Not today though. Not today.
Or maybe. Wait now.
Hold on a second.
It’s the man at the next table who, like others, thought he saw what he saw, except, ever-assured, never feels the need to question what he sees, knows it’s what he saw and requires no further confirmation of what he saw. He does not ever move off and find another table when he’s uncomfortable. He stays here. He believes in conclusive ends. He likes them.
Martin John’s tea has been forgotten.
Except by the man at the next table.
Martin John is being watched.
Carefully watched.
Measured.
The man at the next table sits back. His hands go into his pockets.
They’ve seen each other at it before. In this station. They exchange knowing glances. One has watched the other up to it. The other has watched the one up to it. Two men up to it. They have never spoken. But one has followed the other. One has sometimes watched the other from a bench. The other has encouraged being observed. Sometimes afterwards the one, Martin John, will look at the other and the other will know he’s being watched. Score says the look. He likes being watched. Once Martin John went after the same woman after the other had managed it.
Years now.
They’ve been silent pairs.
Sometimes it’s singles. Sometimes it’s doubles.
That’s how he met Ralph. That’s how he came to live in Ralph’s house. Did each other a favour. Except Ralph went too far, very far. He went indoors with it. Martin John wouldn’t do what Ralph did but he didn’t mind looking at the photos Ralph took of it.
Did he grab her? Did he lift his gown? Did she or did she not just leap back from him? Might have been a young one. Not a woman exactly. Girl. Tall girl. Teen girl. He is confused. Wrong to touch a girl. Had he gone for a girl before? He had. Harm was done. He grabbed her. It was fast. Aggressive. He lunged. He is covered in tea along one arm and on his shoulder. She covered him in tea or someone near her covered him in tea. But if it was she, then not a girl. Girl doesn’t have tea. Woman has tea. Father has tea.
Past John Menzies in corner, cold air baptizing his flesh through gown. Wristband inscribed with his name and nothing to hide it. He covers it with the palm of his other hand, pressing hard.
All is wrong. Sixth busiest train station. Too many people. Not enough people. Away from the light. Backward. Lifters coming. Bumps into woman. Pile of bags. Platform 1. Not Platform 18. Big interruptions. Circuit will not start. Ever. Retreats to seat. Person stands. Removes. Word has travelled. They are clearing the way.
Start this before all is ended by whole lot here who want it stopped, the way he wants it stopped. No, not it. He doesn’t want the circuit stopped. He wants it whole. Just once. He wants the other stopped. Maybe. Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t.
He bangs into the wrong man to bang into on this day in this station. Banged-into-man shoves him off his legs. Smacked, down he goes onto his shoulder, which is tea-wet. Bald man with Millwall face leering over him now, if and he and fucking and ever and he boots Martin John a strong kick. Three more. Martin John covers his wristband. He doesn’t want anyone to read it. That is it. All he has. Others come. Heads are shaking.
Phones will happen. Police. Rain will fall. Overhead Annie. Numbers. Stations. All she has ever said gone. Wiped. Circuit is gone. Wiped. All is gone. All is gone Martin John.
All is gone except where he’s going. Barriers, but those sloppy ticket men take off for chats. Don’t look up from their newspapers. Keep the head down, Martin John, said mam. Head can pass. Minutes will end. Just minutes. Mere minute. Martin John holds his wristband and will on.
Mam tied his two wrists to the arms of the Chair. He didn’t struggle, just sat there limp, slouched like he’d been stuffed.
The mornings were the worst. He was shaky in the mornings. He was strange until he took the tablets. He shook a little less, but slouched more. It was like someone had unpacked his innards and repacked them tighter, yet still tangled.
He didn’t seem to know where he was. It was for the best, she thought.
She was unable to think beyond it is for the best.
All for the best, everything for the best, if he’s gone it’s for the best, if he’s back it’s for the best, if it goes away it’s for the best, best not to dwell on it, best not to dwell on what he did or didn’t do or couldn’t do or might do or would do. Best also not to dwell on should. What should she do? Not dwell on it. For the best, no dwelling. He could dwell though. He could dwell in the Chair. For the best. Where she’d know exactly where he was. Best. Indeed, very best.
I did what I did and I stand by what I did. What would you do?
Mam wanted her, the girl, to know that she had him tied safely into the Chair. I thought she’d feel better. That was why I told her he was back. I said he’s in a very bad way and to be honest, she didn’t look sympathetic. She hurried away from me. She looked afraid. I was going to follow her, but I didn’t follow her.
He is back in his chair.
In the Chair not so much can go wrong. She puts the telly on for him.
In the Chair he gets tea. That’s how it is in the Chair.
Everything I done was to keep Martin John on the outside. You understand.
To keep him out.
Now he’s inside.
We’re done in.
The P List.
Pre-election, power-sharing, pointed, prescribing, psychiatrist, potent, partly, plummets, price, petrol, peg, partner, people, pipes, political, parliament, publicly, pay, pretty, products, performance, poorest, perilous, paints, pay, parliament, periodically, poisoning, prison, promoted, people, put, part, part, prepared, parliament, purse, peoples, pink, paid, portray, paving, pre-boomtown.
Possible, Paisley, political, politician, political, politicians, people, part, pay, parliament, pointed, pills, patent, potent, pain, plummet.
People, position, proposal, position, prominent, provide, piling, part, prospect, present, private, profit, pains, partner, profit, part, Voltaire.
—Would you do the Bs for me there, Martin John, good lad?
It was a time when people didn’t ask as many questions. That was the time it was.
It is never defined.
Acknowledgements
I gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council. I heartily thank the many writers’ festivals, libraries, colleges and communities that invited me to read.
Thank you Dr. Paul Fedoroff for referring me to Psychopathia Sexualis and for sending me a fascinating chapter of his own work. My thanks also to Dr. Alex Langford for answering questions on the NHS & Dr. Jenny Svanberg, Dr. Barry Segal and Nancy Smith for their help.
Thank you for patience, precision, and collaboration to my editor John Metcalf, my pure decent publisher Dan Wells, and my holy miracle of a copy editor Emily Donaldson and my agent Marilyn Biderman. I am grateful to Grant, Kate, Chris and Andrew at Biblioasis for all their hard work.
Merci mille fois Marie-Lulu pour tes encouragements incessants, ta brillante intelligence et ta lecture sans fin. Thank you Tamara Faith Berger, Daniel Allen Cox for gritty exchange, Juliane Okot Bitek for reading Mary and endless Acholi laughter, Daniel Handler for excellent dispatches on reading, Marina Roy for French/English literary/art discourse and Arabella & Lindsay for author photo and wine.
Go raibh míle maith agaibh for the decades of love, support and laughter to Niamh Barrett, Edel Ni Chonchubhair, Cathy Dillon, Mary McCarthy in Dublin, Siobhán, Ita, Tara (ah here, AK), Carol in Vancouver and for recent good times and Quakers in New York, Helen Graves & Ann Kjellberg.
Much love to my son Cúán Isamu, the most voracious reader, chip eater and funniest fella I know. Mo Cheol Thú!
Photograph by Ar
abella Campbell
Anakana Schofield won the Amazon.ca First Novel Award and the Debut-Litzer Prize for Fiction in 2013 for her debut novel Malarky. Irish-Canadian, she has lived in London and in Dublin, Ireland and presently lives in Vancouver. Malarky was also nominated for the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize, selected as a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers pick, and named on many best books of 2012 lists. Schofield has contributed criticism and essays to the London Review of Books Blog, The Guardian, The Irish Times, The Globe and Mail and more.
Martin John Page 17