‘Oh – thanks.’
She laughs.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’d really like to go,’ says David.
‘Your mum will be OK about it?’
‘Sure.’
He thinks about it for a moment.
‘Maybe.’
Ellen smiles.
‘Maybe don’t tell her any more than she needs to know,’ she says with a smirk. ‘You know?’
David nods. Lie. She means lie. He can do that. He’s good at that.
‘It’s going to be great.’
‘Yeah,’ says David.
‘We can get to know each other a bit better,’ says Ellen, putting her arm around his waist and pulling him close.
‘Absolutely,’ says David.
‘It’ll be romantic,’ says Ellen. ‘No sneaking around.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘would you mind if we called it a night? All this crap with Matt … I’d just like to start again, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ says David. ‘I’ll walk you back.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘I’ll be fine. I only live a couple of streets away. But thanks.’
She didn’t want him at her house. She didn’t want her family to see him. So what? he thinks. His mother didn’t even know Ellen existed.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
They kiss again. Not passionately this time – a gentle, soft parting kiss that if anything was more thrilling than the first because it hinted at an understanding – a relationship. It already feels more natural to be mouth to mouth.
But David is not in the moment this time. He is overcome by a growing mixture of dread and panic, each one vying for control of his fevered imagination. Because he has just realised the full import of this trip away.
Sex. The invitation is an invitation to sex. He has imagined sex so often – yearned for it, obsessed over the possibility of it, and now that it looms towards him he feels like he is being pushed onto a stage without his lines. Or his clothes.
In his dreams and fantasies it has been something that just happened; something that he took part in without thought. In these sexual fever dreams he is in control, knows exactly what he is doing – without knowing what exactly it was he actually did. He was the director. He called the shots.
The problem is that, in the cold light of day, that all seems like just a silly game.
Chapter 22
Nobody’s Perfect
It’s the third anniversary of the death of David’s father and it’s already become a tradition that David and his mother mark this occasion by having his father’s favourite meal – takeaway pizza (always pepperoni) – and watching his favourite movie – Some Like It Hot – on DVD.
No matter how he and his mother might be getting on, no matter how uncommunicative David has become, they reluctantly put that aside to take part in this annual ritual.
David feels ambivalent about it, but it feels like an act of betrayal to his father and too deliberately hurtful to his mother not to take part. Besides, how could he ever explain that, for him, that day is replayed endlessly – that he needs no reminder.
‘To Dad,’ says David, raising his bottle of beer.
‘To Dad,’ she says, lifting hers.
They clink bottles and drink while they’re waiting for the pizza to arrive. There is a minute or two when neither of them knows quite what to say or do next. They are intimidated by the gravity of the moment and by the effort they both know they are making to find this common ground.
David’s mother breaks the spell.
‘Look at you,’ she says. ‘I feel like I’m sitting here with a grown man. When did you stop being my little boy?’
David shrugs.
‘I don’t feel much like a grown man,’ he says.
She smiles, watery-eyed.
‘Everybody feels like that when they’re sixteen. That feeling of floundering about for a few years.’
‘Is that what you did?’ he says. ‘Flounder about?’
She nods and takes a sip of beer.
‘Yeah. I did my fair share. I was shy – really, painfully shy. So for me it was mainly about not making an ass of myself. Not that I always succeeded.’
David raises his eyebrows. He tries to imagine his mother as a teenager – making an ass of herself – but it is too hard. She seems so un-teenagery – like she has never been sixteen in her whole life, and yet he knows she must have been and he feels bad that he can’t see it in her. He wishes he could.
‘I never really enjoyed school that much,’ she continues. ‘I wasn’t clever like you and your dad. Exams weren’t easy for me.’
David stiffens, thinking that this is a dig about his lack of concern over his upcoming exam results, but he can see in her face that it isn’t. That’s just how she feels.
‘But you’re really clever,’ he says.
She waves this away.
‘I am a lot cleverer now,’ she says. ‘I love to learn now that it’s not a competition. That’s how I used to feel at school. Even with your dad sometimes. He always knew more than me about everything. I always felt like I was struggling to catch up with him.’
‘Me too,’ says David. ‘Sometimes I used to hear him sigh with frustration when I said something stupid.’
He wishes he hadn’t summoned that memory up, and his mother sees this in his face and leans towards him.
‘Your dad would be really proud of you, you know.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
She frowns and puts out a hand to touch his.
‘Why would you say that? Of course he would.’
David shrugs.
‘What is there to be proud of?’
She squeezes his hand.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to hear you talking like that. He’d be very proud of you. He would.’
David nods, but he isn’t convinced. If it is to mean anything – being proud – then it has to be deserved, surely. What has David done to make anyone – including himself – proud? Really?
Even in his alter ego he is useless. He is a superhero who cannot do the one thing he is put on this planet to do. The doorbell goes and his mother gets up to answer it, relieved at the distraction.
‘Pizza time!’
But it isn’t the pizza.
‘Sorry,’ says Marie, walking into the lounge followed by Mark. ‘Sorry, David.’
‘It’s fine,’ says his mother, following them in. ‘Honestly.’
‘No,’ says Mark. ‘We’re intruding. We were on our way out and we just wanted to, you know, say hi. And … well, you know what I mean.’
Marie hugs David’s mother and David stands up, not sure what to do. Marie lets go of his mother and puts her arms around David. Her face is moist with tears. He isn’t sure whether they are hers or his mother’s.
Mark hugs David’s mother and then grips David in a man-hug, slapping his shoulder. David is mightily relieved when he finally lets go.
‘We’ll leave you two alone,’ says Marie. ‘We just wanted to … you know.’
David’s mother nods.
‘Where are you off to?’ she asks, smiling again now.
‘Actually we’re off to two different places,’ says Marie with a nervous chuckle. ‘I’m off to a friend’s fortieth and Mark is playing squash with someone from work.’
‘You still play?’ says David’s mother.
Mark nods. David has a clear image of his father and Mark leaving to play squash together, rackets in hand. His father turns his head towards David and disappears.
‘Sometimes,’ says Mark with a sad smile. ‘I’m very rusty now of course.’
The doorbell rings again.
‘Ah,’ says David’s mother. ‘That’ll be the pizza!’
‘Come on,’ says Marie, tapping Mark’s arm. ‘Let them get back to their movie.’
‘Absolutely,’ he says as David’s mothe
r comes back in holding two pizza boxes. ‘Night, you two!’
‘Bye,’ says David’s mother.
‘Bye,’ says David.
His mother sees them to the door and then comes back rolling her eyes.
‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘I thought they were actually going to ask to stay!’
‘Me too!’ says David.
She takes the plates out of the oven where they’ve been warming and puts the pizzas on them.
‘I mean I’m very fond of them both, in their way, don’t get me wrong,’ says his mother, ‘but today is … Well, it’s just about me, you …’
‘And Dad,’ says David.
She nods.
‘Yes. Come on – get the movie started.’
They watch the film, side by side on the sofa. David looks directly at the TV, never veering to right or left as he leans forward to grab his beer. Because all the time he keeps from looking to his left he can pretend his dad is sitting next to him on the sofa, just like he always used to.
It’s good to laugh and David wonders at how weird it is that he is happier in that moment than at any time he can remember, even though they are doing this in memory of his father’s death.
Mostly though he just enjoys the movie, which is one of his favourites too and has been since he first saw it years ago when someone bought it for his dad for Christmas. And the ending has to be one of the very best.
Disguised by being dressed in drag, Jack Lemmon comes up with all kinds of reasons why he can’t run away with Joe E. Brown, who won’t listen to any of them. Finally he takes off his wig and confesses.
‘I’m a man,’ says Jack Lemmon.
‘Well – nobody’s perfect,’ says Joe E. Brown.
There is a big moon rising, part-way between half and full – a gibbous moon, bone white and pin sharp. David can’t resist having a look through the scope and pans across the chimney-tops until he reaches its luminous surface, pockmarked and fractured.
David stands up and looks at the view with his naked eye. The moon is bright enough to cast shadows and these moon shadows criss-cross the gardens below. It looks fake. Like a day-for-night shot in an old movie.
He has decided that owing to the special nature of the day he should refrain from any of his spying – it would seem disrespectful somehow – but he discovers, not for the first time, that he has little or no will power in this regard. He is hooked on the scope – he is an addict.
Even after he begins to pan across the backs of the houses, loitering at each window in turn, he pretends to himself that he still won’t look at the Millers’ window – he won’t look for Holly. He doesn’t need to look for Holly. Why would he? He has Ellen. Lovely Ellen. And yet, a few minutes later, and that’s where he is feverishly focusing.
A filthy thrill fingernails its way up his back when he sees the curtains open and the back of Holly’s head above the armchair by the window. Her hair shines under the reading lamp above her head.
She is on her own tonight. Or is she? No – he sees some movement behind her as her boyfriend walks into the room. She stands up and they talk and then he moves closer and grabs her – quite roughly, David notes, pulling at her clothes. David’s throat dries up and he can hear his breath booming in his ears.
Just when David thinks he is going to drag her to the floor there and then – they pull apart and he strides over to the window.
‘No!’ hisses David.
Don’t close the curtains!
He wants to see. He wants to watch. Just as the boyfriend is pulling the curtains closed, he looks out almost as though a sixth sense is telling him someone is watching. His face is pressed to the window, peering out.
It’s Mark Miller.
Chapter 23
Black People Aren’t Allowed to Fly
David hovers in the air outside the curtained window. The curtains are red and the light behind makes them glow. The silhouetted figures of Mark and Holly shed their clothes in time to a slow beat and then embrace and set off on an erotic dance, limbs coiling, hips thrusting – like some adults-only shadow-puppet show.
‘It’s Joe!’
David wakes. What? What’s that?
‘It’s Joe!’ shouts his mother again.
‘On the phone?’ shouts David dozily.
There’s no reply. He gets up and starts towards the door, but he can already hear Joe’s feet on the stairs. David dashes towards the window and moves the scope. Joe knocks and opens the door, putting his grinning head round.
‘Here’s Johnny!’
‘What?’ says David.
‘You know – The Shining.’
‘Never seen it,’ says David.
‘You’ve never seen the clip where Jack Nicholson axes the door open and pushes his –’
‘I haven’t seen it,’ says David. ‘What do you want anyway?’
‘Oh, that’s friendly. Thanks.’
‘Sorry,’ says David. ‘There’s a bit of a …’
He doesn’t know why he starts the sentence and doesn’t know how to end it.
‘A bit of a what?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
Joe shrugs.
‘Listen, I just wanted to say thanks for stepping in. At the party. I meant to come round earlier but I’ve been away at my gran’s.’
‘No – I should be thanking you. For sticking up for me in the first place.’
Joe smiles.
‘How’s the nose?’ says David.
‘Fine. But …’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘What?’
‘Why get so angry on my behalf and let him talk to you like that? You need to stand up for yourself.’
‘I thought I needed to be more friendly.’
‘You know what I mean.’
David shrugs. Why was he never what people wanted him to be? Why do people think they know you – or know what’s best for you? Joe slumps down in the chair next to David’s desk and picks up a comic.
‘Still into this stuff then?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
Joe curls his lip.
‘You know, I don’t really get comics.’
David shrugs. He is not a comic nerd. He doesn’t care if no one likes them but him. But Joe wants to explain anyway.
‘Maybe it’s because there aren’t any black superheroes, you know what I mean?’ he says after a moment of thinking about it. ‘Specially in those ones you read – the ones from way back.’
‘Yeah, but there are though.’
David drags a box out from under the bed, opens it and takes a comic out.
‘See – Luke Cage: Power Man.’
‘Power Man?’ says Joe. ‘No offence, but he’s not exactly famous, is he? I’ve never heard of him. What the hell is he wearing?’
‘I think he looks kind of cool.’
‘Cool?’ says Joe. ‘You’re kidding. For the seventies maybe. And what superpowers does he have anyway?’
‘Er … he’s really strong.’
‘But he can’t fly or any of that really good stuff?’
‘Well, no.’
‘You see!’
‘There’s Blade – from Tomb of Dracula.’
‘Like the movies – the vampire hunter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK – he is kind of cool.’
‘And what about the Black Panther?’
David leans over and picks up a comic he’s been reading and hands it to Joe. The cover shows the Black Panther being grabbed by men in gold metallic suits who are pulling him through a rock face. It says: ‘Through walls of stone they stalk! Beware … the agents of Kiber.’
Joe studies it for a while.
‘And the Black Panther is black? He doesn’t just wear a black suit? It’s kind of hard to tell.’
‘No – he’s black. He’s African. He’s from a made-up African country called Wakanda.’
‘Wakanda?’
‘Yeah. He’s probably t
he first black superhero. He joined the Avengers and –’
‘So can he fly?’
‘Well … no. He has super-strength, super-speed, agility – that kind of thing.’
‘Well, there you go. We aren’t allowed to fly. Black people aren’t allowed to fly. What’s that about?’
David says he’s sure there must be black superheroes who fly, he just can’t bring any to mind right at that moment. He picks up a box and starts to look through it.
‘I don’t care!’ shouts Joe, louder than either of them is expecting.
‘Sorry,’ says David, frowning.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s about Black Panther or whoever. They’re made up. Who cares?’
Joe leans back, clearly feeling bad about the hurt look he sees on David’s face. He softens his voice.
‘It just gets a bit boring, you know?’ he says. ‘Movie after movie, book after book – and barely a black guy in it. You’ll never get what that’s like.’
David doesn’t know what to say when Joe says things like this. It’s true – how can he know what that’s like? But what was he supposed to do about it?
‘Every now and then we’re supposed to feel grateful that some white guy’s put a black character in his story – like he’s done us a big favour, you know?’
David nods and takes the Black Panther comic from Joe, laying it down on the top of the box he’d pulled out. Joe will periodically say these things – remind them both that there is this irreconcilable difference between them, and David knows it’s true but wishes it wasn’t.
‘You know I’m not into this stuff.’
‘I know,’ says David with a shrug.
‘I think you should get out more, to be honest.’
‘Yeah – that went well last time.’
‘It’s not helping, sitting around in here reading comics.’
‘Not helping what?’ says David.
He knows what.
‘I just think you should be out in the real world, you know?’
‘Then I wouldn’t be so weird? Is that what you mean?’
‘Don’t be like that. Don’t make me feel bad for saying you should have some fun.’
‘Yeah – sorry. I know. Actually, I need a favour from you on that score,’ says David.
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