‘Sweetheart,’ I call again in my gentle seduction voice, ‘Please don’t be angry with me any more, please, please, please.’
And then I hear her over in the bedroom, saying something really softly; she’s got a real talent for talking so softly that I go all quiet and calm too. ‘No, no,’ I say, ‘you mustn’t worry, I’m staying here, I’m staying here with you until we’ve got through it all.’
And then she says something else, and I want her to come out of there at last, I want her to come to me, I’ve hidden the shotgun especially, I want her to come to me on the sofa with the shotgun hidden underneath it, and then I want us to sit on the sofa and I’ll rest my head on her chest and she’ll stroke my hair. I let my hair grow especially for her. I’d always trimmed my hair down to a grade one or two. That was to do with the way I’m scared of a lot of people. No, no, it was nothing to do with being scared of spiders. Mind you, what happens when a big spider drops on your head when your hair’s so short, almost shaved off? Does it slip right off again or can it hold on better with its long legs than on a full head of hair? ‘Take the shotgun, sweetheart, and shoot that giant spider off my head please.’
So now I have a real quiff, like James Dean or Elvis, and I have to say I like it much better than that short stubble on my head. I always used to tell myself, well if one of those people you’re so scared of wants to get you one day – and shit, that’s happened often enough – where’s he going to grab hold of you if you’ve hardly got any hair on your head? But I’m not scared any more when my sweetheart’s around, not even of spiders. ‘Please, please, please,’ I call, and my voice isn’t as gentle and flattering now as I like it to be. That stupid fear’s coming back now, and I squat down on the floor, and I crawl over to the sofa, wait a moment, wasn’t I just sitting on the sofa? I wish I could crawl under the sofa where my shotgun’s hiding. And I take my shotgun out from under the sofa, stroke its cool rifle and the smooth wood, remove the twenty-shot magazine, filled up to the top with black .177 pellets; they’ll even break windows and street lamps. I lie on the floor like that for a while, the shotgun next to me, and when I’m lying like this my sweetheart can’t see me, I bet, the table’s above me and there are all these bottles on it too. Loads of juice and a bottle of vodka, 120 proof. So we’ve got pure kiwi juice, lemon juice, undiluted, and all this multivitamin shite. I’ve been drinking the lemon juice straight, for days now. Kiwi tastes better, and I only drink the vodka in tiny sips when I can’t take it any more. Lemon juice is supposed to get rid of the really bad pressure, that’s what they told me, and my sweetheart fetched all the different juices so that the bad pressure wasn’t quite so bad. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, pressing my beautiful shotgun up close to me, ‘Sweetheart, I’m a walking vitamin C, please, please, please come out here. Please, please, please.’ I always say please three times and sometimes four times, because I love her so much and I’m totally helpless if she doesn’t come out and stay by my side. But my sweetheart’s angry with me and she’s hiding out in bed, and I can’t understand it because when she was asleep yesterday, I haven’t slept for three or four days now, so when she was asleep yesterday and I started out sitting on the bed next to her and watching her sleep, and when she was asleep like that, my God, she looks so beautiful, she looks so gorgeous when she’s asleep, the face is … no, no, no, why am I saying ‘the face’, it’s her face, and it glows, really glows, her face. And as it’s glowing like that with all the lovely blonde hair all around it, I can’t help but think of Monroe. I told her that once, that she looks a bit like Monroe, her lips and her nose, but she just laughed and said I was crazy, but I think she knows it herself really and she’s proud of it too. Got her hair done the same way, or at least a bit like it. I watched a couple of Monroe films with her to prove it, kept on pressing ‘pause’ and saying, ‘Look, Marilyn Monroe, you and Marilyn Monroe.’
I shove my shotgun back under the sofa; I’m all mixed up, and when I’m mixed up like this my shotgun’s no good to me at all, because then stupid stuff happens with me and my shotgun.
Because then I get up and go to the window. With my shotgun. And then I open the window and cock my beautiful shotgun. It goes clack-clack. Then I position the shotgun and aim at the street lamp. And it’s not as if it’s just any old street lamp; it’s one of those disturbing street lamps, one of those lamps that never stop annoying you. And don’t anyone try and tell me street lamps don’t annoy you. This one annoys the hell out of me. The damn thing’s broken. Shines all day even though you can’t see it until it gets dark. The street lamps only go on at a certain time, but this damn lamp is totally out of sync, and that doesn’t just get me mixed up, it drives me crazy. So the gun’s positioned, I take good aim, and then my finger’s on the trigger. And then I feel that all I have to do is move my finger slightly so the .177 pellet hits the street lamp. And I don’t pull the trigger straight away. I always make the most of the moment before I pull the trigger. Not just with the shotgun and the street lamp. And that’s why my sweetheart’s mad now and not talking to me and hiding in bed so all I can see is her nose. Oh, that nose. I always want to tweak it, just a little tweak with one finger. Her gorgeous nose could make a nose fetishist of me, though I don’t even know what a nose fetishist does. Honey rose, honey rose with your beautiful nose. I had a woman once, I didn’t have her for long, just one night and not even all night long, and in that half or quarter of a night she kept on calling me ‘honey’, but she probably said that to all the guys, and I have to admit … ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘Sweetheart!’ and I’ve had about enough now.
Yes, I made a mess of things while she was asleep, I have to admit it. I couldn’t stick it out. And what does she know about what it’s like when you can’t stick it out any more? But Jesus, that’s no way to behave, hiding under the covers in the bedroom. So I pull the trigger. I only have to move my finger a tiny little bit. And then there’s a bang, but not like I was shooting a real carbine, it’s just a short, dry pop! – and then there’s a fraction of a second before I hear my lovely little .177 projectile hitting the street lamp. But that damn street lamp’s a tough one. I can hit it as many times as I want, it just won’t break, and it shines and shines and drives me round the bend. The protective glass around the bulb’s just too tough, too thick, too solid, too stable, too protective, but then that’s what it’s there for. So I close the window again. Put the shotgun away, suddenly feel utterly sickened by the shotgun, utterly sickened, starting in my feet and rising incredibly fast, so fast that I only just manage to wrench the window open, lean over and puke out of it. I hear it slapping onto the pavement, and I wish I could puke in a curve high enough to hit the street lamp. I wipe a hand across my chin. Smells of lemons. And now the lemon smell rises slowly from below, and I close the window again quickly.
She’s crying. She’s crying softly in the bedroom, heard me shooting and puking. She cries so softly I can hardly hear it. She’s actually very strong, or she’d long since have given up on me, long since have chucked me out, and I’d be sitting back in my little one-room flat. And it wouldn’t end well there, oh no, never. But it’s all ended well now, I believe that, I believe that so firmly it almost hurts. I wouldn’t make it without her though, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now, because I’ve been so weak again and I’d promised her never to be weak again, and all the juice she got for me, and all the pills, garlic capsules, hawthorn, ginseng, valerian (high-dose), St John’s wort, as if all that shite could do me much good, but she said it’d help me, so I want it to help me, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now. And I want to go to her and tell her she doesn’t have to cry any more because of me and I’ll never be weak again, really and truly, honestly. But my shirt’s covered in puke and I’m so scared she’ll send me away if I sit down next to her. Or that she won’t say anything at all, that’d be even worse – me sitting there next to her and her not saying a word, and the tears, it breaks my
heart to see tears in her eyes. Marilyn Monroe should always be smiling. And I go to the table where all the packets of pills are scattered between all the bottles. A sip of vodka, just a tiny sip, I’ve earned it now, haven’t I? It’s just as a disinfectant really, because of the puke. I screw the cap off the bottle, but before I drink I take a few of the pills and put them on the palm of my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘I’m taking your healthy pills!’
Three of the green garlic capsules, no, better take six, a double dose. Two long red hawthorn capsules, they’re good for my circulation, regulate my blood pressure, the garlic does that too but hawthorn improves blood flow to the heart muscle, and I need a strong heart so I don’t go back to my shoes again. In my shoes, out in the hall. I’ve hidden something in there under the orthopaedic insole, it’s a sort of emergency supply, but I don’t need it any more, I’ll chuck it down the toilet later and flush it away, but actually an emergency supply’s only for a real emergency, and I’m sure that won’t happen now, and if it does I’ll stick it out, so I might as well just leave the stuff in my shoe. You should never throw away emergency supplies, and certainly not flush them down the toilet. It’s a pretty clever hiding place and all, under my sweaty insole.
And the way she searched me, turned every pocket inside out, patted down my shirts with both hands – but she never thought of my shoes. I’m proud of that hiding place and I add three ginseng capsules to the other pills in my palm. So now I’ve got six garlic, two hawthorn and three ginseng capsules. Isn’t there a joke about impotence, how you’re supposed to tie a ginseng root to your dick or something, but I don’t think that’s why my sweetheart got me the ginseng capsules. I’ve been taking the stuff for days now though, and when we’ve got through all this I’ll spend a whole day and a night in bed with her. I’ll make us a baby, oh yes, how often have I dreamt about the two of us having kids? And she has too, I know she has, she wrote to me when I … No, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about the toilet brush, toilet brush, toilet brush, what are those bastards doing with the toilet brush …? So one of these extra-large valerian capsules as well then, they used to take valerian root in the old days for heart palpitations, St John’s wort. ‘Sweetheart,’ I shout, my voice almost cracking, ‘I’m taking all your healthy medicine!’
And then I stuff all the tablets on my palm, a proper tower, into my mouth; a couple of them fall out again, I swallow and retch, swallow and retch and put the vodka to my lips and feel like someone’s ramming their fist into my oesophagus. The toilet brush, the toilet brush, take the fucking toilet brush away. I scream, high and shrill, and there are tablets stuck to my lips and my chin, and I feel the vodka wetting my shirt. There’s a knock and a ring at the door. And I turn around in circles a couple of times, drop the bottle, a terrible crashing and smashing, I don’t stop turning in circles, the bottle must have fallen on the table and knocked over all the other bottles of healthy juice. And I turn around and around until I fall over, I’m lying on the floor, I want to crawl to my shotgun, want to crawl to my shoes, didn’t I crawl to my shoes a while ago? Then I want to crawl into the bedroom and lie down with her. But there’s a knocking and ringing at the door, no, I haven’t been to my shoes for hours, since yesterday, since forever, since my sweetheart got so mad and sad at me I haven’t been to my shoes, and I know that now for sure, because now it’s not just knocking and ringing at the door, it’s knocking and ringing inside me too. I beat both fists against my chest and scream, ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ and now I feel like I’m bathing in hot water, almost boiling hot, bathing in a huge saucepan that’s bubbling and simmering all around me now, and I know the only thing that can save me now is my shoes, but how am I supposed to get out of the boiler and out of the water to my shoes? There’s that story about the cooks in the canteen who used to bathe in the soup kettles, but I never believed it. My mother used to tell me it sometimes, she worked in a canteen as well, but now I believe her, believe every word of it, because that’s what I feel like, as if I was being boiled to death in a huge soup kettle. The lid’s fallen closed, and when the lid closes the kettle heats up automatically – the soup doesn’t want to get out and doesn’t scream and shout when it’s done. I’m screaming and shouting, there’s a crashing and splintering, and I don’t know why I’m bleeding, but then I’m suddenly perfectly still, I give it all up, I’m perfectly light and I can’t feel my scalded skin any more. I go out into the hallway, walk to the door; I’m so light I think I’m floating. But the door’s open already, and I’m floating around between the cops. The cops shove me and hold me, drag me across the hall back into the living room, see my shotgun, one of the cops takes my shotgun, and then I’m in the bedroom with them. ‘Leave her alone,’ I say. ‘She’s got nothing to do with it, just leave her alone, please.’ But they don’t leave her alone – they pull the cover off her. And I hit out all around me; I want to launch myself on the cops but they hold me tight.
She’s naked, and her skin’s so white I close my eyes for a moment. The cops say something but I take no notice, I just look at her lying there so still in front of me. Her hair’s fallen over her face so I can’t see her eyes. What I see is my hands round her neck. The marks of my hands.
They lead me out of the bedroom, my arms behind my back. It’s dark in the living room, broken glass crunches under my feet, and as they shove me into the hall I turn around one more time.
Outside the window, in the light of the street lamp, Mary Monroe smiles at me.
FATTY LOVES
She was very shy. She always looked down at the floor when she came up to the blackboard. An eleven-year-old girl with brown hair down to her shoulders. Year five. Sometimes she wore her hair in a short ponytail. She was slightly pale. A long school year, year five. Later she turned twelve. That was after the summer holidays, at the start of year six. He still remembered her birthday very clearly. The way her friends had whispered and laughed as he stood at the garden gate and waved at her. He’d been sweating, and his face must have been bright red, like it always was when he sweated. She’d smiled and raised her hand briefly and then looked down at the ground. She was very shy. She raised her top lip slightly when she smiled and he saw her front teeth. The two in the middle were a tiny bit longer than the ones next to them, but just a tiny bit. And when she thought about things and got annoyed, all the numbers, that small crease ran from the top of her nose to her forehead.
He thought of all this often, imagining it, especially when he was alone and eating, and he ate a lot and was usually alone. Always, actually. He was eating a whole salami. Now he put it aside; the pain was back in his left arm, starting in his chest, aching, getting stronger, so strong that his breath came short and he felt dizzy. He laid the salami carefully on the plate, alongside a thick pork cutlet in aspic and three slices of bread and butter. He walked around the kitchen, massaging his left arm and then his chest, went to the door, saw the dark, long hallway ahead of him, the white doors, bedroom, living room, and went back to the table. He sat down, his belly brushing against the table, and the plate and the teapot and the glass gave a slight rattle. He’d hardly drunk any coffee since the stabbing and aching in his left arm and chest had started to come more and more often. He’d been meaning to go to the doctor for weeks, but he barely left the house now.
The last time he’d been out for a walk, a couple of days ago, he’d stopped at that garden gate. It was a small block of flats but it was a couple of years now since she’d lived there. She was nearly twenty-one now; it would be her birthday in twelve days. He’d leaned on the garden gate, and although it was quite cool – the entire summer had been cool and rainy – he’d broken out in a sweat. She had tied up her brown hair in two little bunches. A brightly coloured party dress. Balloons in the trees. Her parents had been sitting at a table, and he stood at the garden gate, stood there a good while and hoped they might invite him in for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. But they hadn’t even said hello, even though they’d seen him
. He waved at her again, and she smiled, then turned around and ran to her friends, who looked over at him and whispered and laughed. He turned away and left. The bag with the teddy in it knocked against his leg as he walked. The teddy was holding a calculator in both hands. The teddy had been quite expensive; the calculator was a new model. The calculator teddy was wearing a mortarboard and large spectacles. Its shirt was decorated with numbers; it didn’t have any trousers. It had small plastic rods on its hands where you could push the calculator in and out again. He’d given her the teddy later, after class. ‘Could you stay behind for a minute please,’ he’d said to her, ‘I want to have a word with you about the last test.’ She hadn’t done particularly well in the last test, even though she’d often stayed behind after class for extra tuition. There were four in the group: three boys and her. Sometimes they’d done more practice on their own after that, once the others had gone, twenty or thirty minutes, or longer. She was really good at German and most other subjects, among the best in the class, but maths … And he did everything he could for her, to help her understand numbers and learn to like them. He loved numbers.
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