Will by Will Self

Author:Will Self
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141938745
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2019-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

4

April 1984

‘… And at the sixth hour darkness was coming over the whole land entirely …’ The voice worms its way into his consciousness. ‘… and this was continuing right up until the ninth hour …’ Summoning him to ungum this dully geometric vision: the black shadows cast by a Venetian blind ruling a white-tiled floor. ‘Because it was then that Jesus cried out in a loud voice …’ He’d arrived at this place in daylight – that much he recalls – and fallen across this narrow, iron-framed cot in a swoon. There’s a loud click, a squawk of feedback, a hiss then: ‘El-oi! El-oi! La-ma sa-bach-thani!’ The weird words, amplified by some sort of public-address system, force him up towards the bright, salt-smacked surface of consciousness. ‘Which has the meaning …’ The first voice – female, unamplified – resumes, ‘… or so they say, of God, my God, why have you forsaken me –’

‘No, no, no!’ A third voice – male, angry – breaks in: ‘No! That is not it at all, Rohan – that is not it at all. These are the final words our saviour was saying in his earthly existence – no, actually! Not even that – these are the final words he was shouting out, beseeching his father who is God in the most high. Give it some of the oomphing, man.’

‘Oomphing?’

‘Passion, man – passion!’

There’s another click-squawk-hiss then, ‘El-oi! El-oi! La-maaa saa-baach-THAAANI!’

Dreams, Will thinks, are narratives we assemble retrospectively, at the moment of waking, in order to account for the recollections of the previous day, unspooled in the fluid, greenish suspension of the unconscious. But educated Indian voices pedantically hot-gospelling? These he cannot remember at all – they’d played no part, surely, in his yesterday?

India, however, definitely had – and it’s continuing to do so now.

Will’s arms and legs lie, leaden, in a pool of cooling sweat. A motionless ceiling fan hangs overhead, and, turning his head on the soggy pillow, he sees a small wooden table and a metal-and-canvas chair.

That’s all.

‘Okay … okay, that’s better, Rohan – now, script, please.’

‘But you said these were my final words?’

‘Final plea – final plea! Damn it all, man – look at the script.’

‘Oh … yes. Okay … I am thirsty.’

‘Again, please – and louder.’

A click, a squawk, a hiss – and: ‘I am thirsty!’

Will’s thirsty too – his throat grates as he swallows involuntarily. He pulls his hand from beneath the damp sheet and sends this numb probe in search of a plastic water bottle he has a distinct memory of – his only one just now. Poppy-old inconsequences wheedle through his hurting head … Church full of singing, out of tune … Everyone’s gone to the –

‘Okay, that is much better, Rohan. Now, we don’t have the centurions here just now, so I’ll do the next action, which is this passing of a gourd full of water up to you.’

‘And will it?’

‘Will it what, exactly?’

‘Will there be a gourd of water, man?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Why

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