The Road to McCarthy Read Online Free Page A

stooped, overweight hairy jockeys. They’ve got me on my own now, just like they’ve been planning, one to keep lookout while the other frisks me for food. Luckily I’m not carrying any—but what if they think I am?
What if they mistake my fingers for bags of sausages they think I’m trying to sneak past them?
They won’t be happy. They probably hate that kind of thing. No doubt about it, I’m in a difficult situation. There’s a sign saying that this is where the queen and Prince Philip stood on May 10, 1954. I bet they didn’t get harassed by bloody monkeys. The prince probably thought they were just inbred locals and made a joke about them to somebody from the High Commission.
    And then, thank God, a tourist minibus, rejoicing in the splendid title of Parody Tur, comes round the corner and stops for the inmates to admire the view. And wouldn’t you know it, my two would-be muggers have started acting all cuddly and cute, as if they hadn’t really been planning to do me over for the sausages in the first place. One of the devious little buggers jumps on the roof of the minibus and starts showing off. Its friend doesn’t seem interested, probably seen it all before, and just sits on the wall picking insects off its well-fed tummy. The one on the roof’s having a whale of a time, cavorting round like a very drunk uncle at a wedding reception, when without warning the minibus drives off. The monkey seems delighted. Perhaps this is their equivalent of riding on the roofs of underground trains. Feeling a new surge of confidence, I take a long hard look at the one that’s been left behind, but the sneaky little bully isn’t looking quite so cocky now he’s on his own. He’s adopted a self-effacing “you must have imagined it” air that suggests he isn’t keen to take me on for the sausages single-handed.
    As Parody Tur disappears round the next bend, the monkey on the roofappears to be breakdancing. It’s clear he hasn’t considered the possibility that he might be on his way to Seville, or Stuttgart.
    There’s a café and shop when you reach the cave, with a handful of coach and taxi drivers hanging around outside, talking about football, and what scum their passengers are. I’ve been fantasizing about a cold beer and a nice snack—some olives and Serrano ham and Manchego cheese, that kind of thing—but the sign says BURGER EGG BACON SAUSAGE & CHIPS . O R PIE CHIPS & PEAS . There are two kinds of pie: STEAK & KIDNEY, OR MACAQ —I mean BEEF & ONION .
    The shop is also advertising “Souveniers,” but it’s never a good idea to buy something from a place that can’t spell it. Lots of cafés these days are advertising “Expresso,” and there’s a takeaway in Brighton that sells “Chickin.” Not to me it doesn’t.
    All things considered, the cave is very nice. It’s top-notch, as caves go. It’s got stalagmites and stalactites in the appropriate places, wherever they are. I’m not sure I’d build a day round it though.
    There’s spooky Muzak, and moody low-level light that would be atmospheric if it weren’t for the Muzak. The information cards say that the Romans and Phoenicians were familiar with the cave. They believed it to be bottomless, a gateway to the Underworld and an undersea link to Africa, which is how all the apes, monkeys and macaques got here. The Victorians used to have picnics, marriages, concerts and even duels down here, illuminated by soldiers “perched” on the stala …. er, the ones that go upwards.
    In a niche in the rocks is a tableau of waxwork figures. A Stone Age man is holding up a leg of some kind of meat to his weather-beaten family around a campfire, or perhaps it’s the Glastonbury Festival and he’s barbecuing tofu. I’m about to move on when two women and a man sidle up next to me.
    “Hey, this is nothing,” says the first lady, turning on her heel to go.
    “Sure it is, there’s some little guys,” says the man.
    “Okay,” she says and gets her