by Lee Kerr
I take hold of his shoulder, trying to keep him in this place, keeping my anchor connected to me in case I quietly sail away. Even as I shake my head, I realise it might be me who’s weighing him down but I still don’t want to let go. ‘You can’t leave me, not now.’
He stares back at me, seeming to genuinely give this some thought. I have pushed him so far and silently asked for so much over many years; I have never thanked him for any of it and certainly have not given anything in return. It’s a truth that I only properly accept now as I realise just how much I have taken from him.
He gently lifts my hand off his body. ‘We have two rooms so I think it’s best we split up for tonight. I’ll look at the options for getting home and you should do the same. Hopefully we will be able to figure something out before we get stuck here forever.’
I look at him but don’t say what I want to, don’t dare tell him that I would be quite happy being stuck here forever. ‘What about visiting the Uffizi Gallery tomorrow?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think there will be any more sightseeing now, and I think you’ve forgotten that you’re a dead man walking.’ He hands me a key to one of the rooms and then turns away. I watch as he walks back to the main hotel, making sure he thanks the pool-boy, who is still standing and watching the only people remaining in the garden. He disappears from sight as I stand on the grass, somewhere between the sunbed and the shadows, in this nowhere space between the aspiring tourist and the cold truth.
I slowly gather my things and eventually walk away, nodding to the pool-boy, who will now be all alone. I wonder if he will go home or if he is as stranded as the rest of us. I don’t have the energy to ask and so I leave him as he wanders around the garden, clearly taking his time to tidy up the last two sunbeds. These are the last of his jobs for today; what tomorrow will bring is still uncertain. I walk through the hotel and see that a crowd of fellow guests have gathered in the bar area. I watch them for a while and notice that they’re not drinking, not celebrating anything. There are many nationalities present, many languages being spoken. I leave them and go to the lift that’s just down the hall, trying to pick out words that I understand from the conversation; I catch snatches, mainly of people asking what will happen next and how will they get home.
Only when the lift arrives and I step into the compartment do I look down at the key in my hand. I look at the number and then up to the sign that says which floor the room is on. I press the button and the lift starts moving. I desperately try to figure things out, but realise that I have no idea if this is the key for the old room or the new one. I have paid little attention to what has happened for so long that it’s almost like I have conditioned my brain to ignore everything around me. I have wasted so much of everything that I wonder if perhaps the best thing to do would be to start all over again. Maybe it makes sense to hand over this life to someone else; perhaps I should just quietly check out and let the next person enjoy it.
The lift door opens and I slowly walk along the quiet corridor, taking time to stop at the odd painting. The décor has always been to my liking, golden frames surrounding old yet bold-coloured oil portraits. I have always been more mature than my actual age, always hurrying along to get things finished, constantly wanting to know more than we are told. This place has always been an escape from that thing I called life, and the things we do each day that we consider to be living.
I stand outside the room, checking a couple of times that the key fob matches the number on the door. I’m fairly sure that I have been in this room before but I can’t be sure. I think the other room is a couple of floors away and I have no doubt that Mike is currently busy on the phone, trying to secure a flight out of here. I wonder why he is so desperate to get home and I’m sure that if he only gets one seat then he will leave me behind.
I want to call him, to tell him not to bother with me, that I am best left here, that this is the only kind of life I have ever truly enjoyed. Leave me to wander these forgotten corridors, let me walk through the cobbled streets under the shadow of the great Duomo. Let me admire it every day and meet all those who came before me to create this amazing place. I want to tell him not to worry, that I have found what really matters. In a better version of this life I would have been born in Italy, somewhere in the colourful Tuscan fields. I would have grown up in the bosom of farmers, but desperate to do more. I would have been brave back then, leaving my parents behind to work the fields as I travel to the place that all artists called home. In that life I would have walked the same path as Leonardo, Masaccio and Raphael. Perhaps in that previous life I would have been Michelangelo and maybe, just maybe, David would have been my creation. That wouldn’t have been a wasted life because I would have filled it with immense energy and with every ounce of purpose I could find.
But it’s not the life that I was given, I think, as I open the door and quietly step into the room. I don’t run; I have no intention to fight what is inevitable and what I now accept is right. They say all roads lead to Rome, but I say this path that I have wandered for so long has led me here and I will waste no more time, energy or whatever my world is defined by.
He looks up only for a second, barely even acknowledging I’m here, but then gives me a small nod. A little smile appears before he turns his attention back to the equipment. He is holding a needle in his hand and squeezing a clear plastic pouch which is suspended on a thin, wiry stand. After a few moments a jet of liquid spurts out of the end; this seems to make him happy, as he hangs it on the small hook.
I walk over to the bed and lie down as I quietly prepare myself, and when he is finished he starts checking my body, nodding when he sees that I have taken my shoes off. He absent-mindedly starts his work, turning my left hand over and slapping the underside of my wrist. I have nothing else to say, nothing else to think and so I leave my body entirely in his care. I take one final look at him; he is calmly working, doing what he has been paid to do.
Finally he notices that I am looking at him. Perhaps he thinks I’m feeling curious, maybe that I’m impatient – I’m not sure myself. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Shall we begin?’
Do not disturb
Friday 19th August - London
She bangs on the door and shouts his name but there is no reply. There’s no movement through the window, no noise in the hallway. She opens the letter box so that she can shout his name again. ‘Blake!’ she calls, sounding much more desperate than she did a few minutes ago. ‘Please, you have to let us in.’
It doesn’t take long before she stops shouting and levels her head to the only opening, catching a scent from her new plug-in air freshener just near the door as she does so – perfect for welcoming the visitors she never seems to get. Fresh jasmine and water lily, if she remembers correctly, not that he would notice such a thing – it’s not like it matters now anyway. She’s desperate to hear something inside the flat, some sign that she isn’t negotiating with thin air. He has to be in there, otherwise how would he have left and put the latch on?
She looks in again; this time she thinks that she sees a shadow, a small movement in one of the rooms. She starts listening again, desperate to figure things out. She needs to see him, believing that she will somehow be able to appeal to his limited senses; to overcome his stubborn streak and find an ounce of her reasonable Blake she fell for at school so long ago.
She keeps looking through that small slat and listens, but she still doesn’t see or hear him. She sees the hall table, the gorgeous lamp, the vase she saved up for, the beautiful wallpaper she took weeks to pick – all the signs that her home is as she wanted it. Then, suddenly, she catches sight of his fabric Adidas wallet lying on the table. She knows he would never leave the house without it, even though she could guarantee it would always have less than a tenner inside.
‘Blake!’ she shouts, not caring who hears, now far past about worrying whether her neighbours are getting a good show. ‘I know you’re in there. I can see your wallet.’
‘Are they
with you?’ he shouts back, his voice coming from the living room.
Her eyes widen as she listens, looking for any sign of movement.
‘If they are still with you, then you can be sure they ain’t coming back in.’
She takes a deep breath, swearing that this will be it. She will get in and when she does he will be leaving within the hour. This time she will overcome those few remaining physical, emotional and sexual boundaries. Nothing is clearer to her now, and nothing will change her mind. She risks losing it all, because of him and his simple, selfish view of the world.
‘No more, Blake!’ she shouts. ‘This is my home and they are my guests, my work, and my livelihood!’
‘Then I believe you have your answer,’ he calls back. It’s not even an aggressive reply and shows no sign of a full-blown argument. She imagines him sitting there, exactly where she left him, laughing to himself at the fact they are stuck outside.
‘If you don’t open this door then I’m calling the police!’
‘Again?’ he shouts. She imagines him smiling as he sits on the sofa, his hands on the controller, his mind absorbed in that game – the only thing that gives him some distraction from his pestering girlfriend. He’ll be topless, wearing only his jogging pants, with beer cans spread all around him. She wonders which part of that picture will be the reason she gets kicked off the child-minding register – something she worked so hard to get on. Everything about him is entirely inappropriate for her chosen path in life. She knows this now; it has just taken her too long to accept it.
She stands up, grabbing her phone, contemplating that call to the police, vowing all the while that this will not go on any longer. Sure, they might break the door down, and they might remove Blake for her, but then he would be on the outside, whining and shouting. He would involve the whole street in his drama, and that would keep the kids up all night.
Only then does she think about the children. She looks down to her left, seeing them both standing still, silently watching her. They look up at her and she looks down at them. They’ve been watching the weird events unfold very quietly, looking confused, having only limited experience of the world to help them explain all this.
And then Poppy starts crying. She screams loudly, her blonde, frizzy hair matted and worn from a day of fruitless travelling, her eyes wrapped in big, red circles of uncertainty.
Hannah leans down. ‘Oh, Poppy! I promise it will be okay. Please don’t cry.’ She tries to take hold of her, to offer whatever comfort she can muster, but Poppy pulls away. Hannah knows she’s a runner and gets ready to give chase.
‘He’s a monster!’ Poppy shouts.
Hannah wants to disagree but she knows she can’t, not today. ‘He’s not a bad monster. He’s just protecting our home and once he knows it’s us then he will let us in, I promise.’
Poppy shakes her head. The excuse is so lame that it doesn’t work even on a five year old.
Hannah gets back up, looking at the door, the window, searching for any possible way in. ‘Noah, please help your sister,’ she says, not knowing what else she can say. Her time and patience are both running out.
Noah doesn’t move and instead he stares at Hannah. ‘If he’s not a monster, then why won’t he let us in?’ he says, his hands resting on his hips. He has got double the experience of life than little Poppy has, and although it’s not much, he’s using everything he’s got.
Hannah leans down a little, but not too far: he is growing taller every day. ‘Oh, sweetie, it’s a game. He’s just playing a game and it’s gone a little too far, that’s all.’
He stamps his feet, his arms flapping beside him. ‘He’s not playing a game and when I tell Mummy and Daddy what he’s been doing they will be so angry at you!’
‘Really?’ she asks, standing back up, feeling something rising within her. ‘If you’re going to tell your parents then where are they?’ she says and stares at him, wanting an answer. She needs to know this more than ever and finds herself willingly making this demand of these unlucky kids who are unfortunate enough to have been left with her.
‘I don’t know!’ he screams, his face scrunched up for the hundredth time today. She looks at him as he shakes; his long fringe is pulled back which reveals even more of his angry face. She remembers a time when she was little, when her grandmother would tell her not to frown, as if she did, her skin would settle in that position. She wants to tell Noah this now but how can she when he is entitled to be very angry, especially with her?
She kneels down on one leg, so that she can look up at Noah and across to Poppy, taking her time to see the whites of their eyes. ‘If I knew where they are I would go around right now and let you tell them everything on me, I really would. But we can’t, because they’re not at home and they’re not answering my calls.’ She stops, just shy of declaring to a five- and a ten-year-old that their parents are missing, that they were due home three long days ago and that now she’s running out of food and money, and her fuckwit boyfriend is doing nothing to help. When you then think about all the bad things that are happening, and how things are getting worse by the day, she thinks that maybe they should be told, that perhaps she shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.
Although she has all of these dark thoughts, she doesn’t say anything, but only because Noah is now crying too. They both stand there in their own separate worlds, both sobbing. Poppy’s long curly locks are shaking as she cries rhythmically; she is shouting that she wants only her mummy, ignoring everything Hannah has just said.
She turns away from them, partly to stop herself from crying, but mainly because she wants to vent all her frustration at just one person. She doesn’t want to admit it but she has felt desperation lingering over them like a cloud for several days now. First the emails from their mum stopped, then the phone calls ceased, and at about the same time the amount of news of bad things happening abroad started to triple every hour. This desperate feeling, the feeling that control has all but gone, has by now started to sink in; she fears that something bad has happened and is still happening now.
She bangs the door one more time. ‘Blake, please let us in!’
There is still no answer, so she waits as the children continue crying behind her. She waits for him to come to the door or for their parents to return home, whichever happens first.
Waiting. It’s all she seems to be good for.
******
‘Why won't you help me?’ she asks, standing over him, a tea towel in her hand. She has finally got into her own home but she doesn’t feel like she’s got any further in dealing with all of the problems that have been thrown her way.
‘Because they're not my fucking kids, are they?’ he says, not actually looking at her. He moves his arms, sticks his tongue out and tenses his muscles as he frantically pushes buttons on the controller. ‘And they ain't your kids, either. You do remember that, don’t you?’
‘They are my responsibility!’ she shouts, demanding that he realise this, that someone take note of what an immense burden she has been left with. ‘I'm their nanny, their child-minder, and I've been looking after them.’
‘Yeah, for the odd day,’ he says, finally looking up at her. ‘What parents leave their kids with someone for over a week? You wanna ask for more money when you see them.’
‘When I see them?’ she asks and takes a deep breath. She remains standing over him, staring down at him as he plays his boy’s game. She wants to ask if perhaps she should ask for more money so that he can spend more of it. She wants him to know she feels that there are three kids in here, and that the oldest is 22. She wants to ask when he's going to get a job, pay her some rent, contribute to the upkeep of this place and make her feel more than an intermittent lust for him. Deep down she knows that her longing for a reliable, life-long partner has been replaced with the shell of a man in front of her, but she doesn’t know what to say, and so eventually she silently walks back into the kitchen.
‘Bring me another beer,
’ he shouts. ‘And when's dinner, ‘cos I'm fucking starving!’
This proves to be one demand too many and she walks back into the room, deliberately standing in front of the television. Her television. The one that never shows her programmes. It comes as no surprise that he doesn’t realise the issue, as he absently bends his body so that he can see the screen. Hannah moves to block his view again.
‘Get out of the way!’ he shouts, tutting and huffing.
She looks at him but continues to stand in the way, silently protesting about his complete absence of anything that doesn’t interest him, coupled with her need to be listened to. She feels the tension grow between them, his face scrunching as he attempts to keep control of his game, her desperation finding new levels as she tries to get noticed.
Eventually he throws the controller across the room. ‘Fucking great! I've just lost the level because of you!’
She moves closer, hoping her intervention has caught his attention but he puts a hand up to silence her. ‘Sammy, you still there, bud?’ he shouts into his microphone. ‘You there?’ He eventually stands up. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Hannah!’
‘Now will you listen to me?’ she says. ‘Please, I need your help.’
‘What?’ he says; seeming shocked by the idea that anything could be more important than what he is going through.
She takes a deep breath and finally manages to make eye contact with him, although she is unsure how long it will last. ‘If we can't find their parents and I can't go to the police, then I don’t know what I’m going to do. They have already logged it and have said there is nothing they can do, so we have only one more option left.’ She pauses to check if the connection between their eyes and their minds is still strong. ‘We have to go to North London.’
He throws his hands up in the air, which is more or less the kind of response she expected. She knew this would be a tough sell, but as the days have ticked by and the hunt for their parents has dug up nothing, it has come to seem like the only option left. She prepares her sales pitch, her desperate plea for his help, but he’s no longer looking at her.