The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  — I’m happy for her.

  Sarah’s face trembled.

  — He went and cheated on Mum with some slag from the congregation and we had to suffer the consequences. Now fuck off out of our lives. And stay out.

  * * *

  Antony wandered along Manchester’s streets feeling like a Lowry figure—so tiny, so insect-like. He checked his watch: the pubs wouldn’t open for another hour. He found a corner shop and bought six Stella for a fiver and sat on a bench beside the road and started on his first can. He retched at the taste, but forced it down his neck, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and belching with a flourish.

  His thoughts turned to Jade. Her pureness, truthfulness, gorgeousness. And she was with someone else. Served him right for being such a knob. He felt locked onto that bench, as locked as his mind was on finishing those six cans and then phoning her to tell her he was sorry, that he loved her, and that Rebecca was nothing but a fucking bitch and he was better off without her.

  Cars and lorries sped past a young, well-dressed man getting drunk on a bench on Monday morning. Once begun, this is how it starts. He would stay out of everyone’s business. He would fuck off out of everyone’s lives. He finished the can and opened another, nodding to himself as a raw, wind-blown rain started to pour in diagonal sheets. He tied his hair back and looked up into dismal pall of the North Western skies for an explanation that never came.

  An hour later he was making his way to the tram stop when his trousers buzzed him.

  — Hi Antony, how you doing?

  The Area Manager. He tried not to slur,

  — You know, stomach flu, I think. Just off to the docs.

  — Did you know today’s the deadline for internal applications?

  — I did. Aye.

  — But we haven’t received yours yet.

  — No. I know.

  — Oh.

  He couldn’t focus properly. He blinked and saw Eddie’s comb-over.

  — Do you not intend to apply, Antony?

  Blinked and saw Derek’s man-boobs.

  — No. I don’t.

  Blinked again and saw a closed-caption balloon in his head: FUCK YOU.

  — That’s a real shame.

  — Is it?

  — You didn’t hear this from me, but you stand a very good chance.

  — But nothing will change.

  — I’m sorry?

  — Nothing will ever change.

  — Oh.

  — You can’t polish a turd.

  — Sorry?

  — Thank for your encouragement.

  — Oh. Right. Goodbye then. I…

  He hung up and climbed onto the tram and tried to stay awake. He went to outbox on his mobile and re-read the last message he sent to her:

  hi j just wanna say hello

  hope yr ok? b good 2 spk

  soon A x

  Resting his head against the cool glass, watching life’s blur, he travelled back in time. He was in Warsaw, stepping into his three layers of clothes and peering out the window waiting for the tram to pull into the stop before he joined the pack of fur coats rushing from the forest of tower blocks. They’d huddle together, all ashiver, scraping ice off the inside of the windows to see their stops.

  He walked slowly up Woodlands Road, stopping outside the Mosque to look back at the bleak skyline of Saddleworth interrupted by the grey tower blocks of Oldham. Then he bought a kebab from the Burning Balti and sat in the park opposite his flat, eating ravenously, dripping sauce onto his shoes.

  He wanted more. More junk, more beer, more nicotine.

  The thought of returning to the flat, of his own company.

  Fuck that.

  * * *

  He woke up breathless on the floor, heart pounding. He rolled a rollie and opened the window. The cloying stench of curry made him gip.

  Cheetham Hill at dawn. Place of bed-sits and takeaways, snide shops selling brand-name knock-offs, place of Jewish and Asian delis, pound shops and Bollywood Video stores. He looked at those streets and pictured all the dog shite and needles, all the nettles and johnnies and broken bottles. He saw razor ribbons snaking atop the backyard walls that seemed to fill the freakishly treeless city.

  He was still fully clothed. Still had his shoes on. His sleeve smelled of vomit. When he blinked, he saw blue-green bottles of beer against the green baize of a pool table, and he remembered sitting alone in a pub, sneering at some monkey-walking, hoody teenagers, thinking: their music makes me ill, their tone of voice, their stupid fashions and hairstyles. Then he saw the image of the canal path as he wended his way home, the motionless Rochdale Canal so black and slab-like in the moonlight.

  He couldn’t even remember if he made it to his dealer’s or not.

  He selected Jade’s number on his mobile, and as it purred he imagined her clambering from her bed, a ghost in her sheer blue nightgown.

  Her thin sleepy voice, — Hello?

  He went into the bathroom and hurled his guts into the toilet bowl.

  * * *

  He leaned over and put his ear to the receiver. He could hear Jade breathing on the other end. He went into the kitchen, put some bread into the toaster and flicked the kettle on. He leaned against the washing machine where he could see the receiver resting on the arm of the settee. He wondered how long it would be before she hung up.

  * * *

  The surprise of snow. It had settled in the city throughout the night and lay thick on rooftops, throughout the streets, big wet snowflakes falling slantwise, pearling his windows. He’d experienced snow. Extreme snow. Poland marked the end of his three lost years in black-and-white, and he arrived just in time for the worst winter in twenty-five years. At minus 30˚ your breath crackles as it leaves your mouth. The moisture on your eyes begins to stick. Jewellery burns your skin. Pipes explode in the street. Joints throb and skin blisters. And as life turned an icy monotone, the woman in the mirror was still there. But by the end of April he could smell the temperature rise—a winter’s worth of dog turds, millions of them curled and frozen into the ice, began to melt, and Antony found himself down by the river Wisła every night. He watched huge blocks of ice, three stories high, floating downstream, and on the very last day of winter he saw a dog frozen onto the top of an ice block—he could see the shocking pink of its tongue. It was the first colour he’d seen for months.

  * * *

  Panoptical Strangeways. He could just make out the rooftops of the central hall last night, and imagined the prisoners inside, watching the flakes fall beyond the barred windows, thinking about how much they missed hearing the sound of their children in the morning. They might see them in the occasional monthly visit—those ill at ease moments of faux-smiles and tongue-tied silences—but Antony knew there’d be little laughter involved. Jack’s hard, thin mattress. The scratches on the wall. The hish of his feet walking circles of eight.

  * * *

  It was Antony’s eleventh birthday. He’d been awake for over an hour, breathing warmth into his hands, listening to the house click and sigh.

  His mother’s voice on the landing, — Shift your arse.

  He shivered, staring at his naked reflection in the mirror. Smudge of eyes. Dilute-milk, chiffon skin. He wanted to see someone else.

  There was a noise like gunshots outside. He rubbed a porthole through the condensation. Eddie’s old banger, backfiring down the street.

  He dressed quickly and ran from the house without a word.

  The car reeked of polish and an eggy smell came from the heater.

  — So how do you feel? You nervous?

  His insides were loose.

  — No.

  Eddie scraped the car into gear but they didn’t move.

  Antony looked at the house. The dark shape of his mother at the window.

  He didn’t know where Lou was. Didn’t care.

  — It’ll be a grand day. You’ll remember this for the rest of your life, son.

  — Let’s go, E
ds.

  — Hang on.

  Eddie held out a tie. It was purple and had a big metal clip on the back.

  — But I’ll look like a knob.

  — Do up your top button. Howay.

  His mother’s eyes, watching.

  They drove through the sunlit streets of Cloud Hill, terraced houses clinging to the sides of the deep valleys, mill buildings and tall chimneys and hills rolling out of sight. A canal snaking through the town like a diseased windpipe.

  As they joined the dual carriageway, they passed the industrial estate where his mother worked. The ice cream factory. They both glanced over at it at the same time, but didn’t say anything.

  * * *

  Those prison walls would cast such a shadow on his life.

  It smelled like a hospital in there—disinfectant and food and a bit like the boys’ toilets at school. The floor was painted a pale blue; it made the place look cold, damp.

  They lined up to go through the Gate Lodge Search and Eddie put his hand on Antony’s shoulder as a guard said, — Now turn your pockets into that tray and walk through the machine.

  At that moment Antony’s hankered for his mum.

  He walked through the metal detector and then they wanded him with a hand-held metal detector and asked him to open his mouth so they could see under his tongue.

  Apart from Antony and Eddie, it was all women visitors, mums and girlfriends and wives and daughters, most dressed like it was a Saturday night, a few with screaming toddlers getting wanded and searched in playpens.

  * * *

  The Visit Hall. Guards stood sentry in each corner, hands behind their backs, wearing the same fuck-you expression. Eddie squeezed his shoulder and half-smiled. CCTV cameras fed images to an observatory where you could see officers sitting behind the glass watching banks of monitors.

  The buzz of the place. Fifty people talking all at once.

  Two worlds colliding.

  Antony spotted him and beamed.

  An off-white smile beneath a thick bracket of black moustache.

  So this was him?

  This is what you look like.

  * * *

  He wondered how ill she really was. Ill with the drink, that’s what Jack said. And Lou had gone. He found it hard to imagine: his mother alone. He checked his mobile and looked at the last message from Jack. Her address and phone number in Cornwall. He jotted it down on a piece of paper and chose erase all.

  * * *

  Whenever Lou left, his mother would sit in the bathtub listening to Motown all night, her voice rattling like a chainsaw. They were songs of the darkest love. Sombre. Dismal. It sounded so painful being grown up. Seven Rooms of Gloom. You Keep Me Hanging On. Standing in the Shadow of Love. I’m Losing You. Remember Me. Love is Here and Now You’re Gone. The Motown sound meant home to him.

  * * *

  He expected a lecture about his ‘lack of commitment’; he expected to be served a final written warning. But no one said a thing when he turned up that Friday. The manageress had become a ghost.

  * * *

  He was telling the pysch about New Year’s Eve, about seeing Rebecca, and Jade’s reaction.

  — Do you think, the psych asked, that you might be a little bit too demanding? Maybe too critical of others?

  Antony shrugged and rubbed his hands, thinking I thought you were on my side. He realised the psych was observing his movements, his body language. Antony felt his muscles tauten.

  — Have you felt any resentment from others? Recently, I mean.

  — Definitely, Antony said. Yes.

  — OK. And have you ever considered the idea that maybe you create certain problems for yourself? That perhaps you generate these kinds of conflicts?

  After a while of staring out the window, Antony changed his posture in a way he hoped belied his anger.

  — How is your drinking and drug taking at the moment?

  — I’m cutting down.

  — Are you getting any exercise?

  Antony frowned.

  — I’ll check out the local gym, he said.

  * * *

  That night, he had a bubble bath and then changed into the floral print dress that he’d bought from a charity shop. He stood in front of the mirror, the sight its usual turn-on, but realised how he desperately needed to update his wardrobe.

  I look like Freddy Mercury in the ‘I Want To Break Free’ video.

  I resemble some saddo housewife circa 1984.

  There was still no response from Jade.

  Surely she’d want to know why he’d called but hadn’t spoken.

  He pictured her fucking The Guy From The Village. He saw a young George Clooney making her gasp and squeal with wide-mouthed pleasure to the rapid, metrical bang of a headboard.

  So it was be another Friday night in on his own, sat on his couch in a pretty dress with a Friends double-bill, a bottle of Jacobs Creek, and succession of fat joints for company.

  I’m an advertiser’s wet dream.

  * * *

  He wasn’t sure whether to believe Sarah about Kenneth being unfaithful, but she was right on one score: Lizzie had a new man. Antony got to the unit an hour earlier that Saturday and saw a figure in her parked car. He walked past as casually as he could: a man inside, fiddling with the stereo. So average. So middle-aged. So forgettable.

  Kenneth was sat in the back garden, smoking. It was blustery. He looked cold.

  — You all right, Kenneth?

  Antony waited for him to suck his cigarette down and flick it away.

  — Has Lizzie been?

  — Yeah, Antony said. She just left.

  — Oh right. Good.

  — Has Sarah been to see you?

  — Who?

  — Fancy a game of Shit Scrabble Fuck?

  Kenneth stood up and waved a fist in Antony’s face.

  — Prepare yourself for a good fucking thrashing.

  Later, they went up to his room and Antony found the walls were covered with scraps of paper: words, sentences, pictures, arrows, maps in Kenneth’s hand. On one piece of paper the word: Home?

  Kenneth started padding his hands around the walls. He turned to Antony.

  — Toilet. Right. End of corridor. Right. Watch me.

  Antony noticed the background noise of the unit for the first time, the faint pad of Kenneth’s footfalls along the carpeted hallway, swing doors sighing in soft declension. Sleepy sounds.

  He went over to Kenneth’s chest of drawers and removed the backing from the picture frame. On the back of the baby photo, a date: 5 January 1990.

  He replaced the backing and sat down on the bed.

  Above Kenneth’s headboard, the words: dream of making.

  Kenneth appeared.

  — The white coats? Antony asked.

  — Who?

  — The doctors, Kenneth. Why wouldn’t they let you in to see her?

  He sat on the bed and took Antony’s hand.

  — Has Lizzie been?

  — Yes. She came this morning, mate.

  Kenneth went to the wall and pulled a piece of paper off and handed it to Antony. On it, he’d written: Antony Cunting Dobson.

  — Keep it, Kenneth said. In case you forget you’re a cunt!

  Kenneth laughed maniacally, and then, quite sternly, asked Antony to go.

  * * *

  He didn’t demand anything from anyone. He was only critical of those who deserved it. The thought that he was like her, that he was recreating the drunken turmoil that span between her and Lou, recreating those hard moments, trapped in their echoes—he felt the cracks of himself.

  * * *

  Beefcakes grunting like animals to trashy R’n’B, and the guy showing him around the place was buff and camp as Christmas. So this was it: working out. After the mind-numbing demonstration, Antony pumped iron for maybe five whole minutes and was bored shitless. Mostly, he sat and watched the others: mainly miserable-looking young women who looked like they needed a good feed. The
y strained, they paused, they heaved, they sweated. Stair climbers, free weights, rowing machines, elliptical trainers. Instruments of torture. Ageing. Gravity. Love handles. Burning themselves away. The most exciting moment was witnessing some old woman who farted on a step machine.

  * * *

  In the dream, he saw his mother in the living room with the TV switched off, smoking, the permanent glass in her hand. He felt the invisible line that attached them both—he felt it wrapped around his heart, tightening. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh.

  * * *

  Lying in bed for the past hour, wondering how Jade would react to her Valentines Card and the cheese-on-toast poem inside. He’d surfed the Net for love poems, but most were a load of adjectival wank about Lovely Roses or Drunken Kisses or Haths and Hath-Nots. He remembered Jade saying she liked Ted Hughes, but all of his poems seemed to be about clarty-arsed sheep. Then he found one by an American poet—something about the world beating like a slackened drum when she wasn’t around.

  He regretted it as soon as he posted it.

  So, what delights awaited him that day?

  Well, 10:00 a.m. saw the first of the interviews for the Service Manager’s post. Four short-listed interviewees and Antony was on the interview panel with Derek and Lerch; it was a way of putting the candidates on the spot, to see whether they could handle Derek’s churlish ramblings and Lerch’s shambling misery.

  At least it meant he’d miss Smoke Club that afternoon.

  He took some toilet roll from his bedside table and wiped his wrist, listening to ‘This Charming Man’ belting out, and then he stood in front of the bathroom mirror grinning at himself, reciting the list of lipsticked words, trying to invoke their meaning.