“You’re going tonight, then?” I asked.
“I am.” Her voice had been heavy. I hadn’t asked where Tanned was. She leant over, neck resting on my shoulder. “Wow, Blondee, that’s wonderful. I didn’t know you could sew anything.”
“I can’t, but as long as it stays on for tonight.”
It was Ketamine who had taught me to sew after she had watched Rings at work. It had been a long time since I had seen either Ketamine or the jagged shards of her recipes. She had slipped into memory like a dream.
“You’ll look great,” she’d said.
We’d left for the casino together.
I lost an apple, one of two.
“I said I wanted both of you, Blondee. I did. I wanted you. I’d heard the rumours, I heard them from Ketamine herself—you loved more than one person. It’s possible for you. What if it’s possible for me? That’s what I told him.”
And with her words falling softly into my ear the room fell silent and mouths pressed words through booze-dripped lips and cups chinked and dice rumbled but all inaudible.
There were only her words, and her skin—and her leg pressing into mine.
I didn’t tell her that nothing was deliberate, that I wasn’t even sure how I’d felt. I didn’t tell her because I rarely told anyone anything—there had always been other people to do that for me.
My last apple vanished into one of the larger piles. I dropped my cards. The distraction was gone. I turned to face her, to see her staring at me.
“He left. He called me all sorts of things. I hate him.” She looked thoughtful. “I think it’s really sad that you can hate more than one person but not love more than one person.”
I turned the words over in my mind as her lips met mine, full and thick and heavy. Her hands grasped at my arms as she pressed her body into me, her tongue further into my mouth. I ran my hand over her back, unsure of what to do.
Sound returned to the room
a flurry of gasps
and whispers
and a cheer.
I pulled my lips from hers, twenty faces watching us, some surprised and shocked, some looking to others to see what the fuss was all about. Somewhere I heard a voice, ‘They broke up this afternoon,’ and there were more grunts and hushes which fizzled all about us.
“If you want another drink, just give me your cup,” Jay called to all from somewhere unseen.
And her words echoed through my head as she took my hand and led me from the moist grasp of the casino-tent. Hand-in-hand we wandered to my triangle home, where I lit a small candle and she watched me, until she spoke, as softly as she had amongst the clatter of dice and cards and drinks and gossip.
“He said you only love one person. Just one at a time. It’s not true, Blondee, it’s not true, I swear. I love you, Blondee—I have for ages. And I love—or loved—I love Tanned.” Her words were soft but they were quick, and brushed over me like shreds of velvet. “It doesn’t matter what it says in the book. We don’t know that’s right, he doesn’t know that’s right—perhaps some people do love two, or even three people, on the outside. He knew how I felt about you. He said that I should stay away from you and it would go away. That it was a crush and it would go away. But it didn’t, over all this time it just never went. And I wanted to see you but he said I shouldn’t.”
She leant forward and kissed me again. I tried to untangle her words, to make sense of them as they still scattered about the air. She pulled back and continued.
“He told me to leave. He just told me to leave.”
And I reached over and pulled her to me. Her head rested on my breast and I felt her. It was more than despair, it was a desperate mix of despair and desire that had built in her and flowed into me. She kissed me again, and this time there was no interruption, just a phrase which stuck to my mind:
You love one person.
And it was so early on in the book that it hardly mattered now.
THE NIGHT AT THE CASINO WAS OVER. Daylight clawed through the window. Our corner was vacant, a mass of bodies sleeping away the drink and dice and the dizzying air. It was cold and I was frozen, waiting for them to wake up and begin talking, tongues lashing tales of Burberry and Blondee, who had pressed their lips together and ran away, away into the emptiness of the night. The news would thaw and feed drip-drip-drip, until it built and welled, it would flood across our corner and over into the rest of the world, flowing over Tanned, flowing over Frederick. What explanation did I have? She loved me, and she loved Tanned, and doing so she had broken the rules of the world. There she lay, sleeping next to me. Grief and pleasure both infected her dreams and both made me lie back down and hold her.
The world would have to wait.
We were both naked, our skin smooth against rough blankets. Her breath was light and even, lightly stale, her arm slung beneath my neck. I ran my fingertips over her, from her face down the dark sweep of her neck, down further, down over her breasts, lightly over the soft circle of nipple, from there to her stomach, over the furry trail from her stomach to her tangle of pubic hair, through its coarseness, over the warmth of her—she mumbled and moved, turning over onto her front, pulling her arm free. I ran my fingers over the mount of her buttocks, down the back of her thigh, the light fuzz of her calf, to her ankle.
Did I think? I must have thought. I must have thought of her, not only of her skin but her heartbreak, her pain, its intermingling with her desire for me. Love. Did she feel love—or hard, driving, exhaustible lust? She had abandoned Tanned for me, however unwillingly. I wouldn’t want her to regret that.
And how did I feel about her? She had always been an accessory to Tanned, an extra, an adornment—one which needed the other to function. But I wanted her. My body wanted her.
I don’t believe I really thought of Tanned. At that moment he will have been intangible, a theory—unreal in the presence of Burberry’s bare skin.
I will have thought of Frederick. If Frederick was unhappy that would be a problem—I needed his soft skin and simple thoughts. To hurt or anger him, to turn warm embraces cold—that would be too painful.
In truth, however, I don’t really remember if I thought at all. I simply remember the dream of her, in the dusky light filtered through the curtains.
She slept, so I slept.
The tring of notes bounced about my hut. The little music player was on, knocking me awake.
“Blondee.” Burberry was smiling. I sat up.
“You were asleep,” she explained. “I still have some rations left—would you like some?”
We ate together.
We talked quickly.
She would move in, as was the way—she would move in before the day ended. I agreed: I was glad of someone to share the space. Now and then she would heavy-sigh for Tanned, she would light-sigh for me and I enjoyed her, savouring every taste and smell and sigh. Suddenly she had appeared, right there in my hut, as though she had always been there. I had let her speak, telling me of her now-ex, of how they had fought and he was gone, to another part of our corner. She asked me about Ketamine, how I could bear her leaving, and the thought of never touching her again. I found Ketamine’s shirt crumple-balled beneath the bed and showed it to her. She drifted back into talk of Tanned and then on to how much she liked the triangle-hut.
Eventually I had to take my turn, to tell her about Frederick. I told her quickly, tripping over my own words.
“Oh. I didn’t realise.” She fixed her eyes on me.
“Well, we’re not lovers, not really, we just ...” I let my voice drift away. There wasn’t any way of finishing the sentence. What should I tell her? That he would come to my hut and I would draw him to me—enjoying him as I had enjoyed her—that there was no sex? I did my best. That was all I could expect from myself.
For a moment she drifted too, lost in thought, before reaching a resolution.
“Well, you should still see him. I meant what I said last night.”
“I suppose so,” I
replied, but her voice was firm: there wasn’t any arguing with that, had I even wanted to. I thought of Ketamine and saw her body with Burberry’s head—then one half of Tie and the other of Frederick. Perhaps they had all been lovers, sex or no.
As Burberry went to gather her things I made my way to the courtyard. Somehow chunks of old pipes had snaked their way over the patches of grass and I hopped over each one, glad to keep my mind free. The pipes were thick and orange with rust, as though they had scattered from the large tent which edged into sight, itself sleeping away the day, a large orange tongue idly drifting back and forth.
The courtyard was empty. I knew where to find Frederick.
I made my way to the least-corner, walking behind bushes and slopes and keeping myself from sight. I passed right by Frederick’s hut—he wouldn’t be there. I headed for the very corner: to the giant lake which no-one ever saw.
The stench of chlorine hit me before the vision of the pool. I staggered through a maze of shrubbery and trees, pushing aside each one, each branch bringing doubt, each bramble scratching new fears: was this it? Was telling the truth an act of ending? It had been for Burberry. The truth had torn her and Tanned apart. Torn them apart and slung each piece into opposite directions. She had landed in my triangle, but where was he? If the truth did the same to me and Frederick, where would I land? And him? I ducked under an arm of bark, breathing heavy, the loss of Frederick beating down on me: warm touches frozen cold.
I stepped free of the leaves and faced the pool. He floated in the centre, his eyes trained on the sky, sky mirrored all around him, framed by the lake. All around the sun glittered, water blue and burning in the sun. His skin shone. My heart beat close to bursting: to watch him was delight, the tension unbearable.
I loved him.
I love him.
I love you Frederick, was what I wanted to shout, but instead I watched him in the water, gently floating toward me and away, bobbing without direction. He floated among the clouds, his skin shimmering.
He saw me—I was caught in the corner of his eye.
“Blondee,” he called, plunging his feet through the clouds, to the bottom of the sky, before wading toward me.
“Frederick.”
“You came all the way over here? You should have waited for me.”
“I wanted to see you, I wanted—”
I let my voice trail away. And what was I to tell him? That I had been seduced by someone wrapped in misery, that I had enjoyed it? That I had enjoyed her as I had enjoyed him: but that we had actually had sex? That I had tasted her?
Frederick kicked himself free of the water and spoke, wary, his eyes turned to the ground.
“You’re with Burberry?”
The world was small enough for him to hear. Gasps and moans sunk into curious ears, passed on and on by thoughtless tongues. Of course he had heard.
“Yes,” I replied. I was. What could come next? I waited for him to shout or leave. He didn’t do either. He rolled back his shoulders, shaking himself free of spare droplets, shaking words from his lips.
“I’d still—I would still really, really like to see you.”
He pulled me toward himself.
My thoughts flooded with the book. I wondered if anyone in all the world really read it, really believed in how things should be. I wondered if anyone in the world wanted to get back to where we had been before, before we were thrown here.
“I’d like that too,” is what I said back, my nose filled with his beetroot-scent.
And that was that, quick as anything. I had two lovers. By the time I returned it was dark, and my hut already bustled with Burberry’s things.
THE SKY WAS PURPLE AGAIN, but this time no-one said a word: the sky must just do that once-a-while. The open spaces of our world were crawling with people, all basking in the strange—but probably normal—light.
The courtyard was no exception. Busy strangers made their way to the tap, over and over again, filling bucket after bucket until it ran dry. Then they would come back every hour or every few minutes, to see if there was more water, an excuse to enjoy the purple day. Pilsner stood as solid guardian of the water tap, formally informing them of its status, a gruff ‘still dry’ to appease them. I sat opposite him.
“I wish they would leave this thing alone,” Pilsner uttered, his face to the sky.
He coughed and leant against the black metal of the faucet, ready to resume his guard and return to his two words. Still dry. Still dry. I decided to stop him: anything would be better than that unceasing repetition.
“How are things with you, Pilsner?”
“It’s best not to pry into others’ affairs, Blondee.”
Do not pry into others’ affairs.
Near ‘home is your castle’, which I read last time I was with the book. They were both on page 125.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “I didn’t mean to, well, to pry.”
The word just didn’t seem to fit. To pry. I thought of yanking Pilsner open with a crowbar, prying him open, prying ribs and secrets all over the flagstones beneath us.
“Well, if you need know, I’ve been well, thank you. Enjoying time by myself.”
Enjoying time by himself? He had never really enjoyed time by himself—it was why he had always near-lived right there in the courtyard.
Perhaps he had changed. The world hadn’t existed long enough to find that out. Perhaps people could change without as much as a warning. After all, we had all changed; we were different people before we were here.
“Good, it’s good to enjoy time by yourself,” was all I could summon as a reply. It was what we had had in common, our hatred of being alone, and now he had changed.
“Is it?” He shot the words forward, facing me, thinning hair clutching his scalp.
“I presume so.” I didn’t know what else he expected me to say.
It wasn’t the right answer—it couldn’t have been the right answer, as he went back to his guard. The only words which left his lips for the rest of the afternoon were ‘still dry’. Still dry, still dry, still dry.
He was unhappy, but he, so I believed, simply needed an excuse: anger was the easiest emotion to deal with—anger wouldn’t lead to your own death. He’d been angry, in fact, ever since he’d started asking about me and Frederick. Something was hidden. Secrets pried from a chest.
I had enough of the courtyard and headed back to the triangle hut I now shared with Burberry.
It was empty but the sweet smell of her body lingered. I made my way to the fire tap, a thin whistle of wind goading me on.
I saw my next-door neighbour, as ever dripping with perfume.
“You’re the one with that pretty dread-locked woman. I’m Fluffed.”
He lived right next to my triangle hut, right next to it, and this was the first time I had ever spoken to him. His own hut was made of broken bricks piled over rocks, all bound together with clay.
“Blondee,” I introduced myself.
“Right, your hair.”
“Why Fluffed?” It was an insultingly intimate question but it had been a strange day. I tried to subtly cover my nose, to shield it from the smell.
He laughed. “My hair too. Was big and fluffy. Even my chest hair was kinda fluffed. So we’re both named after hair. Nice.” He looked excitable, his eyes shimmering, his expression playful. I didn’t know what to say and the perfume was starting to burn my nostrils. I made my way onwards.
Burberry was framed in dying purple light, her rich-brown clothes and pale skin soaking up the colour: her skin was bleached lilac, her clothes a deep violet. She had decided to cook, to cook one of Ketamine’s recipes. I smelled the stomach-flipping combinations of thick-sweet and bitter, sugar and sour.
All of a sudden I wanted to talk to Tanned, who would laugh at the lists in the spidery-writing. But I hadn’t seen him. He had changed too. I felt my whole body tighten. I pushed him from my mind and stepped toward the hot, heavy film of cooking.
“Burber
ry.”
“Blondee.” She sounded frustrated.
I stood just behind her, feeling ropes of her hair catch against my face, tossed about by the breeze.
She moved backward, her arse against my hip. I peered round her and saw her problem—the wind was causing flames to lick at the air, wild and aggressive.
“It’s slow going I’m afraid.”
The stodge of food which had burnt black and crumbled around the edges. Crystals of salt and sugar caught the dim light.
“It’s good to see you,” Burberry whispered, turning to face me and brushing her lips against my cheek.
“You too,” I answered.
We returned to the hut and ate until it was dark. She slept facing the wall. The heavy mass of food clutched at my stomach as those recipes always did, though this time I swear I could feel each individual crystal of sugar and salt crawling around my gut. At first I worked my arm over her and pulled her body to me, which she met with a sigh, but soon our bodies huddled together became damp and wet. It was too hot. I turned round, pulled on a roughly-sewn shirt and stepped through the fabric into the night.
The world was smothered in darkness. I fumbled back into the hut to find a candle and matches, each clang and clatter of upturned boxes and scattered clothes prompting ‘mmm’s and ‘raummm’s and sighs from Burberry. At last I found them and waited until I stood outside before lighting it, shielding the tiny flame from the breeze with my body. Through the whistle and whine of wind I heard a noise I had forgotten.
Thud thud thud.
It might have been faint but it was heavy and metallic, distant, dull and dawdling through the darkness toward me. Somehow it didn’t belong in my life right now. It belonged to when I was lonely and scared and hungry. My heart stopped as I felt it beat into me, a heavy rhythm, thud thud thud, each faint knock digging into me, spreading anxiety through my limbs. I had to move.
Forget Yourself Page 7