The book of other people - By Zadie Smith Page 0,35

she’d found him at the station. He looked about twenty-one. Magda waved her rum bottle and told him about the thieves who sometimes steal her parking space. She demonstrated her concern for parking security on Westerbury Road by making a few minor alterations to the construction of wooden planks and road cones she uses to protect the space outside Errol’s house. I wasn’t sure the boy spoke English. From the suitcase, I’d say he had just arrived in London. Still, he listened intently, ignoring the bottle in her hand. Even if he didn’t understand the words, he seemed to recognize something, something worth listening to. Could he have heard divinity in Magda’s voice? At one point that afternoon I passed the steps on my way to the shops. She called out to me: Don’t worry, he’s my brother. He has very dirty ears. I’m just checking his ears.

It’s gradually dawning on the policemen that they will have to effect an arrest. It will be a slippery business. I wonder if they train for this. Are there special holds? Written protocols? Magda can see the way their devious minds are working. She has the element of surprise. I KNOW YOU, she warns, sportingly.

Andy the drummer chooses this moment to drive down the road and park outside his house. He has been out late, gigging somewhere. He once told me he gets a lot of work in Leeds. Andy is a favourite of Magda’s. All right, boy, she says. You. Yes, you with the red car. I love you. I’ve seen this car many a time. I’ve seen this car a lot of times, I tell you. Go away now. I’ve done with you. Go, OK? Fuck you. You probably have a small cock. Go. Andy waves to her and starts unloading his drum-kit. YOU ARE A YOUNG MAN, she calls out, blowing him a kiss.

Thinking she is distracted, the policemen advance up the steps. Magda emits a long, high-pitched wail, which rattles the windows and pierces deep into the souls of us neighbours, watching from our upstairs windows.

MVT #4: A survival from the ancient world? Primal, atavistic. Greek mourner. Mammoth-feller. She slithers out of their grasp, waddling down the street in the direction of the main road. Though she’s slow, she has a chaotic, lumbering motion that makes her hard to catch. At last two of the policemen grab hold of her, one gripping her arms, the other circling her waist in a sort of static rugby tackle, his head pressed into the flesh of her stomach so that he’s eyeballing the triangle of acid-green nylon that is all that stands between his nose and her most intimate zones. Magda’s fierce resistance reminds me of the time when her need for a young man led her to climb into the basement of Number 18, where a crew of builders were fitting a kitchen. As they cowered behind the sink unit, she wedged herself halfway through the sash window. I LIVE WITH A OLD MAN, she growled, wiggling and straining. I HAVE A CONDOM. LINE UP. I AM READY.

Walkie-talkies crackle. Doors slam. Magda is placed inside the police van and I climb back into bed. For a few minutes, red and blue lights make flashing patterns on my ceiling, then all is quiet and dark on Westerbury Road. Magda will be back tomorrow. They never keep her for long. She’ll sulk for a day or two, listening to pirate radio in Errol’s back garden, then she’ll forgive us and return to her place on the front steps. What we, her thieving-neighbours-so-smug-in-our-houses don’t know is the power of love. Love conquers all. One day we’ll discover that this is true and then we’ll be sorry. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we returned Magda’s love. If we believed in her, she could do great things for us. But our problem is we are faithless, our problem is we are stupid. Our problem is we just don’t listen.

The Monster

Toby Litt

(for Ali Smith)

The monster didn’t know what it was - what kind of monster or even, now and again, whether a monster at all. It had lived for what felt like a long time without mirrors, which didn’t exist, or puddles, which it instinctively avoided. There were other monsters in creation, or the monster assumed they were other monsters (it did not philosophize on the nature of monstrosity - all could be monsters, without a norm from which to deviate), and, had it asked