She
Stood
There.
Looking like the mother of unborn children, like the girl who deserved so much more than some shack of a shop. I picked her up, and did something I missed doing. I drew shapes on her body; half moons on her buttocks, in the lined crevices of her shoulder blades, tiny snail-shaped creatures of regret pulsing down the line of her back. A paper fan I coloured purple with the heat from my finger over her labia. I tongued the sweat at the base of her spine into a whirlpool, left hand prints on her thighs, and made murals for her out of her skin. I made love to my wife, the shaking of the bed sounded better than any music. The sweet sticky scent of her would be trapped in my nostrils for the entirety of my earthly life; the walls between us fell down. Her body curled around me. I swam inside her repeatedly, attempting to halve her in two: one to leave behind, one to take away.
In the morning, I reluctantly received a call from Ben Okafor.
He informed me that a source had revealed General Akhatar has been killed in a coup d’etat along with the President on their trip back from Abuja. It was lead by my old friend Obi Ekebe and did I have any comments?
My blood chilled. I replaced the receiver. Okafor would go ahead and write the expose in the Trumpet. If I stayed, I was a dead man either way. Finished. Obi and I had been friends once. We had trained together, killed together.
But by the following evening, I planned to be unrecognisable as a common street beggar, a new man with a fresh passport hidden in my inside pocket.
Intermission
An insistent knock sounded on the door. I opened it to find two uniformed policemen, one with a gut, the other trim and ginger-haired. Their expressions were unreadable. My bad news radar went off.
I said, “Yes?”
“I’m Sergeant Molden,” said the shorter of the two. “This is Sergeant Murdoch.” He indicated to his flame haired partner. “May we come in?”
I stepped back to make room for their entrance in my narrow hallway. Molden spoke first in a choppy fashion, each word seeming to stand alone. “Do you know the whereabouts of your neighbour, the elderly lady?”
“Mrs Harris?”
“Whatever she calls herself,” Murdoch piped in. “Nobody actually knows her real name.”
“I haven’t seen her for days. Why? What’s happened?” Fear fluttered my hand to my throat.
“She’s disappeared; we need to ask her some questions.”
“I don’t understand. Is she in trouble?”
Molden rearranged his impatient expression and explained slowly, “It’s urgent that we speak to her. If you hear anything, contact us. Have any of your things gone missing?” he asked.
Still shocked, on instinct I didn’t mention the incident with the brass head.
“No.” We were all standing in my living room, spare pieces of a chess game.
“And you’re sure you have no idea where she is or could be?” Murdoch asked.
“No, of course not, she was my neighbour not my mother.”
“We won’t keep you.” Molden turned to the door “We’ll be talking to more people on this street at some point, it’s a serious matter. If you do hear or see anything please let us know.” He held a card out to me I looked at in horror before taking it as if he’d handed me rabies. From behind my curtains I watched them get into a blue Ford car and drive off.
Really! I walked back to the centre of the room as though on stilts. Mad butterflies, I thought back to our conversation at the park. A mad butterfly had told me something true after all. She was an escape artist. I couldn’t help myself; I collapsed to the floor laughing. Several days later, I picked up a free City Lights newspaper from the train. There was a small feature on Mrs Harris. Wanted for benefit fraud, she had been assuming the identities of dead people for years. Stealing thousands from taxpayers, she had successfully been giving the police nationwide the slip for decades.
My theory was, fucked up people can’t help being drawn to other fucked up people, sometimes unwittingly. She was duplicitous, I knew this. BUT.
Those people were already dead. What was the real harm, other than conning a system that screwed you anyway? If you could and got away with it, wouldn’t you? In my warped way I was a little envious of her ruses, and her balls.
Later, I squeezed through her white unlocked kitchen window. Except for the sofa (there before she came), the fridge, the bed, the wardrobe, chests of drawers and washing machine, everything was gone. Even Buddy the Buddha, was no longer there to keep watch in the garden for only half the time. The kitchen felt barren without her collection of herbs mixing together, scenting the air with an unidentifiable perfume. They’d flown the coop with her. I ran my fingers over the black, scratched counter tops. She was real to me. I thought of her sitting at my hospital bed, sipping green ginger wine together on the rooftop, and eating the best breakfast I could remember for a long time. I thought of her saving my life. And my heart bloomed for her, whoever she was. Pangs of loss arrived, sudden, hard.
Days later I found her postcard in my vest drawer. It had a blue lit up question mark positioned over a man’s head. It read:
Well, the jig is up butterfly, I expect the boys in blue will be round asking questions. One day, I’ll tell you all about it. And… I really am Scottish. Until that time, do the right thing xxx.
She could be anywhere. “Do the right thing.”
Who’d have thought?
Inside her, Houdini chuckled.
Boat
In the dream, my head smacked repeatedly against the curved underside of a boat back at those same traffic lights where the baby had wandered, illuminated by the opening of another day and the acrid smell of smoke in the air. I felt the tug of a current inside me but there was no water holding the boat, only glass everywhere and traffic lights winking. The chatter of voices filled with concern and curiosity. Cheated of water the boat didn’t move, but interrupted the flow of traffic. The wound on my head stung. Blood oozed down the side of my face. Dry mouthed and nauseous, my head lolled. Through the thick, neon-coloured haze a slender, elegant figure reached out to me, grabbing my arm. Anon. She dragged me, my skin freshly stung, through ground filled with blood stained glass, glinting like jewels. Because of my position at floor level, a pigeon appeared to stumble away from the wound on my head. Undeterred, Anon dragged me to another road, only to shove me into light speed traffic. Decorated in broken glass, I fell to the ground, swallowed by engine noise, calling out freakishly in pigeon language to Anon who’d led me to the boat in the first place. I only owned half of the betrayal I tasted.
Chorus
At the medical centre, the woman in the painting of a dense forest had moved. Last time, she’d taken shelter beneath a hollow tree. This time, she was waist deep in the lake, searching for something as the painted strokes rippled. Hung on the off-yellow wall behind the reception desk, my eyes automatically went there each visit.
The receptionist named Carol, a slender auburn haired woman with overly plucked eyebrows, was talking on the phone at the back, while a photocopying machine churned out documents. She spotted me hovering, placed her hand over the receiver angling her head. “Hi Joy, you signed in for me?” I nodded, fished out a squeezed piece of paper from my back pocket. “This isn’t helping.” I said loudly. “I’m still not getting enough sleep.” On the wall the white clock above a cluster of certificates ticked sharply. A fly in the clock skimmed the glass before landing on the nine. I paced the small reception area, hearing its wings flutter.
“Okay, take a seat. The doctor will be with you in a bit; I’ll let him know you’re here.” Carol went back to talking into her static. The area smelt of pine, the floors gleamed and intermittently, the sliding entry glass doors delivered health care professionals bearing ID’s in rectangular, blue plastic holders jangling around their necks. I sat back listening to voices filtering through from the Saratoga Room behind me. I took a quick peek. In the centre wooden chairs were arranged in a
circle, a few people loitered. One man with earphones rocked his head gently back and forth. Another was drawing at a table decorated with fresh, ivory-hued gardenias where a marred heart floated between stems. I tapped my foot absentmindedly; watching silhouettes on the floor morph, listening to the crackle of the voices buzzed into reception, resenting my punishment for attempting to kill myself only once. Only once. Once. One time.
I looked up. The woman in the painting was underwater. My breath thinned. Plastic fish made of old photo ID’s swam towards her from the bottom.
Dr Krull’s room was royal blue. I wondered if that was deliberate, to keep the likes of me calm, royal blue to smooth frayed edges. On opposite sides but not too far away from each other were two plush brown leather chairs. In the left corner, a silent water machine. A wide wooden desk was filled with a stack of books and files. Almost mockingly beside the files was a sun-drenched picture of the Dr and his wife on a colourful street somewhere exotic. India maybe. They were an attractive, well-adjusted couple in a removable frame. I fidgeted in my seat while I watched Dr Krull’s handsome face wrinkle as he studied his notes. He looked Thai, perhaps Malaysian. His angular face and glinting eyes never seemed overly ruffled but his mouth always appeared to have more to say, twisting sardonically or curving down. We looked at each other across the gape of space between us, the battle line drawn using a chalky stone I could taste on my tongue.
Dr: How are you doing with the Sertraline tablets I prescribed?
In my mind’s eye, I saw the tablets dancing down a fat neck of toilet water, or melting in a sink full of bleach, taking their numbness down a plughole better equipped to manage the sluggish silhouettes, unable to cry out quickly their tongues having been weighed down my chemical solutions.
I nodded emphatically: Yes, I’m still taking them but I don’t know if they’re actually helping.
Dr: You have to give these medications time to properly take effect. Take them consistently. Tell me about your routine before leaving the house.
I willed my legs still, stopped the knees from knocking together. A couple of doors down the circle would have more people by now. Soon, they’d be confessing to practical strangers, taking their heads off like lids on sloppy jars, waiting to see things spill.
I watched the Dr’s face being kind, patient.
I check the kitchen cupboards, the wardrobe, make sure the windows are locked… About six or seven times, sometimes more if I’m feeling really anxious.
Dr: How long does it take you to leave the house? Why the cupboards and your wardrobe? What do you think you’ll find there? He kept his expression neutral, tone pleasant, pen poised over the notes in his lap. Outside, a car tore off into the distance. Lights changed around the city, indicating when to wait, stop, go. Amber, red, green. But when should a person be green, amber and red? Which organs could I swap for lights that helped you navigate through the dark? Where would I leave my organs? On a zebra crossing, a bridge or a kerb? The fly from the reception clock had left number nine. Tentatively I said: I, my hearing… It’s changing.
Dr: Changing how? A slight note of irritation had crept into his voice.
Why are you a burden Joy? A female voice declared sweetly. Don’t be such a burden!
Dr Krull uncrossed legs clad in black corduroys.
My hands clasped and unclasped: It feels… sharper. I can hear isolated sounds, details from quiet conversations, keys buried in someone’s bag, that sort of thing.
Dr patiently responded: The human body is a wondrous gift. All kinds of amazing, unexplainable things happen. I understand it might have slightly upset your equilibrium but it doesn’t sound like too much to worry about. Tell me, have you ever been deaf?
I leaned back into my chair: Deaf? I repeated as if he’d just spoken to me in a foreign language. My left hand trembled on my thigh.
Dr: Why do you check the cupboards, wardrobe and locks that amount of time? Is there something you’re afraid of?
Irritably I said: I don’t know. I thought: Shouldn’t you have the answer to that? You’re asking me things I already ask myself.
The room felt warmer, claustrophobic, the space between us had shrunk. In the hallway, wheels squealed against the floor. Lunch. Ready and waiting for those in the circle; crisp salads, light Cornish pasties, thickly crusted steak pies, chickpea curry and warm, crumbly apple pies. All that sharing gave you an appetite.
I continued slowly: I get anxious.
Carefully, I selected my words: I live alone and I don’t want anything to have… access.
Dr Krull: I find it interesting that you said anything not anyone.
I shrugged my shoulders: Same thing. Sometimes I get this feeling of doom. This horrible, choky feeling and I can’t breathe. My head hurts just thinking about it. I haven’t been sleeping properly.
Dr Krull: Do you still swallow stones?
Yes I answered, internally cursing my deviancy. Sometimes. I thought I saw a flicker of pity on the Dr’s face but it was a fleeting nano second of change.
I know what you’re going to say, I stated, patting myself on the back for being ahead of the curve. Yes, her voice said. It’s so pathetic you can predict questions about your own dysfunction. Congratulations, have the rest of your life to decipher your miserable existence.
I like the taste of stones Dr. I like that you can measure their entirety with your tongue; they’re definable. It pushes that choked up feeling in my throat down, right down to the bottom.
Dr Krull: Tell me about the first time you swallowed a stone, your earliest memory.
I don’t remember.
Dr Krull: You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember?
I held his gaze steady, like one of my stones in its fragmented bottom.
I don’t remember.
Dr Krull pressed pause on his tape recorder before exiting the room to get me a higher dosage of the sleeping pills he’d given me last time. I squirmed slightly beneath the gaze of his attractive wife from her compact picture frame. I set the picture face down on his desk. He’d left his blazer slung over the chair, seat still warm with his body’s imprint. I glanced around the room suspiciously, checking for signs of a hidden camera and confessions becoming thumbprints on its lens. They wouldn’t film without your consent, Doctor/patient confidentiality and all that. The lining of his jacket felt smooth and expensive. An image of him licking his wife’s nipples with his silk-lined tongue flashed into my head. I rummaged inside the jacket, keeping my ears open. I fished out a wallet containing £50 and a folded bank statement. I took a £20 note, ripped the first page of the bank statement with his address on and stuffed both in my back pocket. Carefully, I arranged the jacket exactly as I’d met it.
Anon appeared in the Dr’s chair, curled her long legs beneath her.
Take something else she said. Do it before he comes back. Her voice was strong and assured. The weight of her tongue inside my head pulled me up again. Her hand slipped into his jacket, opened the wallet. Before I knew it, I’d taken a Visa credit card, a tingle hummed along my spine. My handprints fed the hungry, small gold rectangle in the corner of the card in my pocket. A ripple from the river of the painting in reception carried them away, floating on the shimmering surface. The card was still lodged in my jeans pocket.
When the Dr returned, I was getting rid of evidence. A thin line of sweat ran into my right eye, stinging a little. The dripping water fountain made small echoes in the room, now buzzing with a spark of electricity. As I struggled to breathe, Anon’s face reassembled.
Dr Krull entered the room clutching a small paper bag bearing the green pharmaceutical logo. He looked concerned catching me taking deep breaths leaning forward in my seat. I didn’t say anything except panic attack and continued gulping air until he took the medicines out of the bag and handed it over for me to inhale. I didn’t say a word. I knew these people like neatly packaged neuroses; messy spillage meant messy consequences, the numbness of zombie land and blood in the sky.
We sat that way for several minutes while he helped me steady my breathing and I tried to control sudden movements, paranoid his credit card would fall from my pocket.
Dr Krull upped the dosage of the Sertraline pills that ran into white skies and left outlines looking like small, smudged spaceships if you kept them on paper in sunlight.
I left the centre to a chorus of jangling cutlery. A stringy haired woman in reception repeatedly spun her polka dot umbrella till it clattered to the floor. Outside, the wind blew. I bought a tuna and cucumber salad sandwich from Greggs, topped up my electricity using Dr Krull’s newish looking £20 note. At home, Anon the long-limbed woman was waiting on the bedroom window ledge, stroking some animal whose lines would fade by morning. I cried into my jar of slow dwindling stones, feeling my chest heave, thinking of my mother and all the lessons she would never learn from me.
Semi Circle
The heat in Rangi’s bathroom felt temporary. I was bent over the tub, inhaling and exhaling almost silently, feeling his tongue moistening the dip in my back, his laughter quiet against my skin in some secret trade off. Bloody ribbons from between my legs disintegrated in lukewarm water as the speed of the fly’s wings increased, circling around the small artificial sun that was the light bulb. A trickle edged down my left thigh, more bloody ribbons. I didn’t have to look down to know my nipples were reacting in their familiar way, one inverted and the other distended. As if they couldn’t agree on how transparent they should be about their pleasure.
Poised behind me, Rangi’s muscles tensed and relaxed, his golden frame coiled. He nudged me forward so my hands were splayed on the wall in front for support. I was trying to hold on to the thoughts scurrying in my head when he bit my left bottom cheek before tracing the teeth marks with his tongue. I released a sound that was part whimper and part sigh. The small house I’d drawn on the cabinet mirror had lost its roof and no longer harboured the sounds I made. Sounds that now belonged to small creatures with sink plugholes for mouths.
Butterfly Fish Page 24