by Jonny Glynn
Many. The actress said she had none, and that everything happened for a reason. What coq. The bint mistakes regret for failure and thinks failure is a bad thing.
How would you like to be remembered?
Fondly, with affection, but I fear I’ll be remembered as evil, with revulsion and great loathing. That’s if I’m remembered at all.
I hate magazines, they’re such a waste of time–cheap famous faces and their measly personalities, empty sun-tanned opinions and gormless egoism. Stupid humans and their urge to be on television. I myself am an obscurist.
The headline this morning, by the way, read:
TERROR ALERT
I should say so.
Left Don’s and ambled on. The sun was high, the time north by north-east. The day was warming up into a real scorcher. It made no sense. The fools predict rain and wind and then we get sunshine and stillness, and an eerie ominous stillness at that. I was completely inappropriately dressed, as always–all wrapped up and crumpled in my mac and suit and tie, and sweating like a pig. Disastrous weather conditions–‘I’m sweating,’ he said, and then kept repeating it, ‘I’m sweating, I’m sweating…can’t you feel me?’
I could feel him all right, weary and tired, unbuttoning my collar and loosening my tie.
‘What are we doing?’ he grumbled, whining, miffed like a child.
We were walking aimlessly and directionlessly around the Downs.
‘What for?’ he moaned.
‘So that we don’t have to think!’ I snapped, scolding him with an exasperated fervour. The heat was getting to me, people were looking. One day it’s raining, the next day it’s blistering sunshine. The flowers must be so confused, not to mention the trees. It’s ridiculous, we can no longer even depend on the seasons for any sort of continuity–what must the birds make of it? All is at sea and hopelessly at odds, mutiny from stern to bow. I ground my teeth and said, ‘Yes.’ He agreed and we both fell silent…
We ambled on for a length or so and then stopped and sat down on a bench. The silence between us was strong, both of us knew exactly what the other was thinking but neither of us was going to say anything. We were each waiting for the other to speak first. Inevitably it fell to me to break the silence. It always falls to me. I took a deep breath, in through my mouth and out through my nose. He hates it when I breathe backwards.
‘Today is your last day,’ I solemnly began. There was a pause.
‘Yes,’ he said, cheerlessly matter-of-fact.
‘We should do something special.’
‘Yes,’ again without enthusiasm. And then he sighed and rolled his feet onto their sides, inverting them beneath his ankles and turning the soles of his shoes in on themselves. It was such a defeated action, a little action, but one that seemed to reverberate through him and change his whole demeanour. He suddenly seemed utterly crushed and beaten, totally deflated. It was almost as if he had shrunk. He just sat there, staring silently at the shadow in the space between his feet. A lonely, broken man, lost in quiet contemplation, his end now only a day away. I closed my eyes and placed my hand on my chest and felt my heart beating. There you are, I thought, and may have muttered it. My hand was pressed flat around my left nipple, it was hot and wet with sweat, I felt a certain sensual delight touching myself in this way–feeling for that distant buried pulse…There you are, I thought, there you are–that calm, slow, easy beat, repeating, as little drops of sweat slip and course and join and go. It made me think of Father and the word ‘worry’…I remember I could feel the faintest wisps of a breeze too, gently tickling the hairs on the back of my hand, which I held perfectly still and stared at for some time. I also noted that the skin at the edges of my fingernails is flaking and torn, and stained a dirty nicotine umber. It reminded me of my uncle Eric. His fingers were marked with this same orange discoloration. I let the memory settle, looked away and ran three fingers backwards through my jumbled strands of thinning hair. The sun was on my limbs, sucking and softening. A day so out of sorts, and far too hot. A bright red burning day, completely at odds with the season. And people everywhere. As soon as the sun comes out they all come out, exposing themselves and oiling themselves. Awkward corpulent lumps of pink jellied flesh, bleached white on the yellow grass, tanning green…The vanity of these ruthless humans…
I glanced at my watch–the long arm was north, the short arm north-north-east. Half the day gone and still nothing done. He cracked his jaw, got up and without saying anything wandered on. I followed him, looking, seeing and thinking, a slow soggy shuffle through the sunshine. We hadn’t gone ten paces before he started yanking at my tie, hurriedly undoing it, jerking my neck and pulling it from around me. He held it for a time in his left hand, trailing it along the ground beside me like a recalcitrant schoolboy chivying home, and then he let it go. It dropped from his fingers and spooled into little ox-bow folds on the path. He didn’t look back or pick it up, he just left it…Then he reached into the pockets of my mac and removed my keys and Beth and Adrian’s keys and my tobacco and a lighter, and stuffed them all into my trouser pockets, which were already heavily weighted with Her Majesty’s shrapnel. Then he went through all the pockets of my suit jacket, removing my wallet, which he stuffed into my back trouser pocket, and my handkerchief, which he stuffed in with the keys. My pockets were bulging–I know it looks unsightly and ruins the line of your trousers, but, as I think I’ve already mentioned, I’m a pocket-bulger by nature. He peeled the mac and suit jacket from my back, roughly bundled them together over my arm, crossed to a waste basket–teeming with filth and little bags of dog shit–and dumped them both in. The relief from the heat was immediate. I was aware that people were watching me but they didn’t seem particularly concerned or interested, he certainly paid them no mind, just untucked my shirt and gave it a good billowing. A delicious gulp of crisp coolness splashed the sweat from my chest and peeled cold between my shoulders. He let out a deep sigh, undid the top three buttons of my shirt and rolled my sleeves up…Bizarre, I thought, and it isn’t even April…The sky was so blue, a vivid luminous blue, not a cloud in sight. Most odd. An aeroplane banked high into the sun. I shaded my eyes. The planet is dying, he sighed, but it does it so, so beautifully…
We ambled on, off the Downs and onto Queensdown Road, then Clarence Road and then down towards Mare Street. It’s my usual route, familiar and often walked, I like it for that reason. He was gambolling on ahead of me, as is his wont, he always walks too quickly, it’s as if he’s ashamed of me and doesn’t want to be seen with me, doesn’t want people to know that we’re together–which is ridiculous, as it’s as plain as day, for all to see, that we are naturally each other’s. We go together like mango and prawns. At the Narrow Way there was suddenly an overwhelming glut of people, an all-sorts collection of hideous mutations–every shape and size, colour and creed. Human doings and their insatiable appetites, ravenously shopping. He was loving it, and straight in amongst them–moving fast, freer than before–weaving in and out between them–enjoying himself, I thought. Look at him, atwixt them, with his shirt sleeves rolled, lengthening his gait, on a summer’s day in spring–lost among the infinite variety–legion between them, all God’s children and there he is–look at him, enjoying himself…
It put me in mind of a very vivid memory I have of being allowed, as a child, to go to the shops to buy some sweets by myself for the first time. I can’t have been much older than five–the same age as Emma. You see, it was the urge to repeat–that instinctive human urge to repeat, copy, pass on and do again. I remember feeling so happy at being allowed to go by myself, and I was up for the assignment–I showed no fear, none at all–I confidently marched off down that enormous hill, shirt sleeves rolled, lengthening my gait–I knew that Mother was watching, but I didn’t look back. I patiently waited at the side of the road, remembered to look left and right, the red car stopped, and then I crossed the zebra’s back and skipped into the shop. I bought a Sherbet Dib-Dab, some milk teeth and a Curly Wurly, and
I gobbled the lot on the way back. I was so happy. Everything was full of colour. I burst in through the back door, smiling a big black sticky-fingered liquorice smile. I remember Mother wiped my mouth with a yellow J-cloth–and I remember feeling her pride as she wrestled with me next to her. I can remember it all so clearly. I can smell it…Emma’s first solo venture to the shops wasn’t quite as successful. I remember reassuring Valerie that she’d be fine, that everything would be all right. But she wasn’t fine, and everything wasn’t all right. I watched her walk away, she looked back at me and waved–her little hand with all five fingers splayed. It’s in an instant that everything goes wrong. It’s all of a sudden–and then there’s nothing anyone can do…She made it to the shop all right–the shopkeeper remembered her. She was an Asian woman, just like the other one, she remembered Emma, she said she bought a Strawberry Mivvi–they found it on the pavement. I wanted her to feel my pride. I wanted to tickle her, and squeeze her and make her giggle–I wanted to wipe her mouth with a clean yellow J-cloth. I wanted to hold her, safely, and know that she was loved. I wanted it all not to be true, and for the horror to end. But I digress…
He was swinging his arms with his shirt sleeves rolled, lengthening his gait and bowling into Marks & Sparks. What’s he up to? I thought, and followed him through the store towards the menswear department, and then watched from a distance as he bought two leather belts–one black and one brown, both made in England of genuine leather.
‘What are they for?’ I asked as we made our way out.
‘What do you think they’re for?’ he tersely replied.
He didn’t have to say any more. I knew, and thought about tomorrow.
I remember at this juncture, just as we were setting off down Mare Street, I remember acknowledging two things. The first was just how stoned I felt–all dem damn bangers piling up, I thought. The second was that I was being watched by a black man. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think from where. A long thin dreadlocked Rastaman, with his eyes on me–watching me. I remember thinking, distinctly remember thinking, what’s he looking at? Looking at me like that for? I know I’m a head-turner–but this was something else. Yes, I remember thinking that–and carried on thinking it, and going over it, and wondering about it, and worrying about it, and not paying attention to where we were heading, until all of a sudden–I looked up and…Oh my God…My spine straightened and a cold twitch pinched the back of my neck…Sudder Street…I was standing outside the newsagent’s. Its windows had been shuttered and boarded up, that familiar blue-and-white ticker-tape was strung, knotted and twisted, through a grille in front of the door. People were passing, watching me. I could tell they had suspicions. I felt his breath beneath my nostrils and self-consciously looked away, back at the scrawled and papered hoardings behind me.
‘Do you remember how spotty her chin was?’ he said, rounding on me.
I didn’t reply.
‘We should have had those Double Deckers.’
I didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘Do you remember how she was shaking?’
I couldn’t listen to him. I jerked my head violently away from him, trying to escape him.
‘Shit in your pants and that’s how they’ll find you! Remember that? The fear in her eyes. You said you could smell her–then–wallop! Remember? The smell of her fear!’
I knew what he was doing–he was trying to razz me–always, all of them–razzing me, sneering, jeering at me–forcing me out into the open–
‘I can smell it on you!’ I suddenly blurted, barking madly and wildly reeling. It was a mistake. A young man walking past me stopped and turned and looked at me. He looked aggrieved. His face contorted into an offended sneer. ‘Can smell what on me?’ he demanded indignantly. A cold wave of troubled confusion washed through me. He was a big lad in a white tracksuit, with a fashionable haircut and gold jewellery. I could tell he had working-class morals. I thought he was going to hit me. The craven beetle in my shoes shuffled and muttered in flustered supplicating embarrassment–‘Sorry, I was, nothing, I’m sorry–I’m…’
The fella tutted, muttered ‘fucking twat’–loud enough for all to hear–and then walked on, shaking his head, happy to conclude I was nothing more than mental. I felt ashamed and frightened. I put my eyes to the floor and noted that my heart was beating and that the skin between my eyes was twitching…He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, I knew what he was thinking. He’s doing everything he can to catch me, I thought. He’s chasing me down, running me to ground and barking all the way home. Never return to the scene of the crime–never, ever, never. A foolish thing to do…I ground my teeth and said ‘Yes.’ He agreed. We ambled home in silence, a bitter taste in my mouth and an air between us.
The house was quiet when we got in. I knew what he was thinking, so it came as no surprise when he suggested we have a look in on Beth and Adrian.
But I shouldn’t have listened–it was a mistake.
‘Get the keys,’ he ordered, ‘and stop sweating.’
What did I expect to find? I closed their front door quietly behind me and carefully made my way down the corridor towards the living room. I stopped in the doorway and looked at Adrian. The air smelt a little sour, putrefaction was setting in. I followed the dried black blood trail through to the bedroom doorway and looked in on Beth. Those pretty hazel eyes of hers had soured into cloudy regret, a mournful dead lament…Another two dead, I thought, and slowly decomposing. Another two forgotten, and left to rot. And nobody knows, nobody knows but me…
As I was leaving I noticed that a light on their answering machine was blinking. I pressed a button and the electronic voice of a very posh woman announced, ‘You have one new message.’ She stressed the word ‘one’. There was a bleep and then the message played. It was from a bloke called Johnnie, just phoning to see what they were up to. He said he hadn’t spoken to either of them in ages but that it was nothing important. He just wanted to see if they fancied meeting up some time and hoped they were well. He said he had a new mobile number which he repeated twice. I wrote it down on the back of a menu from a local curry house. Johnnie sounded very nervous, and spoke with a desperate cheeriness. He sounded guilty and alone. It made me think of me. I used to sound like that, I thought–I used to make phone calls like that. I tucked the menu with his number into my back pocket and thought, maybe I’ll phone you, Johnnie, maybe I’ll phone and say hello.
I glanced around and noticed both their mobiles plugged into a socket, charging. I turned them both on and checked their messages. Adrian didn’t have any–it surprised me, you’d have thought that at the very least his work would have phoned, but no. Who knows what his work was–maybe he didn’t work with others, maybe he worked alone. Beth had one message, from a girl called Maria, saying she was back (she didn’t say from where) and to give her a call. It saddened me, this lack of interest in their lives. I thought these people were the connected type. Now I think they were the lonely type, the type that only had each other. I locked their front door behind me, went downstairs, let myself into my flat, sat down and felt very depressed. A deep sadness welled up in me, and a swollen lump of emotion stuck in my throat, choking me. I didn’t cry, but I did brood. There they all are, dead and rotting and forgotten. Decomposing by the day and nobody knows, only I know…I made a cup of tea, and wrote it all down.
The time is now south by south-south-east. I’ve had a bath and calmed down, put on some clean clothes, freshened up and am heading out. It’s a beautiful evening, my last, and I’m going to make the most of it.
There has been an extraordinary turn of events. I have been on the television again. I am on the television now. I am watching myself, and the nation watches with me. I shall explain.
The time was straight north and south when I left the flat. I hopped onto the 38 bus at Clapton Pond and nestled into my second favourite seat, right at the front of the top deck. My favourite seat, at the back of the top deck, had already been
taken by a disgustingly fat Afro-Caribbean woman with an enormous backside spread out over two seats. Will she have to pay twice, I thought? No, of course she won’t–some poor bugger will have to stand downstairs or wait at the bus stop for another bus because her arse is the size of a buffalo’s. Such people make me sick. She sat there hunched over her McDonald’s chicken dippers, shovelling them into her craving insatiable gullet. The bus stank of processed glutamates. It was intolerable. I gave her a contemptuous look and pointedly opened all the windows, not that she noticed–she seemed oblivious to any offence the sight and stink of her might be causing. Typical lard-arsed human, I thought, selfishly unaware of anything other than her own voracious appetites, stuck in a bell jar of gluttony–guzzling and burping, swilling down a bucketful of fizzy pop and then panting with an exhausted fervour and starting to sweat. It filled me with rage–the fat ones are the worst. Honestly–I’m sure you agree–people that fat shouldn’t be allowed, they’re freaks. They drain resources and are always whingeing–they blame their glands or plead obesity, but the truth is they’re greedy and lazy and indulgent–they are the apotheosis of decadent Western culture, and if I had things my way I’d herd them all, like cattle, into the most desperate quarter of starving Africa and then leave them there to rot. Starve them all to death. And I’d broadcast it live on national television every night. A sort of Big Brother peepshow festival of fat. Fat in the Heart of Africa, I’d call it, and I’d get Bob Geldof to present it–Bob and his spaniel sidekick Boner…Yes–but I digress, forgive me, I’m ranting–I’m a little over-excited–manic even. The end is very near and, as I’ve said, there has been an extraordinary turn of events…
To resume–the bus made off on its rounds and quickly filled. Next to me sat a very polite, if not a little prim, white girl. She was very English-looking, about twenty-eight and dressed in a pair of simple plimsolls, a long orange cotton skirt that I would describe as hippyish, a plain white t-shirt and a hijab. Yes–that’s right–a hijab. A rather beautiful light-blue hijab that framed her porcelain-white English features. A convert, I thought, and nervously recalled the headline–Terror Alert. I glanced backwards over my shoulder around the bus–nine-tenths of the skin on the top deck was dark, a third of it in the hijab and three-eighths of it wearing a beard. I looked back at the girl next to me, she was very attractive–in a Western way–that is to say, skinny, white and well proportioned, with long legs and a cute arse–good to fuck, porno style. I let my look linger on her, linger long enough for her to know that I was looking at her, but she didn’t look back. It doesn’t do for a Muslim woman to look at a man, it can lead to all sorts. I momentarily pictured her spread out naked in front of me, with her legs apart and her cunt glistening. She’s not an extremist, I thought. Just a silly middle-class girl, lost for a time in her twenties, posing devotion to Allah. Whatever gets you through the night. Her mother and father must be very disappointed. Christmas will never be the same…