Signing
a marriage certificate is rather like signing one’s name at the bottom of a
direct debit form giving money to charity once a month; it bleeds one’s bank
account slowly dry, year by year, until one finally remembers how one got duped
into it and promptly cancels it.
Well,
not quite. But at least you can feel
smug about having given some clapped-out beach donkeys a peaceful retirement.
Sitting
on the floor in front of Hogarth’s Marriage a la Mode, Ian, 40, dark hair,
gangly, eyes, nose, mouth, and Louis, 40, equally weedy, funny face, short
cropped hair and with teeth he hated although they were nowhere near as bad as
he thought. Ian was wearing a neat two-tone
mod suit, with a long black coat, and Louis hadn’t even ironed his shirt.
Ian needed to be that donkey. Louis was a safe place but the door wasn’t
bolted. He had asked but Louis said it
was a meaningless piece of paper. Louis
said they didn’t need it. He said that
while it was true that nobody could stand on their own two feet, marriage was a
public admission of the fact.
For
Ian, marriage would be a warm blanket enveloping just the two of them in a
secret pact from which everyone else was barred entry. He believed in fate and felt that Louis was
his twin, the other half of the broken biscuit, but Louis didn’t feel the same
way; he never ate biscuits.
Louis
liked this set of paintings, not for the cynicism but because the people in it were
like exquisitely drawn little puppets whose existence had only one purpose, to
make this point, not real people with real lives. There was so much going on in the pictures,
everything meant something more than it seemed, the sceptical faces in the paintings
on the wall, the dogs chained together, a woman with a squirrel, a broken
sword, the horns on the statue.
Ian couldn’t really see the point of art, especially
old art, it just looked brown to him.
Even Louis, who loved all art, absolutely all of it, even he never made
a very convincing case for the brown ones.
The trees were taller in the old days, nobody did trees like that
anymore, but Ian couldn’t tell the difference between a Gainsborough or a
Constable, not even a Turner, nor for that matter a van Gogh either, if he was
perfectly honest. The Poussins were a
horrible colour, horrible pink and blue, didn’t go together, no harmony.
He didn’t mind clever art, like Escher for
example, because at least it didn’t pretend to be reality and had involved a
bit of thought. The brown ones just depressed
him. And he hated the crowds in the
National Gallery and could never understand why it was always so crowded since
everybody else must secretly feel as he did.
But he kept coming back, partly to be with Louis, and partly because he
thought that if he kept exposing himself to old art maybe something would
eventually click and he’d start enjoying it, like olives, or green tea, and
anyway it was warm in here and there was somewhere to sit down. The crowds swarmed by but mostly just read
the notes at the side of the pictures.
Sometimes he and Louis timed them and most people were gone in seconds,
an endless stream of people looking at paintings for two seconds each. They spent longer in the gift shop. But so did he and Louis.
If he threw a tin of paint over, say, that
painting there, how long would it take the guard to hoist himself up out of his
chair and come and nab him? He could be
miles away by the time they sprang into action.
Would an alarm go off? Probably
the lid of the tin would get stuck and it would take ages to inch it off with a
blunt knife. Rust never sleeps.
He
and Louis often sat in art galleries talking nonsense like Peter Cook and Dudley
Moore at the pub but Louis was pretending and Ian was just being himself.
He
knew it was all nonsense because they had once gone to a talk about a painter
they hadn’t heard of called Alexander Reid and the picture on display looked exactly
like a van Gogh painting, the style was almost a forgery, they whispered to
each other. But, they decided, not anywhere
near as good as a real van Gogh - too brash.
The
lecture began and they learned that Alexander Reid wasn’t a painter at all but
an art dealer who was a friend of van Gogh – the forgery was a portrait of him
by van Gogh. And then it suddenly looked
like a very good van Gogh indeed.
Some
talks were interesting, some irritating and some only background noise to sleep
to. Ian slept a lot in art galleries.
Art
was a futile attempt to pin something down and nothing can be pinned down in this
way, it wriggles itself free. Art tried
to make the impermanent permanent but it was merely static so it was a lie. It could not accept the fact of oblivion but
we are already living in oblivion - which is why people have children or buy
houses. The arts, children and houses -
all insecure people succumb to one or the other.
Art
was overrated; it was an affectation.
Only
the natural world was real: it moved and
you couldn’t control it. Wild birds
still flew about – no amount of mechanisation put a stop to that. They got poisoned and shot at and suchlike and
there weren’t nearly as many of them as there used to be but even now they were
warm little bundles of life in an otherwise controlled artificial world. Nobody owned them.
The
fat disgusting faces of vile idiot people slobbered past as Ian looked up at
them, kicking him with their dusty feet, ugly and pimpled and talking nonsense
just like he and Louis did. He felt
ill. Everything looked like he was in a
room of bendy mirrors. It went all
echoey.
Louis
found peace within the lie; he understood its purpose.
He
got up with a murmur and said, “It’s OK, we can go now”, and walked off,
checking through his rucksack for his bus pass.
Louis said, “Do you think it’ll be dry by the time we get home?”
Ian had painted the flat peacock blue, to add
a bit of vibrancy to their lives, but the smell made him queasy.
Leaving
the gallery Louis always thought of the time he had run shrieking from Room 14
and the Adoration of the Kings. Through
Rooms 11 and 12, back through the central hall and down the steps to the front
entrance, screaming the words YOU
FUCKING LIAR at a retreating figure he couldn’t catch up with, like in a
cartoon, since the figure was high on crack cocaine and it was illogical how
fast he could run, he moved with an agility that was quite phenomenal in one so
replete with illegal substances, and it was Louis himself who’d been pounced on
by an overweight curator and kept in a room till the police arrived. A part of him still missed the excitement.
He
suddenly realised that Ian was not beside him and had not answered his
question. Turning back, he saw that a
crowd had gathered round where Ian was slumped forward, bent double on a bench,
wheezing and crying out, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die!” He was saying that he had a sharp pain across
his chest and he was breathing shallowly; he was crying in an extremely
pathetic manner.
By
now a woman was sitting next to him and holding his hand telling him to breathe
slowly. Wherever there is any sort of
crisis there is always a bossy middle-aged woman nearby elbowing everyone else
out of the way. “Iiiinnnn
ooooouuuutttttt”, she breathed with energy.
As
Louis came closer someone in the crowd said, “I think he’s having a panic
attack”.
The
bossy woman told the crowd to go away, they were only making matters worse, but
talking kindly to Ian, and Louis stood there like he was in the way, waiting
for it all to be over.
Ian said, “I want Louis”, and the woman
reluctantly moved up to let Louis in. She
said, “Are you a doctor?”
Louis
said, “Do you need a paper bag?”, but she told him crossly that that was only a
gimmick, it was the breathing that was the thing, the breathing not the bag.
It
took half an hour for Ian to calm down.
Louis longed to drift away with the rest of the crowd. Ian thanked the in-out woman, she reluctantly
let him go and he and Louis left the gallery.
Louis asked, “Shall we get a taxi?” but Ian wouldn’t hear of the expense.
Ian wouldn’t get a bus or the tube either because
he hated public transport because he hated the public, he always had someone
sat next to him crunching crisps and apples in his ear.
His
legs were still wobbly and he and Louis had only walked as far as Leicester
Square, but now he wanted to walk all the way home.
Piccadilly
Circus was packed and a Spanish tourist politely asked the way to Trafaglar
Square. Louis said pointedly that the
Norway Christmas tree was already lit up in Trafalgar Square, even though he
himself couldn’t even pronounce Monaco properly, never mind make himself
understood in Spanish.
They
both walked in silence. Eventually Ian said,
“Are you angry with me?” Louis said he
wasn’t.
Nearly
home and a young woman with jet black hair strode past them with a red and yellow
parrot on her shoulder. Ian didn’t
notice because he was now moaning about how tired he was. Louis swivelled round, touched Ian’s arm and
said, “I’ll see you at home”.
“What’s
up?”, “Nothing - I’ll see you soon, have a cup of tea and go to bed”.
Louis
ran to catch up with the black-haired woman.
As she jogged along, the parrot’s claws were gripping onto her shoulder
like clothes pegs on a washing line in a stiff breeze. She also had a baby in a sling around her
chest.
Turning
round she said, “Sorry, do I know you?”
She
was wearing a rather jaunty trilby with a sprig of heather pinned to it.
“Is
that Bonnie?”, Louis asked, nodding towards the parrot.
“Do
you know her?”
“Is
Rex in hospital again?”
“Don’t
you know? He died three weeks ago”, she
said.
“Is
he alright?”, said Louis.
“The
cremation was on Tuesday”, she said.
Louis
nodded. She said it in such a
contemptuous way as if he himself had lit the furnace.
He
didn’t know what else to say so he said, “Thank you for telling me”.
She
hurried on; he stood still. It was very
curious. He didn’t feel anything. He just felt nothing. They were only words he had been expecting forever. And yet he wanted to share it with someone. But there was nobody to tell. He walked on.
And
all the feet passed by with places to be, everyone’s feet but yours.
He
called Rex’s number on his phone. It
said This Phone Is Switched Off. He sent
a message. They hadn’t spoken for
months. He walked faster. He still didn’t feel anything.
There
was a shop and he went inside and there was Christmas music playing, mistletoe
and wine, mistletoe and wine, logs on the fire and gifts on the tree, but
pronounced giffs, giffs on the tree, giffs on the tree, on and on it jangled,
like the glace cherry on top of a cake of shit.
Then suddenly there was a quiet minor landslide within him, his head
began to pulsate and the numb areas began to flood with black and he gave a
little scream, everything went under and introverted, inverted itself, you
slipped from my fingers and I lost you, and he was holding Rex’s fingers over a
cliff, by his fingertips, over the edge, with the sea below, and Rex silently
slipped through his fingers and Louis wasn’t even aware they had still been
holding hands so it didn’t happen like that at all and he said “oh”, and he
tried to hold onto the hands to stop Rex falling and still he slipped through
his fingertips but Louis kept holding on and he walked through the crowd with
the Christmas music and he could hear a faint howling sound in his head,
getting louder and louder, and a subtle emptiness in his stomach, and he held
onto the fingertips. He felt the body falling,
falling in an endless fall and nothing to cushion the fall, but no end in
sight, no impact, just falling.
Louis
cried out no but it was too late.
I
just want to speak with you.
He
tried calling Rex’s number again and it was still switched off and he sent another
message and then he went down the Grand Union to Paddington Basin.
The
canal towpath was icy.
The
Japanese woman was there, on Rex’s boat.
Her baby was asleep and Bonnie was silent.
“It
is so sad”, she said, as if she had been expecting him. She was looking at all of Rex’s things.
She
had a key to Rex’s boat. Why didn’t I
have a key to his boat?
Rex
hadn’t paid the moorage for six months and the waterways were threatening to
take the boat as payment. He had
inherited the boat and the mooring from a man called Tilas who had nobody of
his own and liked him that much.
“What
are you going to do with all his things?”
“The
council will come and take it all away”, she said.
Louis
looked around at everything Rex owned.
“You can’t just throw it away”, he said.
“It
is all emptied of him now”, she said, “It is hollow”.
It
meant nothing to her now that Rex was gone, it was completely emptied of his
presence, but it had to go somewhere and it was important to tie up loose ends.
To
Louis it was not empty, it was full of Rex, bursting with him. He saw Rex’s face in every single item, the
smell of Rex, the mind of Rex, everything was drenched with Rex, every object
was so much more than just itself.
Louis
suggested that they take it all round to his own flat, all of it, have you got
a car?
There
was a wheelbarrow on the tow-path and they spent the rest of the evening removing
Rex back to Louis’ flat, she loading the wheelbarrow and he wheeling it two
miles to the flat. It was cold and
drizzly. Ian slept through it all.
Emiko
went to a hardware store and got more black sacks.
Every
item Louis touched and picked up and packed away had a memory attached to it,
much of it he had given Rex himself, all of it was now damaged in some way,
torn, ripped, folded, bloodstained, heroin splashes. Lovely postcards Louis had sent him, even
proper cards he had made, folded in half, frazzled. Empty pots of vitamin pills - Emiko said, “I
advised him of that, we went to the health shop and he stole seventy quid’s
worth of stuff then expected me to carry it all home for him”.
When
Rex had first moved into the boat she had gone with him to a garden centre
where he had stolen a full set of steel saucepans and kitchen knives. Nobody had challenged him as he left the
store.
“I
made him eat correctly”, she said, but Rex had always known how to eat
correctly so Louis didn’t know why she was taking credit for it.
There
were syringes but she said he had stopped since his foot. They looked like fresh syringes.
Why
wouldn’t you stop when you were with me.
I
wasn’t a gangrened foot.
So
much of your life in the last two years I know nothing about and I can’t ask
you now.
All
the grubby little scraps of paper they carefully packed into the sacks, Rex’s
to-do lists, people to pay, people to see, things to buy, screwed up, creased,
burnt at the edges with cigarettes, his utility bills, credit card bills, a
thick wad of business cards from people who had lent him money to get a train back
to Nottingham, his medical records, his court records, his drug appointments,
bailiff letters, leaflets about health cures, miracles cures for backs for
hearts for kidneys, adverts for bigger boats, and Louis’ name was in all the
lists, usually about two-thirds down, incessant scraps, desperate for the good
clean future that he just couldn’t make happen.
There was a leaflet about insomnia that the doctor had given him and he
had scribbled on the contraindications anagrams from all the longer words, but
not always real words, insomnia, monia,
difficulty, dufty, sleeping, pinge, dreaming, anger.
The
secrets of dead people are not the unknown affairs they had, the illegitimate
children, or the millions in offshore banking accounts, but the leaflets they
keep and why, the bank statements showing where they drew money in what shop,
for £2.71 or £3.19. It was oddly moving,
the sheer banality of it.
Louis
couldn’t throw away anything with Rex’s handwriting on it, any smear of blood.
Also
here on the boat were the angry messages Louis had written him when they were
together, Rex had kept everything, and it was excruciating for Louis to see again
his own impotent frustrated rage but he packed these messages as reverently as
all the rest because the memory was also pleasant because when he had written
them Rex had still been there to receive them.
There
was a half-eaten pineapple in the little fridge, drying up. Some pleasures Rex could always defer.
Under
a chair were his shoes worn to nothing with his soul imprinted in them; his
feet were always in the front line of battle.
Your shoes need you inside them - what his feet had gone through, the
inners bent up and rigid, all went in the bags, in the barrow, to the flat, everything
was precious, every stub of cigarette, a small crack pipe which Louis pocketed
like a saint’s relic.
Days
on the streets with no socks, your feet bleeding, and you would plead with me to
stay the night - yet you never spoke of how hard it was, how much pain you were
in and how depressed you were (Rex saying, “I’m so unhappy”) - you were so
unhappy. Louis became slowly saturated
again with Rex’s misery.
It
was a searing pain in his gut to know that he had not been able to make Rex
happy, had not been able to make his life easy.
Emiko
suddenly laughed.
“When
I met Ian -” Louis started.
“He
never said anything”, she said, as if Rex spoke to her about everything. Rex never much confided anything in anyone.
I
wish I had been perfect, I wish I had been consistent in my love.
Louis’
arms ached from pushing the wheelbarrow.
In a cardboard box there were clothes which Louis had bought in charity
shops with Rex’s blood all over them, pockets torn off impatiently, and all
these were respectfully folded and went in the black sacks.
All
his lighters, broken lighters, his big clumsy hands, Rex had enormous respect
for anyone who could light a Swan Vesta without ripping the box to shreds.
The
dressing gown with the cord tied into a tourniquet to get the veins up – that
was like a happy memory now.
Nothing
was binned – it was as if some secret of Rex might be hidden among all this
rubbish that would provide the answer to everything, even though there was no
question.
They
worked in silence, even the baby slept on, and the parrot was quiet.
Emiko
picked up a pair of holey gloves – “His poor hands”, she said.
In
the Chapel of Rest, his poor red hands, red raw, bitten down nails, she had
kissed them but she did not tell Louis this.
So cold, those hands. They had
been scrubbed so clean by the funeral people that they almost weren’t his hands
anymore, which were always grimy, those hands forever busy, nervously twisting
little bits of paper, rolling cigarettes, drawing doodles, making lists, chewing
his nails at the front of the nail because he had run out of length, large
rough hands, man’s hands. His dead lips,
dead red lips, no shy sweet smile, nothing.
To
see him so still who was always so alive, talking talking, except when he was
asleep for hours - being dead just wasn’t Rex‘s style. She had touched the body gently to see if he
would wake up – there are no unique responses to death; its inertia frightened
her.
Nobody
came into the room to disturb her. She’d
drawn some pictures of him lying there – she drew portraits in Leicester Square
for money and was used to people fidgeting about – it was a pleasant change to
have someone so still. But when she was
finished she wanted to share the picture with him and he wouldn’t open his eyes.
The
funeral was out in the middle of nowhere, she got on a train that was so slow she
could have towed it quicker between her teeth.
Emiko had missed her own mother’s funeral because she had a spot on the
end of her nose and hadn’t wanted anyone in the family judging her, but she had
to go to Rex’s.
At
the Chapel of Rest she was let in by a woman who acted like she was showing
potential buyers round a flat.
He
was still beautiful.
Emiko
had wanted to squeeze into the coffin next to him so he wouldn’t be alone, wrap
her arms around him and keep him warm and safe, as he had done for her when she
had most needed it. She sat with him for
two hours, feeding her baby, quietly reading the paper. It was horrible to leave him and go across the
town to the church and wait for him there, arriving to be burnt, like
abandoning him to a fiery hell, alone.
It just seemed wrong that it was his funeral. Sitting outside the chapel watching all the
hearses slowly coming down a long long driveway, until finally she knew it was
his hearse coming, slowly slowly it came, like doom arriving, the end of
everything. A car with the body of Rex
in it, wanting to freeze the moment and stop it progressing any further, put it
all in reverse, the car going backwards, speeding backwards, not coming here,
not carrying that load, reverse reverse so everything hasn’t happened and none
of this follows.
She
told Louis it was a beautiful funeral. She
said he didn’t tell anyone he was ill, not this time, he knew he’d run out of
chances.
Louis
was still thinking about Rex’s feet and the last time he’d seen him, wanting to
come indoors into the flat, just dropped round, saying, “I’ll take my shoes off”,
all humble. And Louis had said no. They chatted for a while on the doorstep then
Rex meekly walked away. They hadn’t
hugged.
The
boat smelt so smoky it was like he was in the room with them.
Corpses
of apples, grapes to sultanas.
Ian
had gone straight to bed but he woke up when Louis wheeled the final load into
the flat. Louis took his coat off, sat
down and looked at all the black bags.
Ian came out and saw the huge pile of rubbish
on the sofa, everywhere, four foot high in places, and a woman he’d never met.
Louis
said, “It’s from the boat. It’s Rex’s stuff”.
His
voice had retreated to somewhere deep inside him, way way back, the words choked
out.
Ian said angrily, “He’s not moving in here”.
Louis
started crying, thinking that Ian would hug him and comfort him. It didn’t seem necessary to say that word.
Ian couldn’t understand why he was
crying. He thought Louis would be happy
that he was up out of bed and feeling better.
He
said, “If you think we’re turning the flat into a shrine for that cunt”.
“Don’t
call him that”.
“It’s
you who told me he was a cunt. It’s not
your stuff, you weren’t together anymore. Why’ve you taken it all, it’s not your
responsibility. Has that parrot shit
here?”
Emiko
had brought both the parrot and the baby to see Rex’s final resting place. There was a large white stain on one of the binbags.
Ian
said Rex was a devious little shit. Ian respected
animals so much that he wouldn’t eat them. He respected their right to live and not be
made into coats, tested on in laboratories or made to perform tricks. It was an ethical decision – this was a
violent world and one was either pro violence or anti violence and if you were
anti violence then that included animals. But the concept of pets was a mystery to him. Who would want the trouble? Just feeding and shitting, feeding and
shitting. And scratching themselves and
bringing home fleas. Animals’ arses,
animals’ tongues. Bits hanging off their
arses. Rough tongues. Drool.
The
parrot spread one of her wings right out as if to say See how beautiful I
am. Or possibly, my armpit itches with
sweat. Ian looked away and suppressed an
urge to retch. He said, “Well?”
Louis
looked at the piles of Rex’s things – I don’t want your things I want you –
He
couldn’t sit still; he got up and put his coat back on.
Ian said, “Where are you going now?”
“Out”.
“Where? It’s nearly midnight” – and to Louis’
retreating back – “You’re not leaving me here with all this crap”.
But
he was gone. Emiko sorted out her baby’s
hat and got up and left too.
Ian
kicked lightly at one pile of Rex’s belongings and it moved; one of the bags
slid down. He put it back where it had
been and went to make himself some chamomile tea.
The
faster Louis walked the closer everything came in on him. Every single place he passed had the face of Rex,
he was like a spider leaving misty webs everywhere to catch him.
He
had not really thought about Rex at all for two years – death focuses the
attention wonderfully. He knew he had
been ill but had not taken it seriously; Rex always seemed bullet-proof. But that was a lie. He had often been ill when they were
together, his heart, his kidneys, his back.
Time in hospital again and again, and when he came home they lived on
Forty Sips. Rex took all the money for
drugs but he had a repeat prescription for Forty Sips and that was what they
lived on, until he was deemed well and that too was stopped.
It
was very very cold tonight. The first
time he’d met Rex it had been windy. He
had noticed a man in the road flustering about picking up bank notes, and Louis
and several other people went to help him, pressing the notes into his hands
and pockets, twenties and fifties, it must have been thousands of pounds
blowing around.
After
everyone else had gone Louis said to him, “What are you, a pimp?” And Rex had smiled, looked to left and right
and said, “It’s not mine”. He said, “Guy
who dropped it, I shouted, I couldn’t make him hear me, and then people started
helping me pick it up for him but he’s disappeared. Fancy a drink?”
And
they spent the rest of the day together, spending someone else’s money. Talking talking talking. Rex had that week emerged from a short stint
in prison and was wearing oversized prison sweats, in a strange burgundy orange
colour. He was always such a mess - why
was that so endearing? Ian had to have
everything clean and pressed. He felt
like Rex needed him but it was an illusion.
They
had sat on a wall by the British Museum buying bags and bags of overpriced
chestnuts because there were only 4 in a bag, so close that their legs touched
and neither had pulled away, it just felt right. Later on Rex was so tired he had slept with
his head on Louis’ lap in Russell Square Gardens for over an hour. When Louis finally woke him up, nearly
midnight by then, Rex went into a phone box to light a cigarette out of the
wind and Louis squashed in behind him and when they said goodbye Louis said, “I
think you’re gorgeous”, backing away, stepping backwards as he spoke, as if for
a quick getaway, to dodge a rejection, and Rex had sprung forward and hugged
him tight, really like being enveloped by a bear, strange considering how wiry
he was and not tall, strong for his size.
Except a real bear would bite your head off.
During
that first afternoon Rex had begged a tiny tomato off an office worker eating a
packed lunch under the Statue of Eros; he held it between thumb and forefinger
and gently squeezed it until the flesh broke, smiling mischievously at Louis
while he did it.
Louis
walked now past all the places where he had shouted at Rex, the town hall, the
library, market, post office, all-night shop, bus stop. The cash machine where he had shrieked at him
and called him a dirty little junkie, chased after him to throw his clothes at
him and told him not to come home, how Rex just quietly walked away not wanting
to attract attention. And how Rex stayed
away for weeks and when he finally did come home his feet were white and red
with sores because he had been sleeping rough.
You told me not to come home. I
am so sorry.
All
the cafes with the cups of coffee with 20 packets of sugar.
Louis
had never been able to keep his mouth shut, just be kind, be calm, be tolerant.
Let it go – that’s the buzzword. He would never bend. He’d never seen a man cry before.
That
first day when Rex slept on his lap, after about fifteen minutes, Louis had
begun to get irritated and bored. There
were many times after that when he had been cruel – Rex would say in his
cracked voice, “Please be nice to me”, or ask for a cuddle, and Louis would
refuse. So many terrible things he’d
said, and how angry he always got when Rex just wouldn’t wake up - Louis
couldn’t walk away and leave him in peace, he nagged and nagged. How happy Rex always was when Louis was in a
good mood. Louis rang his number again
so that Rex would pick up the phone and he could say sorry. Sorry sorry sorry.
Horrible
things I did, nice things I didn’t do, you tried so hard.
So
many times later on, after he met Ian, when Rex called him and he wouldn’t
answer the phone. Rex phoned him late one
night after he got arrested, asking him to come to the police station for his
keys, and Louis told him to fuck off and hung up on him.
In prison Rex had queued up for an hour just
to call him to let him know there was a vegetarian cookery programme on
television, but by the time he got to the front of the queue the programme was
over and Louis was out anyway, had his phone on silent, and hated cooking programmes
but that wasn’t the point.
Now
Rex would not answer the phone.
Louis
had ignored his calls because of Ian but that wasn’t Ian’s fault, he made his
own choice, but if he wasn’t with Ian he wouldn’t have had to ignore the calls -
except he would have, he didn’t want to talk to Rex anymore.
He
had known Rex was ill but had not phoned him.
It
was astonishing to him now what an open wound Rex still was within him.
You
are an open wound in my heart that will never heal.
I
thought you had killed my love but here it still is, huge as ever, how did I
not see it.
He
had known Rex was ill but had not phoned him, he would never bend for Rex, he
was sorry for that. All the times he had
said “no” killed him.
How
did you stand it, me always complaining, I never stopped.
Louis
had by now walked up and down Edgware Road and all the side streets as far as
Marble Arch and there was nothing anywhere so he turned around and came home.
In
the dark, in the lamplight, in the stillness, the scent of fires in other people’s
homes, sweet memories of coming home late with you. Such a strong feeling, so throbbingly alive. It was like the weather was an exact replica
of a time he had walked home with Rex, the whole air, the atmosphere became so
alive with Rex, so crackling with electricity that he felt like he was five
years ago and Rex was by his side, dawdling and looking at all the cars in the
BMW showroom.
A
man rolling a cigarette the way you do.
Louis
went to bed. Ian had left a note for him
before he went to work the night shift: “I’m
sorry for what I said. You’ll have no
problems with me from now on”.
Louis
couldn’t be still.
He
turned the light out and he was alone in a huge black hole; he turned it back
on again so his eyes had something to cling to on the way down.
Ian hated the light on but he wasn’t here.
Finally Louis slept for a couple of hours.
He
awoke at 5am into the same black hole. Rex
was gone.
Emiko
had given him a spare boat key when they were doing the wheelbarrow trips and
hadn’t asked for it back.
He
went back to the empty boat to clean the walls of all the fine brown sprays of
heroin, got on his hands and knees and wiped away at the floors, every corner,
still looking for the secret thing, as though a tiny speck of dust would
magically expand and transform itself into Rex, five years ago, looking for Rex
as if Rex had shrunk himself down into a tiny essence of himself, still findable,
still somewhere, still here, who could somehow be brought back to his rightful
shape and size. He went round for hours
peering closely at everything on the floor, scared of missing something.
You
invited me here to cook me a meal and I never turned up. You sent me a message saying everything was
hot and ready and where was I?
Looking
looking.
A
letter had been delivered to the boat – seeing Rex’s name on the envelope
lifted his spirits, like Rex still had a presence in the world so long as an envelope
had his name on it - but it was only a bailiff’s letter. Louis put it in his pocket.
Emiko
came in and said, “What are you looking for?”
But he didn’t know. “We haven’t missed anything”, she said.
She
was carrying a footballer’s duffle bag with her baby’s essentials in it. She asked if he wanted to come to Leicester
Square with her but he didn’t.
Still
looking for a sign, a message, he didn’t know what, to prove that Rex was still
alive, and still loved him. He could
smell cigarettes and dried blood. It was
so cold in the boat but Rex’s body was always warm.
What
his life had been like up to the point when he met Rex Louis could hardly
remember now but he could remember it very well. Rex was the first man who had stayed. Which was strange when he so often didn’t come
home, but still he had stayed. They had
pivoted around each other like dogs getting acquainted, nose to nose,
interested but never quite trusting.
That was another lie.
Back
home at the flat Louis ignored the huge pile of Rex’s belongings and got out his
little Rex box from under the bed, but couldn’t open it. Flipped open the lid then shut it again. There were some photos of Rex he had kept but
they were all taped together after being ripped up in fight after fight – Rex looked
unhappy in all of them, but trying to smile, he always tried to smile in photographs.
Louis
looked at himself in the mirror. He
already looked different. His face was
so drained even his acne scars were no longer apparent. That was nice.
Ian came into the room and smiled. He said, “You’ve still not said if you like
the new paint”.
Louis,
astonished, said, “Yes it’s fine”.
“You
could be a bit more enthusiastic, I did it for you, you like the sea”.
That
was Rex.
Ian
said, “I’ve made tea”.
“I’m
not hungry”.
Ian had bought some things from the Italian
deli downstairs which he knew Louis liked, tarts of rosemary and garlic,
aubergine and spinach, toasted almonds which were so expensive they only ever
bought them as presents, better than diamonds.
“It
doesn’t work like that”, Louis said, like Ian was trying to buy peace.
“Well
how does it work? I said I was sorry. You’ve got all his crap here, I’m not
complaining, I understand that’s part of the grieving process. It’s wrecked the look of the place, but I’m
not complaining, you can’t get the full effect of the paint job with all this rubbish
in the sight line”.
He
couldn’t understand why, after all Rex had done to him, Louis was so bothered
that he was dead.
Louis
said, “I don’t want him dead!”
Ian said, as gently as he could, which wasn’t
very, “It doesn’t really matter what you want - he is”.
“I
know he is!” I can still want him not to
be, Louis thought, I want to gouge out my own brain so I don’t have to think
about it anymore, I want to go to sleep and not wake up. How could he think nobody would care? Rex coming home after weeks away and Louis
saying, “My god I thought you were dead”, and Rex saying, “You’d like that,
wouldn’t you”, not sarcastically, really meaning it, testing.
Ian
said, “You’ve just got to accept it, and move on”.
Louis
winced inside. He kicked the Rex box
back under the bed and made for the door.
Ian
chased after him to apologise again, even though he didn’t know what he was
apologising for, and to say the paint didn’t matter, trying to work out what he
could say to make Louis feel better. But
Louis was too quick for him and he couldn’t figure out which direction he’d
gone in. He raced back indoors to write
down his speech so he wouldn’t forget it.
You’ll
have no problems with me from now on.
Louis
running away with his baby grief, not yet old enough to stand on its own two
feet.
That
evening, stopping his bike at traffic lights on the way to work, Ian became
aware of a short tubby woman at the bus stop who looked like a very tanned Miss
Tiggywinkle and she was staring at him intently.
She
had a ten year old boy standing solemnly at her side.
Ian knew who she was because his father had
told him he was the dead spit of her brother Alan and she was still recognisable
from the wedding photos. His father had
kept these photographs by his bedside till he died. She had Ian’s mouth and he had her eyes,
which he had always hated.
He
felt it wasn’t seemly to have to reveal himself to her; she should discover
him; the onus was surely on her to resume contact: she was the adult. He nodded back at her, almost imperceptibly,
against his will, and then realised she wasn’t staring at him at all but at a
poster on the opposite side of the road advertising anti-ageing cream, with an
18 year old girl demonstrating its efficacy.
Suddenly
she said, “Are you related to me?”
Then
she said, “You’re the dead spit of my brother Alan. Are you little Alfie?”
Ian said, “I’m Ian”. He didn’t ask who Alfie was.
“My
Ian?” she said and stepped back to fully take him in, appraising him with a
ruthless objectivity he didn’t much care for.
She
said to the young boy, “It’s my Ian”. And
the young boy held out his hand to shake, saying “I’m John”, but without
explaining who John was in relation to the moment in hand.
“How
long has it been?” she mused, as if he were a cancer in remission.
Ever
since you walked out when I was twelve and told me I could visit you on
holidays, he thought, but said nothing because he didn’t want to seem needy. He wasn’t needy. He had never really noticed her gone, it had
been a relief when she went and it was just him and his father, so much more
peaceful without her. But seeing her
again woke up something in him that he hadn’t even known was there. He could see his face in hers and it
fascinated and repelled him.
“Shall
we take him for a cup of tea?” ventured the boy John.
Ian
had to be at work but he didn’t want to tell her where he worked but he also didn’t
want to be late. But if he said he
couldn’t go for a cup of tea he would never see
her again and he had no idea where to find her.
He wanted to say no because he wanted her to insist but he was afraid
she wouldn’t insist so he followed them into the coffee lounge of a pub.
She
asked him what he wanted. He said, “Black
coffee please no sugar decaf”.
Mrs.
Tors looked at him in a mocking sort of way with a twinkle in her eye.
She
said, “Have something stronger. I’m
having another rum and coke”.
But
Ian was even more afraid of turning up drunk at work than he was of her laughing
at him, although it was a close competition.
He again asked for black coffee, hoping she would admire his abstinence.
Mrs.
Tors said that was no fun so she got him a cappuccino.
While
she was at the bar Ian tried to surreptitiously call work to let them know he
would be late but the boy John was sitting there staring at him.
Mrs.
Tors came back with a tray and put a tiny drop of her rum into John’s coke. Ian said, “You can’t do that” and she said, “Shut
up do you want to get me arrested?”
Ian
looked at the cappuccino while Mrs. Tors talked with John about where they’d
just been and where they were going tomorrow.
Suddenly she said to Ian, “Are you married yet?”
There
are moments in life when the truth is utterly irrelevant. Ian said, “We’re thinking about it, but I
don’t talk about it, so please don’t say anything”.
She
asked who on earth she would tell; she didn’t work for the Wall Street Journal. She said she told her partner everything, but
only him. Ian did not want her and her
partner discussing the fact that Louis wouldn’t marry him so he shut up.
Mrs.
Tors primped herself up in her seat. She
said that her partner asked her to marry him every morning, it was very
romantic, she said. “I always say Not
today”.
There
was a pub quiz starting and Ian pretended to be interested in the questions so
that he wouldn’t have to deal with any more of hers. He disliked quizzes because it was only proving
what you already knew and didn’t require any mental gymnastics, beyond
recall. He had good recall, although not
for the sort of facts that were generally asked in quizzes.
“Pity
we’re too late to join in”, she said, “I love a good quiz”.
Ian
agreed it was a pity. So she had a sharp
brain, that was something. He looked at
the milky coffee again and thought about cows with mastitis wincing in pain,
their calves gone and latte drinking morons in their place. She was still talking with the boy John and
there were no long enough gaps in their conversation for him to say goodbye. He kept looking at his watch to see how late
he was. He would be on time tonight
instead of the half hour early which he preferred. He muttered, “I’m late for work”.
John
asked him where he worked and Mrs. Tors said, “Work? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word”. Even though she had no experience of his
character after the age of 12, Ian thought, Well it’s true, I have never been
down a coal pit, or chopped wood, or even sat in an office for eight hours a
day filing things, so he couldn’t say anything.
But he wanted to subtly inform her of all the worthwhile activities he
did in the world, as a worthwhile human being who did nothing but good, despite
not having much of a paypacket to show for it, but he couldn’t think of
anything. If he had trained as a
scientist in Japan and worked in a power plant he could have sacrificed his
life to control the nuclear meltdown, but then he wouldn’t be here now to tell
her about it. Except he’d read those
scientists had to go incognito because everyone in Japan thought they were
responsible for the melt-down in the first place. He had never been good at chemistry.
Mrs.
Tors had a smirk on her face as if she could read his mind.
Eventually
the boy John asked her if they would still have time to get to the pantomime and
Mrs. Tors said, “Yes, we can’t sit here all day.”
Ian
said, “Are you living round here now?” and she said, “For a while”. She said, “I can’t believe how much you look
like Alan”. She said it was fascinating.
As
she was putting on her coat, Ian said – because she didn’t offer it - “Can you
give me your address then?” so the boy John wrote it down, to practice his
handwriting. Ian wrote down his own
address and phone number but hated himself for it because she should have
asked. But he couldn’t wait and risk her
not asking and, even though he knew that if she didn’t ask then she wasn’t the
mother he wanted, he still wanted her to be the mother he wanted her to be and
maybe he could train her and she’d like him if she knew him better. Then Mrs. Tors and the boy John went back to
the bus-stop and jumped on a bus.
All
in all Ian had to admit that it had been a pretty terrible meeting. His heart was racing as he got into work two minutes
late. He had nobody to report to so it
didn’t really matter but he cleaned twice as fast to catch up with his routine
so that he could get back to Louis at the usual time. The smell of piss and shit and ammonia hardly
pierced his consciousness at all tonight.
He hoped she would call.
Louis
said, “Why’s she back?”
“I
didn’t ask. With any luck she’s coming
home to die”.
Louis
asked what they’d talked about but Ian didn’t know. She had re-married twice since she’d left
England; his father had been invited to both weddings. She had mainly talked to the boy John but
that was OK, they were just getting used to each other again. She had kept looking at him.
Louis
asked who the boy was but he didn’t know that either– neither of them had given
any hint.
Ian said, “You seem better”.
Louis
said he was tired. He bit his lip. He felt bruised. He kept looking in the mirror and could see
the bruise on his face, in his eyes. He
looked so different. Couldn’t Ian see
it? He was a completely different person
now. But he held all this back and then
was angry for having to. You seem better. He had politely asked about Ian’s mother. Ian didn’t ask about him, just made
assumptions with no foundation.
He
wanted to go to bed but Ian was going to bed and he had Smooch Radio on in
there and Louis didn’t want to hear it.
They usually caught each other for a couple of hours when Ian came home
and before Louis got up.
Ian
said, “I said you’re looking better”, which was a compliment.
Louis
said, “I’m going out”.
“But
I’ve only just got in. It’s 3am! You’re trying to get away from me again! What have I done wrong now?”
Louis
scoured the countryside of his imagination and said, “I’m hungry and there’s no
food here”. There was always food in the
cupboards. They lived over a shop.
Ian
said, “I love you”.
Louis
tried to say, “I love you too”, which was the versicle and the response, but
the words refused to be either pushed or dragged out. They had scurried away to a tiny little cave
in a back corner of his mind and were staying put in the dark, with their arms
folded.
I
can’t love him because you are no longer here, I miss you, I hate the pain he made
me cause you. I’m not better.
“It’s
all wrong – you’re with me now, you weren’t even together anymore. You left him. You’ve got no right to be upset. It’s bizarre”.
Louis
said, “It doesn’t quite work like that”.
He didn’t know why he was suddenly an expert in how things work.
“Well
how does it work?”
Ian realised he was raising his voice and repeating
himself and probably not helping matters but he couldn’t stop himself. Louis had run out the door.
Next
night Ian was at work and Louis again woke up at 3am. Blink.
Again pushed out of the plane with no parachute. Rex was gone.
Gone gone gone. He felt sick. He felt like howling. He started whimpering and it rose to howling.
He
ran around his head, howling, trying to grab at something in his mind to steady
himself but could find nothing. The
enormity of the black hole of space was shocking. There was absolutely nothing to hold onto. He felt like he was crashing into the walls
and the walls were an illusion and he was crashing into nothing. It was dark outside. It had been snowing. He got up and pulled some more clothes
on. He ran around the flat still
screaming in his head why why why why why why why. He
couldn’t find his shoes; he went outside.
It
was black and the snow was silent and the world was enormous and there was
nobody in it. It was terrifying.
He
needed to talk to someone, anyone, just a tiny shred of normality to cling onto. There was not even a policecar about. Some cars went by on their way to somewhere
else miles away in a different world.
He
wanted to talk to someone who cared about Rex but he didn’t know anyone, just
be with someone, sit in a room with another human being. Emiko was already sick of him.
He
walked up the street looking at all the houses, looking for a light on
somewhere. The screaming was still in
his head.
Number
16 had a light on upstairs, he knew them by sight, they’d recently had a baby
and he had complimented them on its eyes two weeks ago, to be polite, even
though it looked like W.H. Auden after a heavy night.
Louis
pressed the bell and stood back so they could see him through the spy hole and
not be alarmed by such an early caller.
He tried to smooth down his hair and wipe his eyes, do his shirt buttons
up.
Nobody
came down. Maybe they had gone away for
Christmas. Maybe they’d taken the baby to
California for plastic surgery. Maybe
the bell didn’t work. He pressed the
button again and stood there shuffling expectantly from foot to foot but nobody
came.
He
moved off, still whimpering.
There
was a full house ablaze with light at the end of the road, at 101. This was where Mrs. Meier lived, who was now a
lollipop lady. He supposed she must get
up early for the zebra crossing.
He
rang the bell, which was a complicated affair, and Coral Meier immediately
answered the door with a mug of coffee in one hand and a roll-up between her
teeth. She saw his face, took him by one
hand and brought him into her smoky kitchen, made him sit by the heater. The kitchen was small and in one corner,
taking up far too much room, some large placards faced the wall. He wondered what was on them. There was also a strange clicking noise going
on.
Coral
noticed him looking around. “It’s the
fridge”, she said. “It’s like having a
kangaroo in the room”.
She
made him a cup of coffee and put some biscuits on the table, chattering
endlessly about such inanities it soothed him. She told him she couldn’t find her new thermal
socks, they had cost her £15 for a pack of two and were really warm, really
good quality, then suddenly she spotted them by the toaster and alighted upon
them with joy and began pulling them on over the thin socks she was already
wearing.
Then
she sat down quietly opposite Louis and finished her drink.
She
pointed out the faint shimmer of a snail trail on her kitchen mat. She said, “It only comes out at night. It always goes the same route. I think it’s heading for the water dish for a
drink”.
Louis
imagined a slug the size of a haddock slithering across her floor but Mrs.
Meier seemed to find it quite sweet. She
didn’t have a cat or dog, she just put the water bowl down for the slugs.
He
couldn’t speak, he didn’t know where to begin, but suddenly he exclaimed, “My
partner’s died!” Mrs. Meier thought he meant Ian.
So
they spoke about it for a little while, because she had known Rex when he’d
lived in the street because he always talked to all the neighbours, and then
about thermals again and snow and the baby at number 16 and a builder’s
hard-hat which she had recently found on a skip and thought might come in handy,
and when she had to leave at 7am in her high-visibility clothes clutching her
lollipop Louis felt much better, almost human, the world was coming alive
again, there were distractions, and she said, “Come again, come again”, and
meant it.
Louis
walked all day and went in and out of shops, with his head bursting with Rex – if
someone had cut him open it would have been Rex that oozed out of him, that’s
all he was made of, nothing of himself left at all.
He
went back to the National Gallery to Room 14 and stood in front of the
Adoration of the Kings and thought about the time when he and Rex were adoring
kings, they loved the ridiculous long sleeves, the pointy foot and the
whispering figures in the background.
Why was baby Jesus so often portrayed naked? They were in a stable in December and child
mortality was very high back then. Jesus
the baby-man, the man-baby, man’s face – nobody liked to think of him as a
child back then, it was too demeaning.
The
day that Rex had run away from him in the National Gallery he was high on crack
- he had been looking at the paintings very very slowly, going up to them and
inspecting them with wide staring eyes. But
he denied that’s why he’d spent two hours in the lavatories. Louis just wanted him to admit the
truth. He could never let anything
go. Why wasn’t it enough just to know
the truth, why did he have to make Rex humiliate himself? After Louis had been pounced on, Rex had not
waited for him; he had a crack-pipe in his pocket.
Louis
looked at the painting and pretended that Rex was standing next to him. He squinted his eyes so he could see Rex’s
reflection in the glass. And then he
went home and all Rex’s things were still there and he couldn’t be in the same
room so he went out again.
The
very act of walking was a distraction, the movement made him feel like he was
moving, like he was doing something practical, not getting away but getting
closer. And there would be fractions of
moments, tiny splinters of time, when he actually felt normal.
He
saw Rex ahead in that long black coat he had, the hand shielding a lighter over
a roll-up, the slight sway in the walk, that little stumble in the
distance. He willed it to be Rex as if this
might actually happen; if he concentrated hard enough the form would turn round
and Rex would walk towards him with a shy smile and give him a mischievous
wink. The fact that this did not happen
he blamed on his own feeble powers of concentration - it might be a very old Chinese
man – and he kept trying again with other distant figures. For he found that Rex was everywhere, there
were hundreds of people everywhere who looked a tiny bit like Rex and he
concentrated on each of them thinking they would magically transform into Rex,
who was like nobody else he had ever met in his life.
He
hoped that Rex would feel happy and special that this was the worst pain he had
ever felt.
My
life is a futile scream to be with you – but that’s what it was like when I was
with you – you never came home.
He
went into a grocers and the scent of pineapple choked him. He bought one.
He
found a used syringe in the street, and a wad of new wrapped syringes and citric
acid and it was comforting, like Rex was talking to him; he put them in his
rucksack.
He
could understand now why Rex did the things he did, used drugs, spent hours
chasing dealers, shooting up; it was this terrible agitation that nothing could
still. He knew what Rex was running from
and why he needed something to distract him from it.
I
want to die.
He
knew what Rex didn’t want to think about, things he had done in his life,
thought he had done, the terrible black hole of shame he could not bear to look
into.
He
wondered if Rex had been afraid at the end, when he was dying, if he was
frightened when it was happening, if he felt alone, and he just could not bear it
that Rex was gone and he could not ask him.
He would have given – what? – to have been there with him at the end to
comfort him. I have nothing worth
giving.
Emiko
said he was drugged up to the eyeballs at the end and it sounded funny the way
she said it with her sweet voice but it was a non-sequitur; it didn’t follow
that he wasn’t frightened.
Walking
walking, so much time to fill, just to tire himself out so he might sleep. Walking kept everything at bay and then he got
home and the huge pile of Rex’s things was still there facing him each day and
he tried to pick through the pile and move things around, sort things out, but
he couldn’t make any decisions and he couldn’t get rid of anything.
And
there were people everywhere, but sometimes in the early mornings he walked as
far as Soho, all those times he spent with Rex stuck in town overnight -
because he needed drugs and wouldn’t go home without them and wake up sick - everywhere
in the West End reminds me of you, London is you, thoughts of him smoking roll-ups
on the tube, striding through the carriages loudly chanting a Buddhist chant, Rex
loved singing, very loud and vigorously, but badly, tone deaf, really quite
awful for anyone within earshot, and London was quiet at this time and there
were only the zombie walking dead chasing down drug dealers, the people who
came out and took over the capital in the middle of the night, chasing down
dealers in High Holborn, in the middle of the empty road, sleeping out overnight
in winter trying to keep warm, off Tottenham Court Road, by the air vents, or
down in Waterloo Station.
It
helped to be moving but then he came home to nothing.
Ian said, “It’s not nothing, I’m here”.
Ian said, “Come and sit down”, and Louis said,
“I can’t”, and Ian offered to massage his shoulders. He said, “I have a strong back, I can carry
whatever you put on me, it’s safe for you to say anything to me, you don’t have
to censor yourself in front of me. If I
can do anything just tell me”. He set up
a chair in a tiny free space and motioned for Louis to sit on it, which he did.
Louis
thought, He’s not here, but he was never here anyway and now he never will be.
Ian
dug his thumbs in. And Louis who could not
now bear to be touched joked, “You can stop doing that for a start, you’re
killing me!”
Ian tipped the chair forward so Louis slid off
it. “See! I try to be nice and you throw it back in my
face”.
“You
told me not to censor myself”.
Ian said, “It’s been long enough now, can’t we
move on? Buck up, let’s move on, I want
you back to your old self”.
Louis
thought, It’s been a week, my grief bores you.
“It’s
insulting”, said Ian. “He treated you
like crap”.
Not
all the time.
That’s
what you told me.
I
edited it.
He
was a crack-head cunt.
No
he wasn’t.
“You
need to hear this, Louis. He didn’t
deserve you. Don’t start turning him
into a hero, that’s not the person he was.
You know that”.
Your
opinions are irrelevant, Louis thought, but didn’t dare say out loud.
Suddenly
Ian said, “I miss you”, hoping that the poignancy of the statement would
re-awaken something in Louis, make him feel wanted, and also that he would feel
sorry for Ian himself and what he was putting him through with this rejection.
Louis
said, “It’s been a week”. He thought,
it’s only a baby grief, it can’t yet stand on its own feet. Was Ian completely stupid? It seemed so.
Louis
said,” I never stopped –“.
Ian
cut in quickly. “Be very careful what
you say”.
Then
he kicked at the pile of Rex’s belongings and said, “You’ve got to sort this
out, I can’t stand it any longer. This
is my home too”. He had sponged off the
parrot shit but the bags were all odd shapes, they didn’t sit well together, they
weren’t stackable, they were in the way.
Louis
pushed his way between Ian and the pile of Rex’s junk to protect it from his
contempt.
Emiko
came round and they gazed at the pile of Rex together.
Louis
said, “How’s Bonnie?”
Emiko
said she couldn’t keep her and Ian said, “We’re not taking it”.
She
said birds have diseases and babies are vulnerable. Ian told her it was rare and she should wear
rubber gloves.
She
was wearing a pair of Rex’s jeans, which she had cut down to shorts done up
with one of his ties round the waist, and she had a pair of yellow woollen
tights underneath.
Lulu
was in a sling round her front and she was asleep, looking completely at peace
amongst all the rubbish with a silly expression on her face.
The only paternal instincts Ian had were for
his bike. Whenever he came back to it,
wherever it was chained up, he spent minutes checking that nothing had been
stolen, two wheels, one seat, pannier bags still intact, tyres unmolested, lights
OK, like a parent checking a new-born for the requisite number of toes and
fingers. He tried not to look at the
baby but wondered if it was healthy to sleep so much.
Emiko
noticed him looking at Lulu and carefully pulled the baby blanket over a part
of her face, but as if she was just being affectionate and motherly. She didn’t want him to see the birthmark.
Emiko
observed that Rex had a lot of books, he liked reading. But all the books were gifts from Louis who
had thought that an interesting book would keep him indoors. Settling down with a good book - but Rex was
not a settler downer and he had never read any of them. Books about sailing, Louis had thought that
would satisfy him, he had found so many books on variants of sailing and boat
building and diving and tropical fish, as if that would suffice and could
combat drug addiction.
There
were a couple of new books that Louis didn’t recognise – books on health, self-improvement
books, magical cures for health, superplants that could cure everything; it
made him feel strangely sad. There was
also a book on the Rothschilds which Rex had stolen as if it might contain some
valuable information he wanted to know. He
could never keep money. Louis gently
stroked it as if it were Rex’s soul.
Louis
was attached to all these books as if they represented a journey he and Rex had
gone on but it had been his own journey and Rex never joined him. They were all high quality books. In his house boat Rex had put them in neat
piles to make himself look like an avid reader and he had liked having them
there. Louis loved these books even
though he had no interest in sailing himself, it was the joy of gift giving and
the hopes he’d had for a quiet stable life with Rex. He said to Emiko now, “Let’s get rid of them all”
but Ian wanted to look at them - he said they looked interesting and he asked
to keep a few of them but Louis said no, it wasn’t right, they were Rex’s; he
wanted to take them to a charity shop Rex had liked because he knew that Rex
had often stolen from this shop.
Emiko
agreed he would have liked them going to charity but Louis knew that Rex was a
very sentimental hoarder and he wouldn’t - why else the falling-apart shoes
that he himself had given him, he wouldn’t give anything away, and he would
probably expect Louis to respect that.
But they were not really Rex’s books, they were Louis’. It was a terrible dilemma.
They
looked through Rex’s clothes and Emiko said Rex had funny taste, they weren’t
really his style, and Louis had bought these clothes too and he was attached to
them in the same way he was attached to the books and what did she know, they
were clothes Rex had asked for, to look respectable, they made him feel good
about himself, but all of them were ripped now and had bloodstains on, heroin
stains. Emiko said she could make the
shirts into dresses so Louis let her have them.
He
kept the trousers for himself even though they were too small for him, he could
lose weight and squeeze into them; he kept a leather coat too, the one Rex had
been wearing when they met, although that too was now ripped and hardened.
Emiko
said, “Could I have the kettle please?” and it was strange because why should
she ask, none of it belonged to Louis, he had no authority, they were just in
his flat, that was all.
The
rest of the things they took bag by bag to the charity shop.
And
Louis went out for coffee and didn’t come back until he knew Ian would be at
work and then he went to bed and it had been a busy day and he felt normal. He thought, Well that’s over with then.
He
fell asleep till 3am and he had no dreams and when he woke up not only was Rex still
gone but all his things were gone too. I
can’t feel you near me. His head split
open and he screamed. He fumbled out of
bed, got dressed and went to the Room With A View where he and Emiko had taken everything
but it was seven hours till they opened.
It
was very very cold. Louis didn’t want to
go home because Ian would be there soon.
He stamped his feet. An all night
supermarket was open so he went inside. Assistants
were quietly stacking the shelves as if nothing had happened. There was no Christmas music playing, which
was a relief. He bought Rex’s brand of
tobacco, the cheapest available, then went outside to roll a cigarette which broke
his heart. Rex was always so nice about
his rolling skills even though he never had the knack but folded rather than
rolled. Once Louis had folded him a
little box of twenty and written messages on each of them in felt-tipped pen
and Rex didn’t want to smoke them. Louis
looked at the magazines in the newspaper aisle, all the sailing magazines, and was
angry at Emiko and Ian for making him get rid of the books.
He
went outside again and sheltered in a phone booth. There was a notice to call the Samaritans so
he did.
Someone
answered immediately. Louis said, “My
boyfriend’s dead”. It was too complicated
and long-winded to explain the true nature of the relationship dynamic.
He
couldn’t believe anybody else was awake at this hour; the voice at the other
end was like a kind of warmth and this patient voice listened as he babbled on about
all the things he had done wrong to Rex, the time he had not let Rex through
the door, the phone calls he never made, the phone calls he never answered, all
the times he said no, and how loving Rex was, he had seen the innocent little
boy in him.
The
voice asked if he was feeling suicidal.
Alarmed that they would call the police on him, Louis said, “No” and
tried to reassure them, as if they would care.
He wasn’t suicidal. And yet, what
was it? He didn’t want to be alive.
Life
was empty now, meaningless, there was nothing here for him. He wanted to join with Rex again. The world was empty and he himself was empty. He no longer existed.
He
said, “I just want him back. I want it
not to have happened”.
The
voice said reasonably, gently, “But it has happened”.
Louis
said, “I still want it not to have happened”.
Why
couldn’t anyone understand this?
I
don’t want you to be dead.
And
he talked on and on and he felt a little better because there was someone
listening.
After
the call he had a cigarette then dialled the number again and another voice
answered. He couldn’t remember the name
of the previous Samaritan and it frightened him, like he had lost something
important, so this time he wrote down the new Samaritan’s name.
And
he kept calling back to try to find the first voice so he could ask for his
name again and write it down but it was always a different Samaritan branch and
then he couldn’t even remember what part of the country the first one had said
he was from anyway.
He
said, “My boyfriend just died”. And he
told each Samaritan about all the things he had done wrong, all the things he
never did, all the times he said no, the time he wouldn’t let Rex in even
though Rex said, “I’ll take my shoes off”.
Those words continued to stab him. Louis still said, “No, you can’t come in”.
He
said, “I just want him not to be dead”.
And
the voice gently said, “But he is dead”.
Louis
did this four more times, with sweet voices in different towns, although not
all of them were as nice as the first one whose name he had forgotten, and he had
exactly the same conversation with all of them, and cried in exactly the same
places, and they all asked if he was suicidal and he wrote down their names on
a scrap of paper and then bought a little notebook to store them in more
securely. Then it started to get light again
and he began to feel a bit better, there were more people around.
He
went back into the supermarket and bought some of Rex’s favourite chocolate
spread and scooped it out with his fingers like Rex did.
Finally
it was five to ten and he went back to the Room With A View shop and still it
wasn’t open. He rapped on the door but
there was nobody there. He checked the
opening times.
Then
he looked at the news rack in the newsagent’s next door and saw that it was
Sunday.
Back
home he realised he had received no condolence cards. His grief meant absolutely nothing to
absolutely no-one.
Mrs.
Tors called Ian and said she was coming round.
Ian
was sort of pleased but at the same time he thought it was a cheek, just inviting
herself. The way she had looked him up
and down made him fear his home would get the same treatment. He tried to tidy up in such a way that the
blue walls were what caught the eye, not the objects in the room or the tatty
furniture.
She
turned up early with the boy John who had on a brand new coat and he showed Ian
all the pockets and zips. He wanted a second
hand one, Mrs. Tors told Ian, but “I’m not having him in clothes someone else
has had on”.
Ian said it was very nice. He said he’d had his own coat for ten years
but she didn’t offer to buy him a brand new winter coat too. She didn’t commend him on the way he clearly
looked after his clothes, either.
She
had muddy boots on. Ian was horribly
aware of the piss and shit that footwear brought indoors off the pavement and he
said, as lightly as he could, “This is a shoeless house”, feebly indicating the
place where shoes were kept in the hallway.
The boy John slipped his off immediately but Mrs. Tors tutted and just breezed
in, sat in the most comfortable chair.
She looked frankly around the room.
She
said, “Christ it’s cold in here, haven’t you got any heating?”
Ian
explained that it was too expensive, they couldn’t afford it. He said that they never got colds because all
the bugs died.
“Put
some heating on for god’s sake”, and she got up and turned the switch on the
heater. “Nobody can live like this”, she
said. She told him to stop wasting his
money on non-essentials. She said why
didn’t he move somewhere cheaper but Louis had been here forever.
The
remainder of Rex’s things, which Louis had been unable to get back from the
charity shop and was buying back as and when they priced it up and put it on
display, this had been packed into boxes in the bedroom, brown boxes which were
suitably anonymous.
Louis
was out. Ian was alone, with no
reinforcements. She was half an hour
earlier than she had said. It might have
been the light but she looked blurry to Ian.
He couldn’t work out if she was smiling or not.
Then,
quite forcefully, she started listing all the shelving arrangements which she
would make if she lived here, to free up the table and chairs and floors from
all the books and stuff. Move this
around, put that there, tidy away the art materials.
Ian said nothing. It was rather like being stampeded by a herd
of rutting interior designers. He only realised
how affronted he was much later in the day when he viewed his squashed and
mangled corpse on the floor she had trodden over. But after all it was only shelves.
“Well
aren’t you going to offer us refreshments?”
He didn’t know why but Ian felt indignant that
she had not only invited herself here without waiting to be asked and then criticised
the décor, yet now he was expected to foot the bill for a teabag, boiling water
and cake.
The
boy John followed him into the kitchen and informed him that she had three
sugars in her tea, but they only had agave syrup. Ian asked about the boy John’s own beverage
preferences and John politely asked for juice, but squash if juice was not
available, and water if that wasn’t possible either. Ian rather liked him.
Their
cups all had brown stains on them because Louis never washed up properly, as
did the spoons, so Ian spent some time scouring them with a bristle pad to get
them white again and silver. He had a
headache and his eyesight was going funny, everything looked blurry.
Maybe
he would need glasses, he had always wanted to wear glasses.
“Have
you gone to India to pick the tea”, Mrs. Tors called out, as if it were an
original remark, and then when he brought it in she gulped her tea down quickly
without even appreciating how clean the cup was or the loveliness of the flower
syrup.
The
boy John said how delicious the juice was but that seemed unlikely because it
was three days out of date.
Mrs.
Tors picked up a sketch-pad and opened it to a drawing of Ian naked and put it
down again.
She
stood up to look out of the window over the backyard, which was filled with the
shopkeeper’s junk. “What a boring view”,
she said. It was an opinion Ian himself and
Louis had often voiced but he thought it rude that she should say so. He felt slighted, as if he himself were the
view. He said, “We like it”. She looked around the room again but made no
comment about the glorious peacock blue that Ian had painted it which, all
things considered, he took as a compliment.
Everything
still looked blurry, no matter how widely he opened his eyes. Rubbing them made it worse but his headache
had gone.
On
the way out Mrs. Tors said, “There’s 10 litres of magnolia paint in my garage. Next time I come we’ll get rid of this awful
blue, it’s giving me a headache”.
Outside
Emiko was walking past with Bonnie in a bird-cage she had just bought at the
market, hooked over Lulu’s pushchair.
John stepped backwards, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, face
all white, but eyes fixed on the parrot, checking it out. Mrs. Tors tried to drag him along, saying,
“Dirty bird, dirty bird”, but he wouldn’t budge. Emiko said, “She won’t hurt you”, and Mrs.
Tors said, “That’s not strictly true”. Bonnie
walked up and down Emiko’s arm who said, “Would you like to give her a
peanut?” But John fled, dropping the
peanut.
When
they had all gone, Ian got on his bike and went for a ride just to feel free
again. He noticed that there were
teethmarks on the handle grips, foxes were biting his bike again.
Louis
tried to avoid going to sleep because he was terrified of waking up again
because each fresh day was the same black hole of this enormous nothing, so he
took some sleeping pills but they had no effect at all. Waking up frightened with this unnameable fear
everything was frightening there was no safe spot anywhere waking up was
unbearable opening one’s eyes was unbearable.
There was nobody.
He
rang the Samaritans again and said, “My boyfriend’s dead” and talked about all
the horrible things he had done and how wonderful Rex was. After about ten minutes the Samaritan
tactfully wound the conversation down so Louis called another one and said
exactly the same things.
Then
he went back to the canal to look at Rex’s boat. Parts of the canal were iced over. He thought he would see Rex there. The boat was already up for sale and he
knocked on the little door fantasising about the relief he would feel when Rex
emerged, with his hair all sticking up, nervously rolling a cigarette.
He
watched the rolling bridge curl up to let some boats go past.
Somebody
came over to tell him that nobody was there and who to contact about the sale,
but Louis moved away, not wanting to hear.
He
walked along the bank asking for Emiko but she was not there either. He could see through her boat window the
parrot Bonnie but no Emiko. The bird was
in a small cage now with rubber gloves draped over the top. He watched Bonnie through the window for
twenty minutes imagining that she too might transmogrify into Rex, or that she
would at least throw out some sign that she knew where Rex was. The parrot shuffled sideways up the twig,
then back again. She had always had the
freedom of Rex’s boat but she did not leave the twig. She clearly had nothing in common with Rex at
all.
Rex
had been given the parrot last year after his foot was amputated. It was meant to cheer him up and take his mind
off his empty boot. But he failed to see
the joke. It wasn’t amusing. He had lost a foot. The parrot was messy, and grumpy, and he
hadn’t wanted something else to take care of.
He did so only grudgingly because nobody would relieve him of the burden
and it wasn’t the parrot’s fault. Over
the months they had formed a tolerance for each other although it never
blossomed into real love.
But on his own Rex liked to bounce ideas off
the parrot and he sometimes talked to her in silly voices. He loved words and would try out the longest
words he knew, to see if she would copy him, repeating, for instance, the word
transmogrification for hours on end, actually
hours. And then he’d get paranoid
and suddenly stop, going to all the windows to check that nobody was watching
him.
He
was not considered suitable for the expense of a new foot, because of his
addiction; he couldn’t prove he was clean.
He missed his foot and it still hurt, and the crutches were
awkward. He had watched his foot go
black, like it was not a part of himself, and then he just kept his socks on so
that he wouldn’t have to see it. It was
numb. He couldn’t feel anything at all
so that helped – everyone else he knew with gangrene was in severe pain.
Rex
was terrified of hospitals because of all the concomitant repercussions for his
drug habit - not having any control over his usage with doctors and nurses
watching his every move - and his foot was a long way from his eyes so he
didn’t have to look at what was happening.
He rather liked the sweet smell of gangrene. It was interesting - all the body tissue
dying with the blood supply cut off.
Emiko
dropped a pot on his foot – he felt nothing, and when she took off his sock,
the black skin was flaking like a croissant.
“When did you last wash your feet!”
Then realised it was the foot, not dirt.
All swollen purple and black. They
both looked more closely and the build up of gases under skin had crackled the
surface and in among the black skin were bleeding sores and blisters. She bent down, the pus smelt terrible.
“My
god - what have you done?” And he just
smiled sheepishly. It did look bad.
He
had known a good few people who had limbs amputated but even when she called
for an ambulance he felt it was a lot of fuss over nothing – he wasn’t in
pain. Ran out of veins, got sloppy, good
old femoral artery, wouldn’t let him down after all his other veins had given
up the ghost.
She
said, “Have you been doing your groin?”
He said that it was a bit tender but that was all.
The
ambulance people said, “Can he get here on his own?”
Emiko
called a cab and took him to hospital and they admitted him immediately, which
made him feel special. But he missed
two operations because he was on the roof having a joint with the laundry
staff. He always found addicts wherever
he went, sniffed them out like a pig finding truffles, he had an instinct for
it. The nurses brought methadone.
The
morning after the operation he was very depressed. He adapted well to crutches with his usual
charisma – but he had wept with Emiko.
He
didn’t want anyone visiting him but he didn’t want to be on his own.
Louis
had visited him before the operation, with flowers. They’d not seen each other for months but Rex
had called him to tell him what had happened.
Louis walked into the ward, sat down on the bed and said, “You stupid
cunt”. It felt nice to be telling him
off again in this friendly fashion. Louis
said it would an asset when he was out begging but Rex didn’t laugh. Now Louis couldn’t understand why he’d
thought that was funny, except he hadn’t, he just didn’t know what else to say
and felt he was expected to say something chipper. Rex always begged in smart suits because he
was ashamed of his drug habit and thought a smart suit would throw people off
the scent. Louis said to him once, “You
disgust me”. Rex said, “I’ll never be
able to go swimming again, I can never go in the sea again”. He was embarrassed going out. He said, “It’s a for life thing, it won’t
grow back”. Louis said, “It might”.
Afterwards
people said to Rex, “How’s your foot?” and immediately took their shoes off to
show him their feet as if he was now a trained podiatrist. Anyone had a problem with their feet, off
came the socks. He’d been made to look
at so many misshapen feet he almost became glad that he only had one of his own
now.
Louis
now wondered if you could swim when you were dead, was there water there, and
would one still want the same things anyway?
I want to pivot eternally around this moment when you are still alive.
Lots
of other people had arrived to see Rex for the last time with two feet and Louis
felt he was in the way because Rex didn’t seem to care if he was there or not,
so he left.
The
doctors brought crutches and gave appointments for O.T. which he never kept.
And
then they would only give him a false foot on the condition that he gave up
drugs and they kept drugs testing him so they could see that he hadn’t.
Afterwards
the wound would not heal properly and kept getting infected.
With
Emiko he had talked about killing himself.
Louis
wrote a Get Well card speculating about transplants from pigs, or horses, or even
a panther but never sent it. He was
relieved now that he had not sent it but why didn’t he send something else
instead, just something human and real, just saying, “Yes it is terrible. I am here”.
He
had grown tired of being compassionate towards all of Rex’s troubles, it had
worn him out and he couldn’t exhume any more empathy – he had run out of
platitudes and the truth was unspeakable.
All
the time Louis knew that Rex knew he was terrified of saying the wrong thing.
It
wasn’t funny. And Rex would only worry
about all the pigs with no feet, through no fault of their own. It’s my own fault, it’s not fair to them.
Louis
had not seen him again even though Rex had sent messages saying it would be
good to see you. Louis had replied, Maybe. Ian had been upset that Louis was going to
the hospital; he couldn’t understand why they were even still in contact, but
Louis said why slam a door shut if you can leave it ajar? Ian didn’t know what it was still ajar for;
he wasn’t going in. He said, “Please
don’t hug him” – so Louis had not given Rex a goodbye hug, even though he had
wanted to, and that was the last time he ever saw him. But that wasn’t Ian’s fault, Louis made his
own choice, but if he wasn’t with Ian he wouldn’t have had to worry about disrespecting
him by hugging Rex. But he would still worry
because he was confused about what was acceptable and allowable between friends,
if it was leading Rex on.
He
always wanted to be closer to Rex, you never moved away from me, it was always exquisite
to be in your arms.
I
miss what we could have had, I was always angry with you because you were
always somewhere else, you knew I would be waiting –.
Suddenly
Louis thought about what would happen to his own stuff if he died. Would Ian throw it all out? He hated clutter.
Had
Rex missed that hug too, did he want to hug Louis and hadn’t dared, why didn’t they
hug? They always hugged.
I
cannot bear you thinking I didn’t care about you.
Before
he left the hospital Rex had asked to borrow £25.
Much
later, when he saw Rex in the street on crutches, Rex said he felt like an old
man. He smiled but the methadone had
rotted away his neat white wolf’s teeth.
Louis
looked now at the parrot through the window and wondered if she missed Rex too.
He
desperately wanted to speak to someone who cared about Rex as much as he did. His mind created a list of other people and
he scanned down it but nobody fitted that category, or if they did they were
already dead. 3p Lee used to shoot up
with Rex. Rex said he’d got clean and
put on weight. He earned his name
because when he begged for money he used to ask passers-by for 3p – “just 3
pence”.
Louis
walked to King’s Cross to see him. There
was a complicated entry system on the block of flats but then someone arrived
and he got into the building with them and up the stairs, knocked at the door,
no answer, knocked again, he could hear rustling within. He called through the letterbox, “Lee, it’s
me, Louis, Rex’s friend”. More rustling
within. Louis looked through the letter
box and in the dark could see movement.
Eventually
Lee opened the door. He was not fat at
all. How long ago had Rex told him this?
He
said gently, “Lee, do you remember me?”
3p
was standing there in a dirty shirt and no trousers, slowly hopping from leg to
leg, eyes blank and making a barely audible mumbling sound.
“It’s
about Rex”, Louis said.
Lee
looked ahead, making a low moaning noise, shifting from foot to foot.
Louis
had a flashback to the last time he’d been here, Rex in a smart pinstripe suit,
3p skinny, topless, with a tie holding up his trousers and a heroin smut on his
face. They had spent four hours in the
bathroom shooting up while Louis had sat outside reading a magazine, like in a
doctor’s waiting room. Rex used to go to
his drug appointments in a suit while his key worker wore dirty jeans and never
shaved.
All
the people Rex tried to help, he would always help someone out in drug trouble.
3p
was still staring ahead. Louis said, “I’m
sorry to bother you” then he backed away and pulled the front door shut. On the walk here he had actually imagined himself
having a pleasant chat with Lee about the old days.
Outside
in the hallway he wrote a note on the only scrap of paper he had, a shop
receipt, giving his phone number, explaining what had happened to Rex as gently
as he could in the small space available.
He pushed it through the letter-box.
Then
he went to the post-office, wrote the same thing on the back of a leaflet, with
a bit more detail, and used an envelope from the Passport pack to send it by
post, so it would look official.
Three
nights later 3p’s girlfriend called, at midnight. “Lee wants to know what happened”, she
said. She said Rex had always spoken
highly of Louis, thought the world of you – and this upset Louis even more, he
didn’t deserve to be thought highly of, I should have done so much more. “You did so much for him”, she said – like
Rex was a charity case. She said, “He
was always talking about you”.
Rex
always said he had the patience of a card game but he didn’t.
He
felt a fraud. He felt even worse about letting
Rex down when Rex’s illusions were so positive. I wish I had been perfect.
Louis
told her he had come to the flat and seen Lee.
She said, “Lee’s been drinking again”.
Louis didn’t dispute this. It
wasn’t drink he’d had.
Emiko
was not on her boat; she had gone to see Louis but he was not there and she woke
Ian up. She wanted to know what had
happened to Rex’s sketches.
Attempting
to be helpful Ian suggested she wait for Louis and offered her tea even though
he didn’t like her. More tea, more
socialising. This was Louis’ friend so
he supposed it balanced out the teabag Mrs. Tors had used earlier in the week.
They
sat without speaking as she sipped the tea and Ian stared at the space above
her head.
Her
black-haired baby was in the sling around her chest, awake but making contented
little noises which made Ian feel sick; and because he couldn’t understand his
nausea he felt angry instead: so
comfortable and cosy and smug. He
switched on Radio Precious to distract
him from these noises but it somehow increased the silence and he could still
hear the little noises anyway and had to turn up the radio louder and
louder. It was a bad reception because
of the rain. Still the little baby’s
sucking noises continued.
Emiko
caught Ian looking at Lulu’s birthmark again.
She was very upset. She had gone
to countless doctors but they all said it was nothing to worry about and
nothing could be done, which was nonsense, she knew that, they said she was an
obsessive mother but she only wanted the best for her child.
Ian
said politely, “Excuse me one moment” and got up to go outside and scream into
a towel. But Emiko said, “Please ask
Louis where the sketches are, I must be going now” and she beat him to the
door. She had drunk the tea down to the
dregs.
Emiko
went on her way to Leicester square to draw.
That’s how she had met Rex – he’d put a five pound note in her hat
without even wanting his picture done, she sang out, “Thank you for your five pound
note I love you”, in a very high voice and he’d gone and stolen her a sandwich.
Rex
had a very good eye for sandwiches.
He
himself ate like a snake. The odd
weekend where he would eat the equivalent of a small deer to stock up for all
the time he spent on the streets chasing drugs with no money or time to eat.
She
took him back to her boat and he loved it, he talked to everyone in the Basin
as if he had known them all his life. Mr
Tilas left him his boat in his will.
When
she got pregnant it was Rex who had encouraged her to have the baby; everyone
else said no.
The
child had peacefully tolerated all of Ian’s crackling radio noises.
She
set up her little seat in Leicester Square to draw tourists.
There
was a lot of competition but she always drew people better than they looked in
real life and that is what people wanted.
She was very popular.
She
set herself up next to the man with the dog and cat pictures, he had a sideline
drawing people’s dead pets, people loved it and said how lifelike they were. They had photographs of the animals but they
wanted paintings of the photographs, and they wanted paintings that looked as
lifelike as the photographs were, so were barely distinguishable – but, still,
the human touch made a strange difference, perhaps because the process of
drawing took longer than the time to take a photograph, someone had to look at the
animal for longer, so it meant more, it was part of the grieving process.
People
said Emiko’s drawings were lifelike too but it wasn’t true because Emiko always
improved on nature - people wanted to look like they looked in their fantasies
not how they looked in the bathroom mirror first thing in the morning.
She
checked on Lulu in the pushchair, wrapped up warmly, then pinned up some of her
drawings of actresses on the side of her easel.
People
wandered by, looking at all the drawings, then wandered away again. It was very cold.
Emiko
stood up and began singing, “Come and have your picture drawn….What lovely eyes
you have” at the top of her voice, and other nonsense.
A
woman and her husband sat down. Emiko
gave him a shorter nose and straightened out the bump, put him in different
clothes, gave the woman fuller hair, made them look better all round. They were the first people ever to object and
they refused to pay. They actually liked
the way they really looked.
Louis
walked for miles every day and, as each day wore on, the distractions of
walking helped him get used to the day and he felt a little better by evening,
but then he dreaded going to sleep because each new morning it was the same
thing again, waking up into the horror. He slept for a few hours then woke up
early again, always at three or four o’clock when it was still dark and there
was nobody about, pushed out of the plane with no parachute. Every morning he called the Samaritans one
after another as if he were bent on utilising the whole force of volunteers, wrote
down all their names and where they were from and what they said to him, then
felt restless. Went down the street and
knocked on Mrs. Meier’s door. No reply
though all the lights were on. He felt
rejected.
Then
he recognised the lanky figure in the dark slowly belabouring its way towards
him from the other end of the road. The
nearer she got, the easier he could make out that she was attempting to run,
with proper running shoes and a tracksuit circa 1972, hair tied back in an
Alice band, not remotely out of breath on account of the painfully slow
progress she was making but running correctly, very erect, albeit in slow
motion, like a film demonstration for the terminally unfit. She truly didn’t care what anybody thought of
her anymore – couldn’t imagine that anyone would be thinking anything of her at
all. It was liberating to have finally
reached the age where she was both hideous and invisible and accepting of both,
but all possible spectators were invisible to her since she refused to wear her
glasses. She didn’t see them and she
didn’t hear them; they didn’t matter. In
her head they were all cheering and full of admiration for the way she sailed
past.
When
she reached Louis she stopped and bent down to stretch. Then got up and admitted there was no point. She was not perspiring in the least.
She
said,” I hate every second of it”. When
Louis asked why she did it she said it got her going in the mornings, that was
all. “Always do at least one thing you hate every
day”, she said, “it’s character building.
No of course it’s not”.
Louis
had no idea how she had ever become Headmistress of such a good school but
maybe the fact she was ousted was proof of that. The five Bettys had all petitioned against
her, quite aggressively considering they had a combined age that was considerably
more than their average IQ, but she hadn’t minded. The Bettys said the school needed a Forward Thinking
leader, not a Head who listened to everybody’s opinions – that was a sign of
weakness.
After
they ousted her as Head they fobbed her off as gym mistress, which job was
vacant, even though she had no training in anything remotely sporty. And out on the hockey field one evening,
trying to make sense of the game and inventing her own rules which changed
dependent on which mood she was in, she had a religious epiphany whilst
watching worms mating.
Mating
occurs on the surface, most often at night. Earthworms are hermaphrodites. The sexual organs are located in segments 9 to
15. Earthworms have one or two pairs of
testes contained within sacs. The two or
four pairs of seminal vesicles produce, store and release the sperm via the
male pores. Ovaries and oviducts in
segment 13 release eggs via female pores on segment 14, while sperm is expelled
from segment 15. One or more pairs of
spermathecae are present in segments 9 and 10 (depending on the species) which
are internal sacs that receive and store sperm from the other worm during
copulation. As a result, segment 15 of
one worm exudes sperm into segments 9 and 10 with its storage vesicles of its
mate. Some species use external
spermatophores for sperm transfer.
Worms
mating don’t even look at each other.
They exchange substances and they have five hearts. Copulation and reproduction are separate
processes in earthworms. The mating pair
overlap front ends ventrally and each exchanges sperm with the other. The clitellum becomes reddish to pinkish in
colour. Some time after copulation, long
after the worms have separated, the clitellum (behind the spermathecae)
secretes material which forms a ring around the worm. The worm then backs out of the ring, and as it
does so, it injects its own eggs and the other worm's sperm into it. As the worm slips out of the ring, the ends of
the cocoon seal to form a vaguely lemon-shaped incubator (cocoon) in which the
embryonic worms develop. They emerge as
small, but fully formed earthworms, but lack their sex structures, which
develop in about 60 to 90 days. They attain
full size in about one year. Several
common earthworm species are mostly parthenogenetic, without fertilisation.
It
was all too much faffing about. It was
complicated. The hallmark of good design
is simplicity. Complexity is a result of
trial and error.
This
brought everything into question. It
seemed to her that only earthworms were responsible for being earthworms and if
that was true then everything else was responsible for its own formation too. It was presumptuous of god to take credit for
it and if god had not done all this then god was pointless and if god was
pointless then there could be no god, since the whole point of god was that god
had a point. To begin with Coral didn’t
say anything at school because she was embarrassed for everyone who still
believed and she didn’t want to humiliate them.
But she was never any good at keeping her mouth shut, especially in the
middle of a game of hockey, and the Sarah Schenirer Day School had not been
pleased. The Sarah Schenirer Day School
was entirely opposed to evolution and had in the past removed examination
questions about evolution because it didn’t fit in with their beliefs. Coral had brought up the earthworm revelation
playfully to start with, assuming that everyone else secretly thought exactly
as she did. But it had all gone downhill
from there. She had genuinely thought
they would have more of a sense of humour about it. It wasn’t, after all, Catholicism or Islam.
The
situation was presented to the Board of Governors and the Five Bettys again put
the boot in and Coral was sacked, rather like a divorce case citing
irreconcilable differences. The papers were
on her side but that was anti-Semitism so didn’t really count.
She
still felt mortified about all the nonsense she had been feeding innocent
schoolgirls, all the times she had said, “God be with you”, all the bible
verses she had read out in Assembly.
Louis
went indoors with her into the warm kitchen and Louis made cups of coffee while
she got changed. There was a birthday
cake on the table. It wasn’t her birthday
but she had liked the look of the cake and got it anyway. Louis took a slice; it was sickly. “Don’t eat the cake, it’s disgusting”, she
called out.
She
asked how he was and he said, “Fine”. He
did feel fine now he was in her kitchen.
Louis
said, “Don’t you miss religion?” and Coral said that at first it was odd
without it, she had felt quite frightened and rudderless, she had wanted a
purpose, going through the motions, but then she felt free, didn’t have to
please anyone but herself, not tormented by ridiculous hope or having to twist
her brain into knots to make sense of nonsense.
She said religion had only given her the illusion of security, of order,
but since there is no security - and never had been - then in reality she had
lost nothing. Now it was like waking up
to a fresh new day without fog, it was like growing up, wearing grown up shoes.
Louis
said, “Don’t you miss knowing someone is there for you?”
“How
can I when there was no one there to start with?”
She
turned around some of the placards in the corner of the kitchen.
One
said, You’re All Going To Die. Another
said, Everything Is Not Going To Be Alright.
Louis flinched. It was a bit
full-on this time of the morning. A
smaller one said, It’s All Lies. That
one was rather sweet, she’d coloured it in mauves and violets. There was also a fresh batch of leaflets on
the table with similar titles.
Coral
told him how guilty she felt about brainwashing innocent girls and telling them
things like “The destiny of Israel is in your hands” and she said this was her
way of making it up to them: the truth. When she was fully prepared she was going to
set up a stand in Speakers’ Corner with all the evangelists.
She
had philosophy books everywhere; Louis picked one up. He said, “I always wanted to get into
philosophy. Can you recommend
anything? Anything to help me?”
He
picked up Tillich. It was heavy, in both
senses.
Coral
said, “You should read Tillich but not until you’ve read Schelling. But don’t read Schelling until you’ve read
Jung and Hegel”. Then she said, “What it
all comes down to is don’t read any of it, it’s just words”. Most of them were Christians anyway, she
added.
Louis
thought, “But words are all we have”.
She
noticed Louis frowning at the Everything’s Not Going To Be Alright and said, “I
don’t mean you. I just mean in
general”. Then she said, “You must think
I’m very tactless”.
Louis
said, “I know everyone’s going to die, I just don’t want him to be dead”.
“That’s
not what I mean”, she said
“Maybe
you could just soften it a little”, Louis suggested, but Coral couldn’t work
out how to do that. A thing was true or
it was not true. There was a god or
there wasn’t a god. It wasn’t a matter
of being soft or hard, just stating the truth.
Death
wasn’t a tragedy to her, it was a natural process. It happened, you grieved, you moved on. So what?
Coral
said, “Don’t eat that cake just because it’s there”.
On
his way out Louis glanced up and saw a small figure sitting at the top of her
stairs. It was wearing full hijab. It was quite disturbing. Coral said, “It’s only Marina – from the
Deli. She’s colouring in my posters for
me. Her family knows”, she said, “I’m
not making her do it”. She added that Marina
had chosen the hijab from a fancy dress store.
“There is no hell”, she said.
Louis
laughed with Coral but when he was on his own again he felt frightened. All the ground was shifting from under
him. He was going to die. Coral was going to die. Bonnie was going to die, and Emiko, even Ian. Well, Ian probably wouldn’t, not for a very
long time, he was stubborn. But everyone
else would. There was no safe place
anywhere. They were all doomed to
oblivion.
A
scream fell down the steps to the cellar within him, a long drawn out scream
getting fainter and fainter. It was
horrible.
When
Ian got to work that night the two care-workers on duty were finishing off a huge
Chinese takeaway.
They
had been given money to get takeaways for all the residents on their wing as a
special treat but they said, “They don’t know what they’re eating so we got them
pot noodles” and they had spent the rest on themselves, got fags and bottles of
wine. They had bought themselves a huge
cheesecake and too, and offered Ian a slice but he refused. They always tried to buy his silence this way
but he was never going to speak anyway, not because he supported them but
because he was scared of them, and anyway they deserved a few perks on this job. They cleared away all the foil trays
afterwards so nobody would know, then they offered Ian the last dreggy bit of
wine. He said he was working. He never drank because it unsettled his
stomach.
He had worked at the home since his father had
been taken there at the end of his life.
The stench of piss and shit and vomit had been so appalling that he could
only sit with his father for ten minutes at a time before having to go outside
for fresh air. The nurses couldn’t smell
it; they had developed an immunity.
When
Ian complained to the manager she offered him a cleaning job. He got on with the work and kept Snog Radio
on his headphones to distract him from what he was actually doing.
The
management had poems pinned up everywhere which an old lady had once left in
her locker, describing her rich previous life which in truth was rather banal, to
inform the staff that these were people inside the decaying flesh, but it was
nonsense; it doesn’t matter what we have been, only what we are now. Arthur who talked to himself all day long, Maria
who would only eat minced meat, Simon who never stopped asking questions, Marie
who won’t get out of bed. They spent all
day slumped in their chairs asleep or crying for their mothers. He knew them by their biscuit breath and the
long thin grey hair. There was no
beautiful Eurydice within the grey saggy flesh, the soft yellowing skin, no political
heroes, they’d had jobs in factories, ordinary lives like everyone else, no
shame there, it does not need glamourising.
That
first night working Ian fainted and they sent him home. But it was only the ammonia. It smelt like piss to him now, the
association he had with bleach and detergent was shit and piss so that is what
they smelt like to him now, even air freshener smelt like shit in his mind, the
scent of lavender, for him now, evoked vomit.
His
eyes were still blurry so the next morning he went to the doctor, and to the
optician, and both said his eyes were fine:
no problems.
Emiko
said to ask for a second opinion, get referred to a specialist.
Mrs.
Tors said it was all a fuss about nothing.
Louis
was no help. Ian missed him badly. He was always on the phone to other people,
crying, all through the night. Ian tried
not to interfere because he always got it wrong but it was hard.
Louis
was still holding Rex’s fingers over the edge of the cliff, desperate to stop
him sliding off the edge into the sea.
He was falling but Louis wouldn’t let him hit the ground and be carried
away; he held his breath.
He
had burned all of Rex’s letters when he met Ian because Ian was insecure. He had nothing now, no photos, he had torn
them all up. There was still a big fat secret
envelope full of Rex but he couldn’t face opening it. He had burnt the letters because they were
all lies, one day he had decided they were all lies and he was so angry he’d
burnt them. He had gone to the
allotments and screwed up each letter one by one and burnt them all, a furious
message to Rex which he never told him about.
He felt physically ill now with the horror of what he had done; many of
the letters had been beautiful and full of thanks, sincere thanks, and poetry. What he had done could not be undone. If he had only thrown them away they might
still be alive somewhere, somewhere in existence, bits of ink on a sheet of paper
that Rex’s hands had put there, thinking of him briefly. But burnt they were nowhere.
Rex
always looked so unhappy in photos but tried smiling anyway, trying to smile,
he always tried to smile in photographs.
What
Louis had salvaged from the boat he would never burn, the shopping lists and
to-do lists, people to repay lists – the same lists again and again with the
same people to repay on every single list, over the years, who evidently were
either not important enough to make it to the top of the list and get paid, or
else once they’d been paid off were borrowed from again, which was more
likely. All your good intentions, all your
hope for a healthy wonderful life, you tried so hard, you tried to make things
right.
Rex
always arrived at feeding time, by instinct.
He ate like a snake. Filling up
for a year and his belly would bloat.
Then he would fall asleep. And
when he finally awoke two days later he would have to go out again for drugs.
Considering
how much Rex loved home comforts Louis could never understand why he didn’t
come home more often, but he was like a cat with several homes, or maybe he
loved the comforts so much because he rarely stayed in one place long enough to
enjoy them properly, he always had to be out feeding his habit. It was exhausting for him.
Louis
looked at his phone and willed Rex to call.
He keyed in his number again at midnight, when Rex usually woke up, but
there was no answer. Rex called late at
night and Louis refused to answer, because it was unsociable. He thought of one photograph he used to have
and concentrated very hard, tried to climb inside the memory and live there, in
that moment, forever. Rex saying I’m so
unhappy, Rex’s burnt corpse, and it was all Louis’ fault.
All
the feet passing by and none of them were Rex’s.
Louis
followed men who looked like the back of Rex and said please please please as
hard as he could, thinking that if he said please hard enough, with enough
sincerity, then Rex would not be dead and he could really go back in time, the
man would turn around and it would be Rex five years ago, he felt it was
actually possible to bend time, if only you tried hard enough. Not saying please to god, saying it to death. Not begging god, begging Rex. Willing the man in your jacket to turn around
and be you, or that man over there lighting a cigarette the way you do. He squinted his eyes to maintain the illusion
that it was Rex.
Why did everything go so wrong? We could have had so much. We could have had that wonderful life.
Hermann
Hesse was the first serious writer Louis ever read - Steppenwolf when he was 18
and Harry the man-wolf was 49 but he’d thought he understood it because even
then he had wanted to die, in the way that adolescents sometimes luxuriate in
the idea of death because they know little of it. The ones who do know it do not
luxuriate. He was unhappy. He had greedily read all of Hesse’s books and
then one day had seen a photograph of him – smiling. Louis had felt utterly betrayed. The man was happy. How then could he really know what he was
writing about. Louis had felt alone in
the world again. Smiling. He later felt this was the wonder drug of Buddhism
but even now he felt quite strongly that writers should never show their faces.
There
was a boy who fell in love with a star, and dreamed of it and wanted to become
one with it, but when he leapt off a cliff to join with it he fell to the
ground because he hadn’t really believed he could do it. When Louis was 18 he had believed with
Hermann Hesse that if the boy had truly believed in a union with the star then
it would have come true. He had learned
a lot since then.
Hermann
Hesse clearly knew nothing about gravity, or the enormity of stars, for one
thing, the relative disparity in sizes between boys and stars, like a tick
falling in love with a dinosaur, it’s never going to happen, you can’t wrap
your arms around a star, it is a physical impossibility. It would swallow you up if you got too close
or burn you out or whatever happens when you’re out in space anywhere near a
star, which you couldn’t organise anyway unless you had billions of pounds,
your own rocket and the OK from NASA. It
would take ages to get there and by the time you did then it would already be
gone. And anyway, it would kill you
dead, outright.
Even
as a metaphor it didn’t work, it was poetic claptrap. As if simply wanting something passionately enough
means you can achieve it. The evidence
of billions of miserable lives worldwide demonstrates that we don’t always get
what we want no matter how hard we try and mostly we don’t even get what we
need. Being alive is far from nice. No one explains this in sufficient detail to
deter people from procreating.
It
is bad poetry because it is a lie that parades as a possibility, and it is evil
because it promotes hope where there is none; and can only lead to frustration
and feelings of inadequacy. This is what
Louis used to say to Ian when Ian was listening to so-called love songs on Radio
Honey.
If
Louis threw himself onto Rex’s coffin at the moment it went into the flames –
but he was too late for that.
Belief
is not a magical incantation; the rules of logic still apply. You cannot believe the unbelievable. Millions of people do but they are ill; it
doesn’t make the unbelievable true. You
cannot unite with a star.
But
Louis now, today, strangely regressed to his gullibility as an 18 year old and
thought that yes you could. If you tried
hard enough. He could unite with his
star.
He
still knew it was a lie but he wanted so much for it not to be a lie that he
believed it to be truth. Rex was still
out there and there was a magic porthole somewhere if he could only find it, and
then they could connect again. Louis
longed so much to kiss him again, he wanted to open the door and Rex was there.
And
he kept on calling the Samaritans every day and he told them about all the
times he had said no, which tortured him, all the horrible things he did,
throwing Rex’s stuff on the street and calling him a dirty little junkie, and
he hated being awake, the days were so long and full of torture, he walked and
walked but he always had to come back to the empty room and this silence which was
unendurable. And it doesn’t matter if
other people say you are innocent and that you did nothing wrong; if you are
guilty you know it and it doesn’t even make you a better person for being
honest, because a genuine sense of guilt is torture.
And
the Samaritans said, “You’ll feel better soon” but he didn’t want to feel
better, he liked feeling this torture because it was a connection to Rex, I
don’t want it to stop hurting because the hurt is you and it makes me feel
closer to you, I don’t want to be separated from that pain, the pain is you, I
don’t want to get through this
because then I will leave you behind I want to die.
The
Samaritans said, “Death is worse for those left behind” but it hadn’t been great
for Rex either – he had missed out on the rest of his life. One Samaritan said, “Maybe this was all the
life he was meant to have and it was a complete life” – what shit. But Louis didn’t say this out loud because he
didn’t want to offend. During his unhappy
Hermann Hesse adolescent phase he had once called the Samaritans and somehow,
he was never quite sure how, the roles got reversed and he ended up empathising
with the counsellor about her terrible life – it hadn’t occurred to him to just
hang up the phone. Even Emiko said Rex is
not in pain now, that’s the good thing, you wouldn’t want him to be in pain -
as if that is how Louis wanted him back.
He had no monkey’s paw. If he
could have him back he’d have him well; if one part of the wish could come true
so could the second.
Louis
said, The sooner I’m dead the better I’ll like it, but he didn’t say it out
loud in case they asked if he was suicidal again and put the police onto him.
And
he kept writing everything down, feverishly writing down his whole five years
with Rex, trying to get everything in the right order but it was difficult
because it had all been so chaotic he couldn’t remember what happened
when. He wanted to remember and he
wanted Rex to be remembered, he didn’t want him forgotten as if he had never
lived you will not be forgotten. His
notebook filled up and he got another one and he wrote letters to Rex telling
him how he felt (the dead can’t get enough of this), trying to get events in
order, every single memory he had of Rex, and it was the most luxurious bliss
to spend this time with Rex and lose himself in the past, the atmosphere of
Rex, it was a way of holding onto Rex forever, like pen and paper has a
miraculous fixative power, which in some ways of course it does, but it is only
a shell, it is only paper, it has no form I want to kiss you again and I can’t,
for when he emerged for air Rex was still gone and he was still alone. It was wonderful to lose himself but when he
looked up from the paper it was still today and you are still dead. If I stop writing I am here on my own again
in the silence waiting for you to come home I will die soon I just want to sit
with you darling and rest my head against you and talk of all these things, it
is agony, I cannot bear this world without you.
He
rolled himself a clumsy cigarette and smoked out of the window like Rex used
to.
Ian
said, “You’re not the only person in his life – he had a family – he had people
around him at the end. You weren’t that
important to him”. Except of course he only
said this when Louis was in another room.
On
his way to work Ian again saw Mrs. Tors outside her local pub - she’d only been
back a month and was already well settled into her old local after more than
thirty years absence. Ian had always
lived here and he had no local. She was
still a bit of a blur to him because of this problem with his eyes but she had
a very recognisable shape. He chained up
his bike and followed her. The pub had a
revolving door to get in and Mrs. Tors barged ahead. The boy John followed her but Ian misjudged
the movement and smacked his face in the side.
John
said, “Oh I’m so sorry”, and Mrs. Tors said, “It’s not your fault, he’s clumsy,
was always clumsy. He couldn’t even walk
a straight line without falling down a hole or tripping over something. It was quite remarkable”.
He
had got blood on a new white shirt. It
would dry and become impossible to remove.
The
boy John said, “He’s bleeding” and suggested they call an ambulance. Ian wanted to cry. He went to the gents, which smelt like it had
never encounter a gentleman in its life, and tried to tidy himself up and
rearrange his face so that he looked normal.
Mrs.
Tors ordered herself rum and got a coke for the boy John. They clearly had a pub routine. She asked Ian what he wanted. He said tap water would do. She said, “You’re not having tap water, think
again. Choose something stronger, be a
man for once”. He told her he had a bad
stomach, which he did.
Ian
ran through all the polite ways of refusal that usually worked in his head but
she told him to shut up. He compromised
by asking for orange juice, figuring that was the cheapest, and not as babyish
as the lemonade he would have preferred.
At least she always paid, that was something. But he didn’t want to be a burden to
her. Except that he did - a burden she
embraced happily.
While
she was getting the drinks John kept looking at him and asking if he was
alright and Ian wanted to shout Stop it stop it stop it but he couldn’t because
John was only about eight and he meant well.
John said, “You’re still bleeding”.
Ian wiped his face with his shirt cuff and said, “No I’m not”.
Mrs
Tors looked around complacently and sniffed deeply. “I’m so glad they no longer allow cigarettes
in pubs”, she said. “Having a smoking
section in a pub is like having a peeing section in a swimming pool”. She was the sort of woman who always fanned
herself vigorously in the company of smokers, to show her disapproval, which
generally made them smoke harder in her direction. Ian was interested in the way she seemed to
have healthy sections of her body, like her lungs, but clearly had no such
concern about her liver and kidneys, which must be absolutely pickled.
They
watched the dart players and she snorted condescendingly. John told Ian she played archery and that her
nickname at the club was Dead Eye. Ian
couldn’t imagine her able to shoot anything straight, the amount of booze she
put away. She drove while drunk, too,
convinced that she was infallible, a careful driver. Her responses were spot on, she had a quick
mind, she said. She said that no one
could tell she had been drinking.
Suddenly
she asked, “How’s your friend?”
“What
friend?”
“Lewis.”
“He’s
not my friend, he’s my partner”.
“Well
I hope he’s still your friend”, she said, not unreasonably.
His
stomach really was bad and he had to go to the bathroom. When he came back he lifted his orange juice
to his mouth and swigged the last big gulp, so he could leave quickly. Choked.
Mrs. Tors laughed. She had added
some of her rum to the glass. Ian’s face
reddened like a pomegranate, he felt sick, but mostly upset and humiliated. She carried on laughing. He wanted to be always dignified but she laughed
and he couldn’t laugh with her because it was a terrible thing to do to
someone.
The
boy John looked gravely at him. “You
shouldn’t of done that”, he said, “he might have liver disease”. He offered his own drink to Ian but that had
rum in it as well.
To
divert the conversation, the boy John told him that she had bought him a dog
and it had to be spaded.
Ian said, kindly, “It’s spayed, not spaded -
you’re not hitting it on the head with a shovel”. He had let “shouldn’t of” go but there was a
limit.
Mrs.
Tors said, “Leave him alone, it’s spaded, he can say spaded if he wants to”.
Ian
wondered if she would ever defend him like that, to the point of rewriting the
English language to fit his illiteracy.
She said, “Stop rubbing your eyes”.
Ian
said he had to go to the optician but he didn’t have money for glasses. She said, “Well don’t look at me, I haven’t
got any money”. She said, “Get yourself
a job and then you won’t have to worry”.
Ian hung his head and John said, “Are you
tired, have you been working hard?”
Mrs.
Tors said, “He wouldn’t know hard work if it hit him in the face with a SPADEd”. She said, “You’re like your dad, always have
been, no ambition. Never went to after-school
classes, no sports, nothing, just wanted to play with the girls – not like me,
I took full advantage of my education”.
Christmas
day was always a quiet day. Every year Ian
looked forward to it as if something miraculous and special would take place,
though he didn’t know what, or even what he wanted to take place. Nothing special had ever taken place before. It was a holy day, even for the unholy; in
England many of the unholy over a certain age had grown up among the holy
rubble of a Jesus-loving society, Christmas still had holy connotations that
they couldn’t quite shake off. The
miraculous birth, a hand reaching down from the sky and saying there there
everything is going to be peachy. There
were fewer cars on the road and the major supermarkets were shut.
Ian
said, not unkindly, “Buck up Louis, get back to your old self, we all need to
move on, it is what it is”. Ian thought
he was being reasonable. Louis sat on
his irritation. He could never bite his
tongue with Rex but he could with Ian – what did that mean? He thought, Ian likes Christmas, it’s not his
fault. He thought, it’s not Ian’s fault
that he’s a little bit stupid. He
thought, It can’t be easy for him, Rex was my ex.
At
lunch time Louis called the Samaritans four times in the bathroom until he felt
a bit more normal, then he went back to Ian and attempted to smile, which was
lifting above his weight. He’d said to
one of the Samaritans, “I just want to be with him” and she said “But he isn’t
anywhere”, as if that was a fact, and he said, “I don’t want to be anywhere”. And, to placate Ian, he tried to be happy,
tried very hard to be jolly, and Ian didn’t see that it was just an act, a huge
effort to be cheerful and Ian bought it.
Louis said, “Anyway how are you, how’s the situation with your mother?”
Ian
had bought some cream soda, which was Rex’s favourite drink – he drank nothing
stronger. It seemed to Louis like a thoughtless soft drink to buy.
When
Ian was in the kitchen sorting out the food Louis looked at the wad of Rex’s
drawings that he’d taken from the boat.
Page after page of Rex’s drawings, which Rex never valued and Louis had
gathered together, scruffy pages like all his papers, torn, with blood and
heroin splashes and cigarette burn marks and tea cup rings, which increased
their authenticity; many of them Louis had watched him draw, very fast, oddly
assured, even the wobbly lines had a sort of integrity that was wholly
Rex’s.
The
drawings were all of buildings, rooms beyond rooms, house plans, garden plans,
plants, birds and countries, whole new countries he had designed, but no people. Rooms accessible only by the room in front,
where nobody noticed the door, deeper and deeper going round and round and
biting its own tail, the magical room with nothing in it, garden full of elixir
and panacea, he gave the plants names of words he liked but didn’t know the
meaning of, like the orthopaedia bird with two tails and a plume like a
Shetland pony.
Rex
loved archways with birds attached to the trellis who were content to stay
there and flowers which flew about, birds that were ballerinas and low arches
you had to duck under with reverence, designs for houses, gardens, countries,
inventing new trees new flowers new birds, all with a leaky biro (he preferred
the leaky ones) on graph paper. Louis
could never throw away anything with Rex’s handwriting on.
He
had drawn a house for Louis once, in their very own country, since they were
both kings, of a sort, and needed their own country. It was juvenile and had seemed so at the
time. Louis’ house was flat, but Rex’s
had stairs leading all over the place on different levels, stairs leading
nowhere, narrow rickety staircases and Louis’ house was flat, it was just one
room, that’s how he saw Louis. He always
said Louis was just one room but managed to make it sound like a compliment,
which it wasn’t. That particular drawing
had been ripped up long ago; Louis had kept the pieces for a while but then he
let them go. He felt the surge of horror
again at what could not be undone.
Someone had thought about him long enough to decide what sort of house
he was.
Ian said Rex’s trees were not real trees, you
can’t trust them, they’re impossible trees.
They didn’t look so good to Louis now either which made him feel even
more sad and made him defend Rex even more strongly, trying to find meaning in
them.
Emiko,
who’d studied architecture, had tried to teach Rex perspective once but she
said he was not an attentive student. She
told him, “You need to understand the rules before you can throw them away” but
he just laughed, he didn’t care. That’s
why his drawings never really worked for her, they lacked integrity.
Ian
had got a special cake in, even though Louis hated cakes, had defrosted it specially
so it would be ready for Christmas morning.
Got it out of the fridge with much ceremony. He wanted everything to be absolutely
perfect. Louis politely said, “Wow”. Ian tried to cut it with a plastic knife but it
wasn’t fully defrosted and was still hard and the knife bent. To show enthusiasm, Louis took a spoon and
scooped some of the cream off the top for a pre-taster. Ian was annoyed. He told him off and not in a friendly way.
“I
just wanted a taster”.
“Why
can’t you wait? I want to serve it to
you properly”. If he served it and it
was perfect then everything would go back to normal, their relationship would
go back to normal and none of this would have happened.
Louis
joked that the cake would have melted by the time the plastic knife did its job
but Ian was not amused: he wanted to do
it properly.
This
upset Louis a lot. He had been playful,
he didn’t mean to be impatient or greedy, Ian should be flattered he was eager
to taste it when he knew he hated cakes so much.
Once
the cake was properly cut Louis received his slice but all the fake joy had
gone out of it. But Ian was smiling now
so he had to play along. He ate the cake
then he went to the bathroom to be sick; he didn’t want anything of Ian’s
inside him.
In
the bathroom he started howling and stuffed a towel in his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror; he didn’t
look any different.
Twenty
minutes later when Ian knocked at the door, concerned, he put on a breezy voice
and said he was fine. Ian heard him cry
even though he made no sound, he wanted to hold him but could not. And then when Louis came out he just did it,
his arms did it, he put his arms around Louis but Louis said he was going for a
walk.
Ian
said, “I’m sorry. It was only a cake”.
Louis
did not want any more sorry. If he was
truly sorry then he would stop doing things he had to apologise for. And if he kept doing the same things then he
should stop saying sorry. It was only a
cake.
Ian
felt like a bomb disposal expert with no expertise, the timer was counting down
and there was nothing he could do to prevent the explosion but somewhere in his
head there was a voice telling him, “Don’t worry”, that at the last second, one
second to go, Louis would stop it going off, just flick a switch and everyone
would be safe. But there was no visual
time display to tell him how long he had got left. Perhaps it had already blown up in his face
and he’d missed the signs, not noticed, this was the devastation. Something had blown up. Louis seemed oblivious of the time factor, he
had no sense of urgency. Ian would just
have to play it by ear.
He
felt like he was running about all over the place when he was not moving at
all, it was Louis moving, the ice was melting and he was drifting away.
He
knew he should stay still and wait but he couldn’t relax, it was too important,
it was happening now, secretaries were running up and downstairs in his head looking
for a solution, trying to find the right file which was stored god knows where
which had the information about what to do – when he already knew the solution
but just couldn’t do it.
He
hated Rex so much it made him physically ill.
He couldn’t believe the power he still had and he wasn’t even here.
And
he knew that Louis’ smile was false in order to console him and that was worse,
he should be consoling Louis but he couldn’t, he couldn’t lie.
He
hated Rex more than he loved Louis.
He
just wanted everything to get back to normal.
Louis
was in the hallway putting on three coats, one on top of the other. Ian stood in front of the door and said
nicely, “Never mind about me, how about you?”
Louis
said, “I feel like shit” and that made Ian angry again. Why couldn’t he say he was OK? Ian said, “My mother’s a bitch”. Louis said, “OK”.
Louis
said, “I have supported you with all your problems for four years and I’ve had
troubles for three weeks and you’ve had enough.
If you don’t want to know how I truly am then don’t ask”. He felt bloated and stiff wearing three coats
and couldn’t get his arms in his pockets.
“Because
I can’t help, I get frustrated. You know
what I’m like”.
“That
doesn’t help me”.
Ian said, “I can’t do anything right”.
Louis
said, “You do nothing! Stop whining. The focus is off you and you hate it. I can’t talk to you because your ego always
gets in the way”. He tried to bend down
to put his boots on but it was difficult with all the coatage he was carrying. He slipped them on and put his foot against
the wall to tie them up.
It
was nice to know where Ian was in his hour of need: looking after himself.
Louis
had tried to be jolly and soldier on as for a child but Ian was not a child –
sulky, bad tempered, expecting Louis to be chirpy and fix things, and I can’t
do it, so I try to shut up about Rex and then I am silent and you don’t like
that either. I am trapped. It is me who can’t do anything right. I want to be on my own.
Ian
thought, You’ve got double yellow lines painted all over you. It seemed such a wonderful line that it was a
huge sacrifice not to say it, but he didn’t dare to make the word flesh. He considered storming out but there was not
enough room to flounce when he was already so close to the door, and since
Louis was going out too it would not have the desired effect; they would jostle
on the stairs to see who could get out first.
He
said, “Let’s go away – in the new year.
Not somewhere far, just a break”.
Louis thought of them stuck together all the time in Southend with no
possibility of escape. He said no, he
didn’t really feel like it. He used the
word “really” as a sop.
It
was incredibly unnerving having this intense conversation when they were standing
directly in front of each other and looking into each other’s eyes. It was the sort of conversation which should
be had from a distance, or at the breakfast table with a newspaper to hide
behind. He couldn’t leave because that
would mean pushing past Ian who was still strategically placed in front of the
door. Louis thought of the window but he
lacked agility in the three coats.
Ian
said, “We were so happy”, and Louis thought no we weren’t, it was fake, only
this is real.
Then
Ian said, “I’m only trying to help”. He
added, “Do you think we should call it a day?”
Louis
was appalled, but also impressed. “You
don’t help, you make things worse. I’ve
had this for four weeks and you want to leave”.
“You
don’t want me here, everything I do is wrong”.
He said, “I feel rejected” because he and Louis had always spoken about
how they felt, he said, “I’m putting so much effort into doing the right thing
or trying to avoid doing the wrong thing and I still can’t do it, I can’t get
it right and it’s draining me”.
“Stop
whining. It’s not all about you. Oh forget it.
If you don’t want to know how I am DON’T ASK”. He wondered why he had said “I’ve had this”
as if it was a disease.
Ian
thought, Why does he keep repeating himself?
He was annoyed with himself, both because he couldn’t help and he couldn’t
make himself understood; he couldn’t eliminate the image of Rex in Louis’ mind,
he couldn’t make Louis see sense.
They
were just standing there talking at each other; it was decidedly odd. They’d never done this before.
Ian
had picked up a bereavement leaflet at the doctors, he said, “I don’t know how
this grief thing works”. He said, “It
would have helped to go to the funeral, to say goodbye”.
I can say goodbye any time. I don’t want to say goodbye, it isn’t over
yet.
Ian
said, and he was embarrassed about saying it but couldn’t re-phrase it to make himself
sound less of a princess, “I feel like there’s three of us in this relationship”.
Louis
thought, There always was, you just didn’t know it. Neither did I.
Ian
was angry that he couldn’t make the situation right and Louis knew this.
Louis
said, “I try to avoid the subject because I don’t want to upset you, I’m trying
to protect you, I try to keep it to myself but you keep asking me about it and
I can’t lie. I’m trying to keep it in –
that’s what I thought I was doing, I thought you couldn’t see it, it’s very
wearing, keep smiling, push it underfoot”.
But
Ian already knew this. Louis said, “I’m
going for a little walk. Don’t worry, I’ll
be back”. Ian moved to one side and let
him waddle through the door in all the coats they owned.
When
Louis was out walking he kept noticing puddles where the snow had melted on the
pavements with the heat of passing feet.
Three wet patches he observed today, on slopes, spilt drinks and dog
piss, and each time the flow went not directly down but across and down, aiming
for the kerb. He found this baffling. Perhaps he did not fully understand
gravity. On a slope, where the liquid
was on a slope, he noticed that it didn’t dribble down to the bottom of the slope,
following gravity, where he supposed gravity was, it just sort of went down a
bit and then went sideways and stopped.
He thought, That’s what I’m like.
I have not fallen straight either, just locked sideways on a ledge. Most of us fall this way. A true fall requires more effort, more
determination. Why am I not dead? He couldn’t understand how he felt so
terrible but he hadn’t gone directly down, not directly down, but had gone down
sideways and stopped. He was the trickle
of the puddle on the slope.
Christmas
was over. The snow continued, the
pavements were icy. There was ice inside
the window. Everything was muffled with
snow, suffocated with it. It was crisp
and cold but it had gone on too long and was stagnant.
In
Coral’s kitchen he could see light. But
he couldn’t face her placards.
Emiko
again went round to see Louis and again he was out. Ian let her in reluctantly. “He’s out. I don’t know where”.
She
had on a pair of men’s brogues, tiny little doll’s shoes.
She
had brought Bonnie with her, for the fresh air.
She told Ian that she had got the rubber gloves and was careful.
Ian had no interest in this - she knew he
didn’t like birds and shouldn’t have brought her. The parrot started walking down her arm. This made Ian nervous about where she was
headed next. He folded his arms behind
his back so they did not resemble perches.
He dragged out some words which he hoped were polite, not realising that
it was courtesy that encouraged Emiko to stay.
The
parrot suddenly jumped on the table and moved sideways towards Ian, cocking its
head at him.
Beside
Ian’s general revulsion for any creature that had bodily functions, animals
gave him the creeps because he never knew what they were thinking. He regarded them as a gifted species and felt
embarrassed before them, so avoided them where he could. He always felt they were judging him as if he
were a pathetic loser.
Bonnie
looked Ian up and down in much the same way as his mother did. And then turned her back on him, ditto.
Lulu
was asleep but woke up whimpering for Emiko’s breast.
“Do
you mind?” Emiko turned away from Ian and
began to feed the baby.
Ian refused to leave his own room but went to
the window and could hear the noisy suckling.
The
parrot looked across at him as if he were a voyeur.
He
turned on Radio True Love and hopped back and forth between channels pretending
that was what he had been doing before Emiko arrived; he got terribly involved
in it, as if he were an engineer.
Eventually
the baby finished and Emiko asked him how Louis was getting on.
Ian said he didn’t know.
Then
she asked how he was, which nobody
ever did. Was it a trap? She only asked as an afterthought.
He
said he was OK. She said he didn’t sound
OK.
Lulu
had settled down to sleep again. Nice
life. Wake up, food on tap, fall asleep,
nobody expects anything of you. The parrot
was still staring at him as if waiting for him to express an opinion that was
worthless. Ian didn’t have anything to
say which would impress a parrot so he said nothing. The parrot kept nodding its head, taking it
all in.
Then,
because she showed no signs of leaving (he had been cooking and the kitchen was
still warm and it was so cold on her boat) Ian offered her a coffee, because
she looked tired and it can’t be nice having a baby hanging off your tits all
day.
She
said, “I have been to doctors about it, you know, but they won’t do anything
till she is older”.
“Why,
what’s wrong with her?”
“The
birthmark”.
“What
birthmark?”
“You
are always looking at it”.
But
Ian had no idea what she was talking about.
He had never looked at the child.
He
went and looked now. “Where is it?”
“There”.
“Where? Oh that little freckle. It’s not a birthmark”.
But
Emiko knew her own child and she knew it was a hideous birthmark. Lulu could use make up when she was older but
Emiko couldn’t do that to a baby so she had to cover her up with blankets,
risking asphyxiation. She was concerned
about how Lulu would deal with it when she was older, being talked about and
laughed at. It would be better to have
it cut off now so the scar would have faded by the time she reached that age. But the doctor was being obstructive.
Ian
said he had to go out. Emiko asked if
she could wait for Louis.
He
went out on his bike through the slush on the road and went the wrong way, eyes
still blurry no matter how wide he opened them, and then he got something in
his eye and couldn’t get it out, sticking a finger in his eye, couldn’t get it
out, couldn’t see where he was going, took a wrong turning and ended up
somewhere he didn’t recognise, little side roads he had never seen before.
In
the gutter there was an empty crisp packet, following him; he tried to cycle
faster and the empty crisp packet speeded up, he slowed down and the crisp
packet slowed down, he couldn’t shake it off, this rattling-in-the wind crisp
packet. It sounded comical when he told
Louis about it later but it filled him with dread.
Death
like love unhinges us, we have no defences against either; both compromise
reason.
When
Ian got home that night Louis was holding Rex’s shoes with his head bent over them
to capture the scent of Rex; they were saturated with Rex; he lifted them to
his face and tried to absorb Rex through the leather.
Ian said, “What the fuck are you doing now?”
Louis looked up at him at him like a wild
animal insane with starvation.
Ian
said, “He was an ordinary person, they’re not the shoes of Abraham fucking
Lincoln”.
Louis
had been smoking Rex’s tobacco and the flat stank. He left apple cores around so it felt like
Rex was here, Rex calling them apple corpses, or they’d tried to see how long a
grape would take to become a raisin. Ian
wouldn’t understand, he thought, as if it were some magical poetic moment
beyond the grasp of lesser mortals, especially ones who appreciated cleanliness
and order as Ian did.
Ian hoovered it all up. He was very insensitive in that way.
The
clothes Louis wore of Rex’s already fitted him better since he had stopped
eating. Most of the pockets were ripped
to rags, Rex was impatient with clothes and their access to whatever he needed
immediately. Louis found the rips comforting,
Rex’s hands had been there, so it was sort of like they were touching each
other, through the fabric, through time.
Ian said, “Why are you turning into him? Are you going to be shooting up next?”
He
took the cigarette out of Louis’ mouth, opened a window and threw it outside,
in a decisive gesture.
It
landed on the window sill, Louis went to grab it. Ian reached out and flicked it off.
Louis
raced downstairs to retrieve it.
Later
he fell asleep with the packet of tobacco in his hand and when he woke up only
twenty minutes had passed. No lights
anywhere; nobody. Ian was at work. The same huge pit opened up with him in the
middle of it.
He
smelt the brown blood on a raggy old shirt of Rex’s.
How
many times did he have to say I miss you before Rex returned to him? The desire to see him was so intense it was a
physical pain. He could not bear being
so far away from him. The words I miss
you were tiny and could not convey just how unbearable it was. It was absolutely unendurable: you being dead is unendurable.
Ian was at work so he started screaming again,
not having to hold it in.
Then
he went outside, screaming across the black hole to Rex. He thought that if he looked distressed
enough somebody, some magical stranger, would take him aside and lead him to
where Rex was hiding.
Once
he had given Rex razorblades. He didn’t now
recall what they had been arguing about.
Rex said, “You make me want to slash my wrists!” and Louis, who was
doing some plant cuttings, handed him the pack of blades.
Rex
sliced down his arm, blood gushed, it had truly gushed like a fountain; Louis
got worried and rang for an ambulance; they said, “Keep your arm held up”.
Louis
didn’t go in the ambulance with him. The
blood had stained the pale green rug and it was also in the stainless steel
sink, where it coagulated in rubbery clots.
Louis did not wash it away. He
felt very sad.
Now
he had no shoes on and he couldn’t feel the snowy pavement. Cars motored down the road. Rex never answered the phone, he was always
asleep, it drove Louis mad, never awake, came home to sleep and when he woke up
he went out. The endless sleeping drove
him mad but he would give anything now for Rex to be lying asleep in the bed
next to him, or on the sofa, waiting at home.
In
the park, after a short game of badminton which Louis had no idea how he had
talked him into, Rex had laid down on the grass and wouldn’t wake up and Louis,
bored of prodding him, had gone home. Two
hours later when he went back to the park Rex was blistering from sunburn on
his leg, where his trouser leg had scrunched up.
Louis
said I’m so sorry for everything but saying it out loud was not enough. One of the Samaritans told him to write it
all down, like that was a new idea, but that wasn’t enough either; he wanted Rex
to hear him, and he wanted to know that Rex could hear him.
I
would never bend for you, I am sorry for everything I would never do anything to
make your life easier, I always thought of myself I am so sorry so sorry so
sorry.
I
cannot bear knowing that you will never come back I cannot bear you to die I
just cannot bear it people telling me it will get easier. Every day was so unbearably long, so much
time to kill, he couldn’t keep it at bay indefinitely; he was just ticking off
the days until he could be with Rex again and hold him in his arms, your poor
drug-punctured arms, the tracks of scars all up your arms, following the
veins.
He
said Can you hear me, come and talk to me come to me in a dream so we can be
together again, I long to be in your arms again. And he got a sick feeling in his stomach and
thought it meant that Rex was on his way; felt unsettled like he was waiting
for something that was about to arrive.
Don’t
you want me anymore? But Rex never came.
It
is so cold and empty here without you, I long to be in your arms again.
In
the hospital, were you frightened and alone, had you had enough, were you
lonely in the boat. What is it like when
you know you are going to die. He didn’t
tell anyone, he faced it alone. I think
you had had enough. Why didn’t you tell
anyone this time, you knew this was it.
Louis
longed to hold him and comfort him, to save him. I let you down. I want to have been there at the end, all your
loneliness, I never helped, I only made things worse I abandoned you I failed
the test I let you down.
The
Samaritan said Rex let himself down. But
Louis knew that he himself had let Rex down because Rex once said that Louis
only gave him material things, he gave him books, he gave him clothes, he gave
him food, but he would never help him in the way he needed.
The
Samaritans said that he was a mature man in control of his own destiny but he
wasn’t. He had been desperate to be free
of his addictions and had tried again and again and nobody knew how hard that
was.
Louis
needed Rex to know how much he loved him; it was important that he knew. He rang the Samaritans and nobody
answered. He thought, They know it’s me,
even they don’t want to speak to me now, even they’re fed up with me (he had
called the wrong number).
They
can’t bring you back anyway, they can’t change anything.
He
wanted a safe harbour, something to cling to but there was nothing, he was
stuck on his own. All the cars sailed by
in another world that was warm and full of love.
Darling
please don’t be dead I don’t want you to be dead I can’t stand it please stop
being dead I can’t never see you again I want you to love me again I just want
to be with you. I should have known how
ill you were I should have known how unhappy you were.
You
kept telling me.
Why
didn’t I take it seriously. Why didn’t I
see this coming?
Louis
hated Ian. I should never have met Ian,
not until Rex was OK.
He
wanted to go home and find Rex on the other side of the door, lying asleep like
a pile of dead leaves blown into a corner by the wind like he did when he lost
his key, but Rex was not there and he could no longer bear to look.
Outside
with no shoes and no coat he looked at the inconvenient snow and thought how Rex
would delight in it, he would want to be one with the snow, rolling in it and
eating it.
Louis
should really get rid of all his things so that Ian would have less to deal
with when he was gone, he couldn’t stand the thought of people looking at his
things.
He
rang the Samaritans again. It had
started to irritate him that they kept asking if he was suicidal. What did that matter? If he was suicidal he would just do it. They said sometimes people like to be talking
to someone while they do it.
It
would have been easier if he was suicidal because they only took you really
seriously if you were past the turmoil and ready to die. But it wasn’t the worst thing that could
happen.
After
the call he pressed the number again but stopped it. They couldn’t give him what he wanted.
They
said, “We all do the best we can at the time” but that didn’t help when he
would give anything to have done something else.
Not
even Coral’s light was on in the street.
He
needed someone and there was no one. Why
didn’t people get up? It was 4am –
that’s not night, it’s early morning, he just had to be with someone, had to
talk to someone about Rex but there was no one.
He
screamed I lost everything please come back I need you it tortured me when you
went away I’m sorry for everything, I am sorry, I love you I miss you so much, why
won’t you hear me.
He
went back home but couldn’t go indoors; he ran round the back yard howling
begging Rex to come home, I’ll let you in this time, this time I’ll know and
we’ll talk and everything will be fine.
Ian was back from work early and missed Louis
by seconds but he heard sounds and looking out of the kitchen window he saw Louis
below running round in the snow. He
didn’t know what to do. He wanted to get
him indoors, put some shoes on him, warm him up with a soft towel but he kept
doing the wrong thing so he didn’t dare.
He felt angry with Rex that Louis was doing this.
It
was usually Louis who took charge in a crisis.
Now that Louis was the crisis they had nobody in charge.
He
wanted to say, “Look at yourself! Get your
act together, pull yourself together”. He
opened the window and shouted down, “Come inside, it’s freezing”. Louis didn’t feel the cold. What did he care if it was freezing. He moved off with no shoes. Ian assumed he was coming indoors so he went
to bed and waited.
Louis
stumbled up to the Harrow Road, walking along howling, trying to hold the howl
in, clinging to street lamps. It was
still dark, everything was frightening, nothing was stable, the occasional car
bumbled along on the other side of the world through the slush I remember the
warmth of your body, always so warm like a holiday in the sun yours was a body
I loved a face I loved you I loved. He
went into another phone kiosk and started to call the Samaritans but realised
it was useless and put the receiver down again.
He
didn’t want to talk to the Samaritans, he wanted to talk to Rex. Coral was out and he didn’t want to talk to
her about finding joy in a purposeless universe. There was nobody. He didn’t want to explain why he loved Rex so
much, he didn’t want to explain and justify things and say Rex wasn’t like they
thought he was even though they had never met him and said he was demanding. A lot of the Samaritans said he was
demanding. Louis didn’t want to make
himself understood, he wanted to be understood.
They said you must forgive yourself, but I didn’t wrong me I wronged you. He didn’t want their bland reassurances, that
wasn’t what he needed. He didn’t want to
be told that he had done fine when he knew he hadn’t. There was no comfort, they couldn’t comfort
him, he just wanted Rex back, not glib statements about grief.
Instead
he called the police. They arrived
fifteen minutes later and took him to St Mary’s hospital.
The
police were kind and talked gently to him and Louis felt a little better being
in the car even though they were in the other world. He babbled on and he wrote down their names
in his notebook. At the hospital they
waited with him until he could be seen by a doctor. This took over an hour.
Accident
and Emergency was Rex’s turf. The
atmosphere in the hospital very early morning was like all the times he had
been to A and E with Rex, St Thomas’s, UCH in the Euston Road, St Mary’s, the
Middlesex, when Rex didn’t want to go home without any drugs and needed a
breather, sometimes when he overdosed, the razor blade incident, the time his
back went, or using the toilets to shoot up in peace and quiet. It was a happy memory now, waiting for Rex to
shoot up, but how impatient he had always been when it was happening in
reality. Why was that, what was the
hurry? Rex could always sleep through
the long tedious hours until morning but Louis was wide awake and bored out of
his skull.
It
was oddly comforting, this atmosphere, and it made him feel closer to Rex as if
some ethereal part of him lingered still in hospitals everywhere.
The
nurses put him in a booth all on his own and he could hear the little noises of
life around him through the thin curtain.
The doctor didn’t stay long; he said a psychologist would be coming soon
but that took hours too and the hospital started waking up and Louis started to
lose the Rex feeling. It became boring
and then irritating. But he calmed down
a little because there were more people around and he was no longer alone with
the black hole.
He
wanted to go home but he also wanted help and he was afraid that if he left now
he would lose the opportunity of some real help that would bring Rex back to
him.
Other
people walked around and he felt like a ghost none of them could see, he was
not a part of their world any longer.
The
psychologist hadn’t come into work because of the snow. The student psychologist offered Louis a bed
in the psychiatric unit but he said no.
That wasn’t what he wanted, although a part of him was tempted. But how would he find Rex if he was locked up
in here. She was so earnest and she was
wearing horrible glasses.
As
they sat there, Louis thought Please be with me, everything is frightening, and
he imagined that he could see Rex behind him, to the left, in the mirror,
messing about, mocking the student.
She
looked like a geography teacher. He
couldn’t imagine opening up to her and letting her delve into his private life;
she had very large spectacles; many people have to wear glasses but why do they
make such horrible frames? Surely cheap
doesn’t have to lack style so utterly. Nobody
could pull that look off. Should he hand
in an essay? He wrote her name in his notebook,
along with a physical description in case he needed to avoid her later on. She was also wearing jeans, presumably to
soften the geography look. And she had a
slight lisp.
She
was too old for jeans. They were neatly
pressed.
It
seemed an odd line of work to go into, talking, when you have a speech
impediment. He admired her balls, but
still –
She
said, “How are you feeling?” and he tried to say but she interrupted him with
the counselling book response, paraphrasing him and nodding her head
thoughtfully. He thought, I know what I
said. He didn’t feel she had heard him,
only that she was studying him, perhaps for the geography exam.
He
didn’t want to talk to her, trying to make himself understood, but he felt
sorry for the lisp and the horrible glasses and the pressed jeans so he made an
attempt. Even none of the Samaritans had
lisps. That wasn’t their fault.
She
said that it takes time to come to terms with death and he said he didn’t want
to come to terms with it; he wanted Rex not to be dead.
She
offered him pills and said, “They will lift your spirits” but he didn’t want
his spirits lifted; if this was how he felt then this was how he wanted to
feel, he didn’t want to be separated from Rex.
The pills were not magic, they could not reverse time.
She
said, “You have to take them for a year” but he wasn’t likely to be around for
a year. She said, “Make an appointment
to come back in a month”. He thought,
I’ll be dead by then. She said, “What is
it you want?”
Louis
said, “I want you to turn back time and make this not be happening”.
This
she would not do for him. She said, “That’s
impossible”. He said nevertheless that
was what he wanted. They all say, “How
can I help you” but when you tell them they say they can’t; what’s the point,
then, of asking. Each time someone asked
he thought maybe this is the person who can do it.
She
said Rex sounded like a very demanding man.
He
wasn’t demanding he was desperate.
You
did what you could.
But
not enough.
And
Louis wrote everything down in his notebook even though it wasn’t helpful,
because maybe he was missing something that he would see when his mind was
clearer. He wrote down the names of the
police who picked him up and he wrote down the name of the laundry boy who
offered to get him a coffee but only if he gave him a fiver. He wrote down the name of the psychologist
even though she was an unfeeling idiot.
He
wanted it all on record.
He
said, “I don’t like your face”, which wasn’t a thing he would ordinarily say to
someone but he wanted to test how calmly she would take it. It was her job, after all.
And
then she stopped talking and gave him some silence to use instead and that was
worse.
Louis
said, “I can sit in silence on my own”. Suddenly
he felt all wrong, all panicky, said, “Oh my god I’ve got to go”, and he got up
and left.
She
said, “Please come back”.
But
he couldn’t get out of the door and she was quickly advancing on him. She said, “You have to press the button to the
left” but Louis’ mind had gone blank and he didn’t know what was left and what
was right. She got right next to him and
pressed the button on the left and the door opened.
He
walked out into the snow wearing a pair of shoes the laundry boy gave him for
free but they were full of holes and he called for a taxi.
The
taxi driver had a new car which he wanted to show off, the leather seats and
mahogany fitments, it was an old car and only 74 still in the country, 15 years
old, I use Mr Pledge to keep the seats clean.
Unfortunately
he did not keep himself clean and Louis opened the window for fresh air but the
taxi driver asked him not to do that as it played havoc with his sciatica but
he was impressed by the sound system in his car. “It’s old but listen to the quality”- and
kept flicking through song after song, he liked country and western, he kept
saying you’ll know this one, you’ll know this one, but Louis never did. Louis wanted only to sit there and think, he
was not in the mood for a quiz; he felt very dimwitted because he could think
of none of the answers, his brain wouldn’t work quick enough for the speedy
changing of songs.
Then
the car got stuck at traffic lights and Louis’ money ran out so he paid up and
walked the rest of the way home. The man
was still yelling song titles out of the window.
Louis
wrote down the experience in his notebook as he walked along but already he
couldn’t remember the make of the car. He
remembered Rex’s car.
His
took off the holey shoes and his feet were all blistered and that made him
happy because Rex always had blistered feet.
Maybe
it was a sign. One of the fortnights Rex
didn’t come home, when Louis finally managed to track him down, Rex said, “You
told me not to come back”. His feet were
stuck inside his shoes with no socks, white and numb and blistered. He had blood all over his shirt and a black
eye. He had been sleeping in a phone box
in Soho. Louis bought him some cake and
they drank cream soda. Rex smelled of
pee. Louis said, “I was angry, I didn’t
mean it” – how could he possibly have thought he’d meant it? Come on let’s go home.
But
Rex had to get drugs to take home first, for the morning; he swapped jackets
with Louis and begged up some money and stole Louis an interesting sandwich
while he waited, two hours to find a dealer, four hours in a toilet shooting
up. In the end Rex told him to go home
and he would catch him up. It took
another week before he came back – but Louis felt happy at the memory because Rex
was happier.
Louis
didn’t call the Samaritans on the walk back to the flat because they were
useless. Talking to people purged him
briefly but it didn’t help, it was only a short-term fix. Nobody could help because nobody could make
it not have happened. It had
happened. Nothing could un-dead Rex.
What’s
the point - they are not you.
Louis
didn’t want to learn to live with it, he wanted it not to have happened and he
wanted to hit out because there was nothing he could do to stop it from
happening; it had already happened.
Death
made him painfully aware of his impotence.
In any other situation he at least had the illusion of control, a chance
for change, however tiny. Death stripped
him of even that illusion. There was no
chance. He couldn’t change it. But when had he ever changed anything anyway? As if anything he had ever wanted in his life
had happened, however sincerely and passionately he had tried. All the times he had begged Rex to come home,
begging him to come to bed. The Winter’s
Tale is a fantasy. The story of Lazarus
is nonsense. The story of Jesus and the
resurrection is utter crap. The boy
could never join with the star.
He
felt utterly worn out and he thought maybe he would be able to sleep for longer
than twenty minutes.
When
he got home there was a pile of junk mail on the table. More leaflets, including a flyer from a chiropodist
saying, “Why Suffer Painful Tired Feet - when professional help is just a phone
call away. Visit our modern surgery or
we will visit you at home”.
It
sounded like a threat. They had
wheelchair access. Louis’ feet hurt.
And
some college courses for the Christmas season –‘Sew your Christmas Present List’,
‘Making Christmas Angels in Felt’, ‘Christmas Mini Tag Album’, and ‘Getting to
Know your Sewing Machine’ – one two hour session each. Also, ‘Welsh for Improvers’ and ‘Folk,
fiddle, flute and mandolin’, none of which enticed him. There was also a pamphlet from the
Spiritualist Mission, or S and M as Ian had underlined. Rex always appreciated a good leaflet.
Ian heard him come in and said, “Oh thank god
you’re alright” and tried to hug him.
This irritated Louis. If he cared so much, why was here and not out looking for him.