The ringing in my ears seemed worse today and I kept thinking of jumbo jets. God, I hope not. When I woke up there was a kind of low-level buzz in my left ear that counterpointed the original background tone — though it sounded more like a clapped-out top-dresser than a jumbo — and I wondered briefly if my sonancies were becoming symphonies.
Actually, it seems to have gone now. It's probably just the weekend. I've had these variations before but you get busy on something and pretty soon you forget about them, then when you think back they're almost always gone. I spent the day trying to keep myself busy: tidying up my patch of garden, vacuuming, even doing some writing. But I kept thinking of jumbo jets.
As I said, perhaps it's just the weekend. I hate weekends the most. Everyone says things like 'Thank God it's Friday' and 'Hooray, the weekend at last' — I even say them myself — but sitting here thinking about it I'd almost rather be at work. It's not the work itself, that's not something I particularly like or dislike, and it's not that I treasure the company of most of my workmates, but strangely enough I do miss the company and distraction of it all. I once thought I'd like to live like a hermit and lock myself away from the world and just write stories, but not now. I seem to have spent too long on my own already.
Perhaps it's just that the time is unstructured. During the week you have to be at work at a certain time, you get an hour for lunch, you finish at five. There are all kinds of requirements and deadlines you have to meet and since it's so limiting it gives a sharper focus to your own time. But the weekends are empty. You can do what you like, when you like. Time unbound is hard to handle.
Actually, though, there was something of a distraction yesterday ...
It was a nice, clear, warm afternoon so I got out my deck chair and book and had a sit in the sun. My patch of garden is enclosed by a line of trellis so even if there was nothing in it it would still be quite private. As it is, the late roses are running rampant and it's even more secluded. There were tangy, plangent, exotic smells wafting from the Hamidullahs' kitchen, the humming of distant lawnmowers and the occasional bird chirp or snatch of conversation from an open window upstairs. The tall girl said hello on her way to collect her washing and a neighbour's cat came and rubbed around my legs. Then that oik Donny went and spoilt it all with his bloody motorbike.
There's an unsealed driveway at the side of the house that goes almost to the end of the section. In the corner is a very basic carport — just six metal poles and a roof — that no one really uses. The drive's a bit hard to navigate and there's a sprung metal gate on the front that has to be wedged open so everyone just parks on the road. Everyone except the oik. He uses the carport for his precious motorbike.
It's one of those big old British things that sounds like a beating heart when it's idling. It has a faulty muffler so that when her revs it up the vibration seems to lodge in your chest. There must have been something wrong with it because first he staggered down the drive with an enormous tool chest, then he started revving the bike like crazy. Mr Hamidullah slammed their kitchen window shut, then stuck his head out the door and yelled something, but the oik couldn't hear him over the noise. Neither could I because I had my fingers in my ears. It has to be illegal to make so much racket and I wondered how Dr Wrangler would have rated it.
I was just about to go inside when he switched it off. The difference was so dramatic I thought I'd gone deaf. Then he started taking it to bits. You could tell he wasn't in a good mood because he kept swearing and kicking at things. He was still wearing boots, leather pants and leather jacket. That's all I've ever seen him in. I'm sure he must sleep in them too. His one concession to the day was that the jacket was unzipped.
After a while the little blonde girl he lives with came down the drive to see how he was getting on. She brought him a cold beer but he just brushed it away; in fact he almost knocked it out of her hand. I thought what an odd couple they are. It doesn't make sense, really. He's grubby, coarse, foul-mouthed, practically monosyllabic and treats her like dirt, while she's always clean and smart, exchanges pleasantries with everyone she meets and is thoughtful enough to take him down a cold drink on a warm day. I think she's even got a job. There was his long, lank hair and the torn T-shirt underneath his leathers next to her manicured hands and painted toenails. Bizarre. Like chalk and cheese.
It was getting rather late in the afternoon by that stage. The shadow of the block of flats was nipping at the corner of my garden and it wasn't so warm any more, but it looked as though a situation was developing so I kept an eye on them while pretending to read my book. I'm no voyeur or anything, but watching people can be fascinating. You can learn a lot from just watching. It was quite amusing too, seeing someone in such a shitty mood. I mean he was calling his spanners bastards and stuff like that. She was just standing there, holding this can of beer, watching as I was, and I think that was making him even madder. He'd started having some real trouble with a recalcitrant spark plug when he suddenly looked up and yelled, 'Fuck off, will ya!' I think it's the longest sentence I've ever heard him utter.
She didn't say anything, just stooped to set the drink down and he stormed round the bike and stopped in front of her. As she came up — and she only comes up to his shoulder anyway — he yelled right in her face.
'Fuck! Off!'
She winced at each syllable as though he had bad breath — he probably does — and said quietly, 'I'm going.'
To this he replied, 'Bitch!' and deliberately slammed the heel of his boot down on her foot. Not the flat of the heel either, the back edge. She was only wearing sandals.
She didn't scream; her face showed a scream but no noise came out. She just kind of buckled up in slow motion, grasping her ankle. She hovered there for a couple of seconds then, probably realising she was still in danger, crawled away on her hands and one knee, holding her injured foot above the ground like a wounded dog. He glanced at her for a second, grunted, then turned back to the bike.
I didn't know what to do for a moment, I was so shocked. If he'd done something like that to an animal I'd probably have killed him outright, but because it was a person I felt as though I was interfering in something private. For a moment I felt like sneaking inside and just leaving them to it. I mean, they are supposed to be adults. If he's going to act like that and she's going to put up with it, then let them get on with it, I reckon. But she was in a lot of pain. She slumped down on the grass beside the drive, on the other side of a clump of hydrangeas from him and practically opposite where I was sitting. She just sat there, her face all screwed up, tears running down her cheeks, rocking backwards and forwards and holding her ankle with white-knuckled hands, not daring to touch the foot itself.
I'd seen the angle of the boot and the sharpness with which he brought it down. And she was just across the garden from me — looking up from my book I couldn't miss her — so after a bit more hesitation, during which the oik turned his back on us completely, I trotted over and asked if she was all right. I admit it was a pretty dumb thing to say because she obviously wasn't. Her foot was bleeding a little about halfway between the toes and ankle, and blood was clotting round the straps of her sandal so it looked a real mess. What a stupid species we are. She sat there rocking to and fro with her foot all mangled, face scrunched up with pain and sobbing, and I asked her if she was all right and she nodded yes, she was!
Probably because I was there, she wiped the tears with the back of her hand and tried to make out she was okay. Using the fence for support, she got herself upright on her good leg. Hanging on to the palings, she even smiled apologetically at me before putting some weight on her injured foot. It was no good. Her face collapsed with the pain and I had to grab her elbow to stop her falling over.
Just then someone shoved me in the back. I looked round and it was the oik, standing there in his rancid leathers. He shoved me again, saying, 'Fuck off. Leave her alone!' The cheek of it. Like I was responsible for her injuries.
By now she'd taken hold of the fence again and I turned round fully, but he kept pushing me with the flat of his hand, yelling obscenities.
'Fuck off, you fat bastard. Go on, fuck off.'
I tried to say something in my defence but he just kept shoving me backwards, alternating from one greasy hand to the other. He looked pretty wild, as if he'd be capable of anything.
I finally managed to back away enough to get out of reach and say something about how I was only trying to help — to which he yelled, 'Well, don't!' — then skirted round him and headed back up the drive. By the time I got inside I was cross and shaking.
It was probably my own fault for getting involved; I should have left them to it. But it's not as if he went to help her or anything because about ten seconds later he was back swearing at his bike again. I must admit that last night I was still so mad about the whole business that I felt like going out there and setting light to the damn motorbike. That'd fix him.
I really couldn't settle to anything after that. It left me feeling so upset and distracted that I had to go out for a walk to calm my nerves. I felt as though I was dodging snipers going down the driveway to the street, but once I was away from the house I began to feel better. I must have walked for miles. I ended up watching the sunset from the top of Mount Victory. It's fascinating looking down at the city through binoculars. When I got home it was quite dark.
I don't know how the blonde girl got on, but I saw her crossing the road to the dairy this evening with her foot in plaster — not just bandages, actual plaster. She gave me the briefest of sheepish smiles before fixing her attention on the road surface. I guess with a foot in plaster you have to watch where you're going.