As far as Gregor was concerned, the Terminator was the only ride in the whole funfair worth getting excited about. Compared to the theme park he used to go to, the Waltzers and the Pirate Ship were feeble and slow, the Rotor barely managed to stick you to the wall, and the Big Wheel should have been called the small wheel instead. Worst of all was the old-fashioned Merry-Go-Round with the stupid music and the prancing, pastel coloured horses. If only his stepfather would take him on the Terminator again.
''Come on Paul,'' he said, ''let's get back in the queue. Let's go on the Terminator again!''
But Paul didn't want to go on the Terminator again. He wanted some fresh air, away from the funfair and its grimy mix of smells — popcorn, ketchup, candyfloss, exhaust. He looked around for something to focus on, something fixed and distant, without any loudspeakers or flashing lights on it. Between the brightly coloured stalls set up along the waterfront he caught a glimpse of the sea. If only he could sit out on the pier for a while, watching the white foam on the black water, letting the spray blow against his face.
''Come on Paul,'' said Gregor, ''Let's go on the Terminator again!''
Paul took a series of deep breaths, shoulders rising and falling. ''What about the Ghost Train?'' he asked eventually, ''You like the Ghost Train don't you?''
''Yeah, I like the Ghost Train.'' The way Gregor said it it sounded like, Yeah, I like school. Or, Yeah, I like my new dad.
''Or maybe the rifle range? I'll teach you how to shoot.'' Paul held an imaginary rifle to his shoulder, closed one eye, then — poc — pulled the trigger.
Gregor started spinning round and round, using his fingers as make-believe pistols, firing into the shifting crowd. Paul let him spin for a while, because he knew how difficult he was when he couldn't get rid of his energy. Then he stopped him, because he knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
When Paul put his hands on his shoulders, Gregor went still and stayed that way for almost seven seconds. Curious, watching faces slurred across his vision, always moving in one direction, but somehow staying in the same place.
He was disappointed when his head cleared and he refocused on a tired looking man. ''How about another shot on the Dodgems?'' asked Paul.
''Okay,'' muttered Gregor.
They began to walk along the waterfront towards the dodgems. The tall rides, studded with lightbulbs against the evening sky, the gambling arcades where youths played slot machines and trampled cigarette butts into the ridged metal floor, the stalls selling toffee-apples and burgers and chips, the caravans where Gypsy Rose Lee read the lines in people's palms and traced them to their future: none of this had changed much since Paul was a boy. It was still the same fair that came to town every year and took over the strip between the old stone harbour and the old stone houses that faced the sea. It was him that had changed. His life, and the things in it.
Absent mindedly, he reached down and tried to take Gregor's hand.
''Fuck off,'' said Gregor; then, after a moment's thought, ''Poof.''
''You listen to me Gregor! If you think you can get away with talking to me like that you've got another think coming. Would you have said that to Mark?''
''Well, would you?''
Gregor shook his head, looking down. Of course he wouldn't have called his real father a poof.
''Then you don't say it to me. Clear?''
Gregor nodded and put on his apologetic face. They started walking again, Paul clenching and unclenching his jaw, and before long they came to the Dodgems. The crowd waiting round the rink was thicker now. It was rowdier too, with fewer families and more teenagers, some swigging from bottles and cans. A minute later the lights came on and the music stopped, and kids rushed onto the rink from all sides. Paul shoved through them to grab the wire on the back of one of the cars.
''Make sure you're properly strapped in,'' he instructed Gregor, as they waited for the next turn to start. A voice that sounded like it wanted to be American counted down over the loudspeakers. When it got to zero the Dodgems lurched into life. Once they were moving the music started again, loud and fizzy and artificial, like a mouthful of soft drink. Paul joined the stream of cars circling the perimeter — the lights and noise were making him nervous, and it was easier to avoid collisions there than in the ruck in the middle. After a while a strobe came on. As the rink twitched from frozen scene to scene, Paul's nervousness changed to a restless kind of excitement. He began to drive up close to the oncoming cars and veer away at the last second. With each near miss a smile rose then fell on Gregor's face, like a doll whose eyelids move when it's tilted. Paul looked round and caught the tail end of his grin. ''This is alright eh?'' he said, ''better than watching telly!'' Someone shouted the word cunt as a car rammed them from the side. The impact was harder for being unexpected, and Paul and Gregor were thrown against their seatbelts. The way Gregor laughed, spluttering, uncontrollable, it was as if the sound had been jolted from his body. Paul was still grappling with the wheel, trying to get the offenders in his sights, when the music stopped and the dodgems slurred to a halt.
''Where now?'' asked Gregor, as they tapped down the three metal steps outside.
''Don't know,'' said Paul.
''Let's go on the arcades!'' said Gregor. He could hear zaps, punches, revving engines.
''Too expensive,'' said Paul.
''They weren't too expensive before. Remember — we played Ninja Slaughter and I beat you three times!''
Paul said nothing.
''Only Mark can beat me at Ninja Slaughter.''
Paul still said nothing. That was how it was sometimes: holding a conversation was like dragging a stone. Gregor's mother had tried to explain it to him — how he shouldn't bother Paul when he was in one of his quiet moods, how Paul would come out of it soon and could be talked to then. But it still seemed ridiculous. Why would someone not want to say anything? If he's angry, thought Gregor, why doesn't he shout at me, or slap me on the back of the head — like Mark used to do. And if he's bored, why doesn't he just stuff some money in my hand and walk away, telling me not to tell mum?
Gregor decided to use his initiative. There was no point waiting for old misery chops to entertain him. He ran up to a family standing nearby. ''Look!'' he shouted. The family was eating candyfloss; stiff white clouds hovered in front of them, white wisps clung to their lips, to the father's moustache, as they turned to look at Gregor. Gregor sprang forwards onto his hands and began to walk on them, coins and sweets and bits of paper tumbling from his pockets, jacket flopping from his belly. Paul was telling him, Stop, come back at once; but to Gregor it sounded like, Keep going, don't come back at all. When his arms began to tremble Gregor dropped to his feet and struggled out of his jacket, grinning. Paul walked over and was about to lose his temper when one of the children bundled her candyfloss to her mother and began to clap. The rest of the family joined in. Gregor took showman bows, one hand on his stomach, the other behind his back.
''You watch out for that one,'' said the father to Paul, ''he'll run off and join the circus!'' Paul laughed and ruffled Gregor's hair. His touch felt strange to Gregor, forced. ''You watch out,'' repeated the father, ''he'll end up in the circus!'' The little girl helped Gregor recover his sweets and money. Paul was smiling as the two of them said goodbye and walked away.
When they were alone, the smile slid from his face. ''Finished showing off?'' he asked.
Gregor nodded. He had finished showing off. His stunt had reminded him of the treasure-trove in his pockets. He took out a Lemon Sherbet and unwrapped its white and yellow paper.
''They'll rot your teeth,'' said Paul.
Gregor nodded again as he popped the sweet in his mouth. An apple a day keeps the dentist away. He hated apples almost as much as he hated milk.
''It wouldn't matter if you were just a little baby,'' said Paul, stressing the word baby, ''and you still had your first teeth to lose.''
Gregor wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, but he knew where he and Paul were: back to the quiet end of the fair where the rides thinned out and only the Terminator loomed above the stalls and arcades. Maybe if he didn't say anything they'd get there without Paul noticing.
''But you're a big boy now,'' Paul continued, ''with grown up teeth, and if these go bad you'll never get any more. Life would be very easy if everything that went rotten just fell out and got replaced. Then we'd never have to stop eating sweeties. We'd never have to be men at all, just spoiled little boys who cry to mummy every time we break one of our toys.''
This last comment, delivered so pointedly, struck Gregor as unfair. It was true that yesterday he had broken one of his toys — one of Paul's old toys that is, a stupid wooden thing with coloured beads that slid back and forth — but he had only cried about it because he thought his mother expected him to. He tried to think of something clever to say back.
''Mark let me eat as many sweets as I wanted,'' he pointed out, Lemon Sherbet bulging in his cheek, ''and he ate them too — he said they were...'' he trailed off, fascinated. He had never seen Paul look so angry.
''Mark's problem,'' said Paul quietly, ''was that he liked too many sweets.'' He crouched down to Gregor's level before he added, ''That's why mummy left him.''
His words seemed to attack Gregor from several places at once. What did he mean, Mark's problem? Mark was the one person in the world who didn't have a problem. And what was this about mummy leaving him? Gregor had only been told that his parents had decided to get something called a divorce, and that he was to go with his mother to her brand new house. Until they left that house too, that is, and moved to this grey little town where there was nothing to do except stare at the sea. His jaws began to move very rapidly, crushing the remainder of the sweet into tiny fragments, yellow-clear shards like coloured glass that fizzed acidly on his tongue before melting down his throat.
Paul straightened up. Gregor finished crunching and began to run back and forth with his arms out like aeroplane wings, firing a machine-gun with the back his throat. It was hard to tell if he was strafing the pavement or trying not to be shot down. ''Calm down,'' said Paul, ''it'll end in tears''; but Gregor wasn't listening. His running got faster, and the machine-gun got louder, until a point when he turned too sharply and one of his legs folded underneath him. He fell awkwardly, sprawled on his hands and knees. He got up and rubbed his palms together, blew on them.
''Are you okay?'' asked Paul.
Gregor nodded, afraid his voice would break if he spoke.
''Sure you're not bleeding?''
Gregor looked at his hands. He shook his head.
''Then you'll be okay. You're a tough nut, aren't you?'' Paul's shoulders seemed to relax as he said this, letting go of something. ''Stay near me and you won't hurt yourself again.''
Gregor looked up at him. They were standing near the old fashioned Merry-Go-Round and Paul smiled as the horses danced up and down and the slow organ music swelled around them. When they started walking again Paul's pace was slow. Gregor was happy to stroll beside him: he could feel a bruise stiffening his knee.
The sky was completely black now. Earlier the funfair lights had been like special effects, bright colours etched into the faded celluloid of dusk. Now they were the only thing that lit the messy streets. The cartons trampled into the pavement, the squashed chips splayed out with the tread of someone's shoe. Up ahead Paul saw the ride Gregor had been so keen on earlier — the Alligator, or whatever it was called. Its silver carriages were suspended in threes from the long steel arms radiating out from the central pole. Painted on the side of the lorry next to it was a shiny robot whose black weapon pointed down at the crowd. The ride was still at the moment. The swarthy young men who operated it were unfastening the safety bars on the carriages, allowing the passengers to step unsteadily down.
Paul shook his head when he realised Gregor had run off again. There was no stopping that boy sometimes. When he finally spotted him he was pretending to interview a group of teenage girls at the exit from the ride. ''So Mrs Susan,'' Gregor was saying, into a hand curled around an imaginary microphone, ''would you like to share your experiences with our viewers back home?''
''That's Miss Susan,'' one of the girls shrieked back, ''I'm not a Mrs yet!''
As Paul started towards his stepson, the Terminator began to stir and a fresh load of passengers released their first, sporadic screams.
''Would you describe it as the ride of your life?'' asked Gregor. He wasn't sure why the girls fell about laughing, but he was happy to laugh along with them.
Once they'd recovered, Susan grabbed Gregor's microphone hand and raised it to her mouth. She began to sing and the others joined in behind her.
''Why don't you/ Stop boasting/ And swallow your pride/ Yeah come and take me for a ride!'' she sang. ''Come and take me for a ride!'' the others chorused.
The song stopped abruptly. Susan went quiet and dropped Gregor's hand, looking at something above his head. Gregor guessed who was standing behind him and expected to be told off. But when he turned round his stepfather was smiling.
''I didn't know you worked in television,'' said Paul.
Gregor took this as an invitation to continue his game.
''Miss Susan, can you tell our viewers what the Terminator is really like?'' He stretched his hand up, expecting another raucous reply.
But Susan was shyer now. Her friends had slinked off and were making faces at her from out of Paul's sight. ''I don't know,'' she began. ''It's very — exciting. But it's scary too. You need to not get ill much. You need, you know, a...''
''A strong stomach,'' finished Paul, in an authoritative voice. With a great shrieking noise — hydraulics mixed with screams — the limbs of the Terminator rose up until they were horizontal and the carriages whirled like propellers on the ends of them. Susan used the diversion to escape. Paul followed her with his eyes until she reached her friends, and their suppressed giggles exploded into laughter and panted, half-completed phrases. Meanwhile Gregor joined the queue for the ride. Paul's thoughts were still elsewhere as he stepped in beside him.
Every time a ride was finished a fat man with a moustache unhooked the chain in front of the queue. As soon as enough passengers had gone by he hooked it on again, scowling. Gregor looked up at the carriages whizzing above him. He found that by concentrating on only one of them he could make himself dizzy, as if his eyes were up there riding with it. The best part was when they swooped low and it looked like they would smash through the queue. People flinched then, the adults more than the kids. Gregor wondered if this was because adults were taller. But Paul wasn't very tall, and he flinched more than anyone.
The fat man took their tickets and waved them through.
When Paul and Gregor were seated in their carriage a youth with bright blue jeans and greasy hair pulled the safety bar down and locked it into place above their laps. The arm rotated to allow the next carriage to be filled. Though the movement was gentle, Gregor smiled in anticipation. Paul was pushing against the bar with both hands, testing its strength. He seemed to have something on his mind.
''You know,'' he said, after a while, ''I didn't think this would be easy.''
Gregor looked puzzled. What could be easier than going on a funfair ride?
''You and me I mean. I thought it might be difficult for us to — get along.''
''Oh.''
''I know it must hard for you, having me come along and be your new dad. Me and your mum, we talk about this a lot. We worry about you.''
''You worry about me?'' That meant he'd done something bad.
With a jolt, the ride started moving. It turned in low circles, steadily gathering speed. When Paul spoke again his voice was higher.
''We worry a lot. Especially your mum. She worries terribly. She thinks you blame her for not keeping things like they were.'' He broke off, breathing deeply. ''She loves you to bits, your mum.''
The ride was turning fast now. Its force was pushing them back into the seats and sliding them outwards, Gregor against Paul and Paul against the metal side. Gregor had a strange feeling in his stomach — but not the one he'd been waiting for. Paul wanted to say more, much more, but his breath kept whooshing out of him. The carriages climbed higher and the black sea and the grey town whipped by beneath them.
''Ladeez and gentlemen,'' a voice drawled over the tannoy, ''are you ready?''
A big messy yes came from the carriages. Gregor joined in, a bit late.
''Are you ready?''
This time, Gregor tried to empty his whole body into one huge yell, the way he did when he was fighting at school, or his team scored at football. But he couldn't do it. The strange feeling was making him weak.
''One, two and away we go!''
The orbit accelerated and the carriages began to spin in tighter circles inside it. There was a sound like a blast of steam escaping and the arms rose until they stuck straight out. People screamed, screamed again when the arms dropped down. The arms went up again, back down.
The strange feeling had left Gregor now, receding from his heart like a pedestrian from a fast car. He let himself go limp in the ride's grip. Lights streaked across his vision, vertically or horizontally; they daubed the low skyline of the town, the people in the queue, the almost invisible line between the sea and the sky. He looked up at the arm his carriage spun around. He found that if he stared at it, fixed in his field of view, the whirl behind it got even more intense. He felt the same way — fixed and calm while the world reeled. Calm because the world reeled. He felt Paul's weight shift against his shoulder and turned to look at him. Paul's body was twisted away. His head was over the side of the carriage and his back kept lurching forwards. In the whirl now there were angry faces, people sweeping at their hair, the shoulders of their jackets. Gregor started laughing and he couldn't stop himself, he couldn't.
