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44. SUMMER 2013

Somebody grabs his arm and pulls him to the door. Finish up now, finish up. Somebody pushes him out onto the street, bolts the door, locks him out. He starts to walk but trips. Is pushed? No, trips. Better sit down. Sit it out. And he sits on the ground, back against the wall. He’s still holding the book. Flicks to the end. Wants to read his mother’s death. He laughs. Pure fucking fantasy. Good luck to them trying to get her under a train. Go back, go back, go back further. Find the sex. Mum sucking the nineteen-year-old’s cock. How fucking weird is that. Shit. It’s working on him too, can’t have that, and he stands up, drops the book on the ground, and pisses on it. Greasy, cold beads of sweat ooze from his pores as he urinates; his piss spits back at him. He presses his hands against the wall, steadying himself, and kicks the book as hard as he can, watches it scuttle along the pavement. He slides back down the wall, sits down. Shuts his eyes. But it’s in there. It’s in his head and he can’t get it out. He digs his fingers into his scalp wanting to prise the images out of his brain but he can see them so clearly.

Mummy’s love. Lost at sea. She watched him die. Poor old Mummy. A flip of a coin but Nick won the toss. Saved when he should’ve been lost. Someone should help her; give her a hand throwing herself under a train. He closes his eyes and a red and yellow dinghy bobs by: a little speck in the distance; a little speck bouncing off the edge of the world.

Numbers swim in front of him. A two or a seven, no, two. Two twos, twenty-two. Then nothing. A blank house. Boards instead of windows. But there is a bell and his fingers squabble for it, his ear presses the door. He’s hot, then cold, nauseous. He can’t remember getting here, but he’s here now. This is where he wants to be. Hasn’t been for a while, has resisted the urge, but it’s where he needs to be. A buzz, a distant buzz. And then the door opens and he falls through. Aah, the familiar smell of dog shit. He’s sick into his hands — tries to catch it. He’s tried that trick before; it never works, bits escape. His cupped hands overfloweth, but no one cares. Clean yourself up, mate. He is inside, makes it up the stairs. Just needs to close his eyes for a minute, then he’ll be all right. He curls up on the floor, a giant foetus, and listens to their low murmur. He doesn’t need to know what they’re saying, he just wants to hear the sound. It’s enough to know he is in their midst — a fellow traveller.

He imagines a different story for his mother: a tragic heroine who lost her only child in an accident at sea; she would have made a full recovery from that loss; she would have played that part well — would have suited her better than being the mother of a low-key, low-energy, underachieving worthless shit.

He rolls onto his back and opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. A face peers down at him and smiles. “You all right?” And he smiles back. He feels better. A bit better. Makes it to the bathroom. Washes the sick off his hands, washes his face, swills his mouth with water, spits. His phone vibrates in his pocket. Dad. Fuck off. But he calls his mum. Is that his voice? Is he leaving a message? Something comes out.

“You okay?” from outside the door.

“Yeah,” he croaks, staring at his lips moving in the mirror. He tears himself away, and opens the door. A girl is standing there. A pretty girl.

“You all right?” She looks over his shoulder into the bathroom. “Who’s in there with you?”

He stands to one side and she looks in.

“Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

“You were crying.”

“I was being sick,” and he grabs her hand, wanting her to come with him, but she pulls away. He stumbles back into the main room and sits down on the sofa. It stinks, someone’s pissed on it, and springs dig into his spine. But he doesn’t want to move. He never wants to leave this place. This is where he can be his best self.