by Hayley Doyle
‘So why are you here? In Islington?’
‘It’s that comedy night. You know, Jack’s mate? The crass one?’
‘I dunno …’
‘Ross Robson?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘No, you don’t get it. He’s, he’s,’ my breathing is shallow; my voice is cracking; ‘he’s dead …’
‘Yep!’ Beth goes in for the hug I told her not to do. She squeezes me and pulls my face down onto her shea-butter-scented shoulders. Like a mother consoling her child, she strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head, repeating her words as if whispering a lullaby, ‘He’s dead to you. Good. Good riddance. You said, it. He’s dead. Dead to you—’
‘NO,’ I break away, my eyes heavy with tears. ‘Beth. He’s dead.’
Beth’s eyes pop out; her complexion drains. Her sharp fingernails dig into my upper arms. Beth won’t be grief-stricken. She won’t even be sad, not really, because she didn’t know Jack; not enough to grieve him in any way. She’s simply in shock. Because things like this don’t happen. Not in real life.
‘Beth …’ I say, desperate for the horror of this moment to pass.
Her nails dig deeper.
‘Beth, you’re hurting me.’
She pauses, then her thumb strokes my arm.
‘What happened?’ she asks, gently. ‘When?’
‘Oh God, I need to go, just be on me own.’
‘Chlo—’
‘No. I’m begging you, pal. I don’t know anything other than …’ and I clam up again.
No. I simply cannot say what happened to Jack today. This is all too surreal. Beth’s road is spinning around us, the terraced houses dancing in zigzags around the parked cars, the evening breeze warm and sticky and making me gag. So, taking advantage of Beth not wearing any shoes, I break away from her, whisper something about being sorry, and run.
3
The day Jack gave me a key to his flat, I responded badly.
It wasn’t in a little red box or tied to a fancy ribbon, but he did get down onto one knee and, throwing his arms to the gods, pretended he was in some sort of amateur dramatic Shakespeare production. He then took the key from his shirt pocket, held it up like a prized chalice and shouted, ‘TA-DA!’
‘Oh, I’ve already got one,’ I said.
Back during one of my early visits, I’d nipped down the road to the Sainsbury’s Local to buy some chocolate and Jack had given me the spare key to let myself back in. I’d just forgotten to give it back to him.
‘Well, you could just play along,’ Jack said quietly, gritting his teeth.
‘Sorry, hun. I meant, OH YAY!’
Standing outside our flat now, that same key in my hand, I hesitate to open the door. Jack didn’t own this flat; he rented it. From his parents. I was due to contribute to the rent and bills, starting from this month, and my landlords were to become the very people who are inside right now, perhaps watching the telly, taking a shower, making a coffee. The people who never knew I lived here.
A warm glow filters from the tall lamp in the lounge out onto the flower bed beside the driveway, yellow and purple petals highlighted like miniature stepping-stones. Our neighbours, the couple who live in the second-floor flat, are the keen gardeners, not me or Jack. They keep the front of the house looking delightful with hanging baskets and kindly mow the communal back lawn, too. I wonder if they know about Jack yet. There’s no flicker from the telly or noise that I can make out, so John and Trish must be in bed. Our bed. My bed.
I check my phone is on silent and notice a reply from Beth. I’d sent her a message after subconsciously arriving at the tube station, telling her I was sorry for running off like that but that I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.
I understand babes. I’m here for you whenever the time is right. Love you xxx
I slide my key into the door and open it with minimal disruption.
He’s there; everywhere. Jack.
The musty smell of his parka. The dried mud from his giant wellies that he never cleaned after last year’s Glastonbury. The hints of aftershave that always linger from his overspray in the morning, leaving me to get dressed within a cloud of manly spice. The lemongrass candle from Thailand that we only light on Friday nights when we’re both home.
He’s just here.
I tiptoe along the narrow hallway in the dark, cursing each creaky floorboard beneath the weathered Persian carpet runner. The bedroom door is closed, so I turn in to where the lamplight greets me. The small lounge and kitchen are open-plan, separated by the breakfast bar. This room is one of the things I love about this cosy place. I throw my satchel onto the L-shaped sofa and notice an imprint in the seat belonging to Jack. It’s too big to be John’s and although I haven’t met Trish, I know she’s a petite woman. She happens to be a celebrity journalist and I’ve seen her on the telly, talking on panel shows.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper. ‘I know you’re here. You have to be here.’
I kick off my Converse. There’s a chill in the room, a reminder that the heatwave is temporary and summer will be inconsistent as usual. I pour myself a glass of water. I drink it thirstily in one go and catch a glimpse of the canvas print hanging above the cooker; the man in the shopping trolley.
It seems mad that only this morning, Jack was staring at this man’s nonchalant face as he ate Rice Krispies without milk. Neither of us remembered to buy milk yesterday. He was spouting off, delving into all kinds of deeper reasons why the man was sat there, refusing to believe he was just a fella sat in a trolley. He said how one day we’d go back there, find him and ask him. Of course, I was unaware that Jack’s last words to me would be, ‘What’s behind the picture?’ All I’d replied with was, ‘Gotta dash. See ya later.’
I place my glass down and see the sink is clean and empty. The dishes have been done. They aren’t even draining: they’ve been tidied away, meaning there isn’t a trace of Jack’s bolognese remaining.
‘Agh.’ A painful, single cry escapes me.
I clasp my hands across my mouth. The beat of my heart is heavy: a dull bassline, drowning out the natural rhythm of the night. My eyes are closed, fighting back tears. If I cry, I’ll be admitting defeat, buying into this ridiculous notion that Jack is no more. He’s here. I can feel him.
I grip the edge of the sink; take a deep breath; turn around.
And smile.
I can see Jack as clearly as I’d seen him this morning. He’s wearing the shirt he wore the day he gave me a key. It’s off-white and baggy, hanging out loose over jeans. His beard is wild, his hair in need of a trim; exactly how it was this morning. His presence in the kitchen is huge as usual, in this tiny flat. He looks at ease; at home.
‘I knew you were here,’ I mouth.
He points to the sofa and I nod. Taking the red bobbled throw, I wrap it around me like a giant shawl and curl up. I rest my head on the cushion shaped like the head of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. I know it’s not Christmas, but this cushion is so soft, so dreamy, that Jack considered it a crime to keep it hidden for eleven months of the year.
Closing my eyes, I will Jack to lie here beside me: to smooth down my hair; to stroke my cheek. I’m expecting him to suggest we watch another episode of the true crime documentary we’re currently bingeing on, although he’ll fall asleep within the first ten minutes and I’ll have to re-watch that ten minutes all over again at the next sitting. Unless we’re at the pub, he can’t keep his eyes open beyond nine-thirty. Rudolf always gets the blame.
‘Jack?’ I whisper.
I can feel him. He’s here.
He’s definitely still here.
4
I open one eye, and the wall clock above the telly tells me it’s just after six.
The hissing chatter in the kitchen didn’t wake me up, though. I never truly slept: the events of yesterday pressed hard into my subconscious and wouldn’t let me drift off. But they think I’m asleep, John and Trish. They think I can’t hear them
.
‘Did you know she was coming back?’ Trish is saying. Even in a whisper I’d recognise that biting tongue; that clipped, over-articulated, media-trained voice. You can almost hear her saliva singing.
John is grumbling and inarticulate.
‘Oh, Johnny, I can’t deal with this right now. If she’s got a key to let herself in whenever she fancies, how many more are there? How do we know Jack didn’t dish out keys to all his friends? All his girlfriends?’
I close my eyes tight like a child wishing to turn invisible.
‘Jack wouldn’t do that, love,’ John says. ‘Not in his nature.’
‘What isn’t? You’re forgetting what happened with Florrie!’
I open my eyes. Who the fuck is Florrie?
‘He was young,’ I hear John saying.
‘Don’t make excuses. He knew how to control himself, Johnny.’
‘Keep your voice down, love. She’s asleep.’
‘She has a name … What was it again?’
‘I can’t remember, love. Erm – Clare?’
‘Well, how do we know that Clare was really his girlfriend? It can’t have been serious, Johnny. Jack would’ve introduced us before shacking up with her.’
‘Would he?’
‘Don’t act as if I don’t know my own son, Johnny!’
Now this is great. Jack’s parents don’t want me here and I really need to wee. Obviously I’ll have to get up at some point. I can’t just stay on the sofa like a fat cat. But I don’t know – should I wait until after I’ve used the toilet to tell them that my name isn’t Clare? Or stand up and tell them right now that erm, sorry, but my name is not fucking Clare?
‘Did you see the suitcase, Johnny?’ Trish spits. ‘Doesn’t feel very serious, does it?’
She’s upped the volume slightly because the kettle is boiling and it would be a travesty for John not to hear her every word. Wouldn’t it?
‘What are you suggesting, love?’ John says. I imagine he’s rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, just how he did yesterday when we met.
‘That we tell her – kindly – to leave. I’m sure she won’t mind. We’ve got so much to do, so much to deal with, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to get out of here faster than even we’d appreciate. She only needs to zip up her bags – there’s nothing at all that suggests she’s a permanent fixture around here. Jack was probably just casually shagging her.’
‘Trish, please. Let’s not discuss our dead son’s sex life.’
I hear Trish gasp, and a long, sorrowful moan follows shortly after.
‘Our dead son,’ she says, muffled. John must be holding her close to him.
She’s crying hard, uncontrollably, giving me no choice but to rise.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. ‘Sorry.’
Darting into the bathroom, I lock the door and sit on the toilet, pushing the walls either side with my hands. Not a permanent fixture, Trish? Well, what about my electric toothbrush right there in the holder next to Jack’s withered cheap one? Or the fact that the hanging caddy in the shower contains salon-recommended shampoo and conditioner for bleached hair? And coconut butter body scrub, mango shower gel and three used – yes, used – Venus disposable razors because, oops, I just forget to throw them away? Does (I’m sorry, did) Jack look as if he ever used a fucking razor in his life? Did he? And tampons. Yeah, there’s a little box of opened tampons: clearly mine. Unless Jack went through a phase of using them for earplugs, or butt plugs, you know, something I wouldn’t know about. Like Florrie.
Who the fuck is Florrie?
I wash my face, brush my teeth. I can see Jack in the mirror, grinning over my shoulder.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘You’re not even there.’
Jack pretends to be offended, dropping his mouth open, splaying his hand across his heart.
‘Well, for a start, if you were here you’d tell your mum that we aren’t just shagging.’
Oh, he finds that hilarious. His jolly presence fills the whole bathroom. I struggle to lean over and spit into the sink, banging my forehead on the mirror.
‘Ouch!’ I turn around.
He’s gone.
I wipe my mouth on my arm and barge into the kitchen, annoyed at myself for …
I don’t even know why. I’m just annoyed.
John and Trish are both sitting at the breakfast bar, staring into mugs of instant coffee. At least I’m dressed. Sort of. I’m still wearing the floral dress with the button missing, and although it shouldn’t be an achievement, I’m wearing knickers, unlike yesterday’s parental meet and greet. I took my bra off though, somewhere between sleep and disbelief. The underwiring was digging in and it now lies on the coffee table on top of last Sunday’s Observer Food Monthly. I’d like to think that a pair of grieving parents wouldn’t notice something like a discarded bra, but it’s just the sort of thing Patricia Carmichael would spot and rant about, turning it into a political debate.
‘Morning,’ I manage.
John stands. He’s still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. His tailored shorts and light blue shirt are now creased, and everything about him is off-colour. Trish elongates her neck, straightens her posture. If I hadn’t known that Jack’s mum was Patricia Carmichael, I mightn’t have recognised her. She isn’t wearing any makeup and her short, spiky hair hasn’t been styled. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt printed with a cassette tape across the chest. I know that t-shirt. It’s Jack’s. He bought it from Spitalfields market about a month ago. No – in fact, I bought it. The stall only accepted cash and he only had his card. I had a twenty quid note.
‘I’m Chloe,’ I say, avoiding eye contact with John and going straight for Trish.
Trish rolls her red, swollen eyes to John and raises one eyebrow. I give a little wave with my hand. Not intentionally, believe me. An abundance of questions dance around my mind, all of which John and Trish might have the answers to. Firstly: is this all real? Is Jack really dead? And how exactly did he die? What are the finer details, because are they sure, I mean absolutely sure, that he isn’t perhaps almost dead? Did somebody get it wrong? And why did Jack never mention me to them? Or did he, and they’ve forgotten; in the same way that John forgot my name?
‘We’re leaving shortly,’ Trish says.
‘There’s a lot to do,’ John says.
‘Help yourself to tea, coffee …’ Trish tells me.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I don’t want to boil the kettle. It feels too much like intruding, pottering about behind them while they sip their own hot drinks. It’ll give off the wrong impression entirely if I open the fridge and pick at the grapes, the first thing I usually do in the morning. And if I go back to the sofa, I can’t go back to sleep or turn on the telly. So what should I do? Sit there with my hands on my lap awaiting instruction? In my own home?
The plays, now in a small pile beside the fruit bowl, are my saving grace. John knows they’re mine. I lean across, slide them towards me and God, I’m relieved to have something in my hands. Shit. I have to teach practical drama to Year Nine in a few hours. Am I expected to go to work today? Even if my boyfriend died yesterday? Auditions for the school musical are tomorrow. I have to be there. But that’s not right, is it? Or is it?
A breeze floats in from the back door, slightly ajar. Empty bottles of Peroni that need taking to the recycling bin shake, humming a gentle tune. They’ll still have Jack’s saliva around the rim.
‘Have you finished with that, Johnny?’ Trish asks.
John allows his wife to take his half-empty mug. She shuffles over to the sink.
‘I can do that,’ I say. ‘The mugs. I know where they go.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Trish says, the water already running.
I exchange a look with John, which is both comfortable and embarrassing all at once. We give each other our gentlest smiles, laced with sadness. Trish is doing a good jo
b with the mugs, scrubbing every tea stain clean, not a brown mark left in sight. She throws her head back and laughs: a hint of that wicked, infectious sound I’ve heard on the telly, only the cameras aren’t rolling and she’s got washing-up liquid on her hands.
‘What’s so funny, love?’ John asks, twisting around on the bar stool.
‘What do you think’s funny?’ she replies, her laugh on the verge of splitting into a cry. ‘Jack, of course. Jack.’
‘And what’s triggered this?’
Trish steps back and theatrically, her short legs planted strong, she sticks out her chest and tilts her head upwards, throwing out words like, ‘bonkers’, ‘brilliant’, ‘bizarre’, in no order, repeating them over and over. She’s looking at the man sat in the shopping trolley and John is nodding, his mouth curled. This is proving too much for him to cope with. He begins to cry, silently.
My throat tightens. Aches. But this is not my turn to cry.
‘I got that printed for Jack,’ I say. ‘A moving-in present. Except I was the one moving in. So I guess it was a thank you present, for asking me; letting me. Anyway, it was something he really wanted.’
‘Ah,’ Trish catches her breath. ‘But it’s so … random.’
‘Love …’ John reaches his hand out to her.
‘No, I know what you mean,’ I say, a singsong in my voice that always pipes up when I’m trying to impress somebody. I definitely would’ve used it had I been given the chance to meet Jack’s parents prior to yesterday. ‘Out of context, it’s a very bizarre – to use your word, Mrs Carmichael – photograph. I can see how you think it’s random. But to Jack and to me, it represents a special moment, and also a boss holiday, and provides us with endless laughter, still.’
‘You went to Thailand with Jack?’ John asks.
‘Yeah. In March.’
Trish swivels from left to right, her arms folded. She’s still looking at the picture, but she isn’t laughing any more.
‘In fact,’ I continue, no stopping me now. ‘We always kind of joke about how one day we’ll go back there, to that spot, and find that man. Or go to the place where he works, because can you see he’s wearing a uniform and there’s a badge, see? Top right of his shirt. We just wanna meet this fella – say a proper hello! Ask him what he was doing in the shopping trolley. Find out his name; shake his hand.’
