A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  — Bread. Chocolate. Snacks. Like crisps, nuts. Nuts. Crisps. Hummus. Bagels. Crisp sandwich. So sandwich bread. And bagels. Miso soup. Milk. Jesus, milk? Ok.

  He opens the fridge.

  — Milk. Yoghurt. Hummus. Orange. Orange juice. Some dessert things. Cakes.

  He closes the fridge and the cupboards. The last cupboard door he closes swings a little on its hinges and knocks, makes a knocking sound, and David, who has turned away from it jumps, startled, and turns around and stares at it, at the cupboard door.

  — Jesus.

  He opens it and then flips it closed and it makes the same knocking sound, three raps very much like someone knocking on a door. David moves away from it, shaking his head. He puts his phone in his pocket and walks through the hallway and opens the door of the flat and goes out and closes the door behind him, and then the pause, and then he locks the second lock.

  The cupboard door has always been like that. When Karl and Peppi lived in the flat whoever was in the kitchen would deliberately cause the sound to happen and the other one, sitting usually in the living room would say

  — Come in.

  There is a man, older than David, in the hallway. He is leaning his back against the closed door of the flat. David is naked and on his knees sucking the man’s cock. The man pulls off a T-shirt. He gives David instructions. David stands up, turns around, bends over, and the man slides down the doorway. The light is on in the bedroom. The living room and kitchen are dark. David is moaning loudly. He is pulling at his buttocks. He loses his balance slightly and laughs, and the man slaps his arse and stands up and tells David to suck his cock again. This is private. On the little shelf over the radiator there is a bottle of poppers, lube. In the bedroom David’s laptop is on the bedside table, playing pornography full screen, silently. It is night. It is very warm. The bed is made, the duvet neat. They are making a lot of noise. The cat can hear them. In the garden she is standing still, on the path by the house, her ears up. After a while the noise stops.

  — That was great. Want to hang out for a while.

  — Nah, I have to get back. Another time.

  — Maybe we can get as far as the bedroom.

  — Nah this is good. Sexy fucker.

  He leaves without showering or even washing. David closes the door after him and smiles and then laughs, and takes a shower. Afterwards he sits on his bed naked, looking at his phone.

  There is a knock at the door. Another knock. A long silence. Another knock, louder. Then Laura’s voice

  — David are you there?

  Silence.

  — David?

  David comes back with a bag of shopping. He is pale and his skin is wet with sweat, and there are stains of sweat on his T-shirt at the collar and under the arms and at his shoulder blades.

  — Jesus, he says, in the hallway, where he stands for a moment as if collecting himself, before putting down the bag and turning the key in the second lock and leaving it to hang there.

  — What a fucking nightmare.

  He goes into the bedroom and takes off his clothes. He looks around and then opens the laundry basket and takes out the towel and dries his skin. He wraps the towel around his waist and takes the bag from the hallway into the kitchen and puts things into the cupboards and the fridge. Then he makes himself a sandwich with crisps. He pours a glass of milk. He takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly and then sips the milk. He goes and walks around the living room. He picks up a book and opens it and reads, and walks around the middle of the room. He doesn’t finish the sandwich.

  David is awake when the alarm goes off on his phone. He looks at it as if shocked. He picks it up and touches the screen and it goes quiet. He drops it on the bed.

  — Fuck, he says.

  He looks at his laptop. He goes back to what he was doing.

  Later, he types a long email on his laptop while lying naked on his stomach on the bed. He reads it aloud. Then changes some things and reads a couple of sentences aloud. His voice is deeper. He works on it for almost an hour, tapping at his keyboard, reading, then tapping some more. Eventually he reads it all out and then sends it. It is to Alex. It is about bullying. His arm is bleeding.

  *

  It is the middle of the night. David is sitting naked on his bed. He is cross-legged, his back against the headboard. He has his laptop open beside him, and two closed books and the folder of photographs of Karl and Peppi, also closed. He is holding his phone in one hand and a third book in the other hand, and he is reading. He reads for a moment, then looks at his phone, scrolls with his thumb. Then he goes back to reading. After a minute or two he looks at his phone. He does this for a while. It is the middle of the night. The lights are still on in the living room and kitchen. The hallway and the bathroom are dark. In the bedroom the bedside light is on, and the fan is on, and there is also a small towel, a hand towel, on the bed. David puts the book down. He looks at the phone, touches the screen. He clears his throat. He uses his fingers to touch a message into his phone.

  Hey Ravi. Want to come over?

  He clicks his tongue, clears his throat again. He puts down the phone but keeps looking at it. He feels for the towel and picks it up and wipes his face and his chest. He puts it down and picks up the phone. He looks at his arm. He puts a finger to his arm just below the elbow and presses, and then rubs the skin with his fingers and scratches it briefly with his nails. He looks at the phone. He touches the screen and then holds the phone to his ear. He stares at nothing. He looks at the phone, then puts it back to his ear. In the silence of the flat it is possible to hear the ringing tone inside David’s phone, and then the interruption and the generic voice of the voicemail service. David touches the screen to end the call and drops the phone on the bed and picks up the book again.

  — Suit yourself.

  It is the afternoon. David is in the living room. He is naked and he is lying on the floor on his back and he has his phone in his hand and he’s touching the screen and scratching his arm. He makes a phone call.

  — Rob? Yeah. How are you? Yeah I know. What time do you finish? Ok. Could you come over? Here. To the flat. Yeah. Well, I don’t know. No I didn’t go in. No, no it’s fine. I just think that this thing with Alex has probably blown up out of all proportion you know? And I’m . . . what? I’d rather not. Can you not come here? Why not? I don’t know what you mean.

  He closes his eyes for a moment.

  — No, just come here for fuck’s sake. I’m not going out.

  That is the end of the phone call.

  David leaves the flat. He has a towel with him, a book, headphones. Then he appears in the garden. He is wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that is open. The cat comes over to him and the grass is dry and a yellow kind of colour. The cat brushes against his legs and David squats and strokes her head and she purrs. He smiles at her. He looks around. He is wearing sunglasses. He shakes out the towel and the cat trots away and watches him. He lays the towel on the grass. Then he takes off his shirt and his sandals and he sits on the towel. He looks around. He looks at the windows of Laura and Nadia’s flat. He looks at the cat. He lies back. He puts his headphones on, presses the screen of his phone and puts the phone down and picks up the book and holds it above his face. He stays like that for a while. Then he turns onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows and puts the book on the grass and reads it like that. He seems very calm. His legs sometime bend at the knee and every so often he touches a heel to his buttocks. He brushes at his shoulder. He shoos away a fly. The cat sits near him.

  After a while Nadia appears. They talk for a while, laughing about things. Everything is fine. Nadia goes inside and comes back with two glasses of wine and sits on the grass and David puts aside his book and sits up, and they chat to each other happily, taking turns stroking the cat.

  It is a nice day.

  *


  David opens the door of the flat and walks down the stairs and goes to the door of Nadia and Laura’s flat and knocks. He has left the door of the flat upstairs open and he is naked. He is sweating. He knocks a second time. He waits. There is no one there. He knocks a third time. He turns and walks back to the stairs and goes slowly up. He pauses halfway and looks around. He stares. Then he starts to cry, and goes back up to the flat and goes inside and closes the door. He stops crying and has another glass of water.

  Later he is shivering. He gets dressed. It is still hot.

  — It’s a nice flat. I mean for one person. I mean in London. What are you paying?

  — A lot.

  — I thought. I thought you said it was a deal.

  This is the friend with the tattoos. He is sitting on the sofa with David. They are slightly slumped against each other. They each have a glass of wine.

  — Well it’s not . . . it’s not a deal. But I want to live on my own. You know. I can’t stand. It’s pretty great for a one-person place. It’s pretty good. Like you say.

  David looks towards the window. His friend follows his gaze. There isn’t anything there.

  — And I don’t know how two people would live here to be honest.

  — A couple.

  — Sure but even a couple is going to need space. There’s basically one room to . . . hang out in.

  — Bedroom.

  — I couldn’t do it.

  — Everyone else does. But yeah. Maybe they drove each other crazy. Maybe each of them ran off. In different directions.

  David is quiet for a moment.

  — I really love it here, he says then. I’m really happy here.

  — That’s great David.

  He pats David’s thigh.

  — You deserve a bit of that, you know?

  — I mean I feel really good here. It just has this atmosphere. It’s quiet. And I love that. I can read. It’s relaxed, but I feel energised as well, when I’m here. Full of ideas. I really look forward to coming home from work, you know. Because of the flat, not because of work. I hate leaving in the morning. Do you know what I mean?

  — Well, no. I hate my place. But that’s other people isn’t it? If they fucking washed up

  — I couldn’t stand that.

  — I mean they’re all right. I even really like Marsha and

  — This place is just really good for me. You know? I feel more alive here. It doesn’t feel like a one-bedroomed flat. It feels like a headquarters.

  The man with the tattoos laughs.

  — Headquarters?

  — It’s my headquarters.

  — What are you planning?

  — Life.

  — Oh Jesus.

  — Headquarters of love.

  — Headquarters of getting boned.

  They laugh about this and make more comments related to sex. David tells his friend again how happy he is in the flat. He talks about it a lot, describing the flat as something other than a flat, as a home. He says there is a special kind of energy to it. He doesn’t ask his friend anything. He never says his name. His friend seems to become tired, and bored, and he leaves. When he’s gone David puts on headphones and listens to music on his phone and dances for a while in the living room. Then he goes to bed and reads.

  He goes to answer the intercom but it buzzed more than twenty minutes ago. He holds it to his ear and makes a noise. Then he makes the same noise. He looks bad. He walks around the flat. He stops when he sees his phone, which is in the kitchen. He looks at his phone. He says something. He makes a noise. It sounds like he is trying to say something but it is as if his lips or his tongue are swollen or not working, though there is no evidence of this, there is just a yellowness to the skin of his face, and he shivers in short spasms and there is blood on his left hand, on the fingers, the nails. He is wearing track suit bottoms, a jumper, and he has a towel wrapped around his shoulders. He is barefoot. He stands there. He looks at his phone. He stands in the kitchen looking at his phone. He stays there, in the same place, standing there, for nearly an hour.

  He cannot speak.

  There is a knock at the door. It’s Alison. Behind her on the stairs are Laura and Nadia. David looks startled.

  — Hello.

  — David, says Alison. She sounds relieved. Behind her, Laura turns and walks back down the stairs. Nadia laughs.

  — What’s going on?

  — Well we couldn’t reach you.

  David hasn’t asked them in. He is wearing a shirt and jeans and is barefoot. His hair is neat, his hands are clean. He looks very handsome.

  — How do you mean?

  — There was no answer at the door.

  — I’m just back from work. What’s happened?

  — Well, nothing apparently.

  — Oh it’s our fault, says Nadia. Were you away for a while?

  — Yeah I was at my mum’s for the weekend.

  — The girls heard some noises.

  — No, that’s the thing, we didn’t hear anything really. Or we imagined things. Laura was worried that . . . I’m really sorry.

  Alison looks embarrassed. She rolls her eyes for David. Nadia, behind her, can’t see.

  — Ok, says David. Well I’m fine thanks very much. I go to work, you know. And I sometimes spend the night at a friend’s, or go away for a few days, and that can happen any time, and I’m not, I’m not really happy that my movements are being monitored or whatever. It’s sort of creepy to be honest. It really is.

  Alison nods and turns.

  — Completely understand that. Apologies. I won’t be knocking on your door again unless you ask me to.

  — I’m really sorry, Nadia says again.

  They go downstairs. David doesn’t say anything else. He watches them. His face is handsome. He looks so young. His eyes are beautiful. He closes the door.

  He sits at his desk. He is reading a book. He is wearing just shorts. It is morning. There is a mug of coffee and he sips from it and looks out of the window and sees the cat. The cat is there. And he looks towards the happy man who is in the garden again, going from flower to flower. There are butterflies over the roses, the violets, the delphiniums. David looks at everything but does not seem to take it in, to really see it. He is smiling. He looks back at his book. He reads for a moment and then looks up and smiles again. Then he looks once more at the book and he reads aloud. Then he closes the book.

  There is nothing for a while. What is a while. No one comes. No one calls. David is not in the bedroom. Or the bathroom. The hallway is empty. So is the living room, and the kitchen. He is not in these rooms.

  He is in the other room, the fifth room.

  The only ones who know this are you, and I.

  The Pigeon

  He woke and lay still. He had again kicked off the duvet in his sleep, and there was a chill in the air, this hour, and his body was cold, his legs goosebumped and his shoulders dull and slightly trembling, and he in fascination like a wounded creature — this was his thought — he lay still for a while, dying, an arrow in his back, fallen on snow, some sort of deer or big cat dreaming as it died of being a human boy, a human man, a useless dream. Then he stretched out his arm and pulled the duvet back over his skin. He felt himself begin to disappear in the warmth, to dissolve on the tongue of it, and he fell a long way down asleep, as slow and safe as a child. In his sleep he was part of something.

  Ronnie called at just after seven with the van, Pigeon racing to get out the door before Ronnie started on the horn, annoying people.

  — Why can you not wake?

  — I am awake. I did . . .

  — You look like you still asleep.

  — Ronnie I’ve been up for a half hour. I’ve had a shower. I’m wide awake. I’m early. Shut up.

  — You not early.r />
  — I’m not late.

  Ronnie stopped at the end of the road and Pigeon got them coffees from the corner shop and that cheered Ronnie up.

  — That place is better than the coffee places. Coffee places have better sandwiches than the sandwich places. Chinese places have the best chips. Nothing as it seems.

  They spent the best part of an hour getting over to Hammersmith. The radio going. Pigeon dozing. Ronnie smoking, sighing at the traffic, muttering back at the people on the radio. He liked the news shows, the talk shows. Scandal he would say. Scandal and Idiot and Lies. Lies. Lies.

  He had a reputation for moodiness, Ronnie did. He was known for his sulks. In The Arms once when Pigeon had been there someone had called him Ronnie the Walk Out, and he’d walked out.

  — They give up so easy, these people, these suffering people. They doubt and they relent. You must not relent Pigeon. You hear me?

  Pigeon didn’t know what he was talking about.

  — I hear you Ronnie.

  They were working on a bathroom in the house of a lady who left them a pile of cheese sandwiches on the kitchen table every day, and plates and cups and saucers laid out, and sometimes a note telling them about a cake in the fridge or ice cream in the freezer. Every morning when they arrived Ronnie would spend twenty minutes having a shit in the downstairs toilet while Pigeon put the kettle on and set up Ronnie’s workbench in the back garden and brought in whatever they needed from the van. Then he made a pot of tea and a start on the sandwiches and looked out at the garden where the woman had a bird bath and an old iron bench and a table and chairs, all crowded together on a tiny little patch of yellow grass and hard earth. Ronnie was trying to persuade her to let them cover it — decking or marble effect porcelain tiles. When Ronnie was done they’d sit together eating the sandwiches and drinking the tea while Ronnie read the news on his phone, telling Pigeon what was happening in the city and the country and the world, in that order. There was, Ronnie insisted, no good reason for thinking that mankind was anything other than scum.