The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  8.

  Beside the road the theatre of spring had emerged, flora and fauna warming to life. He knew that the winter sky would start moving away now, stop being so close and heavy in the city. He loved the first days of spring and he could see them clearly in his mind: the springtime hailers, swifts and swallows darting around the gable ends, dive-bombing insects, skirling over the canals: apus apus and hirundo rustica, black specks in the blue. And the pinky froth-candles on the horse chestnuts, and how shadows would grow longer.

  He closed his eyes and saw his home town, the valleys breathing with life, the pastured hills dotted with black donuts of wrapped silage bags, Cloud Hill’s slopes smocked with wildflowers and sprouting sedge and fluffy bog cotton. He missed the intensity of the changing of the seasons in the country, how it made you feel meek, inconsequential. How shattering it could be.

  * * *

  He looked at the birthday card from his mother and Hattie on the mantelpiece. Inside, Hattie had written how wonderful it was for his mother to have him back in her life.

  Hattie kept calling him ‘son’; it made him scream inside.

  The first weekend he went down to Cornwall, when he visited his mother in the liver unit and saw her wired up, slipping in and out of consciousness, he felt the coldness of his blood. The light dimmed, his ears whistled, and yet he was completely clear-headed.

  He sat beside her those first two days, seething.

  Hattie kept inviting him to stay at their cottage in Mevagissey, but he didn’t want to see the place where his mother had been happy.

  Spooner said he could take some compassionate leave; that was the week she died. She juddered like an epileptic and the doctors bustled him from the room. Antony watched through the window, how her body arched and heaved under the paddles. He saw sparks; but they brought her back.

  The third time he went down she was conscious. Nothing could have prepared him for it: her cirrhosis yellow eyes and tallow skin; the scattered Kleenexes full of bloodied oysters. But the worst thing was her distended stomach—she looked pregnant.

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  — What do you think to Hattie?

  He tutted and she coughed wetly. He passed her some tissues.

  — Lou, he said quietly. She made my life hell.

  His mother spat; Antony inhaled the stench of organ failure.

  Her eyes looked spaced as she went, — I know.

  * * *

  Hattie filled him in: after Lou had left—she’d had an affair and moved to Newcastle to be with her new girlfriend—his mother had decided to go to Cornwall to try and dry herself out. She tried some aversion therapy, some drug that caused her to puke whenever she drank, but it didn’t work. Then she joined the local AA and that’s where they met. His mother was already suffering from toxaemia and chronic pancreatitis and there was some nerve damage to her legs and signs of heart damage. Cardiomyopathy. But it was the internal bleeding that got her in the end. And the irony of it was, she’d been dry for six months. On the wagon. Antony knew all about her wagon.

  The chief physician told him, — There’ll be no recovery.

  Meaning she was drowning in her own blood.

  So they were releasing her to be with Hattie, to die in familiar surroundings. They were loading her up with a morphine drip, unspoken but implicit: a final dose. Hattie was going to give him the call, but he’d already said his goodbyes six years ago.

  * * *

  He placed the Dictaphone on his dressing table and pressed play.

  He’d been to see the psych a few times after his confession, but the more they deliberated Antony’s secret life, the stronger his emotional responses of fear and self-loathing. He hadn’t been for the past two weeks and he knew he’d never return. But he kept listening to the recordings, searching.

  His footsteps along the corridor, the muffle of fabric as he sat down. The nasal tone of his voice, how his accent had changed: vowels flatter, elongated. He was picking up a Manc accent.

  After a minute of usual pleasantries, the psych launched in,

  — Your efforts with Kenneth might be making your depression worse because the goal is blocked. Perhaps it’s unachievable, and your depression means you might find it hard to give up on this goal. Maybe you need to stop distracting yourself?

  Antony had told him in the previous session about finding out where Kenneth’s old parish was in Chester, and that he’d made contact with one of his old flock, some cranky old sparrow that cleaned the church. She’d told Antony about how wonderful Kenneth was as a priest. There was a ‘but’ though: he had his affair.

  The psych failed to stifle a yawn.

  — We need to start talking about your cross-dressing.

  The scratchy sound of Antony shrugging.

  — It’s persistent, recurrent. It’s habitual. You told me you’ve done it a few times without the breath play. Have you ever thought that these may be very separate issues?

  — No. I haven’t.

  — And there’s an issue of hostility here.

  — Towards whom?

  — You tell me?

  A pause.

  — We need to look at what motivates you. Perhaps you could tell me about what you think about while you’re doing this. Your fantasies.

  — Why?

  — Because what you’re doing is potentially lethal.

  — And?

  — And we need to find out what’s hidden in your actions.

  The sound of their voices filled his bedroom.

  — I’m a pervert?

  — That’s not helpful.

  — Does this mean I’m a psycho?

  — Your depression is non-psychotic.

  — Is the depression causing it?

  — What exactly do you think about when you’re doing this?

  Another crackled, muffled section. Then the psych’s voice,

  — So it’s a confrontation?

  — I guess.

  — Between you and your mother?

  — No. Jesus.

  — So the woman in the mirror, does she have a name?

  — No.

  — Why not?

  The hiss of silence.

  — How do you feel about the woman in the mirror?

  Flexing its muscles.

  — What does she represent to you?

  — I think she’s beautiful.

  — OK.

  — Stunning.

  — Anything else?

  — She’s my… I don’t know.

  Like she was listening.

  — You idealise her?

  — Suppose.

  — What do skirts and heels represent to you, Antony?

  Without hesitation, — Invincibility.

  ■ Stop « Rewind

  He listened again, the voice no longer sounding like his.

  * * *

  He found Kenneth crouched on his bedroom floor, moving pieces of paper around.

  — Where’s Lizzie?

  — She’s just left, mate.

  — Course course.

  Kenneth had started to group the words and images together.

  Antony asked, — What do they mean?

  Kenneth pointed at the largest collection.

  — These here are my Ma and Pa and my childhood in Stoke. These here are Lizzie and me. These are you, cunt features. And these? He clicked his fingers. These are what I can make of this fucking dump.

  He pointed to the centre of the carpet: a large space with the single word ‘Baby’ inside it. He looked at Antony.

  — I want you to help me fill this in.

  Antony sat beside him on the bed.

  — Do you remember anything about being a priest, Kenneth?

  Kenneth snorted.

  — You’re joking?

  — I’m not.

  — Jesus. I must’ve been out of my fucking mind.

  Antony pointed to the sign above the headboard.

  — What’s ‘dream o
f making’ mean?

  Kenneth stood up and pulled it off the wall, placing it in the centre of the carpet, next to the word Baby.

  He began to stammer.

  — You tell me, f-f-fucking Mastermind.

  * * *

  That night was Antony’s birthday bash at Gino’s in the Northern Quarter. Jade and John and Moon were coming, but Nurse Bog Breath wouldn’t release Kenneth for the evening.

  Antony and Jade, on the scant occasions they’d spoken to each other, hadn’t discussed The Day At The Flat. He was surprised she was still talking to him, but something had definitely changed. Her tone when she spoke to him: woebegone, full of burden. He resented her pity, but without her in his life, he felt he’d have nothing to cling to. She sounded up beat when she called. Said she had some good news.

  — I don’t want to steal your thunder, she said, but you’ll have to wait till tonight.

  * * *

  Hattie told him how his mother kept making trivial recoveries.

  — She’s heavily medicated. She sleeps most of the time. You could still come though. She’ll know that you’re here. She’ll sense it.

  Six-and-a-half hours on the train to St Austell to watch her drown in blood?

  — I’ll come when it’s time, he said.

  * * *

  Standing naked in front of the mirror when ‘Vicious’ started trilling away on his mobile. There was no hello how are you?

  — Mum still has friends in Chester, you know.

  Sarah. He cuffed a hand over his balls.

  — Right.

  — She knows you’ve been doing some snooping around.

  — Hmm.

  — You’re an interfering bastard.

  — …

  — Mum wanted to ring you herself, but she’s too upset.

  — Listen, I never meant…

  — In fact, we both think you should stop seeing Dad all together.

  He knew it was a risk,

  — You know you have a half-sister?

  — …

  — Sorry.

  — I want nothing to do with her. Nor does Mum. Get it?

  And as he listened to the dead tone, Antony thought about his own half-brother in Spain. He wished he’d told Sarah he knew how she felt.

  * * *

  Jade’s good news? She’d secured a place at Durham University that September, studying History and Politics. As she told Antony, he saw that she wasn’t wearing the jade bracelet he’d bought her for Christmas. Then she gave him his birthday present: a framed photograph of them both, taken at the party at her house, their sweaty faces pressed together, eyes deep with chemical love. He remembered holding her till she fell asleep that morning, and then curling up on the floor beside her.

  It was a sign, he told himself. I’m winning her back.

  He kept the photograph next to his bed.

  * * *

  He looked out at the city and realised he’d absentmindedly smoked half a joint when his mobile buzzed across the top of the TV.

  Jade.

  The text said simply: I miss you.

  It put him in such a black mood. It was a mystery to him. It was a gift he didn’t ask for. She was under his skin. Did I miss you = I love you, or did I miss you = I pity you? Love, making him feel only half-human. Sex and emotion, the messy glue of wholeness. Love, as far as he was concerned, just went and fucked everything up. Soon as he had Rebecca, he lost himself, lost her friendship, lost his joy in her. And it was happening all over again with Jade. But who did she miss anyway? Who she thought he was? The person she met last year? The person she liked before she saw his room and the things he did in there? That night on Cloud Hill—he felt like he’d been cursed ever since.

  The weed took him even closer to the darkside.

  He put the photograph of them both in a drawer and then went into the bathroom and popped the little orange mirtazapine pills out of their foil, watching them spin in the flush of the toilet bowl. Goodbye, antidepressants.

  He was afraid his life was becoming synthetic. He wanted to feel alive.

  * * *

  Hattie hugged him on the doorstep and thanked him for coming.

  — Rita’s loaded. Don’t be surprised by her perkiness.

  He opened the bedroom door to that sickening uric stench. His mother frowned. She’d aged twenty years in the past two weeks. Grown smaller. Her grey hair had been cut short and her face and hand muscles juddered; the life in her, flickering. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time and her illness had put them on an equal footing, because there was a look of collusion in her eyes. OK. You win.

  He sat down.

  The terrifying IV bag hung between them, feeding her morphine with its eerie drip.

  Click-click. The button in her hand – how she kept squeezing it.

  He was surprised to see a photograph of himself on the wall, taken during his first year at high school. The maroon V-neck. The gold and black stripy tie. The basin-cut.

  — You never kept any photos of me at home when I was little.

  She laughed sleepily, — You kept taking them down.

  Her voice frayed, tattered, torn.

  Hattie popped her head around the door.

  — Can I get you anything?

  His mother shook her head slowly.

  — OK. Just give me shout.

  After a moment his mother inflected croakily,

  — You like her, don’t you?

  Antony nodded.

  — Better than Lou, eh?

  — Anyone’s fucking better than Lou.

  The rotten stumps of her teeth as she laughed.

  He said, — How come you hated Jack so much?

  — Fuck sake, lad.

  She rummaged under her covers and handed him a pouch of DRUM tobacco.

  — I’m gasping. Do us a rollie, quick-sharp. Hattie comes in, take it.

  He looked at the IV bag.

  — Make’s no difference now, she wheezed.

  He rolled the rollie. His hands were shaking. Lit it. Passed it across.

  — So how come, he said, you’re still in touch with him?

  She exhaled, releasing a smile.

  — He rings once or twice a year. Guilt. Hattie talks to him, not me.

  — Why’s that?

  Click-click. Her eyes widened and back straightened. She had a smidgen of a smirk on her face, like she was nourishing some secret joke.

  — It were you that wanted to meet him, laddo. I told you what a waste of space he is. But oh no, little clever sod that you are. So honestly then, is your life better or worse for knowing him? Come on, tell me.

  He heard what she was saying, but not what she was telling him.

  — Not all men are bastards, Mam.

  She smiled.

  — It’s lucky I had Eddie in my life, he said. It’s lucky I had some normality.

  She seemed to disappear into the cushions.

  — Val’s little drinking buddy, eh?

  — What?

  — You know what.

  He stared at the wall, shrugged. She went, — Oh there’s lots of stuff I know about. Like you being a knicker-thief. Like you sniffing glue at school. Like you burning the church to the ground. Like you being a selfish little bastard all your life.

  He stood up and went to the window. He hadn’t thought about the church in years. He remembered the high pulpit where the red-faced priest had stood, mouth spittle-wet, neck tendons protruding. The church a’murmur with it. His mother dragging him down the aisle out of the church, the hard pull of her, and how he’d looked back and seen the piercing blue iris of the church clock. And he remembered walking the streets of the town afterwards, wondering whose eyes had been watching that night. The whispering town. Like they suddenly had permission from God.

  Outside, the garden led to a field of wind-bent tress, and beyond the field was the choppy grey sea.

  He pictured them walking along the beach together.

  He pictu
red them in a small boat, sailing away.

  — Here, she said.

  He took the rollie off her. She went, — I heard you the other day.

  She held his gaze.

  — I heard what you said to me.

  Click-click.

  — So why’d you let Lou beat me?

  — Because you deserved it.

  — You should’ve protected me.

  — You should’ve behaved yourself.

  — And why’d I always have to lie for you?

  — About what?

  — Being a dyke.

  He remembered Locky then, the school bully pinning him to the wall outside of school, his hands around Antony’s neck and how Antony had willed his eyes to betray the pain inside, smiling into Locky’s face. It was the same look his mother had now.

  We’re so alike, he thought.

  — The whole town knew, but you always denied it.

  — That was my business, she said.

  — The people in that town made my life hell.

  — Don’t exaggerate.

  — I had the shit kicked out of me for years, he said. I was ostracised because of your sexuality, and you didn’t have the decency to come out to me. But I knew everything.

  — You ashamed of me?

  — You were ashamed of yourself, that’s the whole fucking problem.

  She wiped her slack face, click-clicking rapidly.

  — Lad, you were nowt but trouble from the day you were born. Now if you’ve nothing better to say, then why don’t you give me some bastard peace. For once.

  He saw a calmness in her eyes that he’d never seen before. He leaned down and kissed her cheek quickly. She opened her arms a little, but turned into her pillows. Made a noise.

  * * *

  That night at the Bay View B&B, he sat in his room thinking: Nothing better to say?

  What he wanted to say was, — Please don’t die.

  What he wanted to say was, — Let’s make a fresh start.

  But he was scared she’d laugh in his face.

  * * *

  He was on the platform at St Austell when Hattie phoned. She said they’d administered the final dose together early that morning and that his mother went peacefully.