Johnny Ruin

by Dan Dalton

Shut up.

  Look at what you turn into, look at this fat fuck. Can’t even a get hard-on.

  Shut up.

  Depressed, divorced. You’ve got so much to look forward to.

  Shut up.

  I’m surprised you didn’t try to top yourself sooner.

  Shut your fucking mouth.

  He’s laughing again. Sophia holds younger me, hands over his ears. Okay, I say. I’ll tell her. The key won’t work for him. That’s why he’s still here. He waves it off. I’m bored of this, he says.

  I don’t let it go. It won’t work for him because he’s a fraud, I say. I mean, you said it. He’s a part of me, but he’s not me. He’s just the bad stuff. The dregs. I turn my back to him. What he doesn’t know is the key won’t work for me either. It’s your key. The dumbest thing he did was ditch you. You’re the only one Fisher will let in. Great judge of character, that dog. And a very good boy.

  Enough, the Many-Faced Man says. Bring her to me still breathing. Shame and Embarrassment flank us from one side, Doubt and Guilt from the other. Sophia stands in front of younger me, I stand in front of her, brace myself. Doubt swings his bat high. This is going to hurt.

  He’s about to strike when we hear it. Hooves. Thundering footfall echoes through the streets. Closer now. The henchmen look confused, scared. Then: Yeah-hooo. Jon rides from the shadows, kicks Doubt to the ground. The others swing round, ready to lunge at him, but Jon has back up.

  Four anthropomorphic dogs – armour clad, riding mechanised horses – follow him into battle. The Tomorrow Knights. They make short work of Shame, Embarrassment, and Guilt. Pow, zap, crash. The Knights rope the four fallen henchmen like steer, drag them away. For a better tomorrow, younger me says. Sir Blake gives him the thumbs up as he rides away.

  Jon, lit golden by the setting sun, majestic, cool, shouts down to me: You’re all clear, kid.

  What are you going to do, Many-Faced Me says. Cry on me. You’re weak. Pathetic. I think of my dad. Nobody calls my son a dickhead. He’s stalling, trying to back away. Enough, I say.

  For the first time in for ever, I find the words. Look at this kid, just look at him, he’s brave, and curious, and interesting, and his imagination, he can do anything, anything, he laughs and he cries and he gets excited, and he’s good, he’s so good and kind and so much better than me, so much better than you, and he deserves better than your lies in his head, in his ear, tearing him down, telling him he’s less, making him feel bad for feeling, for being himself, for being human, and he’s so fucking good, so full of light and joy and mistakes and potential, don’t you see, how I’ve listened to your lies and how I’ve been crushed, and how I’ve been afraid, but he’s not afraid of you. I won’t let him be. He’s better than us. He’s better than me. He deserves better.

  The next thing I feel are arms around my chest. Jon drags me off myself. The Many-Faced Me lies flat on his back, his faces, all of them, bloody, beaten. I’m shaking, crying. Furious. My fists are clenched, cut up. I used to practise punching walls, to make sure I hit straight. Just in case. Now I know what for. I collapse into Jon, my body convulsing with shuddering, fitting sobs.

  Hey, Jon says. It’s okay, buddy. We’re okay.

  I take a few stuttered breaths, feel hot tears on my cheeks. A small hand grips mine. Ten-year-old me. He takes a Tomorrow Knight from his pocket, wraps my swollen hand around it. It’s Sir Blake. His favourite. He gives me a thumbs-up. I break again, burying my face in Jon’s shoulder, entirely undone by the boy I used to be.

  Nearby, Fisher whines. He doesn’t like it when I’m sad. It’s okay, boy, I say. I let go of Jon, push open the revolving door. I kneel down, let Fisher lick the salt from my face. Good boy, I say, stroking his head, slowing my breathing. Good boy.

  That thing you read about dogs being good for stress.

  I’m expecting a spin off, Jon says. How does The Adventures of Lightning Jack sound. Sophia walks over, gives Lightning a nose rub. Shall we, she says. Jon pats my back with vigour. I ask for surprising and inevitable, and you choose the Chrysler building. I nod, wipe my eyes. Haven’t you seen any films, I say. Everything always ends at the Chrysler Building.

  Sometimes I get so sad I think I might burst. It’s overwhelming. Like fireworks in my chest. Like I’m filled with an infinite sadness, one I can’t contain. It comes out in words, in tears. And it’s beautiful. Sometimes I wonder if this is how other people feel with happiness. Full. Alive.

  When I turn around, the Many-Faced Man is gone. For now at least.

  That’s all you can do with bad thoughts, keep them at bay.

  They never disappear for long.

  Twenty-One

  Tower / Betrayal

  The end happens in a tower that looks a lot like the Chrysler Building, an art deco skyscraper raining white stone and steel around us. Even though I’ve never been, it’s my favourite building in New York, partly because of the architecture, partly because of a bit of genius misdirection.

  During construction, the Chrysler was competing with 40 Wall Street for the title of world’s tallest building. 40 Wall Street’s architect increased the height of his tower, began bragging to the press about claiming the world record. But Chrysler architect William Van Alen had a trump card: a secret 125-foot spire built inside the rising frame of his building. It was hoisted into place right at the end of the build, making the Chrysler the world’s tallest building by some distance.

  It’s not even the ingenuity, the sheer elegance of the solution that I love most. It’s the schadenfreude of it all. The lengths Van Alen went to just to wipe the smirk from his rival’s face.

  The end hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Younger me races off to find other missions, other mischief. I was never great at goodbyes. Jon lets Lightning loose. Go on, boy, he says. Lightning brays, trots off happily. He’ll be ready next time we need him. You know what I miss, Jon says. Those bits they used to put at the end of films to tell you what the characters did next.

  Fisher pants happily at Sophia’s feet, waiting for a command. I look up at the building, raining render and rubble around us. A trick of mind makes the whole thing appear to fall forward. An optical illusion. I close my eyes before I make it happen, before curiosity fells the Chrysler.

  The lobby of this Chrysler is something out of Gatsby, gilded, gold, sparkling marble. Or it was. My mind paints it monochrome, desaturating every surface save ourselves, the opulent space still stunning in high contrast black and white. I like monochrome. It adds drama, depth.

  We hit the button for the lift and the doors slide open. I don’t know what’s waiting up there, Jon says. But it won’t be sunshine and puppies. This is gonna hurt. Sophia takes my hand. We’ll do it together, she says. I take Jon’s hand. Together. We step in and the doors close behind us.

  The buttons inside the lift show seventy-eight floors. The Chrysler only has seventy-seven. I hit seventy-eight. Nothing happens. I try more buttons. Nada. Then a voice on the intercom: What. Sophia nudges me, points to a camera in the top corner of the lift. We have your dog, she says, pointing to Fisher, who walks around his tail a couple of times and sits. It’s okay, buddy, I say. Static silence. Crackle.

  With a jerk and a shudder we start moving.

  Sophia and I were in our bubble for almost eighteen months. That’s seventy-seven weeks. I did the maths. Everything falls apart if you wait long enough.

  The doors open on the first floor. The night we met. A gig somewhere in Camden. A memory made monochrome. But not her. She glows in glorious Technicolor. I catch her eye across the room. Time stops. Everyone else stands frozen. I start to say something but she puts her finger on my lips, kisses me. And so the bubble begins. She’s going to break my heart. I’m going to let her.

  Floor two. Week two. The doors slide open on my bed. It’s the first time we fuck. We undress each other slowly, our scattered clothes the only colour in the room. Later, we’ll fuck on every surface, unrestrained, animal. But we start slow. I kiss her whole b
ody, finally settle between her legs, make her come with my tongue. Moans that echo still. After, she straddles my hips, slides me inside her. I keep my feet on the floor for better leverage. The lift doors close on us rolling our hips together. We laugh and kiss like we’re not going to tear each other apart.

  She says: Stop this.

  I say: I’m trying.

  Floor four: We’re driving to the coast for a dirty weekend when I start telling her exactly what I’m going to do when we get there. She lifts her skirt, slides her hand into her tights, spreads her knees wide, arm shaking as she rubs her clit. She take her fingers from her knickers, slides them into my mouth so I can taste her. It’s dark out and she flickers in the strobing street lights. I keep my eyes on the road, her hand a blur on the periphery. She pushes her hips out of the seat, comes with a sharp breath, a long fuck.

  Floor eight: We’re eating breakfast in bed. She’s reading the paper, toast in mouth, wearing one of my dress shirts. It’s too much. I put my coffee down, disappear under the duvet. She starts to object, something about eating, and I say, Me too. I kiss her thighs, trace my thumb over the thin cotton. She pushes her hips forward, parts her legs. I pull her knickers to the side, draw my tongue over her clit with a long slow stroke. Her plate falls from her hand. A piece of toast lies butter side down on the duvet. She tenses her legs, groans. In the lift, Sophia turns away.

  A voice on the intercom, grizzled, faint: You have to watch. The door stays open. The sound of the Sophia out in the room coming is difficult to ignore. They won’t close until you watch, the intercom says. Sophia raises her hands to her face, exhales in frustration. She turns back, watches herself shuddering on the bed, legs locked, hips bucking, Fuck, fuck, fuck. The doors close.

  Jon places his hat over the camera. The intercom starts to say something but I dig my fingers in behind the panel, wrench it open, rip out the wires. The lift whirrs upwards. Who is it, she says. Jon starts to stumble his way through an answer. I think we all know that it’s me, I say.

  Floor seventeen: We’re fighting. She slams a door. I punch a wall. She’s always been flirty. I’ve always been jealous. She says she needs trust. I love you, I say. It isn’t enough.

  Floor twenty-four: She’s burying her face into the mattress, arse in the air. I’m kneeling behind her, hands clamped to her hips. Our thrusting has shifted the bed out from the wall a good three or four feet. She feels me start to swell inside her. Come for me, baby, she says. I want all of it.

  Sex is rarely this smooth. It’s never quite what you remember. You tend to leave out things that don’t fit. The unsatisfied thrusts, the pained expressions, the misplaced elbows. That bit at the end where you roll to opposite sides of the bed and finish yourselves off.

  The silences between floors grow longer, more despondent. We each of us take a deep breath when the car stops. The higher we go the scenes become more fraught, more desperate, more intense. Jon tries to stay calm. He plays with his lighter, flipping the lid open, closed, open.

  Floor thirty-one: We’re in bed watching old Tomorrow Knights episodes on YouTube.

  Floor thirty-nine: She’s sucking my cock in a bathroom stall at a gig, sweaty, urgent, high.

  She says: Is this all I was to you.

  She says: You never respected me.

  These scenes don’t represent us. Not everything we were. Memory doesn’t work like that. Eighteen months together, and all I have are fragments. You can’t remember everything. You choose a few moments, cling to them. Memories are just postcards you keep sending yourself.

  We’re in here somewhere, five minutes either side of these scenes.

  Floor fifty: The first time she broke up with me. We hold each other, sobbing. The doors close.

  The mechanical whir of the lift the only sound preventing silence. And then, a song. My voice is low, clear. Fisher’s ears prick up. I sound out the opening lyrics to ‘Bed of Roses’. Jon taps out a beat with his foot. He puts his arm around my shoulders, pulls me close, joins in. His voice is richer than mine, stronger. Singing with him gives me chills. He beckons her over, swaying as we hit the part about blondes, nightmares. The look on her face says, Are you fucking kidding me.

  Floor sixty-one: Sophia and I are fucking in my shower, her legs around my hips, back pressed against the tile. She grabs a handful of my hair as I thrust into her, water draped, insatiable.

  Floor sixty-three: Our second break-up. She rolls over to my side of the bed after a sleepless night, starts to back herself into me. Black-and-white bodies on a bright red duvet.

  In the lift we sing at the top of our lungs, do our best to ignore the scene. Sophia turns to us, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes. She joins us on the chorus. She has a great voice. I didn’t know she knew the lyrics. We lean back in unison and belt it out together.

  Floor sixty-eight: We’re in bed, backs against the current mood, being borne apart by sadness.

  Fisher, still lying at my feet, jumps up and barks as we hit the final chorus. As the song comes to an end Jon pulls us both close, heads resting together, where we whisper the final lines.

  Floor seventy-seven. We’re too busy smiling and hugging to notice the scene unfolding outside. I stop when I see it. Grin gone. My bedroom. It’s late. We’ve been up listening to music, talking. We’ve dozed off. It’s the middle of the summer. I’ve kicked off the duvet. Her head is nestled into my chest. Our legs stretch out, her knee overlapping mine. We breathe in unison. Two bodies occupying one space. Co-morbid. Alloys. Faint sounds from the speakers. It’s peaceful. Our last night together. A week before I get the text. But here, there, on floor seventy-seven, in that bed, we’re the best we ever were. I see myself stir awake, stroke her hair, smile. She wriggles a little, lets out a half moan, holds me tighter. I let my eyes close, drift away into bliss.

  Sophia is standing next to me. She rests her head on my shoulder as we watch ourselves sleep. We never managed that for long, she says. I shake my head. I’d get too hot or start snoring. We’d move to opposite sides of the bed. I’d wake to her pale shoulder rolling away from me.

  That’s the thing about memory. Those few minutes of sleep can last for ever.

  We begin the slow crawl to the final floor, to meet whatever version of me dwells there.

  Sorry about the singing, I say. I didn’t know what else to do. She smiles. I miss going to karaoke with you, she says. It’s my sentiment, not hers. It makes me feel better anyway. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. It’s difficult to ignore the soft skin of her neck, the curve of her tits under her T-shirt, the way they rise and fall as she breathes. I smile back. Pretend I’m not lost. Me too.

  Floor seventy-eight. We don’t stop. Fisher barks. It’s okay, boy, I say. I didn’t know he could count. Jon has his lighter out again. Here we go.

  Unknown floor: My bedroom, must be a few days after the break-up. I’m in bed, trying to sleep, phone in my hand. Face lit by the bright blue glow of the screen. I check to see if she’s online. A green dot appears by her name, then goes again. No messages. I keep scrolling, waiting.

  Unknown floor: Sophia’s flat. There’s a man with her, entirely in silhouette. They cast off their clothes, desperate, clawing. She gives him the look I used to get. She’s glowing but not for me.

  The doors close. She tells me that never happened. Not to you, I say.

  Unknown floor: I’m flicking through pictures she sent me, desperately wanking to sentiments long since revoked. I’ve come four times today, and can’t stop myself. It’s the only way to get dopamine into my system. A few days after this she asks me to delete everything she sent me.

  Unknown floor: I see her at a gig. I down the drink I’m holding, order another. Our eyes lock across the room. She looks away first. I see the silhouette walking towards her and I leave, stumble out in a haze of anxiety. I can’t watch this. They stand there, laughing at me.

  In the lift, my eyes fill with tears. We never laughed at you, she says. We never talked about you. T
he doors close. It doesn’t matter, I say. There’s nothing you could do as bad as I did to myself.

  Unknown floor: Therapy with Emily. I feel stupid, I say. For daring to hope it would end any differently than it did. She tells me to focus on how we’d found each other. To remember how good it was. You don’t dare to hope, she says. Hope is default. Hope can’t help itself.

  Unknown floor: She’s on my doorstep. The one time she caved, came to see me. We kiss, fumble with our clothes in the hallway, fuck in my bed. It’s quick, tempered by guilt, by grief. Just make me come, she says. It’s not a Richard Curtis script. She leaves soon after. Makes her excuses. I’m sorry, she says, slipping out. It’s maybe a month after she ended things. It’s the last time we fuck.

  What I did next was I hounded her. I sent too many texts, called her at all hours, turned up at her flat. Unwilling to let her go, again. I’m sorry, I say. I was out of order. She says sorry too. For that. For everything. We tore so many chunks out of each other we ran out of chunks to tear.