‘Oh!’ Ellie mugged, winking and attempting to tap her nose. ‘Well, be careful.’
Nadine smiled shyly. ‘You gonna be all right?’
‘Great!’ She wafted the air. ‘I feel great!’
‘Get a taxi, yeah.’
‘Yeah! Yeah. Go and bang that policeman.’
‘Do you mind?’ Nadine held up a palm. ‘He does Internal Communications for BT.’
The reply came to Ellie about ten minutes later, still sitting on the kerb. I bet he does, she thought.
Wherever Charlie went, Sara was there in his peripheral vision, casting meaningful glances at him or having a laboriously amazing time.
On one of his aimless walks, which were sort of trips to the bar, but really increasingly hopeless searches for Sasha, he’d ended up bumping into Rachel, his crush from the first year, and had somehow got stuck in a chat. So far she’d told him she was ‘almost enjoying’ exam term and was ‘thinking of bringing down her cello’. Oh yes, and there was her boyfriend, a brick casually dropped at every opportunity.
There was nothing actually wrong with Rachel, apart from the long-established fact that nothing was ever going to happen between them, which left every interaction dead on arrival. Lucas would be ruthless, Charlie thought. He’d cut it short. Instead, Charlie felt compelled to stick in and prove he was a decent guy, not just some arsehole out on the pull. It was ridiculous – why did he even care what she thought? – but the Good Bloke within wouldn’t pipe down.
Rachel had started telling him about her sister who was training to be a vet. He nodded along, painfully conscious of Sara on the fringes of the shot bar crowd. Next to her, Meredith was dressed as Mystique from X-Men, painted entirely blue, while Sara wore a black corset and pants. Aw, he imagined people thinking, she’s too heartbroken to manage the theme, but she was brave to come out anyway.
Sara hugged a pissed-looking Matt, dressed as Magneto in a tinfoil helmet. Charlie felt a dull kick of jealousy.
‘Would you like a cigarette?’ he asked Rachel.
‘Oh. Have you got any?’
‘I thought you might have.’
She shook her head. That killed it. Rachel engineered a polite exit, wishing him the best of luck with finals, and leaving him lonelier than ever. Automatically, he scouted the arena for Sasha, and again wondered whether he should go and take off his shorts. Perhaps it was the shorts that were holding him back?
Charlie squeezed round the rim of the dance floor, taking the long route to the smoking area. Footage from a camera in the corner projected onto a screen above the DJ and couples were taking it in turns to kiss in front of it. A girl leaned in for a close-up, waggling her tongue stud. Through the smoke and lasers, Charlie made out Lucas leaning against the DJ booth, daring to be spanked by a dominatrix with a paddle, mankini a scream of green up his crack. He was managing to have a good time. Charlie wriggled towards him, checking out a group of playgirl bunnies on the way. He danced half-heartedly in their direction, but the circle closed on him. When he next looked round, Sara was making her way down to the dance floor, holding hands with Meredith and some guy in a surgeon’s mask.
How could he enjoy himself with her there all the time? Cutting his losses, Charlie headed past the slave auction, where Siobhan Davies was strutting up and down in a coat and heels, mouthing along to ‘Hey, Big Spender’. She flung the coat off, turned round and touched her toes.
‘Oh-oh! She’s flexible as well, gents. What do you say to that?’
Ben, with a hoodie tied round his waist, and sexy-nurse Clare were wincing at the back of the crowd.
‘Nice outfit,’ said Charlie politely.
‘I feel like I’ve done a twelve-hour shift in A and E, to be honest,’ said Clare. ‘We were just saying we hope you’re all right. It must be tough, being out, seeing each other but not being together.’
‘I’m fine.’ Charlie glanced back towards the dance pit. Sara and Fergus were grinding, his chest covered in ultraviolet handprints. It was utterly predictable. Fergus had been a major source of arguments since before their relationship even began. He was constantly hanging around Sara being ‘such a good friend’, Sara always insisting that he didn’t fancy her, when it was blatant to all concerned that he definitely did.
Charlie gave himself a shake: he had to stay positive. ‘Have either of you guys seen Sasha?’
Ben and Clare shrugged.
Downstairs, in the smoking area, Charlie found Romilly and Katie huddled on a bench. ‘Can I have a drag?’
‘Oh shut up, Charlie!’ said Romilly scornfully. ‘You don’t smoke. It’s bad for you.’
Charlie sat down with a groan.
‘What?’
‘How can I be out with so many girls in their underwear and still be having a shit time? It’s like Rehab, but worse.’
‘I know. It’s making us feel like pensioners.’ Katie exhaled smoke with a toss of the head.
‘And everywhere I turn, Sara’s there.’
‘Well, that’s what you get for being the idiot who dumped his lovely, hot girlfriend,’ Romilly yawned.
‘Why did you split up with her?’ said Katie.
‘I’ve told you. No big reason.’
Charlie almost asked if they’d seen Sasha – but if she hadn’t arrived by now, he had to accept she wasn’t coming. It was so disappointing. Even if he hadn’t got with Sasha, a conversation with her would have lifted the whole night; it would have felt like some kind of event.
A truly annihilated girl in fluorescent underwear clattered past, her embarrassed boyfriend jogging after.
‘You know what kind of guy you are, Charlie.’ Romilly practically swallowed the fag. ‘You’re a good guy who thinks he’s a dick. It’s one of the worst types. Because your signalling is all over the place. It’s never clear when your dickishness is going to strike. Then you’re nice, out of nowhere. So confusing.’
‘Is it true that you asked Sara not to come to SSB and told her all the people you want to sleep with?’
‘What?’ Charlie turned to Katie in shock.
‘Like, actual names? Seems a bit harsh.’
‘What?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s just wrong. Of course I didn’t. That’s not true.’
‘Don’t get angry with me.’
‘But it’s bullshit!’
‘That’s what I told them!’
‘I can’t believe this.’ Charlie raked his hair, looking around for someone to confirm his outrage. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘You know what people are like.’
‘I should go and have a word with her.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to. I mean, really.’
Charlie strode back up the stairs, past the slave auction (‘Sold! To the ladies’ pole-dancing squad!’) and over to the dance floor. Incredulity burned in his chest; he silently mouthed his disbelief as he squeezed past a grinding couple. Lucas waved through the smoke – Charlie ignored him, sights trained on the main bar. His shock was beginning to give way to indignation: he didn’t deserve to be lied about – he hadn’t done anything wrong! In fact, he’d done nothing but support her since they split up. The half-empty bar already looked like the morning after, strewn with plastic cups and sticky spillages. Sara was at a circular table, Fergus’s arm drooped lazily round her bare shoulders. Matt was half-asleep, cradling his head on his arms. Charlie stood there, breathing steadily, as one by one, their eyes turned to him.
‘Sara,’ he practically growled. ‘Can I talk to you, please.’
Ellie tottered along to Capel’s for chips and cheese. In the queue, she tried to write a text to Justin, but it was hard to type, so it ended up as a basic ‘xxxyxz’. Holding onto her chips for dear life, Ellie started out on her way home.
But somehow, she wasn’t ready for the night to be over. She considered going to Justin’s, but doubted he’d appreciate being woken by someone stinking of chips and booze. Instead of walking down
the high street and either waiting for a mythical night bus or setting out on the long trudge to hers (with the potential welcome home of the sound of Rose and PC Whatisname doing it), Ellie found herself wandering down towards the canal. With a plodding, uneven gait, she made her way to the Hope and Anchor, its windows dark, picnic benches empty but for a few stray pint glasses. Opposite the pub, shrouded in shadow, were three canal boats.
Nobody was around.
Ellie tiptoed over to the central boat, and tried to peer into the window. It was further away than she thought – she fell forward and her purse dropped from her pocket onto the concrete edge.
‘Bollocks.’ Ellie heaved herself back up and stooped to pick up the purse. She knocked it into the water. ‘Shhhhit.’ Kneeling on the rough bank, she plunged her hand beneath the sludgy surface. ‘Urgh.’
A head popped out of the next boat’s window. ‘All right?’ someone said, in the darkness.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Ellie slurred.
‘Who’s that?’ said the shadowed man.
‘Nobody, nobody.’
‘Is that Ellie?’
‘Mmmmm . . . Maybe?’
‘It’s Oscar.’
‘Ah.’ Using the boat, Ellie levered herself up and headed towards the voice, slimy hand outstretched. Oscar’s head was framed in the square window, like a newsreader. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, nonchalantly.
‘Hi,’ replied Oscar. ‘What are you up to?’
‘This and that,’ Ellie shrugged, wiping her hand on her top. ‘Ack-chally I just handed in my dissertation. Listen.’ She crouched down, homing in on Oscar’s flickering face. ‘Listen.’
He smiled. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Listen. Why don’t we have sex?’
11
Beyond Good and Evil
Nietzsche challenged his readers to go ‘beyond good and evil’. He made this ‘dangerous motto’ the title of one of his books, a work he considered ‘totally terrible and repellent’, ‘a terrifying book . . . very black, like a squid’. Elsewhere he described himself as an ‘immoralist’ and spoke of the need to ‘overcome morality’. All this seems to imply that going beyond good and evil involves something ugly and depraved, an impression Nietzsche did little to dispel when he muttered darkly of the ‘crisis’ that ‘one day my name will recall’: ‘the most profound clash of consciences, a decision that was invoked against everything that had hitherto been believed’.
Although he called himself an immoralist, Nietzsche did not actually propose to discard morality altogether. ‘I do not deny,’ he wrote, ‘provided I am not a fool, that many actions that are called immoral are to be avoided and resisted; likewise, many that are called moral, should be done and encouraged.’ Instead, he sought to introduce a different kind of morality, to replace ‘Good and Evil’ with ‘Good and Bad’.
Strictly speaking, this was not an introduction but a comeback. Nietzsche’s idea of Good and Bad derived from the ancient world, where for centuries it had been the dominant model of morality. The move towards Good and Evil was brought about by Christianity, with its vision of life based on abstract extremes of salvation and damnation. It was this ‘catastrophe of the highest order’ that Nietzsche set himself to reverse.
Nietzsche called Christianity ‘slave morality’, an insult he meant quite literally. Originating among the slaves of the Roman Empire, Christianity began as a way of making victimisation bearable. To find hope in their oppression, the early Christians told themselves that powerlessness was not the punishment it seemed, because, contrary to appearances, weakness lay at the heart of goodness.
The aristocratic morality of Greece and Rome saw weakness in very straightforward terms, as a failed and contemptible version of strength. With Christianity, the slaves turned this notion on its head. They literally made a virtue of necessity by reinventing their enforced behaviours as signs of personal rectitude. Timidity became humility; self-consciousness was turned into thoughtfulness; submission to people one hates was rebranded as obedience; ‘standing at the door’ was given ‘fine names such as patience’.
At the same time, Nietzsche argued, the Christians spun the best qualities of their masters – taking charge unthinkingly, never reflecting or self-questioning, letting their inner beast run free – to make them look like vices. Strength became brutishness; healthy aggression was portrayed as bullying; acting on instinct was made to look like lack of consideration. The raw confidence of the ruling elite was redefined as unChristian arrogance.
It might sound like an ode to brute power, but with the story of the masters and the slaves Nietzsche was presenting a psychological parable. Within each of us, he said, the same conflict between strength and weakness takes place every day. To allow confidence to triumph, we have to give up our inherited assumptions about the nature of good and bad. Above all, we have to give up our assumptions about guilt. This, said Nietzsche, was Christianity’s most devilish invention: the idea that when you’d done something wrong (even if you were provoked, and you didn’t mean it, and who said it was so bad anyway), your first reaction should be to hate yourself for it.
A blazing rectangle of light shone through the curtains, turning the whole room red. The Minnie Mouse clock read twenty past one.
In his first few moments of consciousness, Charlie was hit by a painful burst of fragmented memories – he was pepper-sprayed by his past.
In a dark, ultraviolet corner of the bar, he machine-gunned accusations at Sara’s glowing eyes and teeth – what had she been telling people, why was she lying about him, why was she intentionally ruining his night?
In the car park, apologising for losing his temper, for shouting at her and making her cry, but at the same time, surely she had to understand – ‘Why do I have to understand?’ shrieked Sara.
In the toilets, trying to rescue the evening from this stupid row, finally wriggling out of Lucas’s shorts and heading back out, arse exposed, to find that, out of the three hundred people there, absolutely nobody gave a shit.
On the dance floor, shuffling side to side next to a couple of frosty geishas, raising a hand to the DJ like he’d just come for the music . . .
That was the point he regretted most bitterly. If only he’d carried on having a terrible time, and not tried to go back and sort things out.
In the cab outside Sara’s house, feebly insisting it should go on to his – ‘You can’t, you can’t leave me like this,’ she sobbed, the taxi driver casting a wide eye over his shoulder.
After that, it had actually got worse. The endless circular argument in Sara’s room. They were torturing each other, but couldn’t seem to stop. Fergus fancied her – why couldn’t she be honest and admit that? Charlie was being deliberately mean, he just couldn’t stand seeing her having a good time without him. She was making a drama over nothing – the truth was their relationship wasn’t that important – he’d never fucking liked her.
The instant he said it, Charlie was sorry. At the look on her face, he began to cry too. They held each other, rocking back and forth. He loved her, he really did, he didn’t want to be nasty like this – hadn’t he been looking after her, hadn’t he been there for her, why was she saying these things about him? And just like that, they were right back at the beginning.
In the end, tiredness won. At dawn, when Minnie Mouse said quarter to five, Sara began a new kind of crying: quiet tears of sheer exhaustion slipped down her grey, wrung-out cheeks. ‘I have to sleep,’ she repeated, dredging up the words. ‘Please.’ And he was tired too: too tired to carry on with this awful conversation, too tired to leave.
Charlie was in Sara’s bed. That was the fact – the reality around which everything else arranged itself. Sara’s elbow was digging into the back of his ribs, her thighs pressed against his, her right hand settled in the dip of his waist. Charlie stared blankly at the Kate Moss poster above the laundry basket, looking for an answer in the gap between her eyes. Kate stared back: there was no solution to this riddle. Sara snuggled
up to him with a hum of satisfaction. Charlie submitted, relaxing into the contact, letting it happen.
God, he was sorry. The feeling possessed him, it was impossible to get beyond it: he was sorry, he was sorry, he was sorry. Charlie shifted, bringing Sara closer to him, as if he could communicate his regret through maximum skin-to-skin contact. Sara’s cheek leant against his back, soft and warm. He heard her breath deepen.
A kind of stupid cunning began to mingle with Charlie’s remorse; he reached a hand back and brushed Sara’s lips. She stirred. This was idiotic, it was the worst idea, it would only complicate things further. But Charlie had to do something with this feeling – he couldn’t bear it on his own. Sara’s hand crept over his hip. With quick breath, Charlie heaved round to face her, hand on her waist – all of a sudden they were holding one another.
Afterwards, Charlie felt immediately, appallingly, overwhelmingly guilty. Regret weighed on his ribcage, pinning him to the bed. He wanted to stand up, find his clothes, leave, think, but moving was physically impossible.
Sara propped herself on one elbow and stroked his hair. ‘You look tired.’
He screwed his eyes shut. ‘It was awful, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she laid a hand on his chest. ‘It was awful for both of us.’
Next door, Meredith launched her hairdryer. She must have heard every syllable of last night’s conversation. Sara yanked the covers up and they hid underneath.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she whispered, with a tiny smile.
Oh no, thought Charlie. He knew he had to speak now, clarify the situation before it got out of hand. Yes, it was confusing and difficult and heart-rending (it was for him too) – yes, they had just made impressively passionate love, but nothing had actually changed. ‘Sara—’
‘Hey there.’ Somebody thumped on the door.
They both jumped. Sara peeked over the duvet edge. ‘Hello?’
The door swung open. ‘I’ve made you some tea.’
‘Fergus! Um . . . not now.’
Charlie stayed hidden, curled into a foetal position, hoping it would all go away.
Confidence Page 15
