by James Hannah
Mal benignly pulls out a chair adjacent to mine and sits.
‘How is it Mal’s fault?’ demands Laura.
‘No. Laura–’ says Mal ‘–he’s all right, yeah? I never should have said anything. It was a mistake, OK? I thought she knew. You told me she knew.’
‘No I fucking didn’t!’
‘Laura! Keep your voice down,’ I say, casting a glance across the café to see if any management are in the area.
‘You said they were being open and honest with each other about everything,’ says Mal. He looks awkward. Genuinely upset. Laura glares at me again.
‘She and you weren’t even together at the time anyway. I don’t know why she thinks she can get all upset about it if she’d dumped you–’
I shake my head. No, no. I don’t want her turning her fire on you.
Laura turns to Mal. ‘He’s spent his whole life blaming other people for choices he’s made. It’s time he started taking a bit of responsibility.’
‘Fuck off!’ I surprise myself, feeling the shout coming out of me. I catch a tut from a customer at a nearby table. ‘Will you leave me alone? Do you think I want to sit here and listen to all your bullshit? Look at you! Look at your own life for a change and sort that out before you start doling out sage advice to me about mine.’
I think for a moment Laura’s going to laugh as the words ring in the air around us. This is a game, right? Neither of us is really taking this seriously.
She fixes me a stare with her wonky face, and with typical extrovert silence, she suddenly gets up and sweeps off, leaving a big stupid empty space behind.
Making it all about her. Now she’s the one who’s been wronged. So typical.
So here’s me and Mal.
Two bodies adjacent in the same space.
Not looking at each other.
I’m looking at the trolley lined up waiting for customers’ empty trays. I should maybe help the kitchen staff with that, perhaps wheel it through to them.
Mal’s voice comes to me first.
‘She’s about to become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.’
He’s absolutely deadpan.
I snort, lightly.
‘Don’t I know it.’
We sit and just – I don’t know. Here we are. Again.
‘Listen, man,’ he says, ‘she’s only trying to defend me. You know what she’s like.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m no good at all this, and I say the fucking – the wrong thing. But, I mean, it’s coming from a good place, man. I’m just on the lookout for my mate. I just want to look after him when I see he’s doing a lot of changing.’
I look at him now, and he flicks a nervous glance at me. I’ve never seen him quite like this before.
‘We’ve been through a lot,’ he says. ‘And I mean, it’s true, I should have been a lot better of a mate about your health. You know what it’s like, I like to look after my mates. But I didn’t step up to the mark there. I didn’t know you were having blackouts and all that. I didn’t look after you. Diabetes and everything – it’s serious news. You need to take care of that. Be a little bit strategic, like. But you’re not an easy fucker to tell, you know what I mean?’
‘No, I know. It’s not that bad. I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. I’m not some like major special case.’
Mal nods, reflectively.
‘Just so you know, if I’d thought you’d even wanted telling, I would have told you and made sure you looked after yourself.’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. I can look after myself. I just need to – not do quite so much shit to my body, you know?’
‘Yeah, of course, man.’
He stirs his feet and contemplates. Maybe he’s waiting for something from me, but I’ve got nothing. I don’t want a scene.
‘There was a moment back there where I thought – you know. We could get a place, move in together. Be a laugh.’
I stare fixedly at my empty cup of Fanta. It sounds kind of pathetic, what’s coming from him now.
‘But you never got back to me when I said it. So I’m thinking, maybe he doesn’t want to be friends any more?’
It’s true, I never did get back to him. But that’s because–
‘It gets pretty lonely when your best mate’s vanished without a trace. That’s no good, man, is it? Disappearing like that overnight.’
As I lie here now, going over that scene after all these years, the danger is I think of his clear eyes and honest intonation, and I think, maybe I had more of an effect than I thought by simply not being around. Maybe you can’t just switch yourself off from people’s lives. Maybe I could be persuaded that he was being reasonable.
But no. No way.
It makes all the difference to be sitting here by the window, looking out at the magnolia tree and the lawn beyond. The robin’s back, flittering around. There’s something deeply comforting about seeing her little eccentric moves.
‘So–’ I say, taking a small sip of water and swallowing it down with some effort, ‘how did it go? Your mum–?’
Amber cannot keep the warm smile from spreading across her pale face.
‘There was standing-room only,’ she says, with glittering eyes. ‘It was really, really moving, Mum would have been totally amazed at how it went.’
‘Ah, Amber, I’m so pleased.’
‘A whole load of people she used to work with came along, and all the people she went to church with, and all her drama friends. And there was this group of men from a place she used to work at like ten years ago, and they were saying to me, Your mum was so proud of you, and she always used to talk about you when she was working with us. People really loved her, you know?’
‘How about your dad? How did he do?’
‘Oh, he did brilliantly. He couldn’t think of a reading, but he stood up there and he spoke in front of all of those people, and he was as brave as anything. He was telling them all about how he and Mum met, and how people didn’t take to him because he was Japanese and she was English, but how she stood by him with all their friends, and won them over, and how he was proud to call them all friends now, and it was just the warmest possible send-off.’
‘Brilliant,’ I say. More water. ‘I’m so chuffed. You made all that happen.’
‘No, it was you. You got me to think about it differently. Thank you.’
‘People can go through their whole lives without rethinking something.’
She goes a bit shy, and – well, so do I. It feels strange to tell someone you’re proud of them. But I am proud. And I’m pleased she thinks I’ve helped.
She smiles, coyly, and begins to gather her things together.
‘I think I’d better get going. We’re planting a tree for Mum this afternoon. I think she would have liked that.’
‘Well, that’s lovely,’ I say.
‘Would you like me to do anything for you – for Mia?’
I look down at my blanket, turn a corner, and inspect the neat edging. Take a sip of water.
‘If you want – you could get your crochet going. Do a yarnbomb.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do it properly. That would make me really happy.’
Teeth, tongue, tonsils, tastebuds, throat
Teeth.
Tongue.
It’s all mouth. Teeth, tongue, it’s taste. Taste and texture. Taste and touch. Tastebuds. Teeth and tongue, tastebuds, throat, tonsils. All in there together. All T.
So dry. My teeth and tongue now thirsty. They’re tacky and clicking dry. I need a drink. I want to flood my mouth with an ocean of relief.
Grandma: old as her tongue, not as old as her teeth.
Your tastebuds change, don’t they? As you get older. They change. When I was a little boy Grandad gave me a sip of his whisky. Awful, awful. Couldn’t conceive of why anyone would want to drink that. Stomach bile. Awful. I knew that when I grew up I would only eat sweets. When I was old enough to eat what I bl
oody well wanted. Sweets and cake mix. Couldn’t stomach it now.
‘Morning, lovey. How are you doing today?’
Sheila. Quiet voice. Gentle voice. She works the room, looks at me. Tries to judge how I’m feeling.
‘Can I get you anything? A drink, or–?’
No food. Food no longer on the menu. I have had my last meal.
‘Tea?’ I say. ‘Please.’
‘A cup of tea? All right, lovey, sit tight and I’ll go and get you some tea.’
Cup of tea. Floods the mouth. Floods the buds. That’s something to say. Cup of tea. Forever the first thing to get me moving in the morning. It’s my – what do they say? – my control. My control state.
Cup of tea floods the tongue, teeth, throat, tonsils.
All the Ts.
Six sugars in my cup of tea, I used to have when I was little. Couldn’t do that now. Spooning out the sludge in the bottom of the mug. Happy days.
Wh–?
Sheila plants a teacup and saucer on the cabinet beside my bed.
‘Here we go, lovey. I’ve brought a fresh glass of water for you too in case you’d rather have that, all right?’
I smile up at her. Hope the smile reaches my face.
She sits awhile as the tea cools beside us.
‘Jackie tells me you had a bit of trouble in the night.’
‘Mm, yeah.’
‘Breathing bad again, was it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, awful.’
She tuts, sympathetically, and takes up my hand.
‘What’s, uh – what’s the day?’
‘It’s a lovely bright Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday? I can’t keep track.’
‘Still, at least you’ve got an excuse, eh? You’re allowed to lose track when you’re feeling a bit peculiar. I don’t know what my excuse is.’
‘Heh, no.’
‘You feeling a bit better now, though?’
I nod.
‘A bit strange. Really, really weird dreams.’
‘Yeah, that’s normal. That’s quite normal for morphine.’
‘But – better than awful.’
‘That’s good. We aim to please, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well now, I can’t hang around here gassing all day. I should get on.’
‘Right.’
‘Have you got your buzzer? It’s there by your hand, look.’
Look. My hand is next to the buzzer.
‘I’m just outside, OK?’
‘OK.’
She leaves, leaves the tea steaming behind her.
I know I’m not going to drink it.
I can’t taste anything any more.
Tongue, teeth and tastebuds, all dead.
All dead already.
Urethra
URETHRA? HA? Urethra Flankrin.
What are you talking about?
Uvula
‘Sash! Sasha, come here!’ Mal calls through the booming music of our flat-warming party. Very much his flat-warming party. I don’t want to meet anyone new.
The kid in the bowler hat meets up with Mal, and Mal throws his arm around his shoulder and draws him to me.
‘Ivo this is Sasha. Good mate of mine from up north.’
I shake his hand, which is cold. He’s got three spikes coming out from beneath his bottom lip and gauged earlobes. ‘How you doing?’
‘Sash’s the piercing king,’ says Mal.
‘Oh yeah?’ I say, with effort. I don’t want to start getting to know this stuff. I couldn’t give a toss. ‘What you got?’
‘Well, the ones you can see,’ smiles Sasha with a faintly nerdish choke to his voice, ‘I’ve got two twenty-six-mil ear gauges, the three in the bottom lip, two nostrils and an eyebrow–’
‘What about inside,’ says Mal, with anticipation.
‘Tongue, gum and uvula,’ he says.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
Sasha opens his mouth and flashes his tongue at me, before lifting his top lip and displaying a silver bolt which I think pierces his top gum.
‘Ah, Jesus,’ I say. I’ve always been a bit squeamish for stuff like this.
‘Show him,’ urges Mal.
Sasha opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue.
‘Uvula piercing,’ says Mal, bright-eyed.
I frown and look in there, not knowing what to look at, and then I see it: the punchbag at the back of his throat has a bolt through the front.
‘Ah, Jesus,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to see that.’
Mal grins, but Sasha looks offended. He death-stares me, before pulling down his lower lip and showing me the inside. There, between the three bolts for the three spikes is tattooed the word PAIN.
He disappears off into the darkness, an air of nerdish revenge having been exacted.
I don’t need this. I never wanted a flat-warming in the first place. But Mal insisted, of course. A prime chance to get all his mates and acquaintances round. Get his customers comfortable with his new set-up.
This is my new stage in life. This is what I’m committing to.
I’ve never felt so low.
I sit on the floor, lean against the wall. My wall. Half mine. All our chairs have been taken up by faceless freeloaders invited by Mal, and the buzz throbs through me, through the floor. This is not what I want.
Come on, come on now, positive thinking.
I pick myself up off the flat floor and say to myself, Bring it on. Use the words: C’mon, c’mon, bring it on. Let’s feel it. Gaze up at the lights through the smoke. Even though I helped Mal rig the old bicycle wheel to the light fitting, it still works. It looked rubbish, dangling down like a slipped halo. But hats off, man, the Christmas tree lights hanging off it, they’re magical.
You can be the magician and still enjoy the trick.
Mal’s dropped Coldcut, and the twenty-somethings are up and bouncing around, and shouting ‘chooon!’ and pointing at the ceiling. They’re jumping up and down, and I can feel them through the floor. Downstairs on the floor below it’ll be like the inside of a sub woofer, the whole ceiling doof doof doofing to their footdrops.
Fucking Coldcut though, man, genius, I’m on it now, the bassbeats, as I pulse against the wall, I can feel it through the floor, I can feel it through the wall, it’s the bass drum, the belly that’s speaking to me. It’s living me.
I wish you could be here to feel this – I wish–
Sasha’s grotesque dancing face looms up at me now. Aggressive. He’s being aggressive. The only thing I can think is I want to turn him into a punchbag. Sucking, scummy leech.
I push at him with my fists and I get him off balance. Puff of stink off him like damp clothes smell.
I’m away now, shoved away by Mal, and he’s shouting at me. He’s trying to calm me down.
‘Fucking prick,’ I say looking over at the punchbag punk. He’s regathered himself over the opposite side by Becca, playing freaky with her. She’s paying as much attention to him as she has to me.
‘Come on, man–’ Mal’s still at me, I see, his face in my face ‘–you’re in a bad space, yeah? We’re going to take you out of this. Here, here, wait–’ He turns around to the drinks table. ‘Here – get a load of this, yeah?’
I take the drink and down it.
‘Little house-warming present from me, OK? Time to cheer up and chill out, yeah?’
‘Yeah, right.’
I look up, and his face is still staring, right at mine.
Thuds and colours and wailing faces slide past me, and I’ve burst out of the front door now. I’m on the street, and Mal’s with me. He’s talking to me.
I’m going to make everything all right, he’s saying.
We’re leaving the house-warming behind – no one’s going to care, are they? Not this far gone.
We can sort you out, he’s saying.
He’s going to make it all right.
We can explain it to her. I’m going to take you there.
He’s going to
bring me to you. He says you’ll be thrilled. And we’ll be together again.
Listen, let’s take my car. It’s pissing it down.
Yeah, yeah, a car. We don’t have to walk even.
And we’re driving. I love driving. I love being driven. Since I was a kid, with my dad. The streetlights, flung past, caught up in the animated rain on the windscreen. How much time must it take your brain to render all that movement? It’s amazing, amazing. Every corner is drawn in real time as we drive round it. All the angles perfect.
Where are we going? We’re not going, we’re coming.
I’m coming to you.
Parked up, chunk-chunk car doors shut, and out on my feet now, yep, yep, I’m coming to you. I’m inhaling the pavement – long, straight terrace street, and I’m surfing it, every slab of it. Tiny ups, tiny downs.
We can straighten it out!
I’m thumping on your door, because I’ve got to tell you now, this is it. I should say, right, this is it for ever, yeah? I’m done! I see you! I feel you! You and me for ever.
Your door opens, and it’s you! It’s exciting!
What? Go home. Go home, it’s four o’clock.
‘We can work it out!’ I say. ‘We can do it, Mia!’
Jesus, Mal, what state’s he in?
He wanted to come and see you. I’ve brought him to see you.
‘This is it for ever,’ I say. ‘I’m excited! It’s beautiful!’
Go home, go on. We can talk about it when you’re more together.
‘I’m–’
Are you looking out for him? You’re not stoned as well, are you?
Nah, nah. I’m fine.
Are you all right?
Are–
‘I’m not–’
What is it?
Have you taken your insulin?
‘I don’t know–’
All right, stay there. I’m going to – I’d better call an ambulance.
Nah, nah. I’ll take him in the car. You don’t call an ambulance out for something like that.
Yes, you do.
Fine, well you call an ambulance, and in an hour and a half when they get here, tell them I’ve taken him to A&E.
Oh bloody hell, all right, let’s get him in your car.
I’m in the back of Mal’s car, and you’re in the passenger seat, and Mal’s driving. I’m trying to speak but the first words won’t come.
