A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  — Did they stay together? asks Katherine.

  — Oh god yes, they did, absolutely. Love you see. Love is love. I don’t need to tell you that. Absolutely devoted to each other. I don’t know of course what changed in the bedroom so to speak, if anything, I mean I didn’t, well you wouldn’t ask would you? They stayed together. And of course people talked and there were some nasty things that happened. The bigots. Even around here, in those days, it was all anarchists and squatters and punks but there are always the bigots, there always are. The horrible people. But they stayed put, they did, they stayed put and they had each other and that was all they wanted, and people eventually left them alone really. Fran would you like a drop of Jameson’s?

  He is pouring some for himself, skilfully balancing the tumbler in the crook of his elbow. Fran shakes their head.

  — We . . . I’m just going to go say hello to a couple of people in the kitchen.

  — Oh I’ll come with you. Lovely to meet you Michael.

  — And you dear. See you later now. You promised me a dance now and I’ll hold you to it.

  — No I didn’t, laughs Katherine.

  They squeeze their way past people to the kitchen, Fran leading Katherine by the hand. When they are out of sight Fran looks back and smiles.

  — What the fuck?

  — I know. I know.

  They go out to the garden and Fran laughs and they stand together rerunning the conversation for a few moments and looking around shyly and being shyly looked at. They do not know anyone. Some people are sitting on chairs under the kitchen window, listening to a man who might be Spanish or Greek — Mediterranean anyway — as he stands and talks, and one of them watches Fran and Katherine and smiles and seems to like seeing them, though it is clear that he does not know them — no recognition has passed between them — and he looks at them surreptitiously.

  This is David.

  You know David.

  From the flat.

  He has come out for once. His hair is neat, he is pale, he is thin. He is sitting there, looking surreptitiously at Katherine and Fran, as if there is something about them that cheers him. He smiles.

  He’s looking ok.

  He sips his beer and looks at his phone. The Mediterranean man is still talking, telling them about the course that he is teaching and how his students are fantastically curious and sceptical and are not at all what he had expected in London, not what he had expected at all. He says that he had expected a bunch of rich uptight white kids and what he had found instead was a fantastic, just a fantastic, really fantastic room full of people from all over the world — this impresses him so much, that there are people from China, from India, from Nigeria and Sudan, people from Colombia and Argentina, and Italy and even one from Spain, as well of course as people from the UK — and they are already very sophisticated in their thinking, and it has delighted him, he is generalising he says, but generally speaking he loves them, he really thinks they are fantastic.

  David looks across again at the couple whose names he cannot know. They are peeking over the fence into the garden next door. Perhaps he feels a simple affection for them. For their queerness, for what he might view perhaps as their innocence. Perhaps he is thinking like that. They are younger than him, and perhaps he is noticing that as well, and liking it. Though his eyes flit somewhat, self-consciously almost, as if he feels that he should not be feeling, or thinking, whatever it is that he is feeling, or thinking. It is impossible to know.

  The man is still talking, though no one has asked him anything. He’s wearing an F.C. St Pauli T-shirt.

  — And this by the way is one of the already great misunderstood ideas of capitalism, or of contemporary capitalism, late stage as they say, though I am pessimistic about that, and anyway, these ideas of selfish behaviour, the perpetual self-interest of individuals, this is not established by evidence, and that of course is now widely accepted, and the Left is largely triumphant about this, because it seems to say something about human nature, that we do not act always out of self-interest, while of course this claim for human nature simply mirrors the fallacy of the Right who made as well a claim about human nature when the evidence was different, or was not understood, but anyway, in any case, the interesting thing, and from the point of view of those of us on the Left, those of us who are on the Left, the bad thing, is that this idea of self-interest is established in relation to groups, the evidence is clear, it is really incontrovertible, and it is that while we are unpredictable as individuals we are predictable as groups, depressingly predictable, and we will act in a group in ways that we would not act as individuals, and of course this can be harnessed in all sorts of ways, by the Left in terms of forming movements and organising and so forth, which are ways in which acting as a group seems to us positive and beneficial, and there of course are ways in which the Right can also harness a group, and these are broadly similar methods, with different characteristics of course, but the point is the harness, the harnessing, that it can be done, that we, when we are grouped together by perceived shared interests or actual, of course, shared interests, or by class, which amounts essentially to the same thing, or by nationality, which certainly doesn’t, or by race or by gender or by age and so on and so on.

  David does not seem to be following. He looks at his phone. His expression has changed and he looks a little annoyed, or impatient. He sips his beer. There are two people sitting next to him, and the talking man stands in front of them, as if standing in front of his fantastic students.

  Christ.

  David stands up.

  — Excuse me.

  And he walks around the talking man, who turns slightly to let him pass but who does not stop talking, and walks towards Katherine and Fran, but he seems to have forgotten about them, he doesn’t even look at them, he walks past, looking annoyed, as if he has remembered something that he has forgotten to do. He walks towards the door into the kitchen but then stops and turns around and goes the other way, towards the end of the garden, which is not far, just two or three paces, but there is no one there, and he stands and looks away from the house, looking at the sky, and then down at the grass under his feet, such as it is, and he seems ill at ease. He seems anxious. Perhaps he stood up too quickly. He has started to sweat.

  There is a light in the ground that looks like a buried piece of the sun, or a tenth of a foggy moon, yellow as with the light of a streetlight. Something just below the surface of the thin grass. But it is an illusion. We do not bury lights. And if we do we put them out. Don’t we? It’s just a little yellowing of the thin grass. Just that.

  Everyone ignores him. But when he turns he looks as if people are bothering him, he looks annoyed at everyone, and he walks to the kitchen door and goes in.

  It is more crowded than it was. David turns his shoulders sideways, his hips. He moves sideways.

  — Excuse me. Excuse me.

  People talk and the music seems louder. They talk so much.

  Well I’m not saying that exactly

  There is no case

  Fuck’s sake

  She was on her eighth fucking vodka at this point

  No one has the time Ravi, you know?

  David looks sharply to his right. But it is a different Ravi. David looks even more annoyed.

  Is there? In the house? Is there?

  Weird

  Watch out

  It has to be Sanders. No

  Prefer the Stormbird

  No one eats that stuff do they

  Careful please

  Guy is a creep

  Well he was fucking her brother, that’s why

  And if

  He pushes past a young man wearing a low-cut T-shirt, so low that the tops of his shoulder blades are visible, and David moves a little slower, and stares at the man’s skin, and at his fair hair, and he pushes past him very closely,
taller than him, moving the front of his body across the back of the other man’s body, much closer than he probably needs to, almost stroking him, a balled hand resting very gently on his shoulder.

  — Sorry. Ooops. Excuse me.

  He passes through and looks back. The man looks at him. You know this one as well. They stare at each other for only a second. David smiles, but the other man doesn’t.

  Regardless

  I don’t think it’s very good

  Bounce

  Love this

  Balkan overdrive

  Is there really?

  Oh fucking councillors my god

  A real ache

  Persimmons

  June halla

  Moss was

  I don’t want to dance

  Fucks sake

  David comes to the kitchen door where you can see through to the living room door and he looks in, and in the crowd a man who is dancing catches his eye and gestures at David, smiling, beckoning him over. And the woman he is dancing with turns and looks and shouts out David’s name, and also beckons him over. David smiles back. He holds up a finger and motions with his head towards the front of the house, and he mouths something which is impossible to read, but his whole body language seems to say Yes, yes of course, just hang on a minute, I just have to go over here, and then I’ll be back to you . . . in one minute, and he pushes past a clump of people standing in the corridor by the stairs and he makes his way to the front door and has to ask people to move so that he can open it, and he opens it, and there are people outside as well, so it is hard to know why it was closed at all.

  — Oh hi. We thought we were locked out.

  David looks behind him, the way he’s come. As if briefly looking for someone.

  — Are you leaving?

  — Yeah. I have to go home unfortunately.

  — Already?

  — What?

  — You’re leaving already?

  — I’ll be back in a bit, he says.

  — Oh ok.

  — I have to go home.

  — Ok, says Maria. Take care.

  She knows him, she’s sure. But she cannot recall how. Maybe he is one of Stan’s. She watches him hurry through the gate and turn to the left, running his hand over his hair, and she watches him for a moment as he walks away, pulling a phone from his pocket, glancing at it, holding it in his hand. She looks into the house, wondering, because he seems a little upset, or annoyed, wondering if something has happened, if he’s maybe had an argument with someone.

  The house is more crowded now. More people have arrived. Are still arriving. All these men. Stan is somewhere but she can’t see him. People are dancing in the living room. It’s pretty loud. One of the women who had been outside pushes past her shouting WOO WOO, sticking her arms in the air, moving straight to the centre of things. Easy. She watches her for a moment, trying to be envious of that sort of energy. But she isn’t, she really isn’t.

  Maria. This is Maria.

  You know exactly where this is going.

  A young guy stumbles on the stairs, makes a noise, a half shriek, slides down a step before catching himself. Embarrassed, he smiles at Maria and she smiles back.

  — You ok?

  — I find stairs very complicated.

  She laughs, and he goes towards the kitchen.

  Everything is hip-hop and London jazz, a low smell of weed, distinct bodies, a bee buzz of conversation, slaps of laughter. It’s ok. She sips her warm beer. There are two more bottles in her shoulder bag. She is wearing jeans and she should have worn shorts, something else. She edges into the kitchen. All these men. The guy from the stairs is in conversation with someone, and he smiles at her again as she squeezes past. She says hello to Flo, who has forgotten her name. She sees the man from The Arms that Stan doesn’t like. She wonders whether Gary will be here. She hopes so. She misses Gary. She recognises more faces than she knows names. Some people smile or nod at her and she smiles or nods back, but she finds herself wondering when she was last at a party. Maybe one of these days, she thinks, a party will be good.

  She goes towards the garden. She is half thinking that there will be weed there, and she might be offered a little smoke, and that would do her some good. She’ll see how it goes. She might drink her beers and wait for Stan to find her and then go home. She hopes he’ll stay. If he wants to leave with her maybe she’ll stay. But she can’t do that. She would like to walk for a while, on her own. She is tired of the bike.

  A man leaning against the sink has raised his voice. He is pointing at someone. She has to go between them.

  — Excuse me.

  — Not fucking on — sorry — not fucking on mate, I’m not having it.

  Oh god. There is some muttering to her left. From where he is pointing. Someone else is moving past her in the opposite direction, and the general noise of voices has suddenly dropped.

  — Hold on, hold on.

  — Not having it.

  She makes it to the door, where people are coming to stand and listen. She squeezes through. She is too apologetic. Is she? Why is she ducking her shoulders, her head, as if it has started raining? She is incurious. Is she? She doesn’t want to be in the kitchen watching two men shouting at each other. She doesn’t want that. And that’s what they seem to be getting into.

  Everyone is looking at her as she walks outside but they aren’t really, they’re looking at the kitchen, at what is going on in the kitchen. No sign of Stan. Where is he? Upstairs maybe. In a bedroom with someone. She laughs, almost out loud. She walks to the end of the garden. It isn’t far. Thin yellow grass, bright as if painted, a fence that she can’t see over, butterflies, the sky brighter now than ground. There’s a border of bushes, including a nice rose in the corner. A pile of stones, a couple of chairs. Behind her, raised voices. She wants to be in a different life. The words of the argument include offensive, arsehole, homophobe, curtains. She thinks she heard curtains. People used to say curtains for you. It’s curtains for you. She wonders about that for a while and thinks that it must come from the theatre. Theatre curtains. Show’s over, mate. You’re going home in an ambulance.

  She finishes her beer. She doesn’t want to sit down. Through the kitchen window she can see the guy, the strange older guy who is sometimes in The Arms, the chalky man in the shiny suit. Stan hates him. She can’t remember his name. He is staring open-mouthed at the . . . belligerents. An expression on his face like a child’s. Belligerent. Bellum. He is looking at her. He is looking straight at her. She turns to face next door. Southern bellum. She puts her empty beer bottle down into the soil of the border, pressing it in a little so that it won’t fall over, and she takes another from her bag. Does that look bad? Carrying beers around, hidden in her bag, at a party? They’re not hidden. That’s just where they are. Where is Stan? Bellicose. She is bellicose. She burps. What sort of mood is this? A bit giddy. She might dance later. They should dance in the garden, the house is too hot.

  — Well that was a terrible business.

  He is at her shoulder and what can she do? His mouth is closed now. But he still looks a little shocked.

  — What happened?

  He takes a deep breath. Theatrical.

  — As I understand it, and I’m not at all sure that I got every detail, well, I’m not sure how it started but the man with the beard said something to the man without the beard, something about his boyfriend, and I believe that it wasn’t very nice, and so the man he’s said this to, the younger one, he’s shouting at the man with the beard who was just laughing at him, and it seems that this man, the man with the beard had made a doggetry comment about this younger man’s boyfriend, a doggetry comment about his boyfriend, which this man took very badly, and he was shouting at him, and seemed very angry, and the other man got very sheepish then as the younger man said what he said, and the
n someone else got involved to say that the man with the beard has had a recent bereavement, and this didn’t help at all because the other man was terribly offended that someone’s death might be offered as an excuse for what he described as

  Someone else comes over and stands next to them. The guy from the stairs. He is wearing a low-cut T-shirt. He is handsome, Maria thinks, in a grubby, careless sort of way, as if being handsome annoys him a little.

  — ageism I think it was, and, hello there

  — He said something about his boyfriend.

  — What did he say do you know, I missed that bit.

  — Well, says the guy, they were chatting, and the man with the glasses pointed out his boyfriend to the other guy, the guy with the beard, and the guy with the beard looked at him and said disgusting or that’s disgusting, or something.

  — What?

  — Yeah. Disgusting. And then he clarified, as if this would be ok, by saying that the age gap was disgusting, that he was talking about the age gap.

  — Oh my god.

  — How young is his boyfriend?

  — He’s not the younger one he’s the older one. He’s maybe fifty or so, and the guy in the glasses is maybe early thirties, something like that.

  — That’s it?

  — Oh my goodness.

  — I know. I know right? I’m Tom by the way, sorry for just barging into your conversation.