The A to Z of You and Me

U

Urethra

URETHRA? HA? Urethra Flankrin.

What are you talking about?

Uvula

‘Sash! Sasha, come here!’ Mal calls through the booming music of our flat-warming party. Very much his flat-warming party. I don’t want to meet anyone new.

The kid in the bowler hat meets up with Mal, and Mal throws his arm around his shoulder and draws him to me.

‘Ivo this is Sasha. Good mate of mine from up north.’

I shake his hand, which is cold. He’s got three spikes coming out from beneath his bottom lip and gauged earlobes. ‘How you doing?’

‘Sash’s the piercing king,’ says Mal.

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, with effort. I don’t want to start getting to know this stuff. I couldn’t give a toss. ‘What you got?’

‘Well, the ones you can see,’ smiles Sasha with a faintly nerdish choke to his voice, ‘I’ve got two twenty-six-mil ear gauges, the three in the bottom lip, two nostrils and an eyebrow—’

‘What about inside,’ says Mal, with anticipation.

‘Tongue, gum and uvula,’ he says.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

Sasha opens his mouth and flashes his tongue at me, before lifting his top lip and displaying a silver bolt which I think pierces his top gum.

‘Ah, Jesus,’ I say. I’ve always been a bit squeamish for stuff like this.

‘Show him,’ urges Mal.

Sasha opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue.

‘Uvula piercing,’ says Mal, bright-eyed.

I frown and look in there, not knowing what to look at, and then I see it: the punchbag at the back of his throat has a bolt through the front.

‘Ah, Jesus,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to see that.’

Mal grins, but Sasha looks offended. He death-stares me, before pulling down his lower lip and showing me the inside. There, between the three bolts for the three spikes is tattooed the word PAIN.

He disappears off into the darkness, an air of nerdish revenge having been exacted.

I don’t need this. I never wanted a flat-warming in the first place. But Mal insisted, of course. A prime chance to get all his mates and acquaintances round. Get his customers comfortable with his new set-up.

This is my new stage in life. This is what I’m committing to.

I’ve never felt so low.

I sit on the floor, lean against the wall. My wall. Half mine. All our chairs have been taken up by faceless freeloaders invited by Mal, and the buzz throbs through me, through the floor. This is not what I want.

Come on, come on now, positive thinking.

I pick myself up off the flat floor and say to myself, Bring it on. Use the words: C’mon, c’mon, bring it on. Let’s feel it. Gaze up at the lights through the smoke. Even though I helped Mal rig the old bicycle wheel to the light fitting, it still works. It looked rubbish, dangling down like a slipped halo. But hats off, man, the Christmas tree lights hanging off it, they’re magical.

You can be the magician and still enjoy the trick.

Mal’s dropped Coldcut, and the twenty-somethings are up and bouncing around, and shouting ‘chooon!’ and pointing at the ceiling. They’re jumping up and down, and I can feel them through the floor. Downstairs on the floor below it’ll be like the inside of a sub woofer, the whole ceiling doof doof doofing to their footdrops.

Fucking Coldcut though, man, genius, I’m on it now, the bassbeats, as I pulse against the wall, I can feel it through the floor, I can feel it through the wall, it’s the bass drum, the belly that’s speaking to me. It’s living me.

I wish you could be here to feel this — I wish–

Sasha’s grotesque dancing face looms up at me now. Aggressive. He’s being aggressive. The only thing I can think is I want to turn him into a punchbag. Sucking, scummy leech.

I push at him with my fists and I get him off balance. Puff of stink off him like damp clothes smell.

I’m away now, shoved away by Mal, and he’s shouting at me. He’s trying to calm me down.

‘Fucking prick,’ I say looking over at the punchbag punk. He’s regathered himself over the opposite side by Becca, playing freaky with her. She’s paying as much attention to him as she has to me.

‘Come on, man—’ Mal’s still at me, I see, his face in my face ‘—you’re in a bad space, yeah? We’re going to take you out of this. Here, here, wait—’ He turns around to the drinks table. ‘Here — get a load of this, yeah?’

I take the drink and down it.

‘Little house-warming present from me, OK? Time to cheer up and chill out, yeah?’

‘Yeah, right.’

I look up, and his face is still staring, right at mine.

Thuds and colours and wailing faces slide past me, and I’ve burst out of the front door now. I’m on the street, and Mal’s with me. He’s talking to me.

I’m going to make everything all right, he’s saying.

We’re leaving the house-warming behind — no one’s going to care, are they? Not this far gone.

We can sort you out, he’s saying.

He’s going to make it all right.

We can explain it to her. I’m going to take you there.

He’s going to bring me to you. He says you’ll be thrilled. And we’ll be together again.

Listen, let’s take my car. It’s pissing it down.

Yeah, yeah, a car. We don’t have to walk even.

And we’re driving. I love driving. I love being driven. Since I was a kid, with my dad. The streetlights, flung past, caught up in the animated rain on the windscreen. How much time must it take your brain to render all that movement? It’s amazing, amazing. Every corner is drawn in real time as we drive round it. All the angles perfect.

Where are we going? We’re not going, we’re coming.

I’m coming to you.

Parked up, chunk-chunk car doors shut, and out on my feet now, yep, yep, I’m coming to you. I’m inhaling the pavement — long, straight terrace street, and I’m surfing it, every slab of it. Tiny ups, tiny downs.

We can straighten it out!

I’m thumping on your door, because I’ve got to tell you now, this is it. I should say, right, this is it for ever, yeah? I’m done! I see you! I feel you! You and me for ever.

Your door opens, and it’s you! It’s exciting!

What? Go home. Go home, it’s four o’clock.

‘We can work it out!’ I say. ‘We can do it, Mia!’

Jesus, Mal, what state’s he in?

He wanted to come and see you. I’ve brought him to see you.

‘This is it for ever,’ I say. ‘I’m excited! It’s beautiful!’

Go home, go on. We can talk about it when you’re more together.

‘I’m—’

Are you looking out for him? You’re not stoned as well, are you?

Nah, nah. I’m fine.

Are you all right?

Are—

‘I’m not—’

What is it?

Have you taken your insulin?

‘I don’t know—’

All right, stay there. I’m going to — I’d better call an ambulance.

Nah, nah. I’ll take him in the car. You don’t call an ambulance out for something like that.

Yes, you do.

Fine, well you call an ambulance, and in an hour and a half when they get here, tell them I’ve taken him to A&E.

Oh bloody hell, all right, let’s get him in your car.

I’m in the back of Mal’s car, and you’re in the passenger seat, and Mal’s driving. I’m trying to speak but the first words won’t come.

Your voice. Come on, think of something, Keep thinking, now. You and me up in the valley. You remember? Up on the top, with the grass washing all around us, the sky above, and the sky below. Are you with me?

I can’t think. I don’t want to think. Leave me alone.

I don’t know what sounds are coming out of my mouth.

I can hear you. I can still hear you. You’re not talking to me. You’re talking to Mal. Your voice in the whirl.

There, there: there’s the Hospital sign. Do you know where Accident and Emergency is?

Mumbles from Mal.

Your voice changes.

Are you all right? Mal?

I hear no response.

There’s a big sustained heave, and my head and shoulders feel funny. Funny heavy.

I’m awake, I’m aware, I’m aware of the orange lights sweeping past. I’m lying on the back seat, and I can see Mal’s towering silhouette, lurching and twitching around in his seat, and you’re on at him to stop.

Stop!

And then there’s a thump, and your voice and Mal’s are silent suddenly, like a sudden sweeping intake of oxygen, and the weight on my head and shoulders is immediately immense, and then gone, and in one snap I’m dumped down into the footwell and shoved, forced, hammered into the metal and the carpet and the cogs of the seat mechanism, I’m being crushed, and an immense and horrendous sound smashes all around us, of everything smashed and shattered.

Your hand. I’m holding your hand with my hand.

The ventilator breathes out, you breathe in; clicks; in, you breathe out.

I’m here for you. Can you feel me holding your hand?

I want you to feel me holding it. My palm to your palm. Fingertips on the back, by your wrist, our thumbs turned around each other. Can you feel the life coming into you through my palm? Good energy, good energy coming into your palm from my palm.

I want you to know what’s happening to you. You were in a car crash. You were hurt. You’re in the General Hospital. They’re keeping you asleep on purpose, because they want to see if your body can heal itself. Do you understand?

In; clicks; out.

But listen, it’s really important you listen to me.

They’re talking about turning off the machine. You need to get strong enough do this on your own.

So if you can just get a little bit better, just try to get on top of this — now’s the time. Now’s a really good time.

Your mum’s here, and your — your dad’s here too.

We all just want–

Baby, you can’t go, you can’t go.

Who’s going to buy me silly stocking fillers at Christmas?

I need you to look at my garden designs. For the course. I need you to approve them.

How could you leave me to do that?

Are you receiving me?

Can you feel my thumb stroking your knuckles? Can you feel my hand?

‘There we go,’ says Sheila as the burly young student nurse fastens the final buttons on my pyjama jacket, ‘a bit of cleanliness makes the world go round.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

‘No worries,’ says the nurse. ‘Thank you.’ He turns to Sheila. ‘What should I …?’

‘Take the water though to the washroom down the corridor on the right, and you can pour it away there.’

The nurse flicks me a look and a shy smile before leaving.

‘There we go,’ says Sheila. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘It’s fine. Hard work being a student.’

‘Lovely, now, I’d better go and check on the lunch orders and make sure—’

‘Sheila—’

‘Yes, lovey?’

‘Do you have the number for Kelv? The man I spoke to on the phone.’

‘Phone number? Yes, of course.’

‘Will you phone him? Tell him I want to speak to him.’

Her face lets slip no glimmer of opinion.

I’m grateful.

I— What’s that?

For a moment I could honestly feel the shape of your hand in mine. The softness of your skin. Are you back now, for me? Now that I am the one in the hospital bed? Are you holding my hand, like I once held yours?

I’m here.

I’m going to imagine you here.

I’m here.

My hand cradled in yours.

Your hand.

Your hand.

Your thumb tenderly strokes my knuckles.

I need you to tell me this is the right thing to do.

You know it’s the right thing.

The quietest of knocks, just enough to make the wood of my door resonate.

My dull brain sharpens once more to see what’s what.

‘Hello, mate, how are you doing?’

‘Hi, Kelvin.’

‘How are you doing today?’

‘Not great.’

‘No, no.’

There seems to be no hint of the bad feeling of our last phone call. Good. I’m glad of that. Life’s too short.

‘Sheila told me you wanted to see me.’

I beckon him in, gesture him over to the chair.

The door, which he left open is now fixed shut from outside, and I see the stipple of Sheila’s tunic as she drifts away beyond the slot window.

‘Well,’ says Kelvin, ‘it’s a nice old day out there. Nice and sunny. Not too windy. Perfect, really. I’d take you out again today if I could, but I think you wouldn’t thank me for that, would you?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe next time, then eh? If you concentrate on getting a little bit stronger, you and I can go out there and have a bit of an old roll around the gardens.’

His nervous jabbering slows to a halt. Of course, he wants to see why I’ve summoned him here.

And I’m not sure. I’m going to have to–

‘I wanted to make sure we’re OK.’

‘Of course we’re OK, mate, don’t be daft.’

‘You’re a good friend.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says, again, and looks away.

‘I want a favour.’

‘Oh, typical,’ he says. Forced amusement.

‘I can trust you.’

‘You can.’

‘I want you to make sure they’re all right. Laura. Mal’s mum and dad.’

‘Of course.’

‘When I’m gone. I want them to be OK.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

This isn’t going in the direction I want it to. Be more direct.

‘My funeral.’

Kelvin sighs and sets himself to say something.

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want one. I hate fuss. But it’s — it’s for others. Other people.’

‘People will want to pay their respects.’

‘Yeah, well, I want it to be me. I want them to — to know me.’

‘Ah, mate,’ he says, ‘I’m really pleased to hear you say it. It’s definitely the right thing.’

‘So: music.’ I let go a wobbly sigh, look up at the ceiling. ‘“Closer” by Low.’

Kelvin scrabbles around for his phone and makes a note of what I’m saying.

‘And I like Gillian Welch singing “I’ll Fly Away”.’

‘Right.’

‘They’re me. That last one’s a bit happy, anyway.’

‘Anything else?’

‘“Monkey Gone to Heaven”?’

He looks up at me a moment, before smiling and shaking his head.

‘I’ve always thought the can-can is unfairly overlooked.’

I tense. Laughing, after a fashion.

OK, now we’re getting somewhere.

‘Something to make them feel better,’ I say. ‘I can trust you.’

‘Of course you can, mate.’

‘And — could you write some words? Something that means something?’

He looks genuinely taken aback. ‘Well — yeah. I’d be honoured. Are you sure you trust me to do it?’

‘I want you to do it. If you could just— just say—’ Sudden unexpected choke in my throat. This is hard. ‘Could you just say that I knew — a bit late in the day maybe but, I realized that — you know, I shut myself away. And that — that wasn’t maybe the right thing to do. I could maybe have — been around, you know? And helped people through. Does — does that make sense?’

Kelvin nods, wordlessly.

‘And that this funeral is my gesture—’

‘Too much.’

‘Too much?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK, well, the rest of it, not too sad, not too hilarious. You know me.’

‘Thanks, mate. Thank you. I’ll do that.’

‘Oh, and ashes.’

‘Ashes.’

‘Scattered up on the top of the valley.’

‘Up at the top, right.’

‘Somewhere that feels right.’

‘OK.’

‘There aren’t many trees out there, but — if you happen to see an apple tree—’

‘Apple tree, right—’

‘Just there. At the root.’

‘Got it.’

My mind drifts out the window again, and I push my fingers through my blanket, gather you up around me.