Submarine

by Joe Dunthorne

  II

  Diuretic

  Last week, I found Dad’s tricyclic antidepressants in the bathroom bin. I defeated the childproof lid with an insouciant push-twist motion. The bottle was half-full of chalky white pills.

  On alternativemedicine.com, a bookmarked website on my dad’s computer, it says that ‘the emotional lull from coming off Prozac is often far worse in the patient’s eyes than the original depression.’

  I think that the website means ‘in the view of the patient’ and that eyes are not especially affected.

  The first sign was a downturn in Dad’s otherwise impeccable attendance record for Monday breakfasts.

  When I got home after school on Monday, I found him at his bedroom window in his blood-coloured dressing gown, watching the Cork ferry coming in to dock. Their bedroom light was on full-beam.

  ‘Here’s Corky,’ I said, in the game-show voice, as I entered the room.

  ‘Here is Corky,’ he confirmed.

  He was holding a mug of water with a knobbly stub of lemon floating in it. He was wearing slippers and socks.

  ‘Are you bad?’ I asked.

  He turned to me. The pouches under his eyes looked soft and smooth. He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m going to stay in bed.’

  His pupils were small.

  I looked around the room. The bed was made. He had even laid the cushions out in a diamond pattern against the headboard.

  I didn’t see him then for a couple of days, except when he came downstairs to refill his mug with hot water and, sometimes, change his wedge of lemon. He was using the mug that has the word Persona written on it, next to an unimaginative logo: a Ferris wheel of coloured dots, fading from red, through yellow, to green and back to red.

  On the Monday night, Dad was upstairs in bed; it was just me and my mother having dinner. Although I am often frustrated by my parents’ seemingly pointless teatime yakking, I should be thankful that, at the very least, they manage to entertain each other.

  I spent most of dinner listening to the sound of my own jaw moving. Even the infinite possibilities of my plateful of Alphabites did not throw up any topics for conversation.

  In the silence we bore, I decided that I would write and memorize a list of topics of conversation to help us through the rest of the week. I tried to keep a balance of both our interests:

  Appropriate

  Inappropriate

  Fungi

  Chips’s views on women

  Homeopathic treatments for Jordana’s eczema

  Suicide – a cure for depression

  What happened to that nice friend Rick?

  That time when Keiron came round

  Her weight

  Dad’s sexual performance

  Sharks

  Chips’s views on immigration

  The meaning of the word Persona on Dad’s mug

  Is it okay to have such an elastic foreskin?

  My metabolism

  Sunrises or sunsets?

  Jordana’s parents

  The rhythm method of contraception

  Oxbow lakes

  Chips’s views on my mother’s legs

  The Mount Pleasant Quarry Group

  Dad – hot or not?

  What happened to that nice friend Zoe?

  Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen – discuss

  I can now confirm that the best of these topics was the Persona mug.

  Mum spoke in the chirrupy voice she uses to answer the phone: ‘Persona is a brand-new form of birth control that works in harmony with your body.’ Her head waggled from side to side as she spoke.

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  She turned to look at me.

  ‘Basically, you wee on a stick and it tells you whether you are fertile.’

  ‘Is that what you and Dad use?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  I looked at her encouragingly, hoping for a little more information.

  ‘It’s very popular in Italy,’ she said.

  And that was the highlight of our repartee.

  It is Friday afternoon.

  This morning – without warning – Dad turned up to breakfast. He toasted a slice of wheatgerm loaf, fried laverbread rolled in oatmeal and poached an egg to go on top.

  I ate half Raisin Splitz, half Golden Grahams. I listened to him chew. I watched his cheeks and philtrum swell and sink as his tongue tried to get bits out of his teeth.

  He didn’t speak. No mention of his sudden disappearance from dinnertimes. No explanation for the sudden penchant for seaweed. No apology for the fact that, overnight, he turned from being Papa Fun-love, the Chirpy Chief, the Popsicle, into some sort of citrus-junkie-hermit. He could have at least written us a note, carved into the tablecloth:

  J + O,

  As of now,

  my heart is a cold, hard stone.

  Ll

  Dad is back in his bedroom. I am doing some research in an attempt to explain his behaviour.

  On Encarta, it says: ‘Depressive disorders are, thankfully, among the most treatable in psychiatry. Two major classes of drugs are used to treat depressive disorders: the tricyclic antidepressants and the monamine oxidase (MAO) inhibitors. The latter require following a special diet because they interact with tryamine, which is found in beer, wine, cheeses and chicken liver and other foods, and causes elevation of blood pressure.’

  Which may explain the seaweed.

  ‘A major development in drug therapy is the drug Prozac, which blocks the re-uptake of serotonin in the brain.

  ‘Electroconvulsive therapy is considered the most effective treatment for depression that is not susceptible to drugs.’

  I also read that ‘in 42 per cent of cases, a placebo is as effective as genuine antidepressants’.

  I remember that last year, in the fairground, there was an arcade game called the shocker where you sat holding these conductors and it pretended to give you an electric shock.

  I think that it might work as a kind of electroconvulsive placebo.

  Also, from my own experience, I have always felt that it is very difficult to be unhappy in a fairground. Even last year, when me and Chips were mugged behind the Hot Roast Pork van, it didn’t spoil our mood.

  The boy had said: ‘Givuhsue money then boys,’ and he showed us a blunt-looking blade with a deer-hoof handle.

  He had caught us at a good time, having just come from a bumper afternoon on the two-pence machines in the marina.

  We paid out in fistfuls. The front pockets of his army-style coat became saggy copper tits. He walked slowly away, making the sound of sharpening knives.

  The fair is on gravel at the recreation ground on the seafront. You can see the top of the Ferris wheel from my bedroom window. I bound downstairs, five at a time, parallel-barring between banister and border rail.

  It’s dusky outside. I find my mum in the kitchen, lit up by the light from the open fridge, unpacking a Sainsbury’s bag that slouches on the surface top.

  I start simple: ‘Mum, can we go to the fair as a family unit?’

  She stacks apricot Müller Fruit Corners on the top shelf.

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ I add.

  ‘I don’t fancy it, Ol,’ she says, transferring free-range eggs to slots in the fridge door. ‘Why don’t you go with one of your friends? I don’t mind giving you a few quid.’

  I stand behind her as she slides the natural Greek yoghurt – Dad’s favourite – in beside the Tupperware cheese box. I put on my orphan face and lean around her shoulder, into the angelic fridge light, and say: ‘When was the last time we had a family outing?’

  She ignores me. Her mouth opens and closes. She huffs out through her nose.

  ‘Well…’ she says, standing a carton of apple juice in the door.

  ‘We never spend quality time together any more,’ I add.

  Her eyes flinch at this; I employ emotional shock therapy.

  ‘I don’t
think your father will be in the mood for the fair right now,’ she says.

  I stand back as she swings the fridge door shut.

  She turns round and addresses me straight on.

  ‘Me and you could go if you like?’ she says.

  There is the smell of cheese in plastic.

  I say: ‘Ah, no, I don’t think so.’

  I didn’t mean it to come out like it did.

  She holds my gaze. Her lips thin.

  The phone rings.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she says, not going.

  We listen to it bleat.

  I notice a faint dew on her upper lip.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she says, going.

  I listen as she answers. It’s her friend Martha, who wears green crystal earrings.

  There are two phones in my house: one downstairs, in the music room, and one upstairs. The upstairs phone, in my dad’s study, has a monitor button which, when pressed, plays phone calls through a small in-built speaker. You can hear the conversation but the conversation cannot hear you. I cannot think of any other reason for this button than to help families with poor communication skills.

  I go upstairs into the study and pull the swivel chair from under my dad’s desk. I sit down and scoot across to the phone, next to the PC, and press the monitor button.

  ‘… bin seeing this wonderful fella called Koo-free; he’s from Nigeria,’ Martha says.

  ‘Oh, very nice, Marth,’ Mum says, laughing. ‘Is there any continent that you haven’t sampled?’

  … pause…

  ‘Oh, please,’ Mum says. ‘If it takes that long to work it out then you should probably just say yes.’

  … pause…

  ‘Fuck you,’ Martha says, three-quarter-friendly.

  ‘Sorry.’

  … pause…

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mum says.

  ‘You’re not okay.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘It’s nothing. What’s up?’

  ‘Ah, just the usual blah.’

  ‘What’s the usual blah?’

  Mum lowers her voice: ‘Just Oliver being Oliver.’

  I spin around on the swivel chair and look up at the ceiling; Oliver being Oliver being Oliver being Oliver. I am suddenly aware of the separation between my actual self and myself-as-seen-by-others. Who would win an arm wrestle? Who is better looking? Who has the higher IQ?

  ‘Is that it?’ Martha asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Mum says.

  ‘Is Lloyd still taking the uh –?’

  ‘Did I tell you that?’

  ‘Yeah, course you did.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I thought you said Lloyd’d been on the up, anyways.’

  ‘Yeah, but when he feels well, he blames it on the drugs.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘He says: “I’d rather just be happy or sad.” ’

  Either my mother or Martha accidentally presses one of the buttons, I think it is the star key, and it makes a short meeep, like a wrong-answer sound in a game show.

  ‘Oop. Hello?’ Martha says.

  ‘Still here,’ Mum says.

  ‘So then…’ Martha starts.

  ‘Come on,’ Mum says, ‘tell us about this Coffee.’

  ‘Koo-free,’ Martha says.

  ‘Dish the dirt,’ Mum says, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  … pause…

  ‘Before I forget,’ Martha says, ‘I read an article yesterday in the paper that said antidepressants, more than most drugs, rely on a patient’s expectations about whether they will work.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Have you spoken to that homeopathic doctor who was at the PTA meeting?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You can’t of missed him. Dafydd. The silver fox. He asked a question about school dinners for children with lactose intolerance.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Love, you sound shattered.’

  ‘I am,’ Mum says.

  … pause…

  ‘Have you had any more word from Graham?’

  I don’t know who Graham is.

  ‘Yeah, he’s down next month. House-hunting in Gower.’

  ‘Oh, wow.’

  ‘We’re going for lunch at Vrindavan.’

  ‘Aha,’ Martha says. ‘He’s still into all that stuff then?’

  Vrindavan is a caférun by the Hare Krishnas.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mum says.

  I write the words ‘Who is Graham? (Never Trust A Hippy)’ on a piece of scrap paper and stow it in the condom pocket of my jeans.

  ‘What does Lloyd think?’ Martha says.

  ‘He says I should go and see him.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  ‘Yup.’

  I hear the door to the study creak open. I spin round.

  Dad is standing in the doorway. His glasses are in his shirt pocket.

  Mum speaks through the phone monitor: ‘Graham’s staying in a barn in the Brecon Beacons, apparently.’

  Dad squints, as if it might be me speaking.

  I reach quickly to punch off the monitor button but I press the redial button by accident. There’s a string of fast, almost melodic tones. I hammer away at the keypad until the monitor clicks off.

  Dad has the interested, relaxed face he gets when he listens to classical music.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ I say.

  He doesn’t look angry.

  ‘Hi, Oli,’ he says.

  I stand up.

  His eyes don’t seem to focus on anything. I need to say something.

  ‘Dad, you know the fair is in town? There’s a Ferris wheel, a waltzer and all sorts of other fun and amusing attractions. Maybe we could go?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds good.’ He nods. ‘Shall we go now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, I’ll just get my shoes on.’

  I look down. He is barefoot. There are badges of hair on his big toes.

  I run upstairs to my bedroom. In the name of research and family, I take four of his pills. I chug them down with the remnants of last night’s mug of Ribena.

  I come downstairs. Mum is still on the phone. Dad writes a note and leaves it on the phone table in the hall.

  J,

  Taken Olly to the fair

  Ll x

  It’s getting dark as we park up on the gravel. I can hear screams and screamy-laughter from The Terminator ride. The music is happy hardcore.

  Abby King is really into happy hardcore. She tells me that hardcore occurs between 160 and 180 beats per minute. When I hear it leaking from her headphones at the bus stop, it sounds like the first jitterings of an insect invasion. She has a box set of ten tapes – eighteen hours of it – entitled Dreamscape 21. She also owns a highly sought after black puffer jacket that says Dreamscape in textured lettering on the back. Some Mondays, when the bags under her eyes are the colour of clay, she wears her Dreamscape jacket in every class, refuses to take it off.

  As Dad strolls towards the stalls, the lights from the rides make his skin look green and red intermittently.

  The recreation ground is right next to Mumbles Road. The cars speeding past add to the feeling of excitement.

  First off, we stop to watch the dodgems. The music is straining through tinny speakers: bass drum thuds nestled in static.

  ‘The music is called happy hardcore,’ I say encouragingly.

  Dad watches the long sparks fall from the meshed metal ceiling. Two cars have a head-on collision. The young men jolt in their seats and throw their heads back laughing.

  ‘Do you want a go?’ he says, leaning down to my ear.

  ‘Nah, I want to go on the Skyliner.’

  I point to the far end of the fair. The Skyliner is moving slowly as they load people into each cage.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says, walking ahead.

  ‘Care to join me, Dad? It’s like a Ferris wheel, but you’re in a cage that spins on an independent axis!’

  ‘Mmm, I’ll let you safe
ty-test it first.’

  I am pleased. That was almost a joke.

  We approach the booth where a pale man has coins piled in stacks of ten. Dad offers me a hand full of change. I pluck out a pound and slide it through the mouse hole in the plastic window. The man adds my pound to a pile without saying anything.

  I look up at the multicoloured light bulbs on the spokes of the wheel; they flash in swirls, spider webs, windmills, like the gambling machines in the arcade.

  I walk up a textured steel ramp.

  A man with a short, straight fringe and uneven stubble steadies an empty red cage.

  ‘Right?’ he asks.

  ‘Yup,’ I say.

  He signals me to get in.

  He pulls a safety bar down over my head. It is not very safety, positioned at the same distance away from my forehead as bicycle handlebars. I imagine a dotted line displaying the arced trajectory of my skull as it crashes, teeth first, into the metal bar. There is a small metal panel on the roof that says ‘TriForm Construction Co’.

  The wheel rotates one notch; there is still one empty cage.

  A couple of girls walk up the ramp, drinking from matching cans of Cherry Coke. They look about sixteen. I turn in my seat to watch them. One of them has Nike tick earrings and is wearing a white coat with a fur-lined collar. The other is wearing white jogging bottoms that reveal the contours of her crotch.

  ‘You can’t take ’em on with you,’ the man says, nodding to their drinks.

  They look coldly at him with their mouths slightly open, eyes tightened.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I promise, promise that I won’t spill any.’ She speaks in a sing-song, her head slightly cocked.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he says.

  ‘Tsuh,’ the other one makes a sucking sound. ‘But we’ll be really careful.’

  ‘Sorry, girls, naw drinks,’ he says.

  ‘ ’Ckin ’ell,’ the one with the Nike earrings says before necking the whole can; I watch her throat pulse. She finishes. Her eyes glaze over. And then she burps; her mouth is wide open but the sound comes from her chest; little specks of fizz-froth jump off her tongue and catch in the light.