Thames Gateway 01; Wide Open

by Nicola Barker

  Nathan stopped smiling.

  “Is she still out there?”

  “No. She just left…”

  The man turned around as he spoke, but Nathan had already pushed on past him.

  Lily was walking towards the escalator, thoroughly humiliated. The world was too big, she told herself. Someone should have warned her. Nathan actually nearly knocked her over. He backed into her. He’d been scanning faces, frantically, hoping to recognize someone, something. Lily staggered and then turned to face him. Her cheek was dripping.

  “Is it you?” Nathan panted, seeing the blood. “Did you come for Ronny?”

  “It is me,” Lily mumbled, almost crying with relief, “it is me. And I’m lost and I think I might be about to miss my bus.”

  Nathan put his hand into his pocket and drew out a hanker-chief.

  “Here. Don’t worry.”

  Lily took it. He led her slowly towards the escalator.

  “I’m Nathan,” he said gently, “you’re all right now. I’ll look after you.”

  ♦

  He was developing in the bathroom. He had all the equipment The red light, the washes, the paper, the dark blind for the window. Slowly, slowly, the images rose out of the whiteness; a wide smirk of black and grey shadows staining the paper’s pale face.

  First off, uh…he turned the picture up the other way…yes…a cup. An old mug. In full focus. That was all. Then a table. Some tarpaulin. A giant creature which almost made him squeal – with hair and horns, all tusky…Next, a piece of wood, polished. A banister?

  Luke smiled to himself. Should he stop? Wasn’t he wasting paper here? But he thought of Sara, sitting on his sofa, full of anticipation, and resolved to continue.

  The next image made him tut. A toilet seat. Down. And then, a cloud? Something great and uninteresting and white…a pillow? And after. After? He squinted. Jesus Christ. His hands felt numb and heavy as he continued developing.

  ♦

  Ronny sat on a small hillock, surrounded by the letters. He was reading and reading. He’d been crying. “It was me,” he kept saying, “it was me. It was me. Hiding all the while, keeping myself safe and disguised until no one could possibly see who I was. But it was me.”

  He’d pulled off his shoes. His long, pale feet were cushioned in the grass, grey with dirt, big toeless, like great dusty fins, or flippers. He inspected them as if they were some kind of irrefutable evidence.

  He felt so sorry for Monica and the trouble she’d been through. He felt such a profound understanding. Her love of all the things she couldn’t see. The desolation. The lack of belonging. The endless, pointless investing.

  ♦

  You feel very close at this moment. Is that stupid? Are you near me? Are you out there, hiding in the jungle, watching, waiting, but I just can’t see you? Is it me who’s dense or is it the forest? Is it me?

  ♦

  The letters weren’t dated. But were they in some semblance of order? How did they unravel? Ronny rubbed at his eyes, which were red and sore, not from crying, he decided, but for some other reason. Maybe the sun. Maybe the pills he’d taken. He rubbed them again, harder, and then he hunted for the next letter in the pile. He craved a conclusion. He had to establish himself, within. Right now. Inside. He had to locate her. He stroked the letter. He drew a deep breath. He squinted. He opened it.

  ♦

  I had a dream.

  Ronny? Am I writing? I think I am. Am I waking? Am I sleeping? Will this thing get through to you?

  I had a dream about Louis and the white ape. Tell me if you think I’m going crazy. I had a dream. I was lying on a table. Or a camp bed, but high off the ground. And I was wearing an old nightshirt which kept shifting. It was too small. A child’s shirt. And I was surrounded by people. All looking and staring.

  I felt like Gulliver. As if my hands were tied, my legs, my ankles. But I couldn’t feel any kind of rope or cord or string, even. Just a weight. And Louis was at the head of the table. And he was holding some kind of torch. And he had a Stanley knife in his other hand. And he was cutting my hair with it. And it wasn’t just a brief interlude, it all took a long, long time. It went on and on for a long time. And sometimes I was crying. And sometimes I was silent. That’s all.

  It was only a dream.

  But where was the white ape? I know that’s what you’re wondering. Where was it? Well in truth I think I was the white ape. That’s my take on it. Lying on the table like some terrible experiment. Having my hair cut. Poked and prodded. Like I was the ape. Although that’s just a take, Ronny, that’s all it is.

  I mentioned the dream to Louis and he was extremely tight-arsed about it. He said it sounded like an abduction dream. An alien abduction dream. He said that alien abduction dreams say a whole lot about the people who have them. He was very smug about it. As if it indicated something.

  And suddenly it occurred to me that maybe Louis was trying to get me off track in some indefinable way. It felt as though he was trying to divert me. So when I went out into the forest, later on, and was certain that he was on my trail – he’s always on my trail, that’s the only thing I’m truly sure of – once I was convinced that he was following me, I doubled back on myself to confront him, but it was not Louis, it was Monty. And it wasn’t even as if he was being all that subtle about it, either. He was slapdash and clumsy. He was sneering. Like this was something he’d long been in the habit of doing.

  I began to wonder whether Louis had ever followed me (I mean since the bat cave) or whether, in fact, he was actually off elsewhere. But what was he doing in this other place? And where was it exactly? What was the allure? Did he know something? Had he discovered anything?

  I went back to the shack. I waited. And that’s just where you find me, Ronny.

  Back here, dumb, dumb, dumb, and waiting. M.

  ♦

  He finally came out. He was grim-faced. Sara peered up at him from the sofa. She didn’t say anything though, just studied his expression for any small indication of understanding.

  “So you took these?”

  He held the thick sheath of photos fastidiously, between a prickly finger and thumb.

  “Yes. Of course I did.”

  She wasn’t ashamed. Her voice was brash.

  Luke scratched his belly and then shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I’m sorry…” he said eventually, “but I’ve been rather taken by surprise here.”

  “That’s all right.” She was perfectly cool and calm. “Would you like to go through them with me?”

  “Uh…” he frowned, “I’ve seen them all. I just developed them, obviously.”

  “And what did you think?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know. What should I think?”

  Sara put out her hand for the pictures.

  “Were they clear enough?”

  “Oh yes,” he almost smirked, “they were clear enough. They were…” he struggled, “they were bald.”

  He passed the pictures over. Sara inspected the top print.

  “This is my cup,” she said, “it’s the cup I always use. I have coffee in it, first thing. It’s a plain cup, but I like it. I’ve grown accustomed to using it each day. And this…” The next picture. “Well, this is my kitchen table. It was my mother’s table. I think it’s Victorian. Just clumsy and everything. Full of knots and little dips. When I was a kid I used to imagine all kinds of creatures in the knots. They were like eyes or tadpoles or something…and this…”

  The next picture.

  “This is the tarpaulin near the boar pens. I keep the beets under it so they don’t rot too quickly or dry out or anything. I don’t know why I’ve always liked it, but I have. I enjoy the feel of it. Kind of smooth. And it’s thick and waterproof. It’s hard to lift. I tack it down with tent pegs to keep it secure…”

  The next picture. But Luke interrupted her.

  “Details,” he said.

  “Pardon?”
>
  “These are just details…” It had been a concrete thought, initially, but then his voice petered out.

  Sara considered it, anyhow. “Yes,” she said slowly, “but they are also what I am. You know? Sometimes I feel like I’m just an accumulation of objects. I mean, here’s my pillow. It’s made of goose feathers. It’s a bit prickly, but I made it myself from a goose of mine. I was very proud of it at the time. I felt a great sense of achievement. And the dent in it is the dent from my head. See?”

  Luke nodded. She shuffled the images forward a bit.

  “That’s my elbow. I think it’s quite distinctive. The little knobbly bit at the side is bigger than on my other elbow because I cracked it when I was fifteen, skating. I used to skate a lot. I always longed to be a professional skater.”

  She cleared her throat. –

  “Oh God. That’s my arse. I mean my anus. I never saw it before. It’s not quite like I expected. It’s smaller.”

  She turned the picture the other way up.

  “I think I prefer it sideways. It seems more cheerful.”

  Luke was rubbing his forehead. He was barely paying attention. He was ill at ease.

  “You know what?” Sara asked.

  “What?” He focused in on her again.

  “I just wanted to be honest with you, and with myself. I wanted to show you who I was, but plainly and frankly. And actually, I wasn’t even very sure that there would be anything to show.”

  “But I already know who you are,” Luke was impatient.

  “You do?” She didn’t sound too certain.

  “I don’t need to see a picture of your mother’s table to understand who you are.”

  “But it helps to explain. It enlarges…”

  “No.”

  “It does.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Sara cleared her throat.

  “You know what I’m truly looking for?” she asked, barely believing that she would actually dare to say it.

  “Tell me,” Luke smiled.

  She took a deep breath, then blurted it out. “Total acceptance.”

  Luke paused. “Big words,” he said, continuing to smile but now clearly intimidated.

  She looked down at her knees. “And maybe I won’t find that here.”

  She gathered the pictures together. She’d had an inkling he’d be this way. But even so, she allowed herself to feel slightly hollow and vaguely forlorn. She stood up.

  “We fucked,” she said, almost bitter now, “but we were never intimate.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  She’d lost him.

  “No. You’ve lost me,” she said, “because at heart – although you may not realize this – at heart you’re a real…” she struggled, “a true, a complete pornographer.”

  Then she smiled, as though this had actually been a compliment, and the smile itself was merely the final blow in the gentlest of assassinations.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Thirty-Five

  “I got some blood on the carpet. Sorry.”

  Lily scuffed at the two drops with the toe of her trainer, worsening matters considerably.

  “Don’t worry,” Nathan returned from the bathroom clutching a wad of toilet paper. Lily took it and held it to her cheek, tossing Nathan’s now-moist linen handkerchief into a nearby wastepaper bin.

  She glanced around her. His flat was plain but comfortable. She was perfectly at her ease here. It felt safe.

  “So where’s the beast?”

  Nathan pointed towards the sofa. “It’s there.”

  Lily’s eyes widened at the sight of the box, as though she couldn’t quite believe that it actually existed.

  “Did you open it yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not?”

  She seemed genuinely perturbed by his sense of restraint.

  “I was asked to look after it. That was all.”

  “So does Ronny make a habit of giving you stuff to keep for him?”

  Nathan shook his head. “No. Not really. Although he’s always made a habit of losing things.”

  His voice sounded wistful, but Lily didn’t read anything into it. She put out her hands and touched the box’s sharp corners, pressing her thumbs down on to them until they received little temporary indentations. She studied her thumbs and then looked up. “Actually, Ronny just lost his hair. He set fire to it.”

  Nathan looked uneasy. “Why would he do that?”

  “What?”

  “Why would he set fire to himself?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine that it was an accident.”

  Nathan smiled at this, but thinly.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  Nathan cleared his throat. “Do you know…” he paused and then finally spoke the name, “do you know Ronny well?”

  Lily shrugged, slightly defensive now. “I suppose so.”

  He changed the subject. “You look washed out.”

  Lily was instantly all twinkles. “I’m fine. Honest. That’s just my natural colouring.”

  For some reason she’d warmed to Nathan. There was something gentle, something vague, something almost spiritual about him. His eyes had a light shining out of them. After inspecting him for a while she said, “You know, your face seems kind of familiar. Why should that be?”

  “I have no idea.”

  His jaw stiffened until her eyes returned to the box.

  “You didn’t even feel tempted to take a little peek?”

  “No.”

  Nathan sat himself down on the sofa. Lily stood up and then balanced her weight precariously on its arm.

  “Did you ever see a beast before?” she asked, casually.

  “A beast?” He paused then tried, with some difficulty, not to topple back into the obscene cavity of his past.

  “I can’t answer that,” he said softly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know what your definition of a beast is exactly.” He inhaled deeply. “Maybe you should ring home and tell them that you might be late back.”

  “Nah. They won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  Lily touched the box with her foot. To reassure herself. It was as though everything she’d ever feared – the horrors, the terrors, the mysteries – were right there, contained, shut up, within reach. It was all supremely energizing. Nathan shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “You should ring them.”

  He pointed to his phone. Lily clucked her tongue, but she walked over and dialled anyhow. She waited. She didn’t get connected.

  Nathan stood up. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a voice saying how I don’t have the correct code.”

  Nathan joined her and took hold of the phone himself. “Let me try. Tell me the number.”

  Lily recited the digits. “And the area?”

  “Sheppey.”

  He dialled immediately, seeming to know the code already without even looking it up. This impressed Lily. She thought he must be experienced, enlightened, thoroughly wise. He waited for the connection. Lily heard it ringing at the other end. She put out her hand for the receiver but he kept a tight hold of it until the phone was answered.

  A woman’s voice. Soft, firm, slightly piqued, determined. Her voice. Finally. Nathan’s heart whooped inside his chest. But he said nothing, just passed the phone straight over.

  Lily said, “Hi. It’s me. I’m going to be late back. Tell Mum, will you?”

  Then she paused. She listened. She scowled.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Another pause.

  “You’re weird. Go fuck yourself.”

  She hung up.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nope. Do you have a car?”

  “I don’t. But I can probably borrow one.”

  “That’s good. That’s great.”

  She wasn’t concentrating. She was staring at the box again, chewing her lips. Nathan’s lips were still
stretched tight and smiling. There is a God, he was thinking. There is order, and reason, and meaning. There has to be. There has to be. There has to be…

  The sharp letters cut into his tongue like little tin tacks.

  S-A-L-V-A-T-I-O-N.

  ♦

  Ronny was dawdling in the swell. Jim saw him from his post in the doorway of the prefab. He called, but Ronny didn’t look up, so he took some shaky steps down on to the sand, paused, took a few steps more. Eventually he reached him.

  “Where did you get to? I was starting to worry.”

  “Jim!” Ronny seemed so excitable, he kept blinking, his eyes were red. “Jim I need some money.”

  His face was enlivened. Animated, but ashen.

  “Money?” Jim was baffled. He thought for a moment. “You didn’t just see Connie by any chance?”

  Her name tasted like salt granules when he uttered it.

  Ronny stood still. He received her name like he’d receive an unwanted gift; giving it a perfunctory shake and then discarding it.

  “I didn’t see anybody.” He kept on blinking.

  “Are you upset about something?”

  “No. No. No.” He paused, then added, “Not upset, no.”

  “Your shoes are getting wet.”

  “So they are.”

  “You seem agitated.”

  “Do I? How about you?”

  “Me?” Jim sniffed. “I’m still a bit wobbly.”

  Tucked into the waistband of Ronny’s trousers were a batch of papers. His hands kept returning to them, like two anxious birds, shoring up a nest.

  “What are those?” Jim pointed.

  “Letters.”

  Ronny inspected Jim’s face, momentarily anxious. Jim’s expression didn’t alter.

  “Letters? Are they yours?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who are they from?”

  Ronny scratched his head.

  “I can’t focus,” he said, “my eyes.”

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “The sun. I was looking into it, earlier.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m fine now. I’m great now. I’m very happy.”

  “Good.”