by Tim Lott
To Colin. Wherever he’s gone, I hope it’s a boring paradise, where everything’s always the same. Where he eats salt and vinegar crisps, where he drinks Hofmeister lager, where he watches QPR lose every Saturday. Or perhaps in heaven they actually win. Sometimes. And the rest of the time he watches video games. And has sex. In the missionary position. And can go to sleep as soon as he’s finished. Which he always did anyway, to be honest.
To Colin!
* * *
At the drop-in centre, Veronica is sitting in the therapy room with Oleg. He is wearing a grey, shapeless T-shirt with the faded slogan, ‘Every Time I Find the Meaning of Life They Change It’ and a pair of thick brown corduroy trousers. He smells of something terrible, decay and bad food. He has been talking now for ten minutes, virtually without pause. Most of what he has said makes no sense whatsoever, although the general thrust seems to be towards the idea that nobody likes him and he finds it impossible to maintain any form of relationship. Veronica feels her attention wandering, and wonders how long is left of the session. Oleg at that moment looks up and catches her looking at her watch.
So why do you think that is? says Veronica. That people have trouble relating to you?
Oleg turns his fractured gaze onto her.
I saw you checking watch.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to appear impatient.
You think you are better than me?
No, Oleg, I don’t think I’m better than you.
His face is contorted into an expression Veronica has not seen before. It is partly anguished, partly furious.
You’re sitting there. Judging me. People like me. We’re just hobby. You sit in your chairs. Like you know what you’re doing.
It’s not that way.
You don’t know what you do? Is right?
Oleg . . .
Which is it? You know what you do? Or you don’t know what you do?
We’re just trying to help people think about the world in a slightly different way is all. We haven’t got any magic potions.
You sit there and say, ‘I’m doctor, you the patient’. This is reason you do it. Someone more . . .fucked up than you.
Oleg, I’ve got my own problems. Believe me.
What are these problems?
I can’t talk about them.
This is point.
I’m not sure how useful this line of conversation is.
Sorry if you don’t have comfort.
Veronica is astonished. She had thought that Oleg was borderline deranged. Now he is speaking acutely, sharply. He leans forward.
You know what you are, do you?
I think it might be more useful to—
You are fucking stuck-up bitch.
Okay.
You’re okay with that, yes? Me saying ‘stuck-up bitch’.
I’m not sure that this session is getting us anywhere.
You want to go now, yes?
This session isn’t about me, Oleg. It’s about you. And I’m wondering why you’re so angry?
You want to know why?
He looks down at his feet.
I don’t know why I am so angry.
He suddenly seems ashamed, rueful.
I’m sorry I was rude, Doctor Tree.
I’m not a doctor, Oleg.
It gets too much. Other people. Successful people. Like you. People with houses. Jobs. Lives. I can’t say it.
Tell me, Oleg.
I don’t know. You will be angry.
You can trust me.
It makes me hate you.
Okay.
There you go. ‘Okay’. This is alright, yes? To hate someone. Because they have more than you?
I’m not here to . . .
His voice increases in pitch again, drowning out her reply.
You’re not here to this. You’re not here to that. Why are you here? So you can play with minds. For your fun.
He looks down again.
Sorry. Sorry, doctor.
I think we may have reached the end of the session.
Oleg looks up suddenly.
There are four minutes left. You can’t wait for to be away from me.
Now Oleg is leaning forward, baring his teeth. Veronica is suddenly afraid. She is unprotected. There is no security here.
Are you scared for me? says Oleg. Of me.
No, says Veronica.
Yes, you are. You have fear. Fear and hate.
No, says Veronica.
Oleg stands up very suddenly. He puts his face within two inches of hers. She tries not to flinch.
You are fucking tourist.
He leaves, slamming the door after him.
Veronica sits for some time alone on her chair, watching the clock tick off the minutes. She sits there for a long time, not moving. Eventually she reaches for her phone to call Frankie, but he doesn’t answer. He never answers. He wouldn’t be interested anyway.
He would pretend to be, but he wouldn’t.
There is a soft knock on the door. She doesn’t say anything but the door opens.
Tony Diamonte stands in the doorway.
Are you alright?
I’m fine.
Only Leggy seemed a bit unstable when he came out. Muttering to himself. Punching himself in the face. Then I noticed that you hadn’t come out at all.
She looks up at Tony, aware that she is welling up, but unable to stop it. She takes a tissue from the box on the table and dabs at her eyes. Tony sits down in the chair opposite. He puts his hand on the back of her hand. She doesn’t slide it away.
Looks to me like you could use a drink.
* * *
They go to the Duke of York round the corner, a tatty pub with four electronic fruit machines and three television screens all showing the same football match. Tony orders a Diet Coke, a large glass of Chardonnay for Veronica and a packet of peanuts. Every packet that comes off the display reveals another few square inches of a bikini-ed pin-up.
Only kind of coke I do nowadays, says Tony. Not as much fun as the other kind, but at least it won’t empty my pockets and make me go insane in da membrane.
Veronica hazards a smile. She raises her glass.
Thanks, Tony. Who do you see at the centre? Oakeshott?
I don’t really see anyone anymore. I go as a volunteer. Four times a week. Help clear up. Have a chat with the clients. They seem to guess I’ve been through what they’re going through. They talk to me easily. I make myself useful. You know.
He sips at his Diet Coke. He is still, Veronica decides, sneaking a look, a beautiful-looking man, despite the lines, the dissipation, the receding hair, the rumpled clothes.
I sometimes wonder if I’m helping anyone at all. Oleg doesn’t think so, says Veronica.
That’s just Leggy. He’s mental. Of course you’re helping. You’re helping people to be honest with themselves.
What use is that? One thing I’m beginning to learn from this job is that people thrive on their delusions. It’s the only thing that stops them from going crazy. The people at the drop-in don’t have very effective ones. Their delusions are a bit lurid and implausible and self-destructive. But that’s the only difference. We’re all making up stories about ourselves and believing in them. I’m making up a story about myself being a good person because I sit with lunatics like Oleg and let them abuse me.
Sounds to me like you’re making up a story about you being a bad person. Why’s being a good person so important, anyway?
It just is.
Maybe living your life without doing too much harm to anyone else is enough. If you had fucked up as many other people’s lives as I have, you would know what I mean. From where I’m sitting, you’re a saint.
Veronica sinks the wine in one go.
That’s better.
You be careful. Believe me, that isn’t the answer.
Veronica looks at Tony’s face carefully for the first time. She sees pain and tenderness in his eyes.
You’ve changed, Tony.
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Living in a park for three months will do that.
Did you learn anything from it all? Sleeping on the street?
Not really.
The sound of the slot machine penetrates the air. Tony seems unable or unwilling to say anything more.
How’s Frankie, anyway?
He’s doing well. I suppose. Making very good money. More and more and more money.
He always did want to be rich. Not as much as I did though. See where it got me.
What he wanted was people to think well of him. Money was just the way he was going to do it.
Do you think well of him?
Veronica opens the packet of peanuts.
He’s so wrapped up in it all. To be honest, I don’t think he gives me much of a thought. Me or China. He wasn’t like that before. Or at least he tried not to be. Now it’s like he’s given up on us, ever since Colin died. He’s changed.
I’m sure that’s not true. I know Frankie. The day he met you was the best day of his life.
How would you know that?
Because he told me.
That was a long time ago. Nothing stays the same.
Did you tell Frankie about seeing me at the centre? Last time you were in?
Of course not. You told me not to.
I appreciate it. Really I do.
Veronica holds out her glass for a top up.
Are you sure? says Tony.
Nothing like a reformed addict to put the damper on things.
Tony returns with another glass of Chardonnay. She drinks it too quickly. Another ten minutes and she is feeling unsteady on her feet.
I think it’s time you went home, says Tony. I’ll call you a cab.
He takes out his phone and calls for a taxi.
They’ll be here in five minutes.
Thanks.
You know, Veronica. I always liked Frankie.
I should hope so. You were his friend.
So were Nodge and Colin, but I didn’t really like them so much. They were more like hangers-on. I did like Frankie, though. I couldn’t believe it when he hooked up with you.
Why?
Out of his league, I would have said. But he was so thrilled. A proper posh bird. He couldn’t believe his luck. He thought it would save him.
Save him from what?
From who he was. But no one can do that, can they? Save you from who you are.
That’s sort of my job.
That doesn’t mean it’s possible.
You’re depressing me now.
Veronica. You’re a good person. Truly. And I know the difference. Because I’m not.
Tony’s phone rings. He inspects the display.
That’s your cab.
Veronica stands up, swaying slightly. He stands too, reaches out and roots her to the earth by holding her arm. She stays in that position a little longer than is necessary. Feeling his hand on her soft bicep.
Let’s get you home.
Tony steers her out of the pub and onto the pavement outside where a minicab driver is waiting. It’s then, as he leans over to help her into the back, that she notices the horns and the hands around his neck.
She’d forgotten all about them. Now they jangle something dark, distant, disturbing at the back of her mind.
He opens the door for her, kisses her on the cheek and guides her into the seat. She gives her address to the driver.
Bye, Veronica. See you at the centre soon maybe. One more thing about Leggy. It might make you feel better. He’s a prize cunt. Everyone thinks so. Don’t let him get you down. The last therapist he had punched him out. Even Oakeshott couldn’t cope with him. So you’re doing quite well really.
The door of the minicab closes, but Veronica keeps puzzling.
The horns and the hand, the horns and the hand.
Where has she seen them? Or spoken about them? Or imagined them?
Then it comes to her.
The clairvoyant.
What the clairvoyant told her.
A part of a body. Or a part of an animal.
Or both.
* * *
Nodge gazes at Owen, taking him in with his eyes like a drink of muddy, stagnant water for a desperately thirsty man. Owen is yellow-eyed, his skin the colour of flour paste, his hair matted with sweat and stuck to his skull. He is lying, sleeping with his mouth wide open, a scarlet and black cavern. Nodge remains unmoving as Owen’s eyes flicker and open. He pauses, as if taking a moment to orient himself, then gives Nodge a wide, relieved smile as he recognizes him. Nodge does not smile in return. Instead he appears grave and concerned.
I think we should get married, says Nodge.
Owen’s smile remains in place, but he says nothing.
I’m serious.
Owen still says nothing. Nodge begins to falter.
Half-serious, anyway.
We can’t get married, says Owen, peremptorily, the smile disappearing, his raw throat ejecting the words like small, barely comprehensible coughs. It’s not legal.
Civilly partnered, then.
I’m flattered. Thank you.
A flush rises in Nodge’s cheeks.
That sounds like a no.
Can we wait until I’m better?
Before we get hitched? Or before you give me an answer.
Before I give you an answer.
Why?
With some difficulty, Owen raises himself up on one elbow.
Because a marriage – sorry, ‘civil partnership’ – can’t be based on pity. It has to be between equals. I’m not your equal. I won’t be your equal until I’m well.
That’s ridiculous.
No, it isn’t. I know you love me, Nodge. I love you too.
So? Then?
It’s not enough. A relationship is as much about power as it is about love. The power between us – it’s out of true. It’s all right, Nodge. I am going to get better. I can feel it. It’s going to be all right. Anyway I’m not walking down the aisle or the town hall corridor or whatever it is with parchment skin and eyes the colour of three-year-old eggs. My vanity won’t stand it.
Owen starts to cough frantically again.
Thanks for asking, though.
There is suddenly a cacophony of bangs and screeches sounding outside the window.
What a racket. I suppose this is going to go on all night.
Four hundred years since the old left-footer tried to blow up Parliament, says Nodge. That reminds me, I’ve got a present for you.
He reaches behind the sofa and brings out a big holdall full to the brim with a jumble of fireworks
I was going to let them off after you said yes. Except that you didn’t. It’s not quite going to be Millennium night. All the same.
Nodge picks one out.
This one’s called ‘Flaming Balls’. I thought it might appeal to your puerile sense of humour.
Owen looks at the firework and smiles.
I’ve done some chipolatas on sticks as well. My mum always used to make them on fireworks night for some reason.
Help me up, then.
Slowly, painfully, Owen raises himself from the sofa, holding Nodge’s hand. He puts his arm around Nodge and Nodge guides him out into the small back yard. He sits him in a wicker chair and brings him a blanket – a Welsh blanket, bought as a joke for his last birthday, but which turns out to be comforting, soft and warm – which he drapes over his lap. Then he brings out a can of Sprite, divides it into two wine glasses. Owen has been teetotal since his illness. Nodge has gone teetotal to support him. They toast one another in silence.
Nodge hands Owen a sparkler and ignites it with a disposable lighter. It sends out an aura of brilliant, shattered white light in an orb that disappears into night at the edges. Owen feebly sketches a luminescent heart in the frosty air with the glowing end. Nodge vigorously tries to sketch a cock and balls, but the balls disappear before the cock is finished.
After the sparklers have been exhausted, Nodge nails a Catherine wheel to
the fence that supports a few tired and dusty vine creepers. He lights it and it screams and turns in accelerating circles on its pivot. Owen, the cordite expelled from the firework catching in his throat, begins to cough, and flaps his hand about. Nodge throws a glass of water over the Catherine wheel to douse it and the noise stops, but the smoke of the extinguished firework thickens.
Sorry, Owen. We should go inside.
He tries to help Owen up and out of the path of the still extant cloud of black smoke. But Owen waves him away and points to the enormous rocket that Nodge has bought, a Super Blaster Orion.
Set it off.
The cough continues.
I really should take you inside.
I’m not going till I’ve seen it.
Nodge sighs and puts the stalk of the rocket into an empty wine bottle and lights the touch paper, then steps back and kneels next to Owen. He takes his hand. The rocket takes, and launches itself into the mild night, mixing into the fading, scattered tapestries of other rockets and whizzers and starbursts.
Their rocket finally reaches its apex, with a resonating bang, then blooms of green, orange, yellow, white appear briefly over their patch of the Shepherd’s Bush sky. Their rocket, their home, their own private light.
Nodge squeezes Owen’s hand. Owen responds, feebly. Then he suddenly goes limp.
Owen?
Owen does not respond. Panicking, Nodge tries to rouse him and failing, drapes his limp arm over his shoulder and struggles with him back into the living room. He is so light, Nodge is amazed and frightened. It is easy to manoeuvre him onto the sofa, where Nodge lays him, ready to call an ambulance. He covers him with the blanket. Owen’s eyes flicker open.
Thank god. Owen, are you alright?
Owen gives the faintest nod.
I’m going to dial 999.
Don’t. I’m okay. It’s just a spell.
Let me get you a glass of water.
Nodge hurries to the kitchen, feeling clumsy, drops a plastic glass on the floor before managing to find another one, a clean one, which he fills with Vichy water, Owen’s favourite, he loves the soft soapy taste. He rushes back into the living room, where Owen has closed his eyes again.
Owen . . .
He holds out the water.
Owen does not open his eyes.
Panicking again, Nodge shakes his shoulders.
Owen.
Owen’s head snaps upright.
Christ, Nodge, you’re hurting me.
