All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

  I drop the mouse and leap from the chair. Ohmygod! I almost laugh. I stand back as the screen keeps flashing and blinking on repeat and my heart thuds in sync with one particularly graphic action playing out in front of me. Porn on a loop: and LOADS of it!

  I perch on the edge of the chair, reaching for the mouse again, but when I hit on the next tab down, hoping to make it stop, more windows of bare flesh fill the screen. I hover along and hit the next tab and it’s the same, only this window is much bigger, almost filling the centre of the screen. Every brain cell I possess screams at me not to, but for some insane reason I place the cursor on the arrow and click play. Tiny voices and grunt sounds play through the headphones on the desk as naked bodies quickly unblur. I watch, open-mouthed. All I can do is stare. Now, I get that the people I’m seeing might be professional or whatever, but how is it none of them have any hair? Like, none! After games at school or swim squad, I’m usually anxious to get on with the whole showering and dressing business. I make a point of not looking around, but I’m not one of those who changes their knickers inside the towel either. Still, I hadn’t realised how far out of the loop I was. If a boy looked at me from that angle, I’d look like a different species!

  A floorboard groans somewhere on the stairs and my fingers fumble all over the keys, desperate to get back to YouTube. Pez’s footsteps get closer but the screen is still lit up like a kebab shop on Friday night. Panicking, I push the chair in under the desk and jump to the window, trying to look like I’ve been standing there the whole time. I’m wondering how I’ll ever explain this when he pushes into the room, carrying a litre bottle under one arm and some crisps in the other. I whip back to his iMac and it’s miraculously dark, asleep again, but Pez stares at the black screen too.

  I shift on my feet, slowly rotating to stare at our flat across the street, at my room, from where I could see myself perfectly were I at home looking up. It’s as though I’m seeing myself from above, entirely out of my own body. I hear the sound of glasses clinking down on to a table behind and when I turn back a packet of Monster Munch sails through the air in my direction. There’s a strange delay and I manage to catch it. Pickled onion, my favourite, but I place the packet on the desk, careful not to disturb anything around me, then I grab my folder and cross the room. ‘I left croissants in the oven,’ I say, pushing past him. ‘They’ll be cremated!’

  I race down his stairs without turning back and I’m out of that front door faster than these legs have ever carried me. I don’t stop until I hit Murray Street, where I crouch by the parking machine. I’d go home only Dad mightn’t have left for work yet and I can’t face explaining why I’m already back, looking like this; like I’ve seen a ghost, lots of ghosts, naked ghosts … all with very little body hair. Why did I leave? What’s wrong with me? It’s just porn. Lots of people watch it. Loads, probably. It’s not like I don’t know this. It’s not like I haven’t seen stuff before. It’s not as though I haven’t replayed scenes from films or accidentally on purpose clicked on to dodgy videos. But Pez? And so many screens. I think about watching him from my window this week, light shining on his face for so many hours. Is that what he’s doing at his computer every night and not playing Assassin’s Creed or Mortal Kombat or whatever he’s into these days. The thought makes me feel weird. It’s no wonder he didn’t want me barging into his room. And croissants?

  A man climbs out of a nearby car and strolls towards me, change jangling in his pocket. I stare at the A4 folder on my knee, stuffed full of my unimpressive life summary, and I force myself up. Before I know it, I’ve crossed the street and I’m hovering in the doorway of Murray News, trying to think about how handy it would be to work there, trying to get my head back into job-hunt mode.

  Given the only other people in the tiny shop all appear to be employees, the odds of them needing staff seem ridiculously slim and I hug the folder to my chest and scan the magazines instead. To look legit, I run my fingers over Elle, Vogue, Glamour and some others, tracking along the beautiful faces as though I’m making up my mind which one to buy. I look up from the house magazines to the cars and computer ones; there’s even one about fishing. Who fishes in Camden? Pez said the old guy at the canal had a magnet at the end of his rod.

  I crane my neck up to the naked bodies on the top shelf, praying that the men behind aren’t looking, though I suspect it’s obvious. These magazines have always been here, but I’ve never noticed the girls’ faces before. They share the same look and I stare, trying to work out what seems so unsettling about them now, until the silence around me finally becomes too much. I spin around, pay for some chewing gum and leave.

  Out on the street, it’s like I’m sleepwalking. I’m physically here but some cling-filmy membrane separates me and reality. Like a less scary version of the Upside Down in Stranger Things but a parallel world all the same. I pass the Irish Centre on the corner of the square where they do weddings as I recall, and lots of parties too. They might need bar staff or someone to pick up the glasses? These reasonable thoughts come as sweet relief and I’d act on them, only my head is still so full of lingering weirdness. I need to pound a few more pavements before I’m ready to talk to anyone.

  I pass the community noticeboard on the square and peer in half-heartedly. Lots of stuff about adult education and the residents’ association, but no jobs. Children’s voices leak from the other side of the railings and Arial’s summer camp group is in there somewhere so I move on in case she sees me and decides she wants to come home. Without meaning to, I retrace the route I took on the bike with Pez and soon I hit Kentish Town. Shops and restaurants stretch all the way up towards the Tube station and I hover in the middle of the street, watching a man and a young boy leaving the bookshop hand in hand. I glide zombie-like towards the door they just left, running through what could, in the right light, be considered qualifications: I can read. I like books. I know some good kids’ ones. Also, bookshops are safe, warm places where nice people like Mum used to go. As I tumble into the quiet, reassuring shade, I hear a bell jingle. Then again, I might be delirious.

  Hello, it’s me, Vetty Lake, the answer to all your seasonal employment needs. Is what I don’t say to the man with the dainty beard and glasses who only half fills the large chair behind the desk. Instead I shuffle in his direction and ask meekly whether there might be an opening for part-time work. He stares at me like he’s wondering where he left his car keys: technically he’s looking but it’s like he doesn’t see me at all. The silence goes on so long I decide maybe he too watches sex videos on his computer and buys top-shelf magazines from Murray News. I’m still thinking this when he stands up and rummages behind the till.

  ‘Last Wednesday of every month,’ he says, handing me a flyer. ‘There’s a lean towards fantasy but we cover all sorts of young adult titles. It’s a fun crowd,’ he adds, smiling. Then he adjusts his specs, pushing them further up his nose.

  A book club? Like that’s going to pay for new Adidas or the full body wax I might now need. Except what I actually say is ‘Thanks,’ then I trudge out the door, clutching the flyer in my fist.

  Gah! Why didn’t I do something useful like ask if I could leave a CV?

  I pass the window of the orange cafe next door, the one I passed on the bike with Pez, and as I look inside, I decide I could do with a break and a nice, cold drink. I stroll in and stand in front of the fridge, eyeing up the fancy-looking lemonades. A pink one with an old-fashioned label looks promising but when I go to slide back the glass door there’s no handle. I run my hands down the left edge on the other side but there’s nothing either. I try to pull at the rim of it with my nails, but it still won’t budge. I give it another go from the right. Nothing!

  ‘You’ve to slide it. To the left.’ I look for the soft, sing-song voice and a small woman with hair the same colour as the walls smiles at me from behind the counter. ‘Happens all the time,’ she says, in an accent that I think’s Irish but there might be a bit of Australian in there throwin
g me off. I slide the door left as she suggests, and it glides wondrously open. ‘Ta-da!’ she says, flashing her hands out like a magician. ‘Lord knows why they make it so difficult.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, plonking the lemonade bottle down on the counter, along with my file as I count out my money and reflect on the simple fact that one kind person can really light up a day.

  ‘Two ninety,’ she says then. I blink. Did she just say two pounds ninety, for one titchy lemonade? I don’t care how pink or cloudy it is, I’m about to return it to the ridiculous fridge when I notice she’s spinning my file around and pressing down hard on the luminous green plastic, trying to read what’s inside. ‘Are you looking for work?’ she says, tapping my file. ‘Hell-vet-ick-a.’ She reads my name out slowly and then looks up. ‘Did I get that right?’

  ‘It’s Vetty,’ I say. ‘But yes, and yes! I’m absolutely looking for work.’ I flip the catch on my folder and slide out a CV. ‘I did cleaning and admin for Tall Trees Holiday Cottages full-time last month. They’ll give me a reference,’ I say, stabbing at the piece of paper where I mention my recent housekeeping experience with Wendy and Fran. ‘I mean, one of the owners is my aunt, so of course she’s going to say good stuff, but—’

  She smiles with her mouth closed. ‘I’ve already got the weekends covered so it’s Monday to Friday only. Lunchtime is when I could really do with an extra pair of hands,’ she says. ‘I pay six pounds per hour and we share tips. It’ll be a bit of everything, so I hope you’re not precious?’

  I laugh. I am not precious. What I am is completely unable to believe my luck. ‘When can I start?’

  Her laugh is quick and peppery. ‘Come by tomorrow, around eleven.’ She puts her hand out.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, shaking it hard like you’re supposed to.

  She smiles. ‘See you tomorrow, Vetty.’

  I back out the door, fit to burst, and I’m on the street before I realise I forgot to ask her name. Then I look up at the cafe’s sign high on the wall above my head, and there in large loopy grey lettering it says Clementine’s.

  Rob messaged and we’ve arranged to meet outside the Odeon in Camden at seven. Maybe I am weirdly into talking because I was kind of hoping for another call. Guess I just appreciate when someone actually dials when a message would more than do. I’m sure I’m early but when I pass the Tube station I see him leaning against the railings by the bank. He spots me crossing the street and stands straight. As I get closer, he pushes a little boy out from a nearby bin. ‘This is Tom,’ he says, with zero enthusiasm.

  ‘Where’s Pez?’ the boy says, staring up at me through bright blue glasses.

  Rob tugs at Tom’s hood. ‘He’s not coming, I already told you,’ Rob says, but it’s obvious from Tom’s face he was holding out hope. Rob looks up at me and mouths the word sorry.

  I shake my head and look down at Tom. ‘Hey,’ I say, sizing him up. He’s a lot younger than Arial for sure. ‘Let me guess, you’re … seven?’

  He scrapes at some gum on the ground with his shoe, trying not to smile. ‘Six.’

  Rob steps forward. ‘Shall we?’ he says, extending his arm out, and we walk the remaining short steps to the cinema together, stopping in front of the sign outside, which has the list of films showing. ‘That Seth Rogan comedy is supposed to be good,’ Rob says, ‘but definitely unsuitable.’ Then he pulls up Tom’s hood up and leans in. ‘I really am sorry about this,’ he says, mock rolling his eyes. ‘Mum had to work at the last minute, but I didn’t want to bail.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’

  Beside Rob, Tom is pointing to a sign for the latest Lego Movie on the other side of the cinema door. ‘Rob. Please!’

  Rob’s about to protest but I jump in. ‘I loved the others,’ I say, with a quick look to Tom, who draws back his clenched fist and smiles up at me.

  ‘You sure?’ Rob says, stepping closer.

  ‘Completely.’ I’m not even lying.

  * * *

  We enter the dark auditorium, juggling ticket slips, popcorn and drinks, and Tom makes a deliberate move to sit between us. During the movie he needs two wees and Rob escorts him to the loo each time. When Rob tries to switch places on the way back, Tom can’t see the screen so Rob has to swap into his original seat. Now, as we walk outside, Rob slots his giant headphones over Tom’s ears and slides his phone into Tom’s jeans pocket. ‘Don’t press anything,’ Rob says, smiling as he ruffles Tom’s hair. Tom’s eyes light up as the music starts to play and soon he’s mouthing along with the words. We stroll through the crowds by the Tube station on the way back up Camden Road. ‘So,’ Rob says, ‘I guess that was a bit of a disaster.’

  I shrug. ‘I liked the film.’

  ‘It was funny,’ he says. ‘But we met two hours ago and I haven’t even asked how you are.’

  ‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘And I got a job earlier.’

  ‘Where?’ he says as we pass a Big Issue seller outside Sainsbury’s.

  ‘In a cafe,’ I say, turning to him. ‘Just lunchtimes but it’s only a short walk from my house and the hours are exactly what I needed.’

  ‘Safe,’ he says. ‘I’d like a job, but Mum works shifts. Her hours are unpredictable, and I mind Tom when he’s not with my dad, so—’ He looks up and drops his hand. ‘Maybe I should try harder. I hate being skint.’

  ‘Same. I’m already fantasising about what I’ll buy when I get paid.’

  ‘I do that all the time,’ he says. ‘And I don’t even have a job.’ He laughs but then slows his pace. ‘You know, sometimes I sit in Pez’s room and imagine that his brand-new kicks and his games and his gadgets are all mine. Must be nice to have two parents and a film star salary. I don’t mean that in a bad way,’ he says quickly. I slow down. ‘But d’you ever feel a bit frustrated with Pez?’ he says. ‘For not getting what it’s like. And for kinda taking stuff for granted sometimes.’

  I wasn’t expecting this and Rob’s face says maybe he wasn’t expecting it either, but then I picture Pez’s shiny black Nikon camera on the shelf. I don’t mention it, of course. It doesn’t seem right. ‘Dunno,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen him in so long and when we were kids I never noticed any difference in how we thought about things … possessions and stuff.’

  ‘I expect you’ll notice now,’ he says, starting to walk on. ‘Some people can’t see how good they’ve got it. He’s even like that about her.’

  I quicken my pace, expecting him to say more, but nothing comes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds jealous. ‘You mean March?’ I say, trying to make it sound like she’s no big deal, but then he makes this face, like he shouldn’t be talking like this. Bit late for that, I reckon. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘He’s told me all about—’

  ‘Those photos?’ he says. My feet stop moving. I was planning to say ‘their casual thing’ but this stops me in my tracks. ‘Apparently she sent him a video too. Don’t tell him I said anything though.’

  I want him to repeat what he’s said in case I misheard, but he quickly looks to Tom then back to me, doing something with his eyes like he’s checking I’ve understood. I swallow hard. ‘Sure,’ I say, blinking a few times. He needn’t explain what kind of pictures these are. His face says it all.

  ‘I haven’t seen them but they’re on his phone. Did you see how he pounced on me when I was looking for the Narcos trailer?’ I did, but I don’t answer. ‘He freaks out whenever anyone goes near it.’ Having seen what was on Pez’s computer this morning, a new image of him comes into focus. ‘But I can’t work March out either,’ Rob says then. ‘She’ll drop nudes just like that but then she acts all coy about coming over to watch TV. I reckon it was because we were there. Sometimes I think that’s all it is between them. They’re both as flaky as each other.’

  I clear my throat. ‘What’s all what between them?’

  ‘Sex,’ he says, like it’s obvious.

  He says it so casually, I have to hang back to let my face adjust.
‘Right.’ It’s all I can say because all of a sudden, I’m winded. Thankfully we’ve almost reached the pedestrian crossing where I turn off for the square.

  ‘March only appeared when Nick started seeing Amira but at least they’re like a proper couple.’ Rob’s voice continues beside me but I’m picturing Pez’s face in his room earlier and all I can see is his iMac screen. Rob tilts his head, trying to catch my eye, but my mind is kind of miles away.

  I stop at the lights. ‘OK, well, this is me.’

  Rob rakes his perfect hair with his hand, that way he does. Then he bites the corner of his bottom lip. ‘Sorry, I go on a bit sometimes,’ he says.

  ‘That’s cool.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he says, stepping forward. I’m smiling back when he wraps his arms around me but then just as quickly he lets go. A micro-hug or express hug, but it was still nice. Then he nods to Tom. ‘I’ll try to leave him at home next time.’

  ‘My sister is ten,’ I say. ‘I get it. She’s my other summer job.’

  ‘Shame it’s unpaid, huh?’ I nod, then we sort of stand there, looking at each other, and for some reason I start grinning. Probably nerves, or the ridiculous symmetry of his face. Either way, I’m wishing I was better at this type of thing when I notice him leaning in again, just slightly, so I do too. Our faces move closer and closer until our lips are millimetres from touching when all of a sudden Rob’s body jerks backwards and he whips his face around to Tom. ‘What?’ he says.

  Tom pulls the headphones off and stares up. ‘I didn’t press anything,’ he says, tennis-heading between the two of us.