The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  Antony wandered up the stairs and back into her empty bedroom. He examined the make-up on her dressing table. A few Lancôme and Boots items—that was all. Here’s a girl lucky enough not to need much make-up.

  He sat on her bed and began building a joint, tuning into the sounds of laughter coming from downstairs, surprised by Jade’s voice in the room,

  — Having a good snoop, are we?

  He was momentarily hypnotised by the way she moved across the room. She put some music on the stereo and then switched on the twinkling fairy lights that train-tracked the ceiling. Hitting the main light, she sank the room into a shifting pattern of reds and greens, and then she let the soft night air fall in through the window. She approached him, slightly crouched, hands clapping, smiling beatifically.

  — You being anti-social?

  He wanted to be inside her. Wanted her skin.

  — Just needed a break from them all.

  — I know what you mean.

  She sat next to him on the bed, rolling a cigarette between her fingers.

  They sat like that for some time, saying nothing, moving slowly to the beat, shoulders touching as Antony felt that uncanny warmth spread inside his stomach and across his chest. He passed her the joint and watched her smoke with her eyes closed.

  He reminded himself where he was: amid Jade’s things. The bed she slept in. The couch where she watched TV. The shower where she touched herself. He wondered how many times thoughts of him had entered these intimate spaces? Did she think about him as much as he thought about her? In the same way? In bed with the lights off before sleep. Her body in his mind. His mind in her body.

  She coughed, breaking the reverie. Her gorgeous big black irises bloomed.

  She asked him about his time at Art College and he sighed slowly. He danced his fingers across his tingling scalp, the feel of his long hair sending shivers down his arms. He experienced a sudden moment of voluble clarity.

  She laughed, — You fucking weirdo.

  He became a swirling, whirling, stirring, a swelling of soft tissue, a weakening, a blood-flow, a slackening of self. King of shite-talk.

  She crinkled her cute nose and put her head in his lap.

  He went, — Let’s stick some different music on, eh?

  So they ended up at the window again with Underworld blaring away and he was wondering what it’d feel like to hold her naked.

  She looked at him all moony, swallowing slowly as if buying time, and went, — Why have I never met any of your friends?

  He shrugged.

  — And why do you never talk about your family?

  — I don’t have any family, he said.

  — Course you do.

  — None that matter.

  — And how come you’ve never invited me to your flat?

  — Come whenever you want. You don’t need an invite.

  His voice sounded like a replica.

  — Anyway, he said, I hate people that talk about themselves all the time.

  He gestured towards the skanks downstairs. She made a ‘hrmm’ noise and sighed slowly, jaw jutting, eyes faraway.

  Then she asked about Rebecca.

  — Look, it still hurts, he said. That’s why you and me. That’s why I want us to get to know each other first. People rush into these things. I’m so glad I met you.

  He went in for a hug but she held him back.

  — ‘These things’? This can be whatever we want it to be.

  She put her hands to his face, her moist eyes dipping and flaring as she said, — Should we do another pill?

  He didn’t get it. She was a total fucking stunner and any man in his right mind. He loved her smell, her words, her voice, her thoughts, her movements, and these things only made friendship with her even more intense and he never wanted it to stop, but the pervasive fear of rejection still existed. She seemed protected by some benevolent force he couldn’t contend with. He wanted to tell her: I’ll fuck you up, I’ll drive you crazy, I’ll let you down. You’ll rapidly grow sick of my face. You’ll hate every subtle nuance that makes up Antony Dobson. And you’ll only ever know the half of me. But when he was with her, it felt like his consciousness was being raised.

  That warmth in his body, the first tingles of love—they scared him.

  So he gave her another pill hoping that she’d fall off time, but when the skanks downstairs eventually staggered home she told him not to be so fucking soft, he could share her bed.

  — You won’t get a cab round here this time of night.

  — I’ll kip on the couch.

  — Don’t be a knob.

  Then he was undressing beneath the glow of the fairy lights and slipping between her cold bed sheets, worried she’d see the shrunken, lifeless chipolata in his underpants.

  He sniffed the faint smell of her hair on her pillow, thinking how tonight was so unlike any other: those bedrooms, objects, memories, routines. Those leftover moments from other relationships. He knew this was different; it was brand new.

  Walking towards him through the bedroom dark, a slat of light illuminated her peek-a-boo nightgown, and a brief snapshot of her breasts that made him ache. She climbed in beside him, French knickers revealing the tight curves of her perfect white arse, smiling coyly.

  — I won’t bite, she said.

  He opened his arms and she snuggled into him. His heart was beating so loud he was sure the entire village could hear it.

  She leaned on an elbow, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  — We don’t have to have sex, she said, running a fingernail the length of his arm. But I’d really like to.

  Antony stared inward.

  — I don’t want you to think I’m a slut or anything, she said. I mean, just because I like sex. I think about it a lot. Not just with you, but with other men. I imagine them undressing me. Touching me.

  Her lips parted with a burst of air.

  — I hope you don’t mind, she said. I thought I could talk to you.

  He swallowed dryly. — You can tell me anything.

  — I was fifteen when I first tried. But I couldn’t do it. There was something wrong with my muscles, you know. Down there.

  She made an oblique gesture with her fingers.

  — I just couldn’t open up. As much as I wanted to. Just couldn’t.

  — That must’ve been… hard.

  She barked a deep, dark laugh.

  — But I’m wet now, she said. And I want you.

  — I can’t.

  She dropped her head heavily onto the pillow, holding her breath for a long time.

  — It’s the drugs, he said quickly.

  She placed a hand on his hip.

  — I can help you.

  — Look, this might sound lame, but I just want to hold you.

  She moved so gently into his arms she felt weightless. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the safe smell of her scalp.

  I don’t want to be like this any more, he told himself.

  * * *

  Blue light sliced through the edges of the Velux blind, mixing with the remnants of a dream that felt more like a memory: one patent black stiletto positioned over his throat, the cold thin heel pressing against his neck as the woman above him slowly parted her legs.

  Jade was sleeping with her face to the wall, so still her body seemed lifeless. He watched her to make sure she was breathing, and then he crept from the house, remembering her ghostly figure walking across the room towards him last night.

  He let himself out into the new morning light.

  The distant moorland shimmered like beaten copper.

  * * *

  Home. He checked his Hotmail account. Just a slew of the usual spam.

  $1500 Overnight Cash Advance for You!

  RolexSale

  hungLikeAHorse

  Someone wants to date you

  Meet Hot Single Latinas

  Lets ScrewOur Brains Out

  He opened the ‘Rebecca’ file and looked at the
first email she ever sent him, thinking do I feel the same way about Rebecca then as I feel about Jade now?

  FROM: rebecca22@yahoo.com

  SUBJECT: Weekend!

  It was great to talk to you last night. I’m really glad that you would like to go out at the weekend. It will be lovely to see you.

  Was grilled about you by my two flatmates last night! They’re looking forward to meeting you properly soon.

  I’m so glad that we both want to see each other again. I feel very excited about getting to know you better.

  Speak to you soon sweetheart

  X X X

  When you’re so used to bouncing around life on your own, a body beside you can feel like love. It can make the nights seem sweet and the days almost bearable. He was so intrigued by Rebecca’s behaviour, her movements, her speech, mimicking them in his head. She’d catch him looking and it cut him up, because he realised he wanted to be her. Wondering about the days ahead, burying his face into her hair, whispering soft-mouthed into her ear. But it was just infatuation. Infatuation with her breasts. Infatuation with her eyes. Infatuation with her skin. Infatuation with her cunt. The way she moved. The sounds she made. He was plain jealous.

  And closing his eyes, he was suddenly back in Greece again.

  It was meant to be a time to rekindle, a new beginning. Lying on the beach watching old couples rubbing cream into their coffee-coloured skin—chance memories like these skittered though his skull as he opened his eyes and stared at the final Xs of her email. Kiss kiss kiss.

  He inhaled deeply. Held his breath.

  A dog riding on the back of a motorbike.

  Bright terraces of pastel-hued bougainvillea, pawed by a sea breeze.

  A boy lifting his face from the volcanic black sand, his cheek like peppered steak.

  And Rebecca’s body, oiled, turning to tan, her pulse flickering in the hollow of her neck where the collarbones meet and dip. Lying on her back in her skimpy red bikini, her legs opening and closing like a butterfly warming in the sun.

  Like the one tattooed onto the small of her back.

  He remembered the breeze coming in off the sea, lifting gooseflesh and making her nipples crease, pushing against the damp fabric of her bikini. He had to look away.

  On the mountainside, the land had been farmed right to the edges of the cliffs, and he imagined a farmer up there, sitting in his garden at dusk, watching the westering sun, sky turning the colour of Fanta Orange.

  It was hot-hot, like the summers when he was a kid. Local boys whined by on tinnitus mopeds, short and stocky in their tight white T-shirts, the roily sheen of their curly black hair.

  A child screamed.

  A man walked out of the sea pulling at the front of his shorts.

  A woman lifted one of her heavy breasts, looking at the skin beneath.

  A man held a cigarette in one hand, a book in the other.

  And Rebecca’s silences mounted like heavy stones.

  And in the afternoons, when everything seemed to stop, he thought about his old suitcase back at home, wondering when the woman in the mirror would next make an appearance.

  He thought Rebecca was the cure. Maybe he’d get it down to just once or twice a year. She might not be over the moon about it, but she’d see the need in him and let him because it made him whole. But as soon as she found the suitcase and make-up box, the gulf began to widen. So he told her he’d throw them all away, put an end to it, once and for all. He suggested a holiday: my treat.

  One night, alone on the beach, curling his toes into wet sand, he saw shapes out at sea: people night-swimming. And out across that very same sea, on a tiny island, Jack had made a new life for himself. A new home. A new family.

  A new son.

  Antony exhaled heavily, head spinning.

  He didn’t want to be like this any more.

  * * *

  He stood at his window, watching Manchester bloom and dim. He ran a finger along his windowsill. His flat needed a good air and dust, but after a couple of vodkas he thought what’s the point? He wanted to be out there, feeding off the thrill of the city at night, but his Friday sessions with the psych always left him feeling so 2D.

  There must be somebody out there feeling like me tonight.

  The psych’s opaque gaze was haunting. This feeling of being caught out. The contemplative shrewd nods. The excruciating silences. What Antony wanted to say was, ‘What do you think, really?’ For Antony felt as if he was see-through, as if the psych could walk the rooms of his mind, torch in hand, illuminating the dark places. As if the psych could see the woman’s face in his analytical laser beam, and was just waiting for Antony to introduce them both. His fantasy incarnated; it terrified him.

  He was expecting a lecture about missing a week, but the psych said jack-shit.

  The inscrutable eyes. The ‘hrmm’ sound in his throat.

  He was aware that the psych kept saying very little, but when he did, it shocked him. He felt as if he was being steered towards something but he didn’t know what.

  At one point the psych leaned across to Antony and said, — Society incarcerated your father. Society punished you because your mother is a lesbian. Who do you punish, Antony?

  * * *

  He was dreading seeing Kenneth that Saturday. He didn’t think he could handle another hour of being ignored and told to fuck off. He got there a tad later than usual, to avoid seeing Lizzie in a car with some random bloke, but as soon as he entered the building he could hear Kenneth singing and playing his heart out.

  The Leisure Room.

  A handful of people sat in high-backed chairs and stared glaze-eyed, but the majority of residents were clustered around Kenneth on the piano. A woman with bird’s nest hair was whacking a tambourine against her hips and an enormous fat bloke was clapping his hands and stamping his feet, humming a bass-line.

  There was a tap on Antony’s shoulder. Kenneth’s key worker, Nurse Bog Breath, waved at him to follow her, and as he left the leisure room he was sure he heard Kenneth sing, — He’s a Pinball Wizard, he’s got such a massive di-i-ick!

  — Would you like a drink, Antony? Tea? Coffee?

  — I’m fine, cheers. Kenneth’s the life and soul, eh?

  She took her glasses off and cleaned them methodically on the hem of her blouse.

  — Isn’t he just?

  She sat next to him, far too close for comfort, rubbing her fingers along the pleats of her pencil-line skirt. Her teeth, he noticed, were small crenulated squares sitting inside her mouth like castle ramparts. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kiss that mouth.

  — Has Kenneth always had such a way with language?

  Antony leaned away from her.

  — He has a vocabulary of 100,000 words and a genius IQ.

  — That’s why I don’t understand the constant profanities.

  — A swearword used in the right place can be a very powerful thing.

  — But it’s non-stop.

  Antony told her he thought it was Kenneth’s confusion and frustration that were non-stop, and that he guessed for someone of Kenneth’s intellect, swearing must be a major release valve.

  — Is it an issue? You want rid of him as well?

  — I just want to understand.

  She squinted at him.

  — You alright? Your eyes are terribly bloodshot.

  He was taken off guard.

  — Has he called you a bitch? Don’t take it personally, he doesn’t mean it.

  He checked his watch.

  — I’m going to make the most of my visit. If you’ll excuse me.

  * * *

  Kenneth was in his bedroom sweating and panting. He looked ecstatic. He ran towards Antony and hugged him.

  — Antony cunting Dobson. My bastard conscience.

  With a canny expression he went over to his chest of drawers. Antony noticed the little printed signs on everything at last.

  SOCKS AND PANTS

  T-SHIRTS

&n
bsp; TROUSERS

  Kenneth pulled out a framed black-and-white photograph.

  They were maybe sixteen, seventeen-years-old in the picture. Lizzie was wearing a long puffy dress and sat on an old pushbike with an arm around Kenneth’s shoulder. It was summertime and taken beside the sea. Kenneth had a fringed Mod hairdo and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He looked strong and vital and his expression said he had the whole world in his arms: Lizzie.

  Kenneth started fiddling with the photograph. He slid the cardboard off the back and tipped the glass onto the bed. Then he lifted the photo out. Secreted beneath it was another photograph. Kenneth looked at it, frowned, and then passed it to Antony.

  A colour Polaroid of a young baby in a lacy pink outfit.

  — I don’t know, Kenneth said. Don’t know who she is.

  Antony shrugged.

  — But I remember her being born.

  — What?

  — The fuss. The fucking fuss. Lizzie’s screaming. I remember the corridor outside. It was dark. Can picture it now. And the white coat cunts, they wouldn’t let me in to see her. But she got worse, you see. They thought she might die. I went fucking loco. Ask her.

  Kenneth picked up the photograph and pointed.

  — I remember Lizzie’s face. And her screams. Worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I thought she was a goner.

  Kenneth looked startled.

  — Then I remember this baby coming out. When I close my eyes, I can see it.

  He clicked his fingers.

  — Arse first.

  He took the picture off Antony and stroked it.

  — But I don’t know who she is.

  Then he pointed at Antony.

  — What the fuck is wrong with your neck?

  * * *

  Memory types related to time: Immediate, also known as iconic. The sensory register, the brief period of memory after stimulation. Short-term lasts for less than 1 minute. Did they say right or left turn? Fuck. I can’t remember! Long-term is the storage of experience, episodic memory, autobiographical. I remember…