Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

  I toss the Ken doll’s head over my shoulder and tread his and Xandra’s other dolls underfoot.

  ‘Fine,’ I call back, shoving a Judge Dredd annual and a threadbare gingham shirt to one side. I make another sweep with the torch and continue to edge forward into the built-in storage space at the back of my room, banging my elbow on a Fisher Price garage in the process and making the bell ding. I can’t believe the amount of tat that’s been squeezed in here. There are toys I haven’t seen since Xandra and I were tots. Our school reports and uniforms are here as well, along with lots of other junk. I remember Mum sneaking it all down here about a month after I moved in, saying that if I wasn’t using the space then she would. It’s cramped in here – only about three feet high – but goes back about six foot. I bang my head on the ceiling for what feels like the hundredth time in as many seconds. Then I curse Matt. I curse Matt and I curse Jack, and I curse the whole stag concept. Then, just for good measure, I curse Jimmy and Ug, because their presence on the stag weekend is what’s really getting me down.

  Karen’s muffled voice asks again: ‘What are you doing? Building a den?’

  ‘Oh, ha-ha,’ I shout, chucking a cobweb-bound fishing reel out of the way. ‘No, I’m bloody well not.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘A hat, actually. I’m looking for a funny hat. It’s black with rubber moose antlers on the top.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Why do you want to find that?’

  ‘I don’t. Matt does.’

  There’s another pause, then, ‘He’s not in there, too, is he?’

  ‘No,’ I tell Karen, ‘he’s asked us all to bring one. A funny hat. A ha-ha-ha, hilarious hat. For the stag weekend.’ I grab Big Ted by the throat and claw him roughly behind me. I’m going to find this hat if it bloody well kills me. ‘It’s in the fax he sent me,’ I continue to shout. ‘On my bedside table. See for yourself.’

  I march in to the kitchen about five minutes later with my moose hat gripped firmly in my hand. Karen’s sitting at the oak table, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. The table is covered with magazines, papers and books, all research for the article she’s currently working on. Her laptop sits on the only place left: her lap. She doesn’t look up from the screen and her hands are motionless. I look over her shoulder and see she’s waiting for some research paper from the Guggenheim online archives to finish downloading. Still she doesn’t move, utterly tranced-out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ she replies.

  I know her too well to take this at face value. She’s dwelling on something, something bad. I lean on the table and stare at her until she stares back. ‘Really sure?’ I enquire.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, shaking her head, before stumbling on, ‘It’s just Chris. He’s . . .’

  ‘He’s what?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, you know he was meant to be coming down tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, now he’s not coming until tomorrow. He says he’s got to stay late at the office and that by the time he finishes it will be too late to get a train.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘Oh.’

  This isn’t the first time Karen and I have had this conversation, but as with the times that have gone before, I find it difficult. If it’s an absolute opinion she wants from me on what she should do about Chris, I have one: ditch him. The trouble is, it isn’t something I can tell her, not without risking giving away my own feelings about her. The one time I did let loose about what I thought of him a few months ago, we were drunk and I don’t think she remembered the conversation. She certainly never mentioned it to me again. ‘What did you say?’ I settle for.

  She groans, putting her mug down on the table. ‘I said fine. Just like I always do.’

  ‘But that’s not what you think.’

  ‘No, I . . . I don’t know, Greg. It’s the usual thing. Him living up there. Me down here.’ She sighs. ‘And I don’t know what he’s doing, and since he was unfaithful that last time, I just . . . Oh, God, it just pisses me, off. Why should I have to sit here feeling insecure on my own on a Friday night?’

  ‘The simple answer to that is that you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I know.’ She hesitates for a moment, before continuing. ‘And maybe that’s what I should tell him.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, feeling my heart beat begin to race. ‘You’re going to break off with him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I sit on the edge of the table. She looks so sad, it cuts. ‘Do you love him?’ I ask, inwardly pleading for her to please, please say no.

  She stares at the wall ‘I don’t even know that any more. I love him for who he used to be, for who I used to think he was,’ she corrects, looking back at me. ‘But I don’t think we’re the same people we were when we fell in love.’

  ‘If you don’t love him any longer, then perhaps it’s already over,’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, slowly nodding her head, ‘perhaps it is.’ She sucks in a deep breath and then exhales, forcing a weak smile. ‘You found it, then,’ she observes, picking up her mug and peering over the rim at my moose hat as she takes a sip.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, realizing that the Chris conversation is closed. I search for something else to say, finally opting for, ‘Have you got Matt’s fax?’

  She picks it up from the table in front of her and runs her eyes over it. ‘Men never really grow up, do they?’ she asks, her tone world-weary. ‘“A penalty system will be operating for the duration of the weekend,”’ she quotes in a sarcastic voice, ‘“for what is generally considered as unstagly behaviour.”’ She shoots me a withering look. Karen’s condemnation of the fax only serves to double my anxiety over the weekend. Still, at least she’s smiling now. ‘“Appropriate fines will be administered where deemed appropriate.” Isn’t that a bit pathetic?’ she asks.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s not very like Matt, is it?’

  ‘No, but Jack said he wanted the full works, so that’s what Matt’s giving him. By the book.’

  She peers into my face. ‘Are you all right, baby? Here’s me going on about my problems, and there you are, looking like you haven’t slept in a month.’

  ‘I’m shattered,’ I admit. ‘Last night’s guests didn’t leave until after three, and then I had to be back in there at eight this morning to check it was all cleared up.’ My head spins at the thought. I’ve been averaging about four hours sleep a night over the last week. I blink heavily. It would take me seconds to fall asleep. ‘All I want to do is curl up in bed for twenty-four hours.’

  She looks back at Matt’s fax. ‘And instead you’ve got to do this . . .’

  ‘Precisely . . . and that’s just the half of it . . .’

  ‘What’s the rest?’

  I let out a long overdue growl. ‘There are these two blokes going on the stag: Jimmy and Ug,’ I tell her. ‘Or Jimmy mainly . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re into their gear. The works, you know. I swear, you give them a week-old dog’s turd and they’ll try to smoke it or snort it. I know they’re going to come loaded. They’re going to be carrying a stash the size of the Taj Mahal, and do you know who they’re going to want to share it all with?’ I don’t wait for a reply. ‘Me. That’s who, because as far as they’re concerned, that’s what I’m into, no matter how many times I tell them I’m not any more . . .’

  Karen knows all about my narcotic history. I confessed all a few months ago. ‘Have you spoken to David at Quit4Good?’ she checks.

  ‘Yes. He thinks I’ll be able to cope.’

  ‘And you don’t agree?’ she surmises.

  ‘I don’t know. You know what I was like, Karen. One line. I know that’s all it will take and I’ll be off again, and once that happens, well, shit . . . I don’t know . . . I really don’t . . .’

  Karen looks at me sympathetically. ‘These two – Jimmy and Ug – they’r
e close friends of yours, I take it?’

  ‘Friends? Yes.’ I think about this for a second, before contradicting myself: ‘No.’ I think about it again. ‘I don’t know. I used to hang out with them a hell of a lot. They’re into their clubbing. All-nighters . . . dawn raiders, you know? But friends? I don’t know. They haven’t been since I kicked. I’ve been avoiding them . . .’

  ‘If that’s how you feel, then maybe you shouldn’t go . . .’ Karen suggests.

  I feel myself frowning. ‘That wouldn’t be fair to Jack. They’re his friends, have been since college. He’s OK with them because he never went down that path with them. No, this is my problem, not his.’

  She nods at me. ‘Then face it head on,’ she advises. ‘Just tell them to piss off about the whole thing. They can’t force you in to doing anything you don’t want.’

  I consider this and accept it as the truth. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I can do this.’

  ‘I know you can.’ She studies my face. ‘Is there anything else that’s worrying you?’

  I smile wearily. She knows me so well. ‘Money.’

  She glances at the fax for a second. ‘Yeah, I saw. “One hundred quid kitty”’ – she continues to read – ‘“each”.’ She looks up at me. ‘Jesus, Greg, how on earth are you going to afford it?’

  The blindingly obvious answer to this question is that I’m not. Including the overtime I’ve been getting from Chichi this week, I’m completely up to my eyeballs in debt with the bank from last year. Then there’s the money I owe Mum for rent – I’m two months behind. It’s all right for people like Matt and Jack. They’ve got the money. A hundred quid probably doesn’t mean that much to them. A few restaurant bills, or a weekend’s clubbing. Herein lies my problem: it doesn’t occur to them that anyone else might not be able to afford that style of party money. There’s no point in whining about it. It’s my fault that I’m broke. Nobody else’s. Also, it’s hardly like I’m out in the cold with nowhere to stay, is it? No. I’ll therefore have to lump it and get back in to the overtime next week. I shrug at Karen. ‘I’ll manage. I’ll have to, won’t I?’

  ‘Well,’ she comments, ‘like I said, you could not go.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Yeah, you can. You can do whatever you want. Like with the drugs, you can live your life how you choose.’ She glances back down at the paper. ‘It looks like it will be a load of thigh-slapping, chest-beating crap, anyway.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t bailout. It wouldn’t be right, and besides, I’ve already given Matt a cheque to cover transport and accommodation.’

  She tuts. ‘Do you even know where you’re going?’

  ‘All we’ve been told is what pub we’re meeting at.’

  ‘Well, it’s your call,’ she says with a sigh, then, ‘Do you want me to run through the checklist with you? We don’t want you getting fined right at the start, do we?’

  I look at my watch: it’s four twenty. I’m going to have to shift it to get to the pub by five to meet the others. ‘Thanks,’ I tell Karen, picking up my backpack in to which I’ve already packed my clothes and washbag.

  ‘Item number one,’ she reads. ‘A funny hat.’

  ‘Check.’ I sling the hat into my bag.

  ‘Item number two: a packet of condoms.’

  ‘Check.’ I sling them in on top.

  ‘Item number three: an unusual bottle of spirits (NB. any repeated bottles will result in fines for all parties concerned).’

  I hold up the bottle of apple schnapps, before placing it into my bag. ‘Check.’

  ‘Item number four: a piece of women’s underwear.’ Her brow settles in a frown. ‘You’re not planning to wear them, are you?’ she enquires. She looks me archly up and down, teasing, ‘Now there’s a sight I wouldn’t mind seeing . . .’

  ‘No,’ I say, suddenly awkward. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Shame,’ she reflects. There’s a pause and then she looks up at me and raises her eyebrows. ‘So, women’s underwear . . . Check?’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, feeling myself begin to blush, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask . . .’

  Susie

  Friday, 16.30

  ‘You promise me you’ll be OK?’ checks Amy, dumping her stuff for the weekend by the door of her flat. She’s got a whopping suitcase and she’s intending to take her double duvet – because, apparently, it smells of Jack. I would have thought all she’d need for Leisure Heaven was a swimming costume and some liver salts. Still, that’s Amy for you – always a creature of comfort. She leaves her pile of clobber and stands beside ‘Scented’ Lover, her arms akimbo.

  ‘Now don’t let them shave your eyebrows or chain you up naked and leave you, or anything,’ she nags again. ‘Promise me!’

  Jack’s sister Kate and I roll eyes at each other as Jack laughs and puts one foot up on the kitchen chair. He’s about to depart for his stag weekend and is already in King Lad mode, especially as he’s got an audience of girls. He winks at me as he does up the lace of his trainer. Since he stopped living with Matt, Jack’s appearance has taken a steady turn for the worse. Gone are the designer clothes, but there’s something quite sexy about a man who isn’t colour-coordinated. He stands up and stretches out his arms, grinning. He looks ready for battle.

  ‘What about the stripper? Can I diddle her?’ he asks.

  Amy whacks his arm. ‘That’s not funny,’ she pouts, as he pulls a hat out of his pocket and pulls it on. It’s got a nasty holiday logo on it.

  Kate covers her eyes. ‘You’re so embarrassing, Jack.’

  ‘You’re not going to wear that?’ I laugh.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he shrugs. ‘Matt’s orders. I’ll get fined if I don’t,’ he says, dancing round. But Amy doesn’t see the funny side as Kate and I laugh. She clutches Jack’s rucksack on the wooden kitchen counter, fiddling longingly with its strap as if she’s a heartbroken parent on her child’s first day at school.

  Jack takes it from her and swings the bag on to his shoulder, like a cowboy with a saddle. ‘This is all rubbish. I can’t see why we can’t all be together,’ says Amy. ‘They’re going to do horrid things to you, I know they are.’

  Jack puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘Listen. Matt’ll be there. He’ll look after me.’

  ‘It’s not Matt that I’m worried about . . .’

  ‘Come here, you,’ laughs Jack, pulling her into a hug. ‘It’s all going to be fine. You’ve got the girls . . .’ He smiles at us over Amy’s shoulder.

  Kate sucks in her cheeks and shakes her head.

  I like Kate, although I’ve only met her once before at Amy and Jack’s engagement party. She’s quite shy and definitely a one-to-one person, so we sat together in the corner and pretty much ignored everyone else. I took to her immediately since she reminded me so much of myself when I was that age. She’d just graduated at the time, having done a languages degree, and despite being absolutely skint, she was full of plans and schemes. I couldn’t imagine any of them working, mind, but I encouraged her not to sell out to the lure of a proper job until she’d given things a go for herself.

  I felt mature and brave at the time, but to be honest I’m the last person to offer any tips on getting ahead. After all, I’m five years further down the line and what have I got to show for myself? Failed plans and schemes. Nothing permanent. Nothing that pays any money, or gives me any credibility. I haven’t even been anywhere, despite all my grand plans. The only progress I’ve made is to get to first-name terms with the woman at the DSS.

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ll miss you,’ Amy says, as she fiddles with Jack’s shirt.

  ‘Now come on, don’t be daft!’ I bustle. ‘We’re going to have loads more fun.’

  ‘See?’ agrees Jack, letting Amy go, and she laughs, but she’s staring at Jack as if it’s the last time she’ll ever see him.

  I pinch his cheek, affectionately. ‘You’d better believe it, sunshine. You should be the one that’s worried. Th
e Tarzan-o-gram is a bit of a dish, so I hear!’ I stick my tongue in my cheek.

  Jack smiles. ‘She’s got her chastity belt on,’ he stage whispers. He looks at the kitchen clock. ‘Gotta go, girls. I can’t be late for the boys.’

  I can tell he’s excited, but I have to admit I’m with Amy on this one. It would be good if we were all together. Never mind though.

  ‘Off you hop then, love. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ I smile, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  ‘That leaves the way clear, then,’ he chuckles.

  ‘Look after her,’ he mouths at me and I nod before turning away so that they can have their emotional farewell.

  ‘Jack’s the worst of that lot,’ Kate laughs, reaching up to the cupboard. Her T-shirt rides up above her trousers and I notice that she’s got her belly button pierced, just like mine. ‘If I know my brother, he’ll be the one leading them all astray.’

  ‘Don’t tell her that,’ I whisper.

  The kettle clicks off and Kate opens the box of tea-bags.

  ‘Tea!’ I exclaim. ‘I think we all need something stronger than that. I certainly do.’

  I delve into my bag and produce the enormous bottle of vodka I’ve brought. The last donation from duty-free cheapskate Simon. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion and I think this’ll do nicely. Besides, I’ve taken the last emergency money out of my building-society account for this weekend, so I’m determined that it’s going to be a good one. With difficulty, I pour the vodka from the giant bottle into the mugs. I put extra in Amy’s.

  ‘I’m glad you brought something to drink. I meant to, but I’m a bit short of cash,’ begins Kate.

  I touch her arm. ‘You save your pennies for your Australia trip. You’ll need your money for all that wonderful travelling. I’m so envious.’

  Kate smiles and for once, even though I am envious of her, I feel like I’m the grand benefactress. ‘I’ll bet we’ll do the lot, this weekend,’ I warn, tapping the bottle. ‘Or by tonight. Now where’s H got to?’

  ‘She called earlier. She’s running late. She wants us to go over to her place in a cab and then she’ll drive from there,’ says Kate as she undoes the lid of the tonic bottle.