by Nigel Bird
I start at the beginning.
regrets
Outside the rain’s beating at my window like a percussion instrument.
The phone’s ringing and I ignore it. Rings again. I still ignore it.
There’s something about Wolf and the way he sucked up the story that has me worried.
He owed me he said, like there was something cryptic to the words. Owed me big time. It wasn’t the words that got me, but the look in his eyes, the shiny black of his pupils practically shouting out that he’s lost the plot.
Wished I’d kept the whole pathetic tale to myself, shared it with Mike instead. He’d understand.
No way I’m going to sleep.
Owes me big time.
Maybe giving him the address wasn’t the wisest thing to do.
Shit.
I get out of my bed and go looking for the stash.
Limbo
John, Craig’s dad from last year’s class, catches me between the staffroom and the office. He’s a cool guy, his long fringe curling over his left eye so he needs to keep flicking his head to see properly.
“Can I have a word?” He’s quiet. I know straight away it’s bad.
“Course.”
He takes small steps till I’m by the sink next to the toilet.
“Is it true Carpenter hit a kid?” His American accent bubbles through his words.
I’m right on the spot. Under the heat-lamp. Ready to break down. Don’t say anything though.
“Is it?”
“Is it what?” I’m trying to work out an angle. Can’t find one. Just stand there trying to pass the answer over by pursing my lips and opening my hands. It doesn’t seem to work.
“Did he hit a kid or didn’t he?”
I guess if he’s asking he knows already. Just needs some kind of confirmation.
Inside my head it’s like the floodgates have opened. Pictures of Alistair’s warning flash by as if on a flooding river, followed by images of the gigs Craig’s dad got me into by putting me on the guest list and of the party he had at his house before the summer break.
He flicks his hair from his eyes. Moves in close. He’s usually as laid back as a fallen tree, but not this time.
I nod. Keep nodding. Then whisper. “Yes. Yes it’s true.” The words are out. I feel better. By the looks of him, so does he. “Someone in my class.”
“Zlatan?” Course he knew. I guess he’s just testing my loyalties and I realise where they lie.
“Yes, Zlatan.”
“Which is why his parents are moving him up to New End.”
Shit. That’s out of the blue.
“Are you sure?”
“Spoke with them yesterday. Soon as the paperwork’s handled, they’re off.”
“But...” I don’t get to finish. In walks Mildred.
“Excuse me,” she says. “May I just get to the bin?”
Mildred and her ‘may I’s.’ Won’t let the kids go the toilet unless they ask properly. “Can I go to the toilet, please?” they ask. “I know you can go to the toilet, but are you allowed to?” she says. “M...m.....m...” is the prompt. Wonder if she asks Carpenter before she sucks his cock. “May I take you in my mouth, Phil?”
“No worries.” I say. “So like I was saying, Craig will definitely be on the team for the next match.”
Mildred picks up a tissue, carefully removes the gum from her mouth and wraps it in tissue paper before throwing it in the bin.
John and I stand like a pair of lemons watching.
Two minutes to the bell and I start counting the seconds.
Christmas Shopping
Less than two weeks to go until Christmas and I’ve not bought so much as a Satsuma.
No way I’ll get it sorted all in the one lunch-break, but the sooner I get up the road the better.
I’m practically jogging up the street, the only things holding me back being my cigarette and the pair of lungs that are calling out in submission.
By the time I get to the newsagent’s, my lungs have won.
Stopping a while to catch breath, I take a look at the cards in the window. There are second hand bikes, kittens, cleaner services and a few ladies who might well be offering a little more than a massage.
Breath under control, I head for the museum shop, only I see the MMR plate attached to the black Fiat before I get there, Emma with her nose practically up to the wind-shield.
She can only be doing 20. 25 at the most. The cabbie behind her isn’t impressed. Blows off a couple of quick toots and gets to see Emma’s v-sign out of her window.
I dive through the first doorway there is.
Happens to be a hairdresser’s. Women only and me bald as a plucked bird.
The girl with the scissors is pretty tasty, mind. I go straight over, all bluff.
Now I’m close, I see the tan’s out of a bottle, the edges between the tan and the untreated skin an orange line like a border marked on a map.
“Karen in?” I ask, all casual.
“Karen? She’s on lunch.”
Thank fuck for small mercies. Chances of there being a Karen working here must be a million to one.
“Never mind, I’ll come back later,” I tell her, hoping the relief’s not obvious.
“Don’t worry yourself, mate,” she says, common as a cabbage white on a vegetable farm. “I’ll give her a shout. ‘Scuse me a mo,” she says to the lady in the chair and wanders to the door at the back with the Staff Only sign.
“Kaz, some bloke here for you?”
I don’t hear what Kaz shouts back.
“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
It’s almost enough to get me to forgive the fake tan.
“She’ll be here in a sec, love,” the girl says. “Just finishing off her fag.”
There’s a magazine on the table. ‘Red’. A famous woman on the cover’s dressed in something summery, revealing a flowing curve between hip and breasts. I pick it up. Flick through the pages. By the time I find something that’s not ads, the door opens and Karen walks onto the floor.
“All right?” she asks.
I might be if I wasn’t looking at her.
There’s more of her than there is dress. Her cleavage is like one of those tricky climbs on Everest. Her hair’s tied tight on her head and the way she’s chewing her gum you’d think she was on speed.
“I’ve got a message from Ian.” Seems as good a name as any.
“Ian with the Harley or Ian the baker?”
“Harley,” I pick.
“Well?”
“Says he can’t make it next week. He’s really sorry.”
“Next week. What the ‘ell’s he on about?
“Don’t blame me, sweetheart,” the word falls from my mouth like bird-droppings, “I’m just the messenger.”
The rate of her chewing accelerates.
“Tell him he’s a wanker,” she says and walks back through the staff door.
I put the magazine down and move to leave.
“Don’t worry love,” the other one says, “Her time of the month, innit.” And she gets back to cutting with her scissors like I was never there.
gold, frankincense and myrrh
I get to the Museum shop and relax. Feel like a genius for the dodge I pulled. Might be I’m in the wrong job and should start doing a spot of private investigation on the side.
There’s a clean, soapy smell to this place. A hint of cinnamon. Everything’s beautifully presented on glass shelves that must get cleaned at least twice a day.
The guy sitting behind the counter stops writing in his notepad for a moment and looks up to smile. I squeeze my lips together in acknowledgement and he gets back to what he’s doing, only I know he’s going to be keeping an eye on my every move, like I’ve got ‘shoplifter’ tattooed across my forehead or something. Feel the urge to slip something up my sleeve to spite him, but those days are behind me. Mostly behind me.
There’s a great, silver cork screw with a fish
head that opens up into a body shape and a tail. Not romantic, perhaps, but unusual and practical.
The set of Pop Art coasters is cool and there are packets of astronaut food as possible novelty items. I pick the one that’s labelled ‘Astronaut Ice Cream’ to check out the ingredients. Feels like a block of an oasis you stick flowers in when I give it a squeeze.
The door’s bell gives a sweet, little ring.
I’m just getting the ingredients list into focus when I feel a pair of fingers over my eyes and the world goes dark.
“Guess who?”
I don’t need to. That career as a private investigator looks like it’s already out of the window.
Soon as I turn round Emma plants her lips onto mine. Gives me one of those big sucky kisses that makes the biggest noise of all.
“Hey baby,” she says.
Her hair’s pulled tight back into a pony-tail. Makes her ears look big and her teeth equine. Could be why she’s wearing the enormous African face-mask earrings, to distract the eye. Even so, she smells ready for bed and in her pin-striped suit she looks nice enough to eat.
“Hey.”
“Christmas shopping?” she grins.
“Just browsing.”
The man behind the counter clears his throat loudly. I’m guessing he doesn’t like the way we’re standing eye-to-eye and hip-to-hip. Screw him. I pull her tight and give her a kiss back. Straight away I want sex.
“You coming round later?” I ask, my hormones taking over both sides of my brain.
“I’ve got time for a quickie, yeah.” My legs lose some of their strength at the words. “And make sure you bring some of that ice-cream. Might come in handy.”
She turns back to the door and gives me one of her smouldering looks.
“And by the way,” she tells me, “I’ve already got one of the corkscrews.”
The bell rings again as she leaves and I remember I’m supposed to be buying the present for Jenny.
Taking the Astronaut Ice Cream and the corkscrew to the counter, I feel my heart sink an inch and my throat tighten, so that when the man asks me if there’ll be anything else my answer sounds like it’s given by a baby frog.
gnashing of teeth
Five o’clock and it was a quickie alright.
It’s already pitch black outside, or it would be if it weren’t for the glow of orange from the street lamp over by Crippen’s house.
There’s not a sound to be heard. Like the world outside has disappeared.
Funny that, because the world inside seems to have disappeared, too.
I imagine the bottom of the ocean. The darkness and quiet. Close my eyes and imagine myself there.
When I open my eyes again, I look around and see the mess on the bed, the pinks, whites and browns of the freeze-dried Neapolitan that half an hour earlier had seemed like the food of the gods, the breakfast of champions. I want to get out, put my feet on hard land, but I can’t. It’s the bed I’ve made, the saying goes, and now I have to do some lying in it.
I think of the bottom of the ocean again. Imagine myself to be sinking like a stone.
Loneliness covers me like a heavy blanket, suffocates hope and humanity.
On the wall opposite I look at the bumps of plaster under the wallpaper. They morph, shift, until they make the face of Jesus. For this moment, there is life. I concentrate. Will God to enter the room, to bring light into my life.
And it fades. Twists into another shape, the shape of plaster bumps on a wall.
The tears come, my chest heaves up and down and I hold my legs tightly to my chest.
I want it to be the end.
To let it finish.
Want my heart to stop.
It beats on.
Out in the hall, I hear the door open and slam.
“Joe?” The smell of fish and chips and vinegar gets to me before the next words.
Does that mean smell travels faster than sound?
“I’ve brought us some tea, Joe.” Wolf pops his head round the bedroom door. Looks straight at me and strides over, his arms open wide and a concerned look on his face.
“Bloody hell, Joe,” he says, “It’s me that should be sobbing, mate.”
Maybe he’s right. I try to tell him, but all that comes out is another wail.
“S’OK buddy. Let it all out.” The way he hugs me practically squeezes the anguish from my soul. His face rubs against my cheek. Feels like I’m being sandpapered. The smell of fags clings to his clothes and wafts of ale come from his mouth. “Tell Wolfy all about it.”
I think about when he arrived at my door, homeless and alone. The way he collapsed under the weight of his pain.
Inside I feel something grow. Like a tumour. Dark and potent. “It’s all black, Wolf,” I whisper. “It’s all so bloody black.”
His arms tighten. My spine cracks. I bury my head into his shoulder and hold on for dear life.
More Wailing
Sat opposite Dr India and I’m still wailing. I’ve never cried in his chair before, no matter what brutal truths I’ve revealed.
I realise that this outburst has cost me a tenner already. Just makes me cry all the louder.
I grip the arms of the chair hoping I won’t fall off, feel my body sway backwards and forwards like I’m a nut-job. And I can’ t stop.
When I open my eyes he’s out of focus. Too many tears in there to be able to see properly. I give my face a rub with my sleeve then clear the snot from my nose.
India reaches out for the box of tissues. Reaches in and pulls one until it pokes out like a napkin. He passes them over and I take it to blow my nose.
“I’m screwed,” I tell him when I’m done. “Screwed.”
“Go on,” is all he says.
“Even when I know what I should do, I’m too much of a bloody coward. I might as well leave here and go and suck on my exhaust pipe. No fucker wants me. No fucker except Jenny. And I’ll mess that up like I mess up everything. Like I’m carrying cancer. Like I’m just the kiss of bloody death.”
My hand shapes a fist. Slams down onto the arm of the chair. I try not to show it, but it hurts like buggery.
The doctor looks over at me, the corners of his lips bending up at the corners. I could swear that he’s giving me a smile.
I furrow my brow. Raise my eyebrows.
“I think,” he says slowly, “we’re on the verge of a breakthrough,” he says and I laugh for the first time in a while.
provisions
After the session, I thought it would be a good time to get some more therapy of the retail variety.
How stupid can you get? Rush hour on a Thursday evening.
It’s Waitrose I choose. There’s a first time for everything. Main reason is it’ll save a good ten minutes walk if I go here instead of Sainsbury’s.
Place is packed. So’s my basket.
The music blares from the speakers. ‘Tis the season to be jolly’. Fa la la la la la fucking la la.
I can feel the sweat on my back and hanging like droplets above my lips. If it wouldn’t lose my place in the queue I’d pop into the freezer section for a cool down.
My line seems to be for the over-60s. There’s no sign saying it, though. Must just be some unwritten rule they have.
The folk I’m standing with aren’t the usual faces of Holloway. These are the well-to-do crowd who pop in on the way home from the City, slumming it as they head off to Highbury or Highgate or some such.
The lady in front of me stares into my basket. Pulls a face then looks me in the eye. Maybe she’s noticed the reduced-price labels. Snooty cow. If it hadn’t been for sell-by-dates I wouldn’t have been able to buy enough for a salad.
The ringing of the scanner’s getting on my nerves. The old bag in front of me peeks into my shopping again. There’s a hook to her nose I don’t care for. Makes me want to straighten it for free. She raises her eye-brows and gives a little tut, as if she’s upset by the state of the Empire these days.
My hea
rt starts pumping hard.
I don’t know why, but I lean forward to get a look at her basket. Safely balanced on a New York Style cheesecake is a box of quail’s eggs, their speckled brown visible through the clear plastic. Not a reduced-price label in sight.
My hand’s in there before I can control it, picks up the eggs and brings them close to my face. My mouth speaks, too. “What’s the point of these?” I ask.
Course she doesn’t answer. Just reaches out to take them back.
My hand’s too quick. Pulls them away from her like we’re playing some teasing game.
“Really,” she says, her voice carrying the perfect tone of contempt.
“I mean it,” I say. “What’s the point? You keeping a load of little people at home or something?”
She turns away and looks round. “Security,” she shouts. “Security.”
The man from the door wanders over. We might be in a posh supermarket, but they don’t spend any more on the uniforms of the muscle than they do anywhere else.
They do, however, seem to have paid for the real deal when they were hiring.
This guy’s huge. Unnatural looking. A brick shit-house with a cement extension.
He’s over as fast as he can swagger.
I’m palpitating like crazy, feeling the eyes of every customer in the place on me.
“Ma’am,” the guy says, a thick slice of Irish in the accent.
“This hooligan has my eggs,” she says.
She’s right. I do. Caught red-handed.
The muscle squeezes his way round the back of the till and over in my direction. I see the way his legs are practically bursting the seams of his trousers and deodorant has stained chalky rings under the armpits of his cheap, blue shirt.
“One’s broken,” I say. “Look. You can see it from the bottom.” I hold up the box and, sure enough, there’s some grey gunk all over one of the compartments. “I’m terribly sorry if I offended you, but I couldn’t have you disappointing the little people, could I?”
The anger’s gone. If I had a tail, it would be between my legs. “Sorry if I caused any offence.”
She takes her eggs, apparently taking care to avoid making any contact with my fingers. There’s no thank you. No nothing. A snooty look, a twist of the body and the basket’s in front of her, safely out of view.