by P. K . Lynch
Anne’s voice carried up the stairs. She had a habit of speaking in low tones so Jude couldn’t actually hear what was being said, but could be sure she was the topic of conversation. If she wanted to be discreet, Jude wondered, why didn’t she just go into the kitchen and close the door? The unease set off again, making its regular journey from the pit of her stomach to nestle in her jawbone. She stretched her mouth wide to disturb the tension residing there. More gossip flying from this house down the phone line to someone. What on earth could be so interesting to talk about? What was there still to say? Nothing changed. She couldn’t have foreseen that by hiding away she was making herself the centre of attention. Everyone’s worried about you, Anne said. Just show your face. But to show her face would be an admission that she had moved on, caught up with the rest of the world that had continued to move ruthlessly forward without Peter. She wasn’t ready for that yet. She reached for a cigarette from the pack beside the bed. Here was a problem. Only three left. The prospect of asking Anne to bring her more made her wrap herself even tighter into the duvet. This was ridiculous. Trapped in her bedroom at her age? Scared to face her mother-in-law? Was she really such a teenager?
Her eye was drawn to the open wardrobe where Peter’s shirts hung in a neat row, belying the chaos his leaving had caused. She had an association with all of them. The Hawaiian short-sleeve he’d worn on their first holiday years before; the Ted Baker she’d picked up in TK Maxx; the checked one from Burton Sissy had chosen for his fortieth. All of them. Strange how they needed someone to come along and give them life. Strange how they needed a body in order to fulfil their function.
She hadn’t realised she was crying again. Her face and nightdress were soaked, the cigarette one long finger of ash teetering precariously over the bed clothes.
At the foot of the stairs listening was Anne, conversation finished. She clutched the phone to her chest, not realising she was bruising the skin beneath her wool-mix M&S cardigan. She did what she always did when faced with uncomfortable matters: she suppressed it with anger. Anger put her on top. Put her in control. It gave her the energy to climb the stairs.
‘That’s it. That’s enough,’ she said, pushing open the door to Jude’s bedroom. ‘You’ve hidden away in here long enough.’
She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains. Low winter sunlight streamed in to highlight the millions of dust particles floating in the air. The window flew open.
‘It’s so stuffy in here.’
She pulled the dressing table stool over and sat by the bed. When Jude didn’t stir, Anne pulled the corner of duvet that was bunched up in Jude’s fist until she had the whole thing and was lifting it clear off the bed. A foetal Jude screwed her eyes up against the light.
‘You can’t go on like this, Jude. Do you think you’re the only person who misses him?’
That was such an unfair accusation, Jude opened her eyes.
‘What would he think if he could see you now? Lying in bed all day like something broken. Something unclean. Not eating. It’s a disgrace. Would he love you like this?’
‘Please, don’t,’ her voice small and croaky.
‘And Sissy. What about her? Do you have the slightest idea of what she’s doing? Is she even alive? She doesn’t reply to any of my letters. Don’t you care?’
What was she saying about Sissy? Of course she was alive. She’d spoken to her recently, she was sure. Arranged money for rent. Somehow Jude knew she wasn’t helping by bailing her out all the time, but at least it was a way of keeping in touch. What was she supposed to do? Call her bluff? Let her be evicted?
Her mother-in-law was in the en suite now, her voice rattling on. Then a cold dripping cloth covered Jude’s face, shocking her into sitting up. So exposed, she felt naked. So this was it, was it? The time had come.
Anne busied herself around the overflowing laundry basket, emptying and gathering colours for a wash.
‘Just leave it, Anne,’ said Jude.
‘It’s been months now,’ Anne said with a sigh, as she heaved herself back up to standing, arms full with her son’s unwashed clothes.
Without understanding how she got there, Jude found herself blocking the doorway.
‘Leave it,’ she said, with force.
A flicker of alarm passed over Anne’s face. She gawped for a moment, unprepared for the reality of Jude’s re-emergence into her life.
‘Oh fine, have it your way,’ she said finally, throwing all she’d been cradling onto the floor. ‘But this room is disgusting,’ she snarled. ‘Get it cleaned up. Now.’
Jude stood aside to let Anne pass. A damp December wind flowed through, making the curtains quiver, but it wasn’t the cold that caused Jude to shake. Peter’s unwashed clothes were little scattered islands across the floor. She gathered them up, his smell no longer detectable. There was no point to them any more. She should have let Anne do one more thing for her boy. The bed sheets were grey and rumpled and covered with ash and cigarette burns. Putting the clothes onto a chair, she stripped the bed for the first time in months. She was bored and disgusted with herself. It couldn’t go on. Her gaze wandered to the phone lying on the bedside table. Surely someone she wanted to speak with would ring soon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gay
It was pay day and the urge to party was upon them with an unfamiliar fierceness. What had started out as a great adventure had been reduced in recent weeks to arguments over unwashed dishes and unflushed toilets. Cam and Rik’s discovery that most of their pay cheque was swallowed up by such dull essentials as rent and bills had brought about a general household depression that over time focused into resentment towards Sissy, who, despite not having a job, seemed to have an invisible source of income. She sensed their animosity but remained unaware of the cause. Confused, she retreated further into herself, and without her, the hollowness of Cam and Rik’s friendship was exposed.
But now it was Friday, which, in any language, translated into party night. Too pissed to contemplate a tube journey, Rik, Cam and Sissy took a cab across town to a new club Rik had heard of. The driver took them as close as he could but they had to cross a small park to reach the club which was operating out of a disused railway arch. Feeling like imposters, unused to and unworthy of such novelty, they cautiously joined the line. The deep throbbing bass of the DJ’s decks rumbled beneath their feet.
‘If you close your eyes you can imagine it’s trains,’ Sissy said, her voice slurring slightly. ‘It’s like going back in time.’
‘Fuck off,’ both boys told her, and they all laughed, giddy with relief to be away from their claustrophobic set-up in Walthamstow, happy with each other again.
‘Well, hello,’ a tall blonde man turned to Sissy. ‘Aren’t you a poppet?’
‘Well, aren’t you handsome?’ replied Sissy, taking in his mashing jaws and pinprick eyes.
‘Thank you, darling,’ the man replied. ‘I’ve been working at it.’ He ran his hands across his midriff.
‘Can I touch?’ Sissy asked, thrilled by her newly discovered boldness.
‘Of course, baby. Lap it up. Anyone else?’ he called over the sea of heads, but he wasn’t interesting enough to inspire the line of clubbers, most of whom were involved in their own eccentricities. Eye make-up, facial piercings, neck tattoos, glitter, high heels, neon jewellery.
‘Is this a fucking gay place?’ Cam said, as comprehension dawned.
‘Chill, darling. They’re very accepting,’ quipped Rik.
Sissy laughed. ‘Cam, have you met Rik? He’s our gayest friend.’
‘I’m fucking picking where we go next time,’ scowled Cam.
The doorman lifted the red rope and they slipped through.
‘Stick with me and they won’t even notice you,’ said Rik, handing notes to the teller behind the window. They followed the noise along the grubby grey corridor to the main dance room, which lay behind two swing doors and opened out into a cavernous universe laden with half-naked men
bouncing and grinding to the beat.
Red and green lasers splice the darkness.
‘Fucking yes!’ yells Cam. They gather round and Rik pulls out a tiny bag of yellow pills. They each take one and hug, declaring love for each other. This is their own special, unique ritual, made to cement their friendship, to put them in a good place before giving themselves over to the drugs and music.
Cam is first to insert himself among the heaving mass of bodies, pulling Sissy and Rik behind him. They push through until they make a space for themselves. They stop and look at each other in wonder, feeling as though they’ve surely walked straight into the centre of sound. Energy from the men around them crackles through every tiny empty space before it finds them and plugs them into the same urgent pulse, an endless wave in an ever expanding web of music.
The beauty of it takes their breath away.
Sissy can tell the crowd loves her. She’s so tiny. She attracts attention. A beautiful man with piercings all over his face caresses her head in a low, gentle motion that somehow seems to emerge from the mad driving beat of the music. He’s fascinated at how Sissy’s hair spreads through his curious fingers, before he’s swallowed back into the crowd, but Sissy knows that no matter where he goes, they’re still connected. An invisible silvery thread zig-zags its way through the maze of dancers, and will keep them connected all night long.
Rik’s already snogging someone. This, too, is beautiful. Sissy feels a new wave of love rising in her, lifting her literally off the ground, and then she’s being passed over heads, many hands touching her. Another guy laughs in her ear: You’re so tiny! You’re like a little doll! She recognises his delight in her. You’re gorgeous too, she shouts over the noise as she’s settled back onto the floor, a circle of hairless, tanned torsos around her now, guys in jeans or black leathers grinding against each other. She loves it as much as they love each other.
A flash of concern for Cam crosses her consciousness, but, perfectly, there he is, enveloping her from behind, his knees tuck in behind hers and he nuzzles her neck. She pushes herself round. His eyes are liquid gold, his lips softer than feathers. They sway together while, all around, the rest of the room jumps in unison to the DJ’s command. They are the kernel of the room, the centre of love. Sissy folds her arms around Cam’s long, slender neck, and they share the sweetest kiss there has ever been.
She loves this boy so much – from when he used to steal her schoolbag to force her to chase him in primary, to him being kicked out of school and hanging around the gates waiting for her to come out and improve his day, to their first bottle of cider together – she loves his whole fucked-up life. She loves that only she knows how much he hates his stepdad, that he thinks his mum’s desperate. She loves that he trusts her so fucking much, which leads her involuntarily to think about her dad, and how Cam’s been there for her since Peter died, how clever he is that he doesn’t force her to talk about anything, how clever that he just knows her, knows what she needs, and how, somehow, he’s silently communicated that he will always, always be there for her.
The drums are building a rhythm, picking up speed. It’s impossible to kiss any longer. They hold on to each other and bounce up and down until the beat throws them apart. Joyfully, they rejoin the mad crush, the pure and true spiritual communion. They throw their arms up and thrash, separated now by bodies, but bound by that same silvery thread no one can see but everyone is aware of.
If managed properly, Cam says, the comedown is almost as good as the high. Rik always finds a boy to love and stays with him until late on Sunday, so Cam and Sissy have the house to themselves. They have spliffs rolled and waiting for them. The sun rising over their tiny garden turns it into a kind of paradise – it’s the only time they use it. They drag duvets out over the warped decking and wrap themselves up with shades on to protect their eyes. They smoke and talk in voices low and languid. They are beautiful. They are strong and independent and wise. They are in the beginning days of the miraculous journey that will constitute their lives. Everything is perfect. Everything is as it should be. Then they make love and sleep, their bodies curled perfectly into each other because of course they are designed with only this union in mind, and then they wake and smoke and make love and then sleep again, all day long.
Afterwards, they each retreat to their own rooms. Sissy tells him they are friends and there’s no reason friends can’t occasionally have sex with each other. He agrees. They congratulate themselves on their maturity. Sissy doesn’t think deeply about it because that would be uncomfortable, though she expects it will keep on happening. No need to put a label on whatever passes between them. For Cam, it’s a little more complicated than that, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and through the week he watches her from a distance.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Neighbours
Cam was on his second job after falling foul of his building-site workmates. ‘What can I say? It just didn’t feel right,’ he said. After a week of complaining about his new call centre job, he came home one Friday and announced: ‘He’s a fucking cunt. And his fucking job sucks balls.’
Sissy and Rik exchanged looks. They knew all about it. It wasn’t just that the work was boring, but his boss was a French guy called Pascal who liked to monitor everyone’s tea breaks and give public dressing-downs for minor misdemeanours. He also liked speaking in his own language, particularly when he knew people couldn’t understand him. When he was with the French speakers of the office, he’d smile and speak in a confidential manner about a person as they approached and then laugh as they hurried past, nine times out of ten with their head bowed.
‘Obnoxious,’ said Sissy.
‘It’s life,’ said Rik, pouring hot water into a Pot Noodle. ‘It’s called being a grown-up, darling.’
‘It’s called he’s gonna get his fucking lights punched out, is what it’s called.’ Cam kicked a chair away from the table and sat down, glowering. He took out papers and tobacco, hunched over and began rolling. Much to Sissy’s disappointment, he didn’t sprinkle any grass into it, and she didn’t like to ask. Rik continued to poke at his Pot Noodle with a fork, tilting his head to look at the garden next door. He’d become fascinated by the changing state of faeces according to the weather. As it got colder, somehow the foulness of it was less.
Cam pulled a rogue tobacco leaf from his mouth and flicked it onto the floor.
‘What did you get up to then?’ he asked through the smoke.
‘Who, me?’ said Sissy.
‘Well, I’m not asking him, am I?’ Cam said, nodding his head at Rik. ‘I know what he’s been doing. He’s been at work all day, same as me.’
His tone was harsh and unexpected. For some time, Sissy had been experiencing a growing realisation that her lack of direction might be a problem, but it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone else might care. Not that Cam appeared to be in an overly compassionate mood.
‘Uh, nothing much,’ she shrugged, trying to keep it casual.
‘Must be nice not having to work.’
She recoiled from the spite in his words.
‘I do have to work. I just haven’t found anything yet. What?’ she said, catching the look that passed between them.
Rik shrugged and turned back to the window, forking noodles into his mouth, impervious to a view that would turn an iron stomach. Cam shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You gonna be alright for the rent next week?’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
‘None of your fucking business is how.’
‘Children, children,’ Rik said, tipping the last of the Pot Noodle down his throat. ‘It’s Friday night. Now are we going out or what?’
Cam leaned his chair back on the radiator.
‘Only if we go somewhere normal. I can’t hack another night fending off pretty boys.’
Rik rolled his eyes.
‘Charming. Okay then. Heteronormativity, here we come.’
Their destination was
a large chain pub on the corner of Hoe Street whose regular clientele were commuters marching towards middle age, who popped in ‘for a quick one’, only to be found three hours later, prisoner of a pissed-up moroseness.
‘Could this place be any more depressing?’ said Rik.
‘Mate, as long as they take our ID and serve us beer I will consider this a paradise,’ said Cam, raising his glass and pouring the lager straight back.
Rik shuddered. ‘Animal. Do you have to dislocate your jaw to do that? Eh up,’ he said, having picked up a range of national colloquialisms since leaving home. ‘Look who’s here.’
They turned to see their neighbour, May, with her boorish Glaswegian boyfriend, sitting at a table on the other side of the room. Too late, they ducked their heads back down.
‘Hello, chickens!’ May called brightly. They groaned when she stood up and gathered her bag and coat, and urged the boyfriend to follow suit. Soon, all five of them were crammed into a booth. The boyfriend’s name was Jimmy, which prompted another eye roll from Rik: Such a cliché, he said later, keen to dissociate himself from anything tying him to a place they all now considered to be the epitome of parochialism.
May and Jimmy had a lot of advice to give. Live it up while you can, you’re only young once, seize the day, or tempus fugit, as Jimmy said, sparking surprise among everyone apart from May. He’s actually pretty good with languages, she said. What country was that, love? Show them what else you can do. And then followed a series of scattered phrases from all parts of the globe.
‘That’s really good. Sure it is?’ Sissy urged Cam and Rik to agree.
They talked about the neighbours, learning who to avoid, and who didn’t realise their blinds were transparent with the lights on, and they knocked back more drinks when May got her purse out. ‘I’ll get them. I want to. You’re only young. Give us a hand, Jimmy.’