The More You Ignore Me

by Jo Brand

  Eventually he returned.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘They got there safely and they’ve been to look in one spot and now they’re on their way somewhere else. I’m sure they’re not going to find her but I know she feels she’s got to do something.’ He looked at Marie. ‘Has the moment passed for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Has it for you?’ said Marie.

  ‘No,’ said Keith. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Marie, and the pants flew off again.

  As Keith allowed himself to be sucked into the whirlpool of Marie, he spared a brief thought for his wife and the pit of his stomach gave a little lurch as he wondered where she was and what she was doing.

  Gina was at that very moment lying in the back of a lorry belonging to someone called Dunk, or Duncan to give him the name he was christened with. Dunk was seventy-one years old, came from Chester (‘Only complete Roman town wall in England,’ he had already informed Gina twice) and couldn’t quite believe that a woman under the age of forty had agreed to have sex with him. He was a widower, whose wife Jennie had died four years ago, leaving him lonely and bored. His children, Mary and Tom, had both emigrated, one to Canada and one to Australia — he frequently forgot which one was where. Having been a lorry driver all of his life, he had decided to go back to work with a small, busy haulage firm who were quite happy about the fluidity of his age, given that he often forgot what he had told people.

  To Gina, this was a small price to pay for being delivered to the home town of the man of her dreams. In hospital she had occasionally succumbed to young male patients who were locked in and deprived of their usual supply of sexual partners, and who paced the ward like panthers ready to pounce. It had in no way entered Gina’s head that the supplying of sexual favours was anything other than a neutral arrangement, designed to empty them of their frustration and thus make their stay on the ward a little more bearable. Some of the nurses had an inkling of what was going on and either ignored it or had a quiet word with Gina. One of them said to her, ‘Come on, you don’t want to become the ward bike, do you?’

  Gina rather did.

  Dunk finished his grunting business reasonably swiftly and put the radio on in his cab. It was Radio 2 and some unidentifiable musical mush drifted around them as Gina fumbled in her bag for some Rizlas and tobacco.

  ‘Thank you, that was nice,’ said Dunk, totally sincerely.

  ‘S’all right,’ said Gina as her yellowed, dirty fingernails poked and prodded at the roll-up.

  ‘Fancy some grub?’ said Dunk, not exactly an invitation to dinner but as near as damn it.

  They were in the lorry park of a motorway services near Manchester and when Gina nodded her assent, Dunk climbed down from the cab and went in search of a Ginster’s pie and a cup of tea for them. Gina lay back humming along to the music and pleasantly surprised at the slight dimming of the voices in her head. She gave not a thought to her family; she increasingly found that when she was away from them, they ceased to exist for her, and each renewed contact with them after a period of incarceration or liberty from the little cottage was a bit like meeting them for the first time.

  ‘Here you are, love,’ said Dunk, pushing a pie and some tea in a polystyrene cup into her hand.

  Gina grunted something unintelligible which Dunk with his poor hearing took as an expression of gratitude. He was well aware that Gina wasn’t what he’d call ‘the full shilling’ but she seemed in need of a little TLC, and although Dunk felt vaguely uncomfortable that he’d exploited her for his own ends, he was resolved to show her how thankful he was to have had a bit of female contact. His wife Jennie hadn’t been too keen on it for the last ten years of their marriage, so to find a woman who had assented so readily to his suggestion was like a gift from heaven.

  ‘Can you take me to Manchester then?’ said Gina.

  ‘Righto,’ said Dunk cheerily ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Can we go to the Salford…’ She stopped. ‘Shit, I’ve forgotten what it’s called.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’ said Dunk. ‘What sort of place?’

  ‘Do you know Morrissey?’ asked Gina, as if she was asking, ‘Do you know Jesus?’

  ‘Don’t believe I do,’ said Dunk. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s my saviour,’ said Gina, ‘and I’ve got to go to him.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Dunk, ‘that sounds quite serious.

  Gina started to sob loudly ‘It is serious, more serious than anything ever in my life,’ she said. ‘I first heard Morrissey sing in my house. So I came to Manchester.’

  ‘That doesn’t really make sense,’ said Dunk, who was not an expert on mental illness and hadn’t come across any examples of knight’s-move thinking before, in which the sufferer misses out the second logical step of a thought process, thus arriving at what seems to be an illogical conclusion.

  Are you going to take me?’ said Gina in her little girl’s voice, an affectation that had survived the turmoil in her mind caused by her illness.

  ‘Of course, love,’ said Dunk and turned the key in the ignition. ‘We’ll head for Salford and then on the way you might come up with a bit more info on where you want to be.’

  As they approached Salford, Gina said, ‘Salford Boys’ Club, that’s it… that’s where I want to go.

  What on earth for? wondered Dunk, but he didn’t gainsay Gina who, he had correctly assessed, had a right temper on her.

  Dunk pulled in to the side of the road and asked someone for directions to the boys’ club. He was immediately corrected by the indignant passer-by ‘It’s fooking Salford Lads’ Club,’ he said. Ain’t you heard of it, mate?’

  ‘Course I bleeding haven’t,’ said Dunk, ‘or why would I be asking?’

  ‘That way mate,’ said the passer-by pointing.

  ‘Ta,’ said Dunk and roared off.

  Gina became animated. ‘There it is! There it is!’ she chanted over and over again.

  Dunk, who was becoming increasingly uneasy about Gina’s mental state, tried to soothe her.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said softly.

  But as they drew level with the building, Gina’s expression changed.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she shouted. ‘Quick, drive, escape, go, faster, go!’

  Without thinking, Dunk put his foot down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  ‘I fucking knew,’ said Gina. ‘I fucking knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’ said Dunk.

  ‘Can’t say it’s a secret, after me, want to get me, lock me up.

  ‘Where shall I drop you?’ said Dunk uneasily ‘Don’t know, got to think, nowhere to go now they’re here, shit,’ said Gina.

  By this point Dunk had realised that Gina definitely wasn’t ‘right in the head’. He could see she was vulnerable and needed protecting. But do I really want to lumber myself with a nutter? he asked himself.

  Then he thought of the sex, then he felt guilty, then he felt altruistic, then he felt revulsion, then he felt ashamed.

  ‘You better come home with me,’ he said.

  Gina brightened. ‘Morrissey’s home, that’s it. Let’s go there.’

  Mark and Alice did not have a comfortable experience in the gay district of Manchester.

  The heaving, colourful and fascinating sights of Manchester stood largely unnoticed as they concentrated on their pursuit of Gina. They had very little money and after some discussion outside one of the pubs, they agreed that if they were going to have a drink and something to eat, it was probably not possible to afford a bed and breakfast for the night. So they decided they would sleep in Mark’s friend’s little car.

  The mass of people milling past afforded them a bizarre, theatrical entertainment, their own miniature carnival. Occasionally Alice saw someone in the crowd who looked a bit like Gina, but none of them was Gina and as each fresh hope was dashed, their spirits sank lower.

  Eventually, they felt brave enough to go into a pub. Inside sat a selecti
on of gay men of all ages.

  Alice felt she was in a zoo for exotic birds.

  Mark, still struggling with the manly side of himself, which was expected of the sons of hardy country folk, felt simultaneously uncomfortable and fascinated.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked. ‘I’ll go to the bar.’ Alice asked for half a lager and he left her sitting at a table and pushed his way through the crush.

  ‘What are you doing here, Alice?’ said a voice Alice could only describe as ‘fruity’. It belonged to a man at the next table who appeared to be a flamboyant mixture of Oscar Wilde and a builder.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ she said, surprised. ‘Oh, I don’t, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you look like Alice in Wonderland with that expression on your face in amongst all these mad hatters.’

  She had to agree that there was an amazing selection of strange headgear on display.

  ‘I’m looking for my mum,’ she said. ‘She’s a big Morrissey fan and she’s run away from hospital and we think she might be here in Manchester looking for him.’

  The man extended a hand, the nails of which, Alice observed, were obsessively well-manicured and painted with black nail varnish.

  ‘Molly’s the name,’ said the ostentatious character.

  ‘Hello,’ said Alice.

  ‘Hello, Alice,’ said Molly ‘What does she look like?’

  Alice described her mum.

  ‘Fuck me sideways, dear,’ said Molly ‘She’d stand out like a sore thumb in here. I certainly haven’t seen anyone answering that description but I’m happy to ask around for you.

  Despite the uncomfortable feeling that Molly would be using her and her family as the centrepiece in a stand-up routine, Alice thought this was a small price to pay for getting some information on Gina’s whereabouts.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘And who’s that very tasty young man you are accompanied by?’ said Molly ‘Is he spoken for?’

  ‘No,’ said Alice and then wondered if she’d made a mistake. Would Mark be the target of some sort of romantic assault from Molly and friends?

  Mark was doing equally uncomfortably up at the bar. Having ordered two halves of lager and turned down the offer of a free cocktail from the immaculately dressed and coiffed barman, he thought he’d better turn the talk to the Gina situation.

  ‘I’m looking for a woman,’ he ventured.

  The barman guffawed.

  ‘Bloody hell, love, this isn’t the right place to start.’

  Mark felt his face flushing bright red, although it was concealed by the flashing red lights positioned round the bar.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘My friend’s mother has gone missing from hospital and we think she might be wandering around Manchester.’

  ‘The words “needle” and “haystack” spring to mind,’ said the barman. ‘Manchester’s a fucking big place, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mark irritably, feeling he had been cast in the role of country cousin.

  Just as he was preparing to deliver a wounded speech about being perhaps a little more in control and knowledgeable than maybe he looked, a hand belonging to someone behind him began to very gently stroke his left buttock. Alarm shot through him at this unwarranted assault on his person and he spun round to see a smiling, good-looking man staring at him in a humorous way as if this was a perfectly natural thing to do and had been carried out in lieu of an introduction. Any remaining doubt that Mark had about his sexuality has extinguished as his instinctive response to the man’s touch closed that book for him once and for all.

  ‘White wine spritzer, please,’ said the smiling man.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t have enough money to buy you a drink.’

  ‘Hope your arsehole’s as tight as you are,’ said the man, giving the impression that this was a well-worn line.

  The predatory nature of his expression and his assumption that this sort of behaviour was perfectly acceptable made Mark feel as if he was from another century. He turned back to the bar, paid for his drinks and then turned with what he thought was a neutral yet vaguely threatening expression on his face and headed back to the table where Alice sat waiting.

  He put the drinks down and whispered, ‘I hate it here, can we leave after this?’

  Alice, conversely, was enjoying herself immensely; it was so rare that she was able to sit in a pub without there being at least one allusion to her appearance and her suitability as a sexual partner. A whole room full of men, none of whom either did or didn’t fancy, her was an absolute joy.

  ‘Some bloke felt up my bum,’ said Mark.

  Alice could not help laughing. Mark’s expression was one of hurt outrage and Alice scolded herself for not taking something seriously that she would want taken seriously if it happened to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark,’ she said. ‘It’s just such a surreal place compared to what we’re used to. I didn’t mean to be horrible. All right, let’s drink these quickly and go then.’

  Molly seemed highly disappointed by their intention to leave.

  ‘Come on, luvvie,’ he said to Mark, stroking his hair. ‘Stay and have a few more, it might relax you.

  Mark didn’t want to be relaxed. He stood up.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Alice.

  Alice downed the dregs of her half and they nodded a goodbye to Molly and exited with some speed.

  ‘Thank Christ we’re out of there,’ said Mark as the cold air hit them. ‘Can we go home? I know we said we were going to stay but I don’t know if I can.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s been hard for you, Mark,’ said Alice. ‘Please can we just pop down to Morrissey’s mum’s house, do one last drive past the Salford Lads’ Club and then go?’

  She fixed him with such an imploring gaze that it made his heart jump a little.

  ‘All right,’ he said wearily ‘Let’s do that, but I don’t like this place, it’s too big, too weird and too frightening.’

  They got in the car and Alice directed him to the house where Morrissey had grown up, a surprisingly suburban street, not the scene of decay desperation and splintered dreams that Alice had expected. Again, there were a couple of groups of student types standing quietly outside. The curtains in the house were drawn for the night and the containment of light and warmth inside the house served only to underline the isolation and frustration of the few hopeful fans lurking there. This time there was no friendly woman to approach so Alice decided against asking any of them about Gina, a foolish decision as Gina had left the place with Dunk some ten minutes before.

  It was now nearing eleven and a brief sail past the Salford Lads’ Club completed their unsuccessful search for Alice’s mother. Alice stepped briefly into a call box to let Keith know that the search had thrown up no leads and they were on their way home.

  ‘Never mind, sweetheart,’ said Keith down the line. ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see… and I’ve got a nice surprise for you.

  The little car made its way out to the west of Manchester and eventually they hit the A49 and headed south, skirting Whitchurch and Shrewsbury.

  The pair realised they were hungry and pulled into a service station to buy something to sustain them until they got home.

  ‘Where do you think she is?’ Alice said to Mark, not really wanting to think too deeply about this question herself but just wanting to hear some reassurance.

  Mark was not hopeful. He knew enough about Gina to understand just how vulnerable she was and even though his sheltered, reasonably wealthy lifestyle had cocooned him to a certain extent, he was well aware that there were plenty of men out there prepared to take advantage of Gina’s inability to make sound judgements. But he knew Alice didn’t want to hear this.

  ‘I reckon she’s all right, you know,’ he said. ‘I think she’s found herself somewhere warm and cosy and she’s OK.’

  Alice smiled and patted Mark’s knee in the dark. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  Gina was
snoring soundly, tucked up in bed with Dunk in his grubby little flat on the outskirts of Chester. Having lived on his own for so long, free from the shackles of being compelled to order his life in the pristine way his wife wanted him to, he revelled in the most enormous mess imaginable. Washing-up sometimes stood for weeks, the carpet was a chequered memorial to all the snacks he had consumed over the last few months, and the neglect in the bedroom bore witness to the fact that it was a place used purely to lie down in then leave until the next time it was required.

  After their tour round the Morrissey monuments of Manchester, Dunk had managed to persuade Gina she needed sleep and food. He felt an immense fondness for her already; she was the antithesis of his departed wife, whose primary purpose in life in the few years before her death seemed to be to berate him about everything. Gina was totally non-judgemental, it seemed. Life just flowed past her, without her in any way wanting to alter its course, apart from satisfying her passion for this Morrissey person.

  Sure, he thought to himself, she probably is a bit cracked with this pop singer business but she’s no trouble and I like her. She hadn’t even complained about the long row of empty beer bottles decorating the perimeter of the kitchen but had just fetched herself a glass and began to examine the bottles one by one, adding their contents to her glass to create a flat beer cocktail as a prelude to bed.

  Mark and Alice reached Alice’s house at two thirty in the morning, both exhausted.

  ‘You might as well stay here,’ said Alice, ‘seeing as you’re so knackered.’

  ‘Where shall I sleep?’ said Mark, wondering whether a night on a settee would really offer him the opportunity for a decent night.

  ‘With me or my dad,’ said Alice cheerily ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Tempted as I am by a night with your dad,’ said Mark, ‘I choose you.’

  A curled cheese sandwich was waiting for Alice in the kitchen and they shared it between them with a glass of milk each. After that, they climbed the stairs, divested themselves of the outer layers of their clothes and lay down together under the blankets in the cold room. Within seconds they were asleep in each other’s arms for practical reasons rather than romantic ones.