by Emlyn Rees
I struggle to my feet and flex my legs for a few seconds, forcing the cramp from them. I look up: the sky’s now clear. The black clouds, it seems, have taken refuge inside my head.
I turn and give the buzzer another go. Yet again, Amy ignores it. I glance across the road. Nothing’s changed. The old guy’s still there, as are the road cones and the road workers’ tools. A nostalgic smile spreads across my face as I remember the summer holiday I spent with a road gang when I was a student. We were laying cable for TV, same as has been going on here, digging up the road, sealing the cables in, then painting the lines back on the tarmac once it had set. My smile spreads wider as an idea lands slap bang in the middle of my mind.
‘Okay, Amy,’ I shout into the buzzer, ‘you want to play rough? Watch this.’
I march across the road. The old guy, noticing that a fellow slumberer has turned active, puts down his bottle and salutes me. I salute him back, because, yes, this is a male thing. This is something men the world over will be able to relate to. I am, indeed, about to make a grand statement. It’ll be romantic. It’ll be cool. It’ll be the kind of gesture other men will wish they’d had the balls to make.
It doesn’t take long to break the lock off the line-painting machine that’s sitting at the side of the road. A couple of deftly aimed whacks with the crowbar I find in the workers’ tent is enough. Then, freedom! The carriage is mine. I flip the handle down and walk it a couple of paces forward. Sure enough, it’s loaded: a white line, two feet long, trails on the road surface in my wake. I flip the handle off and walk the roller to the middle of the street. Then I begin the real work: the writing of the message I want Amy to read next time she looks out of her window. Various options run through my mind:
a) Amy 4 Jack (too teen)
b) I love you (too obvious)
c) Take me back (too cheesy)
Instead, I settle for a classic – the kind of line that would leave even Cyrano de Bergerac lost for words. I run my roller along the street, spelling it out. It’s tricky work, of course. This machine’s designed for straight lines. I have to shuffle it round for each stroke of each new letter. But this is a labour of love. I know no fatigue. And, there, twenty minutes after I start, the message is complete. And just in time. The paint runs dry on the last stroke of the last letter. But, hey, so what? It’s readable, at least. And who could ask for more?
I return the roller whence it came. Then I cross the road to Amy’s side and take in the enormity of what I’ve done. It looks good. It looks great. Even if I say it myself, it looks like art. And I’m not the only one who’s impressed. The old guy is, too. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s deserting his bench for the first time today. He takes a couple of steps forward and slowly moves his head from left to right, checking out my handiwork. Then he’s heading for me. Like a bee to a flower. He sees the beauty of what I’ve done. He wants to check it out. Not wanting to seem ostentatious, I stand still and allow an impassive look to settle on my face. My public awaits.
‘All right, mate,’ he says, reaching out his hand. ‘The name’s Clifford.’
‘Hello, Clifford.’ I take his hand and shake it. ‘So what do you think?’
Clifford stares at the road for a moment, speechless. And I can sympathise; coming to terms with a gesture of this ambition will never be an easy thing. He opens his mouth to speak and I allow myself a moment of pride. Just how, exactly, will he phrase it? How will he manage to put into words the emotional upheaval he’s undergone as a result of reading my few and simple words?
Like this: ‘You working for the Electricity Board, then, son?’
I stare at him. Then I stare at the half-drunk bottle of Thunderbird in his hand. Then I stare at him again. Finally, I smile, making out that I share his sense of perspective on the world – which I genuinely doubt I do. ‘Electricity Board?’ I echo. ‘No, Clifford, I don’t.’
He looks me up and down, before making another guess: ‘Gas, then?’
‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
‘What you’ve written there, son,’ he goes on. ‘Sounds like an advert, doesn’t it?’ He takes a swig from his bottle. ‘Heat an’ that. If it’s not the electricity, then it’s got to be the gas, hasn’t it?’
‘Really,’ I say genially, because let’s face it, at times like this, it’s no real skin off your back just to humour someone.
‘S’right, son. Quite catchy, really,’ he reflects, before nodding his head at his bench. ‘Fair’s fair,’ he adds. ‘If I had electric central heating an’ I read an advert like that, I’d switch to the gas, no problem.’
There comes a point, though. And the point is now. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I ask him.
He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘Read it,’ he says, pointing down at the street. ‘Right there.’
I follow Clifford’s hand and do as he suggests. ‘Still not quite with you,’ I conclude.
Clifford shakes his head. ‘It’s got to be an advert, hasn’t it?’ he says. ‘Otherwise, it just don’t make sense.’
Up until this moment, I’ve been labouring under the assumption that Clifford has a reading disability. But the more I look at the letters I’ve written on the road, the more I realise he doesn’t. Quite the opposite. It’s not Clifford who has a reading disability, it’s me. Or, rather, a writing disability. Because when I look at what I’ve written, this is what I see:
Not, MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU. Not the grand gesture I intended. Not anything that even makes sense. My first reaction is to laugh. No way. There’s no way I could misspell a word like that, just go leaving a whole letter out. My second reaction, however, is to gag. Because Clifford’s right – what I’ve written does look like an advert for a power company. I rush to the offending word and scuff my foot across it; nothing. I try again; not so much as a blemish on its smooth, white perfection. I drop to my hands and feet and try rubbing with my hand; still no result. And the roller’s out of paint. I can’t even cross it out.
I stand stock still for a whole minute, trying to come to terms with the monumental cock-up I’ve just perpetrated. Then I turn to Clifford and ask, ‘All right with you if I have a swig?’ and, before he has a chance to reply, I grab the bottle of Thunderbird from his hand and drink it dry.
Sign Off
Monday goes by in a blur of mental and physical exhaustion brought on by the weekend’s events. My time’s spent mostly in bed, either asleep, or lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, listening to CDs. I don’t shave. I don’t wash. I don’t change my clothes. I try not to think about anything. Instead, I quietly rot and, short of urinating in my pants, successfully leave all vestiges of civilisation behind. With Matt away on business, my contact with the outside world is zero. And I don’t care. All I want is for the days to pass, to form a buffer between me and Amy, because that’s the only way the pain I feel is going to get any easier to bear.
Tuesday afternoon and my stomach forces me to surface from this advanced state of nihilism. I reach for the phone and call up a pizza. As I chew my way through it, it occurs to me that perhaps I’m going about this all wrong. After all, moping isn’t going to get me anywhere. And just because the road painting outside Amy’s flat turned into a débâcle, it doesn’t mean that any other plan I might come up with will come similarly unstuck. I was close, for God’s sake. Damned close. Just one letter out. That’s what I’ve got to remember. Not how much of a failure I am, but how near I was to success. All I need is another plan. A new angle. I collect a bottle of vodka and return to my room to give this further consideration.
Tuesday evening arrives and I’m still in my bedroom – or my creative hive, as it’s now known. I’ve resolved on a plan. It’s so simple that I can’t believe I didn’t hit on it sooner. Especially with it staring me in the face all along.
My guitar.
There it was, up against my wardrobe, untouched since the five lessons I took last summer. A song. Of course. To serenade her with. What
better way to make her sit up and see how much I care? And it’s going well. Far better than I would have dared to imagine. The lyrics were slow in coming at first, but soon they took on a life of their own. And the tune’s great, too – especially considering I only know three chords. Everything feels perfect. The joss sticks are burning. I’ve got Elvis crooning at me from the stereo for inspiration. And the finishing touch: a bandanna round my head à la Springsteen.
By eleven, I’m ready to give it its first outing. I put my half-finished vodka bottle out of harm’s way on the floor, then sling the guitar round my neck and announce from the doorway, ‘And now, coming at you live from the Hollywood Bowl, we’re proud to present the one, the only, Jaaaaa-ckieee Rossiter.’
I stride across the room and take centre stage in the middle of the bed. ‘This is a little number,’ I say, giving it my best Southern drawl, ‘I wrote about a little lady I know. A little lady called Amy. A little lady I love very much.’ I wipe my hand across my brow. ‘It’s called, "Don’t Reckon I Can Take It No More".’
I strum the first few chords, then let rip:
Don’t reckon I can take it no more.
My life, girl, without you’s a bore.
I miss you so bad,
And feel such a cad,
My heart’s just dropped straight thru’ the floor.
Then on with the chorus, designed to be sung by a backing trio of hip-swinging cowgirls:
Don’t reckon he can take it no more,
Girl, since you walked out his door.
Please won’t you come back
To your good man Jack?
Without you his life’s just a chore.
And on to verse two. I’m really getting into this now.
Don’t reckon I can take it no more.
I’m drifting without sight of shore.
Oh, please rescue me
From this dark, cruel sea.
This lost soul, you mustn’t ignore.
But I don’t get as far as the second chorus. Instead, I hear:
‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
I look up and see Matt standing in the doorway, a look of utter astonishment on his face.
‘Singing,’ I reply. ‘What does it look like?’
He considers this for a moment, then says, ‘Like somebody in real danger of being institutionalised.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion.’
He looks slowly round the room. ‘I take it from this display that she hasn’t taken you back.’
‘Correct.’
‘Then face facts, Jack: she isn’t going to.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s over. Accept it.’
‘Nothing’s over.’
‘It is tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he informs me. ‘This shit stops tomorrow. No more crap dirges. No more self-hatred.’ He glances down at the vodka bottle, before looking back at me with disdain. ‘No more drinking yourself into a stupor. No more, do you understand?’ I say nothing. ‘You’d better believe me, my brother,’ he warns, ‘because that’s the way it’s going to be.’
And with that, he walks out and slams the door behind him. I stare at it for a few seconds, before strumming my guitar defiantly and picking up where I left off.
I don’t know what time I crash, but I wake to a stinging hangover and the sound of Matt’s voice: ‘Radiohead … Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds … Portishead … Bob Dylan … Nick Drake … Do I see the Smurfs? No, I don’t. Do I see the St George Junior Church Choir Christmas Carol Compilation? No, I don’t see that, either.’ I briefly open one eye and see that the light’s on. Matt’s crouched down on the floor, examining the CDs I’ve been playing over the past few days. ‘What we do have, however,’ he concludes, ‘are all the signs of a self-pity binge.’ He claps his hands loudly. ‘Well, this is where it ends. Now get up.’
Bright sunlight fills the room and I open my eyes to see Matt standing by the window. I lift my head from the mattress and look at Fat Dog. It’s Wednesday morning, 8 a.m. I groan and bury my head beneath the duvet.
‘I mean it,’ Matt continues, grabbing the duvet and ripping it off me. ‘It’s like I told you last night: this shit stops here.’
It’s only now that I react. I grab the retreating corner of the duvet and try heaving it back. But Matt wins hands down. ‘Fuck off,’ I tell him, pushing my face into the pillow.
‘Charming.’ There’s silence for a moment, then Matt says, ‘There are two ways we can do this: easy, or hard. You can either get up of your own accord, or I’m going to force you to get up.’ He waits for a response, but I don’t give him one. ‘Fine,’ he finally says, ‘we’ll do it the hard way.’
I listen to him walking out of the room and a vague sense of unease creeps up on me. I know what Matt’s like when he’s made his mind up to do something. He does it and he does it efficiently. But then I relax. Short of holding a gun to my head, there’s bugger all he can do to make me move. And Matt wouldn’t do that. He’s a lawyer. He’s got too much to lose. Forget about it. He’s bluffing. Then I remember the scar on my eyebrow from when he shot me with the air pistol when we were kids. But it’s not something I have much time to dwell on.
The water, when it lands, is not only freezing, but plentiful. I’d scream, if it wasn’t for the fact that the shock of it hitting my body had already blasted the air from my lungs.
‘You piece of shit,’ I snarl, turning on him. ‘I’m drenched.’
‘A not altogether unexpected condition,’ I Matt observes, idly swinging the now empty plastic bucket in his hand.
I sit up, water trickling from my hair down my face. The T-shirt and jeans which I’ve failed to remove since Sunday are soaked through.
‘I suppose you think that’s funny?’ I glare at him.
‘Coffee,’ he says, nodding at the bedside table.
Reluctantly, I reach out and take a swig. ‘There,’ I say. ‘Happy now?’
‘It’s not my happiness that’s the issue here,’ he points out. He watches in silence as I finish the coffee. ‘Now stand up,’ he orders.
‘What?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Just do it, Jack. I haven’t got all day. I’ve got to be in the office in an hour.’
Resigned to the fact that he isn’t going to stop until he gets what he wants, I get to my feet.
‘Look at the state of you,’ he says.
I catch my reflection in the mirror behind him. I have to admit, it’s not a pretty sight. The neck of Matt’s FCUK T-shirt is grey with grime. My fingernails are black, like I’ve been digging through earth with my bare hands. And what I can only assume is a piece of pepperoni is cemented to my forehead. But it’s my eyes that really freak me out. They look like some kid’s taken a red pen and scribbled all over their whites. Not that any kid with half a brain would dare come near me looking like this. They’d be calling the police, letting them know a crazed killer was at large.
‘You’re a disgrace,’ Matt announces, continuing to look me up and down in disgust. ‘An embarrassment.’ He fixes me with a stare. ‘I’m ashamed to be living under the same roof as you. What have you got to say for yourself?’
I look down at my feet and mumble, ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘so I’m not looking my best at the moment.’
‘Not looking your best? You’re not even looking your worst. You’re looking like something your worst would turn its nose up at.’
‘Okay,’ I snap. ‘I’m a total bloody mess.’
‘Good,’ he says, sounding pleased. ‘Recognising that you have a problem is the first step towards recovery. Now, repeat after me. My name is Jack Rossiter.’
‘What are you—’ I begin to say, but the warning look he shoots me brings the bucket of water splashing back into my mind. I remind myself that this man is an animal, capable of anything. ‘My name is Jack Rossiter,’ I repeat, as instructed, making sure to sound as bored as I possibly can.
This he ignores. ‘I am a man,’ h
e goes on.
I do the robot voice again. ‘I am a man.’
‘I’m a strong and independent man,’ he says.
‘I’m a strong and independent man.’
‘I don’t need a woman to define me.’
‘I don’t need a woman to define me.’
‘I can be happy on my own.’
‘I can be happy on my own.’
‘Not only am I a man, but I’m also a very dirty man.’
I find myself smiling for the first time in days. ‘Not only am I a man, but I’m also a very dirty man,’ I manage to repeat.
‘And I need a good wash.’
‘And I need a good wash.’
‘And a change of underwear.’
‘And a change of underwear.’
‘Because I smell.’
This last line I don’t manage to complete, because I’m too busy laughing. He produces a bar of soap from his pocket and slaps it into my hand. Then he steers me to the door and points down the corridor towards the bathroom.
Later, as I’m drying myself off, he pokes his head round the bathroom door. ‘I’ll be back around six,’ he informs me. ‘And if I catch you pulling any of that Bastard-Child-of-Bon-Jovi shit like last night, I’ll ram that guitar up your arse.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘The ghost of Hendrix will walk no more.’
He nods. ‘Oh, yeah. One other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Chloe rang last night. She’s expecting you for dinner at eight.’ He winks at me. ‘Part of your rehabilitation programme, so don’t be late.’
The rest of the morning’s spent tidying up my room, the afternoon immersed in the task of completing Study in Yellow. So therapeutic was my session with Matt this morning that I successfully resist the urge to paint it black. But the therapy’s not complete. Thoughts of McCullen keep flashing through my mind. It’s probably just being here in the studio that does it. I keep catching her portrait staring at me from the corner of the room. Eventually, I decide enough’s enough and I cross the room and pick it up. I open the French windows and walk into the garden.