Black Chalk

by Yates, Christopher J.

  And then something happens, a shock to the system. And as you can see, I begin to write again.

  This is what happened –

  XXVII(ii) I pull on my WALK NOON sneakers at 11.59, leave my apartment and shuffle out onto the street. I have Central Park in mind, an ambitious distance, but I need to shake off this listlessness. And then I notice my breakfasting neighbour coming out of his own front door across the street from me. He looks over at me and waves, just as he does when we see each other on our fire escapes. But neither of us has any breakfast and he pauses hesitantly. (Record this moment, the fighter makes a breakthrough in his training.) I take a deep breath and hold up a finger. My neighbour smiles. A taxi rolls by and I cross the street.

  XXVII(iii) I greet him awkwardly but successfully negotiate the exchanging of names. Although please forgive me for having forgotten his name in the unsettling rush of what happened next. My neighbour asks me where I have been for the last three years and I make something up about a sick mother in England. And then my neighbour says to me, Is that where you got married, back in England?

  I give him a confused look.

  Sorry, he says, just a girlfriend then? It’s just, I never see the two of you together, so I thought to myself, hey, then she must be his wife. My neighbour laughs awkwardly. Sorry, dumb joke, he says.

  I have no wife, I say, I’m divorced. No girlfriend either.

  My neighbour swallows. Right, right, he says. Of course, just the maid. He slaps his forehead. Hey, maybe you could let me have her number, he says. I guess I’m pretty neat but I could get dirty for a hot maid like that.

  He laughs and punches my shoulder playfully. But something about the way I force out a laugh causes him to fall quickly silent.

  Are you saying that you’ve seen a woman in my apartment? I ask my neighbour.

  The question startles him. Uh, yeah, he says, his yeah like a duh.

  I lower my head to think this through as quickly as I can. And then, looking at the smudged words on my sneakers, I say to my neighbour, Do you see her at the same hour each day? Always at noon?

  Twelve o’clock? Sure, now you mention it.

  I place my hand on my neighbour’s shoulder. He looks down slowly as if there might be a large poisonous spider climbing its way up his body.

  I have to go, I say, turning and starting to run.

  XXVII(iv) I am quiet with my key and light on tiptoes. Soon I have looked everywhere except for one place.

  Something about the sight of the closet makes me feel sick and afraid. What do I keep in this closet?

  I beat my fist against its surface. Come out, I say, come out, I know you’re in there. I have a gun, I say, and if you don’t come out I’m going to start shooting.

  I wonder if I should get a knife from the kitchen. And then a vague memory washes through me. I own only butter knives.

  This is your final warning, I yell.

  When was the last time I opened this closet? Perhaps not opening this closet has become part of my routine. But wouldn’t I have left myself something to remind me of this, something that would seem out of place there? Electric cables looped around the brass knob? Something kitchen-related wedged in the crack of the door?

  I press my ear to the closet and listen hard. And then I throw open the door in a breathless rush of adrenalin. I let out a guttural roar and raise my fists.

  Nothing, the closet is empty. Mostly empty. Then I notice that, lying on the floor, there is a very small, green plastic house.

  I turn the little house over and over curiously in my fingers. It takes me a minute or so before I remember Monopoly and then the other board games. I drop the house in the garbage. This is not one of those important memories I need to retain.

  XXVII(v) I perform my afternoon routine quickly and then hurry back to my story. I want to read everything I have written so far with great attention to detail, right from the very first word.

  And now, as sleep begins its pull on the cords of my eyelids, I have something to report.

  XXVII(vi) First let me say that my mind is not what it used to be. And even in the past it was not exactly free from hairline cracks, or the odd crevice or two, so please read the following statement with some degree of caution.

  I cannot say with utter certainty that all of the words in this story have been written by me. It seems that some of them may not have been my own.

  XXVIII(i) Mark’s birthday was a loose affair, a gathering of friends old and new in a Thames-side pub. A bewildering number of friends, thought Chad, and all of them like characters from a book that once would have made him feel callow and small yet eager to climb into a world way above.

  When the pub closed they fell out of its doorway straight into the home of one of Mark’s friends whose parents were away for a month, business and pleasure in Cape Town. And the party began anew, its vigour refreshed.

  When at last they headed back to Mark’s mother’s house, the new day was at their backs, raising itself over Victorian rooftops. And in the half-light, drunk and in a whirl of other hazes, Chad felt almost like one of Mark’s London friends. As if overnight he had been lightly sketched in by the brush of the city.

  XXVIII(ii) When he awoke his head hurt and there was a note next to him on the floor. They had tried unsuccessfully to rouse him. ‘Hair of the dog, the Starling,’ the note concluded.

  Oh shoot, Chad groaned. And then he remembered himself, rose, showered and dressed. But none of it made his head feel any better.

  The pub stood at the far corner of the square. A residents’ key was required to access the private garden and beyond its black railings were trim lawns and gravel paths as yellow as a beach. Chad ran his finger along the tips of the railing spikes as he walked, as he promised himself that one day he would live somewhere like this. It was the sort of thought he could only allow himself to enjoy without Jolyon present.

  He found them lounging in the pub, near to the fireplace. Jolyon, his arm around Emilia, had a chair and a beer ready for him.

  Emilia saw him approaching first. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘How are you, Chad? I was so worried about you this morning.’

  Instead of replying, Chad dropped heavily into his seat and let his head fall to the table.

  ‘See, I told you. He’s the silent type, Emilia,’ said Mark. ‘Or maybe that’s just his game-playing tactic. They say it’s the quiet ones you have to look out for.’

  ‘I know,’ said Emilia, ‘but I can’t work out which type of silent type Chad is.’

  Chad peeped up at Emilia. Of all her sweet faces, perplexed was perhaps his favourite.

  ‘Is he the strong silent type or another type of silent?’ she said. ‘Are there any other names for any other silent types? There should be. There should definitely be the stupid silent type.’ And then Emilia looked alarmed. ‘Oh, I’m not saying that’s you, Chad. Sorry, just thinking out loud.’ She hmmed and bit her lip. ‘The shy silent type, the weak silent type. The psychopathic killer silent type. Come on, what type of silent type are you, Chad?’

  Chad pushed himself up and back into his seat. He stared at Emilia, not blinking. He stared and stared.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chad,’ said Emilia, her fingers dancing at her neckline. ‘I really didn’t mean to offend you.’

  Chad laughed. ‘No, I was answering your question,’ he said. ‘I’m the silent silent type.’ Emilia laughed too but it came out rather forced.

  Jack stepped in – there could be no humour in Jack’s presence without Jack’s approval and involvement. ‘No, he’s the last one, psychopathic. Silent but violent. Like a fart,’ he said.

  Dee looked disgusted.

  ‘What?’ Jack complained. ‘Surely you did that at school. I thought everyone did.’

  ‘Being at school with you must have felt like one long trip to the circus, Jackie-oh,’ said Dee.

  ‘You tell me, Dee. What was it, a hundred schools you went to? Two hundred? You must have passed through my hood at some point.�
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  ‘Oh, it’s let’s make fun of the orphan time, hooray,’ said Dee. ‘I do so love our quality time, Jack. I only wish there’d been more tragedy in my life for you to mine with your cute little funnies.’

  ‘What? I’d have loved being an orphan. You think four parents are better than none? I’d have killed to have no parents.’

  ‘There’s still time for that,’ said Chad. ‘We could make matricide and/or patricide one of the later consequences.’

  ‘See, I told you,’ said Jack triumphantly. ‘Silent but violent.’ Jack shaped his hands as if around a crystal ball and gazed into the imaginary globe before him. ‘Chad, yes, I see you now. Leg chains and handcuffs and a prison boiler suit. But which one of us did he kill?’ Jack’s eyes widened and he let out a scream, oblivious to the silence it provoked in the crowded pub. ‘Let me put out my eyes.’ He mimed driving a pair of spikes into his face. ‘The horror, the horror.’

  Dee applauded sarcastically. ‘Bozo the clown brings the house down again,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the prognosticator, aren’t you, Jack.’

  ‘If whatever you just said means psychic, then yes,’ said Jack. ‘I mean, come on, it’s not like any of our futures are that hard to predict.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Emilia. ‘Why don’t you try us then, Jack?’ She now wore her serious face. Almost as sweet as perplexed.

  Jack returned to his imaginary globe. ‘Emilia, the pretty one who pretends to have no hate,’ he said, affecting a soothsayer’s croak. ‘Emilia will marry first of everyone gathered here today, for she cannot bear to be alone. She will marry a country veterinarian named Giles. His family own a stud farm on great England’s southern coast.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Emilia. She folded her arms disagreeably. ‘I’d never marry a posh Tory type,’ she said. ‘My dad would never speak to me again.’

  Jack raised his finger to silence the interruption. ‘She does not like the truth but truth must out,’ he said. ‘Giles has red hair and freckles and they have children four, all ginger sons. Giles in his spare time is a Mick Jagger impersonator and his band is named the Rolling Clones. And what a merry band they are, the most in-demand Rolling Stones impersonators at all the weddings taking place within a thirty-five-mile radius of the city of Winchester. For three years running.’ Everyone was laughing except for Emilia, her folded arms stiffening. ‘At forty years of age,’ said Jack, ‘Emilia wonders why she never made use of her psychology degree. She volunteers as a prison visitor and develops a dubious rapport with one prisoner in particular. Inside of jail he is known by a single moniker. Gash. Aargh, put out my eyes again, for Gash is none other than Chad.’ Jack closed his eyes and then opened them again. ‘The vapours have passed now,’ he said.

  ‘You’re such an arsehole, Jack.’

  ‘What? It’s a way better future than mine,’ said Jack, and then his eyes drifted back to his globe. ‘Yes, it is Jack I now see before me, the handsome funny one. Forty years of age and still with youthful hair and striking bones of cheek. Yes, Majestic Jack, such a success in whatever his chosen career happens to be. Film scripts probably, insightful comedies. Oscars two or three I see. And everything else he ever wanted from life. Money, a beautiful wife, the perfect family. But most importantly of all, the intellectual self-esteem that comes from being a far greater success in life than all of his friends.

  ‘But what is this I see now? A catch. Oh no, Jack, no. He has everything he ever desired and yet life still presses heavily upon him. Yes, Majestic Jack soon discovers that his cynicism for every last shit-scrap of the world stemmed not from any material lack in his life. No, instead Jack’s cynicism stemmed from one thing alone. A singular inability to be happy. Poor Jack, for he discovers that he has a heart yet cannot feel, he is the Tin Man in reverse,’ he wailed. ‘Storm clouds gather. I see Majestic Jack slide headlong into the kind of sordid midlife crisis for which he once despised so many dismal middle-aged men, not least his fathers, two.’

  Dee wiped fake tears from her eyes. ‘Oh, stop it, Jack,’ she said, ‘you’re breaking my heart here.’

  Jack continued, his croak filling with sadness, his words slowing down. ‘Success brings to Majestic Jack nothing more than misery and the cruellest loathing of self.’

  ‘No, Jack, no,’ cried Dee. ‘I’ll be nice to you, I promise. I’ll laugh at all your jokes. I’ll write you happy stories and teach the mockingbird to sing your name.’

  ‘The vapours have passed,’ said Jack. He looked intensely proud of himself. ‘So you see, Emilia, you get off lightly in the long turning of life’s bitter wheel.’

  ‘Well, I disagree with everything you’ve said so far,’ Emilia snorted. ‘I think we’re all going to be happy and successful and go wherever we want in life. We’re young and we’re smart and I think everyone here is just great. Even you, Jack. Just occasionally.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, Em,’ said Jack. ‘What the fuck do I know, right?’

  And then there fell a brief silence. Chad looked at Jolyon and wondered if he too was thinking this had been a mistake, the revealing of a weakness to his opponents. Jolyon returned the look with a small shrug.

  ‘Come on then, Jack,’ said Dee. ‘You know you want to.’

  ‘Want to what?’ said Jack, acting confused.

  ‘Want to perform your little trick on me. Let’s just get this over with.’

  ‘No, you’re too easy, Dee. You’ve already written your own future. After completing your five hundredth poem you’re going to commit suicide, aren’t you?’

  ‘So you keep reminding me, Jackie-oh.’

  ‘Please address the oracle by her birth name,’ said Jack. ‘Her cognomen is Psychic Fucking Sue.’ Jack lowered his eyes. ‘I do not know this Jackie-oh,’ he said. ‘Though I see you speak of him with tones of hate deployed to hide your sexual love.’

  Dee sighed and mimed a swoon. ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent Jack?’

  Jack gave Dee a piercing look and the act began anew. ‘And now I see before me a female who goes by the name of Dee, the artsy histrionic one. A twist, I see, for Dee survives her time at Pitt. She had been beaten to the suicide punch, Christina Balfour got there first. They say no one ever remembers who comes second and so Dee was forced to bide her time. And now five hundred poems I see at Dee’s feet, unpublished, for the poems are almost certainly derivative teenage shit. And lots of haikus, no doubt. Yet on she goes unscathed, six hundred, seven. To London she moves and for the BBC doth work. And meanwhile bides her time and thinks about which branch of the arts to favour with her creative brilliance. Time passes. Ten turns round the sun and Dee festers on where we left her, the arts still devoid of her benefaction. Yet then she leaves her job. Yea she leaves and doth marry a lawyer who can support her latest life choice. To write a series of beautiful, groundbreaking and utterly unpublishable novels.’

  ‘Oh, I do so look forward to that.’

  ‘Time passes. Ten more turns round the sun and Dee remains very much unpublished. When suddenly at forty Dee changes forever her life’s meagre course. For so many years nothing but rejection until at last she relents and writes a tale about a downtrodden girl working a lowly media job who overcomes the male hegemony, takes over the company, and finds love in the most unlikely of places.’ Jack flung up his hands like fireworks bursting in the sky. ‘Success at last. The novel becomes a best-seller and in record time reaches UK sales of five hundred thousand copies . . . And then, and only then at last, Dee fills up her pockets with stones, walks to the end of her garden path and finally out into the river.’ Jack flung out three final fireworks in front of his eyes. ‘The vapours pass,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ said Dee, ‘you know me better than I know myself. It’s extraordinary. And I love your use of the five hundred theme, how it comes back to haunt me when at last I sell my soul to the devil of the mainstream. And a suicide just like Virginia Woolf. How did you know that’s how I was planning to go?’

  ‘Never doubt the p
owers of Psychic Fucking Sue.’

  ‘Oh, how I love Psychic Sue. Please, we need more.’

  ‘Well, I did Chad already.’ said Jack. ‘Life imprisonment for gruesome murder. The victim was obviously Jolyon by the way. A fight broke out between the two of them following a rule dispute during a hard-fought game of snap. Jolyon was –’

  ‘Don’t even think about doing me, Jack, I’m warning you,’ said Jolyon, laughing.

  Jack acquiesced quickly. ‘OK, Jolyon,’ he said, ‘I truly wasn’t planning to predict how, in an ironic twist, Pitt’s most popular student ends up sad and all alone. So just don’t go chucking one of your spanners at me, all right?’

  ‘There’s only Mark left now,’ said Chad, while Jolyon threw Jack a playfully threatening look.

  ‘Oh, Mark’s the easiest,’ said Jack.

  Mark’s eyes had closed but he opened one of them to peer at Jack suspiciously. ‘Go on then, if you really must,’ he said.

  ‘Mark, the one who hides his ruthless streak behind sleepy eyes. I see the managing director of the world’s largest and fastest- ever-growing company,’ he said, ‘which Mark started from scratch with only twenty pounds. He worked and worked for twenty-five hours a day zealously back-stabbing his way to the top. His employees call him, among other less complimentary names, Marcus Brutus.’ Jack stroked his globe one last time and finally sat back with his drink.

  Mark yawned and closed his eyes again. ‘Yep, you’ve got me pegged,’ he said.

  XXIX(i) I scribbled some notes late last night during the whisky hours of the night-time that I’d like to share with you now.