He looked down. He expected to see Nancy’s face cuddled up to his chest. Instead, there was a splay of dark hair and a body tilted on its side. A leg twitched out. Of course. It was Annabelle. Nancy didn’t exist anymore. He looked around him, at the sun that streamed through the windows. Sun that Nancy could not see. The sounds of birds – things that Nancy could not hear. And yet he had reconstructed her like Frankenstein; made her up out of the magic and matter of his head. Her voice… It had reeled off like a recording. How had he done that? How does the brain do it?
He wondered if he had constructed Annabelle, too. She felt pretty real in his arms, though. She felt pretty real last night – when he led her back, furtively, to the dark of his room, and they had coiled up together like they were snakes being charmed.
Now he started to wonder about the rest of his life. Last night, he had confessed a lot. The alcohol had gone straight to his head. But hearing it out loud made him feel he could actually shake off the past like skin. He could be a better man. Maybe he could try and do something incredible, out here in Africa. He didn’t know what, exactly – but something. It’s never too late, is it? Yes, he would sell his flat back in London and give the money to charity. He’d do whatever it took. He’d never forget the lessons these past months had taught him. He’d never forget how rock-bottom he had felt and how sky-high he was now. He wanted to help people and change the world. After all, you only get one life. You only get one world. You should only get one masturbating ghost in your bedroom.
Part Three
Either / Neither / Both
Chapter
Ten
This is how I proposed.
The pyramids of Giza were all stuck out like giant sandcastles. I could see the tip of the crumbling sphinx. Camels trailed at the edges, a chain of minivans. Crowds roaring towards the limestone mountains.
Annabelle could only see me – and the salad cart.
We were sitting in Pizza Hut. We had a table view. I was slurping my coke, looking at those triangles, thinking I had expected them bigger. But now was the moment. We’d just made our order for deep-pan pizzas – cheesy crust – and who knew how quickly the blasted things would arrive…?
When the waitress left us, the whole moment felt spiritual and exquisite, like we were on our own stairway to heaven, lifting us off from this sacred ground that still held dead pharaohs. There was an old-fashioned romance; an electric buzz to the air. I was Indiana Jones in human form.
I stumbled to the ground, and it was kind of awkward. I bruised my knee. I said ‘Shit’ beneath my breath – but I don’t think she heard. Because by then I had whipped out the box and flicked the top open – and there sat the ring, shining brilliant in sunbeams.
‘Oh my god,’ she said, flipping back a bang. ‘Oh my god.’ She started to laugh. ‘Oh my god!’
‘Annabelle,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘I was going to say this outside, but I was worried about the hawkers.’
‘They’d probably nick it.’
‘They probably would.’ She obviously couldn’t see it was cheap. ‘And we’ve got a splendid view here.’
‘Splendid.’ She was still giggling. Giggling and blushing. In fact, it was getting annoying.
‘This isn’t a joke, Annabelle. I’ve thought about it long and hard. All the time during these few months of travelling. And I know it might seem kind of crazy. I know it might seem fast. But…’ I waited a split second; I wanted the tension to tease up the hair on her neck. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Oh my god,’ she said, as if still in shock; and I know it is terrible, but I wanted to hit her.
‘Annabelle, please give me the honour. I’ve fallen for you hard. I haven’t been this happy for years. I mean – ever. I know that we’re right together. I know we can make each other happy.’ I was starting to lose balance. My knee was fucking killing.
‘Oh my god, Marcus,’ she said, but then the pizzas arrived.
The waitress spoke broken English, but it was clear that she had no precedent for this. She looked between us – at our moment – and gave a smile that said absolutely everything and nothing. ‘Pizza,’ she said at last, heaving the eleven-inch monsters on to round wooden mats. The cheese was still bubbling.
I tried to keep my eyes focused on Annabelle but it was difficult, with that smell drifting up to my nostrils. My attention wavered to these giant carbohydrate slabs: as impressive as ancient masonry if you haven’t had breakfast.
It could be she was hungry, too – because she seemed to hurry up then. She spluttered ‘Yes’. A smile danced over my face and I dragged her close and smelt her hair. I slid the ring on to her finger, and it was a little bit loose, but we didn’t comment on that. We just stared into each other’s faces with absolute wonder and delight. Then we fell back on our chairs and, without really realising, we were munching on lunch and back to chitchatting idly. A bit of crust got wedged in the (fake) diamond centrepiece. I tried to lick it out for her. It felt very erotic. I wanted this moment to last forever.
‘We’re going to get married,’ I thought. I couldn’t quite believe it. I still can’t, really. That’s how I proposed. Right by the pyramids. I mean: you could see them from the bloody window.
I’d bought the ring from some dodgy souk stall, but it looked kind of vintage and sweet. She was now twisting it in her hands and pointing out scratch marks. I told her (over ice cream) that it had been my mother’s, and her mother’s before her – I wanted to make the story better, a bit more romantic. Never mind the implausibility if you stopped to really think about it. No, of course she blushed all over her body and flung her hands up to her face and gasped. She said ‘I love it’ and ‘Oh my god!’
But how did we get here? How did I turn so soppy? Do I need to rewind?
Let’s go back to Malawi. I was lying in bed, listening to that cooing dove. I was holding this woman, this magnificent body that I had fucked just a few hours prior. I could still taste her in my mouth, all sour yoghurt and tamarind.
Well, it was kind of awkward at first. Now that we’d screwed, she was out of my system. The allure wasn’t so great; the mystery had gone. But I had sworn not to be one of ‘those’ guys. So I tried to be nice to her: we kept hanging out, sneaking off for secret rendezvous. I didn’t mind. I got laid. Other people probably noticed, but we liked to pretend that we were being all cool and hush-hush. Besides, people didn’t really talk about me anymore. My sudden bursts of temper had me down as psychotic. People tended to keep their distance.
It was weird how it happened. When I wasn’t around her, I would start to really miss her. We would creep into each other’s rooms at night. We’d lie all night spooning and cupping. That sure wasn’t easy on a single bed. And we didn’t always fuck each other, either. Sometimes it wouldn’t happen that way, if I’m honest. We would just lie there, soft and tender. We fell slowly into intimacy.
Not long after, we announced our coupledom to the group. People tried to look surprised, but their eyes were cold and reconciled.
‘I hope this isn’t going to be a problem,’ said Annabelle.
‘Why would it be a problem?’ asked Philippa. ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened. And it will happen again. We’re all thrown so closely together.’
I wondered if Philippa had ever had a Malawian romance. It was hard to even know how old she was. She could be forty, fifty, sixty… Her hair was so tightly pinned back, the grey wisps all greasy and flat.
‘I don’t want it to affect that closeness,’ said Annabelle. ‘I’ve made such good friends here.’
I have to admit that I looked up wildly at that point. Friends? She’d made friends? I couldn’t count a single one of them as a friend. Even Chris. He was a thing that played football with me, something mechanical and reflex.
At first, we carried on like we’d always done. We went along to school to teach the children. We watched the new building bloom before our eyes. It was painted in brilliant candy pop strokes.
While I read or studied, I would hear Annabelle with the others, laughing and chatting and always seeking approval. Now she had admitted that part of herself, it was a little bit painful – even embarrassing – to hear her out there. Her voice would sound so desperate. She laughed at everyone’s punch line.
Then she would creep back to me, the smile dropped from her face, looking worn and fatigued. She would reach out her arms and scramble beside me. I’d stroke her face or rub her nipples. I just liked the physical heft of her.
Soon that wasn’t enough. We wanted to be together all the time: not necessarily saying anything, but being close, almost touching – like two plants twisted together at the roots.
I started to get really resentful, hearing her out on the veranda. And she became less tolerant of the charade. Increasingly, we would hide away together and carry on with separate tasks, but intertwined: me, reading my book; her, scribbling or sketching.
But we were always aware of other people: their footsteps, murmurs, snores. The pressure of them grew into a colossal intrusion. We felt their presence when we had sex. We were conscious of them as we kissed. We could feel their existence in every stretch of the village.
Our feelings grew deeper – fuck, what else do I need to say? Basically, we just had enough. We started to dream up these fantastical thoughts. Late-night conversations about the great continent we stood in; how there was still so much we had to see. We daydreamed endlessly about having some privacy, about living for ourselves.
When we announced we were leaving, we heard Stephanie gasp and Dora cry out. Philippa beseeched us to stay – ‘There is still so much to do. And we’re almost there. Let’s at least complete the project. Can you stay just a few months more, just so you’ve done the full year?’ I felt Annabelle’s hand stiffen in mine, so I shook my head firmly. I recounted the long tourist list of Africa. We were still very young; now was the time to do it. The truth is: the more we cared for each other, the less we cared about anyone else. Isn’t that the same for everyone?
That night, tucked up in bed, Annabelle glanced at me with her long, pale face: ‘Have we done the right thing? I feel like I’m letting them down.’
‘You haven’t let them down. We’ve been here ages. We’ve seriously done our bit.’
‘But we’re going to leave the children. Just as they’ve gotten used to us. They get so excited every time they see us.’
‘We only ever signed up for the year. They’ll get excited about the next people, too. It’s not us they’re excited about – it’s just the attention they get.’
‘But we said we’d try to do great things here. We said we’d try to make a difference.’
‘We still can. We just need some time out. We can always come back.’
‘That’s true,’ she said, crinkling up her nose. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘We just need some time together, Annabelle. Some quality time. We need to have fun.’
‘It’s true,’ she laughed. ‘There’s so much squalor. It feels so hard to fall in love here.’ She flinched suddenly: realising what she had said. I was terrified of the word, but I didn’t let her know it. I just smiled and reeled her in: my catch of the day.
#
It was odd seeing them all grouped together like that: waving us off. All those faces in line: bodies I’d been cooped up besides for months and months. Now retreating into another part of my brain, being stored slapdash in some file that I knew I would seldom retrieve.
Annabelle hugged and kissed them all. She exchanged Facebook invites and email addresses. She cried so much that the mascara came out of her nose with the snot. ‘I’ll never forget them,’ she sobbed. ‘This has been the best time of my life. I’ll never forget this country or its people. I’ll never forget a single thing about this. It’s life changing,’ she said, her hand gripping my thigh for emphasis. ‘You don’t forget an experience like this. Not ever.’ It was a long and tedious journey out of there. My shirt was forever ruined by her tears.
She cheered up once we were in the convertible. The South African vineyards before us. The sun melted on us. The mountains staggering up into air. And these long, neat lines of structured greenery, everywhere that you looked. We had the sharp burn of alcohol in our throats. She sang along to the radio. I tapped my hand on the roof.
We stayed in youth hostels for a while, and it was fun at first. It felt like a grand adventure. Annabelle liked to talk to the other guests in the common room. I’d usually distract myself cooking some pasta on the hob. But we’d end up in bunk beds and the breakfasts were terrible. It felt like we were still stuck in this fixed grin of communal poverty.
I checked my accounts in Cape Town. It was the first time I had done it for a very long time. I’d be lying to say I didn’t feel a heartbeat stampede to see that big number shine back at me.
I shook myself together, threw a wad of cash in my wallet. Although standing by bulky building blocks and ornate bell towers, I had seen the scrap-metal slums that huddled around this city: their stink and rust and ruin. I knew that these people would be rabid with envy. They had probably picked up the scent of my wealth already.
I hurried back to Annabelle. She was sitting in a café, engrossed in a guidebook. That’s all she ever seemed to do: delight in the endless possibilities. ‘We could do this’; ‘We could do that’. I don’t think it even mattered what we did. The daily lists and plans were enough to build her a fortress of optimism.
‘Hi,’ I said.
She looked up, smiling: relaxed and pink. ‘Hi.’
I slid into the booth, opposite her. ‘I’ve got a plan.’ I stretched out my hands. ‘Let’s stay in a really nice hotel tonight.’
Her eyes narrowed and darted around. Her lips jutted out. She looked like a cartoon version of confused. ‘What do you mean? We’ve already called the hostel. I spoke–’
‘We can call them back. Let’s stay at a nice hotel.’
‘Marcus,’ she sighed. ‘We haven’t got enough money to–’
‘I’ve got enough money. Just one night. I want to treat us. Please.’
It took another few minutes of persuasion before she finally acquiesced. Then it was time to stand outside and make some quick calls on the cheap mobile that I’d picked up at the market. The radiation burned against my temple. I didn’t notice too much though: I was swooning inside at the hotel I’d booked. It was the most expensive place in Cape Town.
She blanched when we first walked in. She said: ‘Marcus, how can we afford this?’ The sweet, innocent thing – I don’t think she really realised how loaded I was.
When she saw the suite, and the terrace Jacuzzi, and the champagne on the bed, she involuntarily squealed. But then the guilt set in, and we had an hour of that. ‘Oh god, but those slums,’ she moaned, small hands splayed across her face. ‘To think of those people living in those boxes of tin, and we’re sitting here…in this.’
And then it led back to Malawi. ‘Those children we taught would not even be able to conceive of something like this. Something as grand as this. Oh my god. It just feels wrong. I feel terrible. It feels a bit vulgar; don’t you think so?’
‘It’s just for one night, sweetheart,’ I said. I’d found out quite quickly that the word ‘sweetheart’ was like valium to her. It steadied her nerves: made her woozy and weak. ‘I just think we deserve it,’ I persevered. And I did – I was so sick of those bunk beds. I was so sick of the sticky air. I turned the air conditioning up high. I threw back the Egyptian cotton sheets with an ecstatic shiver at the thread count.
‘Well, it’s just one night,’ she relented.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her near me. She felt so soft and pliable. I lifted her t-shirt and felt
the turning cogs of passion: once started, it is hard to stop.
I gave in to her the next night, and we returned to the hostel. But I could see that she missed the mini-bar and room service and the room with a view. The ‘off’ smell smelt ‘offer’; the bed sheets felt coarser.
In the morning, she banged my top bunk. I peered down. She said: ‘I had a terrible sleep.’
‘Really?’ I had, too – but I wanted to hear the confession.
‘Oh my God, don’t tell me you didn’t hear those people come in really late last night?’ She was hissing the words, pointing to a group of travellers opposite, fallen asleep in their clothes. ‘They were so bloody loud.’
‘Yes, I think I did wake up a few times. Now that you mention it.’
‘I don’t think I got any sleep at all.’
The blood was rushing to the front of my head. But I held myself there.
‘Marcus,’ she began – falteringly. ‘Marcus, the hotel yesterday was ridiculous. Brilliant – but ridiculous. But maybe… If you’ve got enough money… And of course I can try to help a bit, too… Well, maybe we can stay in hotels. For this trip. I mean – not overblown hotels like the one last night. Not five-star hotels. But nice, three-star hotels. Three-star equivalent. You know – normal, decent hotels. OK, so they’re a bit more expensive. But, I think… If we’re not able to sleep here?’
I tried not to look triumphant. ‘OK, sweetheart. Let’s go and get some breakfast and talk it over properly.’
And of course: over slimy eggs and anaemic toast, it was all agreed and settled.
I booked the hotels after that. While they weren’t up to the calibre of that first luxury pad, I always paid a bit more than Annabelle knew. If we were going to travel, then let’s do it in relative comfort. Just because we were in Africa, it didn’t mean we had to live like Africans. After all, wasn’t that just the tiniest bit patronising?
Another Justified Sinner Page 21