She emerges from the foliage to him getting angry looks from locals as he tags a massive ‘Free Palestine’ tag on the sign welcoming you to town.
— You know that the PLO was set up with Nazi money? she says.
— What are you chatting about? he says, pocketing his magic marker.
— The Palestine Liberation Organisation was funded by François Genoud. Nazi banker.
— Don’t tell me you're fucking pro-Israel, he says.
— No, she says, — no, but you know, most countries are founded on bloodshed and Israel has shed a lot less blood than, say England…
— You’re a fucking Zionist, he says.
— I’m not a fucking anything, she says. — I’m just saying some facts.
— So what? he says.
— So I just think you should think about what you write on walls, she says.
— Where’s a newsagent? he says. — You need to buy us something to drink.
They look around for a shop but can only find a pub. She buys them expensive pints for the countryside as the Proddies gather outside, oil drums burning, rockets going off.
— Let’s take these and go, he says.
They hide their full pints from the bar staff and scarper, following the route of the procession. The further into town they get the busier it gets and soon the streets are rammed and they are forced in the middle of the parade, with fires burning and bangers going off. A piece of hot coal jumps out of a trailer, burns a hole in her tights and singes her leg.
— Watch out! someone shouts.
— Get back! someone shouts.
— You’re not supposed to be walking. It’s dangerous. You’ve got to wait, someone shouts.
They duck inside the barriers and push on at the back of the crowd until they come the other end of the parade where the streets empty out.
— Fuck, she says, —That was intense.
He’s got his phone in his hand and is looking around.
— Yes mate, he says, high-fiving a guy who appears out of nowhere.
— Fancy bumping into you, the guy says.
— You didn’t tell me we were meeting someone, she says.
He doesn’t hear her.
His friend has a girlfriend and from that point forth the group arranges itself into the men conversing between themselves with the women defaulting into each other’s company. The girlfriend is alright but because more preoccupied with the fact that he is, for no reason she can see, ignoring her.
They watch the bonfires, then go for a drink in a pub in town. His friend offers to drop them back to the outskirts of London on his way back to Essex.
On the drive back, the boys sit in the front seat talking shop (graffiti). The women attempt to join in the conversation but fail so the girlfriend demands control of the music.
— What shall we play? the girlfriend says, — Something good.
— D Block Europe, she says. — Outside. That's the one most people like.
His friend's girlfriend finds the song on Spotify.
— Yeah, I like this shit, the girlfriend says as it starts. — Like, what’s that American group? Migos?
— Yeah, DBE are the real Migos, she says, cheering up.
In the front seat, he reaches forward, turns the volume down.
— Hey! she says.
— It’s fucking shit, he says.
She sits forward and punches him lightly on the arm.
— What’s your fucking problem? he says, nasty.
And that’s her done. She takes off her seatbelt, slumps down in the seat and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the journey. He carries on yammering away and doesn’t notice her silence. But the friend and his girlfriend do.
When the car pulls off Blackheath roundabout she doesn’t bother saying goodbye to them. She slips out, slamming the car door and runs down a side street to wee. He follows her, standing by a wall and pisses in the direction of where she is squatting.
— Well, he says, doing up his fly, — What we doing?
— Exactly what I was about to say, she mutters.
— What’s that? he says.
— What are we doing? she says, wound up.
— What’s your problem? he says. — Are you drunk?
— Yes, she says. — A little.
— You’re acting loopy, he says, sounding irritated.
— Well? she says.
— Well what? he says.
— Well what are we doing? she says. — You and me.
— You tell me, he says.
— Don’t be a goof, she says, carefully opting for a gentle jibe rather than an out-and-out insult as the mood seems electric, but he reacts as if she’d just publicly denounced him as a psychosexual rapist stalker with paedophilic inclinations anyway. He blows up.
— You should watch what you say right now, he says, gesticulating like a hard man, — I’m serious. Chose your words carefully. Because if you say some shit you don’t mean right now, you won’t necessarily be able to take it back.
She is shocked at his reaction, but acts nonchalant to hide it. — I always mean what I say, she says.
— Pfff, he says. — Yeah right.
They walk to a bus stop in silence. He checks his phone again and again and again.
— There’s a bus in two minutes that will take us to the Walworth Road, he says.
— I’m not sure where I’m going, she says.
— Well it’s all the right direction, he says. — Let’s hop on this and then figure it out when we’re somewhere sane.
The bus arrives. They go up to the top deck. It’s empty and they take separate seats. She looks at him. He looks anywhere other than at her. She tries again.
— Don’t you think, she says, — we should talk about it?
— Talk about what? he says.
— We kissed, she says.
— So what? he says.
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it. — So nothing, she says.
They ride a couple more stops.
— All I’m trying to say, she says, — is that we are really good friends, right?
— Right, he says.
— Who tell each other we love each other all the time, right? she says.
— Right, he says.
— And now we’ve kissed, she says.
— Listen S… he says, then breaks off. — Fuck, I almost called you my ex-wife’s name.
There is a different quality to his voice. A meanness she’s not heard before.
— Okay…? she says.
— It’s just that you sounded just like her then, he says.
— Sorry, she says, — but how do I sound anything like that fucking careerist Zabludowicz cunt?
She is losing control of the situation.
— It’s just that she’s the kind of person who makes a massive issue out of nothing, he says. — Which is what you’re doing.
— So this is nothing, she says. — Is that what you’re saying?
— Come on, he says. — Do we really need to have this conversation? I thought we were way past this.
— If that’s how you feel, she says, — then fine. I’m not here to talk you into anything. I’m not trying to go out with you. I’m just saying that we’re friends and we kissed and if that is all then it’s cool but we should at least talk about the situation.
— We are talking about it aren’t we? he says.
— Ya think? she says.
Her sarcasm seems to work.
— So, what do you want to say about ʻthe situationʼ? he says.
— Fuck, she says. — I don’t know! Nothing in particular. Just maybe acknowledge there’s something going on and try n’ figure it out…
— One, he says, — there’s no need to shout. And two, we are friends. That’s it.
— Fine, she says, calming down. — Whatever you say, boss.
— Why ʻbossʼ? he says.
— I’m just saying, she says, — that you can say what
you want but if you look at the whole situation, I’d say it adds up to something more than just friends.
— What, he says, — do you think it is?
— Like I said, she says, — I think maybe we love each other.
— You can’t love me, he says, looking directly at her.
— Why not? she says.
— Because you know the truth, he says.
He sits looking out the window, wincing and holding his bad tooth.
She feels sorry for him, decides to take it easy.
— I like the truth, she says. — I like you.
She moves seats to sit beside to him and puts her arm round his shoulders.
— I told you no, he says and shoves her hard enough for her to fall off the seat and onto the floor.
— This, she says, getting to her feet, — is exactly my point.
— What is? he says. — What is your point?
— If we are just friends, she starts to shout, — then there is no fucking reason for you to act like such a dick!
— I’m not the one making a scene, he shouts back.
— D’you wanna know what I think? she shouts louder, waggling a finger at him like a mum.
— I’m guessing I’m gonna hear it, he says, smarmy as a teenage boy.
— What I think, she says, — is that you chat a big whole load of shit and if you could put your massive ego aside for one second and actually acknowledge the way things are between us. We hang out every day, we talk every day, we work together, we say we love each other, we say we miss each other, we kiss. I just want to pull your panties down and fuck you. I just want to pull your panties down and fuck you. That’s what you said. And you don’t say shit like that to people if you don’t fucking mean it!
— I did mean it, he says, — At the time. But after this I’ve changed my mind.
She eyeballs him for long enough for him to find it disconcerting.
— Look, he says, — I’m sorry if I led you on but I don’t fancy you. That’s just the way it is.
— Oh really? she says.
— Yes really, he says.
— Well I find that hard to believe, she says.
— Oh right, he says, meanness returning. — I forgot you think you’re really fucking fit.
— What? she says, — Like I ʻthinkʼ I’m black?
She’s had enough. She rings the bell.
— D’you know what? Fuck this. I’ve never taken my clothes off in front of a man without his jaw dropping and I’m not going to act like some mincing slut where I try and prise compliments out of you to validate my beauty because I’m not that fucking insecure!
By the end of the sentence she’s shrieking. She twirls round the pole onto the stairs and flounces down them.
— And I don’t think I’m really fucking fit, she throws her voice up the stairwell, — I know I am, so fuck you.
She gives him the finger through the floor as the bus doors open. She steps into the street surprised to find they’re already in Camberwell. He must’ve noticed too because he follows her out.
— Can we not just have one straight conver… she says when she sees him but he blanks her and goes into the shop.
— Fine, she shouts after him. — For. Get. It.
She walks up Peckham Road. Of all the scenarios she had in her head. This was not what was supposed to’ve happened. She stops. Should go back and sort it out. She turns on her heel. A couple of buses go past. She tries to see if he is on either of them, hopes he isn’t, luckily or unluckily enough, when she gets to the bus stop, finds him leaning against it munching a packet of Doritos. A paper carton of coconut water pokes out his pocket. He sees her and laughs.
— Come back for more? he says.
— Can you not be an arsehole for one fucking second? she says.
— Thought of some clever way to manipulate me into fancying you? he says, pleased with his own joke.
— I came back, she says, — because if I walked off this would be a lovers’ tiff and if we aren’t lovers, if we are friends, then there’s nothing to walk off about.
— Exactly, he says, munching crisps with his mouth open and spitting crumbs.
— I’m your friend, you know, she says. — You care about me.
He looks at her and although his features barely change she can see a sheen of something unpleasant.
— Okay then, she says. — You know what? Since this is where we’ve got to, let me tell you a couple of things. First, you shouldn’t be going to stick the tip in to random teenage girls on the Internet you don’t even know. Second, if you loved the Elephant and Castle woman, you wouldn’t tell people her cunt squelches when you fuck her. Third, the gimp ball sex story is fucking atrocious, it’s like who even are you anyway? And last of all the way you talk about women and the way you’re talking to me is fucking bullshit and fucking hypocritical.
— Funny how you suddenly become a feminist when you know you aren’t gonna get any, he says.
She is stunned into silence, unable to get her head around why he would act like this.
A bus pulls up.
— What you doing then? he says.
She is still reeling, trying to process the insult.
— I dunno, she says.
He gets on and feeling like she’s lost all free will, she follows. They stay downstairs, using the driver as a chaperone. She’s not sure what she should do. It wasn’t going well and there was an argument to make that she should just go home. They were both hungry and tired and he was clearly in pain. She takes out her phone and Googlemaps the best way to get to hers. The quickest time is an hour and a half. His house was two stops away. She looks at him. He looks back at her with no expression. A sudden premonition: she’s never gonna see him again. She doesn’t want to not see him again. She panics, tries to think what she can do to remedy the situation.
— I think I’m just gonna come to yours, she says.
— Do what you want, he says.
His words smart but then she remembers all the shit they’ve got going on. The events, Mexico, world domination… Of course this wasn’t it. This was just a bad night and a stupid misunderstanding that would figure itself out by morning.
Back at his she goes heads straight for the bedroom. She keeps her clothes on, feeling like an intruder getting into his bed and lies as far from his side as possible. He clatters about in the kitchen for ages but she’s still awake when he comes in. He gets in bed and lies with his back to her, not touching. Time goes by. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. They’re both awake, you can tell from their breathing but neither says a word, only moves occasionally, rustling the sheets. He’ll move. She’ll move. It’s like a kabuki drama only without an audience to make sense of what was going on.
She wakes before he does and gets up. She considers leaving but needs his keys to unlock the door and doesn’t want to go through his things so puts on coffee. Feeling grubby, she remembers the hotel soap. She finds it and washes her face then sets up her laptop on the floor in the corner of the room and for the first time in ages, writes.
There’d been plenty of opportunities…
In the ten years they’d know each other…
In the ten years they’d known each other There’d been plenty of opportunities for them to do it..
She hears him get up and a few minutes later he crashes into the kitchen.
— Hi, she says, looking up.
— Ugh, he says, kicking her bag out his way.
He stomps to the sink. She picks up her laptop, afraid he’s going to step on it. He rubs his jaw.
— Tooth still giving you jip? she says, trying to use a tone of voice that’ll make things seem normal.
— It’s killing me, he says.
— There’s an emergency dentist in Barbican that’s free, she says. — For homeless people.
— Why d’you know that? he says.
— Lot of friends who are junkies, she says.
— Makes sense, he
says then slams his fist on the counter. — Where’s the fucking coffee pot?
— It’s in the sink, she said. — I used it.
— Fuck’s sake, he says.
He unscrews the coffee pot and runs the tap then grabs the edge the sink, his whole body tensing.
— Are you alright? she says.
— What the FUCK is this? he shouts but she can’t see what he’s shouting about.
— What is what? she says, peering round him.
He turns and presents her with the bar of hotel soap.
— I don’t need this fucking BULLSHIT in my fucking house, he says.
— It’s not bullshit, she says and laughs cos she’s nervous but also cos it’s kinda funny . — It’s soap.
But even as she defends the soap she understands its implications to him. He knew that she knew he didn’t have soap because they’d talked about it so having it in her bag looked like she’d planned on staying over and brought the things she needed to spend a comfortable night.
— Is it yours? he says.
— Yeah, she says. — Obviously.
He hands it to her. — Take it then.
— I don’t want it, she says. — It’s all wet plus I already threw away the wrapper.
— It’s going in the fucking bin, he says, marching over to a half-full black bin bag slumped in the corner of the room. — Actually, fuck it, maybe I’ll keep it for the next time I have some bird stay over.
She bows her head. — I think I’m gonna go, she says.
— Aren’t we gonna finish the edit? he says.
— Are we? she says.
— We’ve only got the last bit to do, he says.
— I dunno, she says. — It doesn’t feel like you want me here.
— Fine then, he says. — Whatever. We started it together but if you want to bail that’s fine. Can you at least give me the details of the emergency dentist or is that too much to ask?
— Just Google ʻemergency dentistʼ, she says. — That’s it.
He takes out his phone. She goes to the bedroom to get her shoes. Why is he being such a prick? She returns to the kitchen.
— Can you let me out? she says.
— I’m leaving too, he says. — I’ve got an appointment. Gimme ten minutes.
She can’t understand why he makes her stay considering he can barely look at her but nevertheless she waits in silence not wanting to push it. Stands by the door as he traipses round the flat downing coffee, gobbling paracetamol, getting dressed.
Man Hating Psycho Page 14
