Man Hating Psycho

by Iphgenia Baal

  At the end of the night the two of them catch the Tube together. He sits beside her this time and drapes his arm round her shoulder as he goes over moments from the evening that had been particularly awkward or funny. He puts a hand on her thigh with no one around to see it. He leans his head on her shoulder, saying how he can't wait to be in bed. So she reads the signs as saying she's gonna go back to his. She wants to go back to his. But then, when the train doors open at Piccadilly Circus he turns to look at her and says, -—Isn't this your stop?

  — Oh, she says. — Yeah.

  She grabs her jacket and jumps off the train.

  — I’ll call you tomorrow, they both say at the same time then laugh.

  It’s only when she gets outside and an alert vibrates her phone that she remembers tomorrow is the day she’s supposed to fly to Berlin. A plan made time ago that being so involved in the edit and in the event, she’d completely forgotten.

  Berlin is Berlin. Big scary Fraus and their big scary children, teeth-kissing Turks, British kids from the provinces posing as noise musicians, and drugs. The two of them exchange a few texts over the course of the week but their conversations are out of sync, with messages replied to hours after they are sent… But of course she thought about what was going on between them, attempting to gauge different possibilities. It seemed likely they were gonna have sex but after that would they be boyfriend and girlfriend? That seemed a bit much. Maybe something more emancipated than that. Lovers. Too schmaltzy. Fuck buddies. Too crass. Maybe just friends who love each other who sometimes have sex. She went with that one.

  The day before she is due to fly back to London he messages: When r u back?

  She types: Tomorrow… I miss Mexico.

  A speech bubble pops up. It goes dot, dot dot, then disappears then pops up again. He texts: I miss you.

  An unexpected development.

  She smiles as she replies: Miss u too

  He texts back with a link to a song on Spotify: ‘Best Friend’ — Vybz Kartel.

  She puts her headphones in and listens.

  A tight pum pum is a man’s best friend, couldn’t be no puppy what a load of shit. Not a rottie’, not a pit, just a goodie goodie in a drawers that’s it.

  It’s the first music with a rhythm she’s heard all week.

  She messages: So good xx

  He replies with a photograph of Vybz Kartel in a purple suit simulating sex on a woman bent over in front of him. He texts: U and me LOL.

  She laughs as she replies: Have you blacked up?

  He replies: Have you?

  It might be a cack-handed London version of it, but it is definitely flirting.

  Fireworks Night. She wakes around ten to a text from him sent at four in the morning: Call me when u wake. Lets go fireworks xxx

  She calls.

  — Hey there, I rarely check my messages so if you want to get in touch with me you can send me a text.

  If he was awake at four it makes sense he’s sleeping now, she thinks.

  She spends the morning catching up on life. Pays bills, replies to emails. He’s sent her an email with a load of photos from his Mexico trip.

  Thought maybe you could do a layout using these??

  She downloads them and looks through. Mostly they’re black and white landscape shots but one is of him completely naked on top of a moving train. His willy wasn’t that small.

  Running out of menial tasks mid-afternoon and too Ryanaired to do any real work, she decides to walk in the general direction of his, assuming he’ll wake at some point and tell her to come over anyway. Knowing he doesn’t have InDesign she takes her computer with her and since she’s carrying a bag she chucks in her toothbrush and a bar of hotel soap.

  She walks the usual way to his but when she gets to Westminster Bridge a protest has closed off the road. No big surprise. Society’s been crumbling all year and there’d been a protest every weekend since the weather warmed up. But this protest isn’t your usual demographic of the think-they’re-liberal middle classes and DIY anarchos handing out risographed ‘what to do if you get arrested’ pamphlets. This march is entirely made up of black people, and old black people at that, dreader than dread, dressed in army fatigues. What looked like the Channel One soundsystem from carnival was playing dub on the back of a flatbed truck. She’s never seen a protest like it and knows there is no way she can let it go past.

  She joins the throng, walking on the pavement beside the march, partly because the road is barricaded off and partly because it is her habit to remain at the peripheries of any mass movement. Signs bob above the crowd.

  ‘My ancestors were Kings and Queens’.

  ‘I was stolen’.

  ‘Reparation Day is Today!’

  ‘Stop the Maangamizi’.

  Maangamizi is a term she hasn’t heard before. She takes out her phone and is about to look up what it is when an electric wheelchair speeds by, an oxygen tank on its back, driven by a man with tubes feeding the oxygen into his nose.

  — Go back where you came from darkie! he yells at everyone and no one.

  Her jaw drops. She was used to black fetishisation racism and racism disguised by neoliberal metaphor but it’d been a while since she’d witnessed old-fashioned, out-and-out ‘darkie’ shit. Was this guy serious?

  A tall man wearing a Gaddafi t-shirt, with long, immaculate dreads, takes the bait.

  — You piss off, he says to the disabled lunatic.

  — No one wants you here wog! the disabled lunatic shouts.

  Her jaw drops lower.

  — You think, the tall man wearing a Gaddafi t-shirt with long, immaculate dreads turns and addresses the wheelchair, — that I am so stupid as to give you what you want? To leap over the barriers and beat you, like you deserve and then you get your footage, your precious footage to send to the papers and look: Black man attacks disabled pensioner? Well you’ve got the wrong man because I’m a smarter man than that.

  The disabled lunatic deals out a couple more racial slurs then speeds off.

  The march crosses Westminster Bridge before the crowd congregates on the lawn outside Parliament. Someone hangs the Jamaican flag over the statue of Emmeline Pankhurst, that says 'Courage calls to Courage Everywhere'. She snaps a pic of it on her phone.

  Wandering through the crowd she gets a couple of dirty looks for not being black enough, but most of the protesters don't seem to mind her presence and one or two even give her a nod or a double-blink to indicate their awareness of her particular predicament. Different from theirs, but related.

  A woman steps up to a mic set up on the back of the flatbed truck carrying the Channel One soundsystem.

  — I am here, the woman says, — representing the Dutch West Indies and Suriname.

  Not Jamaica, not Trini, not Barbados, not Martinique, not St Lucia. Suriname. No one ever talks about Suriname.

  — Whoop, whoop, she whoops in excitement and throws a hand in the air to represent. It being such a rare occasion, she can’t help herself.

  — Too long, the woman representing the Dutch West Indies and Suriname says, throwing a hand in the air herself. The crowd echoes the words in agreement. — For too long black women have been ignored, silenced, trodden on. We have sacrificed our bodies, our minds, our children to this system without credit, without acknowledgement, without payment. How many rich people, how many famous people, how many powerful people, how many well-established people are in the places they are in because of the toil, the labour, the continuing oppression, the silencing, the invisibility of the sacrifices and efforts of black women? Four hundred years, four hundreds years! Well to those dishonourable men and women sitting in that collapsing building that houses their democracy I say, those four hundred years are up!

  Cheers from the crowd.

  — Now is the time for black women to speak and be heard, for their suffering to be recognised but also their talents, their skills, their contribution…

  Her phone rings. It’s him. She w
ants to listen so puts it on silence then changes her mind and answers.

  — Hey, she says, putting a finger in her other ear so she can hear him. — I’m in Parliament Square. There’s a reparations march and the speaker’s from Suriname! You should come down.

  — I’m fugged, he groans. — I’ve got dis mendal tootache. It came on lasd nighd. I was hoping id go away but id’s jus fugged.

  — You sound terrible, she says. — Do you want me to bring you some painkillers? I’m not far from yours. I could get some codeine.

  — Nah, he says. — You’re alrighd. Think I jus godda sleep id off…

  — You sure? she says. — I really don’t mind. Have you eaten anything? Maybe you should go to a dentist?

  — Theriouthly, he says, — I’m in no fid sdade.

  He sounds really bad.

  — Okay, she says — Another day then. Shame… Thought we could go up on the roof of that block and watch the fireworks.

  He laughs, a low throaty gurgle that sounds like he’s about to expire.

  — I’ll led you know if da siduashion changes ad all, he says. — But righd now roofdop is off.

  By the time she gets off the phone the woman representing the Dutch West Indies and Suriname has finished and the crowd is dispersing. She sets off towards home but, crossing Trafalgar Square, he calls again.

  — Do you want to go to Lewes for the fireworks? he says, sounding like his usual hyper self.

  She stops in her tracks, spins 180°, spins 180° back.

  — Errrrr, she says. — What? When?

  — ASAP, he says.

  — Okay, um…, she says.

  — I’m gonna jump the train, he says.

  — What should I do? she says.

  — Where are you now? he says.

  — Victoria, she says, unsure why she lies.

  — Come to mine, he says. — How quick can you be?

  She calculates potential routes in her head. The 88 goes from nearby.

  — Actually, scrap that he says. — Clapham Junction station. Ten minutes.

  — I think it’ll take me longer than that, she says.

  — Okay. Twenty minutes then, he says. — Be as fast as you can, I’ll be there.

  She descends into Charing Cross Tube, opting for the fastest (and most expensive) route to Clapham Junction. Underground to Victoria then British Rail. A whopping £5.40. Arriving at Clapham Junction, she walks to one exit to see if he is there. He isn’t. She walks to the other. No sign of him.

  She texts.

  — Which exit u at?

  She is about to go through the ticket barriers when she realises she’ll only have to come back in again and if he’s going to bunk the train then she might as well bunk the train, because if he gets caught they’ll both be fucked. She taps out on the ‘changing journeys’ machine and waits inside the barriers. Half an hour goes by, forty five minutes. She calls.

  — Hi there…

  She texts: Where are you?

  Ten minutes later he texts back: I’m an idiot.

  He calls.

  — Left my phone at home, he says. — Had to come all the way back to get it so I’m only leaving now. Will be ten minutes max. Check the train times. Let me know which platform you’re on.

  She waits for him on Platform Six for half an hour. He appears on the stairs just as a train pulls into the station. It isn’t the train to Lewes but he says they should get on anyway as it’s a local train so less chance of inspectors. Rush hour commuter hell presses them against each other for several stops. She tells him about the woman from Suriname.

  — I think I know her, he says. — Brenda. She’s my mate.

  — Brenda what? she says.

  — I don’t know, he says.

  — I’d like to meet her, she says.

  He looks worse for wear and is taking sips from an expensive-looking bottle of brandy.

  — Can I have some? she says.

  He hands her the bottle.

  — Happy holidays, she says, raising it to her lips.

  She takes a sip. It’s delicious.

  — I need it, he says, taking the bottle back. — It’s the only thing that stops my face aching.

  More people get on and they’re separated so she puts her headphones in and listens to music on her phone. He messages with someone on his until the train empties out. A seat comes up.

  — Sit on my lap, he says, taking the seat and patting his thigh.

  She sits, taking out one headphone so she can hear him.

  — What are you listening to? he says.

  — DBE, she says. — Like always.

  — Oh, he says, — Are they those gay boys you love so much?

  He rests his hand casually on her hip, moves it inch by inch towards her bum.

  — Errr, I don’t think they’re gay, she says and laughs. — They’re completely obsessed with pussy.

  — You know what I mean, he says. — Gay as in gayboys, who spend all day thinking about sex.

  — Their lyrics are so rude, she says, putting a hand faux-coyly to her mouth.

  — Tell me, he says.

  She laughs. —They’re too rude for rush hour.

  — Whisper it then, he says, — In my ear.

  She waits for the song to reach the right bit.

  — That pussy drippin, I just put my tip in, my tongue in her mouth while her pussy is full up, she whisper-raps.

  He gives her bum a squeeze.

  At Croydon, the commuters exeunt en masse. She moves to the seat opposite, putting her feet up on the seat next to him. He’s still on his phone but rests his other hand on her ankle. He closes his fingers round it. He slides his hand slowly up to her thigh.

  — Check this out, he says, thrusting his phone screen in her face.

  Most times she hates looking at things on people’s phone but he’s earned his credentials in interesting digital content over the years and so she sits forward to see. A chat is open with ‘Billie’.

  Hey, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I’m a REALLY big fan of your work. I’m really into crime and I think prison is bad so big up for all you’re doing to try and stop it.

  He scrolls back through old messages too fast for her to read them.

  — What’s that? she says, not understanding.

  — This girl wants the D, he says and laughs.

  She gets a sinking feeling. She brings her feet to the floor. Why was he touching her up at the same time as messaging Billie? Why was he messaging Billie at all? She stares out the window to hide her face from him, zones in on the reflection of a tablet belonging to a man sitting in the next compartment. She can read his email clearly. It says:

  Dear Gary,

  Thank you for applying for the position of Parking Lot Manager. Unfortunately, we have had a lot of applications for this position…

  Poor Gary.

  He’s still chatting and laughing.

  — What were those lyrics again? he says.

  — That pussy drippin’, I just put my tip in…, she says out of rhythm in a monotone.

  — Billie’s gonna get the tip, he says, — Just the tip, hahahaha. Nothing else.

  — Who is Billie anyway? she says.

  — How do I know? he says. — But I know her parents are going to the country next weekend and I’m invited.

  — Her parents? she says.

  The train doors open. No one moves. The train doors beep, warning they are about to close. He jumps out of his seat.

  — I’ve been here before, he says, — There are no ticket barriers. And we can probably get a cab for like five pound or something.

  He heads for the doors. She rushes after him, makes it onto the platform but her jacket gets caught in the train doors. A moment of panic. She calls his name but he’s already gone. She yanks the material free and runs after him. He’s right, no barriers. She spots him talking to a minicab with its engine on.

  — How much to Lewes mate? he leans in the window.


  — Forty pound, boss, the driver says.

  — That’s as much as buying tickets for the train, she says.

  — You’re alright boss, he says to the driver, who rolls up his window. He turns to her. — Yeah but it’s the principle.

  — What? she says. — The principle of supporting private enterprise over national infrastructure?

  He doesn’t, or pretends not to hear.

  They walk to the main road, taking one last sip each of the brandy.

  — I’ll pay for the cab if you get some more liquor, he says.

  She agrees.

  He orders an Uber on his phone and a few minutes later a Prius pulls up. It gets them to Lewes for £36 but when they reach the outskirts of town the turning is closed off.

  — They don’t want no one who isn’t local coming, that’s why, the Uber driver says.

  The road block has caused a traffic jam, which they sit in for fifteen, twenty minutes.

  — Fuck this, he says eventually. — Let’s walk.

  She doesn’t like the sound of this and nor does the Uber driver.

  — Very dangerous, he says. — Dark. No pavement.

  But he is out the car and she has no choice but to follow.

  At first it’s fun collecting looks from people stuck in their cars but pretty soon the traffic picks up and they’re walking headlong into vehicles going sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour. He speeds ahead of her, surefooted but she’s nervous and shouts for him to wait. He slows down, walking in front of her protectively, until they reach a bridge across the motorway.

  — Let’s go up here, he says.

  She thinks they’re going to climb the actual bridge.

  — You’re going to have to help me, she says.

  — Course, he says.

  He puts on builders’ gloves and climbs not up the bridge but up the bank alongside it. Of course. She follows, clutching at ivy, slipping in mud. Asides from the gloves, which allow him to grip on to the slimy branches, he’s wearing trainers and a tracksuit. She’s in loafers that don’t have any grip and a pencil skirt but she makes it without his help anyway, if only just.