A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  ‌21

  Frank woke before dawn. He got out of bed and ran a bath. He shaved. As he stared in the mirror, he willed himself a fresh face. His eyes sparkled, his lips were moist but not wet, and his cheeks shone. He ran his fingers through his hair. He turned off the taps and climbed into the bath.

  The water was hot. He washed carefully. He shampooed his hair twice and rinsed with lukewarm water, and he scraped his feet with a pumice stone. He lay back, rested his head and stared at the condensation on the ceiling. He put his knees to his chin and rubbed an old scar. He noticed an unpainted bit on the wall, listened to the boiler, and read the back of a bottle of disinfectant.

  He had an egg for breakfast, Marmite soldiers and a pot of fresh coffee. He stood to eat. He polished his shoes on his trousers. He read an old shopping list, then screwed it up and threw it in the bin. The egg was runny, and the coffee was brewed strong.

  Half an hour later he left the house. The street was empty, and a faint band of dawn light was climbing up the sky. Silence hung over the town, disturbed only by the sound of his footsteps and the distant rumble of a train. A postman glided across the road ahead and a milk-float drifted to his left; the world seemed to move on polished runners, leaving nothing as it passed.

  He was going to find an empty shop that would be perfect as a sandwich bar, and he was going to buy Bob a drink. A drink the size of gratitude. Gratitude with a suitcase and a plane ticket. A suitcase containing loose summerwear and towels. A plane to Zanzibar. A ticket to the opera. Frank swung his arms as he walked, and began to hum a tune.

  He stopped at the shop on the corner for a paper. ‘Morning, Jeff,’ he said.

  ‘You’re up early, Frank.’

  Frank slapped his stomach. ‘I woke up and felt good,’ he said.

  ‘All right for some…’

  ‘All right’s a state of mind, Jeff.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Frank picked a paper off the counter and rummaged in his pocket. ‘Think you feel good and you will. Think yourself into a corner, and before you know it you’re out of the game.’ He took out a handful of coins and sorted them in the palm of his hand.

  ‘All this time,’ said Jeff, ‘we’ve had a philosopher living in the street, and no one told us. Incredible.’ He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘And he’s serious!’

  ‘Hey!’ Frank stuck his neck out, rattled the coins and flared his nostrils. ‘What’re you going to do today?’

  ‘Sell a few papers, some fags, couple of tit mags.’ Jeff coughed. ‘The usual.’

  ‘And you live with that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Frank snorted.

  ‘What are you on, Frank?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you if I find out.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jeff.

  Frank tossed some coins on to the counter and turned around. ‘It’s a promise,’ he said, and he left the shop.

  Davis woke suddenly, and sat bolt upright. His head was raging, sweeping across endless vistas, diving into deep holes, leaping out again and slamming against the sky. He sat up and put his hands to his eyes. The pain was terrible. It stabbed and stabbed and would not stop. It twisted its point, it sliced ribbons from his flesh and it keened in his ears. This was his day, this was the day, this was Chips’s day, and a day for anyone who never had a day. A day for a thousand frustrations.

  This is a day for the boy who stands at the gate and waits for a mother who never comes, and it’s a day for a woman on speed who cannot stop, who cannot stop flying into walls. It’s a day for a man called Mick who put his last note on a horse that didn’t show, didn’t place and didn’t return. Frustration is tattooed across the dark heart of a boy who only wants to spread grief in the world, for no other reason than the sight of it. He wants to see people cry and he wants to see them spread their arms in horror. He wants them bound and gagged, but he doesn’t know why. His frustration binds him but he likes that, he likes that feeling. And it’s a day that does not give itself a gift. It forgets itself. It does not respect itself. It does not want to talk. It is an English day in winter. It is English. It is the second-rate expecting the first and getting the third. It is roaring but it deafens itself. It wanders in the dark, and nobody hears it.

  Davis got up, showered and dressed slowly and carefully. He made a light breakfast. He ate standing up. The bus-driver occupied his mind, but he didn’t think about him. The bus-driver’s face filled the space behind his eyes but he didn’t picture him. He took a steak knife from a drawer and sharpened it. He took a vitamin pill from a jar and swallowed it. He listened to a farming programme on the radio. He wore a ring on the third finger of his right hand; he slipped it off and put it on a shelf.

  At half-past eleven, a doctor came to see Lisa. He was a big man with a loud laugh, and he wore a check suit under his white coat. A pair of glasses hung around his neck, and a loosely knotted tie. One of his shoelaces was untied, and its loose ends rattled on the floor. As he walked towards Lisa’s bed, he held the patient’s end of his stethoscope to his mouth and said, ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three.’ He laughed. She rolled her eyes. ‘Good morning,’ he said, and he checked her notes and touched her glands.

  ‘Is it?’ she said.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Fresh and crisp, like a perfect salad.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ He pointed outside, then looked back at her. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I’m hungry. When do you get breakfast round here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Lisa crossed her arms across her chest, and scowled down the ward.

  ‘Want to go home?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ He smiled hugely. ‘Is there someone waiting for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘And he’s at home?’

  She nodded.

  He rechecked her notes, nodded and said, ‘Nothing strenuous for at least a fortnight. Do you work’

  ‘In a chemist’s.’

  ‘Not for a couple of weeks.’ The doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper, and sealed it in a brown envelope. ‘Give this to your GP; he’ll give you a sick note.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve got the stuff about counselling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know that if your old man wants a cup of tea, he has to make it himself.’

  She laughed.

  ‘And one for you.’

  ‘He will.’

  The doctor hung the notes on the bed and said, ‘Hope I don’t see you again.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said. He patted her hand and stood up. ‘Anytime.’

  Frank explained what he wanted, but the estate agent wasn’t concentrating. He was preoccupied. His mind wandered. He sucked a pencil. His name was Maurice.

  Maurice was in love with Rita, who worked in the same office. But Rita was going out with Harry, a senior partner. Maurice didn’t want to jeopardise his chances of promotion, but he couldn’t help his feelings. They filled his head and played with the insides of his ears.

  ‘I don’t want a big frontage, but it would be useful to have a serving hatch to the outside…’

  Rita’s skirt rose over her thighs as she reached up to take some paper off the top shelf. He stuck out his tongue, and its glistening end touched the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I want room for about half a dozen tables, and stools at the counter.’

  She stepped down, straightened her skirt, flicked her hair away from her face and tucked the box of paper under her arm. As she passed Maurice’s desk, she left a wake of Amarige by Givenchy. Her stockings rustled. Her eyes were the colour of gravy.

&nbs
p; ‘A good-sized kitchen…’

  Rita wore a white blouse, buttoned to the neck.

  ‘… and a flat above.’

  She put the paper on her desk, then bent over to pick up a paperclip. Then she went to the back office to use the photocopier. She closed the door behind her, and as she did, Maurice heard her say something. His stomach snarled, and when he focused, his eyes watered.

  ‘Have you got anything like that?’ said Frank.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘You weren’t listening.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You didn’t hear a word.’

  ‘No.’ Now Maurice rubbed his chin with embarrassment and looked away. ‘I was…’

  ‘She’s not interested,’ said Frank.

  ‘What?’ Maurice’s eyes panicked.

  ‘She’s not even leading you on. You think she is, but she isn’t. Forget her.’

  ‘Forget who?’

  ‘Her.’ He beckoned towards the back office.

  ‘Rita?’

  ‘Yes. Rita.’

  Maurice looked at Frank, and his denials collapsed. ‘I can’t. I love her.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Everything and nothing,’ said Frank. ‘Love’s just an excuse lust uses. It’s fooling you into thinking you’re on to something important, something great, but it’s nothing like that.’ He turned Maurice’s name-plate towards him. ‘It’s a game, Maurice, and it ends in tears. Believe me.’

  ‘Why? You’re talking crap.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yeah. And if you’d ever been in love, you’d think so too.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘Love’s not an excuse for anything. It blows every excuse you ever had out of the water.’ Maurice wagged a finger. ‘When you’re in love, when everything in your life is concentrated on one person, one purpose, you live as pure a life as anyone can. You see the value of everything, you can begin to understand sense.’

  ‘Sense?’

  ‘Yeah. Everything makes sense. Apples grow on trees, birds fly, that sort of thing.’

  ‘God…’

  ‘I mean it,’ said Maurice, as Rita came from the back office with a sheaf of particulars.

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘It’s not like that!’

  ‘Sure…’

  ‘I know we’re going to be together.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Frank, and he thought about Janet Black, and he looked at Rita. ‘I’m sorry. I was wrong.’ He scratched his chin. ‘She’s just playing hard to get.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Hey.’ Frank spread his arms. ‘Trust me.’

  Davis stood outside the bus-driver’s house and watched the curtains. They were opened at eight. The milk was taken in at ten past. A light shone in an upstairs room for twenty minutes, then it went off and another light was turned on downstairs. It was the kitchen light. It shone through the living-room and lit up the front window.

  Davis stood still, with his hands in his pockets. He was calm and his thoughts trod water. His nose was blue but he did not feel cold. His body felt like a huge shout stuck in a throat, trapped behind a ball of pain. He knew what he was going to do, he saw the inevitability of the day, but he could not stop. He was overtaken by desire and loved it. He was living for the first time. He saw the world spread out below him, and though devils came to tempt him, he turned them away. His only wish was breakfast in a warm kitchen, a newspaper propped up in front of him and the radio on.

  Mrs Austin slept badly and woke late. She missed breakfast, but only wanted a cup of tea. WPC Hobbs arrived at half-past ten. The two women drove to the daughter’s house in silence. The police car was warm. When they arrived, Hobbs handed the front-door key to Mrs Austin and said, ‘I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to stay here; I’ll trust you not to disturb anything.’

  Mrs Austin put her hand on the other’s arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Hobbs tapped her watch. ‘Forty minutes, then I’m coming in to get you.’

  ‘You won’t need to,’ said Mrs Austin.

  Lisa got back to her flat at midday. She sat on the bed, and looked around. Her collection of teapots was arranged on two shelves above the television, a framed photograph of Adrian stood on the window-sill, and a teeny-weeny fluffy bunny rabbit sat on the bed. She picked up the photograph and calmly smashed it against the corner of a table, then dropped it into a wastepaper-basket. Adrian stared out from behind the shattered glass, his features multiplied and distorted; ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘and fuck you.’ She picked up the rabbit and hugged it. ‘You wouldn’t let me down, would you, Flopsy?’ She shook Flopsy’s head. ‘I didn’t think so,’ she said.

  When she looked at her ornaments, her teapots, her books and the stuff in her kitchenette, she was torn between possession and the freedom of rejection. Keep these things and slow yourself down, let them go and give yourself wings. Give yourself wings and watch your impudence bring you down. Put one place behind you and give yourself another chance. You can’t run away, because you carry the world in your head. Travel narrows vision, as soon all you see is the road. Lisa closed her eyes, buried her face in the top of Flopsy’s head, and began rocking backwards and forwards.

  Fifteen feet below, Mrs Platt lay cold and rigid, her mouth caught in an expression of amazement. Her freezing rooms were still. The smell of candle wax had insinuated itself into her curtains, carpets and furniture.

  Once, Mrs Platt’s rooms had seen lively parties, tearful reunions and children’s games. Birds had sung in them, and she had made love on the bed, the sofa and the kitchen table. The windows had looked on wild autumn storms, piercing winters and big summers, and every spring they had opened on the fat garden, its trees and shrubs. People had listened to music in the sitting-room, smoked cigarettes in the bathroom and eaten spaghetti in the bedroom. When Mr Platt had been alive, he had brought friends home to play cards and drink beer. Mrs Platt used to sit with her feet up and tell them to keep the noise down.

  Joey’s ashes settled in Mrs Platt’s stomach, and hardened. There was a thump upstairs. Lisa had thrown Flopsy across her room and knocked over a lamp. She thought about Frank, and the things he had said, and she thought about Mrs Platt. She always knew what to do in a crisis.

  ‌22

  Bob woke late. He was weak. He had a headache, and his side was still aching. The pain had grown; now it stretched from his waist to the middle of his chest. He lay on his back for five minutes, then swung his legs out of bed. He touched the floor with his toes, then stood up slowly. He was cold. He put on a dressing-gown, walked to the kitchen, and filled the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he leaned against the fridge and stared out of the window.

  He watched a pair of starlings fighting over a piece of bread, and saw a dog being chased out of a butcher’s shop. The sound of crying babies washed the air, and car horns. He reached up to take a packet of tea from the cupboard over the sink, and as he did, a stabbing pain shot from his waist and slammed into his kidneys. He sat down and let the kettle switch itself off, and he listened to his heart. It raced. He took steady breaths, concentrating as he exhaled. He gripped his knees with his hands, and wiped his eyes.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Yeah?’ Bob sat up.

  ‘Postman!’

  ‘Leave it on the mat!’

  ‘You’ve got to sign for it!’

  Bob stood up and winced. He put his hand to his side and shuffled to the door. He opened it. The postman was holding a parcel; he passed a pen and said. ‘Sign here, please.’ The postman pointed to a space on a page of writing that drifted in and out of focus. Bob narrowed his eyes, scribbled, and took the parcel.

  ‘You okay?’ said the postman.

  Bob swallowed, and a stagnant taste fil
led his mouth. ‘Yeah. I gave up smoking a couple of days ago.’ He coughed. ‘It’s not easy.’

  ‘I know,’ said the postman, and ‘Okay.’ He took the pen from Bob, said, ‘Good luck,’ and went on with his round. Bob watched him go, closed the door slowly, and looked at the parcel. It was his Christmas present to himself, a special bucket that kept bottles of wine cool. He put it on the table and went back to the kitchen, and boiled the kettle again.

  The Super tipped in his chair and walked on to the eighteenth tee. It was a hot day, but a cool breeze took the edge off the heat and gave the golfers something to think about. He was a shot behind his partner, the Commissioner.

  As he teed up, he felt a surge of adrenalin. This was a par four, an awkward dog-leg. The fairway was lined with Scots pines, and the kink in the leg was dotted with bunkers. More bunkers ringed the irritating green, its hole sitting at the foot of a cambered slope that lay at the back and to one side. A difficult hole but it was the Super’s favourite. As he squared up to the ball he felt good, as he went into his back-swing he felt his body in harmony, and when he hit the ball he heard it sing. It sailed into the sky, drifted to the left, then slowed in the wind, exactly as the Super had hoped. He missed the trees, he missed the bunkers and the ball found a good lie. The pin was in sight. The Commissioner shook his head. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Evans. You wanted a word?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s Davis, sir.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I went round to his place; he said he had the flu…’

  ‘There’s a lot of it about.’

  ‘There is. But something wasn’t right. I got a feeling…’

  The Super tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘The old radar got going?’

  ‘Yes, sir. So when I left, I waited for him. He emerged half an hour later, fit as the old proverbial…’