A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  He was going to get hit by a car. He wedged this thought against others and it held for a while. Little car units scurrying past him, running at his shoulder, barely missing him, coming the other way with their knife glint windows and their stares. There weren’t many people around. Not here. He paused in the shadow of a corner and let the sweat out. Just let it come out.

  He’d suck off pretty much anyone right now. Any passer-by. Any car driver. Any sort of astronaut, mountain climber, goatherd, sheep boy, idiot son of Donkey Kong.

  What was that?

  His dad had been an immigrant but nobody could tell.

  He couldn’t remember if he’d imagined there being people on the airplanes. He supposed he had. But he didn’t think that he’d been a strange boy, a weird boy. He thought that it was the burst that he’d liked, not some idea of people burning in a conflagration, melting in with the plastic and the toasted sandwiches and the crew. He laughed. Moved again. Toasted sandwiches. Wobbled a little, got it sensible. He was fine really. He was just sweating a lot.

  He should eat something.

  Oh. Fuck’s sake. Car.

  Facts stalked him, little fact units running at his shoulder as fast as he ran, which was not fast, given, so, so, so. So he was keeping pace, walking pace, a pole tied to his back and stretched across the road, hung with truthful items.

  It is Saturday now.

  It is past midday.

  You are sweating very badly.

  You are very high, still.

  It is an excruciatingly hot day.

  This last one he wasn’t sure about. It fluttered on the end of the pole, scraping the wall opposite, ready to fall.

  His pockets dug and scraped, coins and thugs and what he imagined for a stretch of narrow pavement towards the main road was a small rosary, small prayers and mutterings and with surely a calming value, worry beads, beads, don’t think of beads, they are not beads. They were a clutch of pills in a freezer bag. Nothing to do with him. He had intended to keep them in his hand, ready to throw away if anyone looked at him sideways, but everyone had looked at him sideways since he’d left Sammy’s, and he had them buried deep in his pocket now like a bullet in a wound — a terrible image which made him feel momentarily sick, where had that come from, and he took a sip of tepid water from the bottle which he found, bizarrely, in his left hand, which he had managed somehow, in a slightly disturbing sort of miracle, to not yet drop. The water felt good and holy, wet and main. But also so warm that he decided the hotness of the day was objective, was true, was real and brutal. Fucking hell.

  Typical.

  Maybe his hand had heated it, warmed it up. His elemental fingers.

  They had, he decided now, in a bitter pop of clarity, sent him on the errand because he was an idiot. Not because it was dangerous or because he would be less suspicious, but simply because they were having a good time, and he had become a little restless, nothing he realised now that a shower and a cup of tea and a bit of that chocolate cake wouldn’t have sorted out. He’d had a shower though hadn’t he? While Duncan sat on the chair laughing at practically everything he said, including the prediction that they would die in an inferno because someone Sammy had turned away would lob a petrol bomb through the window and they would all be too fucked to escape. Duncan thought this was hilarious. But people are nasty, people are weird, people crack along unpredictable lines. Stop predicting then, he told himself. Where the hell was he? He pulled a hand across his forehead. It came back soaking. He ran it around the back of his head. That was worse. He sat down on a low wall. It was in a half shade. He stayed there about twenty seconds and then headed to a patch of grass by one of the big blocks. But as he got there he decided he couldn’t sit down on the grass. It would look odd, and feel odd, and he needed to keep going. He was five minutes away.

  From Honk’s. Keep going.

  What?

  Not Honk.

  Frank.

  He stopped and bent over and laughed for a minute or so, who knows, wheezing like a car that wouldn’t start. He hoped some kind invisible stranger would stop and fuck him in the arse.

  And so he marched, strode, strided, down the side streets between Cannibal and Feckem, in and out of estates with his jeans growing into his skin, his legs like the legs of someone else, parasitic, stapled on, something like that. His ways of thinking about things had been hacked and disrupted. Everything was immensely complicated. Stick to the facts. He was heading for Frank’s. To pick up various things, deliver his freezer bag, hopefully have a cold drink, maybe even a shower, definitely a shower he thought now, he would refuse to leave without a shower, pick up various things, for himself, for Patrick and for Miguel, for Sammy?—he couldn’t remember — and perhaps persuade Frank to come with him back to Sammy’s. Then there would be a while there, time would pass or implode or whatever it did, before he probably slipped out for some food with Duncan, then home. Or back to Sammy’s. In which case it’d be home in the morning. Or whatever. Monday was nothing. What was Monday it was nothing. He’d taken a bus from Sammy’s to the Green. Hadn’t he? He could probably have gone a couple more stops, but this was the way he knew.

  The sun hunted him like a maniac.

  That’s it. Freezing, think of it, try to think of that, though hell . . . oh hell. He had been, he declared to himself — pausing for a moment on the kerb of a buckled dusty footpath that he was surprised to see he had been avoiding, walking in the road like a man who was going to get hit by a car — scratching at the doors of hell, and in a shimmer of fine detail he saw the surface of those doors like a continent in turmoil, marching armies, fleeing citizenry, the mountains filled with refugees and partisans, loaded guns in the woodpiles, tied to the branches of trees, boulders propped by an overpass, an indulgent father feeding milk and raisins to a small girl in the shade of a gable, all that remained of a church of the wrong column, his other children dead and unrecoverable in the pit of the city where no humans any longer rummaged, though there was rummaging, and over towards the sea, which was on fire, there seemed to be a place of sordid and despairing coupling, congress and varied carnal whatnot, and this distracted him a moment. A moment. Which lasted deep into the seconds, not passing over them but into them, deep down to their depths where he briefly swam in almost tepid waters, his skin brushing skin, chiefly the skin of the shirtless man he had seen step out of a pedestaled doorway what felt like hours previously but which, he confirmed with a glance over his shoulder, had been about eight seconds ago. The man’s beautiful back was getting smaller. He thought for half a particularly deep second about following him. That story took so much out of time that he stopped. Christ. Hell. He adjusted his erection, appalled that he was capable of one, and thought again that he would be hit by a car, if his heart held out. The doors of hell, in any case, he clarified, had been flung open as he stared at them, and he was pinned against a wall. A wall of hell. Something like that. His back . . . to continue where he had left off . . . ran faster than anything, his shirt a bloody rag, and him a whipped fucking dog with no brains and no one who loved him boo hoo — something kicking up a notch there, bit of a second wind. Enough of this brains.

  Notch.

  There was a moment which most weeks he walked past.

  The route between work and home like a corridor.

  Friday. Every Friday. Fridays.

  The route between work and home like a corridor.

  Most weeks he went on his way into rest, into meals, into seeing his brother and his nieces, drinks with the pals, old pals, a date, the football, maybe a dance, a lie-in in the mornings, the good healthy meals and the conversations and the calm body being a calm body.

  There was a moment which most weeks he walked past.

  But as a moment it was more of a small door.

  Into relaxation, a good civilian, a citizen male, a man, a real man, a man at home in his life.

>   The route between work and home like a corridor.

  But even perhaps in the toilet at work he might see it, glimpse it, set into the tiles under the hand dryer.

  More likely in the corridor.

  The route between work and home like a corridor.

  Go for a drink with the work crowd, why not, why not do that, he might not see a thing if he does that, but he would see it then in the pub, it always happened that he would see it in the pub if he went to the pub, a good civilian, a good citizen after a week of work, in the pub.

  The door beneath the bar, a tiny thing in the panelling.

  As a moment it was more of a small door.

  A real man.

  Walking home he might see it in a wall or a bus shelter or the remains of a hedge, a knee-high hedge on a muddy patch between pavements.

  A small plain door, with a handle.

  A real door.

  Sometimes, almost most times, he would see it and walk by, even give it a nod, a little nod, an acknowledgement, and continue home, continue as a real man, a citizen, and walk on by.

  A small plain door, with a handle.

  A real door.

  But sometimes, many times, he would stop and stare at this small door, look at it, look at it.

  The door beneath the bar, a tiny thing in the panelling.

  The route between work and home like a corridor.

  But even perhaps in the toilet at work he might see it, glimpse it, set into the tiles under the hand dryer.

  Look at it.

  There is in his mind a flood, as if his mind is filling with blood, as if his mind is a body, which is a vessel, which is filling with blood, and it becomes impossible not to float away on his own blood.

  But as a moment it was more of a small door.

  Look at that small door, that tiny door.

  It is beautiful.

  Friday. Every Friday. Fridays.

  But sometimes, many times, he would stop and stare at this small door, look at it, look at it.

  A real man.

  He thinks of his body as a vessel, and what is a man but a carried glass of water, a glass of water carried by a small child across a summer garden.

  It is beautiful.

  A child across a garden with a glass of cold water, that is a life, and the child concentrates so as not to spill a drop, but it does not matter, really, it does not matter, if it is only a life.

  But sometimes, many times, he would stop and stare at this small door, look at it, look at it.

  A real man.

  Look at it, all the blood in his body filling his body.

  A welling, soulful feeling.

  This welling sense of himself, a body and a mind in blood, in the world, occupying exactly its own shape in the world.

  He goes towards the door.

  He would stoop then, stoop and go to the door and open it and he would climb inside into the space of his body and that would be it, that was where he was, that was where he was.

  He opens the door and he climbs into the space of his body.

  And closes the door behind him.

  — Oh love, come in, come in, my god, what a day.

  Frank was wearing flip-flops, shorts, a blue singlet with something on it. He slumped. Sighed. He looked completely different. Or perhaps he had been wrongly remembered. Did he have the right flat?

  — You know, Frank said, I’d forgotten your face. I knew the name, but I wasn’t entirely sure who it was that Sammy meant.

  Not ches.

  — Tom, said Tommy.

  — Tommy, of course. I know. Tommy.

  Had they even met before? They eyed each other. Frank seemed happy enough about it. He was staring at Tommy’s crotch.

  — Haven’t seen you in quite a while, have I? Was it here? Or have I seen you since? At Sammy’s? I was there when? Couple of weeks now I think. Jesus look at you. Here, let me get you a drink.

  He was mid-fifties, fit with a belly starting, bald, beard turning grey, a big scar across his lower leg, left, red. He was very sexy. Tommy swallowed hard, trying to seem level, at the same time wondering why. Always this need. As if anyone remembered anything.

  He wanted a shower. He looked around the place. Ah. Ah yes. This place. There was a view of Buggers Park. Some weird paintings on the wall, lots of books and throws and drapes. A very gay middle-aged clutter. He had been here before. Once. It had been full of men. Now there was a cool air, Frank, and nothing else.

  — Can I have a shower?

  — Oh good idea. Yes. Here.

  He led him to the bathroom. Helped him undress, rolling the wet T-shirt up over his shoulders. All the time talking, talking about the heat of the day, about the last time they’d met, taking the bag of pills with a pause and a close look, and then a thank you darling and a kiss, which was cooling and lingered, and then he was pulling a big white towel from a cupboard and turning the taps as Tommy wrestled off his boxers and stood there naked, feeling something like a child and something like a prisoner, but Frank just gave him another kiss, on the cheek this time, and picked up his clothes and left the room, saying that he’d make some cool drinks, that Tommy was to take his time, enjoy.

  — Thank you Frank.

  — Ooo ahhh, Frank said.

  The shower was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him. He stood there with it in his hand, directing it first, still cold, at his thighs, using his hands to scoop it up into his groin, feeling glorious. Then over his head and his back. He washed with just the water, and then used a little of Frank’s products. He thought about shampooing his hair but already he didn’t know how long he’d been in there. Maybe he was taking the piss. He tried to pee but couldn’t. He washed his armpits several times, and investigated his arse and squatted over the shower head and hummed a tune. He should stop. He’d been in there too long. When he stepped out and wrapped the towel around him he felt immensely happy. He had made it. He had travelled through himself and here he was, with another. He wondered why when he was high he always thought of his childhood, and he worried that they were the only two times in his life when he’d been happy.

  — Glorious shower.

  — Oh that was quick. I’ve put all your clothes on the fast wash, and they’ll be out of the dryer before you know it.

  — Oh.

  — Well you couldn’t have put them back on Tommy darling. Even your jeans were soaked. I don’t know how you wear jeans on a day like this.

  — Well I was out from last night.

  — You’ve been at Sammy’s overnight?

  — I got there about 3 or 4 in the morning, he lied.

  — Well anyway. You’ll get them back clean and dry in about an hour. You won’t get this sort of service anywhere else you know. Do you want some food? Look at you all lovely and sexy.

  He sat on the couch beside Frank and ran his hand through his hair. His own hair. Frank didn’t have any hair. He laughed. Frank squeezed his knee. He could hear the washing machine in the kitchen. And there was another sound, like a bigger, softer machine, Frank was on a laptop, on one of the sites, scrolling. On the coffee table there was a wet jug full of what looked like lemon soda with a lot of ice, several glasses, an ashtray, a pouch of tobacco, cigarette papers, a clump of weed in a large freezer bag, two small baggies of T, a pipe, several lighters, a little brown bottle, a needleless syringe, a wristwatch, three bottles of still mineral water, several more glasses in a different position, a notebook and pen, an orange peel, someone’s phone — Frank’s presumably, it wasn’t his. There was music playing, that was the big soft sound — a sort of . . . jazz?

  — Pour yourself a nice drink love.

  — Thank you Frank. I really needed that. Feel a lot better now.

  Where was his phone?

  — And you look a lot be
tter darling. Look at you. Gorgeous. You should eat. There’s — what is there — there’s fruit anyway, in the kitchen. Oranges, apples. There’s a punnet of strawberries in the fridge which you’re welcome to. There’s smoked salmon . . .

  — Where’s my phone?

  He was looking again at the things on the table. He had leaned forward and was lifting the weed, looking under the tobacco, at all the table’s surface. He looked at himself. He was wearing a towel. He opened it and found only his genitals and a bruise on his thigh.

  — I don’t know.

  — Oh fuck.

  — Well

  — I don’t fucking believe it.

  His phone was the tiny precise thing in which was to be found the way back to everything else. It was the way back to everything. The way out of the tiny imprecise slot of time in which he was currently hiding out. If it was lost, if his phone were lost, there was a chance that he would be trapped in here.

  He stood up, leaving the towel behind him.

  — Oh Christ. The washing machine.

  He was both worried, frantically worried, and also relaxed because he was naked and he liked being high and naked, and he was more comfortably high now after the shower, and he knew he looked good, and he fancied Frank and knew they would have good sex, and he was really happy about that, but at the same time, interlaced, one sort of time with another, was the feeling that his phone was lost and that his phone being lost was a catastrophe the extent of which he could barely grasp, barely concieve of, which would leave him stranded like an actor who has to get off the stage but the wings are sealed and he’s stuck out there.

  — The washing machine, the fucking washing machine.

  He was walking towards it, and Frank was following him, saying something, but he had no idea what. He got into the kitchen and stared at the suds turning a lazy circle and a flap of his T-shirt dragged across the glass like it was waving at him.

  — Oh fuck.

  He crouched and tried the door and it was locked and he was about to burst into tears or throw up or maybe neither of those things but in any case none of this happened because Frank had said something that meant that he was now looking at the kitchen table where sat a pile of coins and his keys and a pack of chewing gum that he remembered buying at some point in his life.