The Man Without

by Ray Robinson

  — I’m proud of you, Jack said. Of how you turned out.

  The words in Antony’s head: Dad, I’m a transvestite.

  — You ever fancy a change, a break, there’s a job here at the restaurant.

  — Cheers.

  — I’ve been thinking of getting a new manager. Carla needs a rest from it all.

  — Right.

  — So what happened to you and Rebecca then?

  — There was another woman in my life.

  — Good lad. Play the field.

  They were so alike but so completely different: Antony, raised by his mother and Lou to hate men, to see them as pathetic, weak, as wholly unreliable—the absent, errant Jack being conclusive proof of this; and here was Jack, a real man’s man, the small-time gangster, the ex-con who bragged about cheating on his beautiful young wife.

  Jack took his wallet from his breast pocket and pulled out a small photograph.

  — Who’s that then?

  Antony saw himself in the black-and-white, sat on a horse as a teenager.

  — I can’t remember this being taken, he said.

  Jack belly-laughed, making the ice in his glass tinkle.

  — It’s your grandfather. He was small, like you. Every time I look at you, I see him. It’s weird. You’re his pot model.

  — Pot-what?

  — His twin.

  Antony passed the photograph back and said,

  — I see there are no photos of me in the house.

  * * *

  It was the first time Antony had heard any of this and he wasn’t too sure he wanted to know. Jack, speaking nostalgically about his time inside, about his enhanced rep and incumbent dealers, about form and doing brown in his prison cell.

  Antony stared down into his drink.

  — Heroin, it’s like you’re trapped inside your body and you want to escape. There I was, locked inside the cell and inside my own head. Ha.

  Farm dogs barked and goat-bells clunked somewhere in the darkness.

  — No tabs, Jack said. No phone cards. None of that Porridge bullshit.

  Antony was struggling to concentrate.

  — There’s always problems when a cellmate’s in for a lesser sentence. They become gate-happy. The fucker constantly blabs on about when he’s getting out and what he plans to do, blah-this and blah-that. I guess I just snapped.

  And there was Antony at home as a child, imaging his father missing him.

  — Stop it. Please.

  — What?

  — I’m not interested in you doing some poor cunt in. And I’m certainly not interested in you fucking some waitress and making her cry. You have any idea how lucky you are to have Carla?

  — Keep your voice down.

  — I’m not interested. I never will be.

  Jack stood up slowly with a groan.

  — It’s lucky I had Eddie and Val, Antony said.

  He watched Jack clench and unclench his fists.

  — Do you know, Antony said, what I used to tell people?

  Jack took a step towards him.

  — I used to tell people that you were dead.

  — Is there something you want to say?

  — Meaning?

  — Meaning is there something you want to ask me?

  Jack’s looming presence was intimidating. Antony got to his feet, telling himself: it’s my father. Adrenalin turned his skin cold.

  — Yeah, I’ve loads of questions.

  Jack brushed his hair back from his face, features static.

  — It’s your fault I can’t connect with anyone. It’s your fault Mam became an alcoholic. And I don’t know why I…

  — Antony.

  — Why I love you. Because I don’t want to love you. I want to keep on hating you because you won’t tell me who I am.

  Jack’s face appeared in sudden focus: a wild gleam in his eye.

  — What?

  — I don’t even know where I come from. How I came about. I feel like I’m stuck. Suspended. I want you to tell me.

  — What?

  — The truth. Now that she’s gone. The story of me.

  Jack leaned against the wall and ran his hands over his hair. It was hard to tell what his expression was in that flickering light, but Antony could feel the gravity of his father’s mood.

  — I want to see you as something different, Antony said.

  — Different from what?

  — A coward. I see you as a fucking coward.

  — She wanted a baby, Jack said. Without the man.

  The words released.

  — What?

  — She knew, early on. That she was, you know.

  — Say it.

  — Gay. That she was gay.

  Antony put his face in his hands.

  — She wanted a kid, Jack said. That’s all there is to it.

  — How could you do that?

  Jack turned away for a second. Antony said,

  — Every man’s fantasy, eh? Fucking a dyke.

  — She never wanted me involved.

  — You expect me to believe that?

  — I didn’t…

  — She wanted me?

  — Yeah. She did.

  Antony pointed at him.

  — How come she hated you so much then?

  Jack shrugged.

  — Christmases, birthdays, did you never think about me?

  — Course I did, Jack said.

  — And all that stuff you told me when I saw you in prison.

  — What stuff?

  — About asking her to marry you.

  — Antony.

  — Do you not understand? I’ve no idea who I am.

  — Your mother loved you.

  — Bollocks.

  — She was ill.

  — Fuck that.

  — I’d’ve been no father.

  — You’re right there.

  Jack moved towards him and Antony flinched, cowered, but Jack’s arms sucked him in. The tight, massive pressure of Jack hugging, hugging. Antony’s face pressed against his father’s chest. The two men felt each other’s warmth for the very first time, but then they were looking into each other’s eyes.

  The smell of his father’s breath in his face.

  Jack turned and walked towards the house.

  Antony lifted a hand. — Wait.

  Jack climbed the steps onto the veranda and disappeared inside.

  * * *

  The house was silent. He hadn’t heard a single noise for minutes now, but the pain was too much—he desperately needed to piss. He got up and walked into the bathroom and relieved himself while looking at his face in the mirror, imagining Jack having to stoop.

  He went into the living room. The TV was off and the front door was closed. The clock said it had just gone midday. He went into the garden and saw Carla stretched on a lilo in the swimming pool, wearing a black bikini and sunglasses.

  He walked towards her.

  — Morning, Carla.

  Nothing.

  — Hola?

  The lilo shifted slightly, her hand stroking the water. Then he heard the scratch of music coming from her headphones.

  He looked behind him. Jack’s Beemer wasn’t in the driveway.

  He watched her floating there, his throat tightening in the glare of her beauty. There was something so deeply sexy about her body. He imagined licking the sharp ridge of her hip bones, licking circles around the tiny brown oyster of her bellybutton, kissing the skin beneath her breasts.

  He went back into the house and locked the bathroom door behind him. He took off his clothes and got into the shower. He could almost taste her breath, the yum of her full lips. He came so hard and so quickly he yelped with surprise.

  * * *

  She stood in her bedroom doorway brushing her hair.

  — Jack told me say goodbye.

  Just like water, he thought. The path of least resistance.

  — But I’m due at the airport.

  She flicked
her hair over her shoulder. The soft smell of almonds, frangipani.

  She placed a warm hand on his forearm

  — I’ll talking you.

  — Talking?

  — Ai ai. Come.

  * * *

  They drove past golf greens and cubist mansions, past shopping centres gleaming between the parasols of palms. He imagined himself with an easel and paints by the side of the road. How he’d capture the chiaroscuro effect of shadow with charcoal and an eraser’s edge.

  — Jack is Jack, she said. Does what he wants. You love him or don’t. I know who he is. He told me you say you love him.

  Antony nodded. In the distance, he could see the fortified walls of El Picot and remembered its cool, echoing alabaster chambers. He wondered where Jack was.

  — But you want that be different, no?

  — Sorry?

  — You want things be different?

  — Yes.

  — Good. Jack, he just don’t know how show it.

  They drove past pueblos and villa projects under construction, and he pictured himself wandering the fields like Van Gogh.

  — I want baby, she said. Little sister, brother. For Daniel.

  She paused.

  — For you.

  Happy laughter, happy words, her soft eyes creasing.

  — Jack say no, but I know him. I stop the pill. Not tell.

  She put a finger to her lips and they both laughed.

  She dropped the Citroën into third for a bend, her knee lifting her skirt a fraction. Antony saw her underskirt, its red lace edging.

  She slapped his arm.

  — I see you, naughty boy. Looking up mummy’s dress.

  She winked playfully.

  — Now be good boy and get mummy’s purse.

  He looked around for her handbag. Daniel was awake on the back seat, tired-eyes staring at him, blinking.

  — Mummy need her cigarette.

  12.

  Loneliness. It had shattered and bruised his life, but here he was choosing to spend New Years Eve at home alone. When he got back from Spain and switched his mobile on, it had merrily buzzed away for a couple of minutes with messages. One from his father, or perhaps Carla, wishing him Felic any Nou! Two texts from Hattie, wishing him Merry Christmas, and one asking if he as OK. One, even, from John, inviting him out for drinks sometime. And a text from Jade about New Year—John was deejaying and did he want to go clubbing again, and, erm, could he score some pills?

  Then the six voicemails from Hattie.

  * * *

  Excitement. He stood at the window waiting, eyeing the yard below, wondering who’d taken it upon themselves to remove the charred remains. Then he spotted the ARGOS van turning into the street and ran downstairs to give them a hand. He spent the rest of the day with a screwdriver and Allen key, assembling the flat-pack furniture, cursing the obtuse diagrams and his own stupidity. Furniture assembled, new wide-screen TV mounted, he stood back and looked upon his new home-slash-office with satisfaction, feeling like a real man. He was in melamine, mahogany-effect heaven. He shaved his hair with his new WAHL kit, then sat in the black leatherette chair and turned the TV up loud, spinning himself in dizzying circles, feeling the raw vibrancy of life again.

  * * *

  Faltering. Frank spelled out exactly what Antony needed to do and gave him an initial list of contacts, including the Imam at the local Mosque and the Asian Disability Network.

  He heard Derek in the corridor, laughing his infectious staccato laugh.

  The gravity of the project suddenly hit him.

  — And I’d like you to fill this in every day: Movements Chart.

  — Two solids this morning and a wet fart at lunch?

  — I know, it’s ridiculous, but it’s for the funders and Head Office, so make sure you fill it in properly.

  — A-huh.

  — You OK?

  — Bit nervous, I guess.

  Frank laid an avuncular a hand on his shoulder.

  — You’ll do just fine. I have every confidence. Here.

  He handed him a sheet of paper.

  — Signing classes. BSL 2. Wednesday afternoons.

  — If you weren’t such a bender. I’d give you a big sloppy kiss.

  — I’ll take that as a compliment.

  — You’ve no idea how much this means to me. I just hope I don’t fuck up.

  — It’s my job to see to it that you don’t. We’ll have a review every Friday until you’re settled. Now get cracking.

  * * *

  Tentative. He didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing by Kenneth over the past few months, but Kenneth appeared to be more than happy. In fact, he seemed peculiarly fulfilled. He’d familiarised himself with the unit and was picking up people’s names—because (as Antony pointed out), the staff were using his aide-mémoirs properly—and he’d been to Julia’s house for the first time and met Kerry. Though he still asked for Lizzie. Still listened for her footsteps. Still sniffed the air for her perfume.

  But Antony was convinced that Kenneth had worked it out: Lizzie’s screaming face (of anger) and the baby (Kerry’s difficult breach birth), that they were two separate events, fused by his amnesia somehow. He just hoped Kenneth learned to Save As instead of Delete.

  The last time Antony saw him, Kenneth said,

  — Lizzie hates me, doesn’t she?

  Antony asked him what he did yesterday.

  * * *

  Bored bored bored. Yes, the month had been a lonely month, though not entirely miserable because of that. His own company seemed more than pleasant, for once, but he knew he was missing something. When he focused on his eyes in the bathroom mirror, the final lipsticked word remained blurred but distinct. He tried to invoke its meaning, — JOYful. JOYful. JoyFUL. But all he felt was stupid. He rubbed it off the mirror and felt the void of her and worried she’d left forever, for she was a spotlight illuminating his life, and his life had started slipping back into shade. Later, he was lying in bed with his eyes closed, jumping between the scenes of eye-lid films. Thinking of his mother, the vision of her lying unconscious on the kitchen floor insinuated itself. How he’d always listen to make sure she was breathing and he’d hear that sound inside her: something breaking, something drowning. Thinking of his father, he saw himself in the black-and-white photograph, sitting on a horse as a teenager, and he could almost feel his double helices stringing back in time. Slowly adjusting to the reality of the here and now, he realised he was in his flat in Manchester with his mother in the room next door, resting in her white plastic box.

  * * *

  Hattie opened the door and blinked at him in the half-light.

  — What you doing here?

  She ran her hands through sleep-jumbled hair.

  — Sorry. Come on in, son.

  He stepped into the warm, sleepy fug of the house, and followed her along the corridor, past the room where he’d last seen his mother alive.

  Hattie hit the light in the kitchen and stared at the clock on the wall. She rubbed her eyes and turned a small radio on and ran water into the sink. The kitchen smelled of overfilled bin bags.

  He’d driven all night; it felt as if the walls were moving.

  She spoke to him with her back turned,

  — I thought you weren’t talking to me.

  — How come?

  — I’ve been trying to phone you over Christmas. Loads.

  — I went to Spain for a few days.

  She turned to him with an inflamed look on her face; his presence suddenly appeared to make sense to her.

  — How is Jack?

  A serrated edge to her voice.

  — Same as ever, he said.

  She finished cleaning the pots and set the table. She did it in an almost chirpy way, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The radio spoke about fishing quotas while they ate cereal and drank coffee. The morning began opening up outside, imbuing the kitchen with wan light.

  — So how was it at your b
rother’s place?

  She laughed.

  — A bloody mistake, that’s what. My niece is going through that teenage monster stage. The whole two weeks it was all me me me. I dread to think what she’ll be like in a few years.

  She blew onto her coffee. The radio spoke about dog fouling.

  — My brother’s a total oddball. Has his moments though. You grow up in Meva, chances are you’ll be a bit of a nutter.

  Antony yawned heavily, bringing tears to his eyes.

  — You suit your hair like that, she said.

  — Cheers. I have that Fonze moment every morning.

  He held an invisible comb to his head and then threw his arms out.

  — Heyyyyyy. Every morning, perfect hair.

  — You laugh just like your mother.

  Disarmed, he rubbed his lips and swallowed dryly.

  Cornish Pirates, the radio said. Versus Plymouth Albion.

  — I’d love to shave all of mine off.

  — Really?

  — No. But women get to a certain age and their hair turns against them.

  Hypnotised by a sudden, crushing bout of fatigue, Antony stared vacantly around the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes and saw that closed bedroom door in his head.

  — I know, she said. I know what you’re looking for.

  He focussed on Hattie’s face, the hard look there.

  — Well there aint any.

  She went over to the sink, looking into the garden outside.

  — But don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.

  Antony tried to rewind the last few moments, looking for empty bottles on the side. That’s when he noticed the photograph on the fridge: Hattie and his mother; the drink in Hattie’s hand; that look in his mother’s eyes and her smile: a chimera of times gone.

  He walked over to Hattie, placing a hand between her warm shoulder blades.

  * * *

  They walked down the steep and winding Polkirt Hill, the bay laid out below them, its fleet of small fishing boats marooned and leaning between yellow and white buoys. The light reflected brightly off the wet slate roofs and all of the houses, he noticed, had their own names. Trelawney. The Steep. Penmeva View. The Hoss. Penfose.