tinge of someone who doesn’t leave the house often enough. Yesterday’s bath would have done him good.
‘Your clothes, O Holy Master of All.’ Mr B bows and hands him a sweatshirt with a large sporting-goods logo on it, which Bob dutifully pulls over his head. He hasn’t changed out of the same T-shirt in what might be a week now.
‘Any progress on the girl?’ He tries, and fails, to sound casual.
‘None at all, nothing, nada,’ says Mr B. ‘Doesn’t know you’re alive, as far as I can tell.’
‘Why doesn’t she know I’m alive?’
Mr B can feel a strop brewing. He feels obliged to assist Bob in every endeavour – but not unduly, not enough to complicate his own miserable existence. He sighs. ‘Why not be upfront about it, let her know you’re up for a bit of squishy woo-woo and see what she says?’
A look of quite superior contempt suffuses the boy’s features. ‘She’s not the sort of girl you can get into bed as easily as that.’
Oh really?
‘Can’t you tell her?’ Bob’s contempt dissolves to oily supplication. ‘You can make her like me. I know you can. You’ve done it before.’
‘Not any more,’ Mr B answers. ‘I’ve resigned from pimping. It’s not in my job description.’ In point of fact, he has no job description, or if he ever had, it was so long ago that the details have been lost in the mists of time.
‘I can make you help me.’
The look of petty menace on the boy’s face makes Mr B shudder. It is difficult for him to imagine that any woman finds Bob attractive.
‘Go out and tell her how you feel. Or you’ll end up wanking alone in your room till the end of time. The worst that can happen is she rejects you.’ He knows this to be particularly cruel, for rejection is what the boy fears most.
Bob looks glum. ‘How do I find her?’
‘Zoo. Tuesday to Sunday, 9 a.m. to…’
The noise that emerges from God’s mouth resembles a wail. ‘I never know what to do in one of those animal places. How do I get in? What do I say? What if she doesn’t like me?’
‘Buy a ticket. Visit the hippos.’
Bob storms out and slams the door. He feels beleaguered. In the old days, they wouldn’t be having this discussion. In the old days, he snapped his fingers and things happened.
He hates the way things are now. It is so unfair.
Eck tilts his head and gently licks Bob’s ear with his long sticky tongue. It is his special way of expressing sympathy and it is not effective.