I told myself I had thought it through.
‘I think it’s time,’ I said. ‘Don’t you?’
She stiffened, and then a smile broke out across her face. ‘How’s that for a Hollywood ending,’ she said, and turned to walk away.
I stood rooted to the floor.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t fight you for top billing,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘You’re welcome to it.’
She walked out, and then came the click of a projector shutting down.
I worked methodically for the rest of the night, lacing each of the twelve projectors so they were ready to go again. I checked the rollers. I fed the film through, getting the tension just so, and used a brush to wipe off the fine layer of purple dust that fell from the print as it played. This is the nature of 35 mm, the emulsion wearing away. For a print’s first few runs, it leaves behind a smattering of purple dust. Fragments of its skin. Eventually, a print will toughen up and last for thousands of showings, but a new film cannot be enjoyed without hurtling at great speed, without darkness, without light, without giving a little of itself each time. Its disintegration is the normal order of things.
In the days to come when I worked out my notice, when she would avoid me every shared shift, I began to resent these films with their neat little endings, and their artifice, and their lies.
But now, years later, I miss that job. I miss that purple dust.
Date: 01/10/2003
From: ANNA
To: NICK
Subject:
I worked your street today. When we came towards the village, Jen said, ‘Isn’t this where that guy lives?’ and when we drove by, she pointed and said there. And I looked up at your window and thought: there.
I hid round the corner when she knocked on your door. No one answered, but I couldn’t risk your dad or even you finding me on your step, in my modest dress and shoes, offering a brochure about saving your soul.
Because if it is all true, this is what will happen: If you don’t listen to the message, if you don’t read the leaflet she stuffed through your door, then you’ll be annihilated at Armageddon and that will be the end of you. This is what I’ve been taught. I know you and the world think this is crazy, but this is what I’ve been told my whole life by the people I love.
Here’s the madness of the entire thing … The end of you would be the end of me too.
1993
Once he’d started to look at us again, a year or so after it happened, Dad wouldn’t leave us alone. Get your feet off my sofa, he’d say, rapping our toes with a rolled-up paper. You think this is your own private room? Or he’d pause as he walked along the landing and push open our door. What a dump, with dramatic beats between each word. There’ll be no TV or gallivanting on bikes until it’s immaculate. Meanwhile, the dishes piled up until Stella or I got busy.
He’s just morphing his pain into discipline, I said to Sal. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Sal said he couldn’t give a fuck. Stop always looking for the good, he said. Some people are just bastards. It so happens we’ve ended up with one for a dad. No, I said. No. He’s masking his true self. It’s a generational thing, it’s what men did. Sal shook his head. What should I do? I wanted to scream. Face a reality that involves a dead mum and a fucker of a dad? Hope keeps you going.
One day, we went to the golf course. I think Stella had dangled a carrot, trading a clean of the entire house if he took us out.
I’d caught the tail end of this barter as I came down the stairs.
‘But where would I take them?’ Dad was looking around the hall, perhaps finally noticing the dust and cobwebs choking the space. He ran a hand through his hair.
‘They’re your sons, Paul. Use your imagination.’
His imagination took us to his second home.
Sal and I had never tried golf. All our mates played football and so we did too, exchanging FIFA stickers or playing Subbuteo, studying the league table every Monday before school. Sal was the star of the football team – nimble and quick, a natural athlete, and the praise and adoration were like a drug. He practised penalty kicks whenever he could. I enjoyed playing, but I was slower and, with my bigger build, was generally put in goal.
But we didn’t do golf. None of our friends did golf. Golf was a grown-up thing.
I saw a boy from primary school in the car park when we arrived. The eleven-plus exam had been just after France, and despite being predicted to pass with flying colours, I didn’t get anywhere close. I’d been pretty friendly with this boy before school ended and he went off to the grammar. It had been two years since, and when he looked over, I smiled and waved. He turned away.
‘Here. I borrowed a junior size from the clubhouse,’ said Dad on the first hole, pulling a club from his bag. ‘You can share. I’ll tee off first. Show you how it’s done.’
We watched him walk across and place a tee in the ground, then balance a ball on top. He then took the pose that he often did at home in the living room, although this time there was an actual golf club in his hand rather than air. He placed his feet slightly apart, stretched his fingers before gripping the club, rocked his weight between his feet, then swung back and struck the ball. We watched it disappear against the blue sky before dropping on to the green.
He looked happy with that.
‘Right, next.’
Sal nodded at me to go first, so I did, doing my best to mimic Dad’s pose.
Dad gave a good-natured laugh. ‘No, son,’ he said. ‘That’s not how it’s done. Here.’ He moved me to one side with both hands then took the club, turning and getting into position. ‘Now, straighten your legs like this and hold the club out in front, letting your upper arms rest on your chest.’ He turned to make sure I was watching before continuing with the lesson, placing emphasis on words like control and adding like so at the end of every sentence. ‘Tip forward from your hips like so, then let your legs soften like so, and you’ll notice that the club is about a hand-span away from the inside of my left thigh. Like so. See, Nick? You see, Sal?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sal, looking away down the course. ‘Tip, soften, a hand-span. Got it.’
‘Now you try, son,’ said Dad, handing me the club and stepping back. ‘Remember – posture, posture, posture.’ He was beaming now, pleased to have an audience. We could not compete with his years of experience, and this delighted him.
I struck the ball and it flew through the air, dropping into the longer grass a few metres from the green.
‘Good effort, son,’ said Dad, folding his arms. ‘You can’t expect to hit the green like I did on your first try. We’ll fish the ball out the rough when we walk down there. Next.’
I raised the club towards Sal and he strolled over, hands in his pockets. He got in position and did the little rocking that Dad does right before a shot. He stood like Dad, swung the club like Dad, and it sailed through the air and landed on the green, just like Dad’s.
‘Wow, Sal,’ I said, whistling. ‘Look at that. You’re a natural.’
A huge grin splashed across Sal’s face. He was as surprised as me.
We both turned towards Dad, whose mouth had settled into a firm line. ‘Right,’ he said, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘Next hole.’ He began walking towards the green.
I walked up behind him. ‘Nice one, Salvatore,’ I said, slapping his back.
He gave a brief smile and looked away.
Sal was indeed a natural. He hit the green with every shot, sometimes coming within metres of the hole. Dad’s silence grew louder with every cheer I gave.
I deliberately didn’t get better. Each of mine hit the rough, and this gave ample opportunity for Dad to instruct me on how to improve. If my shots had also started reaching the green, Dad wouldn’t have known what to do with himself.
On the sixth hole, it all came to pieces.
Four women were in front of us. They’d been there from the start, always one hole ahead, and there wasn’t much waiting ar
ound before they moved on. But there were four of them and three of us, and so by the sixth hole, time had caught us up.
Dad was always an impatient type, but there was something about waiting for a group of women to vacate a hole on a golf course that he found especially stressful. It started with huffing and sighing, the folding of arms and jutting out of the chin. The pantomime villain was a role he knew by heart.
Sal and I faced away. Even at that tender age, our radar for knowing what was socially appropriate was more finely tuned than Dad’s. We didn’t care about waiting. We’d have waited forever to avoid what was to come.
One of the women noticed Dad’s puffing and whispered to the others so that they all turned to look. There was laughter and hushed voices and they continued with their shots. Dad’s face was now almost scarlet.
He began clearing his throat.
When that didn’t work, he threw up his hands in mock wonder and said, ‘Can you believe this?’
‘They’ll be done in a minute,’ muttered Sal.
‘Eh?’
‘Just wait for them to finish.’
‘This is preposterous,’ said Dad, his hands still frozen in mid-air. ‘I knew it was a mistake, letting women into the club. I knew it would be its undoing.’
‘What exactly is the matter?’ one of them called, her hand on her hip.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You women are gassing instead of golfing, and I’m waiting with my sons to take the next shot. That’s the matter, love.’
I died a little inside.
‘We’ll be done in a minute, sweetheart,’ called the woman, walking towards the tee. She shook her head at her friends.
‘Not playing like that you won’t,’ he replied, cupping a hand round his mouth for extra volume. ‘Bring your arms into your chest.’
‘Oh my God,’ I said under my breath.
‘Leave them alone,’ said Sal in a low voice.
‘I’ll leave them alone when they start listening,’ he replied, still staring at the women. ‘Come on. Haven’t you got dinners to make?’ He smiled at his own joke.
They finished their shots and one of the women stuck a finger up at Dad as they walked towards the green.
He gave a brusque wave as he strode towards the tee. ‘Yes, yes, move on.’
I began to follow, aware that Sal was not.
Dad set down his ball and stood back to wait for the women to clear the green. I sensed Sal thundering towards us. He held the club that I needed, but I could tell from his face that he had no intention of giving it up.
‘Why do you have to be like that?’ he shouted at Dad.
‘Like what?’
‘Putting on a fucking show all the time,’ said Sal. ‘Making people feel like shit. Is there something missing in you?’
‘Watch your language and watch your tone,’ said Dad, his voice dangerous.
‘Why? You say whatever you want. Maybe I’ll make you feel as small as you make everyone else feel. Taste your own fucking medicine.’
‘Do not talk to me like that, Salvatore, or you will regret it.’
‘Fine,’ said Sal. ‘Nothing gets through your skull anyway. I don’t think even a bullet would have done any damage. You’re stone. You’re fucking stone.’
Dad’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Sal with what seemed like pure, white hate. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
‘Even today, taking us out, you could have asked what we’d like to do, but instead you bring us here because it’s what you like and it’s what you’re good at, and you’ll take any opportunity to show yourself off. Do you want to know what I think of your beloved golf?’
‘No, actually,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t.’
‘Sal …’
‘Here’s what I think,’ he said, holding up the club. He placed both hands over the grip as if about to take a shot, then he raised it high above his head and brought it down hard against the ground, gouging out the soil. ‘Posture,’ he spat, and beat the ground again. ‘It’s all in the posture.’
Dad turned towards the group of women, who were now still, watching from the green. He trembled with embarrassed rage.
Sal threw down the club and contorted his hands into fists. ‘Why wasn’t it you?’ he shouted at Dad, his voice breaking. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you?’
And then he ran. He ran and he ran and he ran.
October 2003
The club pulsated with bodies, all jerking and writhing to a techno tune. I kept to the edges and worked my way round, scanning faces in the dark, in hope and fear of finding what I came for.
Daz ordered drinks. I lit a cigarette and leant back against the bar.
It didn’t take long.
She was in the middle of the dance floor, moving and singing along with the rest of the work crowd. They held their bottles high as they circled each other, sipping occasionally from straws and laughing as they shouted in each other’s ears. The ceiling dripped with sweat.
I watched her for a while, enjoying the advantage of not being seen. She wore tight jeans and a top that looked like a handkerchief. It tied in knots around her neck and bare back. The coloured lights threw shapes on her skin.
A couple of blokes were grinding against her in the dark. I watched one put his hand on her bare waist, then the other said something and they both laughed.
I downed my pint and ordered another. I didn’t give a damn about a thing.
Halfway through the next one, I changed my mind. I nudged Daz, who was chatting to a girl, and was about to shout goodbye when she saw me.
She stopped. For a moment it looked as if she was going to turn away, but then she was pushing through the crowd. I picked up my pint.
‘So he’s alive,’ she said when she reached me. Hands on hips.
‘Sorry I’ve not replied to your texts,’ I said, taking a drag. ‘Been mad busy. New job and that.’
‘Yes, telesales must be extremely taxing.’ She flicked her hair over her shoulder and her eyes had that dangerous, drunk look.
‘It’s not telesales, remember. It’s—’
‘Here you go, Anna,’ came a male voice from the side. I recognised one of the men who’d been dancing with her as he handed her a drink.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ she said, allowing herself to be led back into the thick of it.
I turned away to face the bar. In the mirrored splashback, I could see her between the two men, laughing and throwing her arms in the air. Their hands were hidden in the shadows. I raised the glass to my lips.
Beside me was a fairly attractive blonde. She seemed to be with the girl talking to Daz, and like me she looked a little lost, so I said, ‘Fancy a drink?’ She smiled.
One beer later, I had my hand on her waist and she was feeling my hair. Girls were always doing that. ‘It’s so soft,’ she shouted. ‘You should grow it.’ I had no intention of kissing her, but I didn’t pull away when she put her mouth on mine.
Moments later, Anna’s voice was in my ear. ‘You bastard. You selfish, selfish bastard.’
And then the girl screamed and pulled away, and I felt cold liquid on my skin through my shirt. I turned and there was Anna, an upside-down glass in her hand. She was looking at me and crying.
‘Why did you have to do that?’ she shouted. ‘Why couldn’t you just let me be?’
Her friends were looking over, their confused expressions revealing what I’d always known: she’d never said a thing about us.
I took Anna by the shoulders and steered her towards the entrance, away from curious eyes. She allowed herself to be guided at first, but as it got quieter, she realised what I was doing and began to fight back.
‘Get off. I don’t want you touching me.’
‘Come on. You’re drunk.’
She pulled away and spun round. Her eyes were fiery coals. ‘Here we go. Always condescending, acting like my dad. You’re three years older than me, for God’s sake.’
‘Here.’ I tried
to take her hand but she pushed my arm away.
‘Go back to your blonde.’
‘You weren’t being too subtle yourself.’
A bouncer approached us with the regulation arms folded. ‘Calm this down or take it outside.’
‘She’s fine,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘Give us a minute and she’ll be fine. Promise.’
‘Oh, will I now?’ said Anna. ‘Don’t talk like I’m not here. And you …’ She jabbed a finger into his hard chest. ‘Take your acorn of power and shove it up your—’
‘OUT!’
I grabbed her hand and pulled her through the double doors, out into the cold October night. The sound of the bass pumped through the Victorian bricks of the old mill. We stood apart.
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘Couldn’t you have at least behaved for the bouncer?’
‘Oh, he was desperate to pump his load,’ she said, watching the crowd through the window. ‘Besides, it was me thrown out. You can go back if you haven’t finished sucking that girl’s face off.’
‘Let’s get you home.’
‘Are you insane? Look at me. I’m staying at Lisa’s.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Off with someone in there.’ She stumbled over to the edge of the kerb and sat down in the road.
‘Ring her,’ I said.
‘She won’t hear it.’
I took her phone and found Lisa’s number. It rang and rang.
‘Who was that girl, anyway?’ she said, shivering and hugging her knees.
‘Where’s your coat?’
She nodded at the car park. ‘Lisa’s car.’
I sat and put my arms around her, rubbing her skin to get the blood rushing. She leant her forehead against her knees and gave a light moan. ‘Why’s the world spinning?’ she said. ‘Make it stop.’
‘We should get you some water.’
‘Answer my question,’ she said. ‘Who was the girl? I’ve no right to ask, but—’
‘Who were the men?’
Anna’s face was inches from mine. ‘If you expect me to push away every bloke trying to dance, I may as well never leave the house.’
Another Life Page 14