Everything You Need

by A. L. Kennedy

  “Hello, anyone there?” Nathan couldn’t help it, he had to say something, break the air.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table. Eckless—his paws on her knees— was lifting his head to her for strokes. “Yes. Only me.”

  Nathan caught her smile and felt all his gathered solidity shudder and slap. Nothing else about her would have told him what she’d done, except that softness, the almost lazy, secretive close of her lips. So like her mother.

  “Only you, eh? So. Back then.” He could tell she was trying to catch his eye, but he couldn’t let her. He sat, lumpish, the table between them. “It, ahm—you don’t have to say—but did it . . . It went well?” He rested his forearm along the table top as casually as he could, then saw that his muscles were shaking from his elbow to his fingertips. Too late now, though, to move it back. “You found out . . . anything . . . enough?”

  Or perhaps she found out everything.

  Perhaps that’s why she came here. Perhaps that’s . . . No.

  She reached to cup her hand over his knuckles and sent a fear he’d never contemplated rifling up his neck.

  “I found out that my father was . . . not a bad man.” She stopped, apparently discontented with the way that sounded. “I think I believe that he was good. No. I’m sure I believe that, because I—”

  She paused, waiting, silent until he ground his head round and finally did face her: swallowing too much, thoughts scattering. There was no denying that she looked fantastically well.

  “Because you what?” His voice whimpering out, small and woolly.

  “I miss him.”

  Under her palm, between their two skins, he could feel the start of a mixing sweat. “You?” He coughed, wheezed down an uneasy handful of breath, his past bursting under his skin.

  “I miss him. I never—are you all right?”

  “Mm hm.” He made sure he didn’t cough again.

  “I haven’t missed him before, really ever, I don’t think. Or not for a very long time. I can just about remember, maybe, that I imagined he was away travelling. He was a story—a little man walking in something like a desert—so hot that no aeroplane could fly there and the post wouldn’t ever get through because it would burn and no one could ever see him. I hadn’t thought of all that in years, but—coming back on the train—I realised the story had started out by explaining why I never heard from him. Or maybe why he died. Or it could have been a dream I had. He was so long ago. But now I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jesus Christ, let go my hand. Please, fuck, because I’ll move, I’ll move and I’ll touch you, I’ll touch you back and mean what I mean, and only what I mean, but what you’ll misunderstand.

  Now it was her turn to falter, drop her gaze. “It’s, it’s not bad really. I should be taking notes, mm? Of the feelings.”

  “You should be feeling them—the notes will take care of themselves.”

  “Only teasing.”

  Her last word shivered across the table at him, made them both shift slightly. She lifted away her hand and settled it with the other in her lap. “Only pulling your leg. Nathan?”

  Her voice round his name—it used to be such a good fit.

  “Nathan—knowing he’s alive, it seems to have made everything more . . . more definite. What I feel about all kinds of things . . .”

  Shit, she’s going to tell me.

  “I went to see my mother for two reasons—not only to ask about my father. I wanted her to know about something that was happening here, on the island, but then I didn’t tell her. Silly, really, because I could have. Only I thought I might talk to you first, I thought—”

  He rushed in hard, voice over-loud, “That’s good, that’s very good. Great. And we will talk, but, you know, I have to go and see Joe. Now. Right now. In fact, I’m a bit late. I’d intended to just leave Eckless here and then go straight across. Do you think this could be postponed at all? Hm?” Nathan attempted to crank up a breezy grin.

  “Oh.”

  She seemed, for an instant, slightly stunned and he wanted to be able to hug her and make them both feel better uncomplicatedly.

  But he kept himself reserved, pacy, “You don’t mind?” and also—he was quite certain—rather obviously mad-eyed.

  “No. No. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “That’s right. Absolutely right. Look, I’m really so glad that things turned out well—about your father.”

  “She never said who he was.”

  “Hm?” He’d been about to stand, to escape, walk her outside, shut the door very firmly and get them both away—away to quite separate places. “She never . . . ?”

  “Said who he was.” She looked at him, “But she thought he would tell me in the end,” like cold water over his scalp, “she told me it was up to him to say,” like a kiss on each eyelid, each palm, “oh and she gave you her best,” a crochet hook finding his spine.

  “That’s . . . she . . . ?” He did stand now, nerveless, beyond thought.

  “She asked if you were looking after me and I said that you were and then she told me to give you her best.”

  “Well . . . well. Good. I have to go now. Yes.”

  Her best. My God, her best.

  “Her what?”

  “Her hand. Jesus fuck, there’s nothing else that sounds like hand—her hand.” Nathan was beginning to see the point of his mobile phone. It meant he could call from the cliffs above his bay, lie and feel the grass around him being ruffled, combed in the wind, and wish that his brain could be ruffled and combed, too.

  “In your bed . . . Her hand in your bed.” J.D. sniffed in the manner of a man for whom brisk inhalation was a favourite pursuit. “And all the rest . . . that’s . . . hold on.” Nathan could hear a vaguely chiding voice, muffling out something to Jack. Then an equally disgruntled reply, “Well, I can’t help that, I haven’t done it yet. No one could have done it yet. Tell him . . . tell him it’s the next thing on my desk and I will stay late this evening again and I will then leave it on his desk before I go home in order to come in early and do something else which has nothing to do with my job description. OK?” A wounded mutter bounced back. “OK. I know it has nothing to do with you. I do quite heartily wish that it also had nothing to do with me.” Another unhappy murmur. “Fine.”

  Nathan felt he should suggest, “I could ring you back later.”

  “I’d still be here. And still working. It doesn’t matter. Well, it only matters to me. Christ, I’d rather do anything than this job. We used to be gentlemen in publishing, we used to burn out sedately in our sixties, having quite possibly made some good books. We had time to care. My superior is fifteen years younger than me and if he promotes me any further sideways I’ll be strapped to the side of the building in the window cleaners’ cradle with a queue of young Turks all wrestling each other to fray my suspension cables. Sorry—you had a problem. Ah, yes . . .” Jack breathed carefully, brought his voice a little closer. “It’s a problem of your own making, of course. Apologies for saying so, Sport, but really . . .”

  “I know. I should have told her. I thought that if I liked her, she would understand I was liking her—well, loving her—in a fatherly way and then she would like me and then, when I felt it was right, I could tell her and nothing would go wrong. Fuck, J.D., I’ve waited so long—I can’t have it not work . . . when I finally say what I have to, things have to be all fine. I couldn’t bear it not being fine.” Nathan stared at the ease and curve of the waves, hoping it would pace his breathing.

  “Nathan.” Jack rolled out his smoothest, calmest voice. “Nathan, this is me you’re talking to. I know you. I’ve been tinkering with your manuscripts for—what—twelve, fourteen years? So I know you. Some days I’ve been in your head far more than I’ve been in my own. You’ll manage this. You’ve got good old Uncle Jack to help you and difficulties of this sort are my speciality.”

  “Making them, yes.”

  “And then leaving them rapidly. I can be o
ut of a relationship in the time most men would take to tie their laces. Trust me—you know you want to. And when all of this is settled, I’ll let you in on my plan to retire and corner the market in vanity lamination. Imagine it, all those sticky little poems for dead babies and those single ladies’ odes to their cats, or their cakes, or their cunts—the muck even pay-per-view presses won’t take . . . I shall go forth and gather it up and turn it into plasticised mementoes— especially suitable for graves. Which would prove handy because I feel I might end up shooting a fair number of my clients through the eyes. Just for fun. And let’s face it, who’d miss them? Not me, obviously. Or, if I did, I could always fire again.” Jack brought himself to a halt. Paused. “Nathan. Lighten up.”

  “Then tell me what to do!” He hadn’t meant to sound so bereft. “Please. I’ll lighten up when I’ve got a solution. Really, I will.”

  “All right, all right, relax. You don’t have to tell her anything directly. You don’t have to have a scene. Just arrange to be otherwise and rather offputtingly engaged.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “But you will arrange to be. Temporarily. As soon as possible. Tonight.”

  “I can’t get somebody tonight.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Think of the alternative, Nathan—then you’ll find that you can.”

  Jonathan, he meant what he meant. He was straightforward. Most of the time he was, in any case.

  Mary was trying to read a note. She wasn’t having much success.

  Nathan, he can be lovely one day—a bit of a bugger, but fine—and then the next time you meet him, he’ll have locked himself down again, won’t even give you a smile.

  The folded paper had been slipped underneath her door while she was out and now she held it, almost glared at it, in an attempt to pay any attention to what it said.

  This didn’t work.

  I love the way he laughs, though. As if he doesn’t want to and it’s taken him by surprise. He’ll tuck his hands in his pockets, or he’ll fold his arms and duck his head, avoiding it. But then he’ll let go. Sometimes, he’ll really almost hoot until he’s wiping his eyes and unsteady, supporting himself on the furniture, on people, on me. Then he looks the way you’d think he could be all the time—like a man who knows how to be happy, who stands well—lean, tight muscle in his legs, good hips.

  It was difficult to read with a mind full of tripwires and ribbons, all of them straggling off towards Nathan, or parts of Nathan, shades and ideas of him.

  The smell of him, it’s delicate, faint: more like a temperature or a touch than a proper scent: but on his pillow, it was there. I found it.

  Her stomach gave a small, electric twist.

  I could find him, really find him. If that’s what I wanted. Maybe. I could find him. If that’s what he wanted me to do.

  Once again, she concentrated on the note. This time, it caught hold and told her that Lynda was leaving, that she should come over to her cottage this evening and say goodbye.

  Nathan wanted to know where Richard was, but Lynda wasn’t telling. Given the circumstances, this was a more than minor irritation.

  “He’s around.”

  “Around.” He pawed at his cheeks nervously. “As in back soon, around? As in bursting through the door any minute full of outrage around? As in taking a swing at Nathan around? You couldn’t be specific?” He let go of his face and started to massage his neck while he shook his head. “Oh, shit, I can’t do this anyway, I don’t know why I’m asking. Bollocks.” He continued to plod out a neatly oval course between the sofa and the fireplace. It seemed prudent to stay on the move.

  “Nathan, I said I would help you and I will. I am already doing you an extraordinary favour. At least try to be even remotely courteous, because there were other things I would rather have done tonight. And, just for the record, I think you’re insane.”

  “Where’s Richard?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  Lynda briefly seemed to be on the point of slapping him and he found the prospect curiously comforting—at least one thing this evening that he might understand.

  But then she restrained herself, hissed in a breath and sighed it out again. “Anything to shut you up. Richard is over with Joe and will be spending the night at the Lighthouse.”

  “The night?”

  “There’s no need to squeal. He is staying the night because of us.” Nathan could feel himself blanch, but listened while she made herself clear. “By which I mean the Richard and I us—not the you and me us. As if there ever was such a thing. The thought of you being here overnight is enough to make me gag.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just wanted to make it clear. There’ll be no need for you to stay here a moment longer than is strictly necessary. Now will you sit down.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Lynda clicked her tongue, shot him an elaborate look of impatient contempt and then settled back in her armchair with a magazine—her dressing gown falling open to her knee, in a slithering little threat. Eckless grumbled in the corner behind her. He was in a huff, unsure of what was happening exactly, but certain that it was some kind of stupidity.

  And he’s right, poor bloody dog. They’re both right—I am insane. I am completely off my fucking head. And this isn’t going to work, I don’t know why I’m even trying it. This will only make everything worse.

  Fuck, I need a piss.

  “I need a piss.”

  “Thank you for sharing that. Another piss?”

  “Yes, another one.”

  Eckless raised one eyebrow at his master balefully and sighed.

  Lynda only smirked. “Nervy, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Fine. Yes. Nervous. Yes, I am.”

  He sprang up, agreed himself viciously across to the bathroom, stepped inside, threw the bolt, and at once felt a fraction of the evening’s torque easing out from his vertebrae. His pathetically self-conscious bladder doled out a token trickle while he tried to hold his dick with a properly disinterested air: as if he were not thinking of Lynda thinking of his holding it and thinking of her thinking.

  Christ.

  Then he washed his hands. A lot.

  I am a grown-up. I am the man in this situation. I am a grown-up man. And I am doing what I have to do. She’s only helping.

  So I should be in charge. Or at least an equal. At least a fucking equal.

  God, help me get through this with any dignity. Let it all be as simple as Jack said.

  For fuck’s sake, I’m relying on Jack Grace—this is absolutely an all-time fucking low.

  Lynda yodelled charmingly from behind the door. “You’re taking your time. Having a quickie before we start?”

  “You know, you could try to enjoy this a little less. I know you want to humiliate me.” He clumped back out into the room. “But I am about to do that, all by myself.”

  “Oh, cheer up, for God’s sake. You don’t even need to feel guilty, I told Richard all about it.”

  “You what!”

  “He is my husband—for the moment—I did think that he should know. And, because he is mature and has a backbone, he understands. He said to tell you it was fine.”

  Nathan was about to argue that Richard wasn’t mature, or especially vertebrate, only in shock, when she reminded him, “I told her to be here at seven-thirty. It’s not far off that now. We should be ready.”

  She stood and slipped off her dressing gown before he could speak. Then she turned to him, revealing the full-frontal view of the traditional, time-dishonoured adultery kit: basque and matching knickers, stockings with seams at the back. He was immediately washed with an awful desire to snigger and then a slimmer, more robust inclination to take an unspecified but degrading advantage of all this, to get genuinely, mindlessly sullied and really screw everything right up. She smelt of woman: those particular, undeniable notes of heat.

  Lynda eyed him fl
atly. “Do you want me in heels, or can we just make do with this? I really can’t be bothered going to fetch them.”

  “This is . . .” He nodded in lieu of producing a word that he couldn’t quite think of right now. “What time is it?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  Shit. I’m not ready for this.

  Nathan quietly pictured himself tucked away into a coffin on a furnace-bound conveyor, helplessly propelled towards destruction.

  Anything rather than this.

  He shuffled himself to within his arms’ reach of Lynda as his heart and blood and breath and sweat all betrayed him distractingly.

  Lynda entirely neglected to stifle a yawn and scooped her right breast up and over its containment. He noticed her nipple was lost in its areola, flat—completely and contemptuously somnolent.

  “Do you think that’s absolutely . . .” Again his vocabulary deserted under fire and he tried to stare at her warningly, sure he was appearing only witless, blank. “You’ll kiss me? Be kissing me?”

  “I’ll be exactly what I need to be.”

  “I wish you wo—”

  Eckless shifted and stood, stared towards the door, his tail wagging modestly.

  If I shut my eyes, I’ll make it worse.

  No. No, in fact, it’s better. Much.

  He extended his arms forward blindly. Footsteps closed outside, past the curtained cottage window. His embrace was pushed aside. Eckless whined. And then Lynda yelled out, “No, we don’t have time. I told you.”

  Nathan, mystified, staggered back a little at the slap of sound, but then felt something he didn’t wish to understand.

  Not there. She surely—

  The noise of his zip, descending defencelessly. The long lost combination of breathy warmth and opened chill. A hand clasped at the back of his thigh.

  Eckless was barking now.

  Nathan couldn’t help but open his eyes, look down, “What are you—?” at Lynda’s forehead resting quiet against his belt, while her right hand adjusted his dress more than vigorously, “No,” and—unmistakably—her laughter pressed in through his gaping flies and cuffed his bollocks with the shock of steam and his prick pricked.