by Ben Thomas
You raised your voice to Jez, they would have heard that. They know you’re listening in on them now. ‘Evil and mad,’ they’re thinking. ‘The nutter next door.’
I stepped away from the wall as it suddenly dawned on me that evidently I was spying on my neighbours. What on earth was I doing? I sat back down.
You thought of death as you sat down.
I sprung back up, obeying the implicit instruction, and sat back down trying to block the negative word with the good word. I got back up, I sat back down.
You are evil and mad. You are damned.
I got back up, I sat back down.
YOU ARE EVIL AND MAD. YOU HAVE CAUSED DEATH.
I got back up, I sat back down.
YOU ARE DAMNED.
I got back up, I sat back down.
YOU ARE DEATH.
I got back up and picked up the nearest object to me. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” I yelled, hurling the object hard against the wall. I slumped back down in my chair, defeated and broken. Just like the shattered smile of my mug, which lay scattered pathetically before me.
11
Nearly there, I thought, as I hauled myself and my shopping home. The supermarket was a fortnightly chore and, for me, an ordeal: I would pick up one item from the shelf, then put it back again to pick up another because the original one had been tainted by the words. It took a not insignificant amount of skill to be able to do this without people noticing. If I wanted to eat, I had to leave the house and complete this soul-crushing task. I would probably have to budget a bit more effectively now I was out of work. My savings, although in good health, would only last so long. I did want a new job but I had a feeling the job hunt might take a while. I had been looking on the websites of recruitment agencies but he had tainted every one that looked of interest, so every job I liked the look of I had to rule out.
The sun was making one of those random winter appearances which surely would convince anyone about global warming. It was the type of winter’s day where you could be and should be wearing a t-shirt but I, like many others, had been caught out and was being reminded the hard way that a big winter coat and sunny weather do not go together. The sweat was dripping from my forehead onto the pavement as I walked along. There was probably still a sweaty imprint of my bum on the seat of the bus I’d recently got off. The bus, which had also been caught out by the sun, had its heaters on full. Still, at least the bus journey had given some respite to my two shopping bags, which at this moment were buckling under the strain of their contents, determined to escape from both the bags and from my stupidity. I had foolishly allowed myself to listen to him and believed that I couldn’t take the extra two carrier bags that a normal person would realise they needed, because the extra carrier bags had – surprise, surprise – been tainted. So I politely declined, with the comment to the checkout lad that I was doing my bit to save the environment. The shop assistant probably thought I was just tight and wanted to save myself ten pence. Now the sinews of my two shopping bags were straining as they courageously tried to deliver the weekly big shop home.
I turned the corner onto my street and saw the finish line. I just had to get across the road. It’s not the busiest street, but naturally today it was being used as a thoroughfare. The bags were stretched so far they were almost dragging along the floor, like thin, plastic orangutan arms. Finally, there was a pause in the traffic and I took my chance to make a hasty crossing to safety. Two steps into the road and I heard a noise which sounded suspiciously like a can of beans falling to the ground. Like I said, it was a sunny day; there’d been no weather warning for raining beans, and my fears were quickly confirmed as a tin rolled nonchalantly past me as if to say, “Well, we can’t wait all day for you to get us home.” The can of beans’ lead was followed by a tin of soup. And then, before I could react, the dam was breached. With a thud half my shopping hit the floor as the bottom of one of the bags disintegrated, various items of food making a mad dash for freedom onto the road. They ran in all directions, making their recapture that much more difficult. This was going to prove a bit of a challenge. One hand was holding the remaining bag, which would surely only last a moment longer before it too allowed its contents the freedom of the street. I bent low and used the other hand to start picking up one or two items. I hadn’t moved that fast since my rugby days, but I got to the other side of the road and deposited the surviving bag, along with a bag of potatoes and a bunch of bananas, onto the pavement before racing back into the road – which, thankfully, at this moment was still clear of traffic – to round up the escapees. I bent low to recover a pack of yoghurts before hearing the inevitable growl of an approaching car, followed by the obligatory honking of the horn at the idiot fumbling around in the middle of the road.
I braved a look at the car: a brand new BMW, some flash bastard with a sense of entitlement no doubt.
“What’re you doing blocking the road? You need to teach your shopping some road safety!” I was too embarrassed to look at my tormentor, so I kept my head down. Then I heard the car door open and heavy steps approach. “Need a hand, big T?”
Bobby! Big, beautiful Bobby. I could have wrapped my arms around him.
“Yes, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”
Bobby had left his car in the middle of the road with its hazard lights on, blocking any further traffic from mowing us and my shopping down. A big Bobby hand, in the style of a traffic police officer, restrained the traffic from the other direction, allowing Bobby and I to do the required herding up of my shopping, safe from being run over, if not safe from embarrassment. Somehow I felt a lot less self-conscious with Bobby by my side.
“Oi! Dumb and dumber, get a move on!” Bobby could hold back the traffic, but he couldn’t hold back the impatience of the driver in the white van.
“Nearly done, my man,” said Bobby with a big smile on his face, and with one more trip each to the pavement, we were. The mischievous shopping was now safe, sitting politely together on the pavement next to the well-behaved shopping bag, rather than being spread haphazardly in the middle of the road. Now I had to work out how to get it back to my house, which thankfully was only a hundred yards away.
“Right, wait there. Don’t move,” instructed Bobby as he did a little jog back to his car, nodding and waving triumphantly at the stationary cars, as if he was on a lap of honour. The traffic was now about seven or eight cars deep on either side and there was a chorus of beeps but this made Bobby smile even wider and he added to the chorus with his own celebratory beep when he got back in his car.
He had parked his car at the side of the road now, rather than in the middle. Traffic flowed again, and Bobby came over to me holding carrier bags raised above his head like he was holding the FA cup. I had never been happier to see a man holding carrier bags. We transferred the shopping from the pavement into the bags and Bobby sensibly moved some of the contents of my sole surviving bag into the reinforcements. Then Bobby picked up all five bags.
“Right, let’s get these bad boys home. It’s just up there, isn’t it?” Bobby nodded in the general direction of my house and then set off without waiting for my reply, carrying all five bags himself, either not trusting me to carry them or thinking that as I had been through such a traumatic experience, it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
I caught him up. “Thanks, Bobby. Stroke of luck you passing. Looking good by the way, Bob.” Bobby was dressed in smart jeans, shirt and blazer, a bit of a contrast to my old jogging bottoms and winter coat. “And nice car, by the way. Looks like someone’s doing very well for themselves,” I teased.
“I’m doing pretty good, T, but not as well as certain others, as you’ll see tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“At the reunion,” Bobby casually replied, “It’s Friday night. I’m here to pick you up. Got your address from that stunner you work with when you nipped to the
gents.”
I had forgotten all about the reunion. “Oh. Thanks, Bobby, but I don’t think I can go. I’ve been off work all week ill. Still feeling it.”
Bobby looked at me sceptically for a brief moment before smiling and saying, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about the shopping bag incident. Mate, you have to come. It’ll be great for everyone to see you, just like it was great for me to see you last week. You can come for a couple of hours and if you’re still feeling poorly or not enjoying it, you can go home. Say yes, Mr T, and ‘don’t give me no back-talk, sucker.’” I hesitated, more so because I was trying to decide whether that was a good Mr T impression or not. “Oh, come on T, it would mean a lot to me.” Bobby looked at me imploringly, almost coquettishly, which could make a man feel uncomfortable if they didn’t know Bobby like I did, and it had the desired effect, because before I had thought it through, I had said yes.
“Excellent. Come on then, let’s get you ready,” Bobby said, nearly skipping down the pathway to my house.
*
I didn’t know how long I had been in the shower for now, or rather how long I had been in and out of the shower by now. Probably not long by my usual standards but it was most likely getting to the point of being considered a long time by conventional standards. I could hear Bobby singing downstairs, keeping himself entertained, interspersed with the odd ‘Come on, T,’ or ‘Hurry up, T.’ I was feeling tense though, which surely was fair enough if you were about to meet up with a load of schoolfriends whom you hadn’t seen in an age. When I feel tense he tends to take advantage and he was very vocal during my shower. I had already been through a bottle of shower gel and had got in and out of the shower countless times as he insisted that I only think of the good word. I was berating myself, aware Bobby was waiting for me, but tonight was too important to get wrong, so in and out of the shower I went before washing myself, turning the shower on and off, getting out, getting back in, rewashing myself, turning the shower on and off. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I had just rinsed off the latest application of shower gel when…
“Ooh, don’t mind me, T.” Bobby had come into the bathroom where I was standing naked in the shower, and having already unbuckled his belt he was now undoing the buttons on his jeans. I understood Bobby was happy to see me, but this wasn’t something I had anticipated or wanted.
“B…Bobby, what are you doing?” I shouted.
“Sorry, mate. When you gotta go, you gotta go,” he said as he pulled down his jeans and boxer shorts and sat down on the toilet. “Nice cock by the way.”
“Bobby, that’s disgusting. You can’t have a dump with me in the shower.”
“You’re not in the shower anymore.” This was true as this unexpected turn of events had produced a different kind of shock and horror that had overridden his instruction and I was now well and truly out of the shower, hastily wrapping a towel around myself.
“Why’s the floor so wet?” Bobby noted the mini-flood caused by my constant getting in and out of the shower.
“I don’t know. It just is! At least wait till I’ve gone out.”
“It’s okay, T. I don’t really need to go but you were taking ages. I don’t know what you’ve been doing…or I probably do, don’t I?” He gave me a knowing look.
He knows what you’ve been doing.
I quickly closed down his suggestion, as knowing Bobby as I did, I soon realised what he really meant.
“No, I haven’t been doing that, you idiot.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. We all do it, but we just don’t have time now. I wasn’t really going to go, but I thought it might encourage you to hurry up. Actually…hang about…” Bobby paused and looked thoughtful, “Erm, yep…do me a favour, T? Now I’m here I do have the urge to go…close the door on the way out.”
“You’re a minger,” I said as I scrambled out of the bathroom before my senses were assaulted and left Bobby to it.
“Oh, by the way, I’ve chosen your clothes and ironed them, so all you need to do is get dressed and then we can P-A-R-T-Y!”
Bobby had picked my best smart navy jeans and my burgundy short-sleeved shirt. I was happy with his choice, they were probably what I would have chosen. But then again, as Bobby probably realised, there wasn’t much choice. A lack of going-out clothes in my wardrobe was a result of me rarely going out, and also from me rarely being able to buy clothes because the words had too often appeared in my hearing, vision or mind to taint any potential purchase. Often, I’d actually bought clothes but found the words had tainted them as soon as I had put them on at home, so I subsequently had to throw them out. I should have given the clothes to a charity shop, right? I would agree, but the clothes were tainted. If they were a danger to me, they would be a danger to others, and I couldn’t do others the harm of passing them on, because they wouldn’t know they were tainted. It was best to be safe and simply bin them.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I allowed myself to think, ‘Looking good, Toby.’ I actually felt pretty good.
“Whit woo,” whistled Bobby as he entered my bedroom, “who’s this handsome young man?” Bobby evidently agreed with me. “Right, let’s rock and roll. I’ll drive and leave the car there and pick it up in the morning. You ready?”
“Yeah, hang on a minute.” I had to do my checks and I knew I’d best be quick about it tonight.
The checks were normal behaviour. Yes, he encouraged me to do it and worried me if I might have missed one, which sometimes it turned out I had, but I think it’s sensible and rational to do the checks anyway.
I started off in the room we were in now. Bobby had ironed my shirt so I started with the iron. It was unplugged, but I had to make sure it was definitely off. If it was left on when we were out, it could set fire to the house, which could spread to my neighbour’s house, and I didn’t want to be responsible for that; and, oh yeah, I obviously didn’t want that to happen either. I picked up the plug of the iron and pressed the prongs hard into my hand three times saying, ‘off, off, off,’ in my mind. I then studied the imprint of the prongs on my hand which was the evidence the plug was off.
“Right, that’s the iron off then, Bob.”
“O-o-okay.” Bobby, lying back on the bed, looked slightly bemused.
I moved over to the window, pulled it closed, and tugged on the latch three times. This was repeated for every window in the house. Again, a sensible approach. I mean why wouldn’t you be security conscious? Next, I went into the bathroom. I checked the taps were all off. Dad and Mum had had a flood a few years back and I saw the damage it had caused, so that was a risk I mustn’t take. Mind you, their flood was caused by frozen pipes, not by a dripping tap, but you don’t want to risk it, do you? I tightened the taps in the bathroom, turning them tightly three times. ‘Off, off, off,’ I muttered, then held my hand under each tap in turn to make sure I couldn’t feel any drips, and then I stared at them all, saying, ‘Off, off, off.’ Yes, they were definitely off.
I went out of the bathroom and started downstairs to the kitchen, but I felt a subtle nudge:
The taps are still on.
I was pretty sure that I had turned them off. I had just been up there. I had stared at them, they were off.
How can you be sure? It could have been yesterday you checked.
They were off, I was just up there.
How can you be sure? Think of the damage and harm it could do.
I think I knew that I had turned them off. But it made sense to double check, and it wouldn’t do any harm to quickly check. So back in I went to see the taps were off, but I went through the checking process again and, as an extra insurance, I shouted to Bobby that the taps were off.
“Great!” replied Bobby. “Can we go now please?”
“Yeah, nearly done.” I bundled myself down the stairs and into the kitchen. Bobby followed me down. I checked the taps in the kitchen u
sing the same methodical approach and then checked the toaster was off along with the kettle.
“Off, off, off,” I whispered to inform him.
I moved onto my nemesis: the cooker. As anyone would understand, you have to be extra vigilant with gas. Gas explosions could be devastating and could destroy not just my house but the whole street. I remember when I was younger, on Saturday morning, when kids’ TV was on, they didn’t have adverts, they had safety broadcasts. There was nothing safe about them; most of them used to give me nightmares. Anyway, there was one where a couple had been on holiday and had returned to find the house smelt of gas; they had clearly left the cooker on or something. The woman went to turn off the light switch when the man dramatically screamed ‘No-o-o-o!’ The inference was that he was too late and the spark from the light switch had ignited the gas, destroying the house and killing them and most likely their neighbours. So I knew how dangerous leaving the gas on could be and I didn’t want to be responsible for destroying the street and killing all my neighbours. I stared and I tapped each dial on the hob saying, ‘Off, off, off,’ to confirm they were off. Then I stared intently at them, concentrating hard, checking that I could be certain they were off.
“Mate, they’ll have food there.” Bobby was behind me now, leaning against the kitchen door.
“What?”
“We haven’t got time to cook anything.”
“Go on?” I was slightly confused.
“You’re staring at the cooker. Are you planning on cooking something?”