Nature and Necessity

by Tariq Goddard

  ‘I think he’s lost it,’ said Nigel to Ade, tapping his head, ‘wellgone.’

  ‘Always the way with chippy ones, they can’t handle their ale.’ ‘You better not be talking about me,’ Jazzy grunted from the side of his mouth, and with one last effort, propelled himself off the chair and onto the floor with a crash.

  No one helped him to his feet. Instead he lay there and heard Ade reply to the leader of a group of noisy students, standing on his stool and shouting at them, ‘Death-machine-infest-mycorpse-to-be! Justin! Thought I recognised you, how the devil are you, you old bastard! And more importantly, how did you get on with band recruitment?’

  ‘Crap! Couldn’t find anyone here who could play drums or bass! Just some old sod with a mouth organ! How about you?’

  ‘Well, I thought I had a vocalist, but look at the state of this!’

  Jazzy heard a squall of merciless laughter that had everything do with him circle overhead, and, taking care not to be drawn in, which was not hard, since as far as the pack was concerned he was over, he groped slowly along the floor, until in one giant roll, he was picking himself up off the pier, bent over the rails, and vomiting over the bubbling surf below.

  Rising from beneath it all, as alone in her infinite condemnation of him as if she were the only person God created, was Petula. Outside her he was nothing, and alone also nothing. The breaking waves were provocative, a taunt that suicide was an option he had never examined closely enough, Evita having robbed even that of its seriousness. Like his sister, who made an attempt on her expensively maintained life every few months at The Priory, Jazzy could not recall a time when it was worth getting off the slippery slope because he could not remember a day when he was not already sliding. What could be more useless than a single achievement he could be proud of in the face of so much slippage?

  Through the moth holes in his trench-coat, and the creaky armour of inebriation, Jazzy shivered. Rolling barrages of wind had drilled through both, each gust carrying handfuls of cloudy vapour that splattered across his numb face like so many slaps. Thoughtfully he turned his back to the sea and lifted his collar up, as if there was someone within him he still desired to protect, and with his head down and homing impulse locked in, Jazzy made his way back towards his parking place without further delay. The police found him on the hard shoulder some hours later, the remains of a baby fawn splattered over the front of his van, the driver slumped in the back under some wet newspapers asleep, his trousers pulled down to his knees.

  *

  Back at his place at the bar in Saint Elmo’s Fire, Noah had watched Jazzy crawl out with hesitant interest. He never had understood that boy, any more than he grasped why some people wished to make easy things difficult, or how some could suffer so much while others glided through life untouched. Acceptance and adaption were two qualities Jazzy had recoiled before; to deny what was, and to fail to embrace destiny’s flow so that he was forever facing the wrong way and blocking the flow, was all Noah could remember about watching this strange lad ‘grow up’. How could people be so dim? Noah disliked ungenerous judgements and quickly amended this one, hoping that Jazzy would find the same understanding in life as he would one day in heaven, should he ever get to grips with either.

  ‘You know him?’ asked the old man pointing in the direction of Jazzy’s flight. ‘A head case that boy. A friend of yours, maybe?’

  ‘No,’ replied Noah, ‘I’ve never quite attained the virtue of friendship.’

  ‘That, that’s shrewd that is!’ the old man seemed pleased with his answer. Outside the police had arrived and the bartender was pointing them in Nigel and Ade’s direction.

  Noah had savoured his tea at the Nest, confident that Petula would not show her face, correctly guessing that they both had far too much to lose by anything as juvenile as taking anger seriously. He had waited there far longer than he intended, taking in the surprisingly fruity sights of an averagely prosperous tearoom, and having tipped the waitress heavily, was ready to celebrate with something stronger than Earl Grey. He was reasonably sure that Petula would believe his Philippines yarn, at least for as long as it mattered; the invention of an alibi far easier than having to spell matters out in a way that was guaranteed to inspire everlasting conflict.

  Noah finished the gin and tonic and adjusted his cravat, noting that in spite of being dressed for a regatta he had attracted very little attention in a place where his fellow drinkers looked to be one change of clothes short of penury. Not attracting attention was what he liked; or at least only the discriminating kind, as he sought no life beyond his own for insight, and was unable to imagine any cares past those that came automatically to him, safe in the scepticism that if life had not already existed, he would not have believed it possible. It was time to turn to the petite waitress who had followed him over from the Nest, and leaning into her to let her know he knew she had been there all along, he asked what she planned to do for dinner, as he knew a very nice place round the corner that served oysters.

  *

  The wheel had come full circle, the arrow turned target, thought Petula, trying to avoid looking at Jeremy who was not trying to avoid looking at her and, in fact, was doing his best to not look anywhere else. Matters were barely improved by their being the only two people in the kitchen, Regan banging about noisily upstairs, slamming drawers, flushing lavatories and stamping on loose floorboards, in what sounded like a tribute to the sonic-effects division of the Radiophonic Workshop.

  God, it was a mistake to want anything too much! Petula scolded herself for her impetuousness, pulling out the salmon from the fridge, and stalling for a way of prolonging the simple operation of turning about and placing it on the table. Elaborately she paused to sniff its pink midriff, wasting a second or two before scowling at its clipped tail. It was hard to credit the time when she would have cherished the memory of a man’s member over the real thing, or stimulating gossip before actual stimulation. That was how she had got into this mess, by neglecting her elemental impulses and paying the price when they had taken her by surprise, all in the form of the grinning messenger camped before her. The evidence was all about the place. Parts of The Heights had grown to resemble a North London recording studio; minimal slats and blinds preferred to roaring fires, salad replacing blood-red roasts, and a treadmill in the hall where a long walk, interrupted by a hump over a fallen tree trunk, would have sufficed in the past. Arid sexlessness did not suit her; there had been too much dark and tasteful inertia and not enough life. No wonder Noah had wanted out. Putting down the salmon, Petula allowed her eyes to meet Jeremy’s, and fighting back a fear that rose through her entrails like fire, she watched him lick a finger and wink cheekily. With a bit of rational panache, Petula puckered her lips and nodded back, acknowledging him without, she calculated, encouraging him to say or do anything stupid. Jeremy looked appeased, and possibly a little disappointed by only this quasi-affirmation of their earlier intimacy, sinking back in his chair and giving Petula a glimpse of the sombre self-pity she would have to prevent him falling into, if their secret was to be spared an airing. Steadily she leant forward and asked, as dispassionately as being a few inches away from his face would allow, if he would like some wine with his meal. Jeremy shot a glance at her as if to suggest that this was not good enough, the tone falling far short of what he expected, and without answering, pushed his glass forward. Petula poured, affecting not to notice any brewing hostility. Her guest looked like he was waiting for someone who was never coming back, though fortunately he himself did not know this yet, still banking on an eventual return.

  Abruptly kicking the kitchen door to one side Regan marched in, asking with loud and strained disinterest, ‘Didn’t you say that you bought a pair of new kittens? Where are they then?’

  ‘I gave them away, they were too wild. I should never have got them, I’ve never been any good with animals.’

  ‘Yes, you prefer things, don’t you?’

  ‘Some things.’
/>   Petula could tell at once Regan suspected nothing, reality too outrageously complicated and unimaginable for her to keep up with by means of ordinary calculation, her daughter’s battle the same one she had been fighting that afternoon, prior to their competing armies’ realignment. Normally she would have found Regan’s tone intolerable, though normally Regan would never have adopted it, and in light of the tone she would have used had she known the truth about Petula and Jeremy, it seemed a small and temporary price to pay for the maintenance of a deeper kind of order. There was also, not that Petula would have consciously credited it, the outside possibility of a lingering guilt slopping over the sides of the lid held firmly over her conscience. She could not tell whether she had actually done anything wrong or not, her moral code weighed towards her never being wrong, simply because she was who she was and winning was the thing, her survival requiring no less. Nonetheless, her instincts were mildly reproachful in this instance. Even if she had not sinned, she had committed a handful of acts that might upset someone she loved, were they to learn about them. That was as near to self-admonition as Petula dared, and cared, to go.

  ‘I’ve actually gone off the idea of cats. They’re more like foxes and bats than real pets. Ever since Goblino died I’ve never really taken to another.’

  ‘If you couldn’t deal with them Mummy, you really shouldn’t have got them, the kittens.’

  ‘I didn’t know they’d claw everything in sight.’

  ‘Why not? Didn’t our old kittens always do that?’

  ‘Do you know, I can’t really remember. I never took much notice of them before, but now that I’ll be alone in this place again… I might actually want some furry company.’

  ‘That might not be the case for much longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, only, I’m sure people will still visit like they always do. That you won’t be alone for long. Definitely not long enough for pets.’

  Jeremy coughed loudly and pushed his glass forward towards Petula, who immediately filled it to the brim. It was an old rule of thumb of hers that careful and selectively applied wickedness often went undetected and unpunished, but the strain that gave into its own appetites was always destined to end up in court condemned. Which made it all the more important that if she were cunning, she should be diabolically so, treachery accepting no half measures. It all hinged on whether she could get through dinner without allowing Jeremy to open his mouth or give the game up in some other way, before finding a means of persuading him to leave without arousing suspicion. With that accomplished she was safe and could deny everything if ever he later decided to tell-tale – distance and the lapse of time having long rendered his story unbelievable. But how to get through the next couple of hours, which already promised to be excruciating beyond belief, without giving herself away? Hell would be something like this, an eternity in which to explain one’s perversions to those one most wanted to keep them from. The conversation would have to move off cats and onto matters more interesting sharpish, or else the sheer pain of having to listen to more mealy mouthwash might force him to squeal.

  ‘Fish?’ queried Regan with forced tartness, rolling her eyes at the salmon, ‘I doubt that will be enough to fill Jeremy up. He eats like a horse at college. Didn’t I warn you? I thought you knew?’

  Jeremy grunted in a way that appeared to neither agree nor disagree with the statement, the imbecilic smile that had so irritated Petula when she first entered having re-emerged in the hope that Regan’s bitchy solicitations would rouse her mother’s jealousy. Observing him from behind the bowl of lemons she was toying with removing from the table, Petula decided that her tête-à-tête with Jeremy carried most of the hallmarks of a masturbatory experience, rather than the meeting of souls she was scared it might have been. In its essentials it had almost been the perfect pornographic transaction; a virtual fuck that left nothing changed in her life, its tax a purely psychic one. And as with pornography, she had approached Jeremy in a hurry and with single-minded determination and left him in boredom, distraction and shame. Who knew, perhaps his ardour had also vanished with his climax, though if it had he was not showing it. On the contrary, it appeared as though it had grown scarily into ardour-plus, his eyes pressing against her like a row of bodies in a rush-hour train carriage. Which, of course, was the crucial way their union differed from the consumption of pornography: here the pictures and images could talk back and tell all.

  Not looking at Jeremy meant having to pretend to find the plate, the fish, or Regan interesting, and judging that the last of these might enable conversation to move on the most quickly, for Petula could not stand another second of silence, she said to her daughter, ‘I like your top, it’s quite, you know, punky. Not very you, actually.’

  ‘I’m sorry, how not me?’

  Petula could have stamped on her own toe. Had she reached an impasse where she was incapable of offering even a tactical compliment to her daughter without opening the gates of hell? The flimsy article in question was a cheap cheetah print of Evita’s that Regan had rediscovered and contrived to render faintly glamorous.

  ‘I just recall seeing it somewhere else before.’

  ‘I got it out of a box of Evita’s things.’

  ‘I thought I recognised it from someplace, near but far, if you know what I mean. We haven’t heard from her for a while, anyway.’

  ‘Yes Evita,’ Regan turned to Jeremy and added, faux-helpfully, ‘she’s a sister of mine we never talk about, mainly because she’s completely mad, though that’s not the only reason, she’s also, or was, I’m not sure, who can keep up, a drug addict, and a bisexual. Then she became a Christian Adventist or a Krishna or something like that for a while, and then got committed to a snooty loony bin full of rock stars who want a week out of their lives. Except she’s been there for ages, and despite loads of doctors listening to her problems she’s never actually got any better. Which makes you wonder if whatever they’re making my father pay for actually works. Anyway, the point is she won’t see any of us because she thinks we’re all evil; well me, Mum and my father, anyway. I don’t know what she thinks of my brother, though she believes the world has let her down so she can’t think too much of him either, as they at least used to be a proper brother and sister. Unlike me.’

  Jeremy, taking this history in his stride, pulled his fish apart, and with heavy and deliberate movements began to eat with his fingers. His general character was getting more determinable, and Petula was going from disliking it a bit, to hating it quite intensely. As if looking to complete the effect, Jeremy belched loudly, and wiped his hands on the tablecloth with feral relish. A vapour trail of swiftly digested fish oozed across the table and Petula held her hand over her nose. What on earth, she wondered, could she say to this boy on this, or any other subject? The only natural way she could be in his company was as a lover, anything else jarred, offering either too little or too much. As for Regan, she appeared to be enjoying Jeremy’s table manners, incorrectly intuiting that they were directed, in the main, against her mother’s snobbery, and not at them both as living entities of all he had suddenly decided he most loathed.

  ‘Yes, a good man, a nice boyfriend, might have helped sort her out. She never had one of those,’ Petula offered uneasily, not sure which port of greater safety she could steer the conversation towards, ‘reality could never support some of the wilder assertions she made about it, boys tended to find her a bit too intense…’ Petula faded out and abandoned ship, staring at her raised index finger as a last resort.

  ‘Why was that, do you think? What was her problem? She was good-looking, guys liked her, they were round here all the time when I was growing up. Why was she always so angry with them?’ Regan asked, with an insistence her mother knew no good could come of.

  Looking to make light of the inquiry, Petula replied, a little too violently, ‘What’s got into you darling? You know we don’t like to rake over the sordid and silly affairs of Laurel and Ha
rdy! There’s nothing interesting to say about either of your siblings that they haven’t already said, far too many times, about themselves.’

  ‘You say so, but I hardly know the first thing about them, and I never really got what all their ranting was about. It was just stuff between you and them. But they’re my family too after all, aren’t they? My brother lives just halfway down that track and I hardly know who he is now, never see him, and can’t remember when we last spoke or about what. And as far as I know, we haven’t even fallen out. It’s just kind of naturally-unnaturally happened!’

  ‘Half-brother, he’s your half-brother.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop saying that, I’m tired of that distinction. It isn’t natural, it’s like you deliberately want to keep us apart.’

  ‘You’d have every reason to be grateful for “that distinction” if you knew half as much as I do.’

  ‘But I don’t, do I? That’s the point, why else would I be asking you questions?’

  Petula twisted in her seat, the first clods of lava that forewarned an eruption bubbling up. ‘You can’t really mean to tell me that you care about a woman who hasn’t the good grace to send us so much as a postcard, after all this family’s done for her, that you actually care about what this ingrate’s “love life” was as a teenager? Is that what you’re really asking me? I was making conversation, I didn’t seriously expect to be hauled over the coals with this nonsense.’

  ‘It’s time I knew something about her. We grew up in the same house but could have been on different planets for all we had to do with each other. I don’t know whether you didn’t want us to mix in case she influenced me or what, but it would have been nice to have been given the choice.’

  ‘Phooey! You saw all there was to see! A highly strung spoilt brat who, in the absence of any direction in life, sought to embarrass the only person ready to show her any kindness. Myself! Who but a psychiatrist could be interested in someone like that? And as far as keeping you apart is concerned, I didn’t have to. Evita has only ever been interested in herself. The reason I may have shielded you from her influence was because she was so jealous that she’d be liable to harm you. Do you know, I once stopped her from pouring a cup of tea over your head as a baby! I had to keep you apart for your own bloody safety! She’d have killed you!’