The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  I don’t know who Nick Griffin is, but I’ve heard of the National Front. Something heavy drops inside. A cold weight pressing on my belly. “My father … he’s not … I’m … you’ve made a mistake.” Words gather and catch in my throat. I stretch out my arm, offering him back the paper. My fingers tremble.

  He ignores it and moves closer. I smell his deodorant, the ripe aroma of cheese and onion crisps. The skin around his mouth is sore, his lips blistered at the corners. I see a fleck of blood leaking from a crack. The pink of his tongue emerges to probe it.

  “I don’t make mistakes,” he continues in the pleasant, reasonable tone. He’s grabbed a handful of my hair and he’s staring at the fan of pale strands between his fingers. “Real blonde, aren’t you?” He looks at me. “Your dad, he helped get rid of the front-wheelers. But it’s a different time in’it? It’s the Pakis we’ve got to get rid of. Send them all back to Paki-land, yeah? You and me, we’re the ones who belong. Not them.”

  “Front-wheelers?” I frown.

  He laughs. “Wheel. Skid. Yid. Nice bit of Cockney.”

  I begin to back away, but he’s holding my hair. His manner doesn’t match what he’s saying. I want to run, but I’m trapped. And I have nowhere to go. I’m so late now that I can’t go to chemistry. I’ll wait in the library. Hide among the book stacks.

  He narrows his eyes, lips curving upwards. Another red bead sits on the edge of his smile. His tongue slides out. I look away, scanning the corridor for an excuse. But he’s let go of my hair and he’s strolling off, hands jammed in his pockets. “I’ll see you there,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t be shy, princess.”

  A couple of boys who’ve been waiting farther down the corridor, leaning against the wall, fall into step with him as he passes. I see him pat one of them on the back, hear a short bark of laughter. I crumple the paper into a ball, crushing it tight inside my fist.

  * * *

  I try praying. Please Jesus, make Shane Stevens fall off the bus. Let him have leprosy. Let him be struck by a bolt of lightning or a falling tree. But the weather is beautiful. October is soft and golden. Clusters of red and yellow leaves fatten branches. There is hardly a breeze to stir their scalloped edges.

  The date for the National Front meeting comes and goes. Shane is waiting inside the school gates the next morning. He steps out in front of me, shoulders sharp, chest jutting. “Playing hard to get, princess?”

  I stand with my head bowed. He leans over, sliding his arm around me. I brace myself to take his weight. “Or,” he murmurs softly, “are you a little Jew-loving slut? A Paki-loving whore?” I feel the damp of his breath on my cheek.

  At break time I hide in the girls’ loos. I sit in a stall and watch the slow hands of my watch, spine stiff, listening for sounds outside the locked door.

  When I get back to my desk, I lift the wooden lid to take out my English texts and find an unfamiliar book there. Puzzled, I read its title. The Holocaust. I glance around me quickly, but nobody is interested. They are chatting to each other, or setting papers straight, fiddling with pencils. I pull the book onto my lap and turn the pages. Black and white photographs leap out at me: skull faces staring through a barbed-wire fence. I stare back. Bones lie piled on top of each other, wrapped in rags. The bones make the shapes of bodies. I bang the book shut, feeling sick. There’s a Post-it note on the back cover. It says, “Hitler waz a Jenius. Ask yor Dad.”

  ELIZA

  1995, Leeds

  VORONKOV HAS INVITED A SMALL audience to the performance—a select list he thinks might help our careers. Not for him the vulgar gushing of family and friends, a show simply to celebrate our achievements. That would be bourgeois pandering. Time-wasting.

  He’d announced the chosen names at last. And mine was one of them. He’s been drilling us for weeks. When he told me that I was to have a solo role, I took it as a sign. This was my chance to overcome my nerves.

  * * *

  Standing on the brink of the stage, I think I’m going to black out. I shuffle my toes in the rosin box again, pushing the powder onto my already whitened shoes. Deep breaths. In and out. My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m sure everyone must be able to hear.

  The music begins, the lilting strings so familiar now that I know every rise and fall. I step into the light.

  The blur of the audience swarms towards me. I can’t hear the music anymore. There is a loud ringing in my ears. Faces pulse towards me and recede as if I’m on a lurching ship. Familiar features pull into focus: Shane is leering up out of the shadows. I try to blink him away. My chest heaves. Amber’s face hovers like a balloon. They’re not here. I know they’re not. But I can see their laughing faces, their pointing fingers. I can’t breathe.

  My limbs are suddenly heavy and useless. They won’t obey me. I manage to move my tongue inside my mouth, forcing it to dampen dry lips. Blood hammers at my temples. I try to take a step and stagger to the side, my arms splayed for balance.

  There is a collective intake of breath. A voice hisses urgently, “Begin! Now!”

  I spin away from the shine of eyeballs, the opening and closing mouths, the sharp chatter of voices veering into complaint. Fumbling from the stage, I shut my eyes against it. Inside I am dying.

  I find myself in the wings. Horrified faces slide past. The other girls look at me as if I’m something broken, dangerous. I want to say that I’m sorry, but I can’t find the words. I lean against the wall. Sweat trickles down my spine; my armpits are wet. Idiot. Fool. Voronkov is moving towards me and I wait, head down, hands open at my sides.

  * * *

  Meg follows me to the changing room, where I’m taking off my shoes with numb fingers.

  “What happened?” She sits beside me.

  I rub my eyes. “I don’t know. I went blank.”

  “Has it happened before?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never performed in public before.” I take a gulp of air. “The idea of it has been giving me nightmares.”

  I’ve let everyone down. Up on that stage, it felt as though the whole world was laughing at me. The blaze of spotlight triggered an overwhelming fear, paralyzing, beyond reason.

  “But why didn’t you say?”

  “I thought I could get over it. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, you dozy thing. But,” she winks, “maybe we should slip some Valium into Voronkov’s tea.”

  * * *

  “You need to get out,” Lucy advises, after she hears what’s happened. “Drown your sorrows and forget it. Stage fright happens to the best performers.”

  She has a plan. She’s got a friend at the university and there’s a student house party on. Lucy thinks parties are the great cure-all.

  The place is heaving. Students are crammed into the narrow hall, lounging against walls and sitting on the stairs. Couples with their arms wrapped around each other. The bass has been turned up so loud that all I can hear is the dull, thundering beat of it, shaking the walls of the house, entering my bones.

  Meg, Lucy and I find the kitchen. Cabinet surfaces are covered with half-empty bottles, plastic cups and spilled drinks. I grab a bottle opener and manage to twist off a cork, sloshing white wine into three plastic cups. We raise our cups, clashing them together, flimsy sides crumpling, wine slopping over our hands.

  “To friendship,” Lucy says.

  “And crazy Russians,” Meg adds.

  “To both of you,” I proclaim, “and me not bottling out next time.” And I tip the rim to my lips. The first taste is sour and necessary, acidic in my gut.

  Lucy grabs my hand, pulling me through packed bodies. I’m bumped past elbows, hips and shoulders. I feel the softness of bellies as I squeeze past, sucked into the hot heart of the party. I like this shield of human flesh, the loss of focus inside everyone’s faces. I empty the cup into my mouth again, and it bangs against my teeth. I tip and swig. The edges of the room are fuzzy now, the moment is right here, pressed up against me, and a
t the same time it’s floating away.

  The music reveals itself inside the smaller space of the living room. The bass settles and I can pick out the slow, insistent beat of “Boombastic.” I let myself go into the song—connecting movement with rhythm in the way that has always made sense to me. Nobody is looking. Nobody cares. I settle into invisibility.

  I don’t know how long I dance for. Sometimes I’m dancing opposite someone; Meg appears grinning at me, and then Lucy waving her hands. Then I’m alone. The room is dim. Shadows crawl across the wall. A red lamp gives everyone a devilish glow.

  Meg reappears dragging a tall boy behind her.

  “I’m off now. Pete and I are going back to his place,” she yells. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Of course!” I shout back. “Have a great time.”

  There is no reason to stop dancing, except to sometimes pick another cup or bottle and see if there’s anything left at the bottom, tipping unrecognizable liquid over my tongue. The music slides from one track to the next. The sweet smell of marijuana mixes with nicotine and sweat. I’m free inside movement. Except that the floor keeps swirling past my feet, making it hard to keep my balance, and the furniture jumps from one place to another. I bang my knee against a chair that rattles at me.

  Then I’m in the lavatory, on my knees, white porcelain swallowing my head. My belly heaves and heaves. As I grip the cold rim and retch, looking into a gush of alcohol and bile, fractured moments from the afternoon come back to me like stills from a nightmare. I groan. Why won’t it go away?

  Out in the hall, with my clammy forehead pressed against the wall, I begin to shiver. There are fingers on my arm. A voice is saying, “Are you OK? Can I help you?”

  I’m slumped against someone’s shoulder, my head thrown back. Through half-closed lids, I see the dark ceiling spinning, faces revolving, and then there’s only one face, close-up like a dentist. He peers down into my own. “You really know how to dance,” he says.

  * * *

  A fierce light is clawing through my lids. I frown and clench my eyes tighter, turning into the crumpled pillow. My own pillow. My own bed. But now that I’m awake, I’m aware of my thirst. I usually keep a glass of water by the bed. Keeping my eyes shut, I begin to grope towards the place the glass should be.

  My fingers meet flesh. A resisting substance. The knots and curves of a spine. Warm. Naked. There is another body in my single bed. I withdraw my hand as if a snake has bitten it and sit up straight, eyes snapping open.

  There is a stranger next to me. He’s dark haired. And he’s asleep. As I stare into his face, my heart stutters. It’s him. Ice-cube man. Black eyebrows arch in an expression of surprise, as if he’s encountered something perplexing in his dream. He frowns and mutters. I can hear the dry click of tongue behind parched lips. His chest is bare and I wonder if he has anything on under the covers.

  I can’t bring myself to touch him. What is he doing in my bed? I lean away, dragging the covers with me, until I’m huddled against the wall. Checking my body with quick pats I’m relieved to find that I’m in my underwear. I peer across at the floor. The rest of my clothes are abandoned in a crumpled pile. There is a pair of men’s shoes and a tangle of jeans next to them. I’m trapped. I’ll have to climb right over him to get out.

  I bite my lip, trying to remember what happened. Above me, the red poster offers no clues. I attempt to rewind. Short memories jerk into focus. A man peering into my face, as if down a tunnel. I went to a party. The thump of bass. Music. Flicking lights. Before that … I groan.

  Ice-cube man stirs and opens his eyes. He smiles as if we’re old friends. “Hello,” he says, stretching. “How’s your head this morning?” He has the long, almond eyes that I remember, heavy-lidded and so dark they are almost black. A sketch of the room is reflected across them, silvery and slender.

  “Terrible,” I realize. I hold the sheet across my shoulders. “Who are you?”

  “Cosmo. We did introduce ourselves last night.” He rubs his cheek, making a rasping noise. “Don’t you remember?”

  I stare at him. I have no memory of last night. Instead I remember his smile as he set the crackling ice on the table before me. Should I remind him?

  “OK.” He frowns, stifling a yawn behind his hand, “Let’s see … your name is Eliza. You came to Leeds to do a geography degree.” He pauses, blows out through pursed lips as if he’s thinking. “But you dropped out and now you spend your time dancing. You’re an orphan. You have two brothers. Oh, and your best friend is about to abandon you for Paris.” He looks pleased with himself. “Not bad with a hangover.”

  He has no idea that we’ve met before. I stare at him. I told him all that?

  “We didn’t sleep together,” he says, “if that’s what’s bothering you. I mean, you were a little amorous, but neither of us was in any condition … you spent some time in the bathroom…”

  “Enough!” I put my hands over my ears. “Please don’t.”

  He sits up, blinking at his watch. “I would say let’s get breakfast, but it’s past lunch time.”

  Unbelieving, I grab his wrist to check the time for myself. He feels warm, solid. He’s right. We’ve overslept. I’ve missed my tap class.

  “How about a coffee?” He pushes the covers back and stands up. He’s not quite naked. He’s wearing a pair of crumpled boxers. I look away from his bare legs and stomach. But not before I glimpse taut muscles, dark hair tracing a line from his belly button down under the low-slung waistband of his boxers. “Think you might need one,” he adds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him bend to retrieve his shirt from the floor.

  I do need something to sharpen me up. I heave myself out of bed, dragging the sheets with me, wrapping them around myself with some difficulty. He watches me, his mouth twitching. Trying to maintain my dignity I hobble towards the door.

  “Drink some water,” he yells as I shut myself in the bathroom. I lean over the sink, dizzy and nauseous. Turning on the cold tap, I pool water in my hands, splashing my eyes. It goes up my nose, drips down my throat. I bury my face in a towel. I can’t believe that he’s here, in my room.

  God, I look haggard. The mirror shows gray smudges on my skin. My brown hair is a bird’s nest. I drag a comb through it, and say his name aloud. “Cosmo.” I’ve thought about him a lot since meeting him in the pub. But the truth is, he’s a stranger. The first time we met doesn’t count. We hardly exchanged more than a couple of words. And he’s forgotten. Which is embarrassing. I scrub at my teeth and spit bubbles of minty paste into the sink. The failure of yesterday is sitting inside me, implacable and heavy. Memories have begun to flash up like neon signs behind my eyes. Voronkov’s voice hissing, “Coward.”

  * * *

  We squeeze into a sofa booth behind a small table at Café Flo. As we wait for our drinks to arrive, we both fall silent. I glance at my nails and then at the chipped green walls and the collection of oversized clocks, all of them telling different times. A local radio station plays in the background. Cosmo is humming along to some recent pop song, and he shifts in his seat, casually resting his arm along the back of the sofa. Students slump at tables, reading newspapers, chatting over plates of egg and chips and mugs of coffee, but every fiber of my body is acutely aware of the warm, human shape of his arm just behind me, and the space between us, his skin so nearly touching mine.

  I open my mouth to ask him something useful and polite, like if he lives in Leeds, but instead I can’t stop myself blurting out, “Actually, we’ve already met. Ages ago. You gave me some ice.” My face burns and I look away.

  “Ah, so you do remember.” He gives me a wide smile. “Yeah. I recognized you too.” He moves his arm and scratches his cheek. “I knew straight away. The girl with the toe. I stood in the doorway and watched you dancing.” He looks down. “How’s your foot now?”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I rest my chin on my hand, ducking to hide my pleasure. I play with the ends of my hair, twisting them between my fi
ngers. “Haven’t you done your finals?”

  He nods. “I finished last year. History. I’m doing teacher training now. There’s a college, the other side of town. I went to the party with a mate of mine who’s doing an MA here. Abandoned him I’m afraid. One look at you and…”

  “Oh.” I can’t think how to respond.

  “Couldn’t stop watching you … sorry, that sounds pervy. It was the way you danced. Lost in the music.”

  “Drunk, you mean.”

  “No … you were good.”

  Our cappuccinos arrive and I dip into the froth, swirling shapes inside it with my teaspoon. My mind is blank. “So,” I struggle. “You’re going to teach history?”

  “It’s not my dream. But it’s keeping my parents happy.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “South London. It’s where I’m from. You?”

  I fiddle with a packet of sugar, crunching it between my fingers. “Wiltshire.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiles. “I remember. The family home with wisteria over the porch.”

  “God!” I grip the sugar packet. “I really did talk a lot last night, didn’t I?”

  He smiles. “Didn’t understand all of it. But yes. You are a chatty drunk.” He takes a sip of his drink. “You probably don’t get to London much. But if you do, you should check out my friend’s burlesque club in Brixton. It occurred to me that you’d like it.”

  “Really?” I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I thought burlesque was another word for stripping?”

  “That’s what I thought, until Josh educated me. It’s a skill, apparently. It’s about anticipation—the performer weaving a spell on stage, making everyone hold their breaths … that’s what you did…” He breaks off, and laughs. “Listen to me! I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He clears his throat. “You’re the dancer.”

  My face stiffens, remembering the spotlight hitting me, and my body refusing to move. I reach across the table and push up the crumpled cuff of his shirt so that I can read the time. He puts his hand over my fingers. I notice that there are flecks of color on his skin. Red. Blue. White. Paint splatters.