Come on to fuck. Will the bag never come? Skate a concourse and lugging for the five o’clock. If I miss it will he wait at Liverpool Street but it is it in old jeans T-shirt, rubbing beneath his glasses’ frames? Trolley guiding to, then from again. Is. With his film cut now all grown in I Hey! Hey, the smile of his see and following down to the end of rail, me. You’re here. Why are you here? I was early so I thought I might as well. And. These are for you, I don’t what they’re called but they smell pretty good so Kiss him. Kiss his lips. On the tip of my toes. But crowds insisting on their inroads push our mouths out of place. Go to again but Give me your bag, he says If we’re quick we might still make the five. And knot his fingers back through mine, to pull me through with Jesus Christ, what’s in your bag? The fucking Good News?
But blessed to a lone lift we indecently kiss. Backs pressing buttons. Mine first. Then his. If the door doesn’t open Opens. He palms his mouth but crushed petals fall all down my front. Platform Two. Come on! Quick! Dash it. Make it. Just to the back. Sit. Go. Kiss and Tickets? I. Don’t worry, I bought two. Clip. Fuck my shoulder! as the conductor aways. Show me? Pull his T-shirt. All bruise broken veins. Sorry, my bag did that. Don’t worry, he nosing mouth to mine and. Kiss, ineloquently, to make up time and. His hand up my bare back and I climb across his lap and. Him over my shoulder, quick checking the carriage If we’re quiet. Never mind quiet we’re almost at Bishop’s Stortford be quick! Yeah quick won’t be problem I’ve not had sex in a month. Really? Really. Me either. You could have though Why? Because you said? No I just that’s not what I meant Don’t spoil it Alright I just I meant Ssssh Okay, he says and Fuck that’s good.
All mess walk back through Liverpool Street. He leads through the throng and the want is unspeakable but the tube rub of sweating from infinite people slowly nulls off his smell from my hair. Slung so close in the crush though I could bite his neck. I think to but don’t do. I’m watching you, he says like he knows and he does know, well. And although he’s too old for kissing on trains, he’s considering it. I see that on him and exacerbate by letting each jolt jab me in. Just relief then in the breeze at Kentish Town.
Fuck I’m fit to keel over, he says up the steps. Rubs at his shoulder and hall dumps my stuff. But lopes to the sitting room like he belongs. Oh hello! from the Missus. Quick kissing sound. Find him hugged across her ironing You are so happy now. Ah well, he concedes dropping onto the couch. Lighting up while I go fill a vase. As soon though, I grab him Time to unpack! No rest for the wicked, he laughs following back to my room.
There, reach and kiss. Hang on, he says opening my window to chuck his cigarette. Right, let’s have that again. Then kiss like the night is come. Bang but. Bang! Startle back to the world. Other side of the glass the flatmate lurks, faking camera snaps. One for the Sun, you nymphos, welcome back! Piss off! But he finds himself hilarious a while before going on inside. We really need to get you some curtains. In the meantime though he pulls over my duvet to spread just below. Then we lie on its dust and occasionally sneeze in the stripping and sex that ensues. For there’s hours of catching up. Hours of making new. So quiet remembering but noisy too, for even old dears there out on the walkway must understand how long a month can be. And after, watch the light go down across my wall. Hear the Missus’s boyfriend come in. Stink of spliff and stewed spuds. When he goes for water hear the flatmate smirk Whatever can you two be up to in there??? Never you fucking mind, you nosey git. And sit we together. Pass a cigarette. You let your hair grow. He tugs at the back Didn’t get round to it. I like it like that. Then I’ll leave it, for now.
And the sleeping is great in my bed this night. Soft his eyelids. Holding hands, if we want. While I fall off. While I fall under. Into the
Glass she stirs in me.
Stirs into the water and what can she not see?
Fingertips too white to bleed.
Moving in last advance on breathing but moving all the same.
Where she hurts or galls. In the name of
What?
His whole length warm against me in the earliness that becomes Monday morning too soon.
Empty flat, only for us. Loll at the window studying buses, guessing what ages Blustons has seen. Hang those dresses for a hundred years. On the sofa, he flicks through the flatmate’s Stage that’s been circled, re-circled for telemarketing jobs but peace in the bright, bright sun. And this will be us for the next three months. Any minute I might go lay my head on his knee or ask if he fancies another tea. When I look round though he’s looking at me Going to tell me what happened to your leg? Turn back to a woman pushing a pram. Shopping maybe? Or towel rolled up for the baths? I’m not blind why’ve you been doing that? Watch her walk on past the Owl bookshop but he waits for my answer so I saw him again. Who? The man who. Where? In the street. He walked up to me, could walk up to me. Kissed my mother on the cheek and Long time no see, she said. Then he kissed me and took my hand and I let him because he looked so innocent like he’d forgotten and maybe he had I was five so long ago. He said My God, look at her, she’s all grown up. A fine-looking girl, she does you credit. Never be as good-looking as her mother though, my mother laughed. Well now, he said I don’t want to cause a fight. But all this time still holding my hand, talking about his girls – when we were small, we were friends. Pop in if you’re ever passing, he said We’d all love to see ye again. Give them our best, my mother said and he said he would. He petted my face. Why did I let him? Like I couldn’t not. As he walked away my mother said Why are you always so offish? Who do you think you are? Lady Muck?
Behind me, in London, I hear him stand but does not cross or touch and he’s right. You never told her? No, what would I have said? When you gave me to him to take to the lambing shed, I did the first thing in my life I wished I could forget? He didn’t forget about it though, want to, or try. For months and years after with no patience for panic. Come here I want to show you this. Put out your hand and see what God gives you. Lifted up from the bed beside his daughters at night, knelt on the blue black tiles, convinced, as his wife lay snoring through the wall, that he was only wearing human skin for show. That house in the wilds so far from the world and being at the mercy of someone with none. What am I now because of him? How do I know what it’ll make me become? You don’t, he says You never can but you’re at no one’s mercy any more. It’s there though, isn’t it? I can’t see it but can you? Should I make myself forgive him? I don’t think I can. Listen to me, he says You had to survive what he did all by yourself. You don’t have to forgive him as well. And that is enough. I don’t need more to make back to the silence that served me so well before. Re-refuse the past. I will not have it here. Mouth or bed or in the air. I’ll show you what I see, he says Let’s go out today.
Ice creams in Trafalgar Square? Not the significant part, he explains. So lick and laugh at tourist pestering pigeons. Then the National Gallery, up the steps. Going to show me a picture? Yes. What? Guess. Rembrandt? No. Hieronymus Bosch? No through here there. In the dark. Virgin with Infant. John the Baptist beside. It’s beautiful, I say. I knew you’d like it but it’s the Angel makes it, don’t you think? The light of her. I look at him. And know this is the edge. The instant. The very last point before the fall. That it will come soon now I’m sure but when it does what then?
*
Back to in and world of mine. Hello-ing. Scabbing a fag. Checking notices on the canteen wall. Shakespeare this term. Sunbathed bench coffee. Her showing up with a spanking new man. We nod but at almost ten it’s Acting class first thing.
Off into it so. Time rushing through days. Crucify lazy flesh. Defy lazy brain. And the much and much of delight, of make. Turning the body. Converting the self into flecks of form and re-form. Her. Into her. Into someone else. This one. Long for Juliet and get cast it. Jubilate back at his. Good for you, he says Gallop apace! Rehearse most nights and when it’s not my scene, craftily smoke in the study room, doing the back forth of speed running lines. Or sacking the costume rails for her perfect nightgown. Find the what that makes me she. Help the not far imaginative leap to touching lovers, windows, dawn. In all, I think, I might make her fine, but for the nicotine stains on my hand. Now oftener too with him these nights. So much he buys bowls and Weetabix. True, when he doesn’t call, me and the flatmate smoke spliffs. He’s a certain of happiness though, far side of a month where my past had inveigled its foot. And succumb to the normal of finding him there, lounging in my kitchen, cooker sparking cigarette or telling me to Shove up the bed or mocking what the flatmate’s dragged in. So it just sits, that maw I’ve seen. Close to my tongue but kept silently like those still waters of his past that, whenever I dare ask, he presents as glass. He sees more than me though, or better because, when it’s at me, he does it rough and fucks the anger free. Complains only once after You split my lip. Takes my kissing it as kindness he doesn’t expect. And the feeling for each other is a much-changed subject. An always Right I better head, if I keep staying over I’ll never finish this script. But I know and know he must. It shows all over me and he tastes of it. He won’t say it though, being hindrance mad. That, occasionally, drives me astray in the head but then. But then. Life makes itself with little heed for the appropriate, whatever he thinks that might be.
*
And we are the week. We are Thursday night. He’s not here, so in – sloven stoned – with the flatmate. Smoking only I. Him, on all else, leaping about shouting Feats of strength! Trying out pull-ups on a curtain rail that gives and Shit! Snaps. Gangle and drops the spliff in my hair so I am Fuck fuck you set me on fire! Hopping. Him tackling me onto the floor to wallop with cushions until I scream Get off. Ingratitude! I saved your life. Plus my many split ends. Oh! I see! That’s how it is! Pinning me under. Tickling my legs. Both so locked to within an inch of our lives that neither hear the door, or the suffering Missus get. Just shrieking, clawing with hair going feral then – against the doorframe – him. Evening all. Hey! I say endeavouring quick exit from under the flatmate. What’s going on? Keeping her warm for you mate. Ignore him, I He’s off his head. Yeah, he says through his cigarette, offering a hand I try to take but Flatmate impeding No way! No way! holding me down. Come on, get off her, he says, brooking no further games and, pulled up then, I wend into his arms. Nice to see you. Did you miss me? I ask. I did. How come you’re here? Just passing, saw the light. And when he sits down, I sit beside. Kiss some. Smoke his cigarette. Get a room, the flatmate yucks. Jealousy, jealousy. Nudging my toe into his roots but he grabs it and bites. Ow! Drags me back onto the floor bellowing Feats of the Warrior! Stop it! Ow! Help me! I yelp. Get off her, he says Come on you, let’s go to bed. I’m pretty fucking shattered. Old age, yawns the flatmate, settling his head on my knee. His eyes drifting down across the clump of Flatmate and me You must think I’m very evolved, get yourself off her. Flatmate laughs Fuck off, I was here first. He was, I join in laughing before seeing he does not. No you weren’t, he says kicking at him a bit. He’s an eejit, I say Leave him be. Leave him to what? Or do you want me to leave? Of course not. But the flatmate sprawls triumphantly I saved her life, she’s mine. So are you trying to get her into bed? What? You’re all over her, it’s a reasonable question. No, I say You know he’s not. I know he did, he says. Flatmate howling And she loved it! No I did not love it, shut up! But this opens something, a disarmed spot where his reticence might get caught and all the feeling for him in me can’t resist Besides, aren’t you always saying I should sleep with who I want? Not now, he says Let’s go to bed. Here though my spliff-loosed stitch knits sense. Admit you don’t want me to see anyone else. But he refuses the bait Why would I? You’re free to do whatever you want. Oh mate, Flatmate chokes That is evolved. And I get such a land from being hand-washed of that Then you won’t mind me doing this – near dislocating a shoulder to kiss the flatmate’s lips. What do you want, a round of applause? he asks. I’m clapping, claps the flatmate. Mind your own fucking business, he says. The weed though making me cat and mouse so kiss the flatmate again. Alright, he stands up I’ve had enough. Fuck him, don’t fuck him, do whatever you want. Maybe I will, I say What do you care? Relents he, a little Just come to bed before you do something we’ll both regret. Only if I can bring him, I insist. Ho ho, roars the flatmate. Are you being serious? Yes. Don’t seem to remember you liking threesomes that much, he says. But stubborn shrugs I liked it well enough. So you up for that? he asks the flatmate. Yeah, it’s all good – and, apparently bombed clear of hero-worship, adds – Thought you’d be more up for it mate! You must get asked to join in all the time. Fine! he says, catching my wrist If that’s what you both fancy, then what’s it to me? Easy mate, Flatmate wavers I don’t think No, you picked the wrong fucking man to play chicken with so it’s too late for ‘Easy mate’ now. And I’m dragged into the corridor. Shoved the length of it up. Him, all the while, calling Come on, you too ‘mate’. Then Come the fuck on I said.
Go on, get in. Bangs the bedroom door. Flings me around and I. I am stagger, confused. Struck with outrage and filled with but. He is so angry. Worse than I’ve ever seen. Unbuttoning my top, losing patience then. Tears it. Throws it at the floor. Whoa mate, goes the flatmate. Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty before, bit of drama just adds to the fun so – unless you’re here to talk about your fucking feelings – it’s getting time for pants down mate. Unthumbing his own. Everything. What have I? Going wrong. Too late to dig heels against the moment’s momentum with Flatmate, all sheen-eyed unzipping his fly. Him, half-naked now, catching my eye Still sure about this? And prodded perverse I insist I am! Okay, skirt off next and – don’t fret – I’ll help you work all the geometry out. Then pacing off to arbitrate What, not hard yet mate? Must be the drugs. Need a hand? Flatmate scares back Keep your hands to yourself! Well now, that’s a bit off. I don’t care, I’m not fucking gay. So it’s only her who gets fucked? That hardly seems fair but, I’m – obviously – a very understanding guy so if it’s that you’re feeling shy, you can kiss her first. When Flatmate still prevaricates he gets a shove Go on, get on with it. Yeah, I am, fuck off – taking up my face and kissing my mouth. Great start! he congratulates, slapping the wall Now let’s find out what she really wants. Me? Yes, just say the word and Kiss him, I say like the devil would. He laughs but Flatmate goes No way! No way! I’m not fucking gay! Yeah yeah so you keep saying but – given what she’s about to share – it would be pretty fucking rude to refuse. No! Yes and, come on, be up for it. Then puts his mouth onto the flatmate’s, who squirms and wriggles until he admonishes Stop it, give her what she wants. And something in that makes the flatmate succumb, a while. While, like watching TV, I watch. Strange to my skin, him kissing someone else. Stranger to be on the outside, recreating its taste and. If it’s all just bodies I still only want his, so go wrap my arms round his waist. Lay my head against his back and, wait. Then, like long ago, feel him take my hand. Alright, he says You win. Get off, says the flatmate, from the wall where he’s pinned. He steps back But you’re pretty hard mate, best go ask yourself what that means. Go fuck yourself, poof! He just points to the door Out. With pleasure, Flatmate says – almost crying now – You two are fucking fucked.
And listen to him cursing us right down the hall. Then he lets go my hand, starts putting his pants on. What are you doing? Heading home. Don’t, I say kissing him. Pulling him onto, down on the bed. Stay with me, stay with me. I’m sick of this, he says Do you know how I was before we met? How were you? I was fucking fine. Then go home without me and be fine again. But we kiss instead and he puts himself in and the world closes round us. And I look at him. Let him. Hide in him when it comes, like he’ll help me through it. And he does. And I mind him. I hold him while he lets himself, tracing rivers in the sweat on his back. And, when he lies down on me after, say in his ear Stay every night if you want with me. I don’t want to fuck this about any more, he says But there are things I should probably tell KNOCK What? Flatmate opens the door a crack I think I’m having some kind of attack. He sits up and I expect Fuck off, but Yeah, he says You don’t look so great. Thanks to you, Flatmate complains, fragile, freaked and, before I prevent it, sits down next to me. I think something I took went bad. He reaches for his wrist. Get off! Hey, relax, I’m just taking your pulse, your virtue’s safe with me. Any pain in your chest? No. Arm? No. Stomach? Bit. What have you taken? Litany. Well, go drink something sweet then get into your bed. No don’t make me, Flatmate begs There’s something weird in my room. And even he laughs. Alright, lie down there. Only a while, I add, filled with what might he say? Thanks thanks, Flatmate stretching the very edge while he turns to the wall, reprieved of himself and I lie in, against his back, knowing that’s it for the lee of the night. Still, I stay awake nearly half of it in this weird bed of unsettled men.
*
Banging banging. Wake up! What? Men at the door! Missus at mine Wake up! Wake up! Coming to, he sits up. You all? she says. Long story, he yawns And only slightly what you think. Another batter scaring Flatmate around What the fuck? Will I answer? she worries. What’s going on? I ask into his hip. He nods to my window. Light. Men gawking in. Oh! I cover. But, already there, he passes my knickers asking Missus who they are? Don’t know, she But so so loud. Well, Flatmate says Let’s find out, unkinking into the corridor. No don’t! he calls after Wait! Too late. Opens the door then rotate some exchanges the rest of us can’t quite hear. Voices raise. When Fucking cunt! rings out, he hops from the bed and pulls his jeans on. Buttoning, steps out into the fray. More talking and. What’s going on? Served, he says You’re being evicted I think. Flatmate arguing We paid our rent! It’s not that, it’s the mortgage, didn’t you get the letters? Our landlord doesn’t live here. Then you’ve been had mate. Hall wall punched and Turkish cunt! Calm down, the voice soothes. Fuck you! Flatmate shouts. No need for that mate, we’re just doing our job. Well we’re not leaving, so take your job and fuck off. Sorry mate but that’s going to be you if I have to drag you out myself. Fucking bring it. Hey, take it easy, he says Why don’t you go tell the girls to get dressed? Flatmate effing blinding, bundled back to my room. Don’t fucking need it, the voice grumbles If we get any shit. You won’t, you won’t, you just gave him a fright. What? Worse than waking up next to a naked bloke? causing hilarity in the crowd beyond my window and a forest of Phwoars and thumbs up. He takes it – easy-goingly – I’m sure that didn’t help but seriously, you can see we’re not at fault, can you give us a couple of days? No can do, sorry mate, my hands are tied. A few hours then? No mate I would but I can’t – sounding apologetic enough though for him to try We’ve got a couple of girls in here – you know what they’re like – give me an hour to get them organised and I’ll make sure everyone leaves without a fight. Somehow won, the voice says Alright but after that We’ll be gone, I appreciate it, mate. As they troop down the walkway someone shouts in Nice tits! He looks round my door Sorry, can’t do much once they’re already here, so get your stuff together. You can always come back later, change the locks and you’ve probably got a few weeks before the electricity goes off. Squat, Flatmate nods Nice one mate, and wanders off to his room, tailed by the Missus asking What squat is? Never a dull fucking moment with you, he laughs Come on, you can stay at mine.
On the hour, walk out into the early sun. Kiss the Missus goodbye See you soon, and her boyfriend. Flatmate bag hefting with him and me. After he’s turned Prince of Wales Road we continue silently into the morning tide. Taking breaks to rest our hands. Snatch looks at each other. Smile. Look down. Last night working cringes of so many kinds and yet, still, we are here.
Dark his room, after the light. Bed rumpled and desk spread, all ready for work. I sip a glass of water with dust. Thanks for letting me stay. It’s alright, he says Nice having you here so listen I was thinking it’s my birthday tomorrow and Is it? You never said. Well remember my set-designer friend? He’d like us to come over and what do you think? Okay, I say despite the fright. Alright, I’ll tell him and tonight let’s well sorry I’m making you late. Yeah, I better head and. Yeah, see you later on.
*
Shame succeeds, on the school steps, in shredding through my skin. Alert and naked conscience blinking red in its machine. But back on course too, somehow, as if I’d had a plan. Stitches seeming my terrain – the making and dropping them. Lucky last night he caught those few. How or why, I can’t tell. Meaning though he must want to. I go alive with thoughts of it. And long for this day to be over, to get running back across streets. Yet when I do – in the crook of night – linger by the bin staring up at his light, shying from the meanings of Should probably tell, until the waiting makes the wanting more. Then ring the bell, catch the keys dropped and go on up his stairs.
Ah ha! Over the threshold. Into his room. Look, I’ve tidied, even cooked! Jesus, I say Even hoovered! What’s the occasion? Early birthday, he says setting me aside to pootle with pans, cigarette kept and skilfully managed in the corner of his mouth. Then chicken flipped. Hiss and spit. Are you annoyed about last night? No, you made your point a little dramatically perhaps but well. I kiss relief to his shirt and slide a hand up his leg. Brief he lets, then No! Dinner first, we’re being normal tonight. A quick one? Go on, he shoos My culinary skills are virtually nil. So catting a little, I wander across to push back the curtain and look into his road. Crown-flowered chestnut. Weed-cracked path. A livelier wreck than last winter implied. Nobly crumbling. Time has passed and it’s long since I first came here. I like your street. Changed a lot, he says All of those houses were bedsits once. It won’t be long before this one goes for luxury flats too. Not yet though, I say shutting out the streetlight. Well, he agrees Not tonight. Then the room becomes Here, and Mind it’s hot. At his desk – set as table – we use new plates, knives and forks, drink wine from new glasses. Make out civilised. Pretending nothing separates this night from its lineage of before.
Soon lax, dinner-sated, dissolving desiccated peas we nift through the tidy of scrape rinsing clean. Wet hands wiping. Pass to dry. Stack. Flop on his bed, top to tail, sipping wine. And I toe smooth wrinkles from his duvet, from his jeans, right to his No! No! socks yanked off Have Mercy! Mercy only if you sit up here on me. So I take the chance. Make playful. Lacing fingers. Kissing palms and I am light bright to the glint in his eye. I’ve been thinking about you all day, he says Sitting here writing by myself. What were you thinking? About how you smell just like the right thing. I stroke his hair. Its neat parting. Odd ribs of grey. Watch him arranging mine, so precisely as to invite a Why’re you doing that? Reminds me of What? Some girl from your wicked past? Rush to his face Yes no the first. Oh my God, you’re shy! Yeah well, he says Even I was a virgin once. Trace his chest. Kiss his collarbone. Were you mad about her? I really was, she was beautiful and good to me when I was a mess. And although the eyes close, making hard to read, I already know the word Mess is why we’re here so clumsy on into where it leads. Was it your mother who did that, made you a mess? Why do you say that? You once said you weren’t sorry she was dead. But then a thing I don’t expect, a click, like a tic, at the side of his mouth. Fuck, he says You going in for the kill tonight? then – trying to hide it – What the fuck must I look like. You look fine, I touch it You look perfect to me. Well, he says If I’m going to tell you those things I’m going to need some help. Anything, what? Take off your top. Done. I don’t think that’ll be enough. Take off your bra as well, and helps undo the clasp You have really beautiful breasts, and bringing to his mouth the tic dies away. Catch his eyes, and we begin again. Gets his jeans off. Opens me with his tongue. Every muscle in him relaxing and tensing. Getting to and going in. As though kissing can barely hold the line. You’re my beautiful you’re my A helpless smile like he knows I know what’s happening to him inside. And I do. Me too and I. Keep with him. Like as we have always been struggling to find the find the Come with me, he says and I, holding on as it rises, the high tide. Him and. live words I can’t make out. Cracking with the. Slam. other. Let each other. Out. Just being together. Being so fucking close. And I feel so much love for him in this moment I can’t imagine ever feeling anything else.
But.
Soon.
It’s the past again.
Pity the finished. We do and lie quiet remembering which body’s his, which is mine. Well, I’ve never experienced anything quite like that, he says and laugh as our legs twitch in time. Only part of each other for such a short while and move no more than have to. Until he slips out. Settles beside. Damp and this is how we try, listening to each other now and someone coughing in the road. Toilet flushing. Cars cars. Music above. Blood going round us. His vein like my own. But sooner than I’d like he gets from bed and lighting up smiles That did help, so what was the question again?
Do you have brothers and sisters? Why do you ask? Nosiness, do you? He refills my glass Halves on both sides but I don’t know most of them or even how many there are. Really? Really. Make a guess. Two boys on my mother’s, that’s easy enough. My father though, eleven? Twelve? Could be twenty. Might be more! Do you see him much? He occasionally comes scrounging when I’m up North on tour but not if I can help it, no. And your mother’s dead. He nods but rubs at his lip. And she was? Irish. What was she like? Difficult. Strange. Fucking nightmare actually – the tic again and he so conscious of it – Sure you want to know all of this? Yes, everything. Alright – he lights up and sits back opposite – So tomorrow, but in nineteen fifty-six, they had me.
Well, you know where she was from. The family came over after the war. Her mother died soon afterwards and the father was a doctor. Well off, I think, but I don’t know much. They were traditional Catholics. Pretty strict. There was a younger sister I never knew because she didn’t keep in touch. Or with her father who she always said was very tough. Then in her late teens she met mine, which was really terrible luck. He was older, twenty-two, twenty-three. From there, Sheffield, originally. I’m not sure what he did back then – being a man of mystery – but I think some kind of salesman. Apparently it was love at first sight, followed by a great deal of sneaking about because her father regarded the English as immoral, especially the men. An opinion somewhat justified by my father taking off with someone else the minute my mother got pregnant.
So they weren’t married then? Hmmm, he says
She was hazy about that, sometimes said they were but mostly avoided it. I did ask him directly once but he was uncharacteristically tight-lipped and rambled on instead about her sainted memory or some shit. By the time I was two though, they’d both ‘remarried’ so I’d say probably not. Whatever the truth, she never forgave him. I think she married my stepfather for spite – that said, back then, in the late fifties, she can’t have had much choice. He was a lot older – fifteen, sixteen years. Factory floor who’d worked himself up, a bit. And he was an alright bloke I suppose. I mean he took me on as part of the deal but the marriage went shitwardly fairly quick. Not rowing or violent. Nothing like that, just people living together, disliking in quiet. Certainly there was never any sign of love and the children she had with him she didn’t like much. Both boys, three and four years younger than me. We all shared a room and got on fairly well but we had to stick together back then.
When I ask What was she like? he gives a weird smile.
Intelligent and very angry. Those were the poles she ran between. The intelligence covered what the anger did but the anger did so many things the intelligence had to work very hard and ever harder as the years went by. The trouble for us was never knowing which way she’d go. Perfectly rational one moment then screaming, breaking things. It made getting through the fucking day a process of inching. Don’t say that. Go there. Mention, you know. I suppose the problem was this life she never wanted but couldn’t escape, the man she’d married and didn’t love, place she hated living and couldn’t leave, two children she’d no interest in yet was expected to rear. Then somewhere in the middle of all that was me who she did want and did love but couldn’t stop punishing for whatever my father had done. And all of that led to some very interesting behaviour as time went on.
I was quite small when I realised things weren’t as they should be. After her third was born there was some kind of breakdown, I think. The word was never used but that’s what it was like. She was definitely very unwell. Maybe it was having three little boys running amok, I don’t know but I remember that time having a very particular ritual. She’d get us up early, dressed and fed, then her sister-in-law would take the younger boys for the day. After that she’d have her pills then sit at the table a while. Everything would slow down, then she’d take me to her room. Shut the curtains. Take her dressing gown off and lie on the bed. I’d have to lie beside and she’d get me to whisper prayers or recite the alphabet or go through numbers. We’d lie that way all morning. Sometimes she’d cry. At lunch she’d make me a sandwich and I was allowed out for a while. After that more pills again and bed. I must only have been four so the staying still was dreadful but I’d get a slapped face if I didn’t or put outside the door. I hated that. I’d panic almost. I couldn’t be without her and she’d always wait until I was all worked up before calling me back in. Then she’d spend ages setting me right, wiping my face, wiping my eyes. I don’t really know what it was about. That whole period was pretty odd. Just me and her for long hours in the dark, like we were on another planet or the only people left in the world.
Anyway, it passed eventually and she began to get up again. Next, the other two stopped getting packed off but she stayed very highly strung. Lots of rules were introduced to help her cope. Everything from the volume you spoke at to not kicking a ball. They got very precise too and more every day. By the time we were at school it was like a military inspection. Couldn’t think of leaving the house without being immaculate. She’d sometimes keep you washing and re-washing your hands until you’d be late. We’d just stand there, every morning, hoping to make the grade because if you didn’t, fucking hell, she was quick with whatever came to hand: dustpan, poker, heel of a shoe. It got much worse over the years and I got the brunt because the other two were their father’s sons while I was hers alone. And she beat the shit out of me. He almost never interfered. Certainly never raised a hand to me himself – not that I ever gave him cause. I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose between those four walls. Though sometimes he’d come home from the pub to find me out on the step in the rain. That would piss him off so he’d bring me in. Then there’d be all kinds of shouting and screaming. She didn’t like to be told what she could or couldn’t do to me. So I got used to having my lip split for nothing reasons and soon learned to say it was my brothers’ fault which – considering they never had a fucking mark – wasn’t all that great. Mostly though the stepfather didn’t notice me. If he ever remarked on a bruise or black eye, it was usually just Annoying your mother again? Good lad! which was weirdly comforting.
But almost worse were the gaps of time when she’d blank me. Completely freeze me out. She’d just seethe around, nursing some imagined slight – like shouting an answer from the hall or forgetting to switch off a light – then suddenly, without warning, all fucking hell would break loose. I’d be accused of everything bar the invasion of Poland and belted until I cried – later on I learned how not to, which had its own reward. Of course the next day was like nothing happened. Everyone played along. Over time I think she actually made herself forget. I remember once mentioning her chipping my tooth and she started roaring I never did that, my God, it scares the things you invent! Her denials were always so extreme that I’d end up wondering if she was mad, or me?
And he checks my eyes. And I check his. I do not cry. I would not do that to him. That much I know for sure.
This’ll probably sound strange but, even after all these years, I still think there was something of love in those beatings. Like, when she hit me, she really felt it – and she can’t have felt much because there always was a lot of medication sloshing around. Plus I know she felt guilt. If it had been very bad, if she’d cut me or burned me she’d come upstairs that night with cake. And lie into the bed with me telling stories while I ate. I always felt better after it but I did eat a lot of cake as a child. Still have a very sweet tooth.
Then he smooths a canine with his tongue, as if naming it the one, some treacherous left behind. The tic again. I love his mouth even as he presses on it now.
The most difficult thing though, as a child, was the food. It’s hard to describe how bad that was. I don’t know if she was anorexic, or phobic, or what but, when I was seven or eight, she started this starving herself and really down to nothing at all and as it got worse – whatever it was – the rest of us as well. It seemed to come out of nowhere because she was beautiful, my mother. At least I always thought she was and then, this thing began and it turned her into I can’t explain but you could almost see through her in the end it must’ve been the anger that kept her alive. It started with just not eating, herself. Then not being able to watch us at it. Then cooking it, handling it – especially meat – and that was bad news for us. That was very bad. I spent years dreading going home for tea – all three of us did – because you wouldn’t know what would be waiting when you got in. We’d hang around out the back until she’d call us. Then we’d troop in, starving, but steeling ourselves against the inevitable slop and it always was you know mince burned to a crisp or chicken that looked like it could defend itself fucking mouldy peas and her going off on these crazy tirades Jesus the number of times I got smacked round the head for just sitting there trying to swallow that awful shit. The fucking anxiety of it every fucking meal. The only thing she could bear to make was cake and that was only once a week. We’d have our tongues hanging out for it by Sunday evening but one little piece, that was it. I just remember being hungry every day, sneaking down in the middle of the night to fill up on stale bread. We were all so underweight there were letters home from school. Even the boys got whacked for that and I got the ruler until my knuckles bled. Apparently it was my fault we were these perfectly turned-out but half-starved boys.
I touch his foot and his eyes come back to smile at that. I think he’s only finding light though for my benefit. Everything else in him seems growing still. Just watch, I promise Wait with him. Don’t let him be alone.
It wasn’t all bad though. Fridays were good because he’d arrive home with fish and chips. Then they’d go out and leave us with the wireless, or later TV and sweets. Plus, every summer we had a week at the seaside – ice cream, running on the beach, all that. She was so lovely then and so easy to be with. You’d wish you never had to leave. It was the only time she ever smiled. Also, she read like anything so there were books all over our house. She taught me to when I was pretty small. She was patient like that and with homework and stuff. She’d probably have made a good teacher if she hadn’t been so fucked up. But then, maybe if she’d done that instead of having me she’d never have had those problems at all.
And what about your father? I say. He shakes his head, like mock and disgust. Another cigarette. Easier though, like these waters are clear and he can see him somewhere far away.
Ahh, my father where to begin? He’s a useless bastard at the very best of times. Five or six marriages I know of. Countless kids. Never understood the point of all the marrying myself but he seems to like it and – not that I’m one to talk – he could never keep it to himself so I’m probably related to most of the North. I’m the eldest I think although that only means I’ve never heard of one older than me. Can’t say much about the rest. Now and then one of them pitches up here and it’s weird to open your door to versions of your father wanting answers to stuff you don’t know anything about, like Why was he in prison? Is he a bigamist? Nothing would surprise me but I don’t know, I never saw him, growing up. There were only a few months when I was about ten and some wife wanted to ‘heal the rift’. Some kind of hippy or something. There was a letter one day. My mother lost her reason of course but was, somehow, persuaded because, from nothing at all, I was suddenly in Liverpool once a month. At first I was excited because he was ‘Oh my son’ and ‘These are the lessons life’s taught me’ but that didn’t last very long. By the third round, he was slinking off down the pub, leaving the wife to instruct me on how miraculous he was but – as the bottle went down – that he was a cunt. So I preferred going out with him, even if it was my job to get him home. Even when he’d pick someone up and talk himself back to hers. Good luck on those days consisted of sitting outside her bedroom door. Bad luck was on the bonnet with them in the back seat. Really bad luck was rain and me in the front desperately turning the radio up. Don’t tell – whoever she was – he’d say after especially if he’d paid. I didn’t give a shit. She got sick of me anyway soon enough, or he got sick of her. Either way the visits soon stopped and he never bothered after that except for birthday cards – mostly one month late. Wedding invites now and then, very much dependent upon my being owned or not. I went once or twice but all I’ll say is that, after my mother, he liked them good and thick. So I didn’t miss him, except in the abstract or when the stepfather’d take his to the Wednesday matches and I’d be left at home. That was kind of shit. Still hate the fucking football now.
That’s sad, I say. Not really, he shrugs And the lack of a father turned out to be the least of my worries. She was always the one.
Over the years I’d worked out ways to avoid the rage. How to calm her down, get her to laugh instead – she didn’t have a bad sense of humour when she wasn’t being insane. And when I was twelve things really changed. We moved to a bigger house on a nicer street. She was delighted with that. Going up in the world. Bought a piano. I got a room of my own and, for a while, life became very normal. I hardly knew myself. Even the food thing improved. Anyway, it was all looking up until I hit fourteen. Started getting tall. She said Like him – I never saw it myself. It was just that I was growing up really but enough to set her off again. The paranoid rages and the ritual amends – bed and her slice of cake but getting different now, wanting to talk about him. The strange thing is, it didn’t seem strange because I was interested I suppose. I wanted to know about him. I mean, I was the only evidence that life had existed and it wasn’t great always being the odd one out. Besides, it started off as harmless enough. Things you wouldn’t mind. How the first time they met she’d sneaked out to a dance. He was so drunk he spilled something all down her dress but he was the best-looking man there so it didn’t matter. The next week he was at the school gates to walk her home after and all very covert because of her father. To go away together, she’d faked some pilgrimage with something like the Legion of Mary. Ingenious really but I can’t help wondering how that ended, probably with me. It was love though, she always said, which apparently made up for everything else. Some nights she’d tell me about what he was interested in: boxing, racing, anything with an engine. I liked hearing all that because I still hadn’t grasped what an utterly worthless fucker he was. It began to feed on itself though, all that talking. Opened some door that should have stayed shut. Started extending itself into what I had no business knowing about. About marrying my stepfather. How she’d done it for me, how she hadn’t wanted more children but he was a pig. Then the stories about my father becoming more involved. More explicit and the way they were told, over and over, as if I hadn’t understood. As if she wanted a reaction I didn’t know how to give. And she got and it got I dreaded her coming in. I’d pretend I was asleep and when she hit me I’d pretend it didn’t hurt just so she’d leave me be. It was so bizarre, like she was pouring herself into me, trying to stop my brain making the difference between and I got so confused and it got so hard to breathe the fucking weight of all the talk, all the paranoid shit, all the memories and like she was creeping all over me. Then one night, after she’d already been and gone, I was doing what you do when you’re a fourteen-year-old boy. I was pretty practised by then so I’m sure I took care but when I opened my eyes after she was there. Watching. I nearly died of fright. I thought she’d kill me but she didn’t say anything. Just turned and went and After that it got different again. The way she was with me. The way she’d lie in the bed and I’d be completely still, trying not to touch. Saying anything I could think of to get her out but God even to remember it now makes me feel sick.
We are down in the down in the. Hold myself rigid and do not fail to meet his eyes. But now the busy tic’s got so bad he has to pause and rub at it.
Alright alright – still calming it – Alright then here it is. I put it off for as long as I was able to. I kept out of its way for as long as I could but I realise now it was always going to happen. At the time I thought it was my fault. Because of my mistake. I walked a girl home from school – first and only time I ever did. I remember being all pleased with myself because there’d been no awkward silences and I’d made her laugh. When I got in though, the other two legged it pretty quick so I knew I was in the shit. I just started with Sorry, sorry, straightaway, you know, trying to placate. She was just shouting Where were you? Where were you? so I panicked and lied about seeing some dog get hit in the road. She screamed Don’t lie! Where have you been? When I stuck with the dog, I got belted round the kitchen but I kept to it until she started on my face. Then I told because I liked that girl and I didn’t want a bruise to explain. I walked a girl home from school, I said. The next thing I remember is blood on my teeth and thinking she’d broken my nose.
I was just useless and sore and went straight up to bed, cursing her for a fucking bitch under my breath. Hoping by some miracle not to bruise or that the stepfather would take her out, which he didn’t. And once they’d all gone to bed, there she was I brought you some cake. I pretended to be asleep but she wasn’t having any of it. Got in beside, saying all the stuff – I wish you wouldn’t make me treat you like that but you’re too young for fooling around with girls yet and putting her hands into my pyjama top. I just lay there, pretending, hoping she’d give up but. I love you, she said You know that, don’t you, son? You know you’re my favourite. You know I’ve always loved you best, just tell me you still love me and let that be an end to it. I wouldn’t though. I hated saying it but she wouldn’t stop so eventually I said I love you. And then Is your face sore? she asked. No, I said. Is your face sore, darling? No, it’s not. But when she asked the third time, I knew I had to give up. A bit, I said. She said A bit what? A bit sore Mum. She said I can see that and I know what will make it better, love.
She was up and out after, saying Goodnight, like she’d been tucking me in. I just turned on my stomach thinking Did that really just happen? Was it some kind of mistake? She couldn’t have meant to but there was the stain and I remember getting out of bed, eating the cake, fucking stuffing it down, trying to get myself straight, but it was like my eyes wouldn’t adjust and I had to go puke it all back up. I must’ve sat for an hour on the bathroom floor, listening to her roam around below – closing doors, checking plugs. The taste of the chocolate sick in my mouth and when I went back to bed, I couldn’t sleep I had another wank to knock myself out, fucking crying all the while. I remember that so clearly and just not knowing what was going on.
The next morning was like I’d been blasted. None of me was right. I kept checking the mirror and – bruise aside – everything looked fine except I didn’t know how to use my body. I remember clunking downstairs touching the woodchip that I could hardly feel and my weird fucking legs. She was pretty manic in the kitchen – maybe she had shocked herself. She didn’t acknowledge me though, just raced about hurling dishes in the sink. Even one of the boys got a clip round the ear for laughing when something smashed.
For the whole week after she ignored me and I had a month of nights on my own. But after that, she got herself organised. Picked up where she’d left off. I don’t know why the delay or what was the spur, only that it became fairly regular then, once a week, sometimes more.
At first it was all pretending she was doing something else. Eyes averted. Under the sheet. As if not looking at each other made it less real. That was only the beginning though, of the very very bad. I remember trying so hard not to get hard but what can you do at fourteen? Now I know it’s a mechanical thing but, back then, I thought it was me. I couldn’t understand why I would. Sometimes I’d imagine she was testing, that I was about to be hauled off to some hospital where they’d fix me up people like me, whatever that was. Later, when she got more confident she’d imply she was the victim of me that I was the I made her do those things to me and all the time it was getting worse. Further from what you could pretend it wasn’t making it more like wanting responses and not the whole way not kissing or that but almost everything else all under the guise of her fucking caring and love, how she understood I couldn’t help myself. But I never cried about it again. Went into my body to get out of my head. There was no way to think about it so I didn’t. And I stopped feeling everything pretty soon. Just let her do what she wanted and did what she asked in return.
He looks around the room but not at me. Lights another cigarette. Pours another drink. Then, pressing his knuckles to the pitiless tic, continues on.
Once she was done, she’d get up and walk out and I’d just lie there getting back to blank. Sometimes I’d throw up. As it progressed, I started dropping lit matches on my stomach, or legs. Not to feel, just to revive some self that could act normally in my skin – I know you know about that. I’d wait to see how long I could take it and, as time went on, for fucking ages. By the end they could burn themselves out.
I should have said No, I know that. I should’ve known to push her off and it sounds ridiculous but the way she had me I couldn’t go against her at all. For years after I left I kept wondering if the real truth was that I’d enjoyed or invited it because physically I did you know do you know what I mean? She always made sure I did and and once that happens it’s like you’re implicated, like you’re the accomplice somehow. But it wasn’t what I wanted and I know that because of what I ended up doing to myself to get over it.
All of him shivering now, like a dog in the rain, but still You alright with this? he says I know we both have it so is it too much? And I am I feel so distraught. This is not my story though or time for upset. I’m fine, you tell me whatever you want. The tic gone so bad his mouth can hardly hold his smoke. Okay, but if you change your mind I say I won’t, please don’t worry about me.
Well, at some point, she started slipping me sleeping pills after – maybe the throwing up was disturbing the peace. At least it meant a dreamless sleep and started me considering when else I’d like that – which was already most of the time. So I began helping myself. Just the sleeping pills first but – once I started to search – there were prescription bottles stashed all over the house. I used to lift so many at a time she must’ve guessed but she never mentioned it and, as she was only getting worse, there wasn’t much incentive to stop. I can see now though I was getting depressed. I’d come in from school and just lie on my bed so exhausted I could hardly move. I was sick all the time. Every flu. Nosebleeds a lot. Then the tic started too and that frightened her, I think. She used to beg me to stop it – as if I could. It was that bad sometimes I couldn’t speak. They used to excuse me from class to go sit in the bog just to get it under control – like school wasn’t already nightmare enough. I hated it. Kept getting into fights which, actually, cheered me up. It was almost as if they solidified me. Gave me somewhere to be angry and feel like I wasn’t queer because, once she started, I lost all interest in girls – that poor one I walked home, don’t know what she must’ve thought, I never even looked at her again. My mother’d go mad though, at the bloody nose, ripped shirt, so I’d get another hiding and I always let her. Never even considered not. Whenever she wanted. Whatever she grabbed. Bottles, brushes, tin of paint once – had to get stitches after that one. I mean, by the end I was nearly twice her height but – same as the fights – I almost got to like it. Seeing how much I could take. Because the less it looked like it hurt, the angrier she’d get, then the further she’d go and that was revenge. She’d feel so bad after and I’d feel like I’d won. But also I was wolfing down pills by then so I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. What I remember most was just finding it hard, really hard, to be alive.
So did you ever tell anyone? Did anyone know? He shakes his head.
I never told and no one ever walked in but, that in itself, considering how long she was very careful though, about the pretence. Always Morning love! like nothing had happened. Never asked about the burn marks or mentioned the throwing up. No one did. Towards the end though, the stepfather’d sometimes shout through my door Get out of his room, he’s too old for that now. Or make jokes about her being cracked because of all the pills and we’d laugh about that, me and him. But I don’t think he really knew and I probably wouldn’t have wanted him to. Either way, when I left I never saw him again.
More wine? and he stands up without looking at me. Yes please. So he goes to the fridge. Gets another bottle. Opens. Fills my glass. Fills his own then sits back opposite. And when did you? I say.
By the time I was fifteen it was very bad, so I wrote to my father – he was in Newcastle by then – asking if he’d put me up until I got a job and a place. Only fucking thing I’d ever asked. Three months I waited for his reply. Barely legible when it arrived and full with fine phrases about the responsibilities of fatherhood he’d obviously nicked from something he hadn’t understood. The gist of it being Of course I could but – unfortunately – I could not. I was so desperate by then though I decided to hitch up. He didn’t recognise me at the door and, when I explained who I was, he nearly had a stroke. Fucker wouldn’t even ask me in, said his marriage was hanging by a thread and I was old enough to take care of myself. I begged him but he wouldn’t. In the end I said Please don’t make me go back, she’s fucking doing things to me. He just hit me a slap and said Don’t be such a pervert! then slammed the door in my face. I didn’t know what to do so I hitched back again in the dark and let me tell you, that was one long fucking night.
She was pretty hysterical when I got in. Been up all night. Called the police. The stepfather had already gone to work so it was only her and the other two, hiding in their room. I didn’t want to say where I’d been but she kept on and on so, eventually, I just said I went to see my dad. I had to but, even as I was, I knew what came next would be well
She went completely off her head. Shouting how I’d betrayed her. Was an ungrateful piece of shit and just like him, slinking off into the night. That she wished she’d never had me. That I’d ruined her life. None of which was unexpected but then I realised she was only working up. And my heart just started to pound. Then it really began. Throwing things first. From the sideboard. Plates. Cups. Screaming You’re in for a hiding, my boy, you’ll never forget. And I thought Alright, get on with it. You can take it, whatever it is. So I leaned against the table, like she said – arms out to support myself and I was prepared for a lot. I had faith in my pain threshold. It had always stood me in good stead before but this time she told me to pull my shirt up then she beat me with the buckle end of the stepfather’s belt hard as she could again and again I thought I was going to pass out and she just kept on and probably would’ve but I couldn’t I couldn’t manage the pain. It got so bad I couldn’t move and then there was all this mystery blood so I stopped her I turned I took it away. She went for me then, like a wild animal really, and I was so panicked I could hardly defend myself. When she said Get upstairs, it was a relief. I don’t even remember how I did but then she followed me up. The other two must’ve been listening because when she called them out they wouldn’t come. So she went in and belted them out of the room. I want you to watch this, she said A lesson about what ingratitude gets. Then she started ripping my clothes, destroying my things – not that there was much but Where can you go if you’re naked, son? Why didn’t I get rid of you at the start and have a life of my own? And me just going I’m sorry Mum, please don’t. But she wouldn’t just fucking out of control. Whacking me round the head with bits of books. Blood pouring out my nose. I couldn’t even see my back but when the younger two did they started screaming with fright so then she started really knocking them round. That’s what finally woke me up. I knew I had to do something before she killed one of us. So I got hold of her, best I could, and half dragged, half carried her back to her room. Her thrashing about, screeching Don’t you touch your mother! Fucking biting but I didn’t notice that until later. All I could think of was shutting her in and I only managed to, just. Stood there holding the door handle begging Lie down Mum. Please Mum. Please take one of your pills. Which she must’ve done because, after a while, the ranting died down and when I let go, the door stayed shut. Then everything went quiet and we went down to the sitting room.
I remember mopping the boys up. At some point making them lunch – meat paste sandwiches as I recall – but having no real thoughts, which must’ve been the shock. Then I remember just being sat forward on the couch hoping my back would scab soon. When the stepfather came home he couldn’t believe the state of the place, or me – bite marks all down my arm and neck. Bloodstains from my back on the leatherette and no energy for pretending left. When he asked Where’re your brothers? I just pointed up. And he raced up the stairs, of course he did. There was a bit of consoling, then he went in to her and What the fuck did you do? You know, usually, if he put his foot down that was it. But not that night. She went for him – which must’ve been quite a surprise. He certainly looked pretty alarmed, coming back down, mumbling I don’t think your mother’s very well like that was fucking news. Anyway, she passed out again then he went out for fish and chips.
Luckily when she came round the next day she was calm. Spent it in bed. Darkened room, all that. The following day she materialised at breakfast, apologising Poor little boys. Mummy’s just had a bad turn. Promised to see the doctor about her nerves. But to me Go to your room. I’ll speak to you later young man.
She got him to take them to the pictures, to make it up. I had to stay in because well I couldn’t go out looking like that. And she waited until they had before coming up for me.
I listened to every step. I knew it would be bad. But it was still daylight so I kept hoping for a yelling at Of course it wasn’t that it was the other thing. And she took the blanket off so there’d be no mistake. The fucking fear of it. Lying there. Waiting. I didn’t want to but I was already half wrecked and she already knew how to make me go against myself. And she was so she had no knickers on when she got on me and I He dry retches into his hand but when I waves me back Will you let me? if you can? I’ve never told anyone and I I say Alright.
Breathe and watch him breathe.
I think she thought once she did that I’d never leave be able to or I’d be ruined at least. And in some ways I was. I was never the same again. But at the time I begged til I started to choke and I tried sitting up but my back and she kept pushing me down trying to get me to and my brain fucking jumping. Fucking gagging and panicking and then you know
it was too late and
all of a sudden, I was that became
a person who has done the worst thing
is that even a person any more?
If she’d left at that moment I would have gone out the window but she she didn’t. She kept going on so the pain it started to do something else
all those fucking bruises and cuts wouldn’t let out of myself.
And she hadn’t counted on that that there, in the fucked-up body getting fucked, was a person starting to come to life, starting to want to hurt her and do all the things to her body that she’d done to his. Do worse. Wanting to fucking fling her on the floor and stamp on her face and I could tell I was starting to go off my head. That if it wasn’t over soon I definitely would. So I went through to the end. Finished it, like she said. And when she got up to go clean He dry retches again. Are you alright? He nods but the grey eyes black and the wall they stare through into that past is gone so eerily thin I can almost see her too.
When she got up off me, I said If you ever fucking do that again I’m going to kill you and then I’ll kill myself and everyone will know you for what you are. It was the first time either of us had referred to it aloud. First time I ever saw her like that. Knocked off herself, you know? But, of course, the clever kicked in. Cogs going round. I could almost see it, her working out how to handle me, which trick might be best. She chose guilt. Falling down, crying I should never have let you do that but I love you so much. You’re all I have. But the shock at myself had me out of the bed. Getting my clothes. Dressing quick.Her following me, holding onto me and all the fucking talk. If only you could understand how lonely I am. All these years without your father but I love you son. Just shit pouring out but I’d gone completely beyond. I knew this was the only chance I’d get. If I didn’t go now, I’d never have the nerve and then she would have me for good. So I what was left of me prised her off and took her by the hair and I was just shouting it, I remember, repeating the same thing If you ever fucking lay a finger on me again I will kill you and then I will kill myself and everyone will know. And I dragged her to the door. Still fucking hanging on. Clawing into me screaming Don’t son! Don’t! Then I threw her out. And I slammed the fucking door on her hand and she fell. I heard her. On the stairs. Like fucking comedy bumping and I shouted through the door I hope you’re fucking dead. I hope you’ve broken your fucking neck. And she lay there screeching, pleading up for help. I just kept shouting I fucking hate you and I always have. Over and over. But she didn’t stop. So I ripped up the bedsheets, all covered in fucking stuff, and I took them out to the landing and just threw them over the banister. Then I watched them tumble down and land all over her. Go wash those fucking sheets, I said. And she stopped screaming then. Stopped crying. Everything went still. Then she got up. Picked the sheets up. Went on down to the kitchen and How fucking banal is that? Unworthy of her, I think, not to reappear with a knife. So maybe my father taught me something after all, because although I threw up with fear, it was sorted. That was the last time I ever saw her and, by the time the others were back, my whole life had changed.
The rest of the day I stayed in my room. At teatime I heard her tell one of the boys to fetch me down. Him running up the stairs saying Mum says come and eat. But I didn’t. Him trying to persuade me but I wouldn’t. So he went back down saying He won’t come. Poor little bastard sounded so nervous but she only said Never mind, eat your own.
Unsurprisingly I didn’t sleep. Just sat there trying to get myself together really. By the morning I’d turned sixteen and I’d made my plan – which involved lifting all the money and pills I could find. Once I’d done that, I left. Bought myself a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. Then I walked out of Sheffield and that was it. Happy Birthday to me! Fuck! My leg’s gone to sleep! And he stands up to limp. Twenty-three years ago tomorrow? And twenty-three years ago today. Oh God, I say. He nods but then goes on
I hitched down to London. Most of the way with this lorry driver who picked me up just outside Sheffield and asked if I’d been hit by a bus? But a fucking fortuitous meeting, that was. He gave me the address of some mate in Camberwell so I’d a floor to kip on that night. And that mate got me the first of many shitty jobs – Smithfield the first one was, I think, packing meat – the irony wasn’t lost on me but it really set me up. For the next few years I lived in lots of dives. Fucked up lots of other jobs and had a great fucking time. No one at me. No one entitled. The drug thing was already well under way but – compared to later on – pretty harmless, actually. In fact I’d say it helped. Helped with meeting people and making friends and getting over what had happened. It gave me a bit of space in my head which was exactly what I needed then. But now I need to take a leak.
Then he just walks out, leaving me in the midst of this half-unpacked life, letting me look at it and I what can I do but wait?
When he comes back he washes his hands and, on reflection, his face. So far so horrible, right? But not you, I say It. Well, he says Not yet. There’s so much I want to ask but I know to not. Let him. Let him say what he wants. But let me tell you something nice now, he says and sits back on the bed again.
Obviously I never had a girlfriend or anything when I was at home. I was pretty sure everyone could see I wasn’t normal and wherever I went it was like she was watching me, which was a bit of a turnoff too. So coming to London got rid of that and, much sooner than you’d have thought, all this sexual feeling started to reappear. Nothing unusual I suppose for a sixteen-year-old boy but completely new to me – noticing girls, fancying them. Even recognising it came as a shock and the first time something happened I couldn’t believe I was so up for it. I mean I was still bruised but there was this girl at the hostel I’d moved to – she worked in the kitchen there. Older than me. Eighteen, nineteen. Curly hair. Big brown eyes and a fucking tongue you wouldn’t believe. Everyone was scared of her but for me she was It. I couldn’t think about anything else. I was always hanging around where she was, all lanky and shy, holding open doors, offering to carry the mop. I was no good at coy so whenever I saw her I ticced. Badly. And she’d take the piss but then feed me scraps, which was further than most men got. I’m sure she knew I’d never make a move and if she hadn’t I’d probably still be a virgin now. Anyway, one night she took pity on me. Towed me into the women’s dorm and said Do you want to kiss me? I went bright red but managed to indicate that I did. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, she laughed then kissed me and Fuck it was good. I remember trying to work out what I should do with my hands and just putting them on her shoulders. She must’ve thought This is a right one, but all she said was Come lie on the bed, and, when I did, she put my hand on her breast and fffffffff. We kissed some more. Then she told me open her top and I got that hard I thought I was going to pass out. It was the first time I’d ever felt properly turned on, from the inside of myself, you know? But, just as suddenly, she sat back up and said That’s enough, off you go!
The next morning I couldn’t stop smiling at her. The whole canteen must have seen. She kept saying Stop giving me those puppy eyes, you! but most nights that week we did the same. Each time a little further, always at her behest. First time she put her hand in my pants I freaked out a bit but Don’t you want me to? she asked and soon as I said I did I could let her and it was great. I still felt strange about coming though and coughed a lot to cover it up. She wasn’t fooled but she was good about it and just put my hand up her skirt. I didn’t want to get naked because I was ashamed of my scars. She had a way with her though and, a few days later, it only took Want me to put it in my mouth? to get my pants on the floor. And I saw her see them but she never asked, which I was grateful for. Harder was returning the favour. I’d always found it particularly you know not great but the next night I took a couple of pills and Jesus, the reaction from her. Suddenly all I could think about was making her come and what it would feel like to put it in, which meant – by the time she suggested it – I was sort of prepared, in my head. The body though wasn’t much help. Couldn’t get it in, didn’t know what to do once I had. She was instructive, thankfully, and patient. Let me keep trying until I got it right – she probably thought I’d better come or he’ll never get off. But the memory of that first time – real time – and after it, both of us sleeping in her bed with the smell of her hair and the smell of the sex. It was like starting the clock again but, this time, right way round. Like getting clean for the first time in my life. She was the very best thing that could have happened and I knew that, even then.
I crawl up the bed and offer my mouth. He kisses it too. Lets me put my arms round and find he is a bit like glass. But I want him to know I think he’s such a fine man. He won’t though. He’ll never think that. And once I’ve settled back he just carries on.
She was a bad girl too. She’d flirt mercilessly with me. I’d go so red the drunks would roar Forget it lad, she’d tear you limb from limb! But I loved that, the ordinariness, being part of a joke. I used to run back from work just to watch her peel spuds. She’d pretend to be annoyed but kiss me up against the door, then throw me back out shouting Behave yourself youngster! Before long we were getting wasted together, usually with her mates in their half-empty dorm. End up shagging away while they’d complain, chucking pillows or moaning along. The occasional glass of water thrown over us, after which there’d be screaming and chasing about. She encouraged all that and would dare us to kiss. Then I’ll-show-mine-if-you’ll-show-yours and on to the next until I ended up getting passed around between them all. I think it became their mission to teach me how to do the filthiest stuff – which I now realise they didn’t know anything about – but, after everything, you can imagine how I took to being fussed on by four pretty girls. It was all very harmless though. And I’ve done that kind of thing plenty since but it’s never the same, just drink and drugs and athletics. Fairly grim really. Not like those nights. We were only young and had all had our innocence kicked out of us. Pretending to be grown up but, really, just being friends. Nothing heavy. No demands. The confidence it gave me, I hardly knew myself. And, more importantly, because of those girls I liked women again –which could have easily gone the other way because there was so much anger – but instead they set me on my feet. Little-brothered me too. Taught me how to smoke. Made me grow my hair out. Get some decent clothes. And somehow in that room I got to decide who I wanted to be. They seemed to like this boy who was getting a little cocky, took too many drugs but had a laugh and I liked him too so I put him on. From the moment I did the tic was gone and that terrified boy got locked away. I didn’t want him any more and no one needed to know he’d ever been. And that new persona got me through the next few years. So I owe a lot to those girls and, to this very day, the sight of a pink candlewick bedspread – oh my fucking God!
What happened to them? Did you all stay friends?
We didn’t. It just petered out in the end. Someone moved away. She got a different job. I went to drama school. We met up at first. Then less. Then lost touch. Everything was like that in those days. Drifting about. No one making proper plans. Years later I did, once, see her again. She came to the stage door after a show I was in. She looked exactly the same. We couldn’t say very much though because she’d brought her son along. But she said she was glad things had worked out for me because I’d always looked like such a stray. When she was leaving she kissed me on the cheek and said how fondly she remembered that life. And I was really glad she said so because I do as well.
I press my sole to his. How come drama school then?
Working on a stage door with a mate – bit less nasty than stacking meat – then hanging round with the actors, seeing other shows they did. Don’t know why I thought I could but when someone suggested drama school, I decided to give it a go. Auditioned. Got in. Got a scholarship. And that started a really good time. Acting just seemed to offer me another life for free. A way of exploring all the things I wanted to be without trawling through all the shit you’d have to if it was real. And all that anger and confusion, the stories I could never tell, finally had a place to breathe because there has to be a logic on stage that normal life doesn’t often have. Whatever I was I was safe in the part and everyone was safe from the mess I was. Once the show was over, that was it. Like living without consequence – all of which turned out to be bullshit but that’s how I thought of it at the time. Anyway, those years I was freed from myself. Not having to check which bruises to cover up or lie to people who knew what I was. And getting wasted. And having sex. Boys. Girls. I didn’t care. It was all part of being free and imagining good things could happen for me. I worked like a dog and when it turned out I was good, people said so and that helped a lot – a little confidence is a great thing to get hold of when you’ve lived for years with none. And all this time she didn’t know where I was until I needed my birth certificate. She wrote back My Darling Son. Left messages at the school saying she’d be down and I was to call to arrange. That happened a couple of times. But I never did and she never appeared. I heard less and less and I got less scared. Then nothing at all. I left her behind and I started again.
So had you a girlfriend then? That’s the next bit, he says.
She was the year above but two years older – twenty-one to my nineteen. Nice nails. Nice dresses. Completely out of my league but once I set eyes on her that was it. I was already pretty good with women by then but she wouldn’t give an inch. When I’d ask her out – which was a lot – she’d say Where are you going to take me? Down the dogs? But after seeing me in an end-of-term play she got a lot more flirtatious suddenly. Nothing was said directly but I saw it and played along. Whenever I was about to leave a party with some other girl, I’d always go say You’ve got first call love, if you want to make a man of me. I was terrible around women I suppose – never met one I couldn’t find something to fancy about. So I had a bad reputation for that and she was very straight but I could see she got a kick out of how direct I was about it, and playing shocked. Soon she started letting me over to borrow books. As soon as I’d try to kiss her – which I always did – she’d turf me back out but then I’d catch her watching me all the way down the road. Being constantly broke meant I had to be more inventive than most. So I’d arrive to take her for midnight walks bringing bunches of roses I’d stripped from someone’s hedge. I once got arrested in St James’s Park for – while completely off my head – trying to swim out and steal her a duck egg. But it was the end-of-year party did it – reciting all of Goblin Market kneeling at her feet. It was her favourite poem and the grand gesture made her laugh, sitting there with all her friends checking each verse off. Worked though. She said Alright, you’ve earned your stripes, and took me home. We spent the next week in bed and she wasn’t so fussy about my reputation after that. So we were together then for the next three years during which every single thing that’d made her wary about getting involved I did to her, and worse.
Was she who you had your daughter with? Yeah, he says That was her.
I was crazy about her in the beginning. Kept asking her to marry me all the time – thank God she had the sense to refuse. But we were happy and it was easy at first. Lots of sex. Going out. Staying in. She even introduced me to her parents – I’ve never seen two people look more appalled. I’d borrowed a tie and everything but it really was no use I had an accent you could’ve cut with a knife. She liked that though, slumming it. And all the drugs fascinated her at first. I was happy then though so I wasn’t too bad. Well actually that’s not true I was but they were still helping me to be a nice guy so the problem didn’t really show itself then.
*
So, she graduated that summer. I had another year to go. By the time I did, she was starting to want more and I didn’t know what more meant. What more could you want than getting trashed, having great sex and rolling around London having a laugh? But it was me she wanted more out of and I wasn’t able for that. She didn’t like my being closed about family. Whenever she asked I’d say we didn’t speak or sometimes that they were all dead. If she really pushed I’d end up losing my rag and fucking off for a few days. She wouldn’t bring it up for ages after that. I suppose I just didn’t know how how to be with someone, close to someone, or what it would entail. So I’d mostly agree to whatever she said – which is how we ended up moving in together, even though I’d no interest in that. We got a tiny flat in Finsbury Park. I remember being summoned to her father’s club. Roundly informed of her mother’s shame and warned if I got her pregnant I’d be in more trouble than I’d ever been. Of course, by the time I did I already was so it didn’t matter anyway. Nothing would dissuade her though. She said she was in love and to be honest I didn’t give a shit about what anyone’s mother thought.
Anyway, by the time I graduated too she was already well on her way. Plenty of small, but good, parts and good in them – RSC, Royal Court, that kind of thing – whereas I auditioned a lot but couldn’t land anything and, without the routine of school, I started to go down. All the confidence just began leaking away. As the months passed and I still got nothing I started spreading the weekend. Began needing a pick-me-up before going in. Same again when I came out. A whole lot more when I didn’t get the part, then forgetting it’s not the best idea to go auditioning off your face. It was like not feeling real any more. Disconnected despite all the talking. Watching the self I’d built up over four or five years just crack and fall off me like paint. People kept saying It’s only a matter of time so I persevered in the hope they weren’t lying. At the same time, beginning to think I might’ve been lying to myself. Wasting everyone’s time with fantasies of this career I couldn’t have. The person I could never be. There was just so much rejection and not enough of me. So I got afraid. And I lost my nerve – which is really fucking fatal in this line of work. By a year I was falling. Just breaking apart. Taking whatever I could to feel normal again. To get out of bed. To get back in. And I’d be a real cunt to her sometimes and not because I begrudged her, I just wanted something for myself. And she was always trying to help. Introduce me to people. So I’d get bits here and there but not enough to fix what was going wrong, as if anything could have been.
Then I cheated on her. It wasn’t the first time, just the first time I got caught, and I knew I should feel guilty but, really, I didn’t understand all the fuss. For me it was only a drunken fuck. She was shattered though, wouldn’t see me for weeks. And when she did take me back it was different because it obviously meant more to her than me. So rows began ending more frequently with me fucking off for days and not telling her where. I stopped hiding the extent of my habit as well. I didn’t care how much she begged or how much I spent. She started tagging along everywhere I went, mostly to get me home safe or drag me off someone else. I made her do that, take control and I didn’t make it easy at all. I think we spent a year getting kicked off buses and out of cabs because of the way I’d carry on, picking fights with strangers and being a twat. I’d wake up with black eyes or cracked ribs and no fucking memory of how I did it, which brought shedloads of older memories in so I’d have to up the dosages to push those away again. And I’d have the odd moment of thinking What are you playing at? But they always came to nothing because I couldn’t stop. I just didn’t know how.
Did you still love her? As much as I was able, he says Which probably wasn’t as much as she deserved. She just wanted so much and it suffocated me. I didn’t want to talk about or hear about things. It was the intimacy I suppose. I just couldn’t, I mean, my position was, if you feel down, down a few of these and spare me all the fucking chat.
By halfway through our third year together I was mercilessly fucking around, hardly bothering to hide at all. When she’d threaten to leave I’d beg her to stay and she always would. Then I’d get that buzz in my head and be off to find someone else. And if I didn’t wake up with a stranger’s skin under my nails it was in bed with one of her friends, some girl from her play. She’d be so humiliated and I’d know I was a piece of shit but I had no real conscience about sex. Just wanted it and wanted it. Always pestering her for it too until she stopped wanting to. Then we’d row because I wasn’t able to touch her without it becoming that. Sometimes she’d just lie there and let me and I still would. I fucking knew I shouldn’t do that but then it was another excuse. Say she was cold so I fucked someone else. I know I hurt her over and over like I was looking up ways in a book. The worst part was, she couldn’t hurt me back. Once or twice she was unfaithful and flaunted it. For appearances’ sake I ranted and raved but I didn’t really care. I think I got her to believe that it was all her fault. That if only she could make me happy I would stop and that was a lie. It must have made her so lonely, all that fucking addiction, because even when I was with her she was on her own.
Then one day she told me she was pregnant and things would have to change. For some reason she was happy and I’d like to say I was but, honestly, I just thought Oh shit! How could I want a child with the state I was in, never mind the childhood I’d had? But she wanted me to be happy so I pretended I was. Swore I’d get clean. Swore I’d get a proper job – don’t know what either of us thought that might be but that was what she wanted to hear so that was what I said. If I hadn’t been continually wasted I would have been terrified. I mean, I had no idea what a father should be. Mine – shagging everything in sight? Hers – breathing fire down my neck about having to marry her now? – to which I agreed and never got round to. Or maybe my stepfather, never walking through the wrong door? Then to top it off, there was her, my mother. What if? What if that was me? And the fucking horror of that thought I could not manage at all. So after a few weeks clinging to sobriety by my fingernails I let it go again. The drinking got worse. And everything else. Fucking nosebleeds every night. Going to the clap clinic all the time. Then my Big Break arrived, unexpectedly, and about two years too late.
Juv lead in a film. Big Hollywood thing. To be shot out at Elstree. She was thrilled because I cheered the fuck up and it meant plenty of cash. Promise of work. Future blossoming like the may. But by then it freaked me out more than anything else – the thought of having to succeed, knowing how badly she wanted me to, to justify all I’d put her through. And I couldn’t. Couldn’t work out what I was supposed to do. And couldn’t sleep. Or relax. Weighed nothing at all. Of course there were also plenty of people happy to sort me out on set. Whatever I wanted to take. Whoever I wanted to fuck. It was so easy. I closed my eyes and just dived into everything. Bottle of vodka by lunch. Coke after that. Speed. Uppers. Anything to get me up on my feet and running around, behaving like I was still capable which – it must’ve been clear – I wasn’t. I remember one of the older actors taking me aside, advising me to sort myself out, even giving me some doctor friend’s number. I swore I’d call then went out and swallowed everything I could get my hands on. But no one sacked me or said You’re fucking up so I just kept running and running until it all came running back.
How do you mean?
Literally, I was running across the soundstage floor and I couldn’t get my breath. The doctor took one look then called an ambulance. When it arrived I was able to walk to it – fingers tingling but nothing bad. We were almost at the hospital, they said, when my mouth turned blue and I collapsed and died. And, if I hadn’t been there, I would’ve stayed that way too. I don’t remember any of that, or for ages afterwards. Only black and void for days. Then lights. Noises. Shaking awake. Her, crying, beside the bed. Some doctor saying You’ve had a cardiac arrest, you’re lucky to be alive. I remember saying But I’m only twenty-two. And he said I know, it’s because of what you’ve been at.
I was in hospital for a while – I’d been in a coma a week – and there’s nothing like being checked for brain damage to make you realise you’ve had a lucky escape. The worst part though was dealing with her. It was terrible. All she did was cry and the way she looked at me I I think I’d almost prefer to have died than face that look. The complete disappointment. The being so crushed. Knowing I’d done that to her. Four months pregnant and it was it was I was so ashamed. I don’t know what else to say. I can’t really think about it even now anyway anyway
A few weeks later she told me my mother was dead. She’d hunted down a home address. The stepfather told her. I said I didn’t care but what I really thought was Now I’m done for. My head was so fucked up. I didn’t know how to deal with it and started convincing myself not to sleep, in case she’d come for me. That I could never sleep again and I’d lie at night picking skin off my leg in an effort to stay awake. In the end they caught me – blood all over the sheets. But soon as they bandaged me up I started somewhere else.
How did she die? Supposedly cancer, he says But I thought then, and still do, that she starved herself to death. It would have been so like her – martyrdom as revenge. Not that it matters either way. He lights a cigarette and I don’t know if I should agree. Instead I prod into an easier silence And what happened with the film?
I got fired. No surprises there. After leaving hospital all I was fit for was the sofa. She kept crying What will we do? We’re going to have a baby in June. I listened patiently and said lots of useful things about borrowing cash until I was back on my feet and within a week I was shooting up.
Jesus! I say. I know, he agrees You alright hearing this? When I nod, he goes on Well, I went to see this mate. Just to get out, you understand. She could trust me, I said and it didn’t matter that I could hardly walk because five minutes on his couch he was tying me off. And it was new to me, the needle. I’d smoked it a few times in the past but mostly stayed away. Not so particular now though! The anxiety was killing me. I told myself once would calm me down, that I’d go home after, change my life then and no one would ever know. My mate agreed. Of course he did – he was already going in between his toes.
Some friend! I say. Yeah but it was what I wanted, he shrugs Whenever you fancy going into the dark someone will always turn out the light but it wasn’t long before she cottoned on to it – aided by the disappearance of Grandma’s wedding ring. She didn’t make a scene that last time, just said she’d had enough. That the baby deserved a better father than a junkie like me and I didn’t argue because I fucking agreed. The next morning hers came to collect her things and made the most of his chance to call me Worthless Scum, to my face while I floundered about clutching one of her shoes begging her not to leave. Amazingly, she still did.
So I moved into my mate’s Holloway squat and I was relieved. I was rid of the last thing that held me to life. The well of self-pity opened its arms and I was ready to be done. Stopped going for check-ups and any pretence of taking any care of myself. Sometimes I’d lie on the floor with my hand on my chest waiting to feel my heart go wrong. Willing it to. I still don’t know why it didn’t, with all that junk riding round in my veins. Then one day while I was – doubtless – pondering the mysteries of life, my mate appeared with his girlfriend, saying Alright Little Boy Blue? When I said What? That’s what you’re called, she laughed For the colour your lips go when you’re on the nod like you’re OD’ing, but you’re not are you? It’s just your heart is fucked! And the way she said it gave me such a fright. I could see exactly what I must look like and I understood why that was. I think it was the first time I had or, at least, believed it was true. That I’d already died, could again, more easily than anyone else in the room. That I’d died and it wasn’t a game. The two of them laughing but I felt like someone was pulling off the top of my head. Sunlight went in for the first time in years and the big surprise was realising I wasn’t ready to be done. So what the fuck am I doing here? I thought and walked out of the room.
On the street I remembered a doctor saying walking could help with staying clean so I began to but not anywhere or to anyone. Which was fine for a while but meant when things started going wrong there was no one around to notice. Like seeing my younger self in flashes, actually on the street. That boy, looking beat to shit. After a couple of hours God began to explain. Remember this? Yourself? No? Can’t see? Prise back those hoardings. Or empty those bins. Or wander around talking loudly about Sheffield. Or kick in that car window. Now escape. Then go drink tea in some greasy spoon while suspecting you’re not quite right. In the end I went three nights without sleep going increasingly off my head. The comfort though, of that voice. To not just be me by myself walking barefoot through Archway, raving away at the boy I’d been. It was almost alright I had once been him but then God pushed at being him again and not even being completely deranged could persuade me of the wisdom of that. But God insisted so I tried to understand. By that stage I really wasn’t very well at all. Starving from the puking but I climbed onto the roof of a derelict house – somewhere on St John’s Way I think – and stood there trying to know what I should do. Up there. Close to God, I’d be sure, very sure, of whatever he said next. But I was also getting tired. Soaked. I started to think What the fuck has this all been for? This fucking awful life? Why didn’t you let me die in peace on the floor? Or die in the ambulance? Or so many deserving times before? What is it anyway you’ve bothered to save? All these bits that can never be remade. Can you ever make a dead person visible again? Force all the pieces back to one? Do I even care? I asked God. I begged him to say but God went very silent then. And after so much noise, I couldn’t manage that so I decided on an Act of Faith. Divinely un-ignorable. Great. More than enough to make God respond. So – with a flair for the dramatic – I waited for dawn, then walked down the slates. Took a long look out on the city that had saved me before. The trees and cars parked up on the kerb and lamps switching off all down the road. I said to God Here we go. And then stepped off the roof.
Jesus! I say You could have died. Should have, he says So when I opened my eyes in the hospital I was euphoric, what were the chances of that? Brain still in my skull. Spinal cord still intact. Quite a few other breaks but my heart hadn’t stopped. Even the doctors thought it was miraculous. For me, my survival was proof and at first that kept my spirits up – manoeuvring the heavens to point directly at me. But I wasn’t that euphoric after a couple of weeks of lying plastered to the eyeballs. I realised God didn’t exist and I was just another raving lunatic so I just let myself be that. It was easier than I thought. Then all that panic the drugs had held in check started unravelling all over the place. I just remember being constantly afraid and having panic attacks and hallucinations which meant by June – when the baby arrived – I was up in Friern Barnet strapped to a bed.
What’s that? A psychiatric hospital, he says But I was all worn out anyway so I was glad of the rest.
When they contacted her, she didn’t want to know and because I didn’t have anyone else I was mostly alone. Then a week or so after the baby was born there was a letter from her mother wishing to inform me I had a daughter and should have the decency to stay away. That kind of brought me round, reminded me to be ashamed, reminded me I was lonely and – once they let me – I called. Who do you think you are? she said You clearly don’t understand, I wish you were dead, that you had died, so I’d never have to tell my daughter what you’re like or the awful things you’ve done. And before I could even start to apologise she slammed the receiver down. After that I just sat staring at the wall, wishing I could get high, then realising it wasn’t that, it was also wishing I had died. But I was already beyond doing anything like that. Instead I thought If I stay where I am, and keep very still for the rest of my life, maybe everything will be fine. So that’s what I did. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Lost more weight than I could afford to and became filled with the hope I’d stop waking up. And it should have ended there really, with a quiet starve to the death.
Why didn’t it? I ask, wrestling with how passive his face has become now. A visitor, he says Which was wondrous in itself. I mean, any mates I had were in much the same state. Then out of the blue there was this director I’d worked with in my final year. Big Scottish guy in his fifties. I’d liked working with him but he never let me get away with a thing. I thought he thought I was a tosser really but, one afternoon, there he was. I assumed it was for someone else so I slid down my chair and covered my face. But when he spoke to the nurse, she pointed me out so, as he approached, I slid further again. My God, is that really you? he said What the fuck have you done to yourself? And suddenly there were tears rolling down his face and that he wasn’t the crying type made me realise how far gone I must be. Anyway. Once he’d blown his nose we got a cup of tea. He said he’d seen in the paper about the film and tracked me down through a lad in my year. I think he could tell I was on the edge so he didn’t press and spent the hour talking about his work instead. When he got up to go he put his arms round me and it’d been so long since anyone had touched me like that I started to get upset. He didn’t make a thing out of it though, just patted my back and said You’re doing alright, I’ll be in again.
And he was good as his word, came back three times a week. Brought me newspapers. Books. Sweets. Started telling me about shows he’d seen, what was going on in the world and, honestly, to have the company was great. I began looking forward to his visits and they began thawing me out.
Then one day he said he’d seen my ex. My daughter too. How beautiful she was. How much he thought she looked like me. I wasn’t really able for it but suddenly she stopped existing in the abstract. I still couldn’t think of myself as someone’s Dad – the word itself just made no impact – but I began to wonder what she was like. Soon I was thinking about her all the time. He was a cunning bastard really. Scheherazaded me back to life. And by the time he offered me a room in his house, I was keen enough for out.
After a little wrangling I was released into his care and his amazing house up in St John’s Wood. Loveliest place I’ve ever lived. Packed to the ceiling with interesting paintings and books. But that first month he spent every day trying to keep me clean because, on leaving Friern, that’s all I was interested in. I gave him a pretty terrible time. Ate the contents of the medicine cabinet on the first day out. Found the drink on the next. Eventually he said Look, I’m not willing to spend my whole life at this so I’m going to tell you something – and not to make you feel like shit – but NO ONE is going to hire you again after what you did. You’re twenty-three now so think about what that means. Either you go back to frying your brains, finish off what’s left of your health, waste your talent, fuck your daughter up more than you already have – because even if she’s reared to think you’re a cunt, once you’re dead, that’s in stone. Or you can stay here and I’ll pay for a shrink. In six months’ time – IF you’re still clean – when I direct The Seagull in Manchester I’ll cast you as Konstantin. If you’re not though, I won’t, I promise you that. And believe me, if you don’t get this job – and do it fucking well – you’ll never work anywhere again. Then you can drink as much cough syrup as you like because no one – including me – will give a damn. What happens next is up to you. What do you want that to be?
So I went to the psychiatrist. And I stayed clean. Six months later he cast me as Konstantin and that gave me some life back again.
Getting up, he stretches. I’m going for a slash, and – with a kiss to the top of my head – Sorry, it’s turned into an epic night. I’m not, I say, wanting to touch him but knowing to wait. Instead go rummage in my bag.
When he comes back, he offers More wine? Drains the bottle between. It’s after midnight, I say Happy Birthday now! Thirty-nine years fucked, he laughs. But takes the present and kisses my hand. Sits to open it beside. This is great, he says Will you put it on? So I do, explaining I knew you had their first one but this one has the same name so I wasn’t sure but then I asked and I love it, he says Thank you, you shouldn’t have. Then swings his legs back on the bed. As the music starts, lights up, exhales. I drop the cover in between and ask When did you first see your daughter then?
About five months later, just before rehearsals began. He spoke to my ex – I couldn’t even get her on the phone – and after much persuasion she agreed to an hour once a month.
That first Sunday her father dropped her off, I hid, watching her come up the path. She looked different – still beautiful, elegant but all the spark was gone and whose fault was that? I almost went out the back door but A child needs a father, he said For better or worse you’re what she has so go open the door, and smile. When I did my ex wouldn’t look at me. Instead passed him the carry-cot with the baby, saying Tell him that’s his and I don’t want to see his face. He just placed it on the sitting-room table, then took her off to the kitchen for tea.
So I stood there, thinking I was about to have another cardiac arrest. I didn’t know what to do with a child. I could hardly look at her, never mind take her up. Mercifully she was asleep though so I inched the blanket back but she started to wake up and, suddenly, there were these big eyes wandering over me and I just froze. She was real and right there. Not just an idea or knowing she existed somewhere. But right in front of me and I just stood there trying not to leave.
After about fifteen minutes, he came in to check. Come on pick her up, he said You have to hold her. She’s your little girl. And I couldn’t. But I touched her on the hand. The little fingers went round mine and luckily then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later again he said For fuck’s sake, pick her up. I just looked at him and said I can’t I’m scared. So he sat me on the sofa and put her into my arms. We just looked at each other, me and her, and I can’t describe it, the feeling I just started to cry it was awful and wonderful having her there on my lap and the smell of her I just knew she was mine. That a little part of me had escaped into the good world at last and was part of her. Part of her life. You know, until that day, I still thought I’d find an excuse to use again. I missed it and never really believed I might manage without but suddenly I understood why it was right I’d gotten clean. And nothing as grandiose as all that fucking act of faith roof-diving. Just that I had to be her father – whatever that was – and take care of her. And I wanted that, for her but even more for me. To be a man who would. So sitting there, with her on my knee, I finally began to be a person again.
That’s the way I remember most of the visits now. In that big cold white room with this tiny girl. And I was terrified of her but it was as if she knew. She never did anything to scare me. She hardly made a sound. Sometimes I’d hear her screaming like the devil all the way up to the house and I’d start to panic but once I’d wiped her face off she’d just sit looking up at me, hiccuping a bit. Sometimes she’d pull my hair or have a go at my specs. Once she was walking well that was something else but after such a long time of feeling nothing, and trying to keep it that way, it was overwhelming but that feeling for her love for her accepted none of that. I think I cried solidly through the first six visits. And once those visits started, I couldn’t get enough. When I’d learned to play with her, I’d have to keep tickling her just to have more of her laugh. I’d never heard anyone so happy before. But if she cried, I’d hear her mother shouting What’s he doing to her? Go in and see! And he’d come in to ask if we were alright? Or put his arms around us and whisper It’s fine, she’s just a little wound up, then go reassure her but I’d sit there, getting scared again. I was afraid she’d think I was doing something – you know what I mean. But over the months she calmed down too, would hand her to me herself. Taught me how to change and feed her. Tell me things she liked. Then an hour became two. Became twice a month. Then every week. Finishing up at all of most weekends.
Did you ever think of getting back together with her?
God no, that ship had well and truly sailed. Even to have asked would have been an insult. I suppose, as things improved between us, I’d occasionally wonder what it would’ve been like, the two of us together bringing her up. Being a family. But I also knew what had happened came from so far off it could hardly have ended any other way. I tried to talk to her about it once, to apologise. She just said I’ll never forgive you, accept it and we can be polite. So I respected that and concentrated on trying to prove I was reliable now. She didn’t think so, how could she? Once you’ve kicked all the trust out of somebody you can’t ever get that back. She wouldn’t even take money at first, although he won her round eventually. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. I’d never have managed those early days by myself.
And why did he help you so much? Hmmm, he says I knew you’d ask that. Pity, initially, didn’t want me to waste my life. Over time it became more complicated. Of course it did.
So, maybe three months after he’d taken me in – before I met my daughter – we were eating dinner in the kitchen. Just talking about this and that when he suddenly said Listen, I’m out of practice so I’m just going to come straight out with it. I love you living here, it’s been great, and I think I’m in love with you. I just stared. Don’t look so scared, he said If it’s not for you, I never mentioned it and we’ll carry on as before. I didn’t know what to say or what I felt – about anything, never mind about that – but I was grateful for all he’d done. I wanted to give him something he’d want and I had nothing but myself. So I kissed him and it felt kind of right. He asked if I was sure. I said I was, so he took me to bed.
It was the first time I’d had sex since I’d been sick. Probably the first time I’d ever had it without being wasted and being touched like that by someone who mattered to me even if I wasn’t it wasn’t easy and I got a bit freaked out. But he was good to me in it helped me relax until I was able to let myself. And it was nice. And the comfort of having someone there in the dark really couldn’t be overestimated then.
We were together after that. He moved me into his room. It was a relationship, of sorts. He hadn’t been in one for years so maybe I helped shake off the dust. But we liked spending time together. Enjoyed lots of things the same. He was pretty ferocious and I learned a lot from him. For me it wasn’t love but it was warmth and affection. And all that sexual part of me was kind of dead anyway. I mean the sensation was there. The urge – at times overwhelmingly. But it didn’t really connect to anything, hardly even myself. I could have slept with anyone and it would have been the same. I mean I enjoyed being with him, never had trouble getting turned on – nowhere near the way I would with a woman – but there was more than enough companionship to make up for that. Or so I thought.
And then came The Seagull. Lot of pressure about that. Being the director’s younger boyfriend didn’t help but once everyone realised I wasn’t just, it was fine. Arkadina was already a big theatre star so most of us younger ones were nervous about working with her. End of the first read-through though, she handed me what was left of the fig rolls and said All you need is to gain a few pounds. After that she took me under her wing – I think he’d told her the story so she’d decided to look out for me. Taught me everything I know about behaving professionally and she was very unselfish work-wise too. Any little thing I couldn’t crack she’d skip lunch or stay late until I was happy. Never treated me like the beginner I was or as though I was wasting her time. And we got fond of each other. She had a teenage daughter at home so she was always fussing over me, even then. You know, weird ointments when I had a bad chest. Helping me sort out a suit for the first night. And had me up for tea in her dressing room after the show every night so I’d unwind from it soberly. But being part of that company, and getting to work, was a life-saver. At last I was doing something I was good at. And I couldn’t have had better casting than Konstantin. All that lostness and suffocation. I could practically nail every bit of him onto myself. Even down to the mother who was incapable of it – although he was parched where I was drowned. When we were rehearsing she’d often ask about mine – and quickly realised something there had gone very awry – but that relationship still informed the internal dynamic. And getting to be this boy every night, who becomes so destroyed by life, was very good for me, because I’d gone to that same brink but survived. Now here I was, working, hitting my stride, starting to make a life with my little girl in it too. Konstantin and I were blood-related but there was just enough distance between to let me properly give in to the part. Afterwards I’d be exhausted but feel so alive. It was a pretty extraordinary time.
It was a big success too. Transferred to the West End. Career-wise he’d needed that, so he was over the moon. Of course I needed it too. And once we were back in London he took me around town, introduced me to lots of useful people, made sure they knew I was now dependable. And we hobbled along in our sort-of relationship. Happy enough but
I was up in her dressing room after a show. We’d all been celebrating because she’d won some award. Everyone had had a few, except me – I didn’t those first couple of years. As usual though, I was last to leave. Leant down for the goodbye peck on her cheek but – for reasons best known to herself – she took hold of me and kissed me on the mouth and. Fuck. My whole body ticced. Suddenly I was kissing her like she was everything I’d missed. Like I’d been starving for her. The taste of Just the thought of her breasts. So this is how you made your daughter! she said You don’t really like boys, do you? I tried to protest but I couldn’t even stop touching her face. Let’s find out then, shall we? she said and we didn’t make it as far as the settee.
It was a Damascene moment that but I didn’t want it to be and afterwards I was consumed with guilt. I mean, the fucking ingratitude. I went straight home intending to confess. Halfway there I remembered he loved me and I’d never leave, no matter what, so telling was only unburdening myself. Just live with it, I thought And don’t do it again. Not bad advice really. For a while it even worked. I avoided her and wouldn’t when she’d ask me up. Told myself it was unnatural to be with a woman in her forties! I couldn’t stop thinking about her though, how it felt. Every time she touched me on stage I’d get a jolt. Luckily that works quite well for Konstantin, although she knew too and took her revenge – sitting way too close for the bandaging scene, lingering on kisses that little too long. Eventually the stress started fucking me up. I just wanted her so badly it made my teeth hurt. So one night, at the curtain call, I said in her ear I don’t like boys. She said Follow me. Which I did. Back to her dressing room. Waited until she’d turned the key and we went for each other then. She kept saying that she loved me and must’ve completely lost her head. I’m pretty sure I said it too because in that moment, I did. I was so fucking desperate for her. And, apparently, for another mistake.
Even in the midst of it the irony wasn’t completely lost – normal Konstantins bang Ninas and it was Arkadina I wanted. But it was easy for us to get away with – we’d been working together so long and everyone knew we were close. I didn’t even have to lie to him much. When I’d get in he’d always ask how she was and she was pretty insatiable. I was too I suppose. I just wanted her all the time, and that she let me lead helped me feel I was no one’s by right any more. And maybe because she was older – or maybe because of her child – it was important I be a man in that room, not a little boy.
The whole affair became incredibly intense and, in a lot of ways, it was great but I didn’t feel very good about the lying and started getting down about it. Started hating myself for doing it and her, for tempting me. To make it worse he worried about me getting depressed and kept encouraging me to do whatever might help, but he must have had some inkling because we stopped having sex.
Finally I couldn’t any more and told her we were done. She took it much worse than I’d expected because, despite all the I love you’s, I never thought she actually did. I mean, she was twenty years married. I assumed I was a fling. But when I said It’s over, she said It’s not. I love and I won’t let you go. Of course hearing that I completely lost my rag. We had an almighty row. Traded lots of vicious insults. It got all melodramatic. She slapped me in the face and I stormed off. But in bed with him that night I was relieved and we had sex for the first time in weeks.
The following day was a Sunday so I went for the papers while he stayed in bed. When I came back though he was stood in the hall. When I asked what was the matter, he said Guess who’s just called? and I fucking knew. She’d told him everything. I thought I was going to be sick. She’d said, most particularly, not to kid himself I was anything but straight. I started to apologise, got really upset. He, though, was very calm. Listen, he said I’m a romantic so I know you don’t love me the way I love you. I’d hoped, in time, but you’re not going to and a gratitude fuck’s only good for so much, so let’s just part ways now. I couldn’t conceive of it. Couldn’t imagine life without him. I tried to persuade him it wasn’t like that, she was a mistake I wouldn’t repeat but he said The problem is I think she’s right. I don’t think you really like men either, do you? Be honest with me. And then I couldn’t lie. I did care about him, loved him even, and he knew that, just not the right way. Not enough. He deserved better than what I could offer – certainly better than what I’d done. So I went upstairs and packed up my things.
When I left he said he didn’t want to see me again. The Seagull was winding down so that wasn’t a problem. But I didn’t know what to do. So I sat a while in a greasy spoon then thought Fuck this! And I took a bus to Hampstead – right to the wasp’s nest. Soon as she opened the door, I said I’m about to do to you what you’ve just done to me, unless you fancy putting me up for a couple of weeks? With her husband and their fifteen-year-old daughter indoors, she really couldn’t make a fuss. So that’s where I stayed, in her spare room, for the two weeks left to the end of the run. Her husband was no fool. He knew. The first night I overheard her swearing I was a rampant homosexual so he should stop being paranoid – oh how I fucking laughed at that! And I didn’t care how awkward it was. He and I kept it polite but her daughter got a crush. Used to follow me around, reading me her poems, asking me up to her room to listen to records. I always made my excuses but her irate mama repeatedly warned me off. That was never my thing though so she needn’t have bothered. Besides which, she spent most weekday afternoons fucking me all over her sitting-room floor – in the noble spirit of Let’s see the run out – so who’d have kept up with that?
Anyway, the guy playing Trigorin was leaving his room and it was pretty cheap. I kind of dreaded being alone but, at least, I was getting work. The loss of desperation was standing me in good stead and almost everything I went up for now, I got. So the week The Seagull closed I moved out of hers and I moved in here.
Funnily enough, things immediately improved with my ex – she and our daughter were in her parents’ Chelsea flat – and she began letting me have her overnight, would even drop her off at the theatre if she was going out. And I’d be so excited all day. Wanted everyone to see her. Loved getting to say This is my daughter. This is my little girl. If I wasn’t going to be off in time I’d beg some poor understudy or baby-mad wardrobe girl to babysit until I was. And it was amazing to have her there in the best part of my life, rubbing greasepaint off my cheek, saying Daddy your face smells strange! Well worth the fortune spent on thank-you flowers and boxes of Milk Tray. I’d just sit her on the dressing table while I got changed, then tuck her up under my arm and get the bus back here.
Those early months though I was often scared of having her here by myself. I did get used to it and it got easier in time but those first nights were hard.
Why?
My mother, he says The fear she was in me and would come out in ways I didn’t notice. So I kept a strict check on myself. Never lost my temper. Never said a cross word – even when she was driving me mad – but it was the overnights took a lot to get right. I just wanted to be a normal dad but the first time she slept over I was paralysed. She must’ve been nearly two by then. I remember getting her ready for bed. The feeding and washing and dressing was alright. Story. Turned out the light and then she wouldn’t go to sleep. Kept wanting me to get in with her and I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t cope with it. I sat up in that chair the whole night, staring out that window, not looking at her.
Why?
In case
In case of what?
I’d get turned on
You really thought you might?
my mother did.
When my mother looked at me she felt like that so
was that because of her or because of me?
Back then I wasn’t sure.
All I knew was if I did I’d call my ex and never let myself see her again and I really didn’t want that.
In the end it was time that sorted it. And tricks. Reading until she fell asleep in my lap, then I’d put her down and get my sleeping bag and then that was fine. I still remember looking up at her little foot hanging over the bed and feeling so overcome, so filled with love. And that helped, and her being so innocent. You know, sitting here, hearing her sing to herself, I’d think How could you hit a child that size until they bled? Or tear out handfuls of their hair? Or let them starve? It was the first time I realised I couldn’t have caused that, or in any realistic way deserved it and that, actually, my mother had been completely fucking mad.
But another problem was the affection, her expecting it of me. She was always wanting a hug or something. It’s not that I minded the touching and I was fine with functional things. It was just a total lack of instinct. She’d be reaching for me and I’d just stand there. I could see she needed it though, so I had to teach myself to. And I did. I was awkward at first but I got the hang and before long liked nothing more than being hugged to within an inch of my life. Picking her up. Kissing her freckly cheeks. Eventually not even thinking first. Then one night she had a nightmare, lying here. She was crying and wanting me in the bed and I was freaking out when I suddenly thought You fucking idiot. You’re the adult here, be it, enough of your nonsense now. So I got in beside her and held her until she went back to sleep and that was the end of worrying about those things. I suppose the desire to protect her helped. Being very aware of my own inadequacy as well. I’d often watch other parents with theirs in the street and when I’d see them do something that’d taken me ages to work out, I’d get such a lift. Stupid things really. Obvious, perhaps. Asking instead of just in with a slap. Knowing they have their own likes and dislikes. Not shouting them down every time they open their mouth, or just wanting them to have fun. Simple, I think, if you’ve known some kindness yourself. Harder if you haven’t.
She was so small and warm and full of chat and stuff she had to know. I love it. I loved it. I’ve still got tapes of her voice and I’ve probably never slept less in my life but I didn’t want to miss a moment of watching her unfold. When she starting talking I wasn’t there. Her first steps though, were to me. It’s ridiculous what you’ll do to make your child smile but there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for that hearty little laugh. Even at five a.m. getting my eyelids prised up with Daddy no more sleeping! I loved walking with her on my shoulders. Feeding ducks in Regent’s Park – then having to quack all the way home. Swimming lengths with her strangling round my neck, screaming with excitement and knocking my glasses off. I remember taking her to Brighton, just to see the sea. It was a perfect day. Paddle. Fish and chips. She wanted to take the ocean home and wouldn’t budge. So I ended up carrying a bucket of salt water back to London on the train. Stubborn as a mule she was and prone to a screech when she didn’t get what she wanted. But I never once raised my hand. I’d sit her on that desk until I got Sorry Daddy, big kiss, then jumping off and back to playing birds. I was always trying to think what I’d show her next. I wanted to give her experiences because I’d no money for buying stuff. I wanted her to see the world and learn not to be scared like I’d been. To know she was the best person in it because she really was.
He smiles into the memory like warm inside. And what about the director? I ask Did you ever see him again? I did, he says Thank God!
Occasionally I’d get a note at the stage door to say he’d been in, hoping I was taking care of myself. That went on for well over a year. Then out of the blue he called and said It’s time, come for Sunday lunch. So I went, nervously, but I needn’t have been. He welcomed me at the door like the prodigal son and introduced the man he’d met – who you’ll meet tomorrow night, and they were together for the rest of his life. We all had dinner. I stayed late, talking, catching up. Them about each other and work. Me too and my daughter, my health. That he was obviously happy relieved a lot of my guilt and that evening began the friendships that’ve been the closest of my life. They were are my family – what I imagine family should be. I still stay over there a lot. Often go to their house in France. And they were mad about my little girl, adopted her as a kind of grandchild, I suppose. Laughed off her yoghurt paintings on their Persian rugs. Made her doll houses from model boxes and bought the toys I couldn’t afford back then. It certainly didn’t do me any harm either, being around people in love.
*
Those were a few fine years for me and I was very well. Not up to anything destructive. Getting better at taking care of myself. If I struggled with the guilt towards my ex or felt low handing the baby back, I did nothing bad to shake it off. Just worked hard and tried to stay in London as much as I could. I saw a few girls on and off. Nothing serious because my attention was all for her but I used to imagine I might meet someone one day, get married, have more kids. I liked the idea my life might be normal after all. Jesus, what a fucking idiot! I can’t believe it now.
Why? I ask. Oh, he says, unwinding himself and closing his eyes.
One Sunday evening, when she was four, my ex came to pick her up. She said I have to talk to you, so we left her in here, asleep, and stepped into the hall, out there. You know I’m getting married, she said. I do, I agreed. The thing is he’s Canadian and we’ve decided to move back. Who? I said. All of us. And leave her with me? No, I’ll be taking her with. But you can’t take her to Canada, I said. Why not? she said Or don’t you think you owe me this? You can’t just take her away, I said I’m her father, I have rights as well. And whose side do you think a court would take? Do you really want it to get to that? No, I said But I won’t let her go. You have to, she said You’ve already ruined my life once, you’re not going to ruin hers as well. I said I’m not going to ruin anything ever again. If you don’t let her go, you will, she said This is her chance for a normal life, to have a good man as a father, responsible, grown up. He’ll take care of her as his own. He already has a house there and a good job lined up. But I’m her father, I said You can’t change that. You’re a broke ex-junkie actor who lives in a bedsit and can’t keep his dick to himself. Do you think that’s good for her? Does she deserve to live like that? But I love her, I said. So choose what’s right – for her instead of yourself – because what do you think your love will be worth when she’s stuck on some north London council estate? We’ll give her a good education, a stable home, brothers and sisters, ballet classes, whatever she wants or would you prefer her to grow up to be poor and alone? And like you? Do you want her to have your life? Is that really what you want? Is that the best you imagine for her? Don’t you want better for your daughter? And then I knew she had me. I had nothing to say. Nothing to offer in place of those things. Nothing except my broken-down self and how could that ever be enough? I just looked at her and she knew she’d won. In the end it took so little but she had it all. Alright, I said What’s going to happen now?
So she got out the papers and made promises. You’ll see her often, she said Every summer for at least a month. I’ll send our number once we’re settled and I’ll make sure she calls. You can visit too. I’ll write, of course. But I was so in shock I kept saying I can’t. I can’t. I can’t let her go, until she lost her rag and started saying You’ll upset her. Stop it. Is this how you want to say goodbye? What do you mean ‘Goodbye’? I said. We have a morning flight. That’s when I just started to beg Oh God don’t do this, please don’t take her away. But she couldn’t be moved. My telling you at all, she said Shows more consideration than you ever did. And I could see she was enjoying it but I didn’t care. All I could think of was how to persuade her. How will I send you money? I asked What about her stuff? Keep your money, she said And your junk. We don’t want anything from you and stop deluding yourself that she’s ever needed you in any way. What use are you? What use have you ever been? You, with your filthy, poisoned life and you know exactly what I mean. Just spare us both the pointless snivelling and go in and say your goodbyes. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking This must be a game. Do it, she said Or I’ll take her away and this’ll be one more important moment you’ve fucked up in her life. So I signed the papers and I went inside to her. In here. Still asleep on the bed. Thumb in her mouth. All pink with sleep and I had to wake her up to do it say it goodbye and I did.
Eyes closed he asks Pass a cigarette? Lights and
She understood it was bad. She screamed for me all the way out. I can’t really tell you any more about that night. It was the very worst moment of my life and after it, everything soft in me slowly turned to bone.
And, sure enough, even as I watch, all the light drains from him.
I often think if I’d been a few years further on there might have been enough of me to refuse and stand my ground. At the time though, the past still dragged me around, the shame at what I’d done. Feeling I could never get it right. Not knowing that keeping hold of my child wasn’t just selfishness on my part. But I did what she wanted because I was ashamed and I’ve regretted it every day since.
So she took her away that night and it was two years before she made contact. Two years of nothing and I mean nothing at all. I didn’t know if my daughter was alive or dead. No one did, apparently. Her parents wouldn’t say no matter how much I begged. I chased down everyone I could think of but no one knew or would tell. I went to the police but I’d agreed to it so I’d only myself to blame. It was a very bad time. I lost the run of myself, almost entirely. Somehow I didn’t use again but drank myself back to the hospital instead and a lot of other things started going on too.
What kind of things? I ask. Oh you know, he says Starving myself. Getting very fucking funny about what I’d put in my mouth. Like a test, or penance. I don’t know what it was. I just remember it causing almost physical pain to eat. How about a cup of tea?
And making he wades through the lamplight, pale, thinking far inside himself. But once it’s done, poured and passed, he sits back down again. What other things? The fucking around, he says. Like with your ex? No, not even a bit. Industrial this time. Will you tell me about it? Oh Jesus, he says Okay.
Since The Seagull debacle I’d really worked on keeping my dick to myself – not that I’d ever miss a chance but I didn’t chase around after it the way I had. I didn’t want to be that man or for her to have a father like mine. Five minutes after losing her though I was bad as I’d ever been. Worse. Couldn’t see the point of not being and, God knows, I should have but you see what you want and all I could see was a life without my little girl in it. The fucking chasm in the centre of myself where she’d been and I couldn’t face it not at all. So off I went.
What does that mean? I ask, feeling the cold and his eyes doing nothing to dispel.
Remember that story I told you about the Lamb and Flag? Well, that happened three days afterwards – before I even knew that worse was on its way. I was beside myself. Had already had a bit to drink. I don’t even know what I was doing in that shop, I hate fucking Covent Garden but there was this little boy skidding about on the knees of his pants. I got talking to him, swapping sliding techniques. When his mother came along we fell into the chat. How old is he? They grow up so fast. Got any of your own? All the while she was giving me the eye. I could see she was drunk too so it was easy to mouth Fancy a fuck? over the child’s head because I knew what the answer would be. So we went to the Ladies at the Lamb and Flag. Me, her and her son. And I fucked her against the toilet door with the little boy sat just beyond – drinking a Coke I’d bought. Jesus Christ. What was that? Even at the time I thought What the fuck are you doing? But of course I didn’t stop. I did not stop myself. Instead I really shagged her hard – so much it hurt and she was loud. After, getting her knickers back on she kept mumbling Oh fuck! Oh God! When I tried to help her she said Fuck off! I saw myself then, through all her disgust, really saw myself and knew this could go exactly like the drugs. You doing this again then, are you? I thought and, because I wanted to let myself off the hook, the answer was How many things have you had to learn to live without? Poor you. Poor you. You can’t give up anything else. So Fuck you, I said to her and out I went. See you son, to hers and gave him a quid. Then I closed my eyes and I did what I wanted and I closed my eyes for years.
That was the real start of the sleeping around. Just picking women up at first, in bars, parks, at the shops. Women I worked with, met at parties. Friends’ girlfriends. Wives. Daughters. Girls working on counters. Sat at desks. Handing out fliers in the street. Clap clinic doctor in an epic move. Cyclist who fell off her bike outside. Singer-songwriter who’d only do it with her guitar on the bed then lay around afterwards putting out fags on herself. Single mothers. Solicitors. Estate agents, Christ! You know, anyone who would. And if there was too much chasing I’d ask Yes or No love? I don’t mind either way. I could always tell though. It was like a sixth fucking sense, like looking at a stranger but smelling myself. Did a second round with Arkadina too after walking into her on the street. We were both polite, asked about each other’s children. I lied. Then I phoned her later that night to say how much I still hated her and that I’d booked a room. More fool her, all she said was Where? So every Saturday for the next two years we went at it again. After the first time, she asked What’s happened to you? I said Same time next week? There wasn’t an inch of feeling left in my body and if there had been I’d have cut it out with a knife. So there was no talking or teasing. None of that wanting her there’d been. Just into the room. How are you? Fine. Fuck. Out again. I’d nothing to prove and there were no more games about who was in charge. When she pried I was cold, eventually she was cold in return. No matter how awful I was though, she kept showing up. But maybe she wouldn’t if she’d known about all the other stuff I mean there was a lot of void to fill so clubs of course and all of that. Places you could watch the worst fucking stuff but more often just depressing shit. Still had to look though, no matter how grim. Still had to fuck if I could manage it. There are places for everything, if you have time to look. Sometimes I’d appear at rehearsal so bruised I had to lie about fights – that familiarity breeding yet more contempt. Pornography helped a while until it started sexualising everything right back at the optic nerve. And the sex party bullshit. They were the worst. All the fucking away in packs. Women looking like they wanted to kill you, not knowing if they tried you’d probably only laugh. Half of them not even wanting to be there. Girls trying to show their dim boyfriends what nymphos they were. Couples giving their marriages a shot in the arm. Men who’d rather be with their families – if only they’d ever had one. Or men feeling guilty because they had but needed this all the same. And then the ones like me, circling all those ordinary people, working out how far down they would go. Taking advantage of their delusions. But never looking too close in case you caught sight of what lay behind. Jesus! The loneliness. And all the shit lies topped only by the shit lies I told. I’ll ring you. I love you. No, I will meet you at Morden. I’m not late because for the fourth time this month I woke up not knowing where the fuck I was or what I did last night. I just did it until I couldn’t feel, until it didn’t even matter. Christ. People. What they’ll let you do. But I did, and would have done anything, to keep that grief at the back.
And his face.
What else? I ask.
You know don’t make me say.
So I don’t. Let the silence fill. Let his fingers curl. But the hair in his eyes won’t hide it for long, or the blood working under his skin.
Paying, he says.
I knew that would be it. Same as I know I’d rather think of him as only lost instead of finding what he wanted inside some woman he bought.
First through some mate of a mate, he says I know this house, kind of thing and that didn’t seem too bad because we were all getting what we wanted, weren’t we? But there’re only so many times you can watch somebody fake before realising you’d rather do without the charade. So then somewhere a bit grimmer. Eventually just off the street because down there you really are what you are. Don’t care about teeth or clean underwear and because they’re so much more fucked than you are you hardly smell the fear.
And when you did? I ask.
I tipped. And it never once stopped me. Junkies mostly – how fitting was that? I think I preferred it. I felt at home. No words, just up against the wall behind King’s Cross. Or over the way in some derelict house, knee deep in shit and needles and dogs that died because their owners forgot to keep them alive and not caring either. Not giving a shit about the look or the smell or the state she was in or you were after. Just trying to clean up and calm down before going to the mate’s who’s invited you round – that you’ve kept waiting for over an hour because you just couldn’t do without. I remember having dinner once, at this couple’s house I knew. I was late because I’d needed to and, on this occasion, I’d nearly got nicked – only just managed to talk my way out – and by the time I arrived I was pretty tightly wound. But I opened with lies about seeing a dog knocked down, then made all this effort to be funny and charming, to prove my innocence. Because you carry it just behind the eyes, so you always think people can see it there inside and, whoever she was, she was with me all the while. The clammy body. The sore on her arm that wouldn’t close. I had to keep saying Sorry, what? to the woman sat beside. I couldn’t stop wondering if she could tell? The shame was so live I felt almost transparent. But the more I tuned into her, the more I got lulled by her talk. She was so gentle about the kids in her class and her Down’s syndrome son that I caught myself thinking If I asked you could you make me stop? I just wanted someone to, so badly. I must have looked a right state because she asked What’s the matter? and I didn’t say. I think I went to throw up instead. After that evening though it started happening a lot, feeling suddenly desperate for help but so shamed by why I needed it. And I never did ask. I always forced it back down then took some other remedy home instead. Anyway that’s enough.