by James Hannah
Oh, this is all going horribly.
‘It’s nature,’ he says drawing a circle in the air, using the rib bone as a pointer.
‘Tell that to all the women who come into the hospital after a botched late-term abortion because they’re expecting a girl.’
I flash you a look. Do we really need to go there?
Sustainable and friendly future?
Yeah?
Again Mal raises his eyebrows at me, but I won’t look at him.
Silence settles once more between us all, filled only by the gingerest of clinks of forks reluctantly hovering over flesh.
Maybe we should skip dessert.
‘What are you doing?’
I look up to see that Mal has jabbed his rib bone into your risotto.
‘What? I wanted to try a bit.’
‘Mal, she’s vegetarian,’ says Laura.
‘Oh, so what? It’s not got any meat on it, has it?’
‘Look,’ you say, standing, ‘I’m going to go, all right? I’m not feeling too good. There’s twenty quid for my share.’ You turn to me. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Here we – here we go,’ says Sheila, catching the telephone trolley on the door frame and stopping up short. She unhooks it with a wiggle and wheels it into the room. ‘It’s old-school telephony for us, I’m afraid. I’ll pop that there. Now, I’ve given him the number, and he said he was going to leave it about ten minutes and then ring.’
I look up at her and nod in reluctant acknowledgement. All of this, reluctant.
‘Then it’s up to you, lovey. Pick it up, or don’t.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘It’s none of my business, but I think it’s really good you’ve agreed to this. I know it might seem a bit silly, accepting a phone call from someone sitting fifty yards away in the car park, but – well, if you’re willing to even think about being a bit flexible, well, that’s real character in my book. That’s real strength.’
I smile an administrative smile. I can’t do any more.
‘I’ll leave you be,’ she says.
She tidies herself out of the room, pulling the door softly shut behind her, and as soon as the light of her departure has shifted and settled in the frosted glass, the phone begins to ring. Cheap electronic chirrup. Annoying. I look at it for a moment, but the instinct is too strong. I can’t let that noise carry on, troubling the other patients.
I let it go on.
Chirrup-chirrup.
I pick up the receiver.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, mate.’
‘Hello, Kelvin.’
‘How you doing?’
The habitual first question, not worth answering.
‘You wanted to speak.’
‘Sorry, mate, it feels a bit weird talking from a car park. A bit Cold War spy.’
‘They still want me to see Mal.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m not going to, Kelv.’
‘No.’
An awkward pause.
‘I wanted to tell you the stuff that no one else is saying,’ he says.
He pauses again. I know he wants me to say something, help lubricate his way. But he can work for this. I don’t need to lift a finger.
‘I know this is the last thing you need, people coming up to you with demands when you’re feeling so shitty, but I know you’d want to know. Even if you don’t change your mind. I know you’d want all the facts.’
More unnatural silence.
‘No one wants to upset you, least of all me, but things are pretty bad. For his mum and dad, for Laura. They worry themselves sick about him all day every day. And the times when he does come back, he’s usually in a real state. The last time he was shivering and crying because – well, you know, he’d run out of money and he hadn’t had his fix.’
My mind darts over this scenario, searches for an emotional response. Comes back blank.
‘That’s a lot for them to take. He’s not the swaggering lad you used to know. He’s changed. He’s changed a lot. And he’s paid heavily for everything that happened.’
‘So have I, Kelvin.’
‘I know you have, mate, I know. And I’m sorry to come to you like this when you’re – you know.’
‘Dying?’
He can’t bring himself to say it.
‘Look, mate, you can’t carry on going through life thinking no one’s going to notice or care whether you’re here or not. When you’re gone, you’re gone for ever. There’s a lot of people going to be very upset by that. Damaged by it.’
‘Why are you trying to do this, anyway? Why are you trying to make me feel guilty for this?’
‘I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.’
‘He killed her, Kelvin.’
There.
That’s stopped him.
That’s fucking shut him up.
‘I don’t see why you’re so interested in all this anyway. Is it because you want to get in Laura’s knickers? I reckon you want to see him gone.’
Thick silence. Nailed him. I’ve nailed him there.
‘You can take the piss out of me all you like, mate,’ he says, quietly. ‘I’m just saying it as I see it.’
‘Is that right?’
‘That’s right. And I’ve seen you do this over and over again to these people’s lives, and if I can stop you from doing it again, I will.’
‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘Yeah, that’s you all over, isn’t it?’
The phone goes dead.
I place the receiver gently back in the cradle, and press my buzzer.
Skin
‘THE SKIN,’ KELVIN reads from the textbook, ‘is the largest organ on the human body.’ He looks at me. ‘Well,’ he says, with his big stupid face, ‘it’s not the largest organ on my body.’
‘Gah!’ I throw my pen down and it bounces off the kitchen table and rolls across the floor. ‘I knew you were going to say that!’
‘What? It’s true!’
Watching Kelvin’s mind at work is like watching an oil tanker trying to do a three-point turn. I reach down and retrieve my pen, and try to get back into my notes. I’ve got to stop this jitteriness. I’m starting to get really panicky about this exam.
‘It’s such a stupid joke,’ I say.
‘So? All good jokes are stupid.’
‘No, but it’s bad stupid. It’s the first thing anyone ever says – and it’s just impossible. It doesn’t work. Even if you had a cock the size of Ecuador, the skin would still be the size of Ecuador plus one human, wouldn’t it?’
Kelvin ignores me, and flips the page.
‘Skin renews itself every twenty-eight days,’ he reads.
‘I know.’
‘My cock renews itself every twenty-eight minutes.’
Laura is slumped, still in her dressing gown, in the middle of the sofa in the front room of her flat, crying. The utter pitifulness of the expression on her face is almost funny. I feel bad for thinking it, because the state of her actual face isn’t funny at all.
The skin looks badly scalded, angry red cheeks sweeping down to an almost bony yellowish colour under her nose and around her mouth.
‘I’ve got to go to a spa in three days,’ she says, dabbing at her nose with a sopping tissue, ‘and I look like Freddy Krueger.’
‘Well why did you give yourself a chemical peel if you’re going to a spa in three days, you dumb shit?’ says Mal over-loudly. I reckon he’s showing off to hide the embarrassment that they’ve had to drag us round to Laura’s for your medical opinion.
You tentatively settle beside her on the sofa.
‘What exactly was it that you put on your face?’
Laura pushes a box at you.
‘Glycolic acid,’ you read. ‘Did you follow the instructions?’
‘Yeah,’ she nods, sadly. ‘I just pushed up the percentage a little bit. Just a little bit.’
You take up the minutely typed instruction lea
flet and scan it. ‘Are you in any pain?’
‘Not so much now,’ she sniffs. ‘At first it felt like my whole face was on fire. Now it’s really tight. But it’s how it looks. I don’t know how long it’s going to look like this.’
Her tears well up again, and you tut sympathetically, flip the instruction leaflet over in your hand.
‘It’s stupid, I know,’ says Laura, ‘but I’m going with Becca for a bring-a-friend-free weekend getaway and I didn’t want to look like some sort of dried-up old hag next to her.’
‘Oh, Laura, you’ve got lovely skin,’ you say.
‘Yeah, except it’s not on her face any more,’ says Mal.
You glare at him.
‘What?’ he says. ‘I could have boiled the kettle and poured it over her head and had the same effect. Cheaper too.’
Laura picks up her compact mirror and lifts and dips her head to assess the damage once again. ‘Becca looks amazing without even trying,’ she says, ‘and I spend ages – like when we went to that fetish club on her birthday?’ She looks up at me, as if asking me to remember. ‘She didn’t need to make any effort, and she was instant eye-candy, and I was stood there in a stupid catsuit and no one gave me a second look. And I thought, it’ll be exactly like that at the spa.’
There’s a momentary process in your eyes as you meet my gaze. Something begins to unsettle in my middle. Fetish club? Some explanation required?
‘It was her birthday, wasn’t it? Ah, that was a top night,’ says Mal, with forced wistfulness. ‘She did look good though, didn’t she?’
‘Thanks a lot, Mal,’ spits Laura. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.’
‘Well, come on. That body in just a bra? Nothing else? Hats off to her.’
‘Were you there?’ you say, looking across at me. ‘Where was I? I don’t remember even hearing about this.’
I squint at Mal, pretending only to dimly remember, broadcasting all the negatives I can at him.
‘She said her knickers and bra didn’t match, and it was her best bra,’ Laura explains, dolefully.
‘Oh no, I remember, that was when you were on your little break from each other,’ says Mal.
‘I can’t remember,’ I say.
‘I’m not surprised, the state you were in,’ says Mal, laughing.
‘When was this?’ you ask, almost as if you hadn’t heard him. ‘My lips are sealed,’ says Mal. ‘I’ve said too much already.’
‘You were in an S&M club?’
We’re marching along at a furious rate now. I’m starting to get a bit out of breath.
‘I was down,’ I say. ‘We’d all trekked up north to a place Mal knew for a night out. I didn’t want to go, but it was Becca’s birthday, and – they all thought I should be having a good time. I didn’t know that was their plan when we went out, but – when you’re there, you’re there.’
‘And had you taken anything?’
I look across at you, and your eyes are blazing. My first instinct is to look away. I try to suppress it, but by the time I do it’s already too late.
‘I was really low,’ I say.
The clock of our footsteps on the pavement echoes off the walls and parked cars as we square the slabs away behind us, off down the street. ‘I don’t understand it–’ you say. ‘I do not understand first why you can’t just stop it. You’re not addicted, you’re not dependent, it’s just a bad habit you will not kick. And I don’t get how these people, these friends and family, can stand by and let you do this to yourself. And to us.’
‘There was no us at the time. There was no us.’
I can see your eyes are stressed and weary. It’s happening again. The whole thing is going to shit again.
‘Just – tell me what happened,’ you say.
‘OK, look, you’ve got to try to remember how it was – it was a hard time. For us both. It was, wasn’t it?’
You don’t reply.
I sigh unsteadily.
Honesty. Full honesty.
Finally.
‘We were in the club, and a woman was dancing with me, and I was feeling – I was upset over you.’
You frown deeply, processing.
‘And we went into a back room and – I don’t know what happened. We kissed. I remember we kissed.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
You’re looking up at me with hard eyes, scanning, scanning, your irises moving minimally from left to right to left as you look in each of my eyes.
‘Time for more bedsore meds, I’m afraid,’ calls Sheila as she breezes through the door with a smile. She stops in her tracks. ‘Oh, lovey, what’s the matter?’
I’m crying. What is it I’m doing, the grotesque dry twitch, voice, rasping awfulness. I cannot get it out. I want to shed tears but I cannot drink enough water to make tears.
Sheila fixes the door shut and hurries round beside me, but she doesn’t know what to say. She simply stands there and holds my cold hand, strokes the back of it.
‘I should never have started this,’ I say.
‘Started what, my darling?’
‘It’s too painful to remember these things.’
‘Oh, lovey, I’m so sorry, it was only supposed to be a silly game to keep you occupied.’
‘No, no,’ I say, steadily regaining some kind of equilibrium, ‘it’s not you, it’s not you. It’s me.’
Am I imagining it? I’m shocked to see she seems a little choked. Double shine in her eyes.
‘Sheila – could I –? Morphine?’
‘Oh yes, yes, of course. Give me a sec.’
Tear ducts
THIS IS IT: I cannot make the tears come. And anyway, boys don’t cry, do they?
But if you don’t cry, does it mean you don’t care?
If I could just cry it out.
Maybe it’s better I don’t.
Maybe I haven’t earned that.
Crying isn’t about sadness. Crying is to sadness what cold is to a cold. Unrelated.
The stupid reasons I’ve cried.
I cried at my dad’s funeral, but I remember absolutely that it wasn’t for the reason everyone said it was. It was because everyone called me poor little love, and said aw bless. And if enough different people say aw bless to you in one day it’s going to make you freak out. A congregation of over a hundred and fifty. Each and every one of them must have said aw bless to me.
I finally broke down when my grandma offered me a biscuit. I said I didn’t want it. She said, Come on, you can have it, it’s yours. But I said no, because I was feeling like I wanted to honour my dad by not having the biscuit.
‘Go on! You know you want it!’
Everyone looking at me.
Me, flushing hot, and unable to stop the tears from coming.
‘Aw, bless …’
Fuckers.
Where are they now, eh?
So here I am, once again. I thought I’d escaped. I was stupid enough to allow myself to think that maybe you and I had finally got it together. But I find myself back in my boyhood bedroom, in my boyhood bed with its collapsed mattress, dressed up in my dad’s old pyjamas. I’m pressing your blanket to my face. Its scent fills my nostrils and I am awash with a renewed wave of sorrow. Deserved sorrow.
There’s no coming back from this.
There’s no coming back.
I hear my mum on the stairs. The slip-slap of her slippers. In a moment she’ll appear at the door, break the spell of solitude. I look up. There she is. Never changing, always the same.
‘Can I come in?’
I say nothing. She comes in. She’s carrying a bowl of chicken soup, and sets it down next to my alarm clock. She sits beside me on the bed, and we creak in closer to each other.
I take the crochet blanket up, pull it safely towards me.
I look up at my mum. ‘The blanket smells of her.’
‘Oh, bab.’
We are crying.
She cradles my head, places her palm on my hair, and gently, ge
ntly presses all over.
She wants to talk about it, but I can feel my anxiety burning within. I don’t have anything to tell her. All there is to tell would break her heart. She doesn’t even know I smoke. How would I tell her about – everything else?
I can’t tell her anything, so we sit there in silence as the soup cools before me. I don’t have any appetite. I only wanted her to make it so she would have something to do. Something away from me.
I’m sorry, Mum.
I don’t mean to be mean.
I’m just sitting here, pushing the crochet to my nose and mouth and tightening for crying.
Mum kisses the top of my head, my hair.
‘It was cruel,’ she says now. ‘She was too cruel.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, she’s not been cruel.’
‘Do you want me to wash it for you? I’m sure I could put it on a hand wash or something, if you want to keep it.’ She starts examining a corner of the blanket to work out how best to wash it.
‘No,’ I say, ‘no thanks.’
Mum leaves me.
I want this blanket to keep your scent. It will remind me. I can change. I can do this, and then you’ll come back. And we will wrap ourselves in it.
Mum reappears at the door, holding a freshly pressed blanket she’s drawn from the airing cupboard.
‘Here we are, bab, why don’t you take this one, eh? Have this blanket.’
Laura’s all in my face, and the people at the other tables in the café are starting to get a whiff of scandal. I wish I wasn’t still in my work shirt.
‘Why aren’t you talking to my boyfriend?’
‘Laura, I’m just trying to eat my lunch, all right?’
‘Why aren’t you talking to Mal?’
Mal stands sheepishly behind her, trying not to catch my eye.
‘I’m not.’ I mean I’m not not talking to him.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘you aren’t. And I want to know why.’
I consider my Nik Nak-powdered fingers, at a loss as to what I’m supposed to say. She’s giving me a soap opera, like this is how people are supposed to talk to each other.
‘I think it’s totally shitty, what you’re doing,’ she says.
I’m not engaging with this. I start to methodically de-powder each finger with a deliberate lip-smack.