Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  Anna gives an unconvincing laugh. ‘I bet you don’t like me when I’m like this. Giving you shit. Well, you say you like strong women – here you go. My strength is more than a turn-on. It stands up for itself. You think it means I don’t let things bother me, but I have enough fucked-up pain of my own. And you don’t like seeing it, because the second you sense anything that’s a challenge, it feels too much like hard work. You only like strength when it suits you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I like you right now or not, does it?’

  We are silent for a moment, facing each other like lone rangers waiting for the other to draw. Then a smile begins to curl at the edge of her mouth and I watch her lick her lips. It has a dangerous feel.

  ‘I read once that the worst part of torture is the beginning,’ she says. ‘When you’re full of your own illusions and fears about black and white, and the terror that black may win. Then as torture goes on, it slowly changes your state of mind to a kind of drunk, masochistic giving in. It becomes something you cooperate with.’ She leans in a little too close so I can smell the wine on her breath. ‘It becomes something you almost like, because you see through it. You no longer fear what it can do.’

  I feel the techno beat pumping through the walls.

  ‘You remind me of my first boyfriend, who completely broke my heart and then would fuck me whenever he needed to feel better about himself.’

  She is so close, but then she brushes my arm and goes in through the kitchen door.

  This is our last goodbye.

  Red / by Anna

  Red is for alarm bells, for fire engines, for accident & emergency, for a shout of watch out, for a bull that will not be tamed

  Red is for rage

  Red is a plastic-wrapped rose in a club when I was seventeen

  Red is the time you stood over me on the train and I never told you

  Red is for your eyes on my body

  for leaving a café before we’ve even sat down

  Red is the wine I cannot drink because of how it stains my lips and how I want it kissed off

  Red is the ketchup I ate in your bed

  Red is for the child we never had

  For the life that bled away

  month after month

  For the times I cut myself and wanted you to heal me

  Red is the sauce I lick off the spoon as I sit on a counter and watch you cook

  Red are my knees as I push you down to the kitchen floor

  We let the sauce burn

  Red is for the apple on an ABC

  For fruit at the eve of the world

  For nails driven through veins

  The book of Revelation

  Drunk

  The cup of Babylon

  The mark of the Wild Beast

  The fire that is coming just for me

  Red is the sound of my name on your mouth, a word you only use as warning

  Damn my vain attempt to make you bleed and know that you are human

  Damn red and all its shades

  Red is the colour I want

  Red is the transfusion I consent to

  You taking my wrist and cutting me open and pouring yourself in

  I want you inside

  Not waiting for permission

  Red is for rape / Yes I’m sure

  The screw against the wall

  The I Do you’ll never say

  Red is a colour you never wear

  Because you can’t handle red

  or any of its spoils

  I will always be an island

  .

  .

  .

  but fuck I bleed too

  Three Weeks Later

  Laura is in the garden when I get home. It’s apparently the final day of the heatwave, with storms due in the night, and I’m glad to see the last of the heat.

  She is standing on the patio, her hands on her hips and looking into the distance, the horizon obscured by the walls of neighbouring houses. On the table beside her are pots and a half-used bag of compost, with a scattering of dropped soil on the slabs below. The handle of a gardening tool sticks out the top of the earth.

  ‘What are you up to?’ I say, and she jumps.

  ‘God, don’t sneak up like that.’ She turns her body towards me but looks at the ground. ‘I’m planting bulbs.’

  ‘You’re meant to be on bed-rest,’ I say, pretending to disapprove. Laura has been signed off work with extreme morning sickness. Apparently it’s rare to continue past the first trimester, but she says the doctor confirmed it’s not a sign of anything wrong.

  ‘These are for the autumn.’ She rubs her growing belly, accentuated by her striped top. ‘They’ll appear when the baby comes. I probably should have waited for the weekend, after it’s rained. It would have made the soil easier to work with.’ I notice patches of fresh earth in the beds.

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh …’ she starts to say and shrugs. ‘There’s only so much daytime telly I can take. I needed to do something.’

  ‘You’re not one to ignore doctor’s orders,’ I say. She hasn’t looked at me once.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. She strips off her gloves and drops them on to the table. ‘I’m going in for a water. Why don’t you start on the beers?’ She brushes past.

  I ignore her tone and go to the fridge. ‘Thanks. I will.’ The sound of the ring-pull is a starting pistol in the room.

  ‘Kate and Tom have set a date,’ she says, running the tap. ‘Twenty-third of December. Christmas wedding.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say, taking a deep swig.

  Laura lets the tap run a while and stares out the window. I know this is my cue to not leave the room, because if I walk out now after she’s said that, I’ll never hear the end of it. And the end of it is exactly what I want.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ she says, her voice distant.

  Here we go.

  ‘Do you see us having any more? Babies, I mean.’

  I take another gulp and throw up my hands in defeat. ‘You want me to decide whether I want more kids before the first is even born? I’m assuming that’s a joke.’

  Laura fills a glass and shuts off the tap.

  ‘Why did you buy a four-bedroom house with me?’ she says. ‘What are you planning to fill the rooms with? Apart from the ghosts of ex-girlfriends.’

  I drain the can and drop it into the recycling. ‘All right, Laura,’ I say. ‘Enough, please.’

  ‘Don’t deny it then.’

  ‘There’s nothing to deny.’

  She folds her arms and nods. ‘I don’t even get Drunk Nick.’

  ‘What?’ A fear grips my heart.

  She turns slowly around. I search for my phone in my pocket and release my breath when I feel its boxy shape against my leg.

  ‘When people get drunk,’ she says, ‘that’s when they talk. What’s in their heart. What they can’t say sober.’ She shakes her head. ‘But not you. Nick Mendoza’s shutters are always down.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Bullshit. I know my emotions are held hostage by a hot summer in 2003, and long before that, by the scream of a gun being fired and ice lollies melting in the sun. There are other lives existing parallel to this one, their shadows stretching far. How different things could have been if I’d found a way to let them go.

  ‘Sometimes I’ve thought about getting you blind drunk,’ says Laura, ‘then asking whether you ever want to marry me. That’s what the girls tell me to do.’ She smiles sadly to herself.

  ‘Trick me, you mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s no point. You don’t even want me when you’re drunk.’

  I know I should walk over and take her in my arms, lift her chin, tell her she is talking madness. I know this is another cue to do another thing I don’t want to do.

  I stay right where I am.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s a girl,’ she says, and my face goes red, as if I’m being accused of something, but then she puts a hand on her stomach and looks down and says, ‘The baby, I mean. Girl.’

  My jaw begins to ache and I realise I am grinding my teeth. I put my hand to my mouth and knead my fingers into my cheeks and chin, trying to feel something. ‘You found out? When?’

  ‘I had a scan today. A private one.’

  I debate opening the fridge and taking out another beer. ‘So that’s both scans I’ve missed. If you want me to feel part of this, then you really should let me be there. It’s my baby too.’

  Laura picks up her glass and takes a long gulp of water. She takes a deep breath as she grips the edge of the worktop.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘it’s not your baby.’

  The metal fridge door feels cool and refreshing against my forehead. It reminds me of times when I’ve had a bug or food poisoning, when there is no greater comfort after vomiting than pressing my face against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

  ‘I wasn’t sure until today,’ Laura says. ‘The scan showed I’m only sixteen weeks. So there’s no doubt in my mind any more.’

  ‘Whose is it?’ I can hardly hear my own voice.

  ‘His name’s Matt,’ she says. ‘He was part of my team on the trip. He’s Australian, and a surfing instructor, if you can believe it. He plays guitar.’ She lists his attributes like she’s setting up a date.

  I open the fridge a little too forcefully and the glass bottles in the door rattle together. I crack open another can, feel the liquid run down my throat, and I close my eyes and try to enjoy it. She lets me be.

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  Laura looks away. She picks at the edge of a utility bill on the worktop, flicking the paper between her forefinger and thumb. ‘I’ve tried to forget him. You have to believe I really have tried.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, and I do.

  ‘I don’t know how it happened,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I didn’t go out there looking for it. It’s just a very intense thing, being with someone in a confined place, day and night. You get to know each other on fast-forward. It starts to feel natural sharing every meal together, talking before you go to sleep, and then …’ She gives a long sigh. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Here,’ I say, unzipping my bag, which I’d dropped on the table when I arrived home. I pull out a linen-wrapped notebook with MEMORIES embossed in gold on the front. ‘I saw this in a shop today and thought you’d like it. It’s for writing down all the “first times”, and the funny things kids say and do. I thought we could write it together.’

  She takes the notebook and flicks through the pages.

  ‘I wish my mum had had one,’ I said.

  Laura starts to cry. She hugs the notebook to her chest and puts a hand over her face. There is no noise, just a slight shaking of her shoulders, and I stay right where I am.

  ‘This is what I’ve been waiting for,’ she says, sniffing. She goes to pass it back to me, but I shake my head and she holds it tight. ‘I’m not someone to be settled for, Nick. I want to be somebody’s everything. I wanted to be yours.’

  It’s quite a thing to be almost forty years old and hate yourself.

  ‘Does he know?’ My voice is calm and steady. Two-beer Nick.

  Laura takes a deep breath and nods. ‘He says he wants to marry me.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Fast mover.’

  ‘Not really,’ she says, looking at me. ‘He just knows what he wants.’

  I put my head back and drain the second can. ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘That’s really good.’

  Part Six

  * * *

  Christmas 2003

  Stella was clearing the table. The turkey carcass sat on the serving platter, its meaty remnants plucked and put in Tupperware for Boxing Day leftovers. All that was left was the hollow hulk of what had once been a living thing.

  Sal and I helped clear the final bits. Dad snoozed in front of the soft blare of the telly, left on throughout dinner to act as a buffer against any lulls in conversation. It wasn’t so bad that year. Arsenal had so far gone unbeaten all season and words like ‘invincible’ were bandied around with talk of being crowned champions. Dad had carved the turkey with vigour. He even donned the hat from a cracker he shared with Sal.

  In the kitchen, Stella washed up while we dried, the radio crooning out festive tracks. Sal had gone out in town the night before, and Stella was screaming with laughter at a story about a drunken run-in with a lamp post. He described it with typical Sal theatrics; slapstick falling over and sound effects, his blond curls spilling out from under a paper crown.

  ‘Oh, Salvatore,’ she said when he’d finished, dabbing her eyes with the edge of her Marigold. ‘You are a live one.’ She peeled off the gloves, fixed herself a snowball and took it to the lounge for the Queen’s speech.

  Sal picked up a plate from the rack. ‘You going out this week? Thought you might have been there last night.’

  I nodded as I hung the gravy boat from a peg on the dresser. ‘Tomorrow with Daz. That girl he’s seeing is out, so we have to go too.’

  Sal took another plate and held it in mid-air as if he’d just remembered something. ‘Did you hear Anna got engaged? Lisa told me last night. The wedding’s next July.’

  I watched the water drip from the plate.

  ‘What happened there? You were together all summer, then boom. Over.’

  I slid the paper crown off my head and looked at it. ‘Yeah, not sure.’

  I could sense Sal’s confusion. ‘But you were joined at the hip. Something like that can’t end without a reason.’

  ‘Isn’t that what happens in life? People come and go. Besides, you know the deal with her religion. She’s only meant to be with someone who thinks the same as her. Hence the engagement.’ I crumpled the party hat and lobbed it into the bin.

  Sal rolled his eyes. ‘Come on.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe according to official rules. But if she was really into it, she’d never have given you the time of day in the first place.’ He dropped the dried plate on to the stack that lived on the dresser. ‘Bit of a twat, really, aren’t you?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Bloody hell, Nick. Any idiot could see you had something there.’

  I threw down the tea towel and pulled out a chair. ‘We don’t all have your gift of the gab, Sal.’

  Sal folded his arms. ‘You think you get more than one Anna in a lifetime? That you’ll feel a connection like that again? I saw you together. Beats me what she saw in your emotionally retarded self, but I’m telling you: it was legit.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a twat. You made your point and I agree with every word. Hindsight is a beautiful thing.’ I leant across to the fridge and took out another beer.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What the hell can I do about it? Storm the church and stop the wedding?’

  ‘That’d be a start.’

  ‘Life isn’t a movie, Sal. There are rules and ways of doing things, and consequences for ignoring them.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, rubbing his chin. There was something comical in the contrast between his red paper crown and the rare seriousness of his expression. ‘There are rules. But we’re not talking about passing exams or choosing a stock portfolio. This is love, you daft prick. And if you’re going to attach protocols to that, then …’ he shook his head, ‘you’re beyond saving.’

  2019

  Stella calls a few weeks after Laura leaves. I know she’s keeping an eye on me. Everyone thinks they’re subtle with their texts and drinks, but they forget I was the one checking in with Dad and Sal. It’s hard getting used to being on the other side.

  Her voice crackles with patchy reception, but I make out a How are you, love?

  Laura took a suitcase of clothes and nothing else. Mum will come by for the rest, she’d said, nodding at her thing
s around the bedroom. I carried the case down two flights of stairs and stowed it safely in the boot, then she gave me a pitying hug and drove off in our car.

  Now I stand in a sea of boxes. It took two weeks of sofa slouching with a box set and beers, but last night, halfway through the second season, I hit pause on the remote and climbed into the loft to retrieve the boxes we’d kept after moving in. I went from room to room, throwing everything in, not bothering to tape them shut.

  ‘Is the house on the market yet?’ says Stella.

  ‘The agent’s coming round next week. Just doing a bit of housekeeping first.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve had a call from your dad’s landlord. Something about Paul owning a field behind the house?’

  I run a hand back and forth across my head and frown. ‘I didn’t think Dad owned anything. There was nothing in the will?’ Stella had been executor.

  ‘He says it was all done by handshake. You know how your father was. Anyway, he’s at the house this afternoon and asked if you’d meet him there at midday.’

  I spend an hour hauling boxes out on to the empty drive.

  I stack them neatly on top of each other, heavies at the bottom, lighter ones on top, taking care to distribute the weight so the boxes form three tight and even squares of nine. No gaps between edges.

  When I’m ready to leave, I lock the door and stand on the drive, enjoying a vape in the sunshine as I survey my morning’s work. There is the faintest pounding between my temples from last night’s bottle, but the act of purging seems to have tempered any pain. It feels like the first day of a new year.

  I take out my phone and type a quick message to Laura’s mum: Hi Sally. The boxes are on the drive for you to collect. The forecast says rain coming. Take care. I hit send.

  As I’d gone round the house, packing up all trace, I began to write ‘Laura’s things’ on each sealed box. After box three, I changed tack. NOT MINE, I wrote instead. I stabbed the black permanent marker against each box and dragged the letters tall to fit the entire side. When I dumped them on the driveway, I ensured the writing faced out.