Fifty-Minute Hour

by Wendy Perriam

  I remain completely motionless, unsure what to do or say – even what to feel. Do I love the man, or hate him; invite him in, or kick him in the teeth? He’s churned me up already. I’m no longer numb, but sweaty, and my blood and bones feel different, as if I’ve been given a transfusion, or changed to someone else. Yet I’m still half-paralysed. I keep staring at him, staring; scared that if I shift my eyes, he may change himself, or vanish. He certainly seems better than he did in hospital; no longer drugged or senile, but looking almost dapper, if you disregard the coat; wearing smart grey cords instead of shabby jeans, and decent shoes, not trainers. I long to touch those shoes, undo their laces, free their soft kid tongues, so they could speak to me and calm me, tell me what to feel. I always loved his feet – size eleven feet which made my own feet small – hairs on all the toes, the nails hacked cruelly short like the square ends of chisel blades. I suddenly know I’ve got to keep him here, claim him, as it were; not follow my first instinct and creep back up the steps, hide behind the railings, pretend I never saw him.

  I force myself to move, edge down one step towards him, even clear my throat. He swings round at the noise, meets my eye, holds my gaze, unsmiling, for what seems like endless minutes, while I slowly die inside. So he doesn’t know me, doesn’t want to know me. Can I really blame him? I’m all bundled up in baggy shapeless sweaters, the last dregs of my wardrobe; still-ragged hair dripping down my neck. I look away, can’t bear his vacant scrutiny, fix my eyes on a patch of grey stone step. More minutes creak and dawdle, then I hear his feet falter on the concrete, hear him spring towards me.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Nial.’

  I’m so touched I can’t reply. Someone’s actually wished me Happy Christmas, someone real and human, not an airwave or a poster or a sticker through the door. I try to say it back.

  ‘Lost your voice?’ he grins.

  I nod, still overcome, not only that he knows me, but that he’s made me real as well, used my name, remembers it, dragged all this way from hospital to find me, even dared a smile.

  ‘Come in,’ I mouth. ‘Have lunch.’ I try to keep things casual. Seton never liked emotion – not other people’s anyway.

  I open soup – my last small can – Campbell’s Country Vegetable, which seems a bit incongruous in the densest part of London. I even find a chunk of greying fruitcake, heat it in the oven so it’s more like Christmas pudding and tastes less old and stale. Then we sit and smoke a while, and it’s almost like old times, though neither of us says a lot. I can’t; he doesn’t want to; seems tense, preoccupied. I presume they turfed him out of hospital for Christmas. That’s the policy these days. The birthday of the God of Love and you loose them on the streets without a sniff of turkey or a relation in the world. Where’s Zack, I wonder? Cressida? His so-called friends and helpmates?

  At least he’s made my Christmas. I’m a couple now, a family, lolling at the table amidst the wreckage of the nuts and wine, the brandy, the liqueur chocolates. We’re drinking coffee, actually, Tesco’s cheapest instant. I haven’t any booze at all, no chocolate but my Twix. But it’s warm and quiet and peaceful, and I’m very nearly happy, soothed by soup and aspirin, contented Seton’s there. We’re both much older than when we met the first time; no longer need the charge of violent sex. He doesn’t even touch me, but I’m flattered by the fact he actually sought me out, translated my address from two lines on a jotter to reality, desire. I think he sees me as a sister now, regards my pad as home. I’ve always wanted a brother, not a dead one or preferred one, or a substitute for me, but just a loving equal. I once felt jealous of his ten years with John-Paul, the fact that he seemed special, a favoured long-term patient, the beloved hoped-for boy. But now I realise we’re both abandoned children, both rejected by John-Paul, which is another bond between us, and perhaps another reason why I shouldn’t go to bed with him. It would be a kind of incest.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Seton,’ I whisper to him hoarsely. It’s exhausting talking with no voice, but he seems to understand, says ‘Ssh, don’t strain your throat, Nial,’ then reaches out his hand.

  ‘You’ve got fantastic hair,’ he murmurs, touching it a moment.

  I nod. I haven’t had it trimmed or tamed since I hacked it off myself, and it’s grown very strange and shaggy, sticking up in places, uneven everywhere. I remember when he said those words the first time, how different we both were. Nothing lasts, not even hair, or pain.

  I light another cigarette, stir sugar in my cup, try to concentrate on tiny things: the taste of sweetness in my mouth, the balm of nicotine, Seton’s strong and sallow hand resting on the table by my own. I’ve learnt these last few days (or weeks) there are only little things – no fatted calves or silken robes, no wild rebirths, re-deaths. I edge my hand a little nearer Seton’s, touch my thumb to his – a sister’s touch, not sexual. He still seems a bit distracted, as if his body’s here with me, but his mind is somewhere else, working on some problem. His feet are twisted round the chair-rung, fretting at it, nervous; a tiny muscle twitching in one cheek. I suppose he feels displaced, with no real home, no role. I never believed that story of him working as Zack’s framer. He could hardly afford ten years of private therapy on a framer’s meagre wage. Half of what Zack said was simply fiction, intended to impress me, or merely shut me up.

  I squeeze his thumb, long to make him better, offer him some hope – though hope’s like booze and turkey – in pretty short supply. I suppose I could invite him to live here. I’ve never lived with anyone for more than just a month or so, but things can always change. We could start some new small business, become partners, not just siblings. I reflect on that word ‘partners’, its overtones of mutual trust – closeness, continuity, sharing minds and plans. I’ve never had a partner, not in any sense. Though I’d have to introduce it really casually, so as not to scare him off or make him fear some trap or tie or cage.

  ‘Seton,’ I croak out. ‘Don’t laugh, but …’

  He suddenly jumps up. ‘It’s time,’ he says, pushing back his sweater sleeve so he can check his watch, compare it with my clock.

  ‘What for?’ I whisper, startled. ‘It’s time’ is John-Paul’s phrase, and always murmured softly; sounds wrong when Seton raps it out staccato.

  ‘We’ve got to leave.’

  ‘Leave for where?’

  ‘You said you’d help me.’

  ‘Help you?’ I keep parroting his words in my eunuch of a voice. He’s smashed the silence, and is pacing round the room now, disturbing sleeping dust. I pray he won’t start ranting. I just haven’t got the strength for those wild long-winded arguments we indulged in on the boat. I had less than two hours’ sleep last night, and that was mostly nightmares.

  ‘You promised, Nial. You said you would.’

  ‘Would what?’ I try to shout, but it only hurts my throat, comes out like a rasp.

  ‘Help me kill the Pope.’

  I stare. ‘Seton, you’re insane. I never said …’

  ‘You did. You said it on the boat, the first time we made love. You said we’d kill John Paul together and …’

  I’m suddenly back there on the bunk – naked, avid, furious; my nails scratching down John-Paul’s small smug back, my whole body wild and fighting him. Yes, I said I’d kill him – Seton’s right. The words exploded out of me, were part of my whole lust and rage and longing. I try to shrug them off now, embarrassed and ashamed. Could I have ever really meant them, or even cared that much? ‘John-Paul, maybe,’ I mutter, looking down to hide my guilty face. ‘But not the Pope.’

  ‘John Paul is the Pope.’

  I sag back on my chair. How can I refute him with my cracked and crippled voice? Even simple chitchat proved too much of a strain, let alone a full-scale crazy argument.

  Seton stops his pacing, pauses for a moment just below my window-bars, peers up into daylight. ‘Though actually he’s not. John Paul’s a fucking actor – everyone knows that. He planned a career in theatre long before he ever joined the
priesthood; got involved in student drama, played endless parts himself. Playing Pope is just another role for him. He’s bogus, Nial, a joker. Those robes are just his costume which he strips off when the lights go down, strips off with his smile.’

  I smile myself, to humour him. Here we go again. We’ll probably have the wolfhounds next, or even the ex-wives.

  Seton reaches up both hands towards the small barred square of sky, as if he’s trying to pull it down, transform my gloomy room from dusk to day. ‘He made my parents stay together. He killed them, do you realise, Nial, killed the marriage dead? They were enemies, sworn enemies, but he won’t allow divorce, just wraps wives and husbands up in metal swaddling bands, then ties them tight together, till they choke each other, suffocate.’

  I nod, a mite depressed now. I don’t like this conversation. My own parents weren’t exactly friends, died fighting to the last, tied not by any tyrant Pope, but by lethargy and habit. Seton strides back to my chair, leans down very close, till I see myself reflected (dwarfed) in his dark and angry eyes.

  ‘He killed me, too, John Paul did. If you suffocate both parents, the child always dies as well. I’m dead, Nial.’

  ‘So am I,’ I whisper. The words shape themselves, unbidden. I never meant to say them, nor even thought them out, but I suddenly feel bitter, not just about my own parents, but Seton’s too – all parents. No one should have children. It’s too hazardous, too cruel. Yet Big Brother Pope insists, lays down the law for Catholics, even for the world. Not just no divorce – no contraception either. Unwanted children are the worst (and saddest); females forced on parents who wanted only males, huge great hulking daughters in place of dead and fragile sons.

  ‘Well then, what are we waiting for? Everything’s arranged.’ Seton starts taming out his pockets, shows me airline tickets, passport, Italian currency. I’m astonished that he seems so … well, so normal – organised and practical like your average seasoned traveller who’s thought of all the details. And without his grubby duffel coat, he looks very nearly smart, as if he’s dressed up for the flight, wearing an expensive lambswool sweater and a rather dashing jacket the colour of wet slate. He must be better, surely, if he can plan like this, make bookings, buy himself new clothes, deal with banks and airlines. There’s just one thing he’s overlooked, one rather crucial matter.

  ‘There won’t be any flights, Seton, not on Christmas Day. Nobody would work today, not pilots or …’

  ‘They do. I rang the airport earlier this morning. About ten per cent of flights still leave, including two to Italy.’

  He’s right. I scan the tickets, check the date and time: 25 December, 14.35. Alitalia to Rome. ‘Rome?’ I gasp, as I re-read the tiny print; feel distraught and almost dizzy as I suddenly remember that Rome is where John-Paul is, my own John-Paul, my Pope. He wrote it down, didn’t he, on the same white solemn paper he uses for his bills. I screwed that paper up, tossed it in the gutter, but not before I’d glanced at it; glimpsed ‘ROME’ in bold black capitals, and the dates he’d be away. I thought he meant next year, was totally bewildered, but now everything is slowly coming back – some Psychiatric Congress it was vital he attended, and how although he’d be away, I’d still be his patient and still in therapy – what he called therapy without the actual sessions. I was scornful at the time, saw it as a con, a way of getting rid of me, but now I’m so keyed up I can’t sit still; keep jumping up, slumping back, trying to sort my thoughts out, stop them bursting through my brain or through the walls. If I went to Rome I’d find him, raise him from the dead as he raised me. Double Lazarus. I’d be restored, his child again, his son. He might give me back my lunch hours – even give me lunch – let me share his table, feed me from his plate. And if I went with Seton and he accepted him as well, we’d be truly brothers, bonded. I’d have a proper family, a father and a sibling.

  ‘Hurry!’ Seton urges, collecting up his lire and heaving on his coat. ‘There shouldn’t be much traffic, but we’re still pretty pushed for time.’

  ‘Look, wait. I’m still not …’ I curse my useless voice, feel paralysed, uncertain, full of doubt, suspicion. There’s so much I need to ask first. Where will we be staying? How did he get that money, or afford two sets of tickets? Will I need to pay him back? Can I even find my passport and is it out of date? I start hunting through the drawers, still trying to voice objections, but it’s impossible to argue. Seton’s standing at the door, impatient fingers tapping on the handle, all objections swept into his pockets with the tickets and the currency, a last small knob of cake. ‘Come on, Nial.’

  ‘But I need to pack, and find things. I haven’t got …’

  ‘I’ve packed.’

  ‘But not for me.’

  ‘Yes, for you, as well. Just bring a coat, a warm one.’

  I haven’t got a coat. I used to wear my fur-trimmed gaberdine to go and see John-Paul, so it had to be thrown out. I grab my last old sweater, suddenly decisive. I can see this is a mission, something meant, and crucial, so I’ve no right to oppose it. Seton’s scorching up the stairs, sprinting to his car, his whole body galvanised, his eyes burning and intent. It’s not his car – it’s Zack’s – though no sign of Zack himself, thank God. The cases look like Zack’s as well: cream leather with a lot of fancy straps, but labelled ‘CUSACK, Seton’. I scramble after him, passport found, and ready in my hand, slam the door my side.

  ‘Okay?’ he shouts.

  ‘Okay!’

  The car revs from nought to seventy in seconds. My excitement does the same, as we hurtle through deserted streets, past a thousand Christmas dinners, surfeiting and sating all those protesting greasy stomachs. My own stomach’s clear and clean – like the freshly vacuumed sky – no trace of rain at all now, no smuts of dirty cloud, just greedy sun sucking the stiff scum from the tops of sleety puddles, licking icing-frost from twigs. Everything is shining – gutters, roofs and raindrops; Christmas decorations hung in all the houses to greet us as we pass, flickering and dazzling, glowing gold and silver.

  ‘Faster!’ I rasp out.

  Seton slams his foot down, rockets round a corner. I start to laugh, hoarsely but triumphantly. ‘Wait, John-Paul!’ I shout, with the last remnants of my voice. ‘We’re on our way. We’re coming!’

  Chapter Thirty

  Full in the panting heart of Rome,

  Beneath the apostle’s crowning dome,

  From pilgrims’ lips that kiss the ground

  Breathes in all tongues one only sound:

  God bless our Pope, God bless our …

  Bryan forced his eyes to open. The lids felt nailed together, his whole body weighted down. What was that strange singing and where was he, for God’s sake? Certainly not at home. He could see billowing blue curtains drawn around his bed. He must have landed up in hospital, following the plane crash – or landed up in heaven – which would explain the triumphant hymn.

  He tried to peer around him, could still see only blue. Could what he’d taken as curtains be sky, the firmament? No. There wasn’t any heaven. Science had destroyed it, reduced it to a myth. Or maybe science was quite wrong, and all those books he’d tussled with were myths and lies themselves. He tried to struggle up, rouse his torpid brain. The hymn had died away now, but he could hear people banging about beyond the curtains, dropping things, conversing. The voices were all male.

  ‘Mother?’ he said softly, fighting sudden panic. He’d had the Parcel Dream again (mixed in with searing nightmares of falling, burning, crashing); wrapped Lena in stout cardboard and posted her to Bagabag (an island off New Guinea), but when she’d thudded back again, struggling from her wrappings, she’d seemed someone else entirely; a stranger and an interloper. She’d been dressed in shocking pink, with showy dangly earrings, and her face had changed as well as just her clothes; a face old and lined, but hideously painted, enticing him, and winking, like some raddled desperate whore.

  ‘Mother!’ he cried desperately, clutching at the bedclothes, as if they were her skirt
s. ‘Come back, come back! Come back the way you were.’

  ‘Are you all right in there, Bryan?’

  He froze. How did total strangers know his name – cheery voices hailing him as if they’d known him all his life.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Bryan!’

  ‘Wakey wakey, Bryan, old man.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bryan. We’re here.’

  He pulled the thin grey blanket round his chin, was tempted to duck under it as someone popped a head between the curtains.

  ‘Feeling better, mate?’

  He was unsure what to answer. Had he broken bones, lost pints of blood – or limbs? He jiggled both his legs, panicked for a moment when he couldn’t find his hands; eventually located them inside his green pyjama sleeves, which were far too big and belonged to someone else. He did a quick check on his fingers – all present and correct – groped between his legs in sudden fear. No, everything in situ.

  The head between the curtains had now become a body, a stocky blue-jeaned body with a shock of ginger hair on top. It moved towards the bed. ‘Hi, Bryan! I’m Colin Parfitt. We met last night, in fact, but I don’t suppose you remember.’

  Bryan muttered a vague syllable which could be ‘yes’ or ‘no’. If he’d ever had a memory, he’d certainly mislaid it – along with his possessions. Where were all his clothes, his own blue-striped pyjamas, his precious snake, his notebooks?

  Colin plumped down on the bed, let out a sudden guffaw. ‘Gosh! You really scared us witless, leaping up like that and yelling that the plane was going to crash. I’ve never said my prayers with such conviction.’

  ‘But … But it did crash, didn’t it?’

  ‘You are a joker, aren’t you, Bryan? How d’you think we got here, if the plane crashed?’

  Bryan tried to peer through the gap between the curtains, glimpsed a row of narrow beds, all identical to his own, a stretch of plain white wall. ‘Where’s … er … “here”?’ he asked.