by Iain Banks
"What are you thinking?" she asked him. He took a deep breath. "I was thinking," he said slowly, conscious of her arms still round his waist (no; one hand went to her brow, smoothed her hair away from her eyes; there, though, it went back again, clasped lightly behind him!), "about... whether you could tell from the wine on the inside of a shoe what type it was. The wine, I mean; the vineyard and vintage... um... whether it was south slope or the soil had been especially acidic that year."
A broad smile, slackening her tensed-up, vulnerable face, filled the white space in the dark mass of hair. His heart seemed to leap inside him, at the sheer beauty of her now, and the realisation he had produced this change. He felt his mouth open involuntarily, and closed it again, speechless.
"Or you could have champagne-tasting competitions from ladies" slippers," she said, laughing. He grinned, nodded. She sighed, her expression changed again, and she took her arms away from him, bent over as though hugging herself round the middle. "I think I'd better go to the loo," she said, then looked at him. "Will you wait?"
"I'll wait," he said, too solemnly, he thought. He smiled, touched her hand again, "You sure you're okay?"
"Just nerves." She shook her head, looking down at his hand. Thanks for... well, thanks. I'll be back." She got up quickly, went to the door and out. He collapsed back on the bed, eyes wide and staring at the white ceiling.
All his life he had not believed anything could be like this. You stopped believing in Father Christmas, tooth fairies, paternal omniscience... and in the sort of over-the-top crazy heart-thudding happy-ever-after love they told you was the ideal. Life was sex, infidelity, divorces. Infatuation, yes, but love at first sight, smell, touch? For him? Where was that carefully nurtured fine cynicism now?
He lay on the bed like that, waiting for her. He got up after a while and paced round the high-ceilinged room, looking at the layered posters and the soft toys, the two old wardrobes, the small ring-tree on the window ledge, hung with little cheap, colourful rings. He touched the long, dark green curtains, looked out into the garden and over it at the house beyond, tall and dark. A dim sodium-yellow glow filled the sky; patchy snow blemished the garden. The door opened. He smiled and turned.
A tall, drunk-looking woman in a red jump-suit swayed in the doorway, holding on to the outside of the jamb. Her face was thin, hair yellow. "You all right, dear?" she asked Graham, looking round the room. Graham made a small smile.
"I'm fine, Mrs Hunter. Mrs ffitch is ah... in the loo."
"Oh," the woman said. He didn't think she remembered him; he had seen her, he recalled, at the end-of-term dance. "Right, then. Well... don't mess up the bed." She withdrew, closing the door. Graham was left frowning at the door, wondering exactly what she meant. It opened again and Mrs Hunter re-appeared "You haven't seen my husband, have you? I'm Mrs Hunter, Marty's wife."
He shook his head. He felt unfairly urbane; almost contemptuous of the drunk woman. "No, Mrs Hunter," he said, "not for a while."
"Hmm," she said, and was gone. He watched the door for a bit, but nothing more happened. The party sounded loud behind it. He thought he could smell dope; grass or resin fumes. He went back to looking out the window, sometimes watching the reflection of the room in it. He looked at his watch, wondering how long she'd been away. It seemed like ages. Should he go and check? Would she want him to? What if something had happened; she'd fainted?
He didn't even know where the toilet was up here. He'd been once to the one on the ground floor, that was all. Should he go looking for her? It might look like nosiness, he might open the wrong door, embarrass people. He paced the room, then lay down for a while, hands clasped behind his head. He got up and went back to the window, willing the door's reflection to move.
It moved; he turned, just in time to see it start to close as a male face disappeared after a brief inspection. "Oh, sorry," a voice said. A girl giggled outside, steps sounded. He faced the window once more.
Finally, a sick feeling in his belly, as though something there was twisted, pulsing pain, he left the room. He found the toilet a floor down. He thought: I'll try the handle; the door will be open and the room will be empty. She's gone. I mean nothing to her.
He tested the handle. The door was locked.
It'll be a man's voice, he told himself. It was a woman's.
"Won't be long; sorry."
"Sara?" he said, uncertain, his voice shaking. There was silence, and his eyes smarted. It isn't her. It wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be her at all.
"Graham? Look, I'm really sorry. I'll be out soon. God I'm sorry."
"No, no," he said, almost shouting; he had to lower his voice,
"That's okay. That's fine. I'll wait... in... the room, all right?"
"Yes. Yes please. Five minutes."
She was there! He went bounding up the stairs, three or four at a time, praying to himself the room hadn't been taken over by some amorous couple while he'd been away, cursing himself for doubting her. Now she'd think he didn't trust her.
The room was empty, as he'd left it. He sat down on the bed, his hands in his lap, his heart thumping in his chest. He stared at the bottom of the door. I go into ecstasies because a woman is in the loo, he thought. This is enough to make me feel like I own the world. Can I tell anybody about this? Can I tell Slater? Can I tell mum? Did she and dad ever feel like this?
She came back. She looked whiter than ever. Her breath was ragged and faint, pulsing. She lay down on the bed, not speaking to him. She made him feel frightened, but as she lay down, eyes closed, on her side and facing him, something else in her, some frail, scavenging eroticism made him shake with desire. Oh my God, I feel like a rapist. She's ill.
"Are you -" he choked on the dry words, began again. "Are you really poorly? Should we get an ambulance?"
" 'Poorly'," she said, and smiled, her eyes still closed. "That's a nice word." She opened her eyes, looking at him; she blinked in the light. "I'm fine, really. Really I am. Just nerves; I'm a weepy female and I should probably be on valium, but fuck it. I'm riding it out, you know? I've things to get over. Sorry to be a bother."
"It's no bother," he said, and was at last pleased with the way he had said something; warm, strong, not patronising, but caring. Did she hear it that way, though? She nodded at him, eyes closing. She sniffed at the top of her dress, over her breasts.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, eyes open again. "I stink of some horrible aftershave." Graham realised that indeed there was a strong smell of cologne from her. She smiled wanly at him and shrugged. "I threw up. This was all I could find to cover the smell. I've brushed my teeth too, but I still taste it... God, this is awful, Graham. I'm using you like a nursemaid. I didn't mean to."
"Don't... worry about it," he said weakly.
Her eyes closed again. "You wouldn't get the wrong idea if I asked you to put that light out, would you?" she asked. "My eyes hurt."
"Sure," he said softly, and went to the door.
With the light off, cold yellow bands of light spread from the window. She was a black pool of shadow on the bed, a space of darkness. He sat down by her, and she raised one of her arms; he sat down beside her, muscles trembling. Her arm pulled him gently down. Her face was opposite his; close, indistinct.
This is terrible, Graham," she said, almost too softly for him to catch. "You've been lovely and I'm leading you on but I can't deliver at the moment. You'll hate me."
"I - " he began, but gulped that precipitous, too instinctive and glib statement back. Too soon. "No," he insisted, "not at all." He put one of his hands out and took both of hers in his. They were warm. "Just this is..." he shook his head, not knowing if she could see, or maybe feel the bed bounce slightly,'... it's really nice," he gave a tiny, self-depreciating laugh on the last word, acknowledging its inadequacy. She squeezed his hands.
"Thanks," she whispered.
They lay like that for a long time. His thoughts were in a strangely distant turmoil, as though they were no more the worki
ngs of his own mind than the far-below hubbub of the party was his own voice. In the end he gave up trying to analyse his own feelings, or even totally understand them, and lay there relaxed, listening for the slow, regular breathing of sleep, and wasn't sure if he detected it or not. The door opened briefly at one point and a young man's voice said "Shit," but Graham didn't even turn to look; he knew it could be nothing which would disturb them.
He held her in his arms, still and warm, and after a while in that darkness he felt as though he held nothing at all; it was like when a limb, having been left in the same position for too long a time, somehow loses all reference to the body, and for those instants before some willed movement the very location and attitude of that arm or leg is quite unknown. He held her, but he felt nothing; she was there, and in his consciousness distinctly other and different, but she was also like some relaxed part of himself; a silent mix of identities cancelled out, like the pale skin, white scar, dark clothes and black hair being equated and combined, and the resulting coalescence being clear, invisible... nothing.
Eventually she stirred, kissed him quickly on the forehead, and levered herself up, sitting on the side of the bed. "I feel better now," she said. She turned to look at him in the darkness; he stayed looking at her. "I'd better go home," she continued. "Could you ring for a taxi? Come; we'll go back down."
"Yeah," he smiled.
The light was very bright when he switched it back on. She yawned and scratched her head, messing her hair still further.
In the hallway he called for a cab for her, going to Islington.
"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Can you come as far as Islington, do you want to take the cab after that?" The party was slightly quieter, but there were still plenty of people about. A man and woman in punk gear lay asleep in each other's arms on the couch in the hall. Graham shrugged.
"Islington's a bit closer, I think," he said. Was she inviting him back? Probably not. She looked pained.
"I can't invite you in or anything, I'm sorry." He hadn't thought so, but his insides still ached briefly.
"That's all right," he said brightly. "Yeah, Islington's a bit closer. I'll pay half."
She didn't let him pay half; he didn't protest too much. They got to the place where she was staying, a quiet cul-de-sac. The taxi drove off; he couldn't afford taxis. She looked at a big BMW bike parked by the kerb, then up at a darkened row of tall houses. In the yellow light, her face was like a ghost's. "I keep saying I'm sorry this evening," she said, coming closer to him. He shrugged. Would they kiss? It seemed impossible. "I wish I could invite you in."
"Not to worry," he said, grinning. His breath made a cloud between them.
"Thanks, Graham. For staying with me, I mean. I'm such a bore; do you forgive me? I'm not always like this."
"Nothing to forgive. It's been great," She laughed quietly when he said it. He shrugged again, smiling hopelessly. She came to him, put her gloved hand behind his neck.
"You're lovely," she said, and brought her face to his, kissing him; putting her lips to his just like that, soft and warm and wet, better than any kiss, better than his first real kiss, making him dizzy with the feel of it. He hardly knew what he was doing. His mouth opened slightly, her tongue touched his upper lip once, then slipped away again; she kissed him quickly on the cheek and turned, walked to a doorway, fumbling for a key in a small purse she took from her old fur coat.
"Can I see you again?" he croaked.
"Of course," she said, as though it was a silly question. The key slipped in, she opened the door. "I can't remember the telephone number here yet; Slater's got it. Ciao." She blew him a kiss; her last few words, with the door open, had been whispered. The door closed quietly. He watched a light go on above, go out again.
It took him five hours to walk back to Leyton, where he had a bed-sit. It was cold, it rained once, lightly, then turned to sleet, but he didn't care. That kiss! That "Of course'!
The walk had been an epic. Something he would never, ever forget. One day, or night, he would do that walk again, retrace his steps for the sake of nostalgia. One day, when they were together and he had a good career, when he had his own house and a car and didn't need to walk and could afford taxis if he wanted them; he'd take that same route just for old times" sake, try to recapture the uncertain ecstasies of that dark, early morning trek.
Nearly half a year later, in the summer heat, he could still recall the feeling of the cold air on his skin, the way his ears became numb with the freezing cold, the way he kept bursting out laughing, holding up his arms to the cloudy dark orange sky.
He could smile at it now. He'd had more time to think, to get used to this slightly absurd rapture. He could accept it now. He still couldn't entirely believe it, in the sense that he could not believe that it was happening to him, that he was so vulnerable to such a common, almost hackneyed feeling. But it was there; he could not - in any sense - deny it.
Graham passed an abandoned workshop on Rosebery Avenue; posters advertised bands and their singles and albums. The traffic roared and the sun beat, but he remembered January, and shivered with the memory of that long walk.
Half Moon Crescent, he had repeated and repeated to himself as he'd walked that night. She lived in Half Moon Crescent (he had checked the number and the street before he'd started out on his trek, so that even if Slater had lost or forgotten her number, she would not be lost to him). It became like a chant, a mantra for him; Half Moon Crescent, Half-Moon-Crescent, Halfmooncrescent...
A chant.
A litany.
CLERK STARKE
Unemployed!
He sat in a plastic chair in a Job Centre. The chairs were all the same in these places; in every Social Security office and Job Centre he'd ever been in. Not exactly the same as each other; he'd seen different types, but they were all the same types. He wondered if any of the chairs provided protection against microwaves.
A woman had been talking to him, but she had gone away. She didn't seem to be able to cope with him. Probably they hadn't expected this. They hadn't prepared properly.
He had decided not to go straight home, or to go to the pub yet. That was what they would expect him to do. Just sacked, or rather resigned, with all that money; of course, the obvious thing to do would be go home to his room or to have a drink. They wouldn't expect him to go to a Job Centre and sign on. So when he had seen the sign ahead of him in the street, he'd walked right in and sat down and demanded to be attended to.
"Mr..?" a man said to him. Light suit, short hair, spotty face, but looking in charge. He sat down opposite Grout and clasped his hands on the large white blotter which almost covered the top of the small desk.
"What?" Grout said suspiciously. He hadn't been listening.
"Your name is...?" the young man said.
"Steven," Grout said.
"Ah... that's your first name?"
Grout leaned forward, put one fist on the table and stared into the man's eyes, his own narrowed and glinting as he said, "How many do you think I've had?"
The young man looked confused and concerned. Steven folded his arms and leant back, feeling triumphant. That had floored him! Steven put his safety helmet further back on his head. This was quite good really. He felt he had the upper hand for once, and they hadn't been able to set up the Microwave Gun yet, either; he felt cool and relaxed. Of the two of them the young Job Centre man looked the more hot and worried.
"Can we start again?" the young man said, taking out a pen and tapping the end of it on his lower teeth. He smiled impatiently.
"Oh, yes," Steven said cunningly, "I'm an expert at starting again. Let's."
"Fine," the young man said. He drew a breath.
"What's your name?" Grout said suddenly, leaning forward again.
The young man looked at him for a while. "Starke," he said.
"Are you staring, or..."
"Look, sir," the young man called Starke said seriously, putting his pen down, "I'm trying to d
o my job here; now... are we going to approach this in a sensible manner or not? Because if not, there are plenty of people -"
"And you look, clerk Starke," Grout said, and tapped one finger on the small desk. Starke looked at the finger, so he withdrew it when he remembered how dirty his fingernails were. "I'm unemployed, you know, ,'don't have some nice safe little civil service job with pensions and... and things. I'm a victim of the recession. You may think it's all a joke -"
"I assure you - "
" - but I know what's going on, and I know why I'm here and why you're here. Oh, yes. I'm not stupid. You can't pull the wool over my eyes like that. I know what the score is, like they say. I may be thirty-sev - thirty-eight, but I'm 'switched on' all right, and I know everything isn't 'hunky-dory' the way people think it is. You may think it's easy for you, and it might be, but I'm not so easily fooled, oh no." He sat back again, nodding emphatically. He didn't always express himself perfectly, he would be the first to admit that, but it wasn't what you said, it was the way you said it. Somebody famous had said that.
"Well, sir, I'm not going to be able to help you unless you let me ask you some questions."
"Well then," said Grout, throwing his arms wide and opening his eyes wide, "get on with it. On you go; I'm ready. Ask away."
Starke sighed. "Right," he said. "What's your name?"
"Grout," Steven said.
"That's your surname?" Starke said.
Grout thought about this carefully. He always got confused with this. Which was surname and which was Christian name? It was like nett and gross; he always got them mixed up. Why didn't people just say first and second? Just to confuse him, no doubt. There was a way of working it out though. If you were a "Sir" then the name just after that was your first name, so that must be the surname... and Christian name was easy because Christ had been Jesus Christ, so obviously therefore the Christian name was the second name... and that was how you could tell.
