“What do you mean?”
“The only reason we’ve seen each other the last two days is because there’s a chance we could die together. I kind of feel like we’re trying to create a meaningful relationship because…well, the alternative is dying alone. I look back at my life and it’s been forgettable. Instead of a pilot, I’m someone who does data entry. I go to work at a place where my contribution makes no difference. I’ve left no legacy or accomplishments. I doubt anyone will miss me. Meeting you…there’s so much pressure to make this work. It’s like a last chance to have some semblance of—it’s ridiculous and cheesy to say it—true love. If fate had somehow guided us to that, it would somehow validate everything else.”
Isma was quiet at first. “You’re looking for true love? I just thought we were going to be really good friends?”
“Oh.” Timothy’s cheeks burnt. He wanted to crawl into a hole.
Isma leant forward and captured his lips with hers.
90
Isma hated her body. She thought her bones were big and awkward and her face was boring. Timothy told her she was beautiful over and over again. Eventually he stopped trying. She insisted they make love in the dark. His fingers traced her figure, reading her contours like Braille. On the inside of wrists that were usually concealed beneath bracelets, he felt the raised ridges of twin scars.
“Yeah,” she said, offhandedly. “I tried to kill myself.”
“When?”
“Four months ago. Paul had just left me. Nothing was the same between us after my abortion. The situation was so fucked up. I wanted to keep the baby but I’d die right after she was born so what did my opinion matter. Even so, I still could never forgive him for making me…”
Timothy kissed Isma gently and she recoiled. “Not right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Isma rose and went to the bathroom.
Waiting for her to come out was torture. He was reminded that he knew nothing about her. She might step out of the bathroom and tell him to leave, or she might come out bawling and throw herself in his arms.
When she did come out she apologized. “Sorry. This is the first time I’ve talked about Paul leaving. We were together for three years. We were so happy. He never knew I was an ED until near the end.”
Three years. Timothy felt suddenly inadequate.
“My father found me before it was too late…” Isma was saying. She was looking down at the scars on her wrists. “I had passed out.”
“Do you wish you were still with Paul?” Timothy asked. He wished he could take back the words immediately. How selfish of him to say that when she was telling him something so personal.
“I don’t.”
“We only have ninety days, no time to lie to each other.”
“All right then, I wish I were still with Paul.” Isma came back to the bed. The springs creaked as she sat. “Don’t you wish I were someone else?”
“No. There is no one else. There never has been.” In a Harlequin bodice-ripper, that line might have been romantic, but in this room, in this place, it was an admission of how pathetic a person he was.
She began to speak but Timothy interrupted. “No lies, no matter how much you think it might be what I want to hear.”
“OK.” She took hold of his hand and pressed it against her cheek, right where he had kissed, when she flinched. “I remember when I had the shaving razor against my wrist, I thought I was cheating the Death Machine by choosing what day I would die—but I didn’t really have a choice. Right now though, this, between you and me, it is my choice. I know we’re both going to die on the same day, but it could be in different fires on different sides of town. I am choosing you to be by my side at the end. I choose you. Being able to have some control, however small, is precious to me. Maybe I can’t be that ‘true love’ that would make it all worth it, but…”
“Isma,” Timothy said. His palm had descended from her cheek, down the curve of her neck and to her right shoulder. “It’s enough.”
53
Nqobile spent her last night in the house she grew up in. It was a large three-bedroom in Didsbury. The carpets, chandeliers, paintings, and curios were all African. Her parents were immigrants who had fled South Africa and always dreamt of going back. Every object was an altar to their longing.
Everyone came. Reverend Shamus Brooker brought a tiny bag with white powder in it. Krishna brought a plate of roast pork, wrapped up tight with cling film. Julie brought her guitar. Annabel brought a cell phone. Hanna brought nothing. Benito brought a photo album. Timothy brought a piece of paper he’d paid 700 pounds for. Isma brought a bag full of clothes.
“So the star-crossed lovers have seen fit to make an appearance,” said Raymond, who had brought a set of car keys. He was joking but there was an aggressive undercurrent to his intonation.
“Star-crossed?” Isma asked.
“Well, he’s going to die trying to save you.”
“What?”
“Not necessarily,” said Timothy. “We might both die trying to save someone else. I like to think we’ll succeed. Then our deaths will be more worth it.”
“You considered this?” Isma looked betrayed.
“Of course I thought it might be an option. Didn’t you?”
“If it is me, don’t try. Just leave me.”
“The Death Machine is always right.”
“So far, maybe, or maybe it’s been wrong and nobody knows.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Please, if it’s me, promise you’ll leave me.”
Nqobile made her entrance. She looked even more beautiful than usual. Her hair was braided into long cascades falling in a torrent halfway down her back, and the patterned kikoi she wore was a mesmerizing corolla. Her smile was radiant, akin to a child’s. “What’s all this fuss about?”
Raymond sneered. “Isma just realized she could be the one Timothy dies trying to save. I never thought she was dumb until now.”
“Enough of that,” ordered Nqobile. “Today, it’s all about me. If you want to act jealous and petulant, Raymond, be jealous of me. If you want to argue, argue over who will get the privilege of sitting next to me. And tonight you two are not lovers. I am the only one you adore. If I decide to have my way with Timothy in the attic, there’ll be no complaints, okay.” Nqobile smiled devilishly and walked into the living room where the others were finishing up the preparations.
“It’s exactly how I dreamed it would be. No, scratch that, it is better.”
They had extrapolated the decorations for the living room from the first painting Nqobile had sold. In the painting, the Queen of Spiders presided over an intricate multicolored skein of webs. They had used dyed mosquito netting, gauze, and silk stretches of fabric to recreate the queen’s lair.
“I love you all,” said Nqobile and the festivities began.
As always, the Reverend led the way. Shamus tipped some cocaine onto an ash tray and shaped it into a line with his thumb. “I don’t know how to do this properly.” His hands were trembling.
“Are you sure about this?” Nqobile asked.
“For you, my queen,” He knelt and took a deep snort.
Julie went next. She began to strum chords on her guitar. “I’m sorry I’m out of practice but…”
“No excuses,” said Nqobile.
After one false start, Julie began to sing and her untrained gravelly voice spilt over them all. Five men and five women, Timothy noticed their symmetry for the first time. It made him wonder about fate. Was this all preordained? Julie was a stockbroker through and through, yet the song she was singing gave him chills. And its lyrics suited the night perfectly. Why had the only song Julie wrote as a naïve sophomore with rock-star dreams been about farewells? Coincidence? Fate? Or maybe she had cheated? Maybe this was actually a song she had just written?
By the end of the song, Nqobile was crying. “I meant to store them all up for one big cry at the end of the night. Damn it.” Sh
e pointed at Krishna. “Get on with it.”
“For you my queen,” he said and he stabbed a fork into a hunk of roast pork. He took a large bite and chewed. He winced as he ate.
“Allah be praised,” said Nqobile, sniffling.
Annabel dialed her mother’s number and waited. “Answering machine. I’ll try again later.”
Timothy stepped forward and knelt dramatically before Nqobile. He held out the proof of his purchase.
“Tomorrow afternoon, at two P.M., I’ll be in the air for two hours flying an ATR 42. Not a Boeing, but close enough.”
“Thank you dear,” said Nqobile. “Now it’s your lover’s turn.”
Isma laid the bag on the floor and unzipped it. She took a deep breath. She pulled out a pair of baby sized ballet shoes. “I dreamt she would be a dancer so I bought her these. She would have been so graceful.” She laid the shoes beside the bag and pulled out a blanket with a dragon embroidered into the fabric. “To keep her safe from monsters, her own personal, misunderstood monster.” She pulled out a tiny jacket. “To fight Manchester’s icy weather. She would have thrown snowballs at passersby.” One by one she pulled out the clothes and told the “what if” story. She was surprised she did not cry. The last item of clothing in the bag was a cloth cap with flaps to cover her ears.
Annabel tried again to get through to her mother’s phone. Again she didn’t get through.
Raymond tossed Nqobile the key to his BMW. Timothy wanted to smack him. They’d all put in such thought and bared their souls. His big gesture was a car. Why the fuck was he in the group anyway? He clearly didn’t care about anyone but himself.
“Thanks,” said Nqobile. “I’ll take it out for a spin tomorrow. Now Hanna.”
Hanna got up, a forty-one year old as nervous as a debutante. She approached Nqobile with her arms open.
“For you my queen,” said Hanna.
“No, not this one,” said Nqobile. “This one’s for your daughter, Helen, and that lover of hers whom you refused to meet, what was her name?”
“Bea.” Hanna had not even gone to their wedding. “For Helen and Bea.”
“Yes, for Helen and Bea.”
Nqobile took Hanna in her arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Afterwards, the still shaky Hanna said “thank you” to Nqobile.
After her third attempt, Annabel realized what must have happened. “I think my mother’s blocked my number.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said Nqobile. “Just make me a promise. Swear you’ll go visit her in person. If she doesn’t let you in, smash the window and climb in.”
“Can’t I just snog you like Hanna did?”
“No.”
Benito groaned with simulated pain. “Please…snog her anyway. And rub her tits.”
“Okay, perv, your turn.”
Benito leered lasciviously at Annabel and Nqobile one more time and then he opened his photo album. Benito the clown, the rubber-face, pointed at a photo of a boy, a girl, and a woman with horn-rimmed glasses.
“They never found who did it,” he said. “They just found the bodies piled up with four others on the beach…”
He talked without pause for forty minutes.
52
The shooter was a seventeen-year-old. He was being chased by two men in a red Corvette. He shot at them three times. One of the bullets missed and killed Nqobile.
While she lay dying, Timothy and Isma were in a plane, soaring through the clouds.
“This is wonderful,” said Isma, staring out from the cockpit. “Though, it would be better if you could do some flips.”
“Aerobatics are overrated. They just make you feel nauseous. Besides, I wanted to be a commercial airline pilot, not a stunt pilot.”
“What little kid would rather fly an Airbus than an Air Force jet?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Sexy uniform,” Isma teased. “Can you keep it?”
47
“I went to her funeral anyway,” Shamus admitted at their next meeting. Nqobile had made them all promise not to go. She wanted their last memory of her to be the party.
“I thought about going, too,” said Timothy.
Isma gave him a questioning look. He hadn’t said a word. He had been different though—he’d been more withdrawn and irritable over the last two days. She wasn’t sure Nqobile was the only reason.
They went round the group. Everybody said a few things about how Nqobile’s death made them feel. Benito’s words hit the group sentiment most accurately. “I feel like the countdown’s officially begun. Next will be Isma and Tim, then me. One by one like in that nursery rhyme. Ten green bottles standing on the wall, and then there’re nine. On and on until in two years, it’ll just be Krishna sitting in this basement alone.”
“Unless he finds replacements,” Raynond suggested.
“You think we should just find a replacement for Nqobile,” said Hanna. She wasn’t shouting, but her anger was obvious.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Did you do it?” Shamus asked Annabel, eager to change the subject. “Did you go to see your mother?”
“It was an anticlimax. I expected tears or shouting or some other kind of fireworks. We just talked cordially. Makes me feel like an idiot for waiting so long. If not for Nqobile I might have died without talking to her.”
“Thank God for Nqobile,” said Shamus. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. It was the first time he had done anything during a session that called attention to the fact that he was a reverend.
Afterwards, on their way to Isma’s apartment, she shared one of her sillier insecurities. “After Nqobile’s final night was so perfect, I feel like whatever we do for ours will be a letdown. Hers was so beautiful. She came up with something that was for her but also a gift for every one of us. I have this recurring image of them meeting after we’re dead and one of them saying, ‘so, that last meeting, total shit, eh?’”
“Probably Raymond saying it, right?”
“Bang on.”
“You shouldn’t worry about it. Our last night will be for us—they will all be there to support us. Also, we’ll only have a few hours of life left. We could decide to hold hands and sing songs by Abba and it would be profound and meaningful.”
“Do you have any ideas about what you want to do?”
“Well…” Timothy hesitated.
“Do tell.”
“I…”
“Spit it out.”
“I was thinking of asking them if we could have our final meeting as a group two days before our last. I kind of just wanted to do something with you on our last night.”
Timothy’s arm was around Isma when he said this and he felt her muscles knot. “I think we owe it to them to share our last night with them.”
“What difference would it make if it were one day earlier?”
Isma stopped walking and faced Timothy.
“No lies,” he reminded her.
She did a double take. She had been readying to pacify him. “I want to be with them on my last night.”
“You haven’t even known them that long.”
“I’ve known you just as long,” she replied, which was the wrong thing to say.
“You still don’t love me,” he said, which pissed her off.
“Why is it always about that with you? Stop being so fucking insecure. We’ll be with each other day in day out for the next forty-seven days. You’ll die by my side. I want you to. And it’s not like I’m saying I want to go off with some strangers on my last night. I want to be with the group, which you are part of.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Timothy replied, too quickly.
“Don’t just say that. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“I think I’ll go to my apartment tonight.”
He disengaged from her and started walking away.
“Don’t be a child, Timothy.”
He kept going.
“Fine,” said Isma
. She waited a few moments to see if he would turn around and come back. He didn’t.
44
Timothy opened the door. He looked a mess. He was unkempt, unshaven, and looked like he needed sleep. “I didn’t think you wanted to see me again.”
“You’re an idiot.” Isma walked passed him into his chaotic apartment. “You know what we just did? We wasted three days. I didn’t enjoy them. Did you?”
“No.”
“Then let’s not do it again.”
“Agreed.”
“The time we spend together is wonderful. Isn’t that enough? Can’t you just enjoy what it is? Do you have to compare it with ideal movie notions?”
“What we have is enough,” said Timothy.
Isma wasn’t sure she believed him but she didn’t want to fight. “Go shower,” she said. “You need to get out of here.”
31
“I should have just lied to him,” Isma said to Hanna at her house. Hanna had invited her to come and take a look at two paintings of Nqobile’s that she had bought from an art gallery in Edinburgh. “I should have pretended that it was some big epic love from the beginning.”
“You wouldn’t have hated that?” Hanna said.
“I really wouldn’t have. I don’t have any qualms about lying. I can do it well. I can cry at will, hesitate, and do whatever else it takes to sell it.”
“He would have known. On some level he would have known.”
“That’s what people always say. I never knew with Paul. I believed every word the bastard said.”
“Are you going to contact him, before the end?”
Isma shook her head. “No. Maybe. I want to…I just…”
“You don’t want to hurt Timothy.”
“That’s not it. Nothing I could do can hurt Timothy. He does that all by himself. He loves torturing himself. I’m just an excuse.”
“Then why don’t you want to see Paul?”
“He left me when I needed him most.”
Machine of Death Page 32
