Good Friday. It doesn't seem so good. And really, it means very little to somebody brought up outside mainstream religion. However, it brings a four day weekend with it.
But it seems like I must be the only one that doesn't feel like celebrating that fact. Four days with no plans is far too much time for introspection and wallowing in self pity. At least work, mind-numbing as it is, would keep me occupied and my thoughts away from her.
We were due to go away together this weekend. Tickets had been booked and hotel rooms reserved. Nothing much, just a simple trip to the coast, a quick getaway, with its promises of sunset walks along the beach, of paddling in rock pools, of candy floss and sticks of rock, of sleeping late and staying in bed, our naked bodies intertwined.
It's depressing. A reminder of what was, what could have been and now, what never will.
And I miss her.
So I resolve to spend my weekend questing for oblivion. I call Kurt and arrange to meet up with him. Him, and his bandmates, and their assorted hangers-on. Some of the wild kids of Sheffield. Still in their teens or early twenties. People that seem instinctively to know the hot spots, the late night parties, the drug peddlers.
Mid-afternoon, I meet Kurt in the Palm Tree Inn in Walkley, round the back, in the beer garden, in the sunshine, where they can all smoke. I try to ignore it but every single cigarette looks mighty tasty to me.
Kurt stands, fag hanging from his lips, and takes my hand in a firm handshake before introducing me to everyone in a barrage of names that I know I haven't a hope of remembering. A few of them are familiar, including Richard, Sara's fella, and a scrawny bloke with a large nose called Marcus, both of whom I've met before on several occasions. The others I will have to get by with calling them 'dude' or 'mate' and I hope they won't mind.
We drink, we talk, we laugh. Eventually we raise our hands in salute, clutching fistfuls of pharmaceuticals, and we say goodbye to all rational thought.
I dive off the deep end and I hope I shan't resurface 'til this terrible holiday is over.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Another morning, another couch
I wake up to the familiar sizzling sound of frying. My head pounds and my stomach gurgles. I almost drown on my own saliva. I struggle upright, my spine cracking at every move. I have a terrible crick in my neck that I try to cure by twisting my head in the other direction but succeed only in making it hurt on the opposite side.
I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. Annie is there in a fluffy pink dressing gown and matching fluffy pink slippers. She has a pan on the hob and a wooden spatula in her hand.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she says.
“Morning," I rub the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?” I croak.
“Almost half seven. I was gonna let you have a lie-in. But I need you out. I’ve about seven hours ‘til the full moon and I’ve got so much to get done before then,” she says. “Including getting your manimal stink out of that blanket,” she adds, waving her spatula at the blanket wrapped around me.
“That’s fine. I’ve gotta go to work in a couple of hours and I should really shave and change my clothes first.”
“Breakfast first!” she declares. “Bacon and scrambled egg and toast!”
Behind her the toaster regurgitates bread, now transformed, crisped and burned black, back to the world.
“No beans though. All gone. Laurel loves beans. Don't you, hun?"
Laurel remains silent and glares at me from her chair in the corner.
"Morning, Laurel," I say but elicit no response.
"Ignore her," says Annie. "She's in a mood." She dishes out a couple of rashers of crispy bacon and a large spoonful of eggs onto a plate and hands it to me. "Enjoy!"
Fed and happy, with a large, new crystal sitting in my jacket pocket, I strike out into the grey and dreary Thursday waiting for me outside.
I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. Annie is there in a fluffy pink dressing gown and matching fluffy pink slippers. She has a pan on the hob and a wooden spatula in her hand.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she says.
“Morning," I rub the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?” I croak.
“Almost half seven. I was gonna let you have a lie-in. But I need you out. I’ve about seven hours ‘til the full moon and I’ve got so much to get done before then,” she says. “Including getting your manimal stink out of that blanket,” she adds, waving her spatula at the blanket wrapped around me.
“That’s fine. I’ve gotta go to work in a couple of hours and I should really shave and change my clothes first.”
“Breakfast first!” she declares. “Bacon and scrambled egg and toast!”
Behind her the toaster regurgitates bread, now transformed, crisped and burned black, back to the world.
“No beans though. All gone. Laurel loves beans. Don't you, hun?"
Laurel remains silent and glares at me from her chair in the corner.
"Morning, Laurel," I say but elicit no response.
"Ignore her," says Annie. "She's in a mood." She dishes out a couple of rashers of crispy bacon and a large spoonful of eggs onto a plate and hands it to me. "Enjoy!"
Fed and happy, with a large, new crystal sitting in my jacket pocket, I strike out into the grey and dreary Thursday waiting for me outside.
In the middle of the night
During the night, I stir. Or rather something stirs me - a touch on my chest…. cool… skin on skin… - and I open my eyes.
Annie's living room is dark but for the moonlight from above and the orange sodium glow of the city from below, filtered through tie-dyed curtains. I lay on the sofa, blanket draped over, covering me from my belly to my feet.
Annie stands over me. Completely naked. What little light seeps through the drapes glistens on the edges of her gentle curves. In her hand she holds a glass of water. She looks down at me thoughtfully.
"Annie…?" I say sluggishy, still half asleep.
"You don't have to talk to me about it, Pynch," she says quietly but seriously, in a voice softer than silk.
She bends forward and reaches down to me. I am very aware that, beneath the blanket Annie has leant me, I am quite naked, save for a pair of grey jockey shorts. I try to keep my eyes reined in, focused on Annie's, and not roaming freely across her body.
She traces a fingertip across the raised lines on my chest. No longer red, at least not in this light, and healing slowly. Her touch tickles but I don't laugh.
"You don't have to talk about it," she says again. "But you should have mentioned it."
"Sorry…" I mumble. "Do you know what they are?" I ask.
She shakes her head slowly, sadly. "No," she says. "But it looks familiar." She stands again, a concerned frown painted across her delicate features. She gives me a small smile and tells me to go back to sleep. She pads from the room and sleep quickly takes me back.
Annie's living room is dark but for the moonlight from above and the orange sodium glow of the city from below, filtered through tie-dyed curtains. I lay on the sofa, blanket draped over, covering me from my belly to my feet.
Annie stands over me. Completely naked. What little light seeps through the drapes glistens on the edges of her gentle curves. In her hand she holds a glass of water. She looks down at me thoughtfully.
"Annie…?" I say sluggishy, still half asleep.
"You don't have to talk to me about it, Pynch," she says quietly but seriously, in a voice softer than silk.
She bends forward and reaches down to me. I am very aware that, beneath the blanket Annie has leant me, I am quite naked, save for a pair of grey jockey shorts. I try to keep my eyes reined in, focused on Annie's, and not roaming freely across her body.
She traces a fingertip across the raised lines on my chest. No longer red, at least not in this light, and healing slowly. Her touch tickles but I don't laugh.
"You don't have to talk about it," she says again. "But you should have mentioned it."
"Sorry…" I mumble. "Do you know what they are?" I ask.
She shakes her head slowly, sadly. "No," she says. "But it looks familiar." She stands again, a concerned frown painted across her delicate features. She gives me a small smile and tells me to go back to sleep. She pads from the room and sleep quickly takes me back.
Lil Annie - Part 4
After ten minutes I find myself idly flicking through an old copy of Heat magazine.
After twenty the wine bottle is almost entirely empty. I squint down at the magazine. The text is blurry. Something about a Lindsey Lohan.
Potent. Annie told me so.
After forty minutes she’s done and she starts talking to me again and I’m already slumped across the sofa. She berates me for drinking all the wine and I smile up at her but have trouble organising words into a coherent sentence.
She walks a circle around the room, turning on a couple of lamps, extinguishing the candles. Then she goes and gets another bottle, and refills her glass.
She doesn’t share it. Quite right.
She sits next to me on the sofa, knees tucked up in front of her. She’s bright, like a supernova burns inside her, a golden shimmer surrounds her, emanates from her, and her eyes sparkle.
She’s often like this afterwards.
We talk rubbish to each other for a while. We laugh at each other’s jokes. She holds my hand, gives it a squeeze. Like old friends. Like past lovers.
Just talking.
And then she asks me about her.
I ask her to drop it.
She does, but the atmosphere has changed. The glimmer has gone.
I apologise and she nods. Then frowns and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked. I’m sorry. I just… If there’s anything I can do to help… please… let me know.”
I tell her I will. And have to assure her twice.
“Do you want to have sex?” she asks, quite matter-of-factly.
I laugh. Honestly, I forget how open Annie is. Polyamory does not even begin to cover it. She often shares herself physically with those she loves, simply as an extension of that love. It was something I couldn’t deal with when we met… when we grew to be friends… when we grew to be more… I was too monogamous to handle it. I wanted it all or I wanted nothing. I blame society.
The sex was amazing though.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “But it really wouldn’t help.” An expression that could almost be mistaken for disappointment flickers across her face and is gone.
I ask about Laurel and she becomes bright again.
“I love her so much,” she tells me, “that sometimes I feel like my heart could explode.”
She tells me every little detail. She's never been happier than since Laurel entered her life and she gets up and whirls around the room, her enthusiasm spinning her like a top.
I don't mind. It makes me smile to watch her, beautiful little Annie, chattering away, her beaming smile lighting up the room like the sunrise come early.
She even shares some more of her wine with me.
After twenty the wine bottle is almost entirely empty. I squint down at the magazine. The text is blurry. Something about a Lindsey Lohan.
Potent. Annie told me so.
After forty minutes she’s done and she starts talking to me again and I’m already slumped across the sofa. She berates me for drinking all the wine and I smile up at her but have trouble organising words into a coherent sentence.
She walks a circle around the room, turning on a couple of lamps, extinguishing the candles. Then she goes and gets another bottle, and refills her glass.
She doesn’t share it. Quite right.
She sits next to me on the sofa, knees tucked up in front of her. She’s bright, like a supernova burns inside her, a golden shimmer surrounds her, emanates from her, and her eyes sparkle.
She’s often like this afterwards.
We talk rubbish to each other for a while. We laugh at each other’s jokes. She holds my hand, gives it a squeeze. Like old friends. Like past lovers.
Just talking.
And then she asks me about her.
I ask her to drop it.
She does, but the atmosphere has changed. The glimmer has gone.
I apologise and she nods. Then frowns and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked. I’m sorry. I just… If there’s anything I can do to help… please… let me know.”
I tell her I will. And have to assure her twice.
“Do you want to have sex?” she asks, quite matter-of-factly.
I laugh. Honestly, I forget how open Annie is. Polyamory does not even begin to cover it. She often shares herself physically with those she loves, simply as an extension of that love. It was something I couldn’t deal with when we met… when we grew to be friends… when we grew to be more… I was too monogamous to handle it. I wanted it all or I wanted nothing. I blame society.
The sex was amazing though.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “But it really wouldn’t help.” An expression that could almost be mistaken for disappointment flickers across her face and is gone.
I ask about Laurel and she becomes bright again.
“I love her so much,” she tells me, “that sometimes I feel like my heart could explode.”
She tells me every little detail. She's never been happier than since Laurel entered her life and she gets up and whirls around the room, her enthusiasm spinning her like a top.
I don't mind. It makes me smile to watch her, beautiful little Annie, chattering away, her beaming smile lighting up the room like the sunrise come early.
She even shares some more of her wine with me.
Lil Annie - Part 3
Annie starts by the small television in the corner of the room, using the lighter to add flame to a half-used candle sat by the side of the telly. Then she crosses to the opposite corner, to a bookcase so jammed with books that the wood has given up and the whole structure leans drunkenly, only the books themselves hold the case up and together. Melted to the edge of the third shelf down is another candle. She lights it and circles anti-clockwise around the room to the window where she lights another. She comes over to the small side table next to the end of the couch and picks up a candle that's toppled over. She waves the lighter under the end of candle to soften the wax, then she plants it firmly on the table and lights it. Then back to the window where she lights two more. She walks clockwise once round the room ending up back next to the television where she pauses.
"Shit," she mutters. She looks at me and whispers, "Can you just toss me a candle? There should be a box of them in the drawer." She points at the end table.
"I thought you said I couldn't move?" I whisper back.
"Don't be a smartarse," she says. "Do you want this done or not?"
I shut my mouth and grab a candle from the drawer, toss it over to her. She lights it and plants it on the other side of the telly before releasing the trigger on the lighter and letting the flame finally die, its children twinkling from around the room.
Annie steps to the centre and sits cross-legged in front of the gathered materials. She picks up one of the bottles, a small one with a red oil inside, and pulls the stopper. She lets a few drops fall into the bowl. She selects a tall bottle with a transparent green liquid inside and she pours a generous amount. She picks up the bag of leaves and opens it, takes a pinch from within and crumbles it in. Another bottle, this one bulbous, with a long neck. Inside, another liquid, viscous and dark. Another bottle, short and stout. Another liquid, bright and quick. And then she takes the dry stems in both hands and breaks them over the top. She folds the pieces over and breaks them again. And finally she takes up the lighter, clicks it to life once more, and touches it to the mixture.
I flinch away. The blaze is momentarily brighter than the sun but leaves no retinal afterglow, as though it never happened.
I look back to Annie, her eyes closed, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her lips move silently, her eyes flicker behind their lids. In front of her burns an invisible fire that shivers the air, twists it, a heat haze ripple hovering over the bowl. Around the room, the candles genuflect to Annie.
I drink wine and watch.
"Shit," she mutters. She looks at me and whispers, "Can you just toss me a candle? There should be a box of them in the drawer." She points at the end table.
"I thought you said I couldn't move?" I whisper back.
"Don't be a smartarse," she says. "Do you want this done or not?"
I shut my mouth and grab a candle from the drawer, toss it over to her. She lights it and plants it on the other side of the telly before releasing the trigger on the lighter and letting the flame finally die, its children twinkling from around the room.
Annie steps to the centre and sits cross-legged in front of the gathered materials. She picks up one of the bottles, a small one with a red oil inside, and pulls the stopper. She lets a few drops fall into the bowl. She selects a tall bottle with a transparent green liquid inside and she pours a generous amount. She picks up the bag of leaves and opens it, takes a pinch from within and crumbles it in. Another bottle, this one bulbous, with a long neck. Inside, another liquid, viscous and dark. Another bottle, short and stout. Another liquid, bright and quick. And then she takes the dry stems in both hands and breaks them over the top. She folds the pieces over and breaks them again. And finally she takes up the lighter, clicks it to life once more, and touches it to the mixture.
I flinch away. The blaze is momentarily brighter than the sun but leaves no retinal afterglow, as though it never happened.
I look back to Annie, her eyes closed, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her lips move silently, her eyes flicker behind their lids. In front of her burns an invisible fire that shivers the air, twists it, a heat haze ripple hovering over the bowl. Around the room, the candles genuflect to Annie.
I drink wine and watch.
Lil Annie - Part 2
Annie kneels on the rug, sits back on her heels, and listens intently while I tell her what I need. She swirls the brown-tinted liquid in her glass, breathes it in. She does not take her eyes off me. She looks me in the eye, face frozen, expressionless, and does not blink. She sips her wine thoughtfully.
"Alright," she says and rocks backwards up onto her feet in one smooth motion. She crosses the room to a small pirates’ treasure chest, flips the latch and lifts the lid, starts rummaging inside with one hand, the other still holding her glass. "Only cos it's you. You're a big boy. Grown up enough to know what you're doing. Anybody else asked me I'd tell them to piss off."
"I can't tell you how much that means to me. To be patronised by someone so wise… so young…" I say with a smirk.
Annie stops dead and glares at me, points at me with the hand holding her glass. "Or you can just piss off anyway?"
I apologise and, with a sniff, she goes back to hunting through the contents of the chest. Eventually she finds what she's looking for and produces a small metal bowl, which she places on the floor next to her. I watch her get up and walk over to a shoe box on her sideboard which she opens and takes out several dried plant stems and a plastic bag filled with shredded leaves.
"Back in a minute," she says and puts her glass down on the sideboard before vanishing off to the kitchen again. I wait patiently, pour myself some more of Annie's homemade spiced tea wine, and settle back on the sofa. I watch the multi-coloured wind chimes spinning in her window in the fading light of early evening.
She comes back in with a selection of bottles, various shapes, sizes and coloured liquids. She gathers everything together in the middle of the room, pushing the stack of books, magazines and papers off to the side, and arranges them in front of her, spread out in a semi-circle around the bowl. "Do you like the wine?" she asks while shuffling the items around.
"It's very pleasant," I tell her and she smiles modestly.
“It’s quite potent too. Go steady.”
I snort.
“Seriously, Pynch. I know you. Drink it slow.” She darts back into the kitchen and returns with a long wand lighter. "Right," she says and waves the point of the lighter at me like the conductor of an orchestra. "You have to shut up and stay very still for a minute."
I mime locking my lips closed and I throw away the key.
She holds the lighter between her teeth while she grabs handfuls of her wild, dark hair and bunches it together, tying it back. Then she takes the lighter in hand again, clicks it again and again 'til eventually the spark becomes a flame. She takes a deep breath… slowly… in… then out.
"Alright," she says and rocks backwards up onto her feet in one smooth motion. She crosses the room to a small pirates’ treasure chest, flips the latch and lifts the lid, starts rummaging inside with one hand, the other still holding her glass. "Only cos it's you. You're a big boy. Grown up enough to know what you're doing. Anybody else asked me I'd tell them to piss off."
"I can't tell you how much that means to me. To be patronised by someone so wise… so young…" I say with a smirk.
Annie stops dead and glares at me, points at me with the hand holding her glass. "Or you can just piss off anyway?"
I apologise and, with a sniff, she goes back to hunting through the contents of the chest. Eventually she finds what she's looking for and produces a small metal bowl, which she places on the floor next to her. I watch her get up and walk over to a shoe box on her sideboard which she opens and takes out several dried plant stems and a plastic bag filled with shredded leaves.
"Back in a minute," she says and puts her glass down on the sideboard before vanishing off to the kitchen again. I wait patiently, pour myself some more of Annie's homemade spiced tea wine, and settle back on the sofa. I watch the multi-coloured wind chimes spinning in her window in the fading light of early evening.
She comes back in with a selection of bottles, various shapes, sizes and coloured liquids. She gathers everything together in the middle of the room, pushing the stack of books, magazines and papers off to the side, and arranges them in front of her, spread out in a semi-circle around the bowl. "Do you like the wine?" she asks while shuffling the items around.
"It's very pleasant," I tell her and she smiles modestly.
“It’s quite potent too. Go steady.”
I snort.
“Seriously, Pynch. I know you. Drink it slow.” She darts back into the kitchen and returns with a long wand lighter. "Right," she says and waves the point of the lighter at me like the conductor of an orchestra. "You have to shut up and stay very still for a minute."
I mime locking my lips closed and I throw away the key.
She holds the lighter between her teeth while she grabs handfuls of her wild, dark hair and bunches it together, tying it back. Then she takes the lighter in hand again, clicks it again and again 'til eventually the spark becomes a flame. She takes a deep breath… slowly… in… then out.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Lil Annie - Part 1
Annie lives on the top floor of the Adamfield block of flats, the closest of four towers next to the Brook Hill roundabout, sitting highest on the hill, looking out over the ring road and the city centre.
I barely have to wait after jabbing her number into the intercom before Annie's voice stutters from the speaker, telling me to come on up, and the distant tone tells me know to pull on the door. The lift judders its way skyward and I try to ignore the faint background linger of urine and disinfectant.
I raise my hand to knock and the door is flung wide open, crashing against the wall inside, before my knuckles can make contact with the wood.
Annie - tiny, beautiful Annie with her brilliant blue eyes and enormous smile - flings herself at me and grabs me in a powerful embrace, burying her head in my chest and squeezing for all she's worth. I wrap my knocking arm, my only free arm, around her shoulders and rest my cheek in the bed of thick ringlet curls that cascade from her head.
She smells like lemon drops and it briefly reminds me of my nan.
Finally, she lets go and belts me in the upper arm, deadening it. "Ow," I say, rubbing what will surely be a magnificent bruise.
"Where the hell have you been, Pynch?" she says with a scowl. "I haven't seen you in months."
"Yeah," I say. "Sorry… it’s not been a great year so far…"
"Well, come in," she says. "And you can tell me all about it." She turns and skips away into her flat. I follow and gently push the door closed behind me.
"Shoes!" she calls out from the other room - unnecessarily, as I am already stepping on my heels and kicking off my trainers. I follow her through to her living room where she is whirling around, her flowery print dress fanning out around her as she clears books and papers from her couch and leaves them in a tall stack in the centre of the room.
"I brought you a present," I say and proffer her the small package I have in my hand.
"Oh, wow!" she says with glee. "Should I open it now?"
"Either open it now or put it in the fridge," I tell her. She tears into the wrapping paper with gusto while I slip my jacket off and hang it on the corner of the door.
"Oh my gods!" she squeals. "Bacon!" And she darts away into the kitchen, packet in hand. "Thank you so much!" she calls out to me. "I can't even tell you how much I've missed bacon… Laurel won't let me buy meat. No meat of any kind…"
She comes back with two wine glasses dangling upside-down from between her fingers and a half-full bottle of wine, cork jammed in the neck.
"I know," I tell her as she passes me a glass. "I remember."
"But unsolicited gifts… she can't have a go at me for that!" She uncorks the bottle with a soft pop and generously fills my out-stretched glass before pouring some for herself. “It’s a loophole, and I love it.”
"How is Laurel?" I ask. We clink glasses together.
Annie puts a finger to her lips and points next door, through the wall. "Sleeping. Shh…"
I barely have to wait after jabbing her number into the intercom before Annie's voice stutters from the speaker, telling me to come on up, and the distant tone tells me know to pull on the door. The lift judders its way skyward and I try to ignore the faint background linger of urine and disinfectant.
I raise my hand to knock and the door is flung wide open, crashing against the wall inside, before my knuckles can make contact with the wood.
Annie - tiny, beautiful Annie with her brilliant blue eyes and enormous smile - flings herself at me and grabs me in a powerful embrace, burying her head in my chest and squeezing for all she's worth. I wrap my knocking arm, my only free arm, around her shoulders and rest my cheek in the bed of thick ringlet curls that cascade from her head.
She smells like lemon drops and it briefly reminds me of my nan.
Finally, she lets go and belts me in the upper arm, deadening it. "Ow," I say, rubbing what will surely be a magnificent bruise.
"Where the hell have you been, Pynch?" she says with a scowl. "I haven't seen you in months."
"Yeah," I say. "Sorry… it’s not been a great year so far…"
"Well, come in," she says. "And you can tell me all about it." She turns and skips away into her flat. I follow and gently push the door closed behind me.
"Shoes!" she calls out from the other room - unnecessarily, as I am already stepping on my heels and kicking off my trainers. I follow her through to her living room where she is whirling around, her flowery print dress fanning out around her as she clears books and papers from her couch and leaves them in a tall stack in the centre of the room.
"I brought you a present," I say and proffer her the small package I have in my hand.
"Oh, wow!" she says with glee. "Should I open it now?"
"Either open it now or put it in the fridge," I tell her. She tears into the wrapping paper with gusto while I slip my jacket off and hang it on the corner of the door.
"Oh my gods!" she squeals. "Bacon!" And she darts away into the kitchen, packet in hand. "Thank you so much!" she calls out to me. "I can't even tell you how much I've missed bacon… Laurel won't let me buy meat. No meat of any kind…"
She comes back with two wine glasses dangling upside-down from between her fingers and a half-full bottle of wine, cork jammed in the neck.
"I know," I tell her as she passes me a glass. "I remember."
"But unsolicited gifts… she can't have a go at me for that!" She uncorks the bottle with a soft pop and generously fills my out-stretched glass before pouring some for herself. “It’s a loophole, and I love it.”
"How is Laurel?" I ask. We clink glasses together.
Annie puts a finger to her lips and points next door, through the wall. "Sleeping. Shh…"
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Answerphone
It feels like it's been a long day. I drop my keys in the bowl next to the phone, on the sideboard in the hall. The answerphone blinks the number two at me. I press play while I kick off my shoes and start to undo my tie while the machine clicks and whirs to life.
The first message is from an automated cold caller, and starts part-way through the pre-recorded message, asking me if I want to consolidate my debts. I jab the delete button and it skips on to the next. I smile at the sound of a familiar voice:
"…s not there. Just his answerphone… Um, hi, this is um, message for, um, well, you, I guess, nobody else is gonna be listening to this, are they? Er, anyway, yeah, just to say that er, yeah, that should be fine. Sorry to take so long calling you back and everything, but it's been mental. But yeah, you can pop round any time. I should be in most nights this week, so yeah. Whenever.
"Oh! Shit, hang on, sorry, no, Thursday's no good. Don't come on Thursday. In fact, yeah, it would definitely be better if you come round before Thursday, cos I'm gonna be dead busy on Thursday.
"This is Annie, by the way."
And she hangs up. I press the delete button and stroll through to the living room.
The cat is sprawled on the couch, stretched out, eyes closed, sleeping. I throw my tie at it and it starts, claws at it from reflex, then looks lazily at me.
"How the hell do you keep getting in?" I ask, exasperated, but it ignores me, lies back down and goes back to sleep.
The first message is from an automated cold caller, and starts part-way through the pre-recorded message, asking me if I want to consolidate my debts. I jab the delete button and it skips on to the next. I smile at the sound of a familiar voice:
"…s not there. Just his answerphone… Um, hi, this is um, message for, um, well, you, I guess, nobody else is gonna be listening to this, are they? Er, anyway, yeah, just to say that er, yeah, that should be fine. Sorry to take so long calling you back and everything, but it's been mental. But yeah, you can pop round any time. I should be in most nights this week, so yeah. Whenever.
"Oh! Shit, hang on, sorry, no, Thursday's no good. Don't come on Thursday. In fact, yeah, it would definitely be better if you come round before Thursday, cos I'm gonna be dead busy on Thursday.
"This is Annie, by the way."
And she hangs up. I press the delete button and stroll through to the living room.
The cat is sprawled on the couch, stretched out, eyes closed, sleeping. I throw my tie at it and it starts, claws at it from reflex, then looks lazily at me.
"How the hell do you keep getting in?" I ask, exasperated, but it ignores me, lies back down and goes back to sleep.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Monday morning hangover
I wake up on the couch, a blanket over me and a dead weight on my lap. I try to blink my eyes to clarity, past the nausea, past the pressure inside my skull and fuzzy carpet taste on my tongue. I try to replay the sequence of events that lead to me falling asleep here but fail dismally. The curtains are closed, leaving the room in a dim grey that eases the hangover. I appear to still be dressed in yesterday's clothes, now bunched up and twisted from sleeping in them.
I throw the blanket back and the lump on my lap comes to life, sinking its claws into my thigh. I yelp and spring from the sofa, cracking my shin against the edge of the coffee table in the process. The cat darts out from the blanket and vanishes from the room, leaving me disoriented and rubbing both of my legs.
I wonder what the time is and look at my wrist but my watch is missing. I cast about but cannot see my watch or my phone anywhere. The clock on the VCR blinks 12:00 at me, unhelpfully.
I stagger through to the kitchen, squinting against the brilliant sunshine flooding the room and driving steel lances through my battered brain.
The cat waits by the back door, licking itself. It looks up at me with unconcealed contempt as I pass, heading for the sink. I pull a glass from the Jenga game that is my draining board, wincing at the loud clatter as plates and mugs crash back against each other. I run the tap and hold my hand under the water 'til it chills my fingers. I fill the glass and gulp back the lot before refilling and turning off the water. As I head back to the living room, intent on collapsing onto the couch again, I stop by the backdoor, turn the key and open it. The cat just sits there, mid-lick, looking up at me.
"Go on," I tell it. "Fuck off."
It doesn't. I leave the door ajar and head back to the muted security of the darkened lounge.
As I lay there, head tilted back against a cushion, eyes unfocused and half-closed, I slowly become aware of the aches and pains in my body - exhausted muscles complain; bruises moan on my legs and arms; but chiming out above these are lines burning down my chest. I rub a hand on my ribcage as if such an action might soothe the pain, but it doesn't. I unbutton my shirt a little and allow my hand to reach inside and explore.
My eyes snap wide open and I hurry upstairs to the bathroom. I undo the rest of my shirt and slip it off, fling it to the floor, and stand in front of the mirror.
I don't see the blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. I don't see the ragged, three day-old beard. All I see are the red welts, thin scratches drawing faint criss-cross lines across my chest.
Just like Leon, the last time I saw him.
I throw the blanket back and the lump on my lap comes to life, sinking its claws into my thigh. I yelp and spring from the sofa, cracking my shin against the edge of the coffee table in the process. The cat darts out from the blanket and vanishes from the room, leaving me disoriented and rubbing both of my legs.
I wonder what the time is and look at my wrist but my watch is missing. I cast about but cannot see my watch or my phone anywhere. The clock on the VCR blinks 12:00 at me, unhelpfully.
I stagger through to the kitchen, squinting against the brilliant sunshine flooding the room and driving steel lances through my battered brain.
The cat waits by the back door, licking itself. It looks up at me with unconcealed contempt as I pass, heading for the sink. I pull a glass from the Jenga game that is my draining board, wincing at the loud clatter as plates and mugs crash back against each other. I run the tap and hold my hand under the water 'til it chills my fingers. I fill the glass and gulp back the lot before refilling and turning off the water. As I head back to the living room, intent on collapsing onto the couch again, I stop by the backdoor, turn the key and open it. The cat just sits there, mid-lick, looking up at me.
"Go on," I tell it. "Fuck off."
It doesn't. I leave the door ajar and head back to the muted security of the darkened lounge.
As I lay there, head tilted back against a cushion, eyes unfocused and half-closed, I slowly become aware of the aches and pains in my body - exhausted muscles complain; bruises moan on my legs and arms; but chiming out above these are lines burning down my chest. I rub a hand on my ribcage as if such an action might soothe the pain, but it doesn't. I unbutton my shirt a little and allow my hand to reach inside and explore.
My eyes snap wide open and I hurry upstairs to the bathroom. I undo the rest of my shirt and slip it off, fling it to the floor, and stand in front of the mirror.
I don't see the blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. I don't see the ragged, three day-old beard. All I see are the red welts, thin scratches drawing faint criss-cross lines across my chest.
Just like Leon, the last time I saw him.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Hello, my old friend
The blanket of mist that hid the city this morning has dissipated by midday so I choose to sit and eat my lunch in the Sharrow general cemetery and enjoy the brilliant sunshine and blue sky while they last.
I'm watching a blackbird pulling a worm from the ground when I hear a voice shout, "Sam!"
The bird struggles its tug of war to victory and hops away to the bushes with its spoils in its beak.
The voice, closer now, calls out, "Sam?" again and this time I actually look around.
And frown.
The man dressed in loose brown slacks and a polo shirt, walking towards me, looks familiar but I can't place him. At least, not at first. Then, as he gets closer, he smiles broadly, showing his full set of teeth right back to the molars, and suddenly a memory falls into place. I know those teeth, I know that grin…
Peter MacGirwan. I used to work with him, tending bar at one of the god-awful West Street meat-market drinking-holes, now mercifully long closed, rebranded and reopened probably several times by now. He's changed quite dramatically since I last saw him, maybe four, maybe five years ago. The long, lank hair, usually tied back, has gone; instead his mousey brown locks are clippered short revealing his receding hairline. The full, bushy beard, however, is quite new, as are the glasses.
"Hey, man," he says in his burned-out stoner voice - some things never change. "I thought that was you. Didn't you hear me?"
"Nobody calls me that anymore," I tell him.
"Really?" he asks. "You changed your name? By deed poll?"
"Something like that," I say.
"How's what's-her-name…? Lily?"
And I can't help but laugh. "Lily and I broke up, like, three years ago, dude!"
"Bummer," he says. "She was hot."
"Right," I say. "Cheers."
We sit together and we talk a while. Reminisce about wild times, stupid acts of reckless abandon, and bad craziness narrowly avoided. It seems like two lifetimes ago.
Pete's now married, with a kid on the way, and lives in Bournemouth where he works as a financial analyst. He's just in town for a couple of days visiting relatives. I have trouble reconciling such a responsible grown-up with the hard-core hedonist that I used to know.
He asks me what I'm up to these days. I 'um…' and 'er…' and try to change the subject, telling him I have to go back to work.
We trade phone numbers and promise to go for a drink before he leaves. I know we won't, but we make the promise anyway.
He tells me to give him a call if I ever get down to the coast and I tell him I will.
And I go back to work, an odd mixture of nostalgia and regret clinging to me like a bad smell.
I'm watching a blackbird pulling a worm from the ground when I hear a voice shout, "Sam!"
The bird struggles its tug of war to victory and hops away to the bushes with its spoils in its beak.
The voice, closer now, calls out, "Sam?" again and this time I actually look around.
And frown.
The man dressed in loose brown slacks and a polo shirt, walking towards me, looks familiar but I can't place him. At least, not at first. Then, as he gets closer, he smiles broadly, showing his full set of teeth right back to the molars, and suddenly a memory falls into place. I know those teeth, I know that grin…
Peter MacGirwan. I used to work with him, tending bar at one of the god-awful West Street meat-market drinking-holes, now mercifully long closed, rebranded and reopened probably several times by now. He's changed quite dramatically since I last saw him, maybe four, maybe five years ago. The long, lank hair, usually tied back, has gone; instead his mousey brown locks are clippered short revealing his receding hairline. The full, bushy beard, however, is quite new, as are the glasses.
"Hey, man," he says in his burned-out stoner voice - some things never change. "I thought that was you. Didn't you hear me?"
"Nobody calls me that anymore," I tell him.
"Really?" he asks. "You changed your name? By deed poll?"
"Something like that," I say.
"How's what's-her-name…? Lily?"
And I can't help but laugh. "Lily and I broke up, like, three years ago, dude!"
"Bummer," he says. "She was hot."
"Right," I say. "Cheers."
We sit together and we talk a while. Reminisce about wild times, stupid acts of reckless abandon, and bad craziness narrowly avoided. It seems like two lifetimes ago.
Pete's now married, with a kid on the way, and lives in Bournemouth where he works as a financial analyst. He's just in town for a couple of days visiting relatives. I have trouble reconciling such a responsible grown-up with the hard-core hedonist that I used to know.
He asks me what I'm up to these days. I 'um…' and 'er…' and try to change the subject, telling him I have to go back to work.
We trade phone numbers and promise to go for a drink before he leaves. I know we won't, but we make the promise anyway.
He tells me to give him a call if I ever get down to the coast and I tell him I will.
And I go back to work, an odd mixture of nostalgia and regret clinging to me like a bad smell.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
This old shirt
She sat slightly hunched over, bad posture, elbow on the breakfast bar. One arm stretched out, hand splayed across the pages of her book, firmly holding it open despite the spine's protestation. The other hand held a slice of toast, thickly spread with raspberry jam, delicately dangling between her fingers. She took a large bite, with a loud crunch, and a dollop of sticky red goo was left on her lip, nestled in the corner of her mouth.
She licked and caught most of it. But not all of it. A smudge remained as she put the toast down and picked up her coffee, black, two sugars. She sipped and caught me staring at her.
"What?" she asked over the rim of her mug.
I just shook my head and tried not to smile, failing only a little.
"What?" she asked again, this time trying not to smile herself.
I walked round the bar to her and cupped her face in my hands. I kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, taking the remains of the jam away on my own lips.
"You missed a spot," I told her softly and went back to my stool.
"I've lost my place now," she idly complained. Let go, the book had fanned open - any page could be the right page.
I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall free mere seconds later, and I smiled again.
When she finished her toast, and gulped back the last of her coffee, she padded over to the sink with her crockery and put them in the bowl. She wore one of my old t-shirts, faded and shapeless, barely covering her round little bottom, and I stared at her long, pale legs, soft and smooth to the touch.
"I'm gonna have a shower," she said, went up onto tiptoes to kiss my cheek. I patted her on the behind and she slapped me, lightly, playfully, across the face before sashaying from the room. I watched her go, transfixed.
I become aware of the fact that I've been sitting, staring into space for a while now. My eyes are blurry and my cheeks are wet. A threadbare t-shirt, once emblazoned with the band name 'Canadian Drug Store' now stretched and washed-out almost to illegibility, in my hands.
I press it to my face and breathe deeply. It still smells of her.
I already know I won't get anything done today.
She licked and caught most of it. But not all of it. A smudge remained as she put the toast down and picked up her coffee, black, two sugars. She sipped and caught me staring at her.
"What?" she asked over the rim of her mug.
I just shook my head and tried not to smile, failing only a little.
"What?" she asked again, this time trying not to smile herself.
I walked round the bar to her and cupped her face in my hands. I kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, taking the remains of the jam away on my own lips.
"You missed a spot," I told her softly and went back to my stool.
"I've lost my place now," she idly complained. Let go, the book had fanned open - any page could be the right page.
I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall free mere seconds later, and I smiled again.
When she finished her toast, and gulped back the last of her coffee, she padded over to the sink with her crockery and put them in the bowl. She wore one of my old t-shirts, faded and shapeless, barely covering her round little bottom, and I stared at her long, pale legs, soft and smooth to the touch.
"I'm gonna have a shower," she said, went up onto tiptoes to kiss my cheek. I patted her on the behind and she slapped me, lightly, playfully, across the face before sashaying from the room. I watched her go, transfixed.
I become aware of the fact that I've been sitting, staring into space for a while now. My eyes are blurry and my cheeks are wet. A threadbare t-shirt, once emblazoned with the band name 'Canadian Drug Store' now stretched and washed-out almost to illegibility, in my hands.
I press it to my face and breathe deeply. It still smells of her.
I already know I won't get anything done today.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Anyone home?
I knock on Leon's front door and wait. No reply.
I knock again. Harder. And wait. I peek through the speckled glass set into his front door but can only make out a few indistinct shadows and muted colours.
I side-step over to the bay window, but the curtains are drawn. I lean over the small shrubbery sprouting from the flower bed edging the garden and rap my knuckles on the glass. I call out Leon’s name.
Nothing.
I walk the concrete driveway beside the house and round the back to the kitchen window. I cup my hands over the glass and peer in. The setting sun behind me paints the kitchen golden. But nothing looks unusual.
I pace back around to the front again and fish my phone out of my pocket. I thumb down to ‘LEON : HOME’ and jab the call button. After a few seconds to connect, it starts to ring. Through the window I can hear the sympathetic real-world echo. It rings and rings and rings. Nobody answers.
There’s nobody home.
An old woman in a pale green and pink tracksuit walks past on the other side of the road. We make eye contact. She looks at me, judges me. Apparently I don’t look like a thief because she smiles at me as she goes.
“Evening,” I call to her. She raises a hand in salute.
I wait ‘til she’s gone from sight before I hop up the step to the front door. The Yale lock remembers me and opens easily.
The house tastes stale. The air is too still, too cold. But at least there’s nothing terrible lingering, for which I’m extremely grateful.
The living room looks as I remember it. The bookcase is still tipped over from before. An empty beer can is still on the floor next to armchair, where I dropped it. The empty waste basket is still next to the couch, where I put it. But no Leon.
I poke my head into the kitchen. Nothing.
I trot upstairs and open the door to the bathroom. Nothing.
I try the next door. A small beige room with a desk and computer, a few art prints on the walls, papers piled neatly - Leon’s home office. Nothing.
The last door is Leon’s bedroom. Dominated by a brushed-steel four-poster bed, a treadmill in the corner, and a fitted wardrobe down one wall with mirrors mounted on the sliding doors. Clothes sprawl across the floor and drape lazily over the bed frame. Nothing.
I return to the living room, unsure what to do, what to try next.
I sit down on the couch and feel a chill run through me, a shiver that starts at the base of my spine and trickles up to the lizard part of my brain. Suddenly I don't feel welcome in this house and I rise quickly, trying to beat down the surge of panic, the twisting in my gut, the unshakable feeling of being watched by a hunter's eyes.
I search for a blank piece of paper, eventually having to fetch one from his office upstairs, and hastily scrawl a message for Leon:
"LEON, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"
I sign it simply 'RP' and tape it to the wall by the front door - somewhere he'll definitely see it when he comes back, if he comes back.
Outside, the sun has set and the sky is greying quickly. A chill wind has picked up, swirling dust around the house. I turn up my collar against it and pull the front door closed behind me as I leave.
For a moment I think I hear that name again, but it must be the wind, can only be the wind, and so I ignore it...
I knock again. Harder. And wait. I peek through the speckled glass set into his front door but can only make out a few indistinct shadows and muted colours.
I side-step over to the bay window, but the curtains are drawn. I lean over the small shrubbery sprouting from the flower bed edging the garden and rap my knuckles on the glass. I call out Leon’s name.
Nothing.
I walk the concrete driveway beside the house and round the back to the kitchen window. I cup my hands over the glass and peer in. The setting sun behind me paints the kitchen golden. But nothing looks unusual.
I pace back around to the front again and fish my phone out of my pocket. I thumb down to ‘LEON : HOME’ and jab the call button. After a few seconds to connect, it starts to ring. Through the window I can hear the sympathetic real-world echo. It rings and rings and rings. Nobody answers.
There’s nobody home.
An old woman in a pale green and pink tracksuit walks past on the other side of the road. We make eye contact. She looks at me, judges me. Apparently I don’t look like a thief because she smiles at me as she goes.
“Evening,” I call to her. She raises a hand in salute.
I wait ‘til she’s gone from sight before I hop up the step to the front door. The Yale lock remembers me and opens easily.
The house tastes stale. The air is too still, too cold. But at least there’s nothing terrible lingering, for which I’m extremely grateful.
The living room looks as I remember it. The bookcase is still tipped over from before. An empty beer can is still on the floor next to armchair, where I dropped it. The empty waste basket is still next to the couch, where I put it. But no Leon.
I poke my head into the kitchen. Nothing.
I trot upstairs and open the door to the bathroom. Nothing.
I try the next door. A small beige room with a desk and computer, a few art prints on the walls, papers piled neatly - Leon’s home office. Nothing.
The last door is Leon’s bedroom. Dominated by a brushed-steel four-poster bed, a treadmill in the corner, and a fitted wardrobe down one wall with mirrors mounted on the sliding doors. Clothes sprawl across the floor and drape lazily over the bed frame. Nothing.
I return to the living room, unsure what to do, what to try next.
I sit down on the couch and feel a chill run through me, a shiver that starts at the base of my spine and trickles up to the lizard part of my brain. Suddenly I don't feel welcome in this house and I rise quickly, trying to beat down the surge of panic, the twisting in my gut, the unshakable feeling of being watched by a hunter's eyes.
I search for a blank piece of paper, eventually having to fetch one from his office upstairs, and hastily scrawl a message for Leon:
"LEON, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"
I sign it simply 'RP' and tape it to the wall by the front door - somewhere he'll definitely see it when he comes back, if he comes back.
Outside, the sun has set and the sky is greying quickly. A chill wind has picked up, swirling dust around the house. I turn up my collar against it and pull the front door closed behind me as I leave.
For a moment I think I hear that name again, but it must be the wind, can only be the wind, and so I ignore it...
Lise
I haven’t seen Leon. It’s been a week and a half.
Normally I wouldn’t be worried. He frequently vanishes for weeks at a time. And loses phones with such frequency that Leon himself theorises that he unknowingly projects some manner of magnetic field capable of repelling phones.
But it’s when Lise corners me as I’m coming out of work, desperate to know if I’ve seen him, desperate to know what’s happened to him, that I start to worry.
Lise is an intimidating young woman, tall, lean, and muscular. Tattoos swirl around her upper arms, blaze across her chest, and wash over her back. Metal glitters her lips, nose and eyebrows. She physically slams me back against the wall to interrogate me.
I swear I can almost see tears in her eyes. And that’s what worries me most.
Lise hasn’t seen him either. And, even when Leon drops off radar, Lise always knows where he is. If only because he can’t go longer than the working week without turning up at her flat, drunk, horny and interested in a bout of shameless booty-call sex. Which, of course, she happily indulges.
They dated for a tempestuous couple of months, from just before xmas 2007 ‘til just after Valentine's 2008, but since they broke up they’ve been oddly exclusive, even though they lead almost entirely separate lives – they don’t live together… they don’t go out together… as far as I am aware what little time they do spend together, they spend naked.
I don’t judge their ‘relationship’. If anything I’m jealous. Whatever you want to call it, it works for them.
And he's missing. He’s not answering his phone. He’s not answering any voicemail or text and his landline simply rings and rings.
And she’s concerned.
And she blames me.
“Cos you saw him last, Reynard,” she hisses in my face.
Normally I wouldn’t be worried. He frequently vanishes for weeks at a time. And loses phones with such frequency that Leon himself theorises that he unknowingly projects some manner of magnetic field capable of repelling phones.
But it’s when Lise corners me as I’m coming out of work, desperate to know if I’ve seen him, desperate to know what’s happened to him, that I start to worry.
Lise is an intimidating young woman, tall, lean, and muscular. Tattoos swirl around her upper arms, blaze across her chest, and wash over her back. Metal glitters her lips, nose and eyebrows. She physically slams me back against the wall to interrogate me.
I swear I can almost see tears in her eyes. And that’s what worries me most.
Lise hasn’t seen him either. And, even when Leon drops off radar, Lise always knows where he is. If only because he can’t go longer than the working week without turning up at her flat, drunk, horny and interested in a bout of shameless booty-call sex. Which, of course, she happily indulges.
They dated for a tempestuous couple of months, from just before xmas 2007 ‘til just after Valentine's 2008, but since they broke up they’ve been oddly exclusive, even though they lead almost entirely separate lives – they don’t live together… they don’t go out together… as far as I am aware what little time they do spend together, they spend naked.
I don’t judge their ‘relationship’. If anything I’m jealous. Whatever you want to call it, it works for them.
And he's missing. He’s not answering his phone. He’s not answering any voicemail or text and his landline simply rings and rings.
And she’s concerned.
And she blames me.
“Cos you saw him last, Reynard,” she hisses in my face.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
