Like it Matters

by David Cornwell

  And unless you’re very lucky, never mind what you do to yourself, the thing you’ve got to watch out for is the fires you set along the way.

  And I knew all this—

  But I still drank with Charlotte

  And I fucked myself up at The Rainbow Lodge

  And I broke my dad’s heart

  And on so many days, I feel like I’m about to give up on him—the gloomy, succumbing post-youth that stalks me now in mirrors and shop windows

  And how’s it even possible?

  To know so well that you’re fucking up—and at exactly the same time, knowing, just knowing, you won’t do anything about it?

  I wished I could cry.

  I wished I could move.

  I was so sure about it again.

  Dewald was TJ.

  I wondered about running, before it was too late—just scraping together whatever cash I could find and trying to get a bus ticket or at least a ride with a truck driver or something—before I got recognised and the real fallout began.

  But then, with this sense of peace—

  This thuggishly narcotic sense of peace—

  The other side of the thought hove into view.

  So what’s the difference?

  Hey, Ed?

  Dewald or TJ, if you run or if you just stay here and wait for it—

  What’s the difference?

  My eyes were closed, the thought was pinballing around my head—the last thing in the world before it all got swallowed up by sleep.

  What’s the difference, if you’re always going to wake up the same person that went to bed?

  DRIFTING OUT

  SHE WAS WATCHING HER FACE IN THE MIRROR.

  That’s what it was, it was strange. She was sitting on the end of the bed with the piece of mirror that lived in the lounge propped up on a chair. She had her back to me. I was watching her watch herself

  And I could see a bit of myself in the mirror too and for a while I tried to catch her eye and smile at her, but then I realised: she was busy.

  Mostly, her face was kind of neutral—she looked the same as when she was looking out the window at the train or something.

  Except her eyes.

  They were tense and scrutinising, like she was reading very fine print.

  Sometimes she’d smile at herself, then relax again, and then she’d frown or look sad—and all the time her eyes were boring into the glass and I started to worry she was on a very dark spin.

  But then out of the blue—she didn’t take her eyes off her face in the mirror, and her mouth hardly moved when she spoke—

  She said, “I remember my mom used to tell me, There’s no such thing as ugly young girls. She used to say that all the time. Obviously I never got it. Then, I mean. Now I do. I know exactly what she meant.”

  “My dad used to say something similar,” I told her. “Although usually it was when he was teasing me for not having more sex.”

  She didn’t smile.

  “You also feel like shit?” I said.

  “In my head, I think I’ve already killed myself five times this morning.”

  And then still with that hard, blank look on her face, she said, “Why don’t you ever talk about your mom, Ed?”

  “I didn’t know her,” I said.

  But I could see that wasn’t enough—she still wanted something from me.

  I made my way over on the bed and I hugged her from behind. I rested my chin on one of her shoulders and I looked right at her in the mirror. “Really, Charlotte,” I said. “The closest I’ve ever been to my mom was her books. She left stains on the pages, from her fingers. She wrote things in eight of them. You know, like study notes. And some of them smelled like perfume for a few years, but everything else—her clothes, jewellery, photos, whatever—was all sold or burned before I started having memories. I guess my dad just couldn’t have it around anymore. And he never liked talking to me about her.”

  I thought I’d just unspool it to there.

  Obviously there was still that one huge question lurking underneath, but god bless her, she didn’t ask. She just turned to me, her real face in front of me, and she pushed me down onto the bed and kissed me. Then she stopped and reached over and laid the mirror down flat, came back and kissed me some more.

  “I’m going to do it, Ed. I really am.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to go find her, my ma. I’m going to go find her, Ed.”

  “We are, baby.”

  “Ja?” she said. She was looking at me with orphan eyes.

  Just then we heard Dewald in the lounge, dragging a chair over to the table. And then the other telltale sounds: rustling, scraping, fussing.

  “We are.” I was nodding my head. “You know, if it didn’t involve, like, dying and believing in god and paradise and all that, Charlotte, I know, for sure, I would’ve done anything by now to find my mom. That might’ve fixed me a long time ago.”

  She laid her head on my chest.

  And just for a second there, I promise—it was as real as anything else I’ve ever felt—I got a rush of that feeling I had back when I loved her and she didn’t even remember my name

  Like she could save me

  And I said, “We’re going to get to Mozambique, and we’re going to find her, and then stuff’s going to be different. Hey? We’ll get clean and then maybe I can call my dad someday, from the fucking beach in Mozambique, and I can tell him how nicely things’ve broken for me.”

  I shook her, but she didn’t respond.

  “Hey, Charlotte?”

  WHAT KILLED ME—

  What really killed me—

  Was how easily she did it.

  How easily she lied to me.

  I got home from Thirstie’s—I went on my own because it was raining and Dewald’s car was out of petrol, and I kind of felt like getting wet

  And I heard them in the room the second I got in through the door, sniffing and giggling.

  I set the bags down heavily, not even on purpose, but the sound of the bottles on the tiles in the kitchen silenced the two of them in there. I even heard her whispering, and then they both came out with the most ridiculously guilty looks you’ve ever seen.

  “You guys just have a line?” I said.

  And then it happened.

  She looked right into my eyes—

  All I could see were those pretty, sleepy eyes of hers

  And she shrugged, like I was insane, and there was no change, not even a flicker in her eyes when she said, “No, why?”

  Jesus.

  It was like a punch in the stomach.

  Eventually I sort of croaked, “Charlotte, literally, there’s powder under your nose.”

  She wiped her nose, and looked down at her thumb and

  You know what she fucking did?

  She came over to me and put her thumb in my mouth and rubbed it over my gums. “Sorry,” she said. Her hot breath in my ear. “It’s just quite early, isn’t it? I guess I felt bad.”

  I said no to another bump at about 3 a.m., when they both said yes—and even though, judging by the light, it was around noon, they were battling to wake me up. They had news and they were talking and talking, but I couldn’t quite get there—it felt like I was swimming to consciousness against a strong current.

  Dewald was saying, “No, bullshit. Bullshit! You’re awake, you’re awake, Ed. Luister.”

  “Ag, let him sleep,” Charlotte said. “Shame.”

  I think I managed to say, “What?”

  But then Dewald started talking and I tried to follow, something about a big buy we were going to make and how we didn’t need to worry about anything anymore—

  But I was so tired

  It was like black ropes were pulling me down

  And I must’ve passed out, and when I woke up the house was empty.

  I don’t know how long they’d been knocking.

  It must’ve been a while because it factored into my dreams. I came to slowly, l
ike a very old computer booting up—

  While the whole time they kept knocking, with this dull, persistent edge to it. I assumed it was a beggar.

  Eventually the knocking stopped and I lit a joint that was lying next to the bed. Charlotte must’ve rolled it—it was thick as anything. I had a few pulls and then the knocking came back, and I guess I lost my patience and I got up and went straight to the front door and pulled it open.

  That guy, that cop Charlotte knew—

  Freddy, with the hips—

  Freddy was standing there.

  “Whose car’s that?” he said, pointing out at the road.

  “Dewald’s.”

  “Whose? Whatever, his battery’s been jacked.”

  “What?”

  “No jokes. Here’s a case number.”

  He gave me a piece of paper and walked into the house.

  I think the darkness must’ve stunned him. He stopped in the passage and turned to face the door again, rubbed his eyes and said, “Jirre.”

  I said, “What can I do for you?” and I didn’t think about it, obviously, I just started smoking the joint I was holding. I guess I was nervous. And the worst part was, instead of just playing it cool from there, I realised what I was doing and freaked out. I looked down at it and I said, “Ah, shit, sorry.”

  He waved his hand and said, “Just tell me about Charlotte.”

  “What about her?”

  “Poes, man. Wake up. Where’s she? What’s she up to? What’s this cousin of hers?”

  “Hey, chill out,” I said. I laughed. “Do I look like I’ve got a clue about anything?”

  “Jou fokken moer. Jissus. What a waste.”

  I took the biggest drag of that joint that was possible, I made the cherry flare up and the paper catch fire. Then I took my time blowing out the smoke.

  I said, “Freddy, listen. I’m sorry if you were waiting outside for a long time or whatever, whatever it is that’s got you so pissed off with me. I just don’t—”

  “Listen, man,” he said, and he grabbed me by the shirt. I could feel some stitches rip in the collar. I wasn’t moving fast enough yet to flinch.

  He said, “Have you ever loved someone for twenty years?”

  “Definitely not,” I said.

  “Exactly. So you don’t know how it feels.”

  “Well …”

  “What? Hey?” He was screaming. “What?”

  “Whoa, just fucking tighten up there,” I said. “Shit. I mean if you want to talk, Freddy, that’s fine. But just, please man, let go of me, at least.”

  He took his hands off me.

  “You live …” he said, then trailed off.

  He looked away and breathed. Then he looked back, right into my eyes. “You live like nothing matters.”

  He turned and went back down the passage to the door.

  I was talking to a silhouette there in the door frame. “That’s bullshit,” I said. “You’re wrong.”

  I watched the shape duck its head. Its shoulders went up and down, like in a deep sigh.

  The door slammed closed.

  I NOTICED AT THIS SPUR, they really cashed in on the Red Indian thing.

  All the waitresses were Malay-looking, and they were all wearing tasselled leather skirts and pieces of turquoise and they all had feathers in their hair. We cheersed our drinks and then Dewald and Charlotte looked at each other. Dewald said to me, “Raait, Ed, are you ready to hear the plan?”

  “Fuck,” I said. “First, Charlotte, please just listen to me. Can I just tell you about Freddy, please? That all really happened, I promise. How else did I find out about the battery?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just listen to Dewald,” she said

  And he broke in, “We organised a buy, Ed. It’s lots, and it’s cheap.”

  And never mind my worries about Freddy and the car, and never mind the wheel I’d put myself through the last few days about getting back on some kind of path with Charlotte—

  Straight away the equation presented itself in my head.

  I needed to use Dewald to get the drugs and get them sold and get some money in my hands, then use the money to get Charlotte and me as far away from him as possible.

  “How much is lots?” I said.

  “Enough.”

  “Enough for Mozambique?” I said, and I looked at her.

  And I don’t know what I wanted to see in her face—excitement? Maybe some kind of confidentiality, even, like half a secret we were sharing

  But there was nothing like that.

  She looked away, almost like she was annoyed, and it deepened this worry I’d had the past few days, ever since she’d lied to me about snorting in the room with Dewald—

  This worry that maybe I’d moved in on her dream with the Mozambique thing, when there wasn’t actually any space for me in it.

  “Fuck, bra, Moz would be the easiest thing in the world,” Dewald said.

  “Wow.”

  “But you need to help.”

  “Why me?”

  “It has to look right,” Dewald said. “The guy thinks he’s selling to my boss. You talk nice.”

  “And what will you do?” I said.

  “Who you think’s driving?”

  I couldn’t come up with any more questions.

  I said, “Cool, I’ll think about it.”

  “Poes, man,” Dewald said. “This is proper money, naaier. Either you in or you out. Now.”

  Charlotte said, “Jesus, Dewald—”

  But I just looked at him and said, “I’ll definitely need to dry out a bit.”

  “Kiff, fine,” Dewald said. “You got a few days.”

  I looked at Charlotte and I said, “Will you stay home?”

  She bit her lip and nodded at me.

  “I’ll also need weed or some painkillers or something, otherwise I’ll kill myself before we get there.”

  “Ja, sorted,” Dewald said. “So you in?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I think it was in a Kierkegaard book that used to give me a migraine, I only got halfway through it, but this line about how you can lose yourself—the greatest hazard—you can pass off into the world so quietly you don’t even see it happen, you’re too busy focusing on the decay of everything else that’s meant to keep the carnival afloat: your marriage, your house, all the stuff you’ve bought to put in your house …

  It was just like that—it was in a fucking Spur, watching Dewald go one-on-one with a rack of ribs, piling the bones on the table next to him as he went, while Charlotte got drunk on cocktails that she topped up with a flask under the table, more kids came in, more birthday parties, one in the booth right behind ours

  And in the midst of all that

  Me—filling my head with dreams about Charlotte’s mother, about us living with her and getting fixed, getting suntans and going jogging on the beach

  And I see it now—

  I see it so clearly—

  Even before the worst night, it was already too late.

  The rope’d already gone snap, you’d already lost anchor

  You were drifting out, Ed, long before the storm blew in …

  THE WORST NIGHT

  THE MOON WAS HUGE, there was even moonlight in the car—

  And I was still feeling up, even though a couple of things had threatened to throw me—

  And we’d been clear of Simonstown for ages but we were still going very slowly.

  Forty, forty-five at the most. The car stayed out of gear mainly, then Dewald would just slip it into third on the hills, and then we’d sail down the other side again with his foot tapping on the brakes.

  “We got to be like ghosts tonight, bra,” he said. “Like ninjas. No one must notice a thing.”

  I stared out the window. Under the full moon, the sea looked like a huge piece of crushed velvet. Shimmering midnight blue. I closed my eyes and I tried to Zen out as much as possible, which wasn’t easy thanks to the pipe Dewald had racked us just bef
ore we left the house.

  Breathe, Ed.

  You know why you’re here.

  You know why you’re here.

  I felt the car slow down and I opened my eyes.

  Dewald said, “Raait, Eddetjie, now’s your time to shine.”

  We were on a bit of a downhill, and near the bottom of the slope, before the road climbed and switchbacked to take in a peak on the coastline, I saw a turn-off coming up on the right. And a couple of houses there where the new road started.

  Dewald took a long look in the rear-view mirror, then peered forward to see if anything was coming towards us round the bend—then he turned off the lights and cut the engine. We went soundlessly over to the other side of the road with a feeling like floating, then he got us onto the turn-off and past the houses just steering by the moonlight.

  The car stopped.

  “Jesus, what’s up?” I said.

  “Ja. Nou word dit exciting,” Dewald said. “Duidelik. You got to help me steer, Ed, blind like this.”

  I saw him reset the odometer.

  He started the car with his finger on his lips—like that was going to make it quieter or something—and then we went on slower than before, even though the moon made it brighter than most of the streets in Muizenberg. I don’t think I’d ever been on that road. It was tarred but really narrow, barely any shoulder, probably an old service road or something.

  We did maybe ten kays at that careful pace, pretty easily, but then we passed through this shadow-line in the road—these trees planted right along the edge of the tar—windbreakers. We slowed to a crawl, but even then it was quite strange, a bit like we were navigating through deep space.

  We stopped again.

  Behind us, on the back seat, was a rucksack with all Dewald’s retrenchment money in it—a thick roll of cash and about ten little bricks packed in black plastic—and a backpack he’d also brought along. He reached over and opened the backpack, then took out a headlamp and a bandana and handed them to me.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Gooi the bandana Desperado-style,” he said, and mimed like I should tie it round my face. “You need to stick your head out the door and tell me if I get too close to the shoulder.”