by David Mathew
But both these things aside, I can’t help it—I can’t deny it. I would like you to visit me—which I assume means I’ve just killed any chances of you doing so—because I would sorely enjoy hearing your side of the story. Oh, and watching you squirm, just a little—if you’ve got a conscience, that is. See, we’ve met but we’ve never met. You’ve held me (presumably) but you’ve never held me. You’ve fed me (supposedly) but you’ve never fed me. Where were you when I didn’t think I needed you but really did? Where were you? Inside? Like father like son? Yeah: well, a letter at any point would not have gone amiss. Maybe I’ll send you one a day from now on, simply to make up for lost time. And to pester you with some of those pesky inquiries. Namely: I’d imagine it’s none of my business to learn how much you were paid to leave the family you began with my mother. But I’m going to ask anyway. I’m going to ask you because I am curious about the value of human life, in your opinion. What’s the going exchange rate? What were the markets like back then, when I was scarcely out of nappies and Mum was scarcely out of post-natal depression? Go on—tell me. I’m genuinely curious, with no malice aforethought. Or none that is obvious to me, writing this, at any rate. Look! I’ve even got a smile on my face. My mirror hasn’t seen one of them for a while, and I don’t expect it will see another one soon. Shame you couldn’t be here to share it with me. Did I ever once offer you a smile, as a baby? Did you ever once offer one back? I’m told I have a lovely smile. Very recently I heard tell from Mumsy that you have a lovely smile too. As I say, like father.
How much was it worth? Describe it. Yes, I’m angry. Of course I’m angry. At the very least you could have let me know you were alive—not that I would have made any show of giving a fuck either way. And by the by, don’t give me shit about bad language. Not at this late stage, mate. I’m a grown man now. I will speak to you and to anyone else as I see fit. This is my time of taking no nonsense. All right. If you won’t be surprised to learn I want to slap you, then you won’t be surprised either to learn, I need to thank you. O my days!—that is hard to confess. Thank you? Thank you? You who drove something worse than a knife into someone’s arm—you who drove a circuit breaker between the lobes of a good woman’s fucking brain. But you have no way of reminiscing on those days, have you? Because you weren’t there to view them. And I do mean view. Mum was like television in the first few years I can go back to in my memory, so I obviously don’t include babyhood. Would you like a leaf through the pages of that old magazine? Well, here is tonight’s programming. Four o’clock, see the kids home from school and start tea. We do our homework—or rather, I don’t do my homework, but I pretend to do my homework. But what’s this? What’s this, Dad? Why’s Mum given me a cup of hot white water? Silly Mummy! She’s forgotten the teabag again! And the first couple of hundred times she did that were quite amusing. The next couple of hundred times she did that were not. Because that was when Mummy started to scream when you mentioned she was a silly Mummy and she had forgotten the teabag again. And that’s why, after a while, you didn’t mention that silly Mummy had crushed a stockcube into the cup in place of sugar. Silly Mummy! That’s why you simply looked at your sisters and assented with warm brown eyes and shallow nods to drink a quarter pint of gravy instead of a brew of tea. Because silly Mummy wasn’t really silly Mummy anymore—silly Mummy was going away. Poorly Mummy was coming to take her place for a while. And poorly Mummy didn’t like to wake up some mornings. And poorly Mummy didn’t care which of us took the key to the flat on behalf of the three of us kids. And poorly Mummy forgot to boil the kettle and gave us cold tea. Poorly Mummy poured boiling water on our breakfast cereal instead of milk. Poorly Mummy forgot to go to the shops for food. Poorly Mummy got lots of letters that she tore in half without opening. Poorly Mummy was really rather poorly indeed, for a while. Of course, none of this is your fault, Bailey; none of your concern. She might have got sick if you’d stayed. Only this second’s it occurred to me that maybe she was getting sick when you left. If that’s the case, fuck me!—you really did bottle it, mate, didn’t you? At the first sign of trouble, off you went. But I don’t know if this is true, to be fair; and to repeat myself, it’s none of your fault—not directly—or your concern. Perhaps (I have to accept this rumination) none of your vaguest interest. For which reason, I’ll halt.
Bailey, this is the third attempt I’ve made at this letter. The other two I destroyed, though I’ve kept the occasional phrase in for good luck. If you think these words are harsh and they’re uncomfortable to sit through—fuck me again! You should have been witness to the first two drafts. Make the piss in your bladder go cold, mate. And I’m not self-ignorant either. I’ve become a fresh master at reflective mores. It’s entirely possible I’m simply showing off to get back at you. I admit that. Possible and frankly speaking likely. Realistic. A realistic assessment of current prevailing trends, as someone wise once said to me. He’s gone now—dead and gone, or as good as, as far’s I’m concerned. His name was Ostrich. I have stopped keeping track of my days, not on his advice exactly but following in his footsteps. It’s easier that way. To sum up? My emotions are like horses in a race—a long race. Frustrated Little Nipper takes the lead, but here comes Curiosity Kills the Cat; pulling up fast is Eyeblinding Rage—and the dark horse, Unexpectation. You are truly the jockey on my Unexpectation. I don’t know what you’ll do next.
Thanking you for returning my money is all but bar the warmest I can be.
Better late than never, I suppose—
Billy
Eight.
There’s a certain maniac grace as we put the horses through their paces, their hooves kicking up scatterings of black, then purple, then light grey sand. As swiftly as night descends in the desert, the daylight rears its head; the sand turns a buttery yellow and then white. It’s now that I puzzle— clinging on for dear life—whether we’re still in real time or not. Are things speeding up? Can the desert have lost patience with darkness so quickly? Has it run out of that cold void? With no better tactic than rough-and-ready sadism at my disposal, I heel the horse’s flanks until it’s on a parallel line with Dott’s own vehicle. There is dust in the air; it enters my mouth as I shout my throat dry and sore.
What do you mean, Dott?
It was enough, Billy! What I did in the prison: it was enough!
Enough for what?
To spur us on, Billy! Can’t you feel it? Time’s behind us! Time’s pushing us towards the roses and the Amnesia Trees! Can you imagine these horses going this fast twelve hours ago?
No!
It’s shoving us in the right direction, Alfreth! Hold tighter! It’s going to be like riding a wave! Do you surf? Dott shouts.
No! I repeat.
Well, it’s never too late to learn a new skill, Billy!
What I feel is pressure—pressure on my back—and in the way the horse is leaning forward, I’m certain the animal can feel it too, on its rump. Dott’s ploy seems to be working. Though it’s hard to believe I’m here, I can’t doubt the evidence of my own eyes, ears and taste, can I? The evil Dott’s done—the savagery, the senseless disregard for life—this has been his harvest. He’s sold it all for a trip back into his past, to get older; but a bonus has materialised, in the shape of a helping hand from time itself—to get us to the right spot, unerring in our direction, fleet of foot and blank of mind. A journey that should take a week on horseback takes no more than a further fourteen hours, I reckon—fourteen hours of Dellacotte time, which in itself is not the same as time on road. How many days have we travelled in old money? No more than two by the standards of the desert, but out of dream time?—out of dead time? How long have these horses’ hearts pounded on their final tour of duty?
O my days! I whisper when it comes in sight.
But that’s as close as we’re getting on horseback. Without warning, the animals spook and nag; the halts they draw to are so extreme that Dott is tossed forward, over his
animal’s head; he executes a perfect ten somersault and even lands on his feet—until the hours of riding remind him he hasn’t been using his legs to stand up for a while. His thighs weaken. He wobbles, holds both hands out to hold on to something to stop himself falling—there’s nothing to catch—and momentum sends him flying forwards. He ends up a blob of black garments. My own dismount is not much more glorious. I slide and twist off the horse’s right side; pull a muscle in the small of my back. I swear the air indigo. I punch the horse’s neck; the legs rear up but the animal isn’t spoiling for a rumble. The horse runs away, back in the direction we’ve come from, closely hunted by Dott’s own pony. And then, Dott and I—we’re alone in the world. I can’t think of anything sensible to say. The only thing that might work is a blunt streak of irony I seem to have caught from my co-traveller, like a rash.
You need to get yourself a gardener, I say, half under my breath.
Isn’t it stunning? he asks, walking closer.
Well, stunning ain’t the word I’d use; but there is no doubting the shock value of what’s there before our eyes. What have I actually expected? True it is, no signs of life should be here at all; but I’ve anticipated something more glamorous than this approximately twenty metre-wide patch of overgrown grass, among which curl spiky ropes of rose stalks; a handful of trees no taller than I am have sprouted randomly here and there. To be frank, it’s a mess. If Mumsy sees the communal gardens behind the flat get to this state, she goes bugshit, blood; she’s on the phone complaining to the Estates Committee every other day until the scruffy shit’s sorted.
Not exactly the Garden of Eden, I say to Dott.
I never said it was the Garden of Eden, Billy-Boy, Dott replies, stepping on to the grass and taking a deep breath.
Is it my imagination? As I follow Dott onto the oasis, I can smell something—something more than the rare scents of vegetation. Dott’s occasion does not last long; the moment passes. He even goes so far as to snap his fingers, as if to wake himself from a reverie; all of a sudden he’s business again, striding further into the oasis, his head snapping from left to right. What’s he looking for? The original rose, I assume. The air is thicker as soon as I join Dott on the grass. To adjust to the shift in pressure, it takes my lungs a few seconds of heavy toil. When Dott calls to me to keep up I can’t shout what I want to, which is simply a declaration that I can’t breathe. It’s as though I’ve been running through rain. All the same, I chase Dott. As far as vegetation is concerned, there’s not much to slow me down; actually, it’s easier than trudging through sand. He is sitting, facing one of the gnarled trees; a string of sharp vines is attempting its ascent. A single white rose—unhealthy-looking—is at the end of the stalk.
This is it, he says.
I can’t help but be disenchanted. I come from that? I ask.
Quickly, Billy!
What do you want me to do?
Come closer. Sit down with me.
I do as he asks. Cross-legged, he first and then I lean forward, embracing the tree like a conservationist, and with it the barbs of the rose’s stalk. One of them pricks the skin on my right shoulder; blood weeps out. This is stupid, I’m telling myself—but I can sense whatever’s been following us, now getting closer. It’s tracked us down. It’s followed us from the carnage in the prison, through the membrane, to the desert (Am I dead now? I ask myself for the umpteenth time), and it’s besieging the oasis of grass and stunted flora. I don’t need to look back over my shoulder to see there is no more a vista of sand dunes. The oasis, surrounded by a caul of smoke, is mist and streaks of blood flying through the curtain like lightning crackling. I’m scared, I’ll admit it. Every month—every minute, every second—of fear I’ve endured, they come back to me now in one solid and breath-taking deposit. Doesn’t matter what the temperature is like out in the desert: suddenly I’m sweating like a mule, but I’m freezing cold. We should have drunk something before this; I feel light-headed and nauseous. A glance to my right shows me Dott has closed his eyes. His lips move silently—a prayer or a mantra—and the only sound I hear is that of our hearts, both pounding as loudly, it seems, as the headbanging on the cell walls by Dott’s victims, back in the nick. I try to concentrate. I try to join Dott’s inner world, allowing my thoughts to slide any way he wants to take them. But he appears to have no interest in what I’m thinking. Does he even really need me at all? I want to ask him. At the same time I don’t want to spoil his fugue. It will come when it comes, I tell myself—a blind faith that wobbles like a plate spun on the top of a pole. I can’t let my faith fall down to crash apart.
The metamorphosis of Dott commences as briskly as the horrors he perpetuates in the prison. What his deeds have summoned—the anti-world, the erased existence beyond the boundaries of the grass—it surges in closer now. Air is squeezed tighter. Is this what deep-sea diving is like? My lungs are like I’ve had the snorkel to the canisters pulled from my lips. Dott and I are in an ocean of air, but it’s too close; twin wings of agony start flapping at my temples, my nose erupts with a menstrual cycle’s-worth of greasy blood. Every pain and indignity suffered about my person, my whole life long—every punch I’ve received, every kick, every half-hearted stabbing— every pain comes back to revisit me, unlocking my throat and the vomit I’ve been holding down. And Dott seems not to notice a thing. His skin is tightening. Like those games you play when you’re kids, pulling back the flesh that flanks your eyes to pretend you’re Oriental: that’s what he looks like. But this shape doesn’t last long. As the grey, bloody curtain inches closer, compressing what air that’s still in here, Dott starts to wrinkle. Slices of laughter lines, deepening now, as if it’s revenge time; the execution needs to be swift. I don’t know why it takes me so long to figure it out, what is happening; I’ve been waiting for this a long while. All my life?
Dott is ageing. And ageing rapidly.
The frequency of my inhalations is increasing by the beat; I am too scared to watch Dott’s façade get older (while inside he is moving back to his birth) but I am too short of air even to move my gaze away, to turn my head. If I squint I can see beyond the man beside me. The grey curtain, swizzing now like a dead TV channel: transmission bollixed: it is sweeping and lurching, no grace in the movements, here to eat us. Without moving my head—for I’m not sure I can, and the failure will panic me too much—I refocus on what’s closer to hand. Dott is shrinking in his garb. I want to say his name, but I don’t have to: he knows I can’t speak. Indeed, the very action of opening my mouth fills my throat with the stench I smell back from the prison—burning flesh. The blood in the grey curtain has clearly come a long way: briefly altering my attention once more I see more than what the yoots let out of their bodies, back in Dellacotte. I see pieces of the bodies themselves.
What has happened there? Dott? I try again to say. The word is stillborn.
He mouths the words—Be strong, Billy—but they do not come out either.
I long for noise; it’s too quiet. I prefer the outlandish din of a full-scale riot. This approach from my enemy—this approach from Dott’s deity, or so I guess—is too frightening in its wordless potency. Honest dread is what I feel.
Hold tighter, Billy, Dott mouths.
I want to tell him he doesn’t need to keep using my name—to save his breath—but Dott doesn’t want to save his breath: he wants to spend his breath, quickly. I can’t stop him now—or stop anything else—even if I want to. The effects are brutal in their efficacy. Dott ages in appearance from the twenty year-old I leave behind in the ambulance, to a man of forty, sixty, eighty—the time scale required to do so being puny. Has even a minute elapsed? How much time in real time? He’s getting smaller. But so, I notice with a start, regarding my arms for a second, am I. The pains I feel re-surface. I will find him, or he will find me, I remember, understanding in my bones the important message. I am dead before he makes me; I am dead when I unmake him. Dott’s my bloo
d.
Don’t do it, Dott, I scream, brain to brain.
My eyesight is wavering, blurring; what I see inside the curtain is obviously a contagious image—it is filling my vision. I’m passing out, I realise. It takes all my effort to move my right arm a tiny bit, in order to scratch my skin deeper on the rose thorn—that way to wake myself up. It doesn’t work. The last thing Dott’s eyes say to me before they cloud over with cataracts long overdue—for Dott by this point must be two hundred years old to look at—is this:
Too late, Billy. Can’t you see? It was always too late.
What starts as haze and static, behind us, around us, getting closer, is palpably physical. It is present, pushing down on my curved spine. I’m shrinking. I’m getting slightly older as well (sun spots manifesting) though at nowhere near the rate that Dott is disappearing from me. His outward demeanour is no longer even human. My eyesight fades to black. I am blind. Dott’s skin hasn’t rotted away, as I have expected will happen, to leave the bones behind. Quite the opposite: the bones that hold him up have disintegrated under the pressure he feels so much more keenly than I do. He is an abandoned overcoat of flesh, leaking blood into the grass as we hug his stupid tree. He is getting what he always wanted—but what about my wants? All I can see now is what I see with my imagination—and with my memory. I remember being born of the ground; I remember it! The pains, too—I remember them. Literally speaking, it’s all coming back to me. As the curtain makes its final leap forward towards us, it folds in over our heads. There is no breath in my lungs. I’m going to die with my maker. Who is now leaking into the grass of the oasis, taking pieces of the rose’s stalk and the tree to which it has wedded itself with him. All is dark. All is silent. It’s night or day. Dott is dead. But then again, so am I. It has worked. And yet, at the same time, it hasn’t worked.
