by Mike Gayle
My mum would be weeping like mad; I can’t imagine that she’d be in any state other than suicidal. I think she’s desperate to die before either my brother Tom or me, and I’m inclined to agree that it might be for the best. My mother takes great comfort in the status quo, as does my dad; they like things to be just the way they found them, though that didn’t stop them getting divorced last year.
I find it hard enough to deal with twenty-six years of life, so the thought of dealing with an eternity of death fills me with dread. I can barely motivate myself to get out of bed these days. I wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t like this at all.
Look, I’m feeling a bit tired now. Thanks for calling. You’re certainly an interesting person to talk to, but right now I’ve got to go. And no, it’s not because I want to be a moody boy loner, although any mystique, even hackneyed moody boy loner mystique, would be useful. It’s just that I’m talking all manner of weirdness to you straight off the cuff. I need to sit down and work everything out a bit. I found out today that the only girl I had ever loved cheated on me with my best friend and it kind of shook me up. Look, I promise I’ll phone you back soon.
4.41 P.M.
My neck was killing me.
During the course of the conversation I’d changed position several times and, by the time I’d put the phone down, I was lying half on the bed and half on the floor with my neck supporting more weight than it was designed to. It was a little unsettling to be suddenly thrust back into The Real World. A gust of wind sent a sheet of rain crashing against my window, as if I needed reminding that I wasn’t meant to be happy. I picked up the phone again to see if Kate was still there. Sometimes, if the other person hasn’t put their phone down, they can still be connected. When I discovered this, I used to do it to Aggi all the time. She’d always be the first to put the phone down and then she’d pick it up seconds later to call someone else and I’d still be there. When she cottoned on to what I was doing, she made me put the phone down first whenever we spoke. With hindsight, of course, she probably did it so she could phone Simon.
I reflected on the conversation I’d had with Kate. I hadn’t told her the whole truth – I hadn’t told her about my fantasies about Aggi’s untimely passing. For ages the only way I could cope with Aggi’s absence from my life was by pretending she was dead. I scattered her ashes by our oak tree in Crestfield Park, and when I occasionally visited her, I’d lay a few daisies at the base of the tree and tell her how life was. It was great when she was dead because at last I was free from worry. I always knew where she was and what she was doing; she always listened attentively and never argued.
Her funeral was wonderful. Lying in the coffin at the crematorium, her face was pale and fragile, her body stiff and wax-like – the complete opposite to how she’d been alive. Many of her previous boyfriends were present at the service but while they were all grim-faced and stiff-upper-lipped, I was the only one who openly shed tears because she would’ve liked that. Like Kate said, the last thing you want at your own funeral is people being reserved – the more wailing and gnashing of teeth the better.
Mrs Peters had cried too. She was one of the few people who could understand the pain I was going through. Although we hadn’t spoken at the crematorium, when she’d bumped into me in town weeks later, she revealed how she’d always had a soft spot for me and said things like Aggi must’ve taken leave of her senses to dump me. She promised to put in a good word for me with Aggi when she got back home, unable to grasp the concept that her only daughter was dead.
Aggi had died from natural causes. I admit I’d considered murder, but it wasn’t very me, although for a while it was. ‘If I can’t have you then nobody else can either!’ It would’ve been amusing to have seen the look of horror on her face as I uttered those terrible words while haphazardly shoving cartridges into a shotgun. I’d have seen the terror in her beautiful green eyes as she realised that finally, after all these years, I did have a backbone and, unfortunately for her, my new Arnold Schwarzenegger-like persona would be the last thing she’d ever see. I couldn’t shoot her though – too messy – and I couldn’t stab her – which is what a crime of passion really called for, because that was messy too, and if I’d used a blunt instrument, I would’ve ruined that face that I loved so much. No, Aggi had died naturally from something the doctors didn’t have a name for. Of course there was no antidote or cure but I didn’t let her suffer. I offered her the choice of any of my organs if they could help matters, but alas they couldn’t. After a week of suffering I kissed her good-bye and she fell into a coma. A month later Mrs Peters and I turned off her life-support machine to give another human being the chance of life.
I was devastated – the love of my life, felled in her prime by a mysterious disease! I spent morning, noon and night crying and shaking uncontrollably. My dad had said things like, ‘It’ll be all right in the end, son,’ and told me to keep my strength up. Tom hadn’t known what to say, but had given me a small smile of solidarity whenever our eyes met. Mum was the best of the bunch. She’d been very understanding, saying that whenever I was ready to talk, she’d be there to listen. Alice had phoned and told me that although she hadn’t liked Aggi she was sad she was dead, and I had said it was okay and that it was good just to hear her voice. I’d telephoned the dole office and told them I wouldn’t be in to sign on for the next couple of weeks, and even they, Nazis that they are, were extraordinarily nice, saying it was okay, rather than asking me to bring her body in as evidence, as I thought they might.
I rubbed my neck. It still felt sore. As I raised my arms to rub further I caught a whiff of my armpits that made my nasal hairs recoil. School sweat smells like nothing else on earth, the nearest thing I can compare it to is the smell of rancid milk and grass cuttings. I hadn’t showered since Thursday evening – I had over thirty hours’ worth of school sweat plus three hours’ worth of its fouler smelling cousin, gym sweat, clinging to my skin. Fortunately, the shower was the one thing in the flat that had been modified since 1970. The water blasted out of the nozzle of my Gainsborough 1500 series like a mini police water cannon. I stayed there, enclosed by the shiny plastic shower curtain, for half an hour, lost in a world of steamy waterfalls, cleanliness and soap with labels that remained stuck on until the very end.
Standing on the cold lino post-shower, I rubbed myself down with a green hand towel – the only towel in the flat, because I’d forgotten to pack any others. Every time I showered I’d leave it hanging on the wardrobe door, praying that it would dry in time for use next day. By Wednesday morning it couldn’t have been any wetter if it had been in the shower with me.
Dressing leisurely, I pulled my jeans back on and slipped on a clean, dark blue shirt. As I did the top buttons up, my hand brushed against what felt like the beginnings of a spot on my chin. I wanted to give up. I was undecided as to which was the more depressing thought: the fact that at twenty-six I still got spots, or that I was wishing I was at home so I could borrow my mum’s foundation to cover it. It was impossible to tell exactly what stage it was at – minor blemish/hurts like buggery/custard pustular/bleeding scab – because I’d broken my Elvis mirror on Monday, the only mirror in the flat, having trodden on it as it lay hidden underneath a pile of clothes. Seven years’ bad luck, I’d thought to myself. I added them to my last three years of misery, to make a nice round number.
The phone rang.
I gazed at it emptily, still wrapped up in thoughts about spots and my Elvis mirror, as if unsure where the sound was coming from. Once my brain got into gear, I whispered a silent prayer. I don’t know why I hoped it was Kate. After all I had been the one who’d finished our last conversation prematurely and, as well as that, she’d given me her number so I could call her any time. No matter, I still hoped it might be Kate.
‘Hi, Will, it’s me.’
Like a spoilt child in need of – as my dad would put it – ‘a good slapping’, I was unreasonably annoyed that Martina had been out when I’d
called. So out of sheer spite I pretended not to be sure who it was.
‘Who?’
‘Will, don’t you recognise me? It’s me, Martina.’
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t recognise you for a second. You sound different on the phone.’
‘Oh, do I?’ she said, genuinely surprised. ‘I just wanted to find out if you received my card.’
I tried to work out whether she sounded pregnant or not. There were no signs of stress in her voice but neither were there signs of relief. What’s more she was asking me pointless questions about birthday cards when she knew full well that I was waiting to find out whether I’d fertilised one of her eggs and was going to spend the next thirty years in mourning. There was no way, of course, that I was intending to ask her. That was out of the question. She was playing games but I didn’t care. If she’d ever seen the ruthless way I played Monopoly she’d know it wasn’t worth her trying.
I cast my mind back to the birthday card and briefly contemplated denying its existence, because what Martina was really asking me was had I read and fully comprehended the ramifications of the message she’d written in it? She was making sure that the escape route marked ‘Ambiguity’ was blocked off for good.
‘Yes, I got it,’ I said.
‘I’ve always wanted to send that Klimt card to a special person,’ she said. I pictured her in my head, long blonde hair falling over her face. I’d watched her in lectures almost hiding behind that hair, as if it made her invisible. It was one of the few endearing things I’d noticed about her. ‘Someone like you, Will. I think it’s a really beautiful picture, don’t you? It’s got so much passion in it. I’ve got a poster of it in a clip frame. I spend hours looking at it.’
As she continued to sing the praises of Klimt and several other classical painters, I wondered whether I’d been too harsh with her. After all, she was kind and meant well. It wasn’t her fault alone that she might be pregnant. She was certainly attractive and most of all she thought incredibly highly of me, in spite of everything I’d done to persuade her otherwise.
‘Martina . . .’
I’d never used her name like that, not with any sort of softness or tenderness behind it that wasn’t driven by lust. To her, my saying her name like that was a prelude to heaven. Wielding this sort of power was unsettling – I felt like a god, albeit a minor deity – all I had to do was utter a few small words and I could make Martina’s wildest dreams come true.
‘Martina, how would you like to die?’ I asked, eventually.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, obviously confused. This wasn’t what she had been expecting at all.
‘I mean exactly what I said,’ I replied gently. ‘Taking aboard the fact that one day we’re all going to die, when the big event comes – how would you like it to arrive?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that sort of question,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like thinking about, you know . . . passing away.’
‘Yeah, well think about it now,’ I said. My gentleness and sympathy evaporated. I was annoyed but only momentarily, because a second later I was overcome with guilt.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’m obviously annoying you. I’ll have a think right now. Let’s see . . .’ She paused, and made audible thinking noises. ‘I’d like to go in my sleep,’ she said, once she’d regained her composure. ‘I don’t want to know about it when it happens. I had a great aunt who died in her sleep and she looked very peaceful, like she was enjoying a good nap.’
I didn’t know what to say next. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t care about her answer. Martina wasn’t Kate and she wasn’t Aggi. We were never going to work out. It just wasn’t meant to be.
‘The test,’ I said firmly.
‘Negative,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not pregnant. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how. I’m sorry I dragged it out. I know you’re angry. Please don’t hate me, Will. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just didn’t know . . .’ She started to cry. ‘Will, I was so scared. I really was. I was terrified. I wish you were here.’
I stood up and looked out of the window. It was raining. Next door’s dog was sheltering underneath the silver birch at the bottom of the garden.
I was disappointed. Yes, I was disappointed. I wasn’t going to be a father. I wasn’t going to have to think up exotic middle class names for our child. There’d be no trips to Mothercare. My parents wouldn’t be Gran and Granddad, nor for that matter would Gran gain her stately ‘Great’ prefix; Alice wouldn’t become a godmother. After all that mental speculation everything would remain the same. I thought I’d have had a little girl. If Martina had voiced no objections we would’ve called her Lucy. When she’d reached five she would’ve gone to my junior school – hopefully Mrs Greene or someone equally nice would have been her teacher.
This is so hopeless.
‘Will, I’ve got something to ask you,’ whispered Martina, ignoring my silence. ‘I know you’ve probably been really busy this week, going out with your new London friends and all that, but I wonder . . .’ Her voice grew quiet. An endearing blend of shyness and humility. ‘I wonder if I could come and see you next weekend? I really miss you. I haven’t been out all week because I’ve had no one to go out with. Nearly all of the friends that I managed to keep in contact with have moved away, and I swear if I have to spend another Friday night watching gardening programmes with my parents I’ll go mad. I won’t come if you don’t want me to. I know that it’s quite early on in our relationship and, well, with this scare things haven’t been easy but . . .’
That ‘but’ hovered in the air for an unreasonably long time. I couldn’t work out if she’d actually intended to finish her sentence or whether she’d left her ‘but’ lingering with intent. I decided she wasn’t cynical enough to be that manipulative. I was genuinely moved. This girl was displaying a distressing lack of self-respect that only a master of these kind of indulgences such as I could truly appreciate.
I told her that I didn’t really know what I was doing next weekend and that I had a lot of school work on. It was only after I’d said this that it occurred to me I might sound a little insensitive, what with her being an unemployed newly-qualified teacher. I told her that the best thing would be for me to ring her during the week and see how things were looking then.
She seemed to believe me and didn’t say anything more about it. Before I said I had to go I promised her again that I’d call during the week. She sighed quietly, more to herself than anything, but clearly enough to let me know that she was disappointed I hadn’t just said yes. Seizing the opportunity to start an argument in which I could end it all, I asked her if there was anything wrong. She hesitated before carefully answering ‘No’ in the chirpiest voice she could muster – which was in fact exceptionally chirpy. I said good-bye and put the phone down.
4.57 P.M.
Martina had depressed me.
I really did want to make her happy. I did. But if her happiness involved my being with her until death did us part, there was nothing I could do for her. Pointless as it was, I bitterly wished I hadn’t got off with her. I wished it hadn’t happened at all. At least then, maybe I could have been her friend and helped her out; spoken to her on the phone for hours at a time; said yes immediately to her coming to stay; drunk too many bottles of wine and showed her my very poor impression of Sean Connery. But now none of this could ever happen. She’d never be satisfied with a demotion to being ‘just good friends’.
Hunger drove me to the kitchen in search of sustenance. The best I could muster from a frantic search through the cupboards was an unopened bag of Tilda brown rice. In the end I opted for a cigarette and two slices of bread which I slipped into the toaster while I went to the toilet.
With my trousers around my ankles and the initial push of the first defecation of the day almost upon me, Martina’s tearful face flashed inside my head with the persistency
of a Belisha beacon. That’s how she’ll look when I give her the push. Tearful. Like I’ve killed her Mum’s Yorkshire Terrier with my bare hands and she’s next on the list. Why can’t she just get the message? Why is she making me do this? Why hasn’t she got any self-respect?
Get some, Martina. Get some self-respect before you end up like me.
Two days after Aggi had kicked me out of her life I was still very much in denial. The afternoon of the day in question, I found myself wandering along the booze aisle in Safeway, working out the most economical way to numb the pain with over a week left until my next Giro. Traditionally speaking, the situation – spurned lover seeking brief alcoholiday – cried out for vodka or whisky, but getting intentionally drunk on spirits, early in the morning, lacked the romance of, say, cheap wine, as it smacked too much of the real desperation of tramps and alcoholic wife-beaters. Plonk could always be explained away to my conscience as nothing more sinister than over-indulgence and so wine it was, two bottles of Safeway’s own brand of Lambrusco. I barely got through the automatic doors at the exit before I’d unscrewed the cap off the first bottle and taken a deep swig. By the time I’d reached home on the bus over half the bottle had disappeared.
Wobbling up to my bedroom, I had dumped Aggi’s letters out of the Nike trainer box where they lived and spread them over the floor. In between sips, I pored over each one, ninety-seven in total. This was the first time I’d ever read them collectively. Beginning with her first (twelve pages of feint-lined hole-punched A4) and ending with the last (a single sheet of green writing paper sent to me three weeks earlier), I built up a picture of our relationship different to the one in my head. The letters reminded me of how our relationship had really been, untainted by the events of the past few days. While the themes varied, after a year, they were pretty much all about the same thing: how much she loved me. I remember thinking to myself that the girl in these letters adored me and it was that girl, and not the girl who had dumped me, whom I loved so deeply. The other girl was just an impostor.