Eight Rooms

by Various

  Rachel’s phone is on the kitchen work-surface where she’s left it alongside the half-unpacked shopping bag. Without giving myself enough time to think about the potential ramifications of what I’m doing, I pick up the thing and flick through the call register. Again, I don’t do this with the green-eyed desperation of a shunned partner looking for proof; I do it with the cold-eyed righteousness which Rachel had previously trade-marked as her own stock reaction to anything.

  With something verging on shock, I see that Rachel has dialled Sam’s number on seven or eight separate occasions since her two calls from last night. None of these calls have been answered and there have been no return calls. For some reason, my eyes shoot round to CLJ in his cot and I wonder just what the hell is going on.

  A second shock rips through my defences almost as soon as I’ve managed to start dealing with the first one. I suddenly realise that while I’ve been checking her phone, Rachel has slipped out of the flat with my neighbour; the one that always gives her those looks in the mirror when we happen to get into the lift together. Desperately, I race to the door and take a look out into the corridor. Everything seems quiet but I’m sure I can hear the low bass-tones of my neighbour’s voice coming from his flat. He’ll be trying on that ‘shoulder-to-cry-on’ hat for size, checking whether it’s the kind of thing that might win Rachel over. I hover on the doorstep, wondering what action I can take. Part of me wants to take those three steps across the corridor and kick the prick’s door down; part of me wants to go in, all guns blazing and rescue my princess. Part of me realises that if I do any of this, she will more than likely never speak to me again.

  The more I think about making those three easy steps, the more I convince myself that it is a terrible idea. I’ve not been out for a good few weeks now and to break that vigil for something so trivial (in the great scheme of things) would be something I’d always regret. And besides, those three steps don’t necessarily look easy any more. In fact, the corridor is looking more and more forbidding by the minute. I close the front door again and heave a deep sigh of relief.

  Deep down, I think I have started to understand the fact that I am trapped. I am trapped within this adult flat and adult body and adult life and there’s nothing I can do about it. The last time I talked to my old group of friends, there were only two of us that weren’t already married, engaged or had children on the way. Conversation had become a minefield of honeymoon locations and joint bank accounts. Over beers, some talked of the fabled tax credits or of the extortionate cost of enrolling a child in the local nursery. One day, I just decided that I didn’t want to be involved in such conversations any more. My job as a computer game designer began to take on the key role in my life. It was my one escape from the relentless pressure of time. And if you thought that by my explaining all this to Rachel, we’d have reached some kind of understanding, then you’ve got another thing coming, buster. Because those are the kinds of conversations Rachel wants us to be having. In her opinion, they are the kind of long-term plans that we ought to be making.

  In the flat, CLJ is crying again and I realise that I can’t stand it any more. I pick up Rachel’s phone again and dial Sam’s number. I press the damn phone against my ear and drum my fingers on the cold, hard work surface that I know so well.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ I breathe, listening to the unchanging ringing tone nine, ten, eleven times… Suddenly Sam’s voice kicks-in and for a moment, I don’t realise that it is her answerphone message.

  ‘Hi, this is Samantha and Jack Richards,’ she Jar-Jars, ‘we’re sorry that we’re not here to take your call, but if you leave a message after the beep, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.’

  A random image pops into my head: CLJ collecting Sam’s answer-phone messages and returning the calls, a cigar chomped between his lips like some big-businessman. The beep sounds loud in my ear and I almost jump, but manage to compose myself enough to leave a message.

  ‘It’s Mark,’ I moan. ‘Please come and pick up your son so that we can all regain a little bit of sanity.’

  Sam’s answer-phone offers me the option of re-recording my message, but on reflection, the message that I’ve already left pretty much says it all. She should come and pick up the little bastard before he ruins anything else. As an afterthought, I hand Rachel’s phone over to CLJ and give him an encouraging smile. Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he’ll be able to break it before the day is out.

  I have a yearning for the sofa. I have a yearning to be reclining into it, logged-in to my game-network, forgetting all about the fucked-up situation that I’ve found myself in. I’m thirsty too, and a nice Corona with a quarter-lime would go down a treat. But to grab a Corona would mean confronting the wrecked fridge, and attempting to climb back onto the sofa would mean doing something about CLJ’s body-bag which is slumped across it like an even more bloated Jabba the Hut.

  Sighing, I grab the phone back from Jack and dial Samantha’s number once again. Once again, the phone rings out and I’m forced to leave another bloody message.

  ‘Look Sam; where was this contract that we signed up to which said that we were making some kind of swap deal? Jack is your kid and Sy Snootles is our cat. I think that everybody should go back to where they started. Come back to our flat and we’ll get everything back to how it should be.’

  This time, instead of clicking the phone off, I hold it over CLJ and record the sound of his constant crying for a good two minutes. That should bring her back here sharpish, I think, kicking the body-bag off the sofa and slumping down into the deep crevasse that it has left.

  But I can’t relax, not with CLJ crying like that. I check his nappy and offer him some food. I even try pulling some faces at him again. Nothing works. He’s crying for the sake of it. In desperation, I unzip the body-bag again, hoping that somewhere within its folds, Samantha will have left some forwarding address for the health retreat or something.

  It’s as I’m checking the inside pockets that I find it; the object which instantly destroys my life as effectively as the Death Star blows up Leia’s planet, Alderan. But the object that I find is something far simpler than a man-made star-destroying planet-sized space station. It is a piece of paper, ripped from out of one of those reporter-style notebooks. It contains the sprawling hand of Samantha Richards. It is a letter and it is addressed to me. My eyes scan the page in ever-increasing horror:

  ‘Dear Mark,

  And I hope it will be you that finds this note and not Rachel. There is something that you need to know; something which I’ve come close to telling you on so many occasions. In a way, I think you know it already what I’m about to tell you. You’ve known all along.’

  I feel the fear start to rise in the pit of my stomach. My fingers tremble as they grip the page, causing it to rustle a little. Because I already know what she is going to tell me; I already know that Samantha – pained, poetic Samantha – hasn’t got it in her to keep the silence going forever. I read on, wishing that somehow I’ll lose the ability to recognise letters and words; wishing that somehow the ink will lose definition; wishing I’d never found the damn thing in the first place.

  ‘Do you remember that night at Jimmy’s; the house party? You clearly didn’t want to be there; it was plain on your face. You argued with Rachel and she stormed off into town. I could tell that some part of you wanted to go after her, but all you could do was stand by the window and stare out of that gap between the curtains. I could tell that there was some kind of battle going on inside you. You don’t even go out at all these days, do you?’

  I don’t; and it’s for precisely this reason that I don’t. Things happen out there; things which are out of my control. Other people come into play, and with them, nothing is certain. Even now, as I read this poisoned letter, I can feel myself becoming infected.

  ‘Anyway, you got very drunk at Jimmy’s. Drunk enough certainly, that you could convince yourself that you wouldn’t remember anything, and that there would be no co
nsequences to your actions. And you’d always known how I felt about you, hadn’t you?’

  That much is true; I have always known about Sam and her crush. Even then, I’d known that I’d been playing with fire when I did what I did…

  ‘There’s no point in trying to explain what happened. All I know is that you were gone by the morning; back to your microcosmic world in the flat. You probably brain-washed yourself into thinking that nothing happened. It wasn’t as easy for me, Mark. Not only did I have to face the crippling guilt of having done something so terrible to one of my best friends, I also knew, right from the start that I was pregnant. I don’t want to go into all of the medical stuff that I know you hate, but I had to be very clever with dates and times in order that I could convince Jeremy that the baby was his. In the end, he worked it out. Jack couldn’t have been his; he’d been away in the U.S on business at the time if you remember.’

  I steal a quick look up at the door; perhaps I’m checking for Rachel’s return, or perhaps, as is more likely, the mere mention of Samantha’s ex has me quivering like a wreck again.

  ‘Jeremy worked it out for himself. Probably everyone else has worked it out now, but you. Look at Jack. He’s got your messy hair, your killer smile and that sparkle in his brown eyes. When he yawns he looks just like you; as though he’s bored with the whole world.’

  I try not to look at CLJ. I try not to check the veracity of her statement. Perhaps she knew I’d be like this, and that’s why she felt the need to put it all in a letter.

  ‘I love Jack; more than I ever thought it possible to love someone, I love him. I would do anything for him. And that’s why I’ve done this. I can’t cope with him. Not on my own. I can’t give him the time that he deserves. But you can, Mark; if there’s one thing you’ve got plenty of, it’s time, isn’t that right?’

  Strangely, I find myself nodding my head as though Samantha is in the room with me. And in a way, she is; I can’t shake off the image of that broken woman settling down at her desk and having to write this letter. At some parts, near the bottom of the letter, there are a few blotches; tear-stains which she’s left as though they are the final, clinching proof of my guilt.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be away for, but I want you – and that includes Rachel – to look after Jack. I don’t care if you tell her about us or not. I’m past the point of worrying about that. Jack is the most important person in all of this, and he shouldn’t be punished for our mistakes.

  And Mark? Don’t try to call me. I plan to throw my phone off Mordal Bridge once I’ve dropped Jack off at your flat. It might ring for a couple of days, but eventually, the battery will run out.

  Meet your son, Mark. I mean really meet your son.’

  I crumple the paper into a ball in my sweating fist. This is my Darth Vader/ Luke Skywalker moment, just like at the end of The Empire Strikes Back. I can almost hear the haunting John Williams score in the background. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s more than a moment in a sci-fi film. This is reality, and reality knows just how to kick a man when he’s down. It feels like the end of the world. I am not the hero of my own life, but rather the villain.

  CLJ obviously feels the tension in the room and the way that my mood has darkened, for he chooses that very moment to let loose with another wild bout of screaming.

  ‘I feel the same way,’ I mutter, leaning over the cot, staring into those eyes of his which I recognise as oh so familiar now. Numbly, I reach into the cot and pick him up. I’m unprepared for the weight of him, just like I was with Mr. Snootles earlier. His weight convinces me that he is more than just a collection of pixels; he is real.

  Even in my arms, he continues to cry those great, heart-wrenching sobs of pain. Absently, I begin to wonder if there is anything I can do for this little… person.

  ‘It’ll be all right, I whisper, as much to myself as to him. Lightly, I start to jog him up and down a little, hoping that it will soothe us.

  Rachel chooses that moment to step back into the flat. She has her head down as she enters, but when she looks up and sees us, a confused expression washes over her. She stares at us for a long moment; suddenly, CLJ feels like a piece of burning coal in my hands. I know that I must put him back in the cot before she realises the significance of this little father and son reunion. But I can’t let go of him; he’s still crying. I’m still needed.

  Rachel steps further into the room, still staring. I know she’s worked it out. I know that the truth we’d all buried for the past four months has now been shown to her. I try to give her a look into which is poured all of my own incredulity and fear. She must know… This is well and truly the end of us.

  But then Rachel smiles. Perhaps it’s on account of the fact that CLJ has just been sick on my arm or perhaps it is something deeper. At first, it is only a fleeting smile, which plays at the corners of her lips, but soon the full-on dimples are out and even her eyes agree; it is a smile of acceptance. When I smile back, it is a smile of gratitude and when CLJ starts to smile, he’s probably smiling because we’re both grinning like loons. It seems as though the world has suddenly flipped on its axis. I think that we’re all thinking that despite everything, things might turn out all right.

  I don’t call him CLJ any more. Unbelievable as it may have been to my former self, I call him ‘son’. It started with a slip of the tongue. For ages, I was worried that Rachel may have heard me, but soon I realised that none of us wanted to look that deeply into things. I suppose, deep-down, we were both so overwhelmingly grateful to Jack for somehow, against all the odds bringing happiness back into the flat that the events leading up to his arrival became a kind of blind-spot.

  We don’t talk about Samantha any more. Her phone has run out of batteries, just like she said it would, and we receive her weekly postcards without even passing comment. They are all from far-flung places like Fiji and Samoa. In the brief notes, she sounds happy. Occasionally, she informs us that soon she might be strong enough to come back and start her life with Jack again and we start to worry for a couple of weeks, but we haven’t yet had to face that earth-shattering old face on the video link of the door entry system.

  Jack’s well, thanks for asking. ‘Cat’ was his first word, despite the fact that Rachel and I were both secretly training him up so that ‘Rachel’ or ‘Mark’ or ‘Daddy’ would win. Maybe Mr. Snootles played the game best by simply staying in the background and minding his own business, much as he had since Rachel had picked him up from the cattery on that fateful Sunday.

  Jack looks more and more like me every day, and only now do I understand that look that I used to catch my father giving me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He can shuffle around the place pretty well now, in that ungainly style that he’s perfected and he likes to investigate everything. I suppose that in terms of his personality, he’s nothing like me, but the way I’ve been in my time, that can only be a good thing. Still, we both enjoy it when I sit him on my knee and tell him amazing stories of space battles and space smuggling. I think we both recognise the fact that these stories are just for fun, nothing more.

  Jack also loves sitting with me and watching the Gamorrean Guard juggling with his weights and we laugh at the fact that he’s so poor at it. I’ve already convinced myself that Jack will not be one of his kind. Nor will he be a bus-stop man or a drunk or a moustachioed gasman. He’s my shining hope for the future; my Luke Skywalker.

  I suppose that in the end, we’ve all got what we want, and even though the whole thing is based on the most fragile of lies, we are happy. Rachel got the family unit that she wanted, even though it was only by default; I got to stay in the flat for the majority of all day every day as a stay-at-home husband; Samantha got to go back to her old life. Sure we were hiding from uncomfortable truths, and sure the equilibrium was so fragile that we thought we could shatter it with even the merest reference to the whole story, but we learned to hold on to what we had. We learned that in life, happiness only comes fleet
ingly, and sometimes you have to make do with degrees of happiness.

  All of us live our lives making up stories to tell each other in place of the truth; all of us navigate haphazardly through life’s asteroid fields, trying to stay on our somewhat shaky bearing. We live in fear of the croak of the buzzer telling us that everything we tried has been in vain. We make the most of what we have while we have it. And in this respect, I suppose that you could say that we’ve become normal again.

  8

  Miranda Winram

  ‘One, two, three, four, five,

  Once I caught a fish alive.’

  The words drifted into the room, a snatch of sound gradually diminishing and then cut off completely. I heard the words but did not move, I did not know how to.

  I hadn’t known the song before but the simple words linked themselves circularly, looping around my brain repeatedly. ‘…Once I caught a fish alive, one, two, three, four, five, once I caught a fish alive…’ It wasn’t the fish singing (of course); it was caught, hanging on the end of a line. But it was still alive – maybe it gets away? Or dies? Perhaps it could sing then. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, what must have happened then?

  Time passed. I opened my eyes, experimentally. Closed them. Prepared for the brightness. And opened them again.

  A woman appeared sideways, opening a swing door just within my field of vision, turning in a practised move around the end of the door and simultaneously looking up from the clipboard she held. “Good morning Farah.” She smiled. “How are you feeling today?”

  There was no answer; I could see she hadn’t expected me to offer one. I kept my eyes on her; I could not smile.

  “It’s great that you’re awake today. I’m Deepa Partha.” She came closer and stood with her face above mine, speaking slowly. She had dark skin, like me, with long black hair tied into a ponytail. “You’ve been unconscious for a day. You’re in Mildenhall Hospital; we’re a specialised unit for the treatment of burns. I’m the Consultant here, the senior doctor.’ She gestured behind her. ‘This is Jena; she is a nurse on the ward and is here to help look after you.”