‘Forget it. I don’t care.’
‘Oh, he don’t care. Look. It’s a shithole. This country’s a shithole. My dad couldn’t wait to leave. He got lucky. Really lucky.’
Marcus had his arms crossed, his eyes lifted up to the sky again. There was a thin line for a mouth.
‘Come on, you so curious before. Don’t you want to know how he got lucky? Mate?’
‘We’re not mates, remember.’
‘Oh come on. You wanna hear this story?’
‘Yeah. You’re just going to tell me anyway. So yeah.’
‘A British woman. My mum. She came over to help with the church. She wasn’t your typical churchgoer, you know? She didn’t wear her hair in a bun, a prim little skirt, and whatever. She was a pretty lady. Everybody said so. And she came from a good family. She had some money in the bank. And of course she’d been snapped up already, like you gonna expect. Married, proper, the lot. But my dad – he was badass, man. He was poor as shit, and a couple of years younger. But he was built like a fucking stallion. And she left her husband, everything – got a divorce right away. Managed to get him over to England on some temporary visa or whatever. They got married. They had me. Then they had my sister. Then another sister. They were fucking like rabbits, you know?’
‘OK. That’s kind of weird.’
‘What?’
‘To talk about your parents like that.’
He shrugged. ‘Why? I like the fact that they were fucking like rabbits. They were in love, you know?’
‘Were?’ He saw the foreshadowing of death, disaster, departure. He should have known.
‘No, mate. Just a figure of speech. They’re still together. I reckon they’re still fucking like rabbits!’ He let out a guffaw and whacked the steering wheel. The van wobbled a little to the centre of the road. Marcus flinched. He saw Daniel take his eyes off the road to peek at him. ‘Tell you what, though – my mum never went back to the church. She couldn’t. She was Catholic. Divorced. I’m a child of sin. Love is a sin! Can you believe that? True love is a sin.’ He leant over to turn up the volume. ‘You don’t really mind, do you, mate? It helps me concentrate. On the driving. These roads are fucked.’
Marcus couldn’t quite belief that these musical thumps and klaxons could help a man drive. But he was done with conversation. It hadn’t worked out well. And the land truly did look beautiful – although it pained him to think so, to sever geography from economics. It might not be the best place to live in the world, but by god it was beautiful. And even that… Some of the villagers looked so cheery, so contented, nonplussed, you could say – would they really swap their lives with him, given the chance? Well, OK. They would. Or would they? It was hard to know. So he gave up the thoughts to the ether, and his mind danced around objects.
When the car was near their destination, he saw a smear of orangey red. Involuntarily: ‘Shit!’
The car skidded. ‘Fuck me! You scared me. What is it, mate?’
Marcus pointed to the near horizon. ‘That’s not them, is it? They’re not the locusts.’
Pause. ‘I reckon it must be. They’re red locusts, right? The air there looks red, man.’
‘Shit. Fuck.’
‘It’s all right, they’re just insects.’
‘Can we wind up these windows?’
Daniel curled his lips, as if to titter. Then he reconsidered. ‘Yeah, man. Sure.’
An electric wheeze as they whooshed towards red smoke. Now he could make out each locust in the air: darting and diving against the endless blue. Others stood out like scabs on the tall bleached grass beside them. There was humming and buzzing and clacking. One sucked itself to the windscreen. The antennae juddered. It disappeared into the swarm again.
‘They look like lobsters. Like little lobsters.’ Daniel laughed, but it died away quickly. There was something unsettling about nature when it was this unstoppable.
‘I mean,’ said Marcus, as if revving up mid-sentence. ‘I’ve read about locusts and seen them on TV, but this is something else altogether.’
‘Yep. That it is.’
‘I saw this programme, once… David Attenborough or something. And there was this fact. About their brains. Hold on. Yes – swarming locusts have bigger brains than solitary locusts. Something like that. Isn’t that incredible?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, locusts are usually solitary. They just hang out on their own. They’re even a different colour.’
‘Right. To what?’
‘To how they are in this state – their swarm state. Something sets them off or something. Makes them turn from a solitary locust into a swarming locust. I think it’s something about… getting food better. Surviving better. They work better as a pack. Anyway, it goes round in cycles.’
‘Right. So what was that bit about the brains?’
‘When they turn into swarming locusts, their colour changes. But also, their brains get bigger. I think they get about a third larger, or something. Something incredible like that. Their brains actually change. I think it’s mainly to do with learning and processing and that kind of thing.’
‘Right.’
‘And I think it’s even their brain chemistry that changes. I seem to remember that they have more serotonin. In a swarm.’
‘What now?’
‘Serotonin. It’s a chemical in the brain. It affects things like your mood. I think it does a lot of other things, too, but I can’t remember what. I’m not an expert. Like I said, this was just from the TV.’
‘Right. So how does this work with locusts, mate? Ordinarily, they’re sitting around, crying into their little leg thingeys? Talking to psychiatrists?’ He went to laugh at his own joke, but the frown lines stopped him.
‘I think they’re just normally very shy. And the serotonin helps them deal with the swarm. It makes them more sociable. More aggressive. It’s cut-throat out there, basically. They need to adapt to their circumstances.’ His inner eyes drifted to the scrolling numbers, the briefcases, the two-faced handshakes. He clicked his tongue against his mouth.
By the time Annabelle returned, just three days later, he had grown quieter and quieter until he was barely anything at all. He was a husk in the hammock; a book held over his face like a tombstone. He wasn’t really eating and he certainly wasn’t drinking. Every time that Chris suggested football, he shook his head. He got up to go to the school, on autopilot, but felt like the children were not victims or humans or anything at all – just characters in a book. Something he could not attach to.
He saw the car skid down the dirt road. Daniel’s hand thumping on the roof, the vibration of bass bolt through him. There was someone in the passenger seat, but the sun glared off the windows and cancelled them out. He saw a hand wipe away hair.
The car disappeared and then he heard the engine switch off. Two car doors slamming. A commotion of voices, the high-pitched squeal of women jumping up and down and hugging. Some clinking glasses. Some scraping of chairs.
Dora by the terrace, her face flushing with delight.
His head poked out of the book, an eyebrow raised.
‘Annabelle’s back!’ she hollered, without looking back. A minute later, she was scurrying past him, waving a bottle opener.
He waited a few moments, listening to the sounds of the group. There is something both lovely and lonely in listening to the gentle hum of other people’s merriment. Then he managed to freeze them out and battle with his head instead. Pros and cons, yeses and nos: back and forth, back and forth. Mental indecision is so tiring. In the end, he got up: brushed himself down, put on a ‘social’ face.
He stood on the outskirts of the welcoming committee, feeling awkward and shy. It was peculiar to feel these things. This is what happens when you scrub yourself raw, he thought – or words to that effect. He still had these damn sensitive insides, like some people have sensitive skin. Just about anything seemed to set off the itch, now.
Nobody spoke to him, and he did n
ot know what to say. He tried to smile, to look unfazed and controlled. Dora dashed over with some wine. He physically forced himself forward, clinked glasses with Annabelle. But he chose a clumsy moment. She was locked in a vigorous conversation with Philippa, and it felt rude to intrude, and yet strange to step back. So he had to hover around them, aware of some invisible social ribbon that he had ripped right through. He knew it was weird, but he clinked glasses with her anyway, not saying a word; just turned his back on them both, resolving to go back to the hammock. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and her voice all around him: ‘Marcus!’
He spun. Philippa was gone. The others were there somewhere, but somehow he couldn’t see them. He just saw this pale, moon-like face beaming down at him, her eyelashes wet.
‘I’m back,’ she said, shyly, gesturing at herself.
‘I heard. I heard the party from the hammock.’ Somehow his voice sounded accusatory, so he tried to smile. ‘Are you all right?’ he added, trying to make his voice sound warmer.
She shrugged. ‘I guess so. It was a bit scary though. The hospital wasn’t the best.’
‘I know. I remember being a bit shocked myself.’
She nodded. ‘So… Has everything been all right, here?’
‘Well. It’s only been a couple of weeks. Not much has happened.’
‘Sure. That’s a really silly question. I guess it feels like I’ve been away forever.’
‘Do you mind me asking what was wrong?’
She bit her lip, cast her eyes around her. ‘Oh, it wasn’t anything too terrible. Just really, really painful. The worst pain I’ve ever felt, actually…’
‘Wow. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK. It was… Well, it started with that back pain. Do you remember? Anyway, I left it and left it. Turns out it was a kidney infection. I had a really high fever, I was vomiting. It was the middle of the night. It was pretty intense. Really horrible, actually. And I didn’t respond to the antibiotics, straightaway… Ugh. They wanted to get me back to the UK, where there are stronger antibiotics. But I just…beat it myself in the end. Thank god.’
‘You weren’t tempted to go back home?’
‘No.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘I wasn’t.’
Dora slipped in between them. ‘Top-ups?’ she railed. She was bouncing off the walls.
‘I can’t drink, remember?’ Annabelle pushed her affectionately, laughing.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty awful to get a party going in your honour when you can’t even drink. That’s really bad of me, isn’t it?’
‘Oh it’s not so bad. I like it. It’s nice to be back here. That hospital – my god…’
‘And Mr Mystery here has been pining for you the entire time.’
‘What?’ Annabelle looked up at him, blinking. ‘Oh don’t be daft, Dora.’ She was glowing a little.
Marcus’s face hardened until the veins in his temples stuck out. ‘What the fuck are you on about, Dora?’
‘OK, OK. Calm down. It was a joke.’
‘I just wanted some time to myself. Is that such a fucking crime in this place?’
‘Look, it was just a joke. Christ. Come on.’
‘No, you fucking come on. Just fuck off, you fucking bitch.’ He threw the glass into the bushes and strode off to the hammock, his face pulsating. How dare she. How dare she? How fucking embarrassing. How fucking moronic. The fury grew so much that it was almost unbearable. He threw a fist into a wall and recoiled with an odd kind of pleasure. Then he sunk into the hammock and cried.
‘Oh no. For God’s sake, no.’ He heard footsteps. He went to get up and go to his room, but she was already standing there.
‘Marcus, what was that about?’
He placed the book over his face. ‘Did I kill the party?’
‘Just a little.’
‘Well. I’m sorry about that. But she’s a fucking cunt.’
‘Marcus. Can you not talk like that? Please.’
Ordinarily, he would scoff at that, maybe laugh at her Pollyanna-ness, maybe jibe at her delicate ways. But he didn’t have the energy and he was now deflating too rapidly. ‘OK. I’m sorry.’
‘She didn’t really do anything.’
He sighed. ‘I think she did.’
‘What? She was just teasing us. That’s what Dora does.’
‘Well, it’s embarrassing.’
‘Oh. Right. So it’s that terrible for somebody to suggest that you’ve got a thing for me. I’m such a hideous witch.’
‘No, I don’t mean it like that. Oh god…’ Talking to women could be such a tactical game, he thought. So many traps to fall into.
‘Can you at least take that book off your face?’
He waited a moment, heard her quick, shallow breath. ‘All right.’ He slid it down his body. Now she could see how on fire he was, how red and livid.
She perched beside him. ‘You know what, Marcus? I’m just going to say it. I was thinking about saying it the entire time I was in hospital.’
He closed his eyes, expectantly.
‘You’re a twat.’
They popped open. ‘What?’
‘You’re a total twat. You can be so rude. So inconsiderate. You pick fights with everyone. You can seem…heartless. At times. Callous. Cold and indifferent and detached. And then flying into these ridiculous rages. It’s embarrassing. Seeing you act like a twat.’
Somehow this made him feel better. ‘I’m not going to deny it. It’s kind of nice to hear you say it. I’m a twat. It’s true.’
‘Except…’ She leant forwards. ‘Sometimes you’re not one. Sometimes I feel like there’s more to it than that. Anyway, I could be wrong. But, either way, here’s the thing. I really like you. I mean, I really, really like you. And I don’t know what it is: your smell, your eyes, I don’t know. But I’ve liked you the entire time. And I know it’s been obvious.’
‘Mmmn.’
‘That’s all you’ve got to say?’ She cast down her eyes. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I just thought I’d give you the chance. Let you know that it was OK… If you did like me. Because I like you, too. But I don’t want a holiday fling. That’s not my thing at all. So I want you to understand that. But I’m just… I really like you. Oh dear.’ She covered her face and shuddered. ‘This is coming out so bad.’
He shuffled up to one side and patted some room behind him. She hesitated a moment and then clambered in. The hammock swayed wildly. They giggled, nervously, like schoolchildren. Both of them stared up at the blanket of night, at the stars studded in it. He stretched out an arm around her head. She wiggled deeper.
‘I like you,’ he said, after some whittling away of time. He felt her tense.
‘There’s a “but” coming.’
‘There’s no “but”. All right, maybe there is.’
‘Well, just tell me then. Just give it to me.’
‘Like I said, I like you.’ He didn’t even know why he liked her. It was like liking a sheet of blank paper. Her skin was so thin – literally. You could see the veins right through it. ‘That’s why I’ve been acting like a total dick. Following you around like a dog.’
‘I did wonder,’ she said, wryly. ‘I did think – maybe he does like me. But sometimes you would just act so cool and indifferent.’
‘That’s just my style.’
‘Well, it’s really annoying.’
‘And sexy?’ he teased.
‘Hmmm.’ She waited a few moments. ‘Yeah, maybe. A bit. Annoyingly.’
‘You don’t want to admit it, but I know that girls love the bastards.’
‘Well, maybe there’s some who do. But I never thought I was one of those. And I really, really hope you’re not a bastard.’
‘I’ve never been put before a judge.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think that I probably–’
Suddenly there was an explosion of silence and the lights cut off. A collective groan from the dining terrace. The frantic searching for
torches.
‘The generator,’ said Annabelle, stating the obvious.
‘That generator’s so old.’
‘Yep. God, it’s so dark here. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.’
‘Are you frightened?’
‘Of the dark? No! I’m not six years old.’ But she was frightened. And so was he.
‘All right, all right.’
‘Do you think we should go help them out? With packing everything away?’
‘No, let’s just lie here a little bit. They’ll come looking for us if they need us. Let our eyes acclimatise.’
‘OK.’ She breathed out extra long and hard. ‘I guess it does make the stars seem even bigger and better.’
‘Yes, it’s sort of scary though, isn’t it?’
‘Ahh, so you’re the one who’s frightened!’
‘Well… You’ve got to admit it’s pretty primitive. Blackout – the curve of space – the sound of animals and insects all around us.’
‘OK, now you’re freaking me out. Shit, what if there’s a spider on me right now? About to climb over my face! Marcus, this might not even be safe…’
He was wondering the same thing; fighting between instinctive fear and the enjoyment of an attractive woman snuggling up close to him. ‘OK, let’s give it five minutes more. I’m comfortable. This is nice. We’ve got privacy at last.’
‘All right,’ she said, unsure. ‘Maybe you’re right. Just five more minutes. So how long have you liked me?’ She rolled her eyes, coquettish, like she’d earned the compliments.
‘I kind of liked you from the beginning. And when you told me you were born in Addiscombe–’
‘What? How did that help at all?’
‘I like a coincidence. I always have. Somebody once told me to look out for them, to see them as a sign. Like somebody was writing your life and trying to show you where the story is leading…’
‘I like that.’
‘I even kept a book once. With every coincidence inside it. I used to scan it for signs. Didn’t really make sense, though. And I didn’t bring it to Malawi. Don’t even know the last time I updated it…’
‘But what kind of coincidences? Stuff like that Addiscombe thing?’
Another Justified Sinner Page 19