When I was dry and wrapped in a thin clean towel I took an inventory of my belongings. When I emptied my jacket pockets I found a dark red lipstick, a relic from another time. I wanted to write something on the wall, somewhere secret, but was not brave enough. Instead I put it on and observed my new-old face and kissed the mirror, to say I am here, then wiped the imprint away. I used the kitchen scissors to cut out a fake white ticket from the packet of card I had bought, using my own blue ticket as reference. It wasn’t really any good. My hands shook. I cut another version, then another, both slightly better. I slipped the blue ticket into my wallet, right at the back. In my locket, the white counterfeit. I turned the lights out in the bedroom and opened the curtains for a second to skim the roadside. I thought I saw a dark figure standing in the car park, but as I stared at the shape it faded away.
3
In the morning I felt the eyes of the boy on reception boring into my back as I left, but when I turned he was just leafing through papers. It was possible I was placing too much importance in my badness because, after all, nobody knew what I was yet. I was somebody else temporarily, and actually that was a kind of gift too, I reasoned, because I had always wanted to try on another life, and now I could. I pretended in the car that I was on my way to pick my child up from school, that there was a husband preparing a healthy lunch for us even as I drove, that soon my child was going to leap into the car and tell me they loved me. This child-image was nebulous—I couldn’t picture them as anything beyond a shrunken adult, staring baldly at me from the back seat. When I looked into the rear-view mirror I realized I hadn’t even brushed my hair that day, and that my overfamiliar face was creased with worry where I had slept awkwardly on the pillow. And, all things considered, the spell was broken.
Driving was monotonous even with the undercurrent of fear, the instinct to run. I switched the radio on then off. I was not totally sure what was expected of me. Every so often I would veer on to another side road, take a circuitous route to make me harder to track. The lack of visible threat was unnerving, lulling, like I was drugged. I was glad when I had made it through another day and decided upon another hotel, set well back from the road. This one was all greens—sage carpet, apple-white walls, darker trim on the panelling. A woman this time on the reception desk, younger than me and sweet, absent-minded, but I think I trusted more the innate obliviousness of men. Doctor A aside, I felt them less able to see into or through me.
In the room, old restlessness. The desire for forward momentum. I went for a walk down the road from the hotel in the gloaming to shake out some of the energy from my bones. Around me the landscape was flat and peaty, lumpen brown grass and fields stretching out. A sheep in the distance raised its head to look at me and didn’t stop watching until I had long passed. I missed the clean roads of the suburbs and the order of my own garden, the grass, the seeds into which I had funnelled any earlier motherly instincts.
There was a small bar perhaps half a mile down the road. Inside, the walls were draped with lights flashing red and green, red and green. A sleek blonde woman poured black liquor into very narrow glasses, pushed them down the length of the bar. There were not many people, but those who were there seemed excitable. I slipped in and everyone turned to me. The woman poured me a glass before I could say no. Celebrate with us, she said to me. I took the glass and put it to my lips. It was hot in my throat, tasted of aniseed.
What are you celebrating? I said, confused. The return of the blue fox, a pink-faced man said to me, two heads taller than I was. He knocked his glass against mine. There is a type of fox that comes back to us when the weather warms. It’s so beautiful. It’s very rare. Nowhere else in the country has a creature like it.
My black jumper disguised the shape of me. I dissolved into the darkness of the bar. Everybody was talking about this fox. Somebody showed me a photograph of it, a square clammy between their hands.
But it’s not blue, I said, and everybody laughed as if I had said something hilarious, some people had tears in their eyes. Blue doesn’t always mean blue, someone explained to me. Oh, I said, but this statement worried me more than it should have done. I wanted to hang on to the known things, to the facts and the order that governed them.
What’s your name? they asked, and I said, Iris. A beautiful name, the people said, and they toasted me.
And your husband? Where is he? asked the barmaid slyly.
He has a headache, I said. He’s back at the hotel. And just like that I was a white-ticket woman with a drink in my hand. Just like that, I belonged somewhere. Another life to try on.
I found myself in a corner with a younger man, a woollen scarf the colour of the sky wrapped three times around his neck. He seemed sweet, like a brother. Blue, I said out loud, touching it. All this fuss, he said very quietly to me. Everyone kept laughing at my requests for water. The man had curly black hair and he put his hand, gently, on my forearm. Then he put his arm around me. I didn’t want to say anything in case I offended him, he was so friendly after all. The blonde woman watched from behind the bar, polishing the same glass over and over. I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I tipped the rest of my drink down the sink, refilling the glass with water from the tap. But it was too late and I was drunk already, my body wasn’t used to alcohol any more. Sorry, I said to my stomach again. Sorry, sorry. In the merciful amber light of one dying bulb, I redid my lipstick.
The man with the scarf was waiting for me. Come outside, he said urgently, so I followed him out on to the road. The people-sounds from inside bubbled and seethed.
Are you from the city? the man asked me, lighting a cigarette. I nodded. So you don’t celebrate the fox festival, he said with satisfaction, breathing out a plume into the air. You likely have no idea what we’re on about. You probably think we’re uncultured idiots.
I don’t think that, I said.
Do you really have a husband? he asked.
Yes, I said.
What’s he like? he asked.
I thought for a second. Tall, and very kind, I said.
Great, he said. Well done you.
He took my hands as I stepped backwards to avoid the smoke. Please, anyway, he said, and I knew what he was asking but I was confused, still, as though the whole evening had slices missing from it, like the blackouts that had peppered my first years in the city, the brain processing what it needed to process, and the strangeness of this, of being recalled to another version of myself, caused me to crouch down for a second.
A crowd of people came out from the pub, carrying bottles. Come on, come on, they said. We’re going to the party at T’s house.
You’ve got to come too, said the barmaid to me. Come on, let’s just have a little fun.
The man with the blue scarf held on to my arm and then let go. Yes, you must, he said. Come on, I’ll lead the way.
I have to go back, I said.
No you don’t, he said to me, and his smile was very beautiful.
We all walked across the moorland. The moon was high and everything was cold. My body was loose. The voices of everyone talking and laughing reflected around us. It felt companionable. I was still drunk. When a broad man with a beard passed me a bottle I drank from it anyway, just a little. That’s right, he said. See, we treat our guests well.
I wondered if I was purposely masochistic or just a moth blundering into a flame. I wondered if motherhood held such appeal for me because it was a masochism you couldn’t ever let go of. I turned my face up to the night.
The party was in a cottage tucked into the moor, surrounded by rocks. All the lights were on. A thin man opened the door, dark beard growing up his cheekbones. What took you so long, he said. There was a broken sofa in the front garden among the flowerbeds, the leather of it seamed and shucked, but people were sitting on it anyway. The dark-haired man bowed to us extravagantly. Come in then I suppose, he said. Every
one slapped him on the shoulder. I was the last to go in. He took my hand, lightly, then dropped it without saying anything.
There were people inside already, smoke everywhere. This is Iris, our friend from the city, the barmaid said. We’re showing her our good country hospitality. Not good enough though, where’s her drink?
Glasses passed around, more dark liquid. Drink, they said. You’ll offend our esteemed host if you don’t drink. And the man called T was there closing the door and coming deeper into the room. People would not stop talking to me over the music, which was too loud, strings and guitars wavering on a record player. They all knew each other. I started smoking to give me something to do with my hands, I could sense T’s eyes on me from all the way across the room, he was wondering who I was, this person who had just walked into his house and was now holding court, silently, smoke in my mouth. I was a little afraid of him, so I did drink, so that he could see me partaking and to make me brave. I didn’t like the closed door. Wooden shutters at the window. There was a little white-painted stool in a corner that I sat down on, but this was a mistake, I hemmed myself in.
He came over and took my hand again. He traced his fingertips over my palm and I shivered involuntarily because it had been a while since I had been touched in a way that portended actual intimacy. He leaned into me, too close.
Tell me about yourself, he said. He was very intense. I normally liked that in a man, but I didn’t like it then. I blew smoke into his face instead, and he didn’t flinch. I’m nothing, I said. There’s nothing to me.
The cigarettes were a mistake, it was all a mistake—time blurred and skipped and I was running to the bathroom, pushing past the line of people waiting, and throwing up strings of yellow bile, dark alcohol, into the stained toilet bowl. There was a window, I noted hazily, out of habit. Frosted glass, the sills rotting.
Unlock the door, said a voice. I’m in here! I shouted. Unlock it anyway, they said. You’re not well, we’ll look after you. I did as I was told. T came in, and the man with the blue scarf, and the barmaid. Are you all right? they asked one by one. They closed the door. I nodded yes and switched on the tap, cupped greyish mineral-tasting water in my hands and drank. When I splashed it on my face it beaded my eyelashes, and all was light. The men looked at each other. Sit on the floor, T said.
The barmaid sat first. Come on, she said. She took my hand softly. The whorls of her fingertips were dirty. I dropped to my heels and she cupped both hands to my head. Her nails found my scalp. I had forgotten already how to be around people, it was so easy and quick to forget. I wanted the comfort of another body but I was too afraid to show myself. T crouched down beside me too. He put a dry hand on my forehead and then kissed me, hard, on the side of my head. He smelled like smoke and clean paper, and of the beginning of sweat. I tried to move away but he put his arm around my shoulders. Not so fast, he said.
The man with the blue scarf got on to his knees too, pulling up the hem of my dress, plucking at the small holes where my tights were worn, and T copied him. Help! I called out, but at once there was a hand over my mouth. I pulled down the fabric of my jumper where they were trying to ruck it up. The barmaid let go of my mouth. White-ticket, she said, snorting with laughter. Yes, sure. You’re as much a white-ticket as I am. Who are you trying to fool? Look at her stomach. Go on, check, I bet I’m right.
You can’t, I said, slowly. You have to let me go.
She held a bottle to her own lips and then to mine, but I didn’t swallow this time. Sweet wine rivered down my lips, chin, on to my dress. The man with the blue scarf licked it from my face.
Someone banged on the door of the bathroom. The pocked floor scratched against the backs of my thighs where my dress had rucked up. Fuck off! T shouted. We’re busy! The man with the blue scarf was red in the face as if embarrassed by what he was doing; I hit my knees together like clappers and felt them make contact with his elegant knucklebones. He swore and pulled his hands away. T was trying to alternately tug and push me flat on to the floor, but there was a hesitation in his movements that confused me. It almost seemed like an absurd, elaborate joke, but at the same time it was hard to breathe. Come on! the person outside said, laughing and banging again, with such force that the hook popped open and they stumbled into the room. It was another man, fair hair down to his shoulders and a beer in his hand. He surveyed the scene. Sorry to interrupt, he said. The others paused and I took the opportunity to push myself to my feet, palms against the floor. Breathe, I told myself, as the room spun.
Oh, just let her go, said the man with the blue scarf. He held out his hands. Look what you did, he said, wounded, but there was nothing to see.
T threw his hands up. The fair-haired man stayed there, watching. Get out then if you’re going to get out, T said, glancing towards him. We were just playing. I made to walk out but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me back, almost toppling me over. I kicked and he laughed, then let go properly, and I escaped back into the other room. The smoke was thicker and the voices were louder. I blundered, mouth sour, out into the front garden where three people were still sitting on the rotting sofa, and then on to the moorland road. The threat receded. Soon I couldn’t even see the lights of the cottage behind me.
Back in my hotel, I stuck a chair underneath the handle of the locked bedroom door and put the duvet and pillow from the bed into the bathtub of the en-suite, then locked the bathroom too. All through the night I waited there. I held the pistol between my knees, aimed at the door, until it was too heavy for my wrists.
There was grief in the night, even when I clasped my hands over my stomach. What have you done? I asked myself. It wasn’t like my life was unbearable before. There were lots of things I had not been grateful enough for, I saw now. There had been no nights in bathtubs waiting to be caught.
Wanting is a powerful magic, Doctor A had said. Try wanting something else and see how quickly your desires recalibrate once you get it.
But this is different, I had told him then.
The dark feeling there, always there, under the skin, a steady current. Sometimes lulled and weaker but always returning, as if it were a tide.
In the morning I was lousy with guilt and exhaustion. I stripped naked and ran the hot water where I had been lying, wiped a patch clear on the fogged mirror to look at myself. The gentle curvature, the stretched skin, the blue veins widening and wrapping. I’m sorry, I said out loud, tapping my stomach with my fingers. Do you hear me in there? I’m sorry.
When I opened the bathroom door everything was as I had left it. Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains. The car park was deserted but I drove away at a great speed anyway. A cloud of dust. The white peaks of the mountains closer to me all the time. The promise of safety, the promise of something.
What if I could not do better? What if I was incapable? What if this was the best I could do, had reached the limit of what I was capable of, so soon, with so far to go?
4
I rang Doctor A from a payphone on the road, giving in to an urge I didn’t necessarily want to interrogate. When he heard my voice, Doctor A clicked his tongue as if it were a surprise, but I knew it could not be.
Hi, I said breezily.
So they’ve come for you, he said.
I mean, you sent them, I said.
He ignored that. We can do our appointments over the phone, until you’re caught, he said instead.
What makes you so sure I will be? I asked.
Calla, please, he said, very kindly.
I have reserves that you don’t know about, I told him.
You forget that I know everything about you, he said. You don’t need to be so angry. There’s no harm in being predictable. Even the act of calling me today—I was expecting it. Ring me twice every week at the usual time.
I said I would try.
He said I should do more than try. He said the body
and the mind were often in opposition and the importance of keeping them well-tuned and functioning in unison was paramount, as much as was possible, given my condition. He clicked his tongue again. He spoke a lot of sense.
I must go, it’s time for my next appointment, he said. But remember that it’s open season on women like you. You are a criminal now.
I hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
In the car, driving again, I listened for my name on the radio, moving the dial compulsively. Weaving in and out of high terrain, the signal skipped and thickened. I was going nowhere fast. Sometimes I would pull over to write down the cars I had seen behind me, in case there was a pattern, in case they were following me. A silver one. A red one. A white one, large, more of a van.
Mostly blue cars, dappled with mud. Blue everywhere. In the plastic detritus by the side of the road, in the curtains of houses that I passed. I paused to pick some berries from a dusty bush at the edge of a lay-by, and got blue juice all over my hands for my trouble. I was in so much trouble. I spat the berries out in a sudden fit of fear that they were poisonous after all, but the taste stayed with me, I feared it would never leave.
As a sea of trees rose on the horizon, a sign indicated a car park. I pulled in for a rest. Nobody else was there. I walked into the forest, over knots of tree and dirt. The ground was wet in places from a brief shower. Somewhere in the distance there came the curved yowl of a bird of prey that I couldn’t see. I walked onwards, towards the sound.
On the ground was a dead rabbit, disembowelled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam. I knelt and hovered my hands above its fur, checked its eyes for pinkness and swelling. The rabbit’s stomach seemed swollen. But then that could have been me again, seeing pregnancy in everything. The rabbit’s eyes were milked over but still watched me.
Blue Ticket Page 7