The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  — My mother was a dyke, he said flatly.

  She leaned back and straightened her bra. He felt a stab of envy.

  — She was gay. Big deal. So’s my brother.

  — Eh?

  — John. Don’t tell me you didn’t…?

  She laughed and said,

  — I take it you weren’t happy about it then?

  — John’s gay?

  — Him and Moon, they’re like lovers.

  — It’s more complicated than you think.

  — I thought you of all people.

  — Me of all people what?

  She walked across the room and changed the CD. Their thoughts ping-pong’d along to the sound of Pulp. She leaned against her desk and he noticed how his eyes kept scrolling her figure, undressing her.

  She folded her arms.

  — It was the town I grew up in, he said. The way the adults looked at me. The hissing sound of lezzer behind my back. I wasn’t even allowed to play with some of the kids, like the parents thought it was contagious. And of course they all thought I was gay. Bent by association.

  — Sounds tough.

  — Worst thing was not understanding it.

  — Do you think that’s why you’re, you know?

  There was a knocking on the bedroom door. Jade went into the corridor and he could hear her talking to another girl. He felt like he was going to burst. She came back in wearing a conspiratorial smile.

  — I told her we’d see her in the bar later.

  * * *

  They sat together on her bed, facing the wall where an academic year planner hung flecked with notes and coloured stars. She took his hand and ran her fingers along his knuckles. She opened her mouth, exhaling breezily,

  — Out with it then.

  — It was all wrong, he said. I felt like a freak. Like you’d catch it from me. I’d walk down the street and I’d hear them whispering. Mother a pissed-up dyke and a bad-bastard father in prison. He’ll not grow up right. That mother of his, the way she carries on. And Lou. Mother let that fat fucking dog…

  He walked across the room and pressed his back against the wall.

  — But what made you happy? Something must have made you happy?

  — Dressing up, he said. The birds.

  — The birds?

  He told her about Eddie, about the dovecote.

  He told her about the Blue Hour and poaching on the moors, and that no matter how bad things got, he could always find something like redemption in nature.

  — I can’t believe you’ve never talked about it before. How come there’s this whole side to you that you never show?

  — They were my real mum and dad, he said. Eddie and Val. I filled the gap Val’s children had left. Lily, Mikey, Barry. And the gap Eddie’s son had left.

  — Filling gaps?

  He shrugged.

  — Well you’ve got to forget, Ant.

  — I don’t…

  — No. I mean forget the person who doesn’t remember this stuff.

  — Forget remember?

  She stood up, took a single step towards him.

  — Come here.

  He rubbed his eyes. Fireworks started whizzing and exploding in the city outside.

  Jade moved forwards and touched him gently.

  — Tell me. Please.

  — I don’t want to be a tranny, Jade. I don’t want to be one of those ugly fucking freaks hobbling around Canal Street with their stubble and bad wigs.

  He hid his face in his hands.

  Laughter echoed through his blood.

  * * *

  He tried to give himself a quickie, fingers exploring the vessels and sinew of his neck. He found the arterial fork, the carotid sinus, and began to press, slowing the liquid pulse.

  But then he heard a voice shouting down his veins,

  — STOP.

  The golden flowers faded, the high-speed clouds halted, he felt the cold white floor beneath his feet and the sparks ceased whizzing. It was like the stillness before the Blue Hour, the way the night seemed to dissolve before your eyes. Like she was touching his dreams again. Protecting him. Keeping him suspended. Leading him by hand into a land of confusion. Stop.

  He pressed his head against the cool windowpane, watching children playing in the street outside, pedalling figure of eights on their bicycles, when the music of an ice cream van made their heads turn in perfect synchronicity.

  A solitary tear plopped onto the sill.

  He began to leak.

  * * *

  He found himself walking into a firework shop on Oldham Street advertising skyrockets and sparklers at half-price—leftovers from Bonfire Night.

  — What’s the largest make you’ve got?

  The man brought a box out from beneath the counter.

  — Satellite Busters from Russia, he said in a put-on accent. He leaned towards Antony and whispered, — Not strictly legal.

  By the time Antony got to Canal Street it was starting to drizzle. He headed into Via Fossa and ordered a Guinness and wandered back into the churchy pews. There, sat in a booth, was Spooner, sans sad spectacles, with a bloke Antony was introduced to as Jeremy.

  Straight people went to Canal Street all the time, but Antony was waiting for them to say it, — Why you in a gay bar, Antony? You curious?

  His new haircut didn’t help.

  They chatted and Antony noticed the booze had alleviated Spooner’s spoonerisms. Antony called him by his real name,

  — Another pint, Frank?

  He got a fresh round in and smiled when Frank put his hand on Jeremy’s thigh.

  — I’ve wanted to mention this for a while now, Frank said. I’ve secured a bit of funding for someone to conduct some research for six months.

  — Go on.

  — Into why the South Asian community aren’t accessing the Centre.

  — You mean Muslim?

  — I mean Muslim. You man enough?

  — You’re joking?

  — Don’t act so surprised. You’re the only one at the Centre with any nouse.

  Antony shook his head.

  — Can you drive?

  — Yeah.

  — We can get you a car then.

  The three men looked at each other, smiling.

  — But, Antony said.

  — What?

  — I want a new laptop.

  — Comes with the job.

  — And I want you to pay for me to do more signing lessons. Work hours.

  Frank looked impressed.

  — Consider it done. You can start after Christmas.

  Antony raised his glass and decided that if he didn’t leave soon he was going to start blabbing, get totally twatted, probably leave his bags somewhere and have to hand in his resignation on Monday with the sheer embarrassment of it all. Outside, the sunset city sky was bruised an orange-purple glow. How dramatic, he thought.

  He popped into the dank New Union pub and pretended to pick up a few flyers. He didn’t see a single tranny.

  * * *

  Moonlight filled the white room. When he closed his eyes, he saw the image of a woman’s figure stood in the centre of the floor, floating, rotating slowly above the upside-down question mark. Twisting, retwisting.

  Warm feelings flooded over him.

  Did he want to be a woman? No. Though he imagined life would be so much better. No. He enjoyed being a man. No. He wanted to be normal. No. He wanted to be a girl. No. He wanted breasts, a clitoris, a vagina, a womb. No. To go back into remission, his monochrome masculine life. No. Date a woman, get married, settle down, have kids, only to have his wife catch him wearing her underwear. Maybe.

  Empty nights waiting for her, feeling as if he was only half in this life. How his skin sang when she was with him. But most of the time—mostly it was as if he was impersonating her. A ventriloquist’s dummy. When he dressed, she would start to hum the tune of him and suddenly the world became an interesting place.

  Don’t be like your
mother.

  * * *

  — Thanks for ringing me.

  — What do you want? Jade asked.

  — That’s nice. I was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow?

  — Sorry. Just got back. Eileen’s in a proper stinker.

  — Want to escape tomorrow? Fancy a wee drive in the country?

  — You got it?

  Antony looked at the Rover parked outside and smiled.

  — Yeah.

  But driving away from the Centre that afternoon, he knew how much he’d miss the clients, the intimate intensity of the work, the loutish laughter. He might even miss Derek.

  — Tops, she said. What colour?

  — Black. It’s big and black.

  — She squealed.

  — And very shiny.

  — She moaned.

  — Powerful, shiny, fast.

  — Stop. Come rescue me now.

  — Can’t. Been smoking.

  — Dope head.

  — Why’s Eileen cross?

  — You’ll have to wait and see. No earlier than twelve, I need a fat lie in.

  * * *

  It was 1984 and he was crouched on his bedroom floor, thighs pressed against his chest, swaying gently as he prayed in that dread-filled way for them to stop, trying to remember a time when things were different, but there never was such a time. He peered through the crack in the curtains: Lou, storming off up the garden path in the pre-dawn light. Behind him, out of view, marched the rest of the streets on the estate.

  He saw two tiny red dots: the sulphur head of a match being struck and the end of the cigarette glowing. Lou turned the engine over and drove away at speed.

  He heard his mother descending the stairs. He imagined her meaty fingers passing through thick damp hair; purple bunions protruding like baby beetroot from the insides of her milk-white feet; spider-hairy toes curled up against the cold. There was a chattering of kitchen sounds: steel against steel, pot against pan, bowl clunking against the wood of the tabletop. He heard the bubble of a sob. Heard Motown playing.

  He wanted to go down there, comfort her. Just the two of them again.

  It was all he ever wanted.

  * * *

  They smiled playfully at the kissing-gates. Clarty-arsed sheep watched them in disgust, the ineptly dressed hikers in fleece hats, trainers and trendy cagoules, trundling along the causey path between the Hushings and Hurstwood Reservoir.

  Antony read aloud from his guidebook. He told her about how exploiters had burrowed wounds deep into the tops of the moors, gathering waters and spewing back the clay and soil to reveal the lime, leaving these be-grassed spoil heaps in their wake. Hushings.

  Jade laughed.

  — I feel like we’ve entered Telly Tubby Land.

  She made him shut the guidebook and began chattering cheerily about university and her new friends—most of whom, Antony noted, were male. Again this sense she was gliding away from him into a new world that he only heard about and to which he would never belong, a sense she was making a retreat so measured, so fine, that he wouldn’t register the moment she released him back into his paused life.

  They were passing a solitary copse of trees that looked like the X-rays of aged lungs when Antony stumbled over a mound of mat grass, disturbing a red grouse.

  Fat, barely-flying bird, its cry made them jump.

  — It’s probably your hair that did it, Antony said.

  — Thanks.

  — Scaring the wildlife. No wonder your mum freaked.

  Jade tucked a loose strand of fringe hair under her hat.

  — Should come with a health warning, he said.

  — Funny-ha-ha.

  — Why pink?

  — I think you’ll find it’s Persian Rose, actually.

  * * *

  Half-way up the hill they stopped to admire the view: the reservoir reflected the caesium-blue sky and in the distance Coal Clough wind farm resembled an army of eerie white robots, arms spinning headlong. Jade pointed out the black speck of his Rover in the car park.

  Within an hour they reached the high watershed: a thin post marking the border between Lancashire and Yorkshire. On Antony’s map it looked like Morse code, and he imagined packhorses straining along the dash-dot-dash, sweating beneath their burden of loom and spinning-jenny for the neighbouring mills.

  — The sky up here’s so enormous, Jade said.

  He kept waiting for the perfect moment to capture it all: the low sun, its wintry orange sharpness lighting Jade’s smile, but she kept shying away from the camera.

  A sudden, rude howling of wind made tears plop down her face.

  — Fancy some scran?

  — Aye, she said. I’m proper freezing.

  They began heading the short distance to a stony outcrop, the Gorple Stones, when Jade came to a sudden halt and hugged herself.

  — You didn’t tell me we’d be wading through bogs.

  — It’s fine, he said. Howay man.

  The singsong of his childhood accent, surprising him.

  — But my feet, she said. They’re blocks of ice.

  She gave him an imploring look and so he piggybacked her over to the boulders, their belly laughs piercing the thick moor-air.

  Antony emptied his bag and laid it on the ground and they leaned against the massive, humanoid rocks, looking out over the landscape.

  He opened the flask and poured the coffee and took the Clingfilm off the cheese-and-pickle butties.

  — Sorry they’re squashed.

  — Ne’er mind. By the way, Eileen wants to know if you’re coming next week.

  — Eh?

  — I’ll understand if you don’t want to come. Christmas like.

  He took a deep breath and said, — I’m off to Spain.

  — What, to see your dad?

  — See Jack, aye.

  She opened her mouth.

  — I’m nervous about seeing him, he said. I’m nervous about meeting my half-brother and step-mum. Stupid, isn’t it?

  She smiled and he said, — It’ll be the first Christmas I’ve ever spent with him.

  She snuggled into his arm and squeezed.

  He scanned the barium clouds above, thinking of home and his night on Cloud Hill; the day he’d met Jack for the first time.

  He was suddenly overwhelmed by the fact he had a father.

  * * *

  They finished eating and drinking in silence and packed the rucksack up. Jade said she didn’t want to walk any further, so they made their way back down the valley, stopping half-way to catch their breaths, sitting on a large rock beside a beck in spate with snowmelt.

  — I never told you, he said. I was engaged to Rebecca.

  Jade removed her hat. The blueness of her eyes held the sky, contrasting so vibrantly against the deep pink of her hair.

  — Rebecca, he said. Must be some kind of record.

  He looked away. He didn’t want to read Jade’s expression.

  — Nine fucking days. I don’t think she ever loved me. But there was something about her, she made me so… She always kept me at arm’s length, which made me even more…

  He tapped the side of his head and said, — Desperate.

  — So why’d you propose to her?

  — I didn’t want to lose her.

  — She finished with you because you’re a tranny.

  It wasn’t a question.

  — You hid it from her?

  He exhaled heavily, nodded.

  — You’ll find someone, you know, who doesn’t mind. Who’s supportive. You’ve just got to stop lying. There’s nothing less attractive than a liar.

  — Is that you being subtle then?

  She finger-combed her hair and sighed.

  — We can only ever be friends, Ant. You know that.

  — You’ve no idea how much that means to me.

  — Anyway, I think there’s only room for one woman in your life right now.

  He clambered to his feet.


  — Since when did you get to be so fucking smart?

  — Seeing you talking to Rebecca that night, it made me realise.

  — What?

  — Help me.

  He pulled her up. She brushed her backside as they faced each other.

  — I’m not sure you’ll want to hear this.

  — What?

  — I think you’re attracted to them.

  He shrugged.

  — Complete bitches, she said.

  Her breath appeared to fall from her mouth. She put a fist to her chest and her eyes said I’m sorry. He smiled a smile that said you’re right.

  * * *

  He dreamt in sign language and woke up crying. He was by his mother’s side at her deathbed and he was the last thing she saw in this life. He was trying to tell her something but for some reason he couldn’t speak, and so he had to fingerspell the words for her: I’m sorry. The dream was so intense he could actually feel it in his organs, but when he woke properly and saw his white room and rubbed the nap of his head, he felt like a mental patient; that he’d been sectioned for years and his life in Manchester with Rebecca and Jade was just a tripped out, medicated nightmare. The white room became a screen upon which this other life was projected.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept, and now he was doing it in his sleep. The stark, solid, 3D reality hit him: he was truly alone. The physical sensation dissipated, but the emotional imprint lasted a few minutes longer.

  He stared at the upside-down question mark of footprints on his floor.

  Wondering what would be waiting for him at the other end.

  11.

  He saw it as a huge metal cigar tearing through the dark, hurtling through the sky above England, France and finally Spain where Jack would be waiting for him at the airport. He knocked back the whisky and lined the plastic cup up next to the others.

  An old woman across the aisle kept glancing over at him and smiling; he made the mistake of smiling back.

  She said, — I’m onto my second, love. I hate flying too.