Story, Volume II

by Dai Smith

  Think I meant it as a joke. Can’t really remember.

  Well! Yes, I can. It was and it wasn’t. A joke, that is. I was confused. And high. And horny. And he responded. Old Gavin. There, last night, in that taxi his lips went ‘Open sesame’ and his hand moved up my thigh.

  The taxi driver just sat there not caring a damn. He’s seen it all before. And besides, the meter was still running. Why would he mind?

  Eventually, my tongue slid free and I got out without a word. Just stood there gobsmacked on the pavement as he’s driven away. My hand clutching the card I’d felt him slip into my pocket. It’s the second one he’s given me. I now have a pair. Only on that second one he’s written his personal e-mail address in biro on the back.

  It’s here in my wallet, hidden away.

  I’ve no idea how he got my e-mail address. My mam is off the hook this time. Telephones are an integral part of her communications system. It’s a well-known fact. But an e-mail remains a mystery to her.

  However he got it, there it was this evening. Waiting for me.

  Thanks for seeing me. I appreciated it and respect your position. But if you ever want to relieve yourself of anything, you know how to get hold of me. My investigations continue. It’s a sad and sensitive business. Hope we get to meet again, especially if things get clearer in your mind. Regards, Gavin.

  I couldn’t reply immediately. What a relief!

  Mike has had several of his paintings accepted by some prestigious gallery. He needed the computer urgently. I was banished out here on the balcony. No! Correction. I banished myself.

  Hate these days when I’ve been for a check-up. So fucking humiliating. And six months seem to come around so quickly. Condoms and care are all well and good. But I’m wise to stick to my routine.

  Mike pointed out that I wouldn’t need to go if I didn’t play around. The darkroom work really bugs him. He suffers from selective memory. We met in a bloody darkroom. Mike, I said. Remember?

  You’re thirty-three now, was his response. Time you grew up.

  Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember. It was ten years ago. Not here, of course. Not Cuffs. Ibiza. Another club. A holiday. Our first shag. No condom. No cares.

  And now, it’s not even a memory.

  He’ll still want me to accompany him to the opening of his exhibition. He told me all about it as he broke the news. ‘Launch party’ it’s called. More of a small reception. apparently. Just critics and friends. He told me the date and to be sure to keep it free.

  I’m still good for wheeling out as the trophy boyfriend, it seems. And don’t get me wrong, that’s fine by me. So long as Mike doesn’t forget at which bring-and-buy he picked me up.

  Being told you’re all clear should give you a high, I suppose. But curiously, it doesn’t. There’s relief. And then this empty feeling takes over inside, as you stop off in reception before leaving to make your next appointment in another six months’ time.

  Raul’s missus made such a fuss of Mike last night it was almost embarrassing. Her wonderful meal was already enough of a contribution to the celebrations. She’s generous to a fault and I can understand why Raul lives in awe of her every act of kindness. I have never in my life lived with anyone who oozes so much goodness with such grace and I understand that it can’t always be easy.

  It’s only two paintings, Mike insisted repeatedly every time she mentioned his triumph.

  Still two more than Van Gogh ever sold in his lifetime, I kept chipping in, playing the proud partner.

  We’d taken the champagne, of course. Not cava, Raul noted, tossing the bottle in the air when we first got there and catching it again behind his back, much to Mike’s relief.

  Things are pretty tight on old Raul, I think. His overheads are high and with another bambino on the way he can’t have much money to throw around.

  As we sat down to eat in their tiny kitchen, Mike ceremoniously popped open the bottle. And the kid starts throwing his pasta across the room in excitement. The rest of us just laughed and made a toast of Mike’s success and cleared off that first bottle without a care in the world.

  Raul suggested a spot of line dancing to follow and I told him to bugger off.

  I flexed my biceps to amuse the kid and he in turn tried to knock the muscles back into place with a plastic hammer which must have come with the set of plastic blocks I kept tripping over underfoot.

  As the evening drew on, we all seemed bloated and bubbly and larger than life. And I really hated the moment when I knew I had to tell Raul I’d be away another week. It seems so soon after the week I lost when that bug laid me low.

  Needless to say. I needn’t have worried. His handshake was flamboyant in his sympathies. He knew. He cared. He caressed.

  Si, si! You must, you must, he said. And with that he fetched the second bottle from the fridge, saying such sadness had to be drowned immediately.

  He indulges you something rotten, was Mike’s verdict on the way home last night. You’re like a great big toy he just can’t get enough of.

  You used to be like that towards me once, I replied. What happened?

  It’s not good that it’s back.

  Mike made all the right noises last night after Joanne rang, it’s true, but he’s so buoyed by his newfound success, his words just sounded empty and devoid of any feeling.

  Even Joanne’s voice rang hollow as she tried to speak through the tears. A combination of the waterworks and the Welsh in her voice. Like a drunken sailor trying to sing a shanty aboard a sinking ship on a stormy sea. The meaning made no sense at all, but you could still taste the salt on your lips as the song slapped your face.

  It will be two years since I was last at home. That’s the trouble. I’ve started to forget.

  She won’t come over to see me. Our Joanne. I’ve asked her. But she won’t. Says she doesn’t like the food.

  Bloody ridiculous excuse!

  The truth is, she’s never been anywhere much, our Joanne. No further than the prenatal clinic. And even then, our mam has had to go with her every time.

  Not the next time, though! The thought struck me like a left hook. Not if it’s back.

  Knew immediately I had to do the same. Go back. Take charge.

  I had no chance to even ask how Mam was. Dean has a go at me as soon as he picks up the receiver. It was late, apparently, and I’d woken up the kids. He’s always hated my guts. Likes to think he’s something special with his fists. And he’d love to take a pop at me one day, I know. But the sad wimp has never quite been able to pluck up the courage, ’cos he knows I’ve won prizes for it. So it’s hands buried deep, whenever we meet. Pocket billiards and a mouthful of abuse.

  I know I wind him up, which doesn’t help, but he’s such an easy match to light, I can’t resist!

  What are you doing sleeping round Mam’s house, any road? I said. Can’t you provide a house of your own for your family?

  Very compassionate, Joel, he retorts, except he can’t really do sarcasm. He has to scream it at me, thereby missing the advantage of the higher moral ground which had subtly been his for his taking if only he’d played his cards right.

  You boys fighting again? You’ll be the death of me!

  Mam could be heard almost physically wrestling the receiver from Dean’s hand as she talked. Her voice was full of sniffing. More tears. I sighed and start to feel depressed.

  It seems that she hasn’t had the test results yet. I tried to interrupt the moist flow of pessimism by looking on the bright side, but she was having none of it. Easier to wallow in anticipation of the worse scenario than hanging on to hope, it seems.

  I was glad to get off the phone.

  So much for ‘The old town looks the same…’ It doesn’t.

  They’ve knocked half of it down. And the other half’s boarded up.

  I’ll be next, said Mam. Already feel as though I’ve been knocked down by a bus. And I’ll soon be boarded up. Eight nails in the lid should do it nicely… with some lily of
the valleys from you and Joanne resting on top just to set it all off!

  She chokes me when she speaks like that.

  Don’t go wasting your money on me now, mind, she continued. So long as you keep it dignified, that’s all I ask. I don’t want anything tacky. And make sure your father doesn‘t put in an appearance at the last moment. Don’t want him ruining my big day. He ruined the last one I had in that chapel.

  Mam, don’t talk like that, I said.

  Well, the bastard turned up, didn’t he? Her loud voice brings high camp comedy to the cancer ward. And don’t think I’m the only woman who’s ever wished her husband had jilted her at the altar with the benefit of hindsight. The world is full of us.

  And if you hadn’t married him, I wouldn’t be here now, would I? Have you thought of that? I said.

  She’s only trying to be cheerful, she answered, expecting me to laugh along. But of course, I don’t. I didn’t. And I can’t. Can’t cry either. Won’t allow myself. I never can. Ended up just sitting there, telling her not to be so daft.

  Had a long chat with the doctor a little later.

  He’d no office to take me to. We stood out in the corridor out of earshot, keeping our voices down and shifting sideways whenever anyone walked past. The staff use that corridor as a short cut to the car park when they go for their illicit fags. It sees a lot of traffic. Our whispers had to blend in furtively with a sea of uniforms, camouflaged by smiles and the slight whiff of smoke.

  She’s been slightly overly pessimistic, apparently. That’s what he told me. It turns out he’s more worried by her mental state than by the cancer. Well, not more, maybe, but as much.

  You’re going to be OK. I tried to reassure her when I finally returned to the ward to sit with her a little while longer.

  The doctor had just told me her depression manifested itself in laughter, so my heart sank as she roared hysterically in response. She lunged at me sitting in my chair, before throwing her arms around my neck and all but falling out of bed.

  It’s back, my boy, she howled. It’s back. And so are you.

  Listen to the darkness.

  You can’t, of course. That bloody clock won’t let you. Like it won’t let me sleep. Five nights I’ve been back home and five nights I’ve just been lying here contemplating how much I hate that clock. I’ve always hated it. When it chimed away in Nanna’s house, I hated it. And now I hate it here.

  To put it in boxing terms, it seems to punch above its weight. Stands there in the corner. Looking petit. A wallflower with time on its hands. Delicate casing and a poofy face. Calls itself a grandmother clock. The only thing of any value I ever got from my mother, Mam says. It may be old, but I doubt it’s worth much. Just a clock with attitude. A wedding present to my grandparents, in the days when even the cheap pressies outlived the marriage.

  Hear that tick-tock measuring the emptiness; its tenacity audible above all the other anxieties throbbing in my brain. Like a bantam fighter, it just keeps coming at you. Wearing you down. Numbing your pain. Making you oblivious to the killer punch that’s about to get you on the blind side.

  Curiously, Mam asked about it tonight. The clock. She wants everything to be in full working order if she’s allowed home tomorrow. Had I wound it up?

  No, but it’s winding me up plenty! I replied.

  She laughed that exaggerated laugh the doctor seemed to find so worrying.

  I’ve thought about it. That chat I had with him yesterday. She’s not suppressing depression. More like celebrating her inherent over-optimism.

  Mam will always laugh. She always has. It’s what pulls her through.

  I’ve made her bed up. Ready for tomorrow. Hoovered round a little. Even wound up that bloody clock for her. Well! It’s what she wanted.

  It hasn’t happened, has it? Mam isn’t home tonight, as planned. I’m still here on my own. Just me and the clock.

  More tests are needed, apparently. They want to be absolutely certain. Of what, I’m not too sure. But it seems they can’t decide what to do. The consultant has been consulted and the specialist has had his say. And the doubts that are mostly left unsaid are deafening.

  I could tell she was down, bless her. And when I rang Mike earlier, he said I sounded down myself.

  I can feel the despondency in your voice, he said. How profound is that?

  Well, is it any bloody wonder? I bellowed back.

  He always has to use big words to deal with any gut feeling anyone may ever have. It’s his defence against any genuine raw emotion. Yes, I was pleased to hear the exhibition continues to be a great success… and no, he doesn’t really care a damn about what I’m going through here. I could tell by his voice. He never has cared. That’s the truth. Not about me, where I come from, or my family.

  The trouble is. I don’t really miss him. It’s been ten days and I’ve only made contact with him twice. Both times, what I really needed to find out was how everyone was doing; Raul and the gang, etc. Things in the flat. Not Mike.

  Dan Llywellyn turned up a lot tonight. Not in the flesh, of course – what’s left of it! In conversation. A verbal resurrection from Mam.

  I know he’s there, of course. Same hospital, different wards. He’s in a lot worse state than her. She kept repeating that. Never mentioned dying, but I knew that’s what she meant.

  He’d love to see you. Why don’t you pop along and have a chat?

  She needn’t have bothered naming the ward. I’ve known which one it is since I first went to visit Mam. lt’s where the terminally ill are kept. ‘God’s waiting room’ the staff call it on the sly. It’s out on a limb. The ground-floor ward nearest the gardens.

  One of the cleaners I got talking to the other day told me it was to enable the earth’s gravity to make their journey easier at the end. Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes… she could quote the lot.

  By the sound of her, she’d caught religion and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was probably more to do with the fact that they built the mortuary round the back.

  I wound that clock in vain last night. And now I wish I hadn’t. Really only did it for her. And she’s not here.

  A torture for my own insomnia. Should have left it to its own devices. Do unto time as time does unto all of us.

  When I next see that cleaner, I’ll tell her that. She looked easily impressed.

  It’s all right for you, Joel, he said. You’re one of the lucky ones. You got out. Looked after yourself. Made something of yourself.

  I told him to go to hell.

  I know you don’t mean that, he said, eyeballing me like a pneumatic drill as he spoke.

  Then he went straight into this sob story about Darren Howley.

  That was his name apparently; this gawping, chubby geek I’d noticed in Spar this afternoon. Looked around forty. A beer-bellied no-hoper. The valley’s full of them. Except this one had a real talent for staring. I wasn’t flattered. I wasn’t angry. I just wanted Mam to recover quickly so I could catch the first plane back to Barcelona.

  Well! It seems he was once a promising football player. Went to Dan Llywellyn for coaching. Ended up on drugs and off the rails.

  A life blighted, Gavin called it.

  It seems this Darren called him on his mobile after stalking me round Spar.

  I keep in touch with many of those boys, Gavin explained. Or at least I allow them to keep in touch with me. Feel protective towards them, you see. Seen so many lives destroyed.

  Mine’s not destroyed, I started to protest.

  No, quite, he interjects. Like I said, you’re one of the lucky ones.

  Made things happen for myself, I said. No luck about it. Stuck at it in school. Went to college. Learnt Spanish. I’m a self-made man. Made things happen for myself.

  The trouble is, the Darren Howleys of this world are wondering why the hell you didn’t make things happen for them as well, Joel, Gavin continues. Or stopped things happening to them, is more to the point. Do you know what I mean?
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  I knew by now that he was intent on saying his piece, so I stood there with my back to the wall and my hands deep in my tracky bottoms.

  They know you see. They know what you went through. The verbal assault continued. I held my ground in silence. And they can’t for the life of them work out why you didn’t put a stop to it. Back then, they didn’t have your balls, Joel. They didn’t have your brains. They were dependent on a bright lad like you to speak up and save them further misery. Speak up and break Dan Llywellyn’s vicious circle. But you didn’t, did you, Joel? Why is that, Joel?

  I still don’t know what you’re talking about, I said. No one ever messed with me I didn’t want to mess with me.

  I know you, Joel. I just know.

  You don’t, mate! You don’t know me at all…

  And I’ll get it all out of you too, one day – the hard way if I have to. But it will out. You listen to me good… he paused a moment while a distraught-looking relative went scuttling past in pursuit of a member of the medical staff. His half-turned eyes judged when she’d be out of earshot and, before continuing, his voice lowered an octave, just to be on the safe side. One day, I’ll have you there in front of me, just like you are now. Only it won’t be a fuckin’ hospital corridor. And you won’t be looking so smug. You’ll be crying your fuckin’ eyes out, Joel. Just like all those other sad bastards I’ve met on this investigation. You’ll be so relieved to have all that shit of years ago out of your system, you won’t know whether they’re tears of joy or anguish sobbing down your cheeks and nostrils. You’ll just know that you’ve wrenched out a gutful of pus that’s been there hiding inside you all those years, Joel. And I’ll be the one you’ll be grateful to for giving you the best feeling of relief you’ll ever know in your life.

  Dream on, sunshine, I said. And he sort of smiled. Knowing it wasn’t the place or the time to pursue it further.

  The worried lady was making her way back from the smokers’ den, the nurse she’d managed to collar barely hiding her annoyance at having her fag curtailed.

  Can’t pretend it’s not good to see you again, he chips in casually as the two women made their way back towards the wards.