The Boy in Formaldehyde

“The atmosphere became quite uninhibited — naked dancing around the roasting beast. Heaps of bodies threshing about on the lawn. A real Witches’ Sabbath. And the boy actually tasted remarkably good.” He paused, reminiscent. “Ever eaten a slice of roast rump of boy with a few baked potatoes?” “Never had the pleasure,” chortled Cyril. “But I was thinking about it the other day, funnily enough, though the image that came to mind was that of mint sauce.” “Cannibalism has had a very bad press,” went on Rigdon seriously. “But it is an excellent way of recycling bodies. I should have thought the ecologists would have been onto it by now. Sustainability. The young healthy bodies, car accidents and so forth, could be used for prime meat, or for those frozen TV dinners, lasagne, cannelloni. They use horsemeat, why not human meat? The older bodies could be ground up for cat and dog food, animal feed, or even fertilizer. There’s such a lot of protein being wasted. We could feed all of Africa with recycled bodies. I mean, they used to do it themselves for centuries, didn’t they? Mass human sacrifice followed by days of feasting. We stupidly interfered and they’ve been on the brink of starvation ever since. Time we learned from other cultures. Instead we cling to these absurd superstitions. Respecting dead bodies. Why? Nobody believes in the soul any more. What’s it about?” “The trouble is we have so many attitudes carried over from religion even though no one believes in it any longer,” declared Jones. “If we could stop the teaching of that unhealthy Christian rubbish, things would become a lot more rational.” At that moment a slim, dark-haired, well-groomed young man of about twenty detached himself from the crowd at the bar and approached their table, swaying slightly as if the worse for drink. He was staring at Rigdon as though at a ghost. Another man the same age but a bit taller followed him, trying to hold his arm and restrain him. The first one shook off his hand and began speaking drunkenly. “Well, if it isn’t Professor Rigdon! I was at your last lecture. What sort of homophobic crap was that? Gay people are caused by pollution! Are you telling me I’m the result of diox — dioxin pollution?” he stuttered, hiccupping. “Not necessarily,” said Rigdon with amiable condescension. “Let me look at you.” He glanced at his face from both sides. “No, you might be the result of bisphenol-A. Or perhaps phthalates. Or even PCBs. Though I’d keep that quiet — PCBs produce a rather common sort of gay person. I’d tell people it was phthalates, if I were you. They produce a more distinguished class of poofter.” Rigdon judged that the young man was too drunk to fight so he could safely insult him. He was also smaller and more slightly built than the burly, six-foot Rigdon, and the enormous bulk of his companion, Cyril Jones, was an added deterrent, even if the boyfriend joined in. “You fucking, homophobic, fucking bullshitter — you’re not a scientist! What do you know?” The young man was bursting with incoherent, drunken belligerence. “Haven’t you ever heard of a gay gene?” “Yes, and it’s been comprehensively debunked.” Rigdon remained calm as though he found this diversion entertaining. “If you were the result of a gay gene you’d be so effeminate you’d be sitting down to pee. An anti-androgen gay gene would act constantly to block male hormone from masculinizing any aspect of a foetus at all. You’d have a lisp, limp wrists, and you’d be absolutely hopeless at billiards. You are clearly the result of a hormone-disrupting chemical which only acted on you for a short time, because it was only a temporary resident in your mother’s body. In other words, something that came drifting in from the environment, got up your mother’s nose, slipped through the placental barrier, blocked the masculinization of the mating centre in your hypothalamus, and then disappeared again. A pollutant. Dioxin. Phthalates. PCBs. Nothing else can explain you, old chap.” “This is fucking homophobic crap!” he snarled. “Are you a homophobe? Do you have issues you can’t deal with? Are you in the closet?” His voice rose. He hiccupped. “Not at all, dear boy. I left the closet long ago. I now reside in a chest of drawers. I’m as bent as a nine-pound note, which makes it easier to fit in. I too was produced by pollution. I’m rather proud of it. It gives me a dirty feeling. But it’s curious how your sect is the only one on earth that accuses its critics of secretly belonging to it. Every homophobe must be secretly gay. Not necessarily, old chap. They can be openly gay. But your sect is absolutely right to think: there is nobody more likely to despise a faggot than another faggot. We really do hate one another, don’t we?” “What fucking bullshit! He’s trying to avoid the fucking issue, isn’t he?” The young man appealed to his companion, who was holding his arm again. His words slurred even more. “You’re a fucking homophobe! Who else would say: faggots are caused by pollution!” “Well, it’s a very green conception of your genesis, I would have thought,” said Rigdon mildly. “Why is it worse to be the product of environmental factors than to be the product of a gene? I would have thought the environment was far trendier to have as a progenitor.” “So, what about queer paedophile bastards like you? What caused you?” “Oh, a double dose, beyond any doubt. Ghastly industrial miasma. My poor mother was choking on the stuff. Did your mother tell you the same?” “I’ve never spoken to my fucking mother.” “Oh dear, not one of those two-father jobs already?” Rigdon sounded concerned. “Or were you a care home boy? If so, one of us might have played with you when you were little.”