by Tommy Dakar
Living in the shadows. The shadows of huge imperturbable rain clouds, of gaunt featured rocks, of his ill-illumined cottage. Outside always a darkness, under stones and amongst the grasses, drifting moodily over the valley, or murmuring in the deathlike depths of the ocean. Like the damp, it pervaded.
David shook the last few drops of urine from his penis and zipped himself up. He always pissed quickly and efficiently because he felt a little exposed to danger with his back to the room and his penis uncontrollable in his hand. He glanced guiltily (why?) at Mick Gubbins, Richard's young replacement, before moving to the mirror.
He took out a comb and resettled his hair. He was training it to flick back off his face and run in smooth lines along the side of his head: it needed constant attention. Mick Gubbins stared above him at the stainless steel rail which demarked the edge of the tiles and the beginning of the painted wall, aware too of vulnerability, feeling awkward at being nervous in David's presence. To ease the situation he forced himself to ask,
'So what happened to this other bloke, then?'
He dismissed another wave of uneasiness at his use of language, he knew he was being deliberately ungraceful with it, but he saw it as necessary, a social obligation.
David flicked some water onto his hair and combed thoughtfully. He didn't much like this Mick Gubbins, he was nervous and inexperienced and losing himself in trying to please. He didn't much like Richard either, but at least he hadn't kept pretending all the time. He felt a sudden desire to defend Richard.
'He went off to live on his own up north somewhere. He's doing some self-sufficiency thing.'
Mick was at a loss what to say. Did David agree or disagree with the move? Self-sufficiency, that's OK, but to live on your own? He decided, unconsciously, to be diplomatic.
'A lot of people doing that kind of thing these days.'
Oh well, I'm stuck with him now, maybe for years to come. I might as well just be myself. He means nothing to me, after all. He straightened his clothing, ran his hand deliberately over his balls as he tucked in his shirt, (except it was so habitual, so mechanical that he would never have noticed) and faced Mick who was struggling with his fly-buttons.
'Well if you want my opinion, it's not natural, mate. To just push off on your own and live like a bloody hermit all on your own, stuck up there in the cold with nobody to talk to, nobody to see, nobody to even fuck with! Self-sufficiency, all right. But solitary confinement? He's a freak, he wants to punish himself I reckon.'
Mick was content to listen. While David talked he was under no pressure to speak himself. He nodded and raised his eyebrows appropriately and meanwhile washed his hands. He was only listening to the story because David was speaking. He had never known Richard, he didn't particularly want to. After all, it didn't really matter much to anybody. It was just another biography. David expanded.
'Mind you, I don't suppose he could have got someone to go with him anyway. He didn't seem to have any friends, any mates. There were a few birds, dogs mostly, or students, but he was always sullen and silent, a miserable git most of the time. Look, I don't mind if a bloke's quiet, I'm not saying that, (how easy to speak to somebody who isn't involved, )we're all mime artists at some time or other, (I'll remember that, that's good) no, I don't say that, but what I do say is that if you've got troubles, leave them at home. God, if everybody went round moaning or sulking what a miserable world it would be.'
He was enjoying himself. This Mick Gubbins isn't so bad, at least he's an eager listener. He rested his arse on the rim of the basin and warmed to his topic. Mick settled down to listen, he couldn't go even if he wanted to.
'Everybody's got troubles. Look at me, do I ever complain? No. But if you knew ...'
he shook his head as if to say that he couldn't, shouldn't, burden Mick's young ears with his woes.
' Anyway, I think he's running away. It's because he's basically weak. To succeed in this world you've got to get the bastards before they get you. It's a war, mate, and the only losers are those that don't learn fast enough. Richard couldn't handle it, or didn't want to, but it amounts to the same thing. You've got to say 'what does a man want?', and when you've done that, you've got to get up off your arse and get it. Yeah, you have to push, you have to bow your head and all that. But if you don't, you've had it, mate. It'll be council house and dole queue, waiting lists and lumbago. Not for me, mate. They ain't fucking getting me!'
He nodded conclusively, high on his self-expression.
'Too right. Survival of the fittest, '
commented Mick, now sure of his ground.
'Exactly! '
He slapped his hands and smiled.
'Well, let's get back to the Jungle, Jane.'
Mick didn't know whether to smile or be offended. He smiled.