The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  — Right. I’m off now, mate.

  Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as he said,

  — When we going for that pint?

  — Maybe next week. Have a good weekend, yeah.

  Chris bumbled into the room.

  — Alright, Rev?

  He plonked himself down on the settee and started searching for the remote. Kenneth glared at the fat intruder.

  * * *

  Watching girlfriends, following them into the bathroom. Women’s magazines and years of bad mistakes. His expertise with the palette from his years at Art School. Hue, texture, shade. The Science of Colour Theory. The art block was situated next to the training parlours for hairdressers and beauticians. Days with his face pressed against the glass, watching immaculate young women dress and cut rows of severed heads.

  * * *

  He sat watching the ten o’clock news on the TV. He closed his eyes and imagined Jade sitting beside him, tired-eyes blinking at him through sleep-jumbled hair, inflecting a croaky, sexy good morning…

  The sound of his mobile rousted him from the reverie.

  — Where were you?

  Antony walked over to his window. Manchester was lit up outside, its cool blue and white neon so vivid against the roily Northern sky.

  He heard the noise of echoing Tannoys.

  — Hello?

  — I’m here.

  — I thought, Jack said. Thought you’d’ve come.

  — I couldn’t get the time off work.

  — I’m at the airport.

  Antony pictured Jack amid the human bustle.

  — Your Barry was there. Said the three of them are splitting the house.

  — Was our Lily there? Mikey?

  — Just your Barry.

  — Was she at the funeral?

  — Your mum?

  — A-huh.

  — She moved to Cornwall months ago. I thought…?

  — No.

  Jack said she’d been ill with the drink, and that Lou had gone.

  Antony heard himself say it,

  — She can rot.

  But inside he felt the pounding weight of total, utter abandonment.

  — Isn’t it about time, Jack said, that you two made amends?

  — The fact you even said that.

  — I’m sure she still loves you, you know.

  Antony hung up.

  * * *

  He’d spent most of his life working out the relationship they never had. He used to make up an entirely different biography for himself, where Jack broke out of prison when Antony was a baby, jumped from the high prison wall into a tree, breaking an arm, a collarbone, just so Jack could come home to watch him sleeping, and he’d stand beside Antony’s cot, tears streaming down his face as he realised: absence is far stronger than presence. He’d hand himself in, broken, regretful.

  Meeting Jack only made it worse; Antony could see himself in him.

  — Well, Jack had said, there’s no need for a DNA test, is there?

  Antony hated the fact that he looked like him, moved like him; same gestures, same hands, same gait. His double helices stained more with the Y of Father than the X of Mother. Inescapable. Ineluctable.

  Whenever Antony thought of Jack, he remembered the first time they met, laced with the smell of the prison. Of piss. Spunk.

  * * *

  The frontal cortex is the MONITOR. The Hippocampus is the HARD DRIVE. The perceptual cortices are the DESKTOP GUIs. Is K’s amnesia a deficit of encoding, storage or retrieval? Twenty-seven years of memories, of experience, gone. No trace. The virus has cyberattacked his hard drive. The amber of memory: the glue that binds.

  * * *

  The manageress was vexed.

  — You want two hour-hours off ev-ev-ev-ev-every F-Friday?

  — I’ll go straight from Kenneth’s. I’ll get my lunch on the way and I’ll be back here no later than three, to help with the afternoon rush.

  — This is highly ir-ir-ir (the painful wait for the stutterer to finish, the biting of lips, commanding the face to remain inert, not to shout: FUCKING SPIT IT OUT!) ir-reg-reg-reg (and the unsupportive memory of Kenneth doing his Roger Daltry impression: Why don’t you all, f-f-f-f-f-fade away) reg-regular.

  — I have a letter from the doctor. I know, I should’ve said something sooner…

  She span in her chair, lifting a hand to signal he should leave.

  Fuck her.

  * * *

  Thursday afternoons meant Smoke Club. The group convened in the smokers’ portacabin to play chequers and cards, to drink tea and gripe. Smoke Club currently consisted of eight clients, their ages ranging from thirty to sixty-five, all of whom chain-smoked, hence the name. On the back of the cabin door, one of them had stuck a poster:

  The first rule about Smoke Club is you don’t talk about strokes, or blood clots, or ischemia, or cholesterol, or embolisms, or thrombosis, or CONSULTANTS!!!

  The second rule about Smoke Club is you don’t talk about VICTIMS!!!

  They all sat in their usual circle, all perky and totally Game On! Puffing away, hoisting floppy arms and legs around like dead relatives.

  A new member joined last week. The stroke had hit him particularly hard and the only word he could manage to utter was,

  — Tea tea tea tea tea tea.

  Foolishly, Antony asked again,

  — Would you like a cup of tea?

  The man looked at him askance.

  — Tea! Tea tea tea tea tea!

  A few of the left-hemiplegics experienced anomia, the word-finding difficulty, and Antony had seen how it led not only to insurmountable frustration but, in most cases, a complete loss of self. The painful err of failed lexical retrieval. The flickering screen of the fucked-up word processor. The total blackout of the crashed semantic system. The paused, wide-eyed, tip-of-the-tongue states. And their failings always left them shame-faced, afraid to make eye contact in case they looked at you and forgot the word human.

  The new guy was getting irate,

  — TEA! TEA! TEA! TEA! TEA!

  * * *

  At one point during that afternoon, Antony discovered one of the Smokers used to know Kenneth. She said they’d accessed the same services a few years ago, shortly after Kenneth’s amnesia struck.

  — He acted like a complete psycho, she said. Everyone feared him.

  Antony nodded.

  * * *

  When he got home, he opened the file on his laptop again: What’s the Frequency, Kenneth? Mainly notes from the many books he’d been reading on memory loss, trying to gain some insight, to better understand.

  * * *

  K’s aetiology. Initial presentation, November 1995: flu-like symptoms, fatigue, severe headaches, followed rapidly by coma, lasting 26 days. In the acute stage following the coma, K was aphasic—unable to understand spoken or written language—and hemiparetic. FES-based gait therapy with a physiotherapist proved successful.

  The virus caused bilateral lesions in the anterolateral and medial portions of the temporal lobes, insula and putamen. Non-verbal and visual memory—memory for faces and names, autobiographical memory, and certain spatial aspects of stimuli—has been severely effected due to damage to the right temporal regions.

  Owing to the preservation of the frontal lobe regions, K has some insight into his memory loss.

  How much is some?

  * * *

  He didn’t know how Kenneth coped. When he was with Kenneth, Antony wondered what movement or thought must be like without memory. Without it, we have no story, and without a story we’re nothing. But there were times Antony didn’t want to remember. There were times he actually thought Kenneth was lucky.

  * * *

  Sun motes dappled his eyelids. His mind was somersaulting. He climbed out of bed and moaned as the room span. His head always pounded for days afterwards, the whites of his eyes pinked with blood, the angry constriction in his throat. He turned the gas fire on full-whack and forced a glass of milk down his th
roat.

  On the bathroom mirror, the words I LOVE YOU written in lipstick.

  And the stab of it: his reflection. His spectral doppelganger. The daydream him. Sleepwalk him. Mascara-and-lippy-smudge him.

  He tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace.

  He stood in the shower for ages. Removing her from his body.

  * * *

  Tomorrow was his first meeting with the psych. He imagined the man or woman peering at him over half-moon glasses, a look of contempt feeding their face, deadpan as a Magritte figure. He couldn’t help it: he started preparing arguments.

  * * *

  Lizzie opened the door. She put a hand on his chest and stepped out.

  She began to sob. — I don’t know, she said, how long I can put up with this for.

  Antony folded his arms.

  — Do you know Kenneth phoned me on Monday?

  She started to laugh. There was a meanness in her eyes and an unwelcome statistic popped into Antony’s head: two thirds of women whose male partner acquires a disability leave them within a year. But he quickly reminded himself that he had no idea what it was like to live with Kenneth, and that he had no right to judge.

  — I can only guess, Lizzie. But you’ve got to admit, he’s making progress.

  She sighed. — But he’s…

  A sober pause.

  — He’s what?

  Nothing.

  — You can tell me.

  She lifted the sleeve of her coat: her forearm, smeared with bruises.

  Antony watched her walk away.

  * * *

  They were making their way back from the Post Office when Kenneth came to a halt outside the Black Sheep.

  Antony had been dreading this moment.

  — How about that pint, cunt features?

  Antony made the mistake of hesitating; Kenneth stumbled in.

  The barmaid eyed them both.

  — Your medication, Kenneth. I’m not sure it’s a…

  — My bastard conscience, are we?

  Antony sighed.

  — A fucking child, am I? Fucking idiot?

  — No. You’re not.

  Kenneth took out a cigarette and lit it with a flourish.

  — Two pints of your finest ale, sweet cheeks.

  Although not strictly a sackable offence, Antony realised this was perhaps not the wisest of career moves, but he was sure Kenneth would get halfway through his first mouthful and be bored rigid, and the homing instinct would kick in. But no: Kenneth sat and chain-smoked, ignoring Antony’s appeals, sucking the pint down in a few thirsty gobfuls.

  His eyes, Antony noticed, had an unusual sparkle to them.

  Antony checked his watch.

  — Better make a move now, Kenneth.

  — Make mine another pint.

  — But we need to hand over to Chris.

  Antony stood up and put his jacket on.

  — Sweet cheeks, another of your finest ales and make it snappy.

  — Kenneth, please.

  — Sit down, fuck face.

  Antony got an inkling of the true velocity of Kenneth’s temper. He sat down as Kenneth’s pint arrived. Kenneth took a heavy mouthful, sighed, and leaned back.

  Antony had never seen him looking so content, but he seemed to have forgotten what he was saying. This, at least, was normal.

  Antony phoned the house and Sarah answered.

  — When Chris arrives…

  — He’s here.

  — Tell him to come down to the Black Sheep immediately.

  He watched Kenneth trying to make a sensory analysis of the information.

  Cognition failure. Storage capacity: nowt.

  He grabbed Antony’s arm.

  — The white coat cunts, they wouldn’t let me in to see her, you know.

  — See who?

  Antony was thinking it was just another one of Kenneth’s semantic word games: Antony takes the lead and Kenneth follows in a phonological loop and they pretend that Kenneth’s memory is anything other than temporally immediate.

  — Go on.

  Kenneth took out another cigarette and lit it with the one in his mouth.

  A few minutes of muscular silence passed between them until Chris appeared in the doorway, throwing Antony a You’re-In-The-Shit-Now look.

  — Kenneth?

  — That’s my name, don’t wear it out.

  — Who wouldn’t they let you in to see?

  Kenneth glared at Chris.

  — Where’s the toilet, fat fuck? Take me.

  And with that, they were gone.

  * * *

  So there he was. The day, the hour, the moment. Sat in the Community Mental Health Team waiting room, totally out there with uncertainty. The idea of playing his script on someone else’s stage, to the cold eyes of psychotherapy. But suddenly it felt like his whole life had been leading up to this moment: in this waiting room about to meet a complete stranger who’d help him piece together the fragments. To finally be at home with himself. But the fear of giving it a voice. The sudden apprehension of revealing something so private.

  He was relieved to see that the psych was a man.

  They both extended a hand, and suddenly he didn’t want to do this, to be like this, to have this drive. He followed the man along the corridor, fingering the questionnaire in his pocket.

  * * *

  On the bus back to the Centre, he listened to Jade’s message for the third time. She apologised for being drunk and lairy on Monday, and then,

  — Why don’t we meet up this weekend in Manchester? My brother’s deejaying at a deaf rave in Fallowfield. If you fancy coming, let me know, we can meet for a drink beforehand. But bring some earplugs, it gets proper loud.

  His guts turned liquidy. His face tightened with an idiotic smile.

  He listened to her voice for the fourth time. It helped erase the memory of what had just happened.

  * * *

  That night’s soundtrack was Daft Punk’s Homework. He stuck the plug in and ran a bubble bath, and then rolled a fat joint and poured a tall vodka.

  He scanned his collection: lacy black and white knickers and bras, slips, skirts, tights, heels, girdles, chokers, stockings, suspenders, silky nightgowns, blouses, garter belts. He selected an outfit and spread it across his bed. Then he went into the bathroom and lowered himself into the hot bath. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, but the excitement of the night ahead was making him churn. He placed a hot flannel over his neck and face for a few minutes, and then shaved again, precisely, against the grain.

  Not thinking about the psych. Not thinking about that room. The words that were said in there.

  He climbed out of the bath, dried and moisturised, and then pulled a silk slip over his head, down over his shoulders and hips, and then slipped tonight’s dress on.

  He applied the Blue Jaw cover, eyeliner, a high coverage matte cream to powder foundation, and then the lippy: a pencil line along the vermilion border, shaping the philtrum with a V. Then the eye shadow, a single-pallet powder and brush, and finally the mascara.

  He pulled his tights up, and the feeling, the look of them?

  I have been happy with the things i have done.

  He began to strut around the room, feeling a need to touch everything, to side step and sashay, end-of-catwalk pirouette. He thrilled at the feel of her.

  He watched himself from different angles in the four large mirrors.

  And what did he see?

  He saw the je ne sais quoi lips of Angelina Jolie.

  The Lancôme-peel glow of Christy Turlington.

  The transparent complexion of Sofia Coppola.

  The timeless smile of Cate Blanchett.

  Enigmatic, porcelain-skinned, timeless and extraordinary.

  Feline, charismatic, elegant and quirky.

  He was indecently voluptuous.

  A domestic goddess.

  Statuesque and mesmerizing.

  Booty-shaking.

  Pal
e and luminous, curvaceous and exquisite.

  He was a vivacious It girl, lighting up the night.

  Just look at his bone structure.

  Just look at his expressive, Betty Boop eyes.

  He was a G.I. pin-up, six-feet tall and blossoming.

  He experienced gender euphoria. He was so happy he felt crazed.

  He hoiked up his skirt, ripped down his tights and masturbated furiously.

  Head hangdog, peering through his hair at his reflection: the twisted, painted face.

  Feeling so empty inside.

  So completely wrong.

  4.

  He heard a noise in the flat. A clatter, a distinct bang. He sat up in bed and listened, the liquid pulse of his heart intensifying. He heard wind whistling along the window ledge; heard a distant tram shunting softly towards Victoria. He climbed out of bed and tiptoed over to the bathroom door.

  — Hello?

  His voice hurt. It sounded ridiculous.

  He took two fast, shallow breaths, opening the door quickly.

  The window rattled in the wind.

  * * *

  INPUT leads to PERCEPTUAL CODING.

  PERCEPTUAL CODING leads to STIMULUS RESPONSE CONNECTION.

  PERCEPTUAL CODING also leads to and from the MEMORY FORMATION SYSTEM.

  MEMORY FORMATION SYSTEM leads to ASSOCIATIVE MEMORY STORE…

  I’ll never fucking understand any of it! Exclamation!

  WHO are the WHITE COATS? WHO wouldn’t they let him see?

  * * *

  There was surprise in her voice and he thought she’d changed her mind. But no—she suggested they meet on the Curry Mile for a meal before the party. And though he knew he shouldn’t—though he knew he wasn’t ready ready for a date (and, he told himself, it probably wasn’t even a date date anyway)—he couldn’t help feeling pre-date nervous.