An arresting image
Hill is sitting on an old wrought iron chair. The chair was painted a different
colour every summer when Hill was young, something his mother did with all the
garden furniture. She didn’t stop working during her summer holidays; Hill would sit and watch, try to help
where he could, even as a clumsy five-year-old. You’re helping just by being here, his mother would say, smiling.
Hill looks at the flaking neon green paint on the chair and picks a piece off
before flicking it onto the floor.
It’s hot, Hill thinks.
Should sunbathe, Hill thinks.
Hill picks up his cup of water from the floor and takes a small sip. He looks at
the lawn ahead of him, so even and well maintained. A man in his late sixties
works on the garden every other week.
I don’t know his name, Hill thinks.
I am the worst person ffs, Hill thinks.
I don’t know what time it is, Hill thinks.
Hill looks at the lawn and then looks at his feet. He picks up the cup of water
and takes a small sip. Hill looks at his left arm and feels a sudden urge to
bite himself very hard.
Don’t do it, Hill thinks.
Do it, fuckhead, Hill thinks.
Jack Black, Hill thinks.
Hill thinks about Jack Black’s facial expression as he lowers Jack Black headfirst into a volcano. Hill
thinks about Jack Black’s facial expression as Jack Black searches his name on Twitter and looks at
subtweets relating to Gulliver’s Travels. Hill thinks about Jack Black’s facial expression as a studio intern hands Jack Black a large plate of kale.
Hill thinks about Jack Black’s facial expression as Jack Black walks aimlessly around his
fifteen-million-dollar bungalow.
Just do it, Hill thinks.
Hill moves his arm towards his mouth then hears footsteps behind him. He looks
at his arm for a moment then turns around and sees Trudy walking towards him.
Trudy is wearing a plain green T-shirt, Chicago Bulls basketball shorts,
barefoot. She is carrying a plate of chopped fruits and is biting down on the
wooden handle of a small fork. He hasn’t seen Trudy for three days and feels an overwhelming sense of relief that she’s at the house with him at this moment.
The previous evening Hill watched Bitter Lake by Adam Curtis, as recommended to
him by Ed. The reference to Solaris seemed appealing but he felt miserable that
Trudy wasn’t there with him and gave up halfway through, spending the next hour Googling
himself, and then various people from his year at school. He was surprised how
little there was online about anyone, how there was probably more about him
than all of the rest combined. Hill had fallen asleep thinking about a Russian
boy called Maxim who paid the fees in cash every term and insisted that his dad
was an arms dealer. Maxim had a haircut like a young Ralph Macchio and used to
sit in the sixth form basement eating Chinese noodles and playing Snake on his
Nokia. He’d threatened to have someone killed but fifteen years later didn’t even have a LinkedIn. Wtf, Maxim, Hill had thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Trudy puts the plate of chopped fruit down on the lawn and pulls a matching
wrought iron chair over towards Hill. She sits on the chair and leans forwards,
picking up a handful of sliced peach. She eats the peach slices and licks her
hands. She looks at the lawn and smiles. She leans forwards and picks up a
handful of sliced star fruit. She eats the star fruit slices and licks her
hands. She looks at the lawn and smiles. She leans forward and picks up a
handful of sliced kiwi. She eats the sliced kiwi and licks her hands. She looks
at the lawn and smiles. She leans forward and picks up a handful of sliced
pear. She eats the sliced pear and licks her hands. She looks at the lawn and
smiles. She leans forward and picks up a handful of sliced strawberries. She
eats the sliced strawberries and licks her hands. She looks at the lawn, her
eyes focusing on a deflated football.
Ralph is the main doggy doggle, Trudy says.
I finished the fruit, Trudy says.
What have you done so far today, Hill? Trudy says.
Hill and Trudy sit on the wrought iron chairs, one neon pink, the other red, and
look at the lawn. Hill looks at Trudy.
I was going to email you a link to a documentary that my friend recommended,
Hill says. I watched an hour, it was okay. My main aspiration is to live to see
the end of the world. I think this film confirmed that.
Bleak, Trudy says. She unties her hair and leans forward, obscuring her face.
She runs her hands along the ground in between her feet and underneath the
chair. She presses her hands down hard and feels the rough edges of the slate
patio slabs against her fingers and palms.
No, I mean I want to live to see the end of the world and then carry on
existing, Hill says. That seems okay. When they blow up the planet in Star
Wars, that’s an arresting image. It’s operatic. Princess Leia watches as her home planet is blown up, she looks
angry and upset but it seems to free her. I don’t know, maybe, maybe not. The God in Solaris, that’s appealing. It’s so calm. We’re two people sitting on chairs on a lawn. The grass on the lawn is short and
well kept. Is this calm? If we walk across the lawn and through the gate we can
walk down a path and onto a slipway. We can take our shoes off and stand on the
slipway, the water will touch our feet. I wrote you an email but didn’t send it, it’s in the draft folder.
I’d be interested to read it, Trudy says. Don’t send it until it’s ready though.
Trudy looks at Hill. Trudy looks away from Hill. A robin lands on the deflated
football and stands there momentarily. Hill and Trudy watch as the robin flies
from the football towards the rose bush, then to the birdbath, where it parades
around the inside edge and repeatedly bobs his head into the rainwater. There
is the muffled sound of a phone vibrating. Trudy puts her hand over her trouser
pocket, gets up, and walks back into the house.
Hill looks straight ahead and watches as the robin propels itself off the outer
edge of the birdbath and upwards into the glare of the midday sun.