Submarine

by Joe Dunthorne

  ‘Jordana?’

  The sound stops. She looks at me.

  ‘Make your hands into a ball,’ she says.

  I do not question her.

  I cup one hand around the other like I’ve trapped a moth.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  She slips off the boulder and sits cross-legged in front of me.

  Pulling a purple Bic lighter out of her skirt pocket, she forces the top of it into a gap between my thumbs.

  She holds down the button on the lighter; there is the hiss of gas escaping.

  ‘Keep it airtight,’ she says.

  ‘Are we making a bomb?’

  ‘This is a trust exercise, like in drama,’ she says.

  ‘Are we making a bomb as a trust exercise?’

  ‘Ready?’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And go.’

  She scrapes back the flint-wheel. I feel the spark against my skin and instinctively open my palms. For a moment, I am master of the elements. I am Ryu from Streetfighter II, a small blue-yellow fireball in my hands.

  It disappears in the air between us.

  My hands are not charred.

  She has a special skill. And it is not blackmail.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ she says.

  I pick up the diary and write:

  I asked Jordana about her ex-boyfriend.

  She said: ‘He is a really sweet guy but there was just no physical

  spark. Mark Pritchard – bless him – he may have the jawline but he

  snogs like he’s searching for cavities.’

  I asked her the big question: ‘So you didn’t shag him then?’

  Jordana shuffles around and sits next to me on the grass, legs tucked beneath her, thighs angling towards me. I wish I was studying GCSE body language.

  I hand her the diary. Her eyes jolt as she reads. I wait for her to catch up and answer the question.

  ‘Technically… no,’ she says, handing me back the diary.

  I nod and carry on writing:

  ‘God, no!’ she said. ‘Minging!’

  ‘And what about Janet?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you angry with her – she was your best friend?’

  Jordana’s reply was so magnanimous:

  ‘I know I should be angry but, honestly, I wish Janet all the luck in the world. She’s a nice girl. She’s not had a lot – if any – luck with boys in the past. I remember when I had to teach her how to give a love bite. You never know – they might end up getting married and staying together for ever.’

  Jordana has such a great attitude.

  Jordana shuffles closer and rests her chin on my shoulder. The wind whips her hair up under my nose. It smells of burnt sugar. I keep writing.

  Jordana is sex talent. She can do things with a lighter that you wouldn’t believe.

  She slides her hand along my back and around my waist. I keep on writing.

  Her body is exceptional: fully developed breasts, a definite neck, legs like a Top Shop mannequin.

  She squeezes her boobs against my arm: shape and weight and warmth.

  Thank you, God, thank you, Janet, and thank you, Mark Pritchard!

  She bites my neck and sucks a little.

  Yours smittenly,

  Oli T.

  She detaches with a slurp.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ she says, reaching over and tearing out the page. ‘You make it sound as if I couldn’t give a toss.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ I ask.

  ‘Distribute it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Chips.’

  There is the sound of her sheepdog barking at another dog.

  ‘Are you going to tell him that it was all a set-up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ she says, taking hold of my fingers and kissing the back of my hand as if I were a princess. ‘This is conclusive proof that you’ve actually snogged a girl.’

  28.4.97

  Word of the day: propaganda. I am Hitler. She is Goebbels.

  Dear Diary,

  They are calling for you.

  The results of Jordana’s ‘leak’ have been twofold:

  Firstly, my heterosexuality has been established whereas, up to this point, it has been a point of discussion.

  Secondly, and contradictory to my being a ladykiller, I am now known as the sort of boy who writes about his emotions and uses words like osculate.

  All this has led to three distinct types of playground goad:

  1) Hey, Adrian, where’s your diary?

  2) (To the tune of the musical) Oliver, Oliver, never before have I thought you weren’t gay.

  3) Tatey, Tatey, Tatey: have you shagged her yet?

  It is a form of respect to have the letter ‘y’ added to the end of your surname.

  So this leaves me with a distinct dilemma – just the sort of problem for which a diary was intended. Do I keep ‘leaking’ sections of my diary and try and create a more beefy persona? Or do I cut my losses, burn this diary right now and just be pleased that I am known as an attentive lover?

  Hmm,

  Oliver

  Zugzwang

  I’ve decided that I’m not going to write a diary. It puts my reputation in danger. I’m going to keep a ‘log’. It’s going to be seriously buff: there will be no emotions; there will be no emoticons; it will be sprayed with bullet points like the wings of the Luftwaffe after the Vickers K machine gun was introduced.

  I scribble out the word ‘Diary’ on the front cover; now it just says ‘Niceday’. Then I Tipp-Ex out the word ‘day’ and the left-hand arm of the capital letter ‘N’. Now it just says ‘Vice’. I write my name on the inside front cover. And a sinister anagram of my name: ‘O evil treat’.

  When I am very old, I will be able to look back through my logbook and clearly recall the taste of a fifteen-year-old girl’s mouth.

  12.5.97

  Word of the day: flagitious – characterized by extremely brutal or cruel crimes.

  Dear Logbook,

  All the people I’ve ever kissed, latest:

  • Arwen Slade – she wears a brace and is deeply unattractive. I kissed her on the bus on the way to Dan-Yr-Ogof Show Caves. She’d just eaten half a bag of flying saucers. Her saliva tasted like coins. Arwen is proud of her fillings; she has one for every year of her life.

  Arwen’s best friend, Suzie, told me that Arwen thought, on a kissing scale of one to ten, ten being the best, I rated a ten. She asked me how I would rate Arwen’s kissing. I told her ten to save Arwen’s feelings but I was thinking three or four.

  • Rhian Weld – Rhian Weld was square. I wanted to help her out. It was after a school disco. I told her that if we were going to do it we had to hide behind the tall kitchen bins. It was snowing and I have bad circulation. I remember that she closed her eyes, stuck her tongue out and waited for me to reciprocate. Her tongue was blue from blackcurrant squash. It was smouldering in the cold. I put my lips around it – the world’s worst lollipop.

  • Tom Jones – not the singer. He was a friend of mine who moved to Brighton last year. I kissed him at a wedding with my mouth full of vol-au-vents. He could do a very convincing impression of a girl.

  • Jordana Bevan – it was a pleasant kind of blackmail. Her mouth did taste of milk. The boys at school call her Banana Heaven.

  Jordana’s pros: she never speaks about herself. She could, therefore, be anything. Perhaps she is a Fabian. This makes her a socialist who advocates gradual change. She owns very nice, small breasts that I have not touched. Her moderate unpopularity makes things easier. She is a girl; to be seen with her makes me more acceptable in the eyes of my peers. She has not met my parents. My parents have not met her.

  Jordana’s cons: when she imitates the voice of Janet, her ex-friend, she sounds like my mother; not necessarily a bad thing – but when
I kissed her and looked at her breasts this made me feel uncomfortable. She is not a Fabian. A shame. She is fifteen and has probably never heard of socialism. I’m too young to be tied down. I want to play the field. The playing fields.

  Other things that are true:

  • Jordana’s mum works as an invigilator: a security official in a public gallery.

  • People sometimes say that I am posh because I say ‘Mum’ not ‘Mam’ and ‘Grampa’ not ‘Bamps’. I do not tell them that my mother is of English descent.

  • If a graphologist were to examine my handwriting, they would note that I am creative, sensitive and destined for a modicum of success.

  • Cod-liver oil is good for the joints. Taking it every day may help to keep you supple in old age. I take two capsules before breakfast and one before tea. The capsules are the colour of piss. Which reminds me: if you eat/drink Berocca vitamin-supplement tablets then your piss will turn the fluorescent colour of a high-visibility jacket.

  • I write cryptic crossword clues on the backs of my hands to solve during maths or Religious Education. If a supply teacher gives us a wordsearch, I try and find words which we are not supposed to be looking for. The word ‘zzxjoanw’: a Maori drum.

  • I was born in a hospital with both parents present. My first word was ‘is’, a conjugation of the verb ‘to be’.

  • Some lunchtimes, I help the student teacher build a Tudor house out of matchsticks for the year-eleven display table. We have even created a matchstick maid who throws excrement down into the street from the house’s top window. Her name is Ethel.

  • Copydex sticks to your hands but then peels off like the skin of a snake. You can see your fingerprints in it.

  • This is not a diary.

  Goodbye,

  O

  Jordana and I are on the swings. It is Wednesday lunchtime. She says: ‘I bet I can swing higher than you.’ This is her way of flirting. She wants to boff me.

  We swing until we get dizzy, then we lie out beneath the climbing frame on the wood chip. It smells like rain.

  ‘Remember when Arwen said you were a ten-out-of-ten kisser?’ she says coquettishly.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not ten out of ten.’

  Again she tries to bed me.

  ‘I’d give you a six and a half,’ she says.

  I lean over and put my palm on her belly.

  ‘Get off !’ she says, grabbing my wrist. Jordana sometimes lacks intelligence.

  ‘Oliver?’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  She looks a bit like a beautiful woman. She has hip bones that stick out and make me want to do handstands on them. She smells of milk and oestrogen.

  ‘Sunsets or sunrises?’

  Jordana always asks things like this: Knife, fork or spoon? Full-fat or skimmed? Money or good looks?

  Fork, full-fat, money.

  ‘They’re both pretty shit but, if I had to choose, I’d go for sunsets – they are less supercilious.’ Sometimes I think that I might give Jordana a dictionary as a Christmas present.

  We share a chocolate Pop-Tart at my house. Jordana asks if she can have a look around my room while I go to the toilet. I sometimes take up to and beyond five minutes on the loo. I will change.

  14.5.97

  Word of the day: echolalia – meaningless repetition of another’s words.

  Dear Log,

  The problem, I think, with diaries is that they make you remember things you’d rather forget. I prefer to use the space for recording the times when I’ve got the Countdown conundrum before the contestants:

  reference – 14.01.96

  speedboat – 4.04.96

  Facts:

  • Jordana carries cartons of milk in her backpack. She likes the taste of milk and says she wants to have strong bones when she’s older. She has never broken a bone.

  • When I was four years old, I used to climb on to the windowsill – during my parents’ dinner parties – pull my pants down and perform a genital display. In my subsequent research I have learnt that this sort of behaviour is perfectly normal for a five-year-old boy. And so, when my parents recall this story, I remind them that, if anything, I was ahead of my peers.

  • In sex education, they show us photos of all the STDs. I think they want us to feel disgusted by sex.

  • My favourite was the man with the anal warts, which looked like a bad outbreak of bubble wrap. There was a man with thrush; it gave his bell end a kind of polka-dot pattern, like a hat that no one would wear.

  • When I have sex with someone, I will be thinking about the unnecessary number of words there are for inter-course: shagging, fucking, screwing, bonking, porking, nobbing, consummating, boneing, boffing, copulating, dicking, bedding… I could go on.

  • Chips says that sex is like a wet wank.

  Thursday afternoon.

  Sometimes it is important to skip school for an afternoon. We are missing Welsh and maths. Our classmates will notice that we have disappeared and they will respect us. Our Welsh teacher thinks he is young. He tells us that the Welsh for skiving in town is ‘mitchio yn y dre’.

  We lie on our backs in the wood chip beneath the kids’ climbing frame. She shows me the photos of the time we snogged in the stone circle. She says she is going to email them anonymously to Janet.

  ‘Are you using me?’ I ask.

  Jordana thumbs through the pictures and laughs. In the photo it looks as though I am eating her face.

  ‘You have a massive head,’ she says. Normally, I would say that this is just her trying to get into my pants.

  ‘I said, “Are you using me?”’ Sometimes Jordana doesn’t hear very well.

  She puts the photos down, turns on to her front and leans up on her elbows.

  ‘You wish I was using you,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Just because we have a tryst doesn’t mean you can take me for granted,’ I say.

  Jordana stands and clambers up the red ladder that arcs over the climbing frame. Once at the top, she carefully lowers herself between the two uppermost rungs so that she hangs upside down by her legs. She looks like a spider at the centre of a web. Her long brown hair falls down towards where I am lying, almost touching my nose. It smells of bubblegum.

  ‘Banana Heaven. Is that really what they call me?’

  Jordana’s mammary glands look bigger from this angle.

  ‘You kissed Rhian Weld,’ she says, starting to sway back and forth. I think that Rhian must have told Jordana, although they are not friends. I was afraid this might happen.

  ‘And Tom Jones. You snogged Tom Jones.’

  I pick up a handful of wood chip and throw it at her.

  ‘Not likely,’ I say. I sound like someone who is lying. I roll on to my front and start to examine the soil beneath the wood chip.

  There is a worm, half-squashed, writhing about. Worms find it difficult to tell the difference between the vibrations made by rainfall and those made by a human foot stomping rhythmically on the soil above it.

  A worm makes its way to the surface only to discover that it is a beautiful sunny day.

  I pick up the worm and, returning to my supine position, throw it at Jordana’s hair. All of which, in a worm’s tiny intellect, is entirely unfathomable. I feel young.

  ‘I read your diary, Oliver. While you were on the loo.’

  ‘What diary?’

  ‘You are such a shit liar, Adrian.’

  ‘Don’t call me Adrian.’

  ‘Adrian.’

  ‘It’s a logbook, anyway.’

  ‘Adrian.’

  In school, we looked at an extract from Adrian Mole’s Diary. Chips said: ‘When do we get to the bit where he realizes he’s gay?’

  Jordana’s face is turning red as the blood starts to collect in her skull. She may also be blushing – sexual nervousness can do that. She turns her head to look at me. This creates a kind of tunnel of her hair between my face and hers. A spot lives in the hairs of her ri
ght eyebrow.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ she says.

  I open my mouth as though I am screaming. Jordana concentrates. She pouts. One minute she’s hot to trot, the next she’s not. I don’t know what she is planning. Then, slowly, delicately, Jordana allows a thread, a thermometer of spit to stretch from her lips. It dangles for a second a few inches from my face. The cord snaps and I feel the cargo hit the back of my throat. I try not to cough. Or be sick.

  Jordana pulls herself back up on to the top of the climbing frame. Her hair looks as though she has just had rough sex. I swallow. She climbs down and lies next to me. Her face glows strawberry red.

  ‘Oliver?’ she says, staring up at the sky, or the climbing frame.

  ‘Yup.’

  I feel post-coital.

  ‘You should write more about me in your diary.’

  15.5.97

  Word of the day: pederast – the American version of a paedophile. It took me the entirety of a double lesson of Religious Education to solve this cryptic crossword clue: ‘Deep transformation turns a lost rasta into child-lover.’

  Dear Log (and Jordana),

  • Jordana’s new cons: her spit is thicker than mine. I do not want to be in an unequal relationship.

  • New pros: she has very good aim.

  • In double chemistry we were doing potassium. Everyone fears Eliot Shakespeare – he laughs at explosions.

  • During geography I solved this clue: ‘Move rhythmically when boy goes to church.’ Five letters. I thought of dance straightaway but then thought that was too easy. While Miss Brow was explaining about oxbow lakes, I made sense of the rest of the clue. The boy is Dan. His religious denomination is the Church of England.

  • Sam Portal is Church of England. I tell him that the Bible is a work of fiction. I ask him why he chooses Christianity over the other religions. I write him Post-it notes from God and stick them on the inside of his physics textbook. It is important to keep duplicates of good deeds. See below:

  Dear Sam, don’t listen

  to your friend Oliver

  Tate, I put him on earth