A Spot Of Bother

56

Jamie was drinking a cappuccino on Greek Street waiting for Ryan.

He wasn’t being entirely honorable, Ryan being Tony’s ex. He knew that. But Ryan had agreed to come, so Ryan wasn’t being entirely honorable, either.

Fuck it. What was honor anyway? The only person he knew with real integrity was Maggie and she had spent her life since college picking up nasty diseases in flyblown corners of West Africa. Didn’t even own furniture.

Besides, Tony had dumped him. If something happened with Ryan, what was wrong with that?

Fifteen minutes late.

Jamie got himself a second coffee and reopened Daniel Dennett’s Consciousness Explained which he’d bought in one of his periodic fits of self-improvement (the exercise ball, that stupid opera CD…). At home he was reading Pet Sematary, but reading that in public was like leaving the house in your underwear.

This does not mean that the brain never uses “buffer memories” to cushion the interface between the brain’s internal processes and the asynchronous outside world. The “echoic memory” with which we preserve stimulus patterns briefly while the brain begins to process them is an obvious example (Sperling, 1960; Neisser, 1967; see also Newell, Rosenbloom, and Laird, 1989, p. 1067).

There was a review on the back from The New York Review of Books which described it as “clear and funny.”

On the other hand, he didn’t want to look like someone who was having difficulty reading Consciousness Explained. So he let his eyes drift over the pages, turning them every couple of minutes.

He thought about the new Web site and wondered whether the background music had been a mistake. He remembered last year’s trip to Edinburgh. That purr of tires on the cobbles outside the hotel. He wondered why no one used them these days. Ambulances and wheelchairs, probably. He imagined Ryan placing his hand very briefly on his thigh and saying, “I’m so glad you got in touch.”

Twenty-five minutes late. Jamie was beginning to feel obtrusive.

He gathered his belongings and bought a Telegraph from the newsagent on the corner. He bought a pint of lager in the pub over the road, then found an empty table on the pavement from which he could keep an eye on the café.

Three minutes later a man wearing leather trousers and a white T-shirt slid onto the bench on the other side of the table. He put a motorcycle helmet down on the table, mimed a little gun with his right hand, pointed the barrel at Jamie’s head, cocked his thumb, made a clicking noise and said, “Estate agent.”

Jamie was a little disturbed by this.

“Lowe and Carter,” said the man.

“Er, yeh,” said Jamie.

“Courier. We’re in the building across the street. Pick up stuff from your place every now and then. You’ve got a desk in the far corner by the big window.” He held out his hand to be shaken. “Mike.”

Jamie shook it. “Jamie.”

Mike picked up Consciousness Explained, which Jamie had left on the table where it could give a general impression without needing to be physically read. There was a thick Celtic band tattooed around Mike’s upper right arm. He examined the book briefly then put it down. “A masterful tapestry of deep insight.”

Jamie wondered whether the man was psychiatrically ill.

Mike laughed quietly. “Read it off the back cover.”

Jamie turned the book over to verify this.

Mike sipped his drink. “I like courtroom dramas myself.”

For a second Jamie wondered whether Mike meant he liked doing things that resulted in him going to court.

“John Grisham, that kind of stuff,” said Mike.

Jamie relaxed a little. “Having a bit of trouble with the book myself, to be honest.”

“Been stood up?” Mike asked.

“No.”

“I saw you sitting across the road.”

“Well…Yeh.”

“Boyfriend?” asked Mike.

“Ex-boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Messy.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Jamie.

Glancing over Mike’s shoulder, he saw Ryan standing outside the café, looking up and down the street. He seemed balder than Jamie remembered. He was wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a little blue rucksack.

Jamie turned away.

“Tell me a secret,” said Mike. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

“When I was six my friend, Matthew, bet me I wouldn’t pee in this flowerpot in my sister’s bedroom.”

“And you peed in the flowerpot.”

“I peed in the flowerpot.” Out of the corner of his eye Jamie saw Ryan shake his head and begin walking off toward Soho Square. “I guess it’s not a secret, technically, because she found out. I mean, it smelt really bad after a few days.” Ryan was gone. Jamie relaxed a little. “I had this little plastic guitar I’d got on holiday in Portugal. She burnt it. In the garden. But it burnt, like, amazingly well. I mean, Portugal probably didn’t do Trading Standards in 1980. I remember this scream and the sound of strings snapping. She’s still got this scar on her arm.”

His parents would look at Mike and assume he stole cars. The razor cut, the five earrings. But this…this thing passing between them, this nameless charge you could feel in the air…it made everything else seem shallow and stupid.

Mike held his eye and said, “You hungry?” and seemed to mean at least three things.

They went to a little Thai restaurant on Greek Street.

“I used to do tiling. Upmarket stuff. Fired Earth. Marble. Slate. Kitchens. Fireplaces. The bike’s for money. Get me through the Alexander Technique and massage courses. Then I’m going freelance. Make some money so I can move back up north so I can afford a place with a consulting room.”

A fine drizzle was falling in the street. Jamie was three pints down and the lights reflecting off the wet vehicles were tiny stars.

“Actually,” said Jamie, “the thing I like best about Amsterdam…well, the whole of Holland, actually, is…there are these amazing modern buildings everywhere. Over here people just build the cheapest thing possible.”

Jamie was a bit vague about Alexander Technique. He couldn’t really imagine Mike doing any kind of therapy. Too much swagger. But every so often Mike would touch Jamie’s hand with a couple of fingers or look at him and smile and say nothing and there was a softness there which seemed sexier for being so well hidden the rest of the time.

Nice arms, too. Little ridges of flesh over the veins, without being wiry. And strong hands.

The massage. He could imagine that.

Mike suggested they go to a club. But Jamie didn’t want to share him. He looked at the salt cellar and steeled himself and asked if Mike wanted to come back to his place and felt, as he always did, that little lurch, half thrill, half panic. Like the parachute jump. But better.

“Is this, like, an estate agent’s dream pad? Steel balcony? Island kitchen with granite work surface? Arne Jacobsen chairs?”

“Victorian terrace with a white sofa and a Habitat coffee table,” said Jamie. “And how do you know about Arne Jacobsen chairs?”

“I’ve been in some very nice houses in my time, thank you very much.”

“Business or pleasure?” asked Jamie.

“A little bit of both.”

“So, was that a yes, or are you keeping me in suspense?”

“Let’s catch a tube,” said Mike.

They watched their reflections in the black glass opposite as the carriage rumbled through Tufnell Park and Archway, their legs touching and the electricity flowing back and forth, other passengers getting on and off oblivious, Jamie aching to be held, yet wanting the journey to last for hours in case what came later didn’t match up to what he was picturing in his head.

Two Mormons got onto the train and sat in the two seats facing them. Black suits. Sensible haircuts. The little plastic name badges.

Mike leant close to Jamie’s ear and said, “I want to fuck your mouth.”

They were still laughing when they stumbled through the front door of the flat.

Mike pushed Jamie against the wall and kissed him. Jamie could feel Mike’s cock hard inside his jeans. He slid his hands inside Mike’s T-shirt and saw, through the living-room door, a tiny red light blinking.

“Hang on.”

“What?”

“Answerphone.”

Mike laughed. “Thirty seconds. Then I’m coming to get you.”

“There’s some beer in the fridge,” said Jamie. “Vodka and other stuff’s in the cupboard by the window.”

Mike detached himself. “Fancy a spliff?”

“Sure.”

Jamie went into the living room and pressed the button.

“Jamie. Hi. It’s Katie.” She was drunk. Or did she just sound drunk because Jamie was drunk? “Shit. You’re not in, are you. Shit.”

She wasn’t drunk. She was crying. Bloody hell.

“Anyway…today’s exciting news is that the wedding’s off. Because Ray doesn’t think we should get married.”

Was this good or bad? It was like seeing the adjacent train start to move. It made him feel a little wobbly.

“Oh, and we went home for the weekend and Dad’s in bed because he’s having a nervous breakdown. I mean a real one, like, with panic attacks and nightmares about dying and everything. And Mum’s thinking of leaving him for that bloke from the office.”

Jamie’s first thought was that Katie herself was having some kind of breakdown.

“So, I thought I’d better ring you because the way things have been going over the last few days you’ve probably been involved in some truly hideous road accident and the reason you’re not answering your phone is because you’re in hospital, or dead, or you’ve left the country or something…Give me a ring, OK?”

Beep.

Jamie sat for a moment, letting it sink in, or drift away, or whatever it was going to do. Then he stood up and made his way to the kitchen.

Mike was lighting a joint from the gas stove. He stood up, took a drag and held the smoke down with the obligatory startled expression. He looked a bit like Jamie felt.

Mike breathed out. “Want some?”

There was going to be some ghastly scene, wasn’t there. You drag someone halfway up the Northern Line for sex which doesn’t happen and suddenly you’ve got a disappointed and muscular stranger in the house who no longer has any reasons to be nice to you.

He wondered if Mike had ever stolen a car.

“What’s up?” asked Mike.

“Family trouble.”

“Big?”

“Yup,” said Jamie.

“Death?” Mike took a saucer off the draining board and laid the joint on the rim.

“No.” Jamie sat down. “Not unless my sister kills her fiancé. Or my father kills himself. Or my father kills my mother’s lover.”

Mike leaned down and took hold of Jamie’s arm. Jamie was right. They were surprisingly strong hands.

Mike eased Jamie to his feet. “In my professional opinion…you need something to take your mind off things.” Mike pulled him close. His cock was still hard.

For a brief second Jamie imagined Katie’s drunken prophecy coming true. An unseemly struggle. Jamie slipping and cracking his skull on the corner of the kitchen table.

He pulled away. “Hang on. This is not a good time.”

Mike put a hand around the back of Jamie’s neck. “Trust me. It’ll be good for you.”

Jamie pushed back against Mike’s hand but it didn’t give.

Then Mike’s eyes did the soft thing. “What are you going to do if I go away? Sit here and worry? It’s too late to ring anyone. Come on. A couple of minutes and you won’t be thinking about anything outside this room. I guarantee it.”

And again it was like the parachute jump. But even more so. The fog of alcohol cleared briefly and it occurred to Jamie that this was why Tony had left. Because Jamie always wanted to be in control. Because he was frightened of anything different or improper. And as the fog closed over again it seemed to Jamie that he had to have sex with this man to prove to Tony that he could change.

He let Mike pull him close.

They kissed again.

He put his hands around Mike’s back.

It was good to be held.

He could feel something thawing and cracking, something which had imprisoned him for far too long. Mike was right. He could let go, leave other people to sort out their own problems. For once in his life he could live in the moment.

Mike slid his hand down to Jamie’s crotch and Jamie felt his cock stiffen. Mike popped open the button and pushed down the top of his boxer shorts and wrapped Jamie’s cock in his hand.

“Feeling better?” asked Mike.

“Uh-huh.”

With his free hand, Mike offered Jamie the joint. They took a drag each and Mike put it back down on the saucer.

“Suck me,” said Mike.

And it was at this point that Mike’s eyes did something entirely different. He let go of Jamie’s cock and seemed to be staring at an object several miles behind Jamie’s head.

“Shit,” said Mike.

“What?” asked Jamie.

“My eyes.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“I can’t…” Mike shook his head. He was starting to sweat, little beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead, on his arms. “Shit. I can’t see anything properly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t see anything properly.” Mike staggered sideways and slumped onto a chair.

Katie was right. It was just going to happen a different way. It was Mike who was going to have the seizure. An ambulance would come. He wouldn’t have a clue about Mike’s name or address…

Christ. The joint. Was it OK to bury a joint in the garden while someone was having a seizure? What if Mike choked on his tongue while Jamie was outside?

Mike doubled over. “I’ve gone blind. Jesus. My stomach.”

His stomach?

“Those bloody prawns.”

“What?” asked Jamie, who was beginning to wonder, for the second time that evening, whether Mike had some kind of mental problem.

“It’s OK,” said Mike. “It’s happened before.”

“What has?”

“Get me a bowl.”

Jamie’s brain was so full he took a couple of seconds working out what kind of bowl Mike meant. By the time he’d worked it out, Mike had vomited onto the floor in front of his chair.

“Oh crap,” said Mike.

Jamie saw himself, standing in his own kitchen looking down at a big omelet of sick with his penis sticking over the waistband of his boxer shorts, and he suddenly felt very bad for having left the café before Ryan arrived, even if Ryan had a horrible rucksack and thinning hair, and he knew that this was his punishment. And being uptight and controlling was bad, obviously it was bad, but it was also good, too, because if he’d been a little more uptight and controlling this wouldn’t have happened.

He tucked himself back in.

“I’m really sorry,” said Mike.

Jamie opened the drawer and handed him the tea towel with the London bus pattern that he’d never liked much.

Mike wiped his face. “I need to go to the toilet.”

“Top of the stairs,” said Jamie.

“Where are the stairs?” asked Mike.

Dear God, the man was unable to see.

Jamie helped Mike up the stairs then returned to the kitchen so that he didn’t have to smell or hear what was about to happen in the bathroom.

He wanted Mike out of the house. But he also needed to be a better person. And being a better person meant not wanting Mike out of the house. Being a better person meant looking after Mike. Because when shit happened to nice people they could say that it was an accident, or bad luck, or just the way the world worked. But when shit happened to horrible people they knew it was their fault and that made the shit so much worse.

He put on the washing-up gloves from under the sink. He got two Tesco bags from the cupboard and put one of them inside the other. He got the cake slice from the thingumajig drawer and knelt down and began scraping the sick off the floor and dolloping it into the bags. It was not a pleasant task (there would doubtless be worse upstairs). But it was good having an unpleasant task to do.

Penitence. That was the word he was looking for.

Oh Jesus. Sick was going down the cracks between the boards.

He wiped the floor with a couple of squares of kitchen roll and threw them into the Tesco bags. He filled a jug with soapy water, scrubbed the cracks with the vegetable brush, then threw the vegetable brush into the Tesco bags.

There was a bad noise from the toilet.

He poured some bleach onto the floor, rubbed it over the whole area with a cloth wipe, then disposed of it in the bags along with the vegetable brush. He wiped the cake slice with a second cloth wipe and thought, briefly, about leaving it overnight in a solution of bleach, but realized he would probably never use it again and threw it into the Tesco bags along with everything else. He tied the handle of the inner bag, then the handle of the outer bag. He then put them into a third bag in case of leakage, tied the handle of the third bag, carried it down the hallway, opened the front door and threw it into the bin.

There was another bad noise from the toilet.

He loved Tony. It was suddenly and painfully clear. Their stupid arguments. Over the wedding. Over the binoculars. Over the ketchup. They meant nothing.

He was going round to Tony’s flat. Right after he’d sorted all this out. No matter what the time was. Say sorry. Tell him everything.

They were going to the wedding together. No. Better than that. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough next weekend.

Except that Dad was having some kind of breakdown. He ought to make a few inquiries about that first.

Whatever. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough as soon as possible.

He went up to the bathroom and knocked quietly.

“You OK?”

“Not terribly,” said Mike.

Even through the door the smell was not good. He asked Mike if he needed any help with some trepidation, and heard Mike say “No” with considerable relief.

“Imodium,” said Jamie. “I’ve got some Imodium in the bedroom.”

Mike said nothing.

Several minutes later Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table with a selection of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals spread out in front of him, like a native trader waiting for the men from the big boat.

Imodium. Antacid tablets. Paracetamol. Ibuprofen. Aspirin. Antihistamines. (Were antihistamines intended for that kind of allergic reaction? He wasn’t sure.)

He put the kettle on and checked that he had all the requisite teas and coffees to hand. There was a good half liter of semi-skimmed in the fridge. There was no drinking chocolate but there was an unopened tin of cocoa from an abortive baking project.

He was fully equipped.

After ten or so minutes he heard the ker-snick of the bathroom door being unlocked, then Mike’s feet on the stairs. He was clearly descending with some care.

A hand appeared on the door frame and Mike maneuvered himself into view. He did not look healthy.

Jamie was about to ask what he could offer in terms of medication and hot drinks when Mike said, “I’m so sorry,” and headed down the hall toward the front door.

By the time Jamie had got to his feet Mike had closed the front door behind him. Jamie paused. Being good meant looking after people. It didn’t mean keeping them prisoner. And obviously Mike could see now. Or he wouldn’t have left.

Would he?

Jamie went to the window and lifted the edge of the curtain to glance up and down the street. It was empty. He was fairly certain that blind people didn’t move at that kind of speed.

He went upstairs. The bathroom was spotless.

He was still too drunk to drive. He grabbed his keys and jacket and went out the front door, locking it behind him.

He could have rung for a taxi but he didn’t want to wait. It would take half an hour to walk to Tony’s flat, but he needed the fresh air. And if he woke Tony up, well, this was more important than sleep.

He set off down Wood Vale Gardens and over Park Road in front of the hospital. The rain had stopped and most house lights were off by now. The streets were full of a dirty orange glow and the shadows under cars were thick and black.

Tony was right. He’d been selfish. You had to make compromises if you wanted to share your life with another person.

He crossed Priory Road.

He’d ring Katie tomorrow. She was probably getting everything out of proportion. Which was understandable if she and Ray were having a rough patch. His father going crazy? His mother leaving? He didn’t know which was harder to imagine.

A drunken cyclist zigzagged past.

His father worrying too much and his mother saying she couldn’t take much more. That he could imagine. That was pretty much situation normal.

It would be all right. It would have to be all right. He was going to that wedding with Tony come hell or high water.

He was walking down Allison Road when a small dog came out of an alleyway. No, not a dog. A fox. That weightless trot. That bushy tail.

A car engine started up and the fox slid into an alleyway.

He reached Vale Road at half past midnight.

His mood had lifted during the walk. He thought about trying to look sad, then realized it was a stupid idea. He didn’t want Tony back because he’d had a horrible evening. It was the horrible evening which made him realize that he wanted Tony back. Forever. And that was a happy thought.

He rang the bell and waited for thirty seconds.

He rang the bell again.

Another thirty seconds passed before he heard footsteps. Tony opened the door wearing his boxer shorts and nothing else. There was a steely expression in his eyes. “Jamie…?”

“I’m sorry,” said Jamie.

“It’s OK. What’s happened?”

“No. I mean sorry for everything. Everything else.”

“Meaning?”

Jamie gathered himself. He should have planned this a little more carefully. “For making you leave. For…Tony, look, I’ve had a shitty evening and it’s made me realize lots of things-”

“Jamie, it’s the middle of the bloody night. I’ve got work in the morning. What is this about?”

Deep breath. “I miss you,” said Jamie. “And I want you back.”

“You’re pissed, aren’t you.”

“No. Well, I was. But I’m not now…Listen, Tony. I’m serious.”

Tony’s expression didn’t change. “I’m going back to bed. It’s probably a good idea if you went back to bed as well.”

“You’ve got someone in there with you, haven’t you.” Jamie was starting to cry. “That’s why you don’t want me to come in.”

“Grow up, Jamie.”

“Fuck.”

Tony started to close the door.

Jamie had assumed Tony would let him in at the very least. So they could talk. It was the same selfishness all over again. Thinking everyone would fall in with his plan. Jamie could see it now. But it was too difficult to say this in half a second.

“Wait.” He stepped onto the threshold to prevent Tony closing the door.

Tony recoiled slightly. “Christ. You smell of vomit.”

“I know,” said Jamie, “but it’s not my vomit.”

Tony placed the flat of his hand on Jamie’s chest and pushed him back down onto the step. “Good night, Jamie.”

The door closed.

Jamie stood on the step for a few minutes. He wanted to lie down on the little patch of concrete by the dustbins and sleep there till morning so Tony came out and saw him and felt sorry for him. But he could see straightaway that this was as stupid and self-indulgent and childish as the rest of his stupid, self-indulgent, childish plan.

He sat on the curb and wept.