Submarine

by Joe Dunthorne

  I wait to see if Graham will follow her. Whether they’re going to continue things on the beach.

  There’s no sound or movement.

  I wait and watch, thinking about what has just happened. Chips says that in Studio Masseuse on Walter’s Road for twenty pounds you can get a woman who looks like a dinner lady to get her tits out while she wanks you off. You have to ask for a maxi-massage.

  I can’t believe I thought that Mum and Graham were involved in a deep spiritual coupling. This was reminiscent of the hand jobs I have sometimes overheard in the back row of the UCI cinema. Chips says that it should never take more than a week between getting a hand job and stuffing it in. The clock is ticking.

  I shuffle out from under the car. I notice that three blades of grass are webbed, glistening with cum.

  Mum left the tent open.

  I hear breathing. I wonder whether Graham is in a meditative state. The breathing churrs and stutters. I wait and listen. The sound rises and backfires. I peek into the tent. His vegetarian sandals – he must have bought some new ones – are paired in the porch. Through the netting, I can make out his shape, flat out, asleep.

  This had nothing to do with tantra. This was cheap and boozy and Graham didn’t even stay awake to talk about emotions. I have sometimes taken longer to reach orgasm than Graham did. I cancel the idea that Mum and Graham are good for each other or that Dad should be a carpenter. Perspective is for astronauts. I pick up Graham’s sandals and start off in the same direction as my mother.

  As I clear the stile, I can just make out a smudge stumbling into the dunes. I run after her but I don’t shout. The two cars are still there, the red dot bobbing in the dark.

  As the gravel turns to sand, running suddenly becomes unworkable, the ground scuffs beneath my feet.

  Once I’m into the dunes, there is virtually no light, only a dull contrast between dark – the sky – and darker – the sand. Each step is a guess. The wind whips grains across my face; they gather in my ears. I think I hear someone saying ‘Shit-it, Shit-it’, over and over again, but the wind and the waves are shhing and I have smoked my first ever spliff.

  I traipse until my thighs burn. I’m on the verge of digging myself a hole to snooze in. I give up on finding Mum and settle for burying the sandals in a shallow grave. They are sand-coloured sandals. He will never find them.

  I manage to drag myself back, away from the sound of the sea, towards the few remaining caravan lights.

  In the car park, the two cars have gone. They are probably taking turns with my girlfriend. I am too tired to care. Besides, Lewis seemed nice and he was a good listener. I liked his freckles. Jordana could do worse.

  When I get back to the tent, Jordana is on top of her sleeping bag, asleep. The last time I got to see her sleep was during our Bronze Award Duke of Edinburgh expedition. She had her tent flap open. I sat by the fire and watched her rolling from side to side, itching in her sleep.

  But now, she sleeps facing away from me, fully clothed, knees up to her chest, hands tucked under her chin. She smells of blackcurrant. I watch her, wait for one of her arms to jerk to her neck and scrape a trail of inflammation. I wait for the sandpaper sound of her nails raking her crotch. But none of this.

  She is still.

  In the morning, I wake with a dry mouth. The tent is a bright clay oven. I am alone.

  I get out to look for Jordana. The sky is clear; the wind is timid. I see Jordana talking to some boys – a whole new set of boys – around a red VW Golf in the car park.

  Even from this distance I can see she wears a thin cotton vest top that shows off her midriff and only her bikini bottoms. It’s not hot enough for bare thighs. She sees me coming and quickly walks up the path to meet me, or to cut me off. She smiles with her lips, no teeth.

  ‘Morning,’ she says. I can hear the sea. I look at her smooth forearms, her milk-white neck.

  ‘I saw a woman asleep in the dunes who looked like your mum if she was a tramp,’ she says.

  I am staring at her thighs, her flawless belly. Not a dapple in sight.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘What happened to your skin?’ I ask.

  She looks beautiful.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  I should have said that last night.

  ‘Have I not told you? You were right,’ she says. ‘I’m allergic to dogs.’

  ‘I was right.’

  ‘You were right. I got tested.’

  She watches me.

  ‘You’d best go take down the tent. Mam’s on her way.’

  *

  On the drive home, Jordana is almost friendly. She says ‘Bye!’ with a certain longing. When I get up to my room, I prepare to write a cathartic diary entry. Instead, I find Jordana’s looping handwriting:

  Word of the day: apophthegm – a blunt remark conveying some important truth. (It took me ages last week, but I found this word for you – though I’m sure you’ve already heard of it.)

  Dear Oliver,

  I tried to tell you on the phone but you wouldn’t listen. I figure you’ll probably only believe me if it’s in writing. It is over.

  I’ve spent the morning on the beach catching up on your diary. There’s so much stuff that I missed. You didn’t tell me about any of that weirdness with your parents.

  I read what you thought about that email I sent you. I think you will get a good mark in your English GCSEs. You were mostly right: yes, I was worried that my mother might die, yes, I wanted you to understand how I felt. I found the word for you because I thought you might like it.

  I had a fun time going out with you but we’re just not right for each other. If it makes it any easier, I’m glad you were my first. I’ve left my Zippo as a gift for you in your washbag.

  Also, I think you should know I’ve found someone else. (He’s not a surfie.) Better you hear this from me, rather than see us walking around the Quadrant. When we are in school together, try not to look upset. I know you are a good actor.

  I’m sure there is someone else who will really fall in love with you.

  Love,

  Jordana X

  Delirium Tremens

  I have more important things to think about than the end of my first relationship, which, as any adult will tell you, is just one of those things that feels life-shattering at the time but means nothing when you’re forty.

  I leave my diary, grab the Zippo from my washbag and head downstairs. My parents are out. I will make Graham realize what he has done to my family by giving him the impression that I’ve lost it and am capable of anything. I don’t feel threatened by him: capoeira is the art of not hitting each other. I take an empty bottle of Robinsons into the cellar, fill it with one-third vodka, one-third apple, one-third cranberry. It is important to seem genuine.

  I grab my Rip Curl knapsack and load it with the necessaries for breaking and entering: a coat hanger and a pair of Thinsulate gloves. I throw in the Zippo and the cranapplevod.

  I run down to the Quadrant and wait on the red plastic tip-up seats for the Gower Explorer Bus to Port Eynon. The journey will take an hour, following the coast road, dipping into Kittle, Oxwich, Scurlage, Rhossili and Horton on the way.

  My parents and I never go to Port Eynon in summer because there are too many campsites and the local pub – The Smuggler’s Tavern – is lit by strip lights hanging from chains. I have heard my father rename Port Eynon ‘Townhill-sur-mer’. Jordana holidays here when her parents can’t afford to go abroad.

  I drink some of my vodka mix. Delirium tremens are the halluci-nations caused by drinking too much alcohol. I take another slug.

  In Rhossili village, the driver pulls in to the stop although nobody is waiting or wanting to get off. I look down on to Rhossili Beach, eight miles of dark sand and, in the distance, Worm’s Head poking its snout into the sea. The driver and the other passengers – two old ladies – get off the bus and stand in the fierce sunlight. The driver lights a cigarette, so I get off too. The
back of the bus has been opened, the engine steams. I jump up to sit on a red postbox so I can see the beach better. Llangennith campsite huddles at the far end of the beach. The surfers are just specks. I swig my luminous drink.

  The driver talks to the two old ladies.

  ‘We’re not going to be called Davies’ any more, we’re gonna be called Morgan’s. There’ll be a whole new fleet,’ the driver says.

  ‘What about the routes? Will you have the same routes?’ asks the old lady with two walking sticks and no discernible spine.

  ‘The routes’ll still be the same – most of the drivers too.’

  ‘So what’s happened then?’

  ‘New owners is all.’

  ‘New uniforms?’

  ‘Purple.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘What about the timetables?’

  ‘All new timetables as of next week.’

  ‘All new? But what about the old ones?’

  ‘Bin ’em.’

  ‘There’s a waste.’

  I picture hundreds, thousands of useless timetables. What about the people who don’t know the bus timetable is changing? Someone could be standing at a bus stop – maybe in hail or drizzle or a fierce wind – and thinking, I’ll be on the nice warm bus soon. The time of the bus’s expected arrival will pass and they will wonder whether they got it wrong so they’ll check their timetable. And it might be getting torrential with hailstones the size of brain tumours. And the bus still hasn’t arrived and the person is wondering whether it was something they did to deserve no bus. And the person might start weeping and wiping tears from each cheek and putting their fingers in their mouth because someone once told them a lie: you can stop crying by eating your tears. Or maybe the bus crashed – in this weather – and everyone died, and what a thing to think badly of the dead for being late.

  ‘S’alright, Butt. Do you wanna get back on?’

  ‘Cheer up, my love – what girl’s done this to you?’

  My saliva is abundant. I have inherited weak tear ducts from my mother.

  The old ladies tell me to sit by them and I tell them it’s terrible about the bus company and the uniforms and the timetables.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, love.’

  ‘Do you want some cranberry-apple vodka?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s probably the reason you’re upset. How old you, darlin’?’

  I look at the blurred lady on the seat next to me. She could almost be young.

  ‘You could almost be young,’ I say.

  ‘Watch out, Miri, I think we got ourselves a charmer.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep him all to youself now, Elly.’

  And they laugh like the buses will just keep on coming. My eyes clear and the ladies are old again. The one in the seat next to me has very long eyelashes.

  The road falls away steeply as the bus winds into Port Eynon. The Post Office window is full of junk: turquoise stone dragons on wooden plinths, daffodil-carrying Eisteddfod dolls and hand-painted Buddhas. This is my stop.

  Graham’s whitewashed cottage, The Kite Hole, is opposite the graveyard. The house name is carved into a piece of driftwood pinned beneath the doorbell. The blue door looks tiny, as though it has sunk into the ground. The garden is small but pretty, enough grass to make love on, surrounded by a low stone wall and tall bushes on three sides. There is no car in the drive. I take a slug of vodka.

  The break-in is surprisingly easy. I climb on to the stone wall and then on to the flat garage roof. The bathroom window is closed but not locked. Much to my surprise, the coat hanger actually has a purpose: I jimmy the window and pull it wide. On the sill are four toothbrushes in a cup, an electric toothbrush and two tubes of toothpaste: one is fennel, the other is Macleans. Directly below the sill is the sink. I throw my bag in ahead of me.

  Climbing in head first, I knock the toothbrushes to the floor, handstanding on the taps before awkwardly belly-sliding over the sink to flop on to a green mat.

  I stand up, relax and the first thing I need to do is piss. My wee is clear as spring water. I do not flush, imagining Graham taking a dump and my urine splashing on to his buttocks.

  On the wall outside the toilet are photos of Graham with a woman who is not my mum: in ski salopettes, in hiking boots, on a train platform. There is also a photo of the two of them scuba-diving, giving the thumbs up to the camera, shrouded in a glimmering shoal of marlin.

  Downstairs, the kitchen and dining area is a long, low-ceilinged room, lit by buzzing overhead strip lights. My vodka is nearly empty. In the cupboard beneath the sink I find Ecover washing-up liquid, a dust pan and a compost bin. The composter is brimming with egg shells, mango skins and lentil snot.

  Next to a clay-coloured bread bin in one corner sits a wine rack containing Gordon’s gin, whisky still in its cardboard tube and a Gran Reservas brandy. I pull out the brandy.

  In a cupboard next to the cooker I find a bell-bottomed glass. I pour myself way too much expensive brandy. I don’t even like brandy.

  I flick through Graham’s diary, which hangs above the phone. I find yesterday’s date, Saturday the 30th, and then I turn forward one week to the following Saturday. I pencil in ‘Come deep inside Jill Tate’. I count forward twenty-four weeks and write: ‘Last-chance saloon for aborting love child’. I count forward another sixteen weeks: ‘Birth of illegitimate son/daughter. Note to self: cop a feel of Jill’s lactating tits.’

  I walk into the utility room, then through a door into the garage. There’s the smell of paint, surf wax and drying neoprene. Balanced on top of three wooden ceiling beams, two surfboards lie prone, fins upwards. A wetsuit is suicidal, hanging from the middle beam. On two walls there are shelves stacked with paint tins, rollers, trowels, methylated spirit, turpentine, white spirit, extra-long safety matches, a hacksaw, plastic bags full of nails and screws, barbecue skewers, jump leads and a hose, curled up like a python.

  I take the meths and the hacksaw from the shelf and walk back into the kitchen. The kitchen is well equipped. In the cupboard I find a steamer, a poacher and a complicated-looking cheese grater. On the counter is a knife block containing a selection of twelve blades: six steak, two paring, one carving, one bread, a pair of scissors and a long, thin knife – almost a sword – for which I cannot determine a purpose.

  I take a metal teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and place it surreptitiously at the back of the microwave. His microwave is nine hundred watts, ours is only six hundred.

  I sit cross-legged in the large wicker chair in the corner of the room, swirling brandy around the bell-bottomed glass. It’s getting dark outside. Graham finishes his class at half nine and will be back here by ten. The last bus home is at half ten.

  I top up the brandy and go into the front room. On a windowsill are some tribal masks and dried poppy stalks in a deliberately dented copper vase. He has a very small TV. On the wall are black and red sugar-paper puppets with curved jester’s shoes. There’s also a gourd that you can imagine being used in a blood-letting ceremony. A wood-burning stove is surrounded by a collection of tribal sculptures: faces carved into dark wood with shells for eyes.

  There’s a fitted bookcase in a nook in the wall. There are books on diet – Eating Your Way to Happiness; one on massage – Chakra Energy Massage: Spiritual Evolution into the Subconscious through Activation of the Pressure Points of the Feet; and the bottom shelf is entirely taken up by photo albums.

  I pick up the one labelled ‘1976’. My parents got married in 1977. The first picture is of a young Graham with long hair and what looks like an elder brother – bearded – up a mountain. They are grinning and wearing rainbow-striped climbing socks. All the pictures have handwritten captions. This one says: ‘Gorillas in the Mist’. I flick through – seasides, birthdays, statues, tree-climbing. The pictures have rounded edges and everything looks honeyed.

  About two-thirds of the way through, I find a page of photos from a camping trip. There’s one of Graham and a girl who, despite her mys
terious, nipple-length hair, is undoubtedly my mum. They are not holding hands or even looking at each other but Graham is puffing his chest up while Mum pretends to be coy. The tent in the background is an old-school orange canvas affair. The note below says: ‘The Hunter Becomes the Hunted’. My mum’s maiden name is Hunter.

  It’s quarter to ten.

  The word defenestration, the act of throwing someone or something out of a window, was first coined after a Polish revolution in 1605 when they threw the royal family through the palace windows.

  To show Graham I am angry, I decide to sacrifice one of his carvings. To show him that I’m not unreasonable, I avoid the bay windows and, instead, choose a small, porthole-type window. I knock back some brandy; it swells in my throat for a moment before settling. The rectangle of wood, with a black man’s face carved into each corner, defenestrates on to the drive.

  Graham’s bedroom is large, with an en suite bathroom and shower. There is a laptop on a desk by the window with a printer on the floor. He has a cloth-fronted wardrobe and a large double bed with an ornate frame made of dark amber wood. I pull back the covers to find a heart-shaped hot-water bottle; I use the hacksaw to make a number of small incisions in it. The sheets are the light-blue colour of a maternity ward.

  I use Graham’s computer to write a note in Impact, font size fourteen. His desktop background photo is of your archetypal hippy sunset.

  Hello Gram, I am up in your bedroom, so wet and ready for you. I can’t wait to have your hot cock up inside me. Me. You. And an unfertilized egg.

  Come get it.

  I pin it to the front door. It is five minutes to ten. I check that I can undo the childproof cap on the meths. I squeeze and turn; the smell makes me dizzy. I put the lid back on.

  I climb under the covers of the bed with the hacksaw and the Zippo. It smells of herbal shampoo and dried sweat.

  I hear the car pull into the drive. Its headlights make diamonds of light scroll and stretch across the ceiling.