Over the next few days, I did this several times. I called, he didn’t pick up, I hung up. I told myself lies, like he’d probably switched phones. Then I tried dialling from different numbers – even stray telephone booths. He didn’t pick up, but somehow this didn’t assure me at all. Somehow he knew it was me, every time. Every time, he resisted, he rejected a reunion. I finally left a voicemail – broken, scattered, scratchy. I mumbled something about needing to talk. We were still brothers, after all. Just a lot of platitudes, really. I could hear the words coming out in my living room. I was talking to myself.
Of course, it wasn’t ever just one incident that built the rift between us. Like all these things, it drip, drip, drips. I think, when we were young, really young, we might even have been friends: football in the park, the tug of wrestling moves, branches as lightsabres and the weekly sweets at the newsagents. But he was always falling back or acting out, and my parents always telling him off, and it made me suck up even more, feel a real thrill of divides. I don’t know when that happened. When it fell beyond repair.
Jackson’s profile was still on Twitter – nine followers (all but me were spam); a few tweets (all at me). I tried to contact him on there, too, but again there was silence. He had all but disappeared. I couldn’t trace him on social media. I scrawled through search results, desperate for a forum post or video comment. He was now as difficult to find as I had once been.
I shrunk into myself and waited for the inevitable contact of a solicitor: the discussion of wills and property. Surely this would bring us together? Surely we’d have to meet up? But these were just words to try and stop the fever.
I knew I would never see him again.
On Friday, I heard back from the company. They were delighted to say that they wanted me. I asked for the weekend to think about it. They sounded surprised – but civil.
So I carried on like normal, gave Finnegan nothing to suspect. I turned down Friday drinks – no, not even the one – but that was probably acceptable, given my ma’s recent death. I slapped Phil on the back and told him to have a great night. As they swaggered into the distance, they looked robotic and strange. On the way home, I picked up a bottle of whiskey. I don’t even like whiskey – but it felt sort of apposite. I knocked it back the very minute I was back in that armchair.
I wanted to watch a film, but it seemed too intentful. I ended up skipping the channels. I liked the hypnosis of poking the remote. My brain couldn’t concentrate, and I wanted monotony.
Red Nose Day was on – and the snivelling chatter was sort of numbing and distracting, like smearing novocaine across your eyeballs. The celebrities were queuing up to do their duty and ease any nags of conscience. Oh fuck me, not Ant and Dec. Jesus.
I mean, once this was over, they could all return to their lofty apartments and vast Edwardian houses, full of incalculable stuff. It was the modern indulgence for the middle classes. Thank God, other images soon washed over me: potbellied children and flies, scorched earth and firewood.
The whiskey thrashed me. Soon everything was static and the room was rotating. I turned off the TV and lay down, trying to keep the ceiling in one place. But I was strapped to a circle, tumbling over time like a zorb. There was always another side, there was always another vista. If I didn’t believe in my job anymore, perhaps all my beliefs were wrong. Maybe there was no right and wrong. Maybe there was only right and wrong. I had never thought like that before. Maybe there was a God, maybe not. I had no conviction. I just didn’t know.
I somehow logged on to my laptop in this wiped-out state. It came back to me – my mother’s favourite poem. I remembered the title, the poet. I found it quickly. I read it several times, but it didn’t make any sense. The world was mysterious: both sublime and grotesque. I tried to picture my mother as a little girl, where she first found this poem. I tried to picture my mother reading it. I tried to imagine what it meant to her; what she read into those lines. There was nothing. The colours jumbled. I must have passed out. I greeted the morning with a banging head and the stink of acid.
Oh, Walt Whitman. What made you write these lines? What made my mother love them? What should I learn from them, or was I never the target?
‘On the beach at night alone, / As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song, / As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future. / / A vast similitude interlocks all, / All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, / All distances of place however wide, / All distances of time, all inanimate forms, / / All souls, all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds, / All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes, / All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages, / All identities that have existed or may exist, on this globe, or any globe, / All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future, / This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, / And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.’
On Monday morning, I handed in my notice. On Monday evening, I booked the trip to Africa. Ever since, there have been weeks and weeks of banks, contracts, solicitors and embassies. Vaccination shots and getting the flat rented out for the year. But I’m finally ready. The admin is done. Tomorrow, I leave the UK and I will figure this out.
Part Two
White
Chapter
Six
He scrubbed to get clean but couldn’t get off the dust. The air was a haze: fine particles of powder, dead matter and silt. It mixed with sweat to form a sticky paste. Most people stopped scrubbing after a day or two. He reached in the bag for another wet wipe. He carried on scrubbing.
An ‘official’ person – he couldn’t remember the name – passed something back to the driver, and saluted the passengers. The engine fired up and they bumped up the main road. A couple of people mumbled polite turns of phrase, but there was mostly just silence: except for the wind and the whistles of the driver. People had their faces pressed up to the windows; looking into the expanse as the light toppled out of it.
‘We need to hurry up.’
‘I know, I know.’ The driver jabbed his finger in the air. The van veered a little too far to the right, and there was an audible gasp from the back. ‘Think I don’t know?’
‘Sorry.’ A woman at the front turned around to the group. ‘There aren’t any lights on the road. As you might have noticed.’
‘Dark come quick.’
‘Night-time comes quickly,’ she said. ‘You don’t really get twilight.’
The man to Marcus’s right: ‘And we don’t have headlights?’
‘Yes, this vehicle does – but most others don’t. And you have to be careful of the animals. Some come down from the hills and stray on to the roads.’
‘Should we be worried? I mean, how long until we get there?’
‘Oh, we’ll get there in time. We’ll get there before it gets dark. There’s nothing to worry about.’
The driver swivelled around to laugh. It was polite captivity that made them smile back. ‘No worries, no worries.’ The car veered to the side again. Another loud gasp. He turned back to the steering wheel and gave a full-throaty crow.
‘Oh they’re used to it, here,’ she explained. ‘We’ll just drive a bit quicker. We’re nearly there.’
Everyone went quiet. The sky was sinking into the ground. The landscape throbbed with shadow. Occasionally they would pass a village and see woodsmoke swirl up from the sides of the road like fugitive spirits.
‘We’re here.’
The van skidded to a halt and threw open its doors.
‘Come on.’ Stephanie – that was her name – peered into the back. ‘We’re here.’
They had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours, but now they didn’t want to arrive. Arrival was formal and final, and they didn’t know what to expect. They were barely prepared.
The first to depart was a man to his right. The other
three got out in tandem. Then it was him, in the cocoon of the car, hearing the clicking of insects. The last.
‘We’re here,’ said Stephanie. She opened the door, and he felt obliged to step out of it. ‘Come in, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group.’
He stomped through the dust, towards a single-storey house with a small crowd outside. There was a mix of black and white, young and old. A few children skipped at the front and waggled their hands. Two women ululated. Everyone seemed happy to see them.
‘New recruits!’ cheered a man, who handed Marcus a beer. ‘Hi, pleased to meet you – I’m Aldo. You must be beat.’
‘Just a little.’
‘Well, drink the beer. It’ll do you good.’
‘Is it local?’
‘God, no way. That stuff is vile. No, this stuff is Carlsberg. It’s brewed here, in Blantyre – but it’s not really “local” stuff. They rip the labels off, for some reason. Don’t ask me why. But yep, it’s all we have, I’m afraid. It does the trick, though!’
Stephanie appeared, with a face full of lines, eyelids drooped over the eyes.
‘You all right, Steph?’
‘Oh yes. Definitely.’
‘Was it an OK drive from the airport?’
‘Yes, it was fine.’ She glanced from Aldo to Marcus. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it… I’m so sorry, you’ll have to tell me your name again. I’m feeling a bit tired.’
‘Marcus.’
‘Marcus. It was all right, wasn’t it?’
‘Very much so. It was interesting.’
‘Where do you come from, Marcus?’
‘I’m from London.’
‘This your first time in Malawi?’
‘It is, yes. First time in Africa, actually.’
Stephanie and Aldo swapped meaningful looks. ‘You’ll get used to it, here. It gets under your skin.’
‘How long have you been here, then?’
They both spoke at once.
‘You first.’ Aldo gestured.
‘I’ve been here a year. I’m now Deputy Director. With Philippa. She’s the Director. She founded the charity. You probably know that, from the website.’
‘I’ve been here six months,’ said Aldo. ‘It’s my time to go back, now. But I don’t want to.’
‘Right.’
‘I might extend it further. It’s just awesome out here. It’s a great little charity, it’s good that it’s small, you get to know everyone. And you really see the difference you’re making.’
‘I bet.’
The chatter petered out. Marcus stared into some distance.
‘Well, come meet the rest of the group. Did you chat to anyone on the way here?’
‘No.’ He added, by way of explanation: ‘I was feeling a bit… overwhelmed. At the time.’
‘Oh, sure. We all had that. Well, now’s the time to do it. Let’s go.’
‘How many people are we?’
Stephanie walked beside them, her arms stiff and crossed. ‘Well, we have some administrative help in the UK, but in terms of active volunteers… out here, right now… With you guys today, let me think – fifteen, yes, there are fifteen of us in total. We tend to change volunteers on a six-monthly basis. Aldo is staying, but most people don’t.’
‘Right.’
‘They do this as part of a gap year, or they have a sabbatical from work. Anything less than a year isn’t really long enough. But it’s hard to get volunteers to commit to a year. Well – you must know how it is. Anyway, let’s get you introduced…’
‘When did all these other volunteers arrive?’
Aldo cut in. ‘Some of them arrived with me, in another van. Others arrived last week.’
Marcus swigged his beer, gently herded around a pit fire. The village was being drained of its colour. He could just make out a ladder of lights behind a woman’s shoulder.
She turned around, following his gaze. ‘They’re the fishermen,’ she smiled. ‘Out on the lake.’
‘That’s the lake?’
‘Yes. You can’t really see it now, can you?’
‘No.’
‘They often go out at this time. When it’s just gone dark.’
He felt a vibration thud through him.
‘They’re the drums,’ she said. ‘I got here last week, so I’m a bit more used to them. Not completely, though. They’re kind of loud. My name’s Annabelle, by the way.’
‘Annabelle. Right. I’m Marcus.’
‘Nice to meet you, Marcus.’
‘So, you arrived last week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are they drumming?’
‘They’re signalling to each other. Communicating something, I think. It’s probably quicker than texting.’ She grinned and crinkled her nose, but stared back into bewildered eyes that kept settling and unsettling. ‘Well, I’m going to get another beer. Back in a moment.’ Meanwhile, Marcus watched those pricks of light, drifting over the darkness.
Later, there were other introductions, other handshakes, other names to remember, other beers. There was a feeling of gaiety, like this was ‘a moment’; like they’d stepped into a festival or a full-moon party, like life was being beckoned out of them, like pollen from a flower, this sweet taste on their tongues, with the scum and the dirt tightly gripping their skins like entry wristbands. Every scene was a photograph, every second was a memory, every conversation was something they would relay to their grandchildren. The drums thrummed ever louder and the beer beat their brains into muddles.
But that first night was a shambles. Stephanie addressed the group at a later point. A glass was struck and a shush rippled the crowd. Philippa came out of nowhere: a middle-aged lady, wearing a bright-coloured skirt, her curls pulled back into a big, dark bun that looked like a doughnut deep-fried in hair. She welcomed them all, gave further context, issued boundless thanks for helping out with the charity. Her voice dropped an octave and she gave some important instructions: tips about snakes and water and other things that people failed to take in. The stars were so deep, you could cut out the layers. He knew he should be listening but he kept looking up and feeling dizzy and bulldozed.
Soon, everyone was dispersing into bedrooms and shutting their doors. He was incredibly drunk by this point, couldn’t see dream from fact. When recollecting the next morning, he thought it was Annabelle, the tall brunette, who half-carried him to the bedroom. He had a vision of her tucking him in with the mosquito net. He also had a picture of something else, in the corner. And when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t too surprised to see another bed there, with another crumpled body inside.
Marcus closed his eyes again and floated back into light sleep. It was probably only for five or ten minutes, but when he opened his eyes, the figure was standing.
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to frighten you.’
He took a moment to compose himself. Then he propped himself up on one arm and tried to look casual, sociable. ‘You must be my, um… neighbour.’
‘Roomshare. Yeah. I’m Toby.’
‘Marcus.’
‘Good to meet you, Marc.’
‘It’s Marcus.’
‘Marcus. Yeah, OK.’ He sat down to squeeze on some shoes.
‘It’s just family who call me Marc. Only sometimes.’
‘No worries. You coming to breakfast?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven?’
‘They only serve it until nine. Then we start helping out.’
‘You’ve been here the week, then?’
‘Yes, indeed. I mean, we get weekends off and all that. But Philippa told us last night–’
‘I was a bit drunk.’
‘Ha ha. I get it, I get it. No need to explain. It’s play hard, work hard, I reckon. You did seem a bit worse for wear when you staggered in last night.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Nah, don’t be sorry. Anyway, I’m going to go g
et some grub. You sure you don’t want to come?’
‘Maybe in a bit.’
‘Right you are. See you laters.’
A sigh of relief once the body was gone. It was just him and his pounding head, the sweaty palms, constant retch of nausea. It was worse than any other hangover or comedown he had ever felt. He tried to get the world to keep still, but it was dancing in front of him, shaking the daylight from the sun.
What Toby didn’t say was that the induction was compulsory in that first week. And at twenty to ten, there was a knock on the door, and when he didn’t answer, the door pushed open and Stephanie was there, her knuckles clicking together.
He tried to close his eyes quickly, to pretend to be asleep. She cleared her throat.
‘Marcus.’
He lay very still and tried to simulate rapid eye movement. He discovered this was a hard thing to do conscious. Then he felt himself prodded. He faked waking up: an unconvincing yawn and shocked widening of the eyes.
‘It’s the induction.’
‘What?’
‘It’s time for induction. Everyone has to take part in induction week or you can’t stay on the programme.’
‘But I paid the fees.’
She regained her full posture and sighed. ‘You didn’t pay your fees just to lie in bed. You should have found somewhere out of a Thomas Cook brochure if you wanted that.’
‘Touché.’ He sat up. ‘I feel…’
‘Yes, I can see how you feel. It doesn’t matter. We only do two induction weeks. You have to attend all five days. Other people drank last night too, and they’re up. They’re out there. Everyone else is up.’ She gave her best icy headmistress stare. ‘I’ll see you outside in ten minutes.’
She clicked away into absence, and he followed the orders. It would be too embarrassing to be sent back to London, his tail loose in his legs. To fail at commodity broking was one thing, but to fail at ‘finding yourself’; to be kicked out of volunteering by a charity that was desperate for volunteers! Word would get back to his old boss and work mates. They would laugh at him; trade witty one-liners. The thought of all that ridicule drew up the blood to his face. He had nowhere left to go but outside. Nowhere left to be but this continent: this epicentre of epiphany and deliverance. So they say.
Another Justified Sinner Page 10