So here we are in the garden. See that enormous mound of thick, heavy-duty vinyl that looks like a sleeping orange-and-white dinosaur? That’s the un-bouncy castle. It doesn’t become bouncy, apparently, until you put air in it, and that doesn’t happen until you plug it into the mains, which is in the shed.
This is the exact moment that a headache starts. I don’t know if the headache is made worse because of the awful task I’ve been given, or if the awful task is worse because of the headache. It feels like someone’s put a bouncy castle inside my skull and they won’t stop inflating it. Apparently their power supply was easily accessible.
Let’s move forward ten minutes. I have had a really shit day so far, and the sight of me straining and sweating on one end of a rope is not going to improve things. Here I am, ten minutes later, and the shed is in sight. You can see that my face has gone two or three shades paler than before I started this, and the truth is I really do feel quite poorly. Iron girders are clanging backwards and forwards inside my head, pounding into both sides alternately making me feel really sick and dizzy. I stand for a moment in the shade of some random tree, rubbing my temples.
‘You all right, Rachel?’
I open my eyes to find Glenn standing there in a yellow shirt and beige shorts, grinning. He looks all right, really, doesn’t he? I don’t mean my type, obviously – an image of dark, seductive Nick Maxwell in a crisp white T-shirt and black jeans drops down on to the lawn beside the smiley, banana-shirted Glenn and makes Glenn look, frankly, a little ridiculous – but he’s normal, what a husband and father ought to look like. Yeah, smile while you still can, you lying piece of worm shit. I hope your knob falls off.
‘Shall I take over?’ he says pleasantly, so I walk away as an answer. Technically, this should have been done by him this morning anyway, but he was apparently ‘doing overtime’. Uh-huh, and I was drinking tequila slammers with the Queen in a hot air balloon over Sandringham.
The first child arrives at ten to three, like a scout ant doing a recce for the rest of the group, who arrive en masse ten minutes later. Luckily for me, I get a nasty spasm in my belly at that moment and have to rush to the loo.
It’s quite good timing, actually, because after being violently and painfully sick, Sarah said I could lie on her and Glenn’s bed for the entire duration of the party. Well, actually she said ‘a while’, but I’m taking that to mean, ‘until the party is over’. As I’m lying here trying to relax, I am assaulted by two things: one, the sudden, violent realization that this is the bed that Glenn and Sarah have sex in; and two, a lot of shouting, terrible loud music and forced adult laughter from downstairs.
Eventually, the first of those two thoughts overrides the second and I haul myself up, glancing at the bedside clock – it’s just gone four – then looking away quickly. Suddenly, I find I don’t want my eyes to land on anything in this room, just in case they see something they shouldn’t.
Downstairs, an eerie silence has descended. No, actually it’s not silent, is it? There are some noises, strange, sucking, squelching sounds, but they’re difficult to identify. I hesitate by the front door and stare longingly through the patterned glass at the distorted shape of my car out on the road. Could I slip out and drive away without Sarah noticing? I take one step towards freedom, then realize that my handbag is in the kitchen, which is at the moment swarming with offspring, so I am stuck.
Tentatively, I enter the living room, and through the double glass doors at the other end I can see the dining room and the reason for the unnatural quiet: it’s feeding time. Twenty or maybe thirty kids are sitting around Sarah’s big dining table – which has got the extra middle bit in – using both hands to move food from the serving dishes to their mouths. Little of it is actually chewed and consumed, it’s just moved, handled. The movement is ceaseless, a blur of chubby reaching arms like tentacles waving across the table, as if all the arms belong to one being. Sarah is scuttling worriedly around the table, trying to prevent food and drink from landing on the carpet. I say, let it. It will probably be an improvement.
Over there on the patio, just outside the glass doors, I can see Chrissie and Susan having a cigarette together. They are facing back into the house and we wave and smile to each other in greeting, but further communication is unwise. We don’t want to attract the attention of this feeding massive. Instead, we stand and stare at the spectacle before us until suddenly the children rise as one, as if they have communicated telepathically with each other, and go outside to play on the now-bouncy castle until their parents arrive. It is such a swift and immediate exodus, you can see a cup of lemonade still wobbling dangerously on the deserted table.
That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.
Little by little the children disappear from the garden as their parents arrive, until eventually there is just one left, bouncing away relentlessly, almost as if he’s set himself the target of bringing up his tea. It’s at least quarter past five and the party ended officially at five, so this is extremely rude of the parents, imposing on Sarah for a bit of free babysitting. The more I look at that little brat down there in the garden, bouncing away, the angrier I’m getting. If I wasn’t feeling so weak and headachy, I’d go and speak to someone about it.
‘Hasn’t Jake grown?’ Susan says, coming over to the sofa where I’m slumped, and I realize immediately that the child outside on the bouncy castle is Jake, of course, and is still here because this is where he lives. They all look the same to me.
‘Mmm.’ I’ve closed my eyes and don’t bother to open them. Apart from the headache, it adds to the illusion that I knew it was Jake out there all the time.
‘Are you all right?’ Susan asks me and I feel her sit down.
‘Wha’s the mapper?’ Chrissie’s voice enters the room. She’s eating something as she speaks – it sounds like a sausage roll. I imagine a snowstorm of pastry leaving her lips as she talks.
‘Rachel’s got an awful headache,’ Susan says, rubbing the back of my hand. Yeah, that’s gonna help my headache. ‘One too many screaming kids, I reckon,’ she adds quietly, as if I’ve been recklessly over-indulging.
‘I’ll get her a tablet,’ Chrissie says, heading out of the room again, back to the kitchen where the food is.
‘See if Sarah’s got any migraine tablets,’ Susan says loudly. ‘I don’t expect Hedex is going to do any good now. You need a bit of peace and quiet, don’t you, Rach? Sarah,’ she shouts out over my head, ‘can you please bring Rachel a glass of water?’
Oh, God, I’m going to puke again. Oh Christ, here it comes. Oh, no, wait a minute, no it doesn’t.
‘God, Rach, you’ve gone ever so white. Do you feel sick too? It’s probably a migraine, then.’
‘I had a migraine once,’ Chrissie says, coming near again. I keep my eyes tightly closed – I know she is wearing turquoise today. ‘I passed out in Woolies and threw up for two days.’
‘God,’ Susan says, and I imagine the expression on her face saying so much more, ‘you get everything really badly, don’t you?’
‘Well once,’ says Sarah’s voice, entering the room, ‘I woke up in the night with stomach pain that felt like I was being ripped in half. Glenn drove me straight to the hospital.’
‘Jesus,’ Susan says and from her voice I can tell her eyes are really wide, ‘what happened?’
‘When we got there, they cut my tummy open and pulled out a real, live human being.’ She rams a cold glass into my hand and marches away.
Have you ever longed for something really hard for ages, and then when it finally comes, you can’t face it? No, me neither. If I long for something, it’s usually mine a few minutes later, and then I get sick of it quite quickly. Except for today, strangely enough. I have been desperate to get home from this party for three weeks, since I agreed to come, and now that I’m going, I find I can’t face it. At least, I can’t face the actual driving. The thought of going home is like waking up after a really disturbing nightmare full of evi
l little flesh-eating trolls with sharp teeth, to find immediately that it was all a dream and the sun’s out. And you’ve got the day off and have lost four pounds overnight. And you’ve won the Lotto jackpot. Which was a rollover.
Here comes Glenn. He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? I can’t seem to get out of my head the image of him in the car park with that woman, sucked in together like two pieces of vacuum-packed ham, which is not good given how rough I’m feeling already.
‘Chrissie’s said she’ll drive you home, Rachel,’ he says to my eyelids, all fake caring friend’s husband. I nod in silence, already wondering how I’m going to avoid that turquoise caftan all the way home.
Here we are in the car, five minutes later. See what I mean about that colour? It’s eye-splitting, especially in close proximity like this. When I look at Chrissie she’s almost ablaze, her head just a shadowy silhouette. But surprisingly, I am starting to feel better, leaning my head against the cool glass. Of course, the fact that those thirty odd kids are miles and another year away could be helping.
‘Christ, I couldn’t be a mum, could you?’ Chrissie says suddenly, as if she’s read my mind. ‘I mean, sweet as they are, those bloody kids make me want to slit my wrists. Or theirs.’
‘Yeah, they were noisy – I’m sure that’s why I’ve got this headache. Sarah’s brave, inviting that many.’
‘Oh, do you think so? I don’t think eleven is all that many.’
‘Eleven? Don’t be ridiculous, there must have been about thirty of them round that table.’
Chrissie glances at me. ‘Nope. Only twelve, including Jake.’
I’m staggered. All that noise and mess, and only twelve of them. Mum would probably say it’s because the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. It means that when people work together they can achieve more than if they all work on their own. Those twelve kids prove it.
‘Did you know you had a call on your mobile?’ Chrissie asks. ‘While you were on the sofa feeling bad. I heard a phone ringing in the kitchen and tracked it down to a bag that Sarah said was yours.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
She glances at me sideways. ‘Do you think it might have been Nick?’
And at that moment, I get one of those sudden revelation things that show you the way things are, and the way to go, all at once in a blinding flash of light. Except for me it was more a blinding flash of turquoise.
Chrissie is the one who told me about Val’s husband and the accountant; Chrissie is the one who told me about M and M being seen playing badminton with two women once; she told me about Siân’s depression, Marion’s huge debt, Keith from Marketing’s gay wife. She even told me about Jean’s cancer scare a couple of years ago. Chrissie is the one who knows all the gossip. And, more importantly, Chrissie is the one who passes it on. Nick has been pretending all this time to be single, and he must be stopped. I raise my head and, squinting a little, turn to look at her. See that expression on my face? That’s determination.
Or is it revenge? It’s difficult to tell, they’re both new.
‘Not a chance,’ I say in answer to her question about the phone call.
‘Really? You sound very sure – have you checked?’
‘I’m telling you, Chrissie, it’s not him.’ Time to plant the seeds. ‘And anyway, even if it was, I’m having nothing more to do with him.’
She frowns a bit. ‘Look, I know he’s been a bit uncommunicative the last few days . . .’
‘Thirteen.’
‘All right, thirteen days. But he might have an explanation. Maybe he’s been in hospital, or poorly or something. You can’t be sure he hasn’t been in an accident and was just ringing then to explain . . .’
‘He’s married, Chris.’ Light blue touchpaper . . .
She freezes, mouth still open, and stares at me.
I jerk my head towards the windscreen. ‘Watch the road, will you?’
Here we are, arriving home. Chrissie installs me on the sofa then heads for the door. She is halfway through when she turns and says, ‘Do you want me to do anything before I go?’
She’s got one turquoise foot outside on the communal carpet. I am so tempted to ask her to make me a drink before she goes, but in the end I’m glad to let her go straight away, and I shake my head. ‘I’m going to have a long bawl in a hot bath, maybe sob over a bit of telly, then cry myself to sleep.’
‘OK then,’ she says distractedly. ‘Well, take care of yourself. Night night.’ And she’s out of there, a woman with a mission.
We could watch her and see where she goes, but at this precise moment, the phone in my handbag rings again. It must have been the mobile man that rang in my handbag earlier on, so this is bound to be him again. I smile as I pull it out but then wish I had prepared something to say. It’s good fun, joking around, but this is probably going to be the end of it. I know I have got to stop playing and arrange the handover.
I click the ‘Answer’ button and say smoothly, ‘You’re late.’
‘So’re you,’ he says without missing a beat. ‘I called at the allotted time, or just after, but you didn’t . . .’
‘Just after? Just after sounds like late to me. That is not acceptable.’
‘Dammit. How could you possibly have known?’
‘Fourteen thousand microscopic cameras. They record your every move, and then my fourteen thousand staff report back to me.’
‘Blimey, you don’t mess around, do you? Obviously you’re a very skilled and well-equipped phone-napper.’
‘It’s a living.’
‘In that case, can I please have one more chance? It’s my first time.’
I pause to give the impression of serious thought. This is a trick I have learned for genuine conversations. ‘Do you think you deserve another chance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well, all right then, one more chance.’
‘That’s kind. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘So? What are the demands, then?’
‘Oh yes, you wanted some demands, didn’t you?’ I rack my brain, desperately trying to think of something funny. ‘Tell me your name.’ Yeah, I know, not very inventive but as you know I have had a terrible day so far.
There’s a long pause from the other end. ‘My name? Hmmm. I’ve never been asked for that before. People usually ask me for jewels or cash, you know, in ransom notes.’
‘Well, I need to know what to put on the envelope that the ransom note asking for jewels and cash is in.’
He bursts out laughing. ‘That’s a very good point, Miss Abductor. Seeing as you put it like that, my name is Hector.’
‘Hector.’ I’m smiling at this. I think it’s a fake name. ‘Right.’
‘So can I expect the demands in writing, then? Now that you know who I am.’
‘No need for that. I can tell you them now.’
‘Shoot.’
‘OK. But you should know that is not a good choice of word when you’re negotiating for the release of a hostage.’
He laughs again. I like that sound. ‘You know, you’re absolutely right. That’s probably where I’ve gone wrong in the past.’
‘Oh no. Bad outcomes?’
‘The worst kind.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
There’s a pause. I’m waiting for him to speak. Eventually he says, ‘So? The demands?’
It’s ridiculous. He must have asked me for these five or six times.
‘Oh yes. Right. Hmmm. Well, firstly I demand . . . um . . . equality and freedom from, um . . .’
‘Oppression?’
‘Yes, that’s it, oppression. Yes. Secondly, I demand, um, justice for all.’
‘Oh, well said. I couldn’t agree more. Anything else?’
‘My third demand is . . . er . . . world peace.’
‘World peace. OK.’ He says it slowly, as if he’s writing it down.
‘
And finally, I demand value for money.’
‘Value for money.’ I can hear that he’s grinning now. ‘So you want all races and peoples in the world to live in harmony together, free to express themselves without fear of retaliation, for all to be treated equally with fairness and justice, and . . .’ he pauses here for effect, ‘. . . and get really good value. Is that it?’
‘Exactly. And if you ever want to see your phone again, you’ll remember that.’
He chuckles. ‘Got it. So where, and when, are we meeting for the exchange? Is it still The Blooding?’
‘Yes, The Blooding. Thursday, six o’clock.’ My doctor’s surgery is in the Ashton Business Park, so I can combine my trip down there with meeting the Mobile Man and giving him his phone back.
‘Thursday, eh? Fair enough.’
‘Right then. Until Thursday—’
‘No, wait. I need to know your name. You can’t leave me in torment like this.’
Ah. I walked straight into that one, didn’t I? I’m a bit panicky now. This is a complete stranger after all, and not only have I just arranged to meet him, he wants my name. A picture pops into my head suddenly of an axe dripping with blood, traces of human hair still clinging to the grisly edge, light glinting and flashing on its silvery surface, the heavy wooden shaft held tightly in a large, blood-spattered hand, which is attached to the arm of a hooded man standing outside the external door of my block, looking at the names by the doorbells, wondering if I am Laura, Leslie or Rachel.
‘It’s Ruth,’ I say quickly, after a very lengthy pause.
‘Ruth. That’s unusual.’
‘Oh come on. You said you were called Hector, for heaven’s sake.’
He pauses. ‘But I am called Hector.’
We need to go back to Sarah’s house for a bit now. Only to look – you won’t see me back at Sarah’s place for ages yet. Back to the lounge, where it is still a scene of mild devastation. Truthfully, it never really looks clean, not to my or Mum’s standards, but this is much worse. Look at all the paper plates everywhere, most of them still with half-eaten sandwiches on them. Sadly, the food remains aren’t just on the plates, but are squashed, flattened and ground into the carpet in various places around the room. This is not immediately obvious, though, because at the moment the carpet and the food on it are covered with dozens of balls and crumpled sheets of brightly coloured paper, cardboard boxes and clothes. Apparently, Jake has torn open all his presents and left them and their wrappings exactly where they are.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 9