by J. A. Baker
Pushing past the queue of shouting passengers, I stumble onto the platform and gasp over and over again, sucking in the smoky rubbery tang of the underground. My vision blurs and for one awful, gut-sinking moment, I fear I might pass out. I take a deep breath and gulp down the polluted oxygen, my upper body juddering with the memory of it all. It’s haunted me all day; the vision of Gareth leaning over me, shouting, his face pale, leached of all colour. But it no longer matters because we’re over, Gareth and I. I try to tell myself that lots of couples argue, lots of couples break up and go their separate ways and we are no different.
Except we are. We are very different indeed.
By the time I make it home to my tiny flat, I’ve come to a decision. It’s the only thing left for me to do; something I should have done a long time ago. I have to go there, to the place where I was born. I need to go back to the beginning. Back to the start of me.
4
Gareth
Gareth scowls and downs another pint, his fifth of the night. His eyes scan the pub like a predator sizing up its next victim. He scours every inch of the place, his gaze shifting about, suspicious and narrow, his nostrils flared in anger.
‘Easy, tiger. There’s three prizes you know.’ Josh glances at his watch then stares at his own full glass, comparing it to the rapidly disappearing pint of his friend. He watches as the amber liquid disappears down Gareth’s gullet, amazed at the change in his usually reserved pal. He’s hardly spoken since getting here and his face is like thunder, his eyes veiled and vaguely threatening, his body language defensive as he sits clutching his pint with tight, chalk white fingers.
‘What, so I’m not allowed a drink now then? Who are you tonight, Josh – my fucking father?’
Josh holds his hands up in mock surrender and lets out a small laugh, his voice a whisper in the sudden upturn of noise as Arsenal go one up two minutes before the half time whistle.
‘Okay, keep your hair on, buddy. Just not used to seeing you drink so much. You’re normally two pints a night kind of guy, not a bad-ass drinker with an attitude.’ Josh laughs, hoping to lighten the atmosphere and inject a little levity into the conversation. His attempt falls flat as his friend scowls in return, his mouth sealed into a firm, mean line.
The noise settles down as the whistle blows and the commentary kicks in. A sudden rush to the bar ensues, leaving the two men virtually alone, the only two males in the vicinity who aren’t there to watch the televised football match.
‘People can change, can’t they? Being the permanently nice guy gets you nowhere. Take my word for it,’ Gareth hisses, his eyes dark with rage. He feels the alcohol take hold as he stares at the floor and tries to still his thumping heart. It continues to bash against his ribcage. Hardly surprising after the week he’s had. He is tarred by it all; forever stained. Too late to turn back the clock now. Too late to go back to how it was before. And it’s all her fault.
‘Not sure what you want me to say, Gareth. Bad day at work then?’
‘You could say that,’ Gareth murmurs, keeping his gaze fixed on the glass clasped between his fingers.
‘Ah well, not long till the weekend. Got much planned?’
‘Nothing. Zilch. Got fuck all planned.’ Gareth lifts his eyes and stares at his friend, his pupils tiny, black pinpricks of rage.
Josh shivers and looks away.
‘Right. Well, me and Liv are thinking of going to that new Italian in town if you and Eva fancy joining us? Supposed to be amazing and the drinks are two-for-one if you get there before 7pm.’
Gareth doesn’t reply. The glasses on the table rock as he taps his foot, the twitch spreading up his leg, his kneecap knocking against the wooden legs of the solid oak, causing the entire table to shake and shift about. Beer sloshes over the edge of both the glasses, spreading across the surface and dripping down the sides before splashing onto Josh’s suede boots. He lifts his foot out and rubs at it with his fist, a deep frown etched across his forehead.
‘Fuck sake, Gareth! What’s up with you tonight anyway? You’re as miserable as fuck and now you’ve just about spilled all the drinks. What gives?’
A silence grips the pair of them as Josh continues to mop up the spilt beer. Gareth sits motionless, his foot now still, his lips pursed in anger. Bubbles of beige ale creep along the table and drip onto the floor. Josh watches them and then stares at his friend before shaking his head, exasperated by it all. He doesn’t need this. They all have shit days at work but you have to get your head around everything and just get over it. Passing on your misery to everybody else is bang out of order.
‘Look, mate, I didn’t mean to have a go at you but you need to get a grip. I’ve got no idea what’s up with you but whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. I’m not up to this at the minute. I’ve got my phone if you need me. You know where I am, yeah?’ He stands up and straddles the pool of amber liquid spreading at his feet before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and nodding down at the dejected looking male sitting close to him. ‘Give me a call if you and Eva fancy the Italian thing, okay?’
No response. Josh sighs and shakes his head again. He bangs his wet boots on the floor to remove the final few drips of beer, shoves his hand into his breast pocket and leaves.
Gareth listens to the tip tap of his friend’s boots as he heads off towards the door, his shoulders hunched as he reaches for his phone, yelling into the handset that he’s on his way to The George and for Andy or Chris to get him a drink in. He should follow him, tell him what the issue is, let him know why he’s been so miserable tonight, what it is that’s dragging him down. But he can’t. No matter how hard Gareth tries, he simply cannot say the words out loud. He just can’t bring himself to tell anyone about it. This is something that will always stay hidden. And already, he can feel it boring a huge fucking hole in his sanity. The secret of all secrets. The one he will never, ever be able to talk about. It’s going to eat away at him, chip away at everything he ever thought he knew about his life. And he is so fucking angry about it he could punch somebody; doesn’t matter who. He is so filled with rage, hatred crackling inside him like a furnace, white hot fury scorching his insides, and there is nothing he can do about it, nobody he can talk to, to make any of it go away. He is tarnished now. The damage is done and no matter how long he thinks about it, no matter how hard he tries to erase it from his mind, it will always be there, a huge, black blot on the landscape of his life.
It makes sense with hindsight – Eva’s endless questions about his life, her constant need for information. In the end, he pretended to not hear her or changed the subject whenever she asked.
He picks up the remainder of his drink and gulps it down in one go, the slightly bitter tang of ale hitting the back of his throat with an acidic kick. His body cries out for the next one. He needs it to numb everything, to make him forget. He longs for the alcoholic blur that another pint will bring, the gratifying numbing of his raging thoughts. He doesn’t want to think any more; he just wants to drink himself into a blind stupor and forget.
The swarm of bodies head back from the bar, clutching their pints and roaring at the screen as the replays are shown and repeated over and over again; just a meaningless blur of images flickering about on the huge television. Gareth stares down at his shoes, willing the rest of the drinkers to disappear. He really should go. He’s drunk more than he should, never mind having any more. He’ll be in no fit state for anything in the morning, but right now he couldn’t give a damn. His life from here on in will always be shit. No amount of drinking or trying to forget what went on will ever erase it.
A buzzing vibrates through the pocket of his jeans. Leaning forward, Gareth slips his phone out and stares at it, his body locking into position, his skin suddenly clammy as the name flashes up on the screen. In a sudden swell of anger, he drops the phone on the floor where it spins in the sticky puddle of beer, small splashes of ale flying out like golden raindrops. Lifting his foot up, he places it directly above th
e flashing phone and brings it down hard, grinding the piece of machinery with his heel. The laminated screen cracks and fragments, the phone staying in one piece until he stands up and with a sudden, heavy thump, brings his foot down onto it sending pieces of metal and plastic scattering across the wooden floor. A group of nearby drinkers watch him, their eyes wide with shock before a wave of clapping and jeering takes hold.
‘Whoa, you go for it, man! Hope it was a Nokia.’
A hoot of laughter fills the room as they all stare at him in amazement.
‘You fucking show ’em, man. Tell her to let you have a beer in peace.’
Gareth lets out a low growl as he bends down and scoops up the SIM card, leaving the rest of the pieces on the floor. He tucks the SIM into the breast pocket of his shirt and glances at the gang of onlookers who are already losing interest, their attention now fixed on the huge screen on the far wall where the second half of the match is about to kick off. He watches them, sees their blank expressions and thinks about how easy their lives are; so simple and free of the clutter and crap he has to put up with. He wonders if it would bother them, what he is currently going through. Or would they just shrug it off, put it down to experience? Maybe he’s over-reacting. Maybe not. Everyone has their tipping point, don’t they? And he’s pretty sure he has reached his.
Without a second glance, he leaves the pub, his disappearance unnoticed by the spectators now enthralled by the imminent game of football. The cold air bites at his face as he steps outside. Under the murky, orange hue of the carriage lamp on the wall, Gareth does something he hasn’t done for months. Grabbing a cigarette out of the battered packet that has been sitting in his jacket pocket since giving up six months ago, he shoves it between his lips and strikes a match, the tiny flame flickering ochre as he cups his hands around it and sucks greedily on the slim cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His emergency pack. He knew he had done the right thing leaving them there for times like this. He closes his eyes against the initial dizziness that has him in its grip, then opens them and smiles, savouring the woody taste of the tobacco and enjoying the rush of nicotine as it hurls itself round his system, firing up his senses.
Fuck it all, he thinks as he strolls off down the street. Never again will he be taken in by somebody like that. He wonders if he should contact anyone back home, then shakes his head and lets out a sharp laugh. Is he mad? It hasn’t been home for many years and it was anything but a home even when he lived there. There’ll be no answers for him there. Nothing but heartache in that place.
He exhales loudly, picks up his pace and walks down the cobbled alleyway, sucking hard on the cigarette and blowing a long stream of smoke into the grey night air. From now on, Gareth will take care of Gareth and the rest of the world can go and fuck themselves.
Whitby – Two months later
5
Eva
I wake to the soft distant sound of the tide rushing over the sand. The metallic crunch of water as it hits land drags me from sleep. I open my eyes, wincing at the gritty sensation behind my eyelids as I blink repeatedly. Everything is distorted. My thoughts are muddled, crumpled and lost in an alcoholic haze after one too many last night. And the night before. There is always a good reason to have one drink more than I should.
Levering myself up, I sit propped up against the headboard, my head lowered as the room spins. I keep my chin tucked into my chest, my mouth filling with saliva. I’m gripped by a wave of nausea and slump back down into the softness of the pillow, glad of the comfort and support beneath my aching neck. My head feels like a lump of lead, my throat as dry as sandpaper. I’d like to say I have no idea why I do it, why I insist on drinking more than my body is capable of processing, but that would be a complete lie.
I keep my eyes shut tight, waiting for the wave of sickness to pass. I know for certain that the room is in a terrible mess and I’m in no fit state to do anything about it. It doesn’t matter. An untidy bedroom is the least of my problems.
Swallowing hard, I suddenly feel overwhelmed by everything; the new flat, the hangover, how to begin my life all over again. It feels like it’s too much for me to think about. I haven’t the energy or the inclination to focus on it. I haven’t the energy or inclination to focus on anything at the minute. I just want to crawl back under the duvet and sleep for a month.
I have a vague recollection of staggering up to bed, still clutching the wine bottle. I also recall eating a takeaway in bed, and as the memory of it creeps back into my brain, I’m not even sure if I put the pizza box on the floor or if it’s still here, under the quilt with me; layers of grease and rotting food slowly soaking into the bed sheets and through to the mattress beneath. I doubt I even switched any of the lights out or locked the front door last night before collapsing in a heap on my unmade bed. I am a complete disgrace. But then I have every right to be. I’ve earned such an accolade.
More saliva fills my mouth as I make another attempt to sit up, and before I can stop it, a stream of projectile vomit sprays out of me, coating my gullet in a film of acidic bile. I watch through narrowed eyes as the contents of my stomach spills out over the duvet, spreading and pooling in a sickly pink and orange hue, a visible reminder of how much I overindulged last night. A visible reminder of what I have become.
I groan and gingerly step out of bed, grimacing against the shooting pain that sears across my skull. I lean forward, balling up the quilt until every trace of the vomit has been hidden away by lavender-coloured folds of fabric, and pull it onto the floor; a huge, purple mound of flowery satin material concealing my sins and shame within it.
Picking my way through the piles of debris scattered at my feet, I head into the bathroom where I lean under the tap and rinse my mouth out again and again, the cold water soothing my burning throat and clearing the sticky residue from the roof of my mouth.
The room still swims as I swallow hard and stand upright, the floor tiles cold and unwelcoming under my bare feet. I dance about for a few seconds, trying to escape the freezing surface that cuts through my skin and clings to my bones, then stand straight and take a deep steadying breath. I need to do this, to get up and tidy this room and to freshen myself up. Hanging onto the edge of the sink for balance, I squint at the chinks of sunlight that are filtering in through the blinds then stare at myself in the mirror. I am appalled by the sight that greets me. I look as if I’ve been pushed through a shredder. My face is puffy and red, and my hair is knotted and tangled and sits on top of my head like a huge haystack. Is it any wonder I’m on my own? Why would anybody want to be involved with somebody like me? Gareth is still in London and no longer loves me, and I can’t say I blame him. I don’t much like myself right now.
My head pounds as I force myself upright. No more drinking for me. I have to be stronger than this. After all, isn’t this why I came here? To get away from it all, to start all over again, to find out who I really am? And yet here I am – alone – no further forward in my attempt to uncover my past, and slowly sinking into despair; a huge pit of misery that is gradually swallowing me up.
I stagger back through to the bedroom and slump onto the edge of the bed. I hold my head in my hands and tug at my hair in a bid to loosen it of the knots that are threaded through it. Moving here has proved to be more difficult than I thought it would be. At first it felt like a big adventure, leaving the stresses and strains of the city far behind me, saying goodbye to work colleagues I couldn’t wait to leave behind. Even selling my little flat didn’t feel too traumatic. I was ready for this move. Every muscle and sinew in my body ached for it, and yet now I’m here, I feel weighed down by it all. Everything is so different, so much smaller.
Without even realising it, I had got used to the hustle and bustle of city life. All those things I had grown to hate are now conspicuously absent from my life and I feel as if I’m going through some sort of grieving process. Perhaps I should have stayed in York all those years ago, not skittered off to a place I knew nothin
g about, and not been so attracted to the idea of living in the capital. Hindsight is a wonderful thing though, isn’t it? And now, after years of being in London, here I am, back in the north, rudderless and confused. But I had to do it. I just had to. Staying so close to Gareth was unthinkable. Come hell or high water, I had to get away. Truth be told, he wanted me gone and probably had a farewell party after I’d left.
Rubbing at my face, I swallow back tears I know I shouldn’t be shedding. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? I was so certain my problems would be sorted when I came here. I just need some time to adjust. That’s all it is. The thing is, I don’t think I expected the move to happen as quickly as it did. My flat in London sold within a couple of hours of it going on the market, so without further ado I handed in my notice at the large accountancy company where I worked and now here I am, living in a rented flat in Whitby, on my own. No time to think about it. No time to change my mind. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’ve spent most of my adult life procrastinating, wondering, dithering, and now here I am, and I’m still doing all of those things. Nothing has really changed. Same emotions, different location.
It was a big step moving here and it all happened so quickly that I didn’t have any time to plan. But there again, so was moving to London from York and I managed that, didn’t I? For a while anyway. I had a good job in London, a lovely little flat, friends and a social life. And I had Gareth.
Gareth.
I groan and chew at the inside of my mouth until the stinging sensation becomes too painful to bear and a trickle of blood gathers in the well of my mouth. This has to stop, this continual wave of self-pity. I had to come here. I have a plan. Or at least I did until alcohol and laziness took a hold of me.
