by Iain Banks
Things like this are always happening to me," she "said, and shrugged, put her elbows on the sill of the window and smiled down at him. She wore a loose, heavy tartan shirt, like some fake lumberjack.
"So," he said, "are you coming for a walk?"
"Where shall we go?" she said. "Tempt me."
"I don't know. You fed up with the canal?"
"Maybe," she shrugged. Her eyes seemed to wander away from him, scanning the horizon. "Ah," she said, "the Post Office Tower."
He turned round, looking south and west, though he knew he couldn't see the tall building from the street. "You want to go there?"
"We could go to the revolving restaurant," she laughed.
"I thought they'd closed it," he said. She shrugged, stretched her arms out, arching her back.
"Have they? How boring of them."
"Bit out of my price range anyway," he laughed. "I'll buy you a Wimpy and chips if you're hungry. There; how's that for an offer?"
The zoo," she said, and looked down at him.
"Aardvark and chips? Chimpy and chips?" he said. She laughed, making him feel good.
She said, "We could go to the zoo today."
"You really want to?" he said. He'd heard it was quite expensive to get in. But he'd go if she wanted.
"I don't know," she shrugged again, "I think so,"
The canal goes by the zoo. Might be a long walk, but it would be nice. Through Camden Lock." His neck was getting sore from looking up at her. She gripped the edge of the window sill, seemed to strain up on the window across the small of her back. She's stuck, he thought, but she doesn't want to admit it. Proud; embarrassed. Like me. He smiled. Perhaps he would have to go and get a ladder; rescue her. The idea amused him.
"Did you know the canal goes right under this house?" she said.
He shook his head. "No. Does it?"
"Straight underneath," she nodded. "Right below. I looked it up on the map. Isn't that amazing?"
"Maybe there's a secret passage."
"We could build one. Tunnel." Her voice sounded scratchy; he wanted to laugh at her but didn't. She was getting annoyed, embarrassed at being stuck out of the window, making conversation while she secretly strained, trying to heave the trapping window back up.
"You having problems up there?" he said, trying to keep a straight face.
"What?" she said, then "No, no of course not." She cleared her throat. "So, what have you been doing with yourself."
"Nothing much," he grinned, "just looking forward to seeing you." She made a funny face, gave a snorting sort of laugh. He continued, "I've done some more drawings of you."
"Oh yes?"
"They're still not good enough, though. I'm going to tear them up."
"Really?"
"You're difficult to draw." He looked up and down the street. "Will you pose for me properly some time?"
"You mean improperly," she said. He laughed.
"Better still. But I'd settle for you sitting still for a while."
"Maybe. One day. Well, all right; yes, definitely. I promise."
"I'll hold you to it."
"Do."
"So, are you going to come down?" he said.
She really was stuck. She turned her head round, he saw her shoulders tense and her back arch again. She muttered something which sounded like a curse. She turned to him again, nodded, "Yes, yes, just a second."
He grinned as she pushed up on the window sill, her head down, hair hanging blackly. He could just see her face as he walked over to the pavement beneath. She grunted; the window squeaked. He looked up into her triumphant face; she smiled broadly and then pushed herself back, waving once, saying, "Ah, that's better. See you in a second."
They walked to the lock at Camden; she didn't feel like walking very far. They spent most of the afternoon in a poster shop, looking, then in a cafe. She wouldn't walk back; they got the tube from Camden Town to the Angel.
In the train, in the tunnel, he asked her things he'd often wanted to ask, but never dared. There was a sort of noisy anonymity about the rattling carriage which made him feel safe.
He asked her about Stock; had she come to London for him?
She said nothing for a long time, then shook her head.
She had come to escape, to get away. The city was big enough to hide in, to become lost in and anyway she knew a few people here; Slater was one. Stock was here too, but she had no illusions, never had had any illusions, about the permanency of their relationship. She was here, she said, to be herself, to find her way again. Stock was... something she still needed, even yet; something to hold on to; a devil she knew, immovable in the change and flux of her life.
She knew they weren't suited to each other, really; she didn't love him, but she couldn't give him up just yet. Besides, he wasn't the sort it was easy to give up.
She stopped talking then, as though she thought she had already said more than she should have. She looked at Graham after a moment, put her hand to his cheek, said, "I'm sorry, Graham; you're good for me, I love talking to you. That means a lot. You don't know how much."
He put his hand on hers, held it. She gave a brave little smile. "I'm glad I'm good for you," he said (keeping his voice down; there were people nearby), "but I don't want to be just like a brother to you."
Her expression froze at that, and his heart seemed to sink into his guts as he realised he'd almost said the wrong thing. But she smiled again and said, "I'd understand if you didn't want to see me any more," and looked down, away from him, at her feet. She took her hand away. He hesitated at first, then put his hand on her shoulder.
That's not what I meant," he said. "I love seeing you. I'd miss you terribly if... well, if you went away." He paused, bit his lip lightly for a second, "But I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what your plans are; if you're going to stay here or go or what. I just feel uncertain."
"Join the club," she said. She looked at him, touched his hand where it rested on her shoulder. "I think I'll stay. I'm applying for the R.C.M. I had a place there if I'd wanted it, three... four years ago, but I didn't go. Now I might get a place there, this time. If they'll have me."
He bit his lip. What to do; admit his ignorance and ask what R.C.M. stood for, or just nod, make appreciative noises?
"What exactly will you do there?" he said.
She shrugged, looked at her long fingers, flexed them. "Piano. I think I can still play. I'm not getting the practice I should, though. I've got this electronic one of Veronica's; well, one of her ex-boyfriends'... and its action is all right, but it isn't the same." She shrugged, still inspecting her fingers, "We'll see."
He breathed again, relieved. Royal College of Music; that must be it. Of course; Slater had mentioned about her being good on the piano. "You should have a shot on one of the pianos in a pub sometime," he said. She smiled.
"Well, anyway," she said, taking a deep breath. He felt her slim shoulder move under the thick fabric of the tartan shirt, "as much as I know anything at the moment, that's what I think I'll be doing. Staying here probably, for the next few years. I think. I've still to get myself sorted out. But I'm glad you're here, you help me think." She looked into his eyes, as if searching for something in them; her white face made the dark, heavy-browed eyes look lost and empty, and after a while he could not look into them anymore, and had to smile and look away.
Then, from nowhere, a kind of despair seemed to settle on him, and he felt lonely and used and cheated, and for a moment wanted to be far away from this slim, black-haired woman with her tense white face and her slender fingers. The moment passed, and he tried to imagine what she was going through, how it felt to her.
The train shuddered and braked, slowing. Graham had a sudden, strange image of the train in its tunnel suddenly bursting through clay and bricks into the canal tunnel under Sara's flat; taking some ancient subterranean wrong-turning and missing the station entirely, smashing into the darkness and water of the old canal under the hill. He tr
ied to imagine drawing such a scene, but couldn't. He shook his head, forgetting the idea and looking at Sara again as the train stopped in the station. She sat forward in her seat, smiling wryly.
"All my life people have liked me too quickly, Graham, and for all the wrong reasons. Maybe you'll change your mind when you know me better." The doors opened; she stood, and as he got to his feet, as they went out on to the platform, he grinned confidently and shook his head.
"No way," he said.
And now, in June, how much better did he know her? A little better; he had seen her in a few more moods, some higher, some lower. Her attraction had only grown; he found himself trying to smell her hair when they sat together in pubs, he gazed out of the corner of his eye at her breasts under whatever jumper or T-shirt she was wearing, wanting to touch them, hold them.
But it never seemed right; she would kiss him, for not very long, at the end of each meeting, and he could hold her, feel his arms around her narrow back, his body briefly against hers, but he could feel her tense if his hands went lower than the small of her back, and when he tried to kiss her more deeply, or hold her tighter, she would break away, shaking her head. He had almost given up testing the limits.
But now what? It sounded as though Stock was no more, as though at last she was free, strong enough to do without him, to get rid of his influence and accept Graham as more of - and more than - a friend.
Don't get your hopes up, not too much, he told himself. It might not be all you hope for. He stood at the side of Pentonville Road, by a telephone junction-box with posters advertising Woza Albert on it, and he told himself not to expect everything. Hopes and dreams had a way of evaporating.
But he could remember the sound of her voice on the phone that morning, when he'd called her up from the School, too well.
"Why don't you come in this time?" she said, "I'll get us a salad together, or something."
"Actually come into the flat?" he laughed. "You mean come oop and - "ow you zay - zee you zome time?" he said, in a good mood, making a silly French voice which he started to regret almost as soon as he'd spoken. Her voice over the phone was cool:
"Well... why not, Graham?"
His throat went dry after that; he didn't recall what else he'd said.
MRS SHORT
Social Insecurity!
He'd just remembered he owed Mrs Short a month's rent in a couple of days. He had plenty of money now, but what if they took a long time to give him this Social Security? Would he even get enough?
Grout stood outside Mrs Short's house in Packington Street, Islington. He didn't know whether to go in or not now; maybe he should go to the pub first; it was always easier to face Mrs Short with a drink in him. He decided not to be so stupid; he wouldn't really owe the rent until the end of the month, and it was only the twenty-eighth. Anyway, it being his birthday, he deserved favours. He let himself in.
It was dark in the narrow hall of Mrs Short's house; the small curved window over the front door was brown with grime, the walls were covered with dark brown wallpaper, and Mrs Short's supply of forty-watt lightbulbs appeared to have dried up once again. After the bright street, Grout was almost blind. He groped his way to the stairs and started up; his bedsit was on the third, top storey. Mrs Short pounced on the second floor landing.
"Oh, Mr Grout, you're home early," she said, coming out of the Television Lounge (hard chairs, monochrome set, lodgers to share licence fee and extra electricity, turned off at twelve o'clock). Mrs Short wiped her hands on her duster, then on her nylon dress; she was a stout, balding lady of about fifty. Her hair was so tightly tied back at the rear of her skull that Grout swore the front strands, over her forehead, were being pulled out by the roots, and that the tautened skin so produced was thus responsible for the expression of malevolent surprise she wore; he had the impression that when Mrs Short blinked her over-stretched eyelids didn't quite make it to the bottom of her eyes. That was why she blinked a lot and had such red eyes. "You "aven't been fired again, "ave you Mr Grout?" Mrs Short said, and burst out laughing, bending at the waist and cracking her duster like a whip.
Damn! Grout hadn't thought about this. What was he to say? He had a few precious seconds while Mrs Short laughed and then dried her eyes, wiping her nose on the duster. She sneezed suddenly; more precious seconds! He stood there. The seconds ticked away.
"Ah... no," he said. Well, it was succinct. Not all that convincing, perhaps, he knew that, but unequivocal. He pressed his lips tight together.
"Well then, Mr Grout, what brings you back so early?" Mrs Short smiled. The subtle variations in the colour of the enamel on her false teeth, replaced one by one over the years as the originals gave up the unequal struggle against the mint humbugs Mrs Short favoured, drew Steven's eyes and he said quickly,
"Dentist." Brilliant! he thought.
"Oh, you been or you going?" She poked her head forward, staring into his mouth. He closed it quickly.
"Going, soon," he mumbled.
"What's he going to do, then? Take any out? Fill them? My niece Pam, she got hers drilled by her dentist the other day; hit a nerve! She bit him; didn't mean to but she closed her mouth, didn't she? End of the drill snapped off in her mouth! Right in the tooth!" Mrs Short doubled up laughing at this. Steven watched anxiously to see whether a way round her and up the stairs would present itself, but without reward. Mrs Short came upright again, searched for a hanky in her dress pocket, failed to find one and so used her duster again, blowing into it, inspecting the nasal hollow indented in it briefly, then looking back at Grout. "Poor cow! Off work for a week she was. Had to eat through a straw!"
She mistook Steven's immobile expression for fear and said, leaning forward to flick his chest with her duster, "Oh, there I go; I'm making you all frightened now, aren't I? Oh, Mr Grout, you men are all the same; least little bit of pain and you're off. You should have a kid sometime! Ha!" She laughed, tears coming to her eyes at the memory. "Gawd, Mr Grout, I thought I was bein" torn in two! Scream? I thought I was goin" to die!" Mrs Short gave a long, in-sucking laugh, and had to hold on to the banister rail to prevent her mirth from toppling her to the ground. She flapped her duster weakly, then dried her eyes with it. Grout tried to estimate the distance between his landlady and the wall opposite the banisters to see if by grasping the latter she had left sufficient room for him to escape upstairs to his room. Not quite.
"Yes, well," he said, edging forward to show that he wanted to go upstairs. "Better get ready for the dentist." He shuffled forward, turning to one side so that he could squeeze between Mrs Short and the wall.
"Oh, you got to go now then have you?" Mrs Short said, turning to look at him but not actually moving out of his way. "Well I shall get on with my dusting then, I shall. You quite sure that I can't dust your room for you, Mr Grout? It wouldn't be any bother you know."
"Ah, no, no thank you," Steven said, trying to press himself back into the wall to get around Mrs Short's bulging hip. His back scraped against the peeling varnish of old wooden boards.
"Well, I should think you'd find it was much cleaner and less dusty in your room if I did your dusting for you, Mr Grout, really I do. Why don't we give it a sort of trial period?" Mrs Short nudged him in the ribs.
"No, honestly, no," Steven said, rubbing the place where Mrs Short had nudged him. What did it feel like when your spleen ruptured? Mrs Short still wasn't moving to let him past. She frowned at his shoulder and used her duster to flick something off it.
"No, I really..." Steven said, and then sneezed.
"You wouldn't have that hay fever half as bad if you let me dust your room, Mr Grout." She snapped her duster again. More of the shining motes which had made Steven sneeze the first time floated in the air around his face.
"Really must get to my -" he began, but Mrs Short said,
"No you wouldn't, Mr Grout."
"Room!" Grout gasped. He pointed up the stairs, and with one mighty effort succeeded in squeezing through the tight space
between Mrs Short and the wall, almost falling out on the far side.
Mrs Short swivelled like a tank's gun turret and looked at him. "The room, Mr Grout? You want me to do it, then?" "No," Steven said, backing off towards the next flight of stairs, but still facing Mrs Short and trying to smile without showing his teeth. "No, honestly," he said, "really, I'll dust my own room, really. Thank you, but, no, really."
Mrs Short was still shaking her head and shaking her limp duster when he finally got round the sheltering twist in the stairs; Steven wiped his damp forehead, turned and ran quickly up the rest of the steps, shivering and grimacing as he thought about Mrs Short.
In his room, he could relax. He sat by the" window after he'd washed his face and upper body at the small handbasin in one corner of his room. From the basin he had to negotiate four straights and three right-angled corners through his maze of books on the floor to get to the window, where he had a small chair and could look out into Packington Street.
He liked looking out the window (today he had it open; it was a nice day) and sometimes would spend entire Saturday or Sunday afternoons just sitting there watching the traffic and the people in the street, and a curious sort of peace would slowly take him over, like something hypnotic, like a trance; he would just sit there, not thinking or worrying or seething about anything, just sitting watching, mind blank and free of cares, and the cars would move and the people pass and talk, and for a little while, through that lack of thought, that temporary surrender of his own personality, he could start to feel part of this place, this city and people and species and society; feel like he imagined all the other, ordinary people, the people who were not him and were not there specifically to torment him, must feel all the time.
He dried himself with his small towel; it smelled a bit, but not offensively. Comforting, like his bed.
He looked over the maze-walls of books covering the floor of his room. The book-walls, which he tried to keep at roughly the same level, were up to mid-thigh level now, and he was worried that soon they would start to become unstable. Of course, if he wasn't going to be getting any money he wouldn't be able to buy any more paperbacks for a while, maybe not until he found another new job. But even so, it was depressing to think of the chaos which would result from the books becoming unstable through sheer height, and while there was one way round the problem (he was proud to have worked this out) by putting the books together like bricks in a wall instead of simply stacking them one on top of another, this would make it even more difficult to get at a book if he wanted to read it again.