London When it Rains

by C. Sean McGee

  XVI

  “To get us warmed up, I want you all to tell the person beside you something that you did or that happened to you that made you happy, or that you found important.”

  The Girl looked to her left, at a middle-aged man with a snobbish look about him. He had one of those fascist general’s haircuts. It didn’t look like there was a single hair out of place. His eyes were narrow and his mouth was too small for his face. It looked like a child’s mouth.

  “I got this tattoo,” said The Girl.

  “Tattoos are ugly. I wouldn’t get a tattoo. I can’t even see any tattoo. Where did you put the wretched thing?”

  The Girl looked to The Therapist.

  “Really?” her eyes asked.

  “Of course,” said The Therapist’s half condescending smile.

  The Girl started to open her knees.

  “Oh, dear lord, stop right there.”

  The Girl did so, looking hurt and estranged.

  “Slut,” shouted The Prude. His little mouth was as wide as it could go. “You keep those filthy knees together. Look at you, disgraceful whore. Does that child even have a father?”

  The Girl rested a hand on her belly.

  “Continue,” said The Therapist.

  “It’s a butterfly on a flower,” said The Girl.

  The Prude shook his head.

  “I would never in my life….”

  The Girl stared at her stomach and gently caressed the small mound.

  “It’s so the first thing that this child sees is the beauty and colour of this world and so he or she knows that life can still grow where once there were only scars.”

  “And how did you feel when you got the tattoo?” asked The Therapist.

  “Relieved,” said The Girl.

  The Prude shook his head even more; were it a screw top, it might possibly pop off and drop to the floor. As disgusted as he was, though, his couldn’t shift his eyes from the gap between her knees. He was half salivating, and half choking on his own poisoned spit.

  “And how do you feel about it now?”

  “I like it,” said The Girl.

  “And that makes you feel?”

  “Happy, I guess.”

  “And what do you say to that?” said The Therapist to The Prude.

  It took a second for him to lift his head once more; the rest of the room was already there waiting.

  “I wouldn’t do it.”

  The little mouth sucked shut.

  “But she did,” said The Therapist.

  “And? How is that my fault? I didn’t make her do it. I don’t like it. I don’t have to like it.”

  “You don’t like what she did, or you don’t like how it made her feel?”

  “I wouldn’t do it; that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Feel relieved? You wouldn’t do something that offered you a physical or an emotional relief? You wouldn’t do something that made you feel happy?”

  As she spoke, The Old Man watched as one-half of the happy couple got up quietly and slipped out of the room with the bathroom key.

  “Of course I would, but I wouldn’t do that. The tattoo, that desecration. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Nobody asked you whether you would like to do it or not. The act itself is insignificant. It is entirely relative. What is important is how the person feels. Knowing this, we can, if we choose to, better understand the act. But when somebody shows or tells us of something good, we shouldn’t project ourselves into that piece of news; we shouldn’t celebrate or denigrate the act, but instead the state at which that person is. If she got a tattoo between her legs and it makes her feel relieved and happy, then you should be happy too; not for what she did, but for how it made her feel.”

  The Old Man had killed hundreds of people so far, and he had travelled to just as many places. But he was entirely unsure how any of these acts had made him feel. Were he to feel something – some kind of or relief – would that make it ok?

  The Prude stared at The Girl with threat in his eyes.

  “I swear to God,” he said.

  It was a second later before he was dragged from his seat - kicking and screaming. “I didn’t mean it,” he shouted. “It was a slip of the tongue. It was her, she made me say it. Please, God, no.”

  It might have been just a turn of expression, but it was a dangerous one. The Prude screamed. He screamed loud. It was like a dying cat or an engine seizing. It continued as he was dragged down the hall, and even when he packed into a tiny elevator and taken to the eleventh floor. His screaming didn’t cease. No-one who was taken to the eleventh floor was ever quiet. There was a particular pitch and tone to a person’s scream when they realise that there was no negotiation. The Prude screamed like a child that was locked in the dark. And all the while, nobody in the room said a thing; they just listened and learned.

  “And what would you say?” asked The Therapist, turning to the third member of their group.

  “I am happy that you are happy,” he said, with a smile.

  “Very good,’ said The Therapist. “And what about you?”

  The Old Man was tired. He was always tired. That was the thing about age; he didn’t really feel any different to when he was a boy. There wasn’t a definable point where he stopped feeling one way and started feeling another. Whether it was his first drink, his first job, his first fuck, or his first child – he was always waiting for some kind of change to occur; but it never did. Now, as an old man on the doorstep of death, he still felt so blatantly unsure of everything, it was just, he was so bloody tired all the time; that and he hadn’t taken a proper shit in weeks.

  He looked at The Girl. He looked at her now just as he had at the bar. Her hand stroked her belly now, but back then, it was gently caressing the salted rims of small shots of tequila and large pitchers of ale. Her words were no sweeter than the wedges of lime that spread apart each glass.

  “I need to take a piss,” he said.

  “Ok, well, you go do that, and the rest of us will keep going with the activity. Do be quick, though, we are about to start The Purpose Exercise.”

  “Righty-o.”

  The Old Man struggled to get out of his chair. It was amazing he accomplished half of the things he did; let alone all the murdering and getting about.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I’m sure I can figure it out. Can’t be that difficult.”

  “I’ll show him. I have to go too,” said The Girl, rubbing her belly.

  The Old Man gave her his disapproving look, but who was he to argue?

  “Come on then.”

  He moved like a swaying bridge. Were even a grain of dust to land on his shoulder, it would probably tip his balance; and him with it. He complained a lot too with every step that he took. He didn’t say anything per se, but it was the way that he breathed. He sounded like broken hydraulics. He kind of huffed and puffed, and with it, he released this dull moan that sounded bored and unimpressed; as if walking were some kind of laborious chore that he was doing as an act of kindness to somebody that he didn’t care for.

  “Here we are,” said The Girl.

  There was one bathroom, it was a shared facility.

  “If you could do an old man a favour and give me a minute. Nothing against you, I’m just a little old fashioned is all.”

  She didn’t take any offence. “I’ll wait here,” she said. “But be quick, I really have to go.”

  The Old Man entered the toilet and examined each stall. He stood at the sink pretending to wash his hands, but just letting the water run beside them. In the stall behind him, The Happy Guy – we’ll call him – was whistling as he was doing his business.

  The Old Man sat in the stall beside and waited.

  The Girl, standing out front, couldn’t wait any longer. She barged through the door just as The Old Man finished washing his hands.

  “Couldn’t hold? I get that,” said The Old Man. “It’s all yours.”

  The Girl stared The
Old Man in his eyes. She had such a glare. It was like a first kiss or a punch in the teeth. It had been a while since he’d met a woman with a look so fierce; far too long.

  “I don’t have to go,” replied The Girl.

  “Why are you here then?”

  Beside them, a man lay slumped over a toilet seat. The Girl didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. “Why are you?” she replied, snappy.

  He didn’t respond. He turned back to the mirror and fixed his tie.

  “I know who you are,” said The Girl.

  She looked to the stall. Its door was shut but she could see the shadow of the dead man’s fingers as they barely grazed the floor. She looked back at The Old Man

  “And who is that?”

  “I followed you to that bar. I’ve been following you for a while now.”

  A while; exactly how long was that?

  The Old Man thought of the last thirty people he had killed. Their faces flicked through his mind like days on a calendar. His heart started to flutter and his chest tightened.

  “You’re the one on the news, aren’t you? You killed all those people.”

  “And you’re trying to kill your baby. How are we any different?”

  The Girl looked at her belly and then she thought of the last thirty drinks she had had. She had had much more but that was all she could remember.

  “I didn’t say we were.”

  She moved closer, close enough to be strangled.

  “They said you were younger.”

  “Does that upset you?”

  “No, not in the slightest. I won’t say anything, I promise.”

  She had a beautiful neck, the kind you wouldn’t waste on a string.

  “Where did they take that man?” asked The Old Man.

  “The eleventh floor. That’s where they all go – the ones who show no improvement. The ones who still believe in God.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve basically lived here for ages, so I know everything about this place.”

  “And the bar?”

  “I ran away,” she said, staring at her rounded belly, “but now I’m back again.”

  He looked at her, as if she deserved some kind of discipline, but only after he found out more. “So this eleventh floor, what is it?” he said.

  “It’s where they keep the people that cannot change.”

  “Theists?”

  The Girl smiled.

  “I knew you weren’t one. The news was just making that up because of the impeachment. I knew it was just political. Hell, I didn’t even think it was real, not until I started following you. I knew you were going to blow up that bar.”

  “The eleventh floor,” said The Old Man sternly.

  “Yes, yes there are. Lots of them.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Why? Why them? Whose side are you on? Are you a Moderate? Are you a Literal?”

  “I’m not an anything. I am me, and I’m not on anyone’s side. This has nothing to do with the government. This is my business and not the nest you need to be poking around at, you hear?”

  “I can’t tell you, not now - later. We have to get back to therapy before they suspect anything. They act all nice and caring, but they’re not.”

  The Old Man quickly fumed.

  “Do you know what a spree is, girl?”

  She didn’t, and he followed her regardless. When they got back to the room, the seats had been arranged in six rows. At the front of the room, there was a table that had been dressed with a sheet and pillow and made to look like a bed.

  “Hurry up, don’t dilly daddle.”

  “I’m old. This is as fast as I go.”

  There were two of them but was only one seat left – front row centre.

  “Go on,” said The Old Man, nudging The Girl forwards. “It’s bound to be fun. I’ll be right. I’m better seeing things from afar.”

  Before he could even get settled, The Therapist put her arms around him and ushered him to the front of the room.

  “You, my esteemed friend, will be the deceased.”

  The Old Man stared at the table. It looked awfully high and terribly uncomfortable. Then he stared at The Therapist. She looked a little high herself, but more so, she looked at tad reserved but entirely committed. And then he looked out across the room. It was full of inappropriate smiles and gestures.

  “Ahh fuck it,” he said, rolling onto the table, face down. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “That’s fine. Now, what is the purpose of life? Why are we here? What is its meaning?”

  She took an empty jar and held it in front of the class.

  “What is the purpose of this jar? What kind of jar is it?”

  The room looked at her with blank attention.

  “An empty one,” said The Old Man, wishing this whole exercise would hurry along.

  “That is right. It has no content, and therefore it has no purpose.”

  The room was quiet again, but not out of boredom. They were still and silent, dumbfounded by her sagacity. The Therapist drew their silence out like a round of applause.

  “It’s a jar. Its purpose is to be filled.”

  “With what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does, and I think you do too. Let’s say this jar has always had a faulty lid, and until now, it never bothered you – but you always knew it as the jar with a faulty lid. So, one day, you drop this jar and you cut your foot on broken glass. The cut is a little deep so you go to the hospital and there, by sheer chance, you fall in love with the nurse who gives you stitches. Was the purpose of that jar to be filled or broken?”

  “Why do you choose the broken jar as the catalyst to finding love – why not the speed that I drove, or the way that I took; either of them allowed me to arrive between her finishing suturing one patient, and then starting another? It’s too convenient. That’s all I’m saying.”

  The Old Man’s ranting drew some sniggers from around the room, mainly from The Girl. She had played out this exercise a thousand times over and had grown as tired of the guests’ predictable involvement as she had The Therapist’s script.

  “And that’s exactly my point. This jar could mean anything to anyone. It could be filled with nails, beans, bobbins or a dozen paint brushes. It could be holding open a door or holding down a manuscript, or it could be the jar that’s never filled, waiting to be given to friends or family, or the noisy neighbour across the street. Or, it could be the perfect way to close an argument. And life is no different. It has no purpose outside of that which you attest.”

  One-half of the happy couple clapped and cheered, though she couldn’t pull her attention away from the door.

  “I want everyone to take out their cards now, and one by one, you will all stand up and read them aloud. Firstly, though, we will hear the purpose of existence from our deceased. As each of us will die, some of us will have the time to contemplate and be aged enough to address some kind of meaning and purpose to this play. You will each have your absolute truth of what your life meant. Why? Because you lived it. And nobody can deny that. But was your life entirely as you saw it? Was it entirely yours? I will read the deceased’s card, written on his dying bed. Purpose as he saw it.”

  The Therapist took The Old Man’s card and read aloud.

  “I lived a life of hard work and sacrifice, and I have little regret. My profession gave me purpose. My work defined who I was. Outside of that, little else was in my control. And so I would like to be remembered for that which I left behind.”

  The room all took out their cards.

  “Ok,’ said The Therapist. “Here we have a man who dedicated himself to his work. What do we know about him? Were he given more time, we may know more about his work but even less about the man. So, is his purpose as one dimensional as he would have us believe? Let’s go around the room now, and each person read out your card.”

  And they did just that. One by one, they stood
up and they read aloud how the deceased had affected their lives – how in some way he had been a catalyst to changes that had been both good and bad. Those, whose lives had been bettered by knowing him, spoke of him glowingly and with hyperbolic affection. And those who still clung to bitter memories did their best to be civil but showed that the man could be as selfish, thoughtless, and cruel as he could be generous, giving, and kind; that he was as much an ass as he was a genuine fellow. Some spoke of how his legacy would affect generations to come, while his son talked about how he strived to be the exact opposite with his own children. Each person talked in great length and detail. They each gave their purpose for this man, and each was entirely plausible. He was in one hand a hero, and in the other, a despicable villain. He was thoughtful and careless, and considerate and mean. The best of who he was inspired others to be just as great, while the very worst of him inspired everyone else to be better. Were he a jar, he would have held a thousand things and affected a thousand lives. And as much as his life was his, so too, it appeared, his life had belonged to everyone else.

  “What is the purpose of life? Can purpose be all of these things or is it, like our esteemed gentlemen told us before; all too convenient? And it is true. There is no purpose. The idea of purpose is part of your rationalising mind. Just as you will define a day – like your luck – as being good or bad, so too will you define purpose as the outcome that you have in your hands. Were you to lose all your money, you would define purpose as having learnt the true value of things that matter, yet the person beside you – he or she who took all your money – would define purpose as a just and deserved reward. Neither of you is right. It is just a delusion of consciousness; as is the fear of death and inexistence. There is no purpose. There is no deeper meaning.”

  The Happy Girl looked distraught. She stared at the door and something inside her twitched. So she burst out of her seat and shouted, “There has to be meaning. Even in a secular philosophy. There has to be meaning – some moral and purposeful direction. Or else what’s the point?”

  The room was silent. Right now, she wished her husband were here.

  The Therapist clicked her fingers and door burst open once more and The Happy Girl was dragged out by their neat and easily graspable hair. The entire time, she squealed The Lord’s Prayer.