Bryan heard a voice screaming in his head: ‘I’m your baby, I’m your baby – and not too old for games.’ If Jonathan were sickening, he should be dispatched straight up to Scotland, the northernmost remotest part, with no trains, or even roads; left alone in quarantine until the bracing air had cured him – or better, killed him off. He hated to be cruel, but if the boy upset his mother so, absorbed all her attention, then wiser to remove him altogether. ‘It’s my birthday,’ he said casually. ‘Next Friday, actually, and I wouldn’t mind a conjuror myself.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Bryan!’
‘No, I’m serious. I’ve never had a party in my life.’
‘What, not even as a child?’
‘No, my Mother was too busy. She had to earn our living, hadn’t time for parties.’ The beer had made him reckless. He was plunging wildly on, telling her the story of his deprived and desperate childhood. ‘I never knew my Father. He walked out on my Mother before she’d even had me.’ It sounded rather flat, the sort of standard sob-stuff on any social worker’s course. He added some embellishments, Carlingesque hyperbole. ‘She kept dragging me to see him, used to lie down on the pavement right outside his house and refuse to move all day. He lived in this huge mansion with two new wives and …’
Two?’
‘Oh, more than two, quite often. And a whole horde of other children. Of course he didn’t want to acknowledge us, refused to let us in. We’d often stay out there all night, huddled in the rain or snow, shunned by other people …’ Bryan glanced at Mary’s shocked and stricken face. Had he gone too far? Her voice was harrowed, faltering, not that far from tears.
‘B … But he doesn’t seem that type at all. He looks so sensitive and gentle, and you said yourself how he only lived for science and …’
Bryan shut his eyes, saw Skerwin in his mind again, not the Skerwin of the harem, but the Skerwin of the class, whom he’d been admiring just an hour ago – a kindly and unworldly soul, who did, indeed, live for books and learning. Could John-Paul actually be right and he was blackening a blameless man through unconscious fear and jealousy? ‘He reformed,’ he muttered tersely, compressing half a century’s struggle into one dramatic gesture. ‘Divorced his wives and betrothed himself to science.’
‘Gosh!’
He knew he was impressing Mary, was impressing even himself. He had never been so imaginative, so voluble. He must drink Carling regularly, find an empty syrup-of-figs bottle and decant it through a funnel, so he could keep it in his bedroom. He could see his Mother now, rifling through his cupboards in a wild attempt to discover where he was, turning out his pockets, spying in his drawers; maybe removing all his science books as ‘unhealthy’ and ‘pernicious’; certainly clearing off his supper, so he would go hungry (and penalised) to bed. He shrugged. He didn’t care.
The phrase startled him, appalled him. He’d never said that in his life, never even thought it, never dared to think it. ‘I don’t care,’ he said aloud, rising from his seat. He wanted everyone to hear it – the two men opposite, the wild crowd at the bar, that obese and henna-ed woman with her scarlet nails and purple skirt guffawing on a bar-stool as she sprayed foam from her Guinness; the young couple with their feet entwined on the banquette in the corner; the three barmen in their blue bow ties; the old boy by the pseudo-fire with his slipping china teeth. ‘I don’t care,’ he said again, hoped John-Paul could hear him from his high room in the tower, and every last employee in the whole of BRB, its twenty storeys reeling in surprise, and all those strait-laced semis in spiteful Ivy Close, scandalised, recoiling, as they repeated the three words. He didn’t care, he didn’t care – let them taunt and gossip, let his Mother nag. He didn’t even want her rotten pasties, planned to share a T-bone steak with Mary.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, a fifth time, still marvelling at the phrase. He must be better, cured. Just two pints of Carling Black Label had won him independence, where fifty months of therapy had failed. ‘Cured.’ He tried the word, relished it, pinned it on his chest like a medal, decoration, as he swilled the last gold liquor from his glass. He could hear the fifty-two whistling out of Fenchurch Street, followed by the seventeen, the twenty-two, the forty. He didn’t care, he didn’t care. ‘Cured,’ the wheels were thundering, as they plunged past Limehouse, hurtled on to Barking, juddered into Upminster with B.V. Payne not there. He only had to prove it now, translate it into action.
He sank back on the bench again, stretched a clammy trembling hand towards Mary’s steady cool one; raised his voice to compete with rattling carriages, the hoot and bray as train passed whooping train. ‘Mary?’ He wished she looked less tense, less apprehensive, but it was probably only hunger. They’d both relax once they were settled in the restaurant, with violins, an ice bucket. ‘I was wondering if you’d join me for a meal? There’s this little Chinese bistro just around the corner …’
‘Oh, no, Bryan, thank you, honestly. I really must get home. James is waiting for his own meal. In fact, it’s fearfully late already. I’d better phone him from the station or he’ll … Where’s my scarf? Ah, good. I thought I must have dropped it. Did you have a coat, Bryan? No? Gosh! You’re hardy, aren’t you? Look, why don’t you come and meet James, one evening after work, pop down and have a meal with us? It’s not far on the train, and I’m sure you two would have a lot in common, with all your trips abroad and conferences and everything. His life is just the same as yours – busy, busy, busy. What’s wrong? What’s the matter? You’re looking almost … Was it something that I said? Oh, Bryan, don’t cry, please don’t. Look, here’s a nice clean hankie. There – blow your nose and I’ll put you on your train.’
Chapter Eighteen
It’s three a.m., the worst hour of the night. Things which seem too tragic for the daytime or the evening, come true at three o’ clock. I’ve worked through suicide, bereavement, fatal accident, and am now considering all the ‘loss’ words – loss of bearings, loss of purpose, loss of face and nerve and love. It’s impossible to sleep. The dogs make too much noise, continually fretting, scratching, shifting, or prowling round and round. Their smell is overpowering. I’ve dared not let them out since they killed a cat on Thursday, ravaged every shrub and flowerbed in the park. I bought some sawdust, laid it thick on newspapers, so they could do their business in one restricted corner, but they didn’t seem to understand, or perhaps preferred to punish me by shitting where they sat.
The bitch stinks in a different way. She came on heat just yesterday, and all last night the male kept mounting her and mounting her, in a sort of angry rutting greed. I’m terrified of puppies, could never manage half a dozen more dogs when just these two have done such frightening damage. The breed have huge and powerful mouths, made for ripping wolves; extremely sharp strong claws. There are no wolves in my bedsit, so they’ve ripped the chairs instead, clawed and chewed the furniture, attacked the walls and floor. They’re so tall and strong and curious they can reach nearly every surface in my room; have stripped the shelves, knocked things to the floor, tried to eat my poetry books, my clothes. They’ve destroyed all my collections – those small and precious things which were like a private diary in that they marked the seasons, told the years, recorded my slow progress from child to case to crone – all trampled now, dismantled.
I can’t satisfy their appetites, not in any way. They need more food, more space, more exercise, more scope for all that energy and leg-power. Wilhelm dropped round pounds of meat, ready boned and chopped, but the whole lot was demolished in two days. He also left a carcass, still frozen and quite stiff, but though it’s thawed I haven’t cut it up yet. I can hardly eat at all myself, but every time I try, they snatch the crust or morsel from my hand. I was attempting a banana, just a very small and soft one, which I hoped I might mush down, but the male just bounded over, devoured it in one gulp. I tend to live on sweets now, sweets and cigarettes, which makes me like John-Paul.
I split his name in two last week and gave it to the dogs – John f
or the female (so that like her sad new mistress she’s saddled with a boy’s name), and Paul for the real male. They haven’t learnt the names yet, but I keep teaching them, repeating them, and occasionally they listen. In some ways, they’re quite friendly, seem to crave attention, even seem to need me, the female more especially. She’ll push her nose right into me, to try to make me fondle her; attempt to share my bed (or chair), follow me around. I suppose she’s missing her Master, which creates a second bond between us. Every time the phone rings, we all three go berserk, the dogs howling, barking, me snatching the receiver, praying for his voice. It’s never him, in fact, though we keep on hoping, hurtling. That’s another disadvantage of the early hours – no one phones at all, except crackpots or wrong numbers.
I struggle out of bed, switch the main light on. I’ve been sleeping in my clothes, and they and all the blankets are covered with coarse hairs, so I’m ‘coated’ with the dogs. I try to brush them off, but they cling and stick as if to prove that John and Paul will never go away. I can’t shift the pictures, either. I tried to persuade the gallery to buy them back, or even take them back for nothing, but the girl in charge was very rude and strange. I’ve moved them from the bed, stacked a few behind the headboard, but they’re mostly still surrounding me, jeering from the walls, pressing in, complaining. I’m a prisoner in my room, can’t go out and leave the dogs, yet dare not take them with me. I stare up through the bars of my small window. It’s black outside, like the black of John-Paul’s bowel. I keep dreaming I’m inside him – squashed in his intestines, or snug inside his bladder. His bowel is best of all – dark and hot and pulsing and very intimate.
I plunge towards the door, feel I must escape, if only for ten seconds, just to breathe clean air, just to prove there’s something real beyond my prison-room. I lock the door behind me, shamble up the steps. The night feels raw, as if someone’s ripped its skin off; smells of blood and dustbins. The lampposts cast harsh shadows, light up strips of pavement, but leave the rest dangerous and blurred. The stars seem blurred as well, and very far away, as if they’ve withdrawn from earth, lost interest.
Everybody’s gone. The entire street’s been evacuated, windows blank and black, front doors barred or padlocked. A car zooms past, but I think it’s driverless. A cat sneaks through the railings, a thin and homeless tabby mewing for its master. We’re all searching for our Master, searching pretty hopelessly. There’ll be nothing left at all soon, now John-Paul has gone. He was the centre of the universe, the Atlas who held up the world, the pole and fulcrum of the globe, its linchpin and its bedrock. He was also gravity and oxygen, H20 and light. All things die without him; fade, or fall apart.
I return indoors, half-frozen, walk straight into the dogs who fight me to get out. They’ve been waiting by the door, quivering with excitement, frantic for some exercise, or slaughter. ‘No!’ I shout. ‘It’s dangerous out there. Get back! Lie still. It’s sleep-time.’
Sleep? I’ll never sleep. I need John-Paul to sleep, need to count the minutes like insomniacs count sheep; need the goal and purpose of my next appointment with him. Those appointments were like bones, giving me a structure, holding me together, helping me keep upright. Without them, I’m just pulp; a trail of thin grey blood oozing from a smashed and broken world. Twenty-six days since I last saw him.
I find my watch, though time means nothing much now. Sometimes I forget both time and date. Yesterday was Saturday – I think – which means we’re three hours, twenty minutes into Sunday. I suppose I ought to change, put on my Sunday best. I drag my dirty clothes off, fetch my last clean dress: the one with the white collar I bought specially for John-Paul. Funny how everything leads back to him – collars, stars, wolfhounds, even sheep.
I wonder what I’ll do today – besides feed the dogs, feed the dogs, pace around my room with them, brush off hairs, count stains. Sundays always seem a cheat – all those names which don’t apply: the Lord’s Day or the Day of Rest, when there isn’t any Lord or rest, or the Sabbath, which it isn’t. I’d love to celebrate a Sunday – just one, just once, just now – go to church, eat a Sunday lunch with real apple pie, real parents; read the Sunday papers, toast muffins by the fire, know it’s only fifteen hundred minutes till my next session with John-Paul.
I ought to take his dogs back, but he’s always refused to tell me where he lives, and even Seton seems unsure, said he thought he’d moved. If I wait until tomorrow and return them to the tower, he’ll only say I stole them in that cold and hostile voice of his. I feel very faint when I think about his anger. It would probably kill me outright in my present weakened state. I don’t mind dying, but I’d rather die another way, not killed by John-Paul’s voice.
I slump back in a corner. My dress is spoiled already, stained with urine, dog shit. I couldn’t go tomorrow – or ever, in this state. I haven’t washed my hair or brushed my teeth; can’t seem to find the energy, the will.
Paul is mounting John again. It’s always brief and silent, but then he’ll repeat it and repeat it, as if he’s never sated, never had enough. It’s like the food again – insufficient for all that mass and muscle. I sit and watch, reach out for my matches, strike one, two, three, six, eight. My Capstan gasps and fidgets, but still it fails to light. I try three more – no use. The whole box seems damp and neutered, or perhaps it doesn’t like me. Paul mounts once more, though he’s only half-erect, does his thing, withdraws. It’s so basic with most animals – simple, public, matter-of-fact, whereas we humans make it complicated, secretive and shameful.
I’ll have to borrow matches. I had two lighters once, but Seton snaffled one and the other disappeared – as most things do, in time. I slip out of the other door, the one that leads upstairs into the house, rather than out into the street; bolt it top and bottom to prevent the dogs from following. I stop to listen. Silence. Sasha’s still away and the man in number five. I knock at number three’s door, know he never sleeps. ‘Hallo?’ I call. No answer.
I’d like to knock on John-Paul’s door, but I don’t know where he’s sleeping. I don’t know much about him. I may think about him all the time, but thoughts aren’t facts or postcodes. He’s just a trembling shadow now, like the shadows of the banisters which grope my feet as I climb two flights of stairs. There are seven people in the house, not counting lovers staying nights, or hangers-on, or stowaways. Two away leaves five. Except there’s no one here at all. All decamped, departed.
I tried to go away myself, have a sort of holiday, or at least a change of air. I was still thinking of the country – Gloucestershire or Shropshire, but knew I’d never get that far, so I took the dogs to Rickmansworth last Tuesday afternoon. It was awful on the tube. The dogs were really terrified and the passengers quite spiteful, especially when I came back in the rush hour – all that crush of people panicking or grousing, which only made things worse. One small boy got hurt, in fact, and the dogs were near-hysterical and kept trying to slip their leads and dash away. In the end, I got off at the Embankment, walked the rest – or tried; was tugged and dragged the last few miles, both hands raw and bleeding.
I trail back to my room again. The dogs are really hungry now, edgy and bad-tempered. I’ve just that one last carcass left – a quarter of a bony pig, whose gamey almost rancid smell pounces on my stomach as I remove it from its wrappings. Wilhelm left a butcher’s knife as well as all the meat, an extremely sharp efficient knife with an expensive-looking handle and a blade so fierce I haven’t dared to touch it. I force myself to pick it up, hack some chunks of pig off. The dogs can barely wait. I’m scared I’ll cut myself – or them – the way they nose and jostle me, jump up at the table, keep pestering and cadging.
At last, they’re fed, and quieter, and I stretch myself between them on a pile of dirty bedding, stroke them both in turn: John, then Paul; Paul then John, murmuring their names – ‘John, Paul, John, Paul, John, Paul.’ Soon the names are joined and hyphened: ‘John-Paul, John-Paul, John-Paul, John-Paul.’ They seem to like the s
troking, nuzzle me quite lovingly, thump their heavy tails. I think I could get fond of them if we had more room, and time. I know they’re big, but so am I. They’re also greedy, randy, violent and ungrateful, but I’m all those things myself – or was once, anyway.
I can hear their breathing slowing, as they begin to sleep, at last. I doze as well, fitfully, dream of John-Paul’s pineal gland which is coated in gold leaf; and then about his navel, which is smooth and very deep, so I can thrust right down inside it, like a finger in a glove.
‘Wake up,’ I say. ‘It’s morning.’ I haven’t checked my watch, but I’m good at judging shades of dark, and the thick serge blackout of the night, tacked up behind my window-bars, has been taken down, replaced with flimsy grey. It’s Sunday proper now – still silent, still deserted. The day should be all glossy like a colour supplement, full of pictures, promises – cars and boats, food and wine, good friends, good fun, good taste. Children should be scampering off to funfairs, fathers cleaning cars or building shelves, mothers making treacle tarts, lovers sipping orange juice from each other’s cunts or navels.
‘Breakfast time,’ I tell the dogs, though there isn’t any orange juice, only pig and water. They’re on their feet immediately, once they hear my voice. I struggle up myself, go and fetch the knife. I didn’t bother washing it and it’s smeared with dried-on blood. Paul is mounting John again. I wait until he’s finished, then dawdle over, plunge it in his chest. He dies as quietly as he fucks – no gasps, no fuss, no anguished howls or panting. The female’s less courageous – shudders, whimpers, tries to fight the knife, but soon she’s quiet as well. I lug the two great bodies to the corner, lay them on the sawdust (which I hope will absorb the blood), cover them with blankets and my coat.
I’m tired. I’m very tired now, but I have to kill the paintings next, kill all John-Paul’s things. I clean the knife, spear it through a canvas, watch it groan and writhe. I think that was a Mary. The next one is a black girl, very dark and wild. I ease the knife in slowly, aiming for her heart; continue slowly round the room, working anticlockwise and slashing each in turn. My arm is really aching and there’s blood all down my dress – dark and sticky blood which smells of oil paint. He’s got too many patients, far too many fans, scores of faithful Marys, swarms of mistresses. Every one must go, though – all the black girls and the groupies, all his wives and ex-wives, all the unborn babies, all the growing gangling children – everyone but me.
Fifty-Minute Hour Page 20
