30 Days in June Page 10
“What do you call a spider with six legs?” Emma asked, when she was probably about five.
“I don't know. What do you call a spider with six legs?”
“A six-legged spider.”
“Makes sense.”
Jokes (or at least that's what I thought this was) were wonderful, but I had a responsibility to enquire about her education and understanding of the world (didn't I?).
“So, do you know who Jesus is?”
I recall that Emma crinkled her nose and looked to the ceiling. “Yes, I do. Jesus died.”
“That's right-”
“But I don't think he really died...”
“No? What really happened to Jesus?”
“I think he's in prison...”
Another time, Emma excitedly told me about a man who was bringing animals into the school for the children to observe. "Do you think he'll bring a tiger, Dad?"
"Too scary. I don't think he'll be allowed to bring any animal that might eat the children," I said, logically.
"How about a giraffe?"
"Too big. He won't be able to fit one in his van."
"Well, I know he won't bring any dinosaurs, because the dinosaurs are all dead."
I nodded my head, impressed.
"Plus, they're way too big and scary."
By then, I'd already stopped reading those books on parenting from the library. I realised you didn't need any instruction manuals. You just had to talk and, most importantly, listen.
Waiting in turn now like a good little boy at the school canteen, I then order two coffees. The young girl behind the counter asks for my name. Oh, I think, this is nice.
"It is Marcus," I reply. "And thank you for asking. People just don't talk enough these days, don't you think? Everyone is always so busy, busy, busy. So, what is your name?"
The young girl looks at me blankly. Her face gives away little, but if anything, she shows a torrid mix of concern and disgust. I glance down at my fly to make sure nothing is hanging out. At least she isn't laughing. Still looking at me, the girl writes my name on a cardboard cup. It crosses my mind that I should apologise for my outrageous mistake, that maybe I should leave a tip for any offence I might have caused, but thankfully, it is just a fleeting thought.
I pay the money, wait for the coffee and leave the shop as quickly as I can, with a whole lot less coinage jingling in my pocket than when I walked into the shop.
I walk at pace, for it is crucial I reach my destination before the coffees go cold. I'm aware that there is a trend for cold coffees, but I'm old-fashioned (and maybe just old); surely the whole point of a coffee is that it's a hot beverage? The plastic lids are wet from the overflowing drink; the warm fluid trickles down the sides of the cups. My pace is a careful balancing act, for there is no point getting to my destination quickly if there is no coffee left in the cups. Nobody is around as I enter the underpass. I have a familiar thought, deja vu: I realise that anybody could be lurking on the other side, ready to pounce, possibly to kill. Both my hands are full. What am I going to do - throw the coffee into his face? I dismiss the whole scenario as fantasy. Anybody else but him could be waiting on the other side, or maybe following close behind me. That just wouldn't be his style at all. It is far too simple, no fun at all. And from what Simon said, Spartacus wants to play games.
I glance around the dimly lit car park. The pillars are wide and high and, again, a fantastic hiding place. Maybe I do just have a stalker, a nutcase who is playing with my mind? Thinking back to my little chat with Simon, Jack the Ripper would have a fantastic time in this place. The relief that nobody appears to be lurking is replaced with disappointment that I seem to be on my own. This is supposed to be a coffee date for two, not one; after all, that is why I hold a coffee in both hands. I curse my stupidity. My compulsive ideas are not always thought through properly. Erica loves my spontaneity, whether it comes to something or not; sometimes, though, I let it spill into the rest of my life. Why would he be here? He doesn't work twenty-four hours a day, does he? I have no idea what hours he works. I don't know him at all. It is just that I only ever envisage him here, that is all.
Ah well. In the grand scheme of things, it is no big deal. It is not the end of the world. Not yet. I consider that I will just have to find a bench and drink both coffees. Why not? That might be sweet. Or maybe I could still rescue one of the coffees, give it to some lost soul walking the streets with nowhere to go? After all, that could be me one day. It has already been me on a previous day.
Then I spot him, heading down the slope and into the car park, coming from the direction of the supermarket.
"Ken," I say, holding out one of the cups.
I have an active imagination and (until recently, when I've increasingly come to believe that a notorious serial killer is planning to murder me) it is unrealistically positive, bordering on the fantastical. In my idle daydream, as I walked from the coffee shop and through the underpass, I imagined Ken graciously thanking me for the wonderfully thoughtful gift with warm, open arms, excitedly telling me that the only thing missing in his life was a (now lukewarm, despite my best efforts) cup of coffee. In reality, Ken stares at me with narrow, accusing eyes. I try to read the blankness of his hollows, the horizontal lines in his cheeks. I sense he is irritated that I have dared to disturb him from his job.
"What is it?" Ken mumbles, his eyes moving from me to the coffee and then back to me again.
I consider telling him what coffee is, maybe some trivia about its origins but, as is often the case, decide against it. "I was just passing and I thought you might fancy a cup of coffee, Ken. Don't worry; I have a couple of sugars in my pocket because I don't know how you take it."
Still, the coffee remains in my hand. I take a sip from my own cup, possibly from nerves, potentially to show that it is not poisoned. Appreciatively, I nod my head, despite thinking that it could really do with thirty seconds in the microwave. My mind is so scrambled that I'm not sure what I'm thinking. I'm a nervous student on one of my workshops.
"You were just passing with two cups of coffee?"
I realise that this is a reasonable question. It does feel, however, that I'm unnecessarily justifying dipping my hands into my pockets and purchasing him a coffee. The money is not the issue here; I have more money than I know what to do with, though I don't tell anybody that. It is the principle. It is not like I'm trying to sell him life insurance. "Sometimes one just isn't enough, you know? So, I bought a second, just in case. Today, though, one is definitely enough and so, as I just happened to be passing, this one is for you..."
Ken growls. "You have more money than sense," he says. His face flickers with a smile. "Ta. Kind of you. I've just come from my break, though. I'll have to drink it quick, before they think I'm taking the piss."
Ken takes a sip of coffee and then nods his head. He taps his toes on the tarmac. I don't think he is used to standing around chewing the fat. Bending over, he picks up a packet of crisps and a coke can from the floor and pulls out a white polythene bag from his pocket. I'm just glad that he is wearing gloves.
"Don't they give you equipment to pick up the litter, Ken? At your age, you'll get a bad back."
He glances at me as if to say that I'm no spring chicken, either, you cheeky git. "They don't, because it isn't my job to pick up the mess people leave. I do it because I like to keep the place looking nice. This gaff is my second home, isn't it, and I clean up my home, don't I? My job is to collect the trolleys, but this is my place, and I like it to look nice."
I nod my head. I get that. It is surprising, though, because Ken doesn't look too clean and tidy himself. He is lucky, because he still has thick dark hair, yet he appears to do nothing to look after it, for it is full of tufts that flow in no particular direction. There is a dark patch on his forehead the shape of Australia. His cheeks are lighter than the rest of his face. The guy would benefit from a good hose down. I decide, for good reason, not to pursue this line of conversation.
"Kenneth!" she shouts. "Working hard, I see." She glances down at the coffee and then winks. "I can't stop. I have a date. And I see you have company. I'm quite sure I can't compete with this handsome young man, even if you are straight. But I will see you tomorrow and we will have a proper chat. You hear?"
"I hear," Ken says. His wave is to her retreating back.
Clearly, Ken is part of this woman's life. He is possibly not as isolated as I imagined. I warm to him.
"So, Ken," I begin, clearing my throat, "I was just wondering whether you've had any more trouble off those lads from the other day? No more grief, I hope?"
The spark disappears from Ken's eyes. He takes another gulp of his drink. He looks away. I follow his gaze, almost expecting something to be there. "Not those boys, no. And thank you for that, by the way."
I look closely at him for more clues. His face remains a mask. "There are others?"
He nods his head. "There are always others." He turns to me now, his eyes almost pleading. Even the whites are grey and cloudy. "All I want to do is put the trolleys away and keep the place looking nice." He looks up to the heavens, even though we are under cover. "Is that too much to ask?"
I assure him that it isn't. It isn't right. "Any trouble in particular?"
"Trouble is always there, on and off. I can go for days without any bother, and then the next day it can feel like all I'm doing is brushing them off. Can't actually say I've had any for days. But somehow it feels worse than ever..."
"What do you mean?"
Ken crushes the empty cup in his hand and puts it in his polythene bag. "Think I'm going mad. Feels like somebody is watching me. Must be paranoid. Who would waste their time watching me? Dull as dishwater I am."
I assure him that he isn't paranoid, then I assure him that nobody is watching him. I expect him to query that he must be one or the other, but he doesn't. Keen to move things along, I pull my card from my pocket. It is faded and creased and just a little pathetic. Patrick Bateman would not be impressed. Ken stares at the words. Can he read?
"You want me to go on one of your workshops?" he asks. "What the fuck for? You trying to better me? I'm happy doing what I'm doing."
"No, no," I say, talking hurriedly. "The card has my telephone number on it. You give me a call if you get any more trouble..."
Ken fixes me a stare. It is much more intimidating than any given to me in the boardroom. "Why?"
This - again - is a reasonable question. Again, I don't really have a reasonable answer. "Why not?"
Ken pauses and then nods his head. Uncertain. I shake his hand and then go on my way. Maybe I am content that I have done my good deed for the day. This is what Mum would have done.
Ken calls after me. "Oh. And thank you..."
I tell him that it really is no problem at all, none whatsoever.
DAY FOURTEEN
14TH JUNE 2018
They say once is unlucky, twice is careless.
I won't be tricked a second time. Something reassures me - maybe it is a voice, only this time it is the virtuous one, the one that is on my side - that it is alright, that although it feels far from alright, it is, because none of this is real. Is Richard speaking to me? Whatever, it is a protective shield, and because I am protected, I know that however bad the shit goes down, I'll be alright. This time I know I'm dreaming. None of this is real. It is just a...
He is on the boat again. My boat. Our boat. Me. Erica. Him. His movements are slow. He doesn't want to move quickly - that would be too simple. Simon said he craves excitement, didn't he? Simon says. Spartacus wants to torture me. He wants to kill me slowly, to leisurely suck the life out of me merely for his own sadistic thrill.
I want to spring out of bed, to stand up and fight him but, just like the last time, I can't. My ankles are tied together with shroud-laid rope. I try to kick, but somebody is sitting on my knees, applying their full bodyweight. I am a bird that has fallen from his perch and landed on the bottom of the cage. My body is laden with an almighty weight. I am too heavy, but the excess weight has not translated into strength, for not only am I too heavy, but I am too weak, too.
But it is fine, because I won't be tricked again. I have a protective shield, and none of this is real. It is all just a dream.
He moves closer. He moves agonizingly slowly, but he does move, nevertheless. He will get to me in the end, whether it is today or tomorrow or just some day in the distant future, he will get to me.
His outline is getting larger. Stops walking. Stands over me. He is taller, more formidable, than even I remember. He raises his hands. Above his head. He is holding something.
He lowers his hands and, just as he is about to plunge the razor into me, just as he is about to kill me, the rope is released, and I am freed. I sit up, like a mummy rising from a tomb, and lunge madly with my fists. My punches go nowhere near him, for he casually takes a step back, just watches me.
After all, this is not real. This is all just a dream. I have been tricked twice but, I try to reassure myself, not really.
Smiling from the uppermost corner of his mouth, his look is one of pity. That look is familiar. I cannot hurt him, for he is not really there. Lowers his arms. Even though he is not real, I still expect him to plunge the razor into my chest. I feel nothing. He doesn't want to kill me. Not yet. Not this painlessly. Killing me in my bed, in my sleep, would be no fun now, would it? Instead, he plunges the razor into the mattress, just inches from my body, most likely tearing the bed sheet.
His outline becomes smaller. And then, he is gone. Back the way he came.
I don't know how much time passes before I wake, but when I do, it feels like hands are strangling my windpipe, for I can barely breathe. My whole body is drenched in sweat, stinging my half-opened eyes, causing me to blink. Shapes and colours make up the room, and they move around, just won't stay still, not for a single fucking moment.
I turn to Erica. She is there, lying in the bed next to me, cheek resting against the plump, fluffy pillow. My wet, sticky hand grazes the curve of her back. Her body peacefully rises and falls. She is asleep. Completely unaware. Thank God. I haven't hurt her this time, not spilt blood. Planting a kiss on her forehead, she responds with a purr, a helicopter taking off. Turning away, I lie on my back. My head sinks into the comfort of the pillow as I stare up to the ceiling. The warmth from the cabin begins to dry my damp, salty skin, and yet still, there is a refreshing breeze blowing through the door.
There is a vibration: a muted, stifled buzz. What was that? Where did it come from? I sit up. It came from the edge of the bed, by my feet. It sounded like a mobile phone. Pushing my hand underneath my pillow, I take hold of my phone. I move more carefully now. My hand slides under Erica's pillow. She stirs, but remains asleep. My hand grazes her phone.
I scramble to the bottom of the bed on my hands and knees, just like I did when I was a kid, racing against my older brother in his bed (he always won). Erica's purr grows louder. Usually, this would excite me. Now, it frightens me. I slow down my movements, make them more deliberate and composed, as the flat of my hands explore the bed sheets.
There is something there. At the bottom of the bed. I pick it up. It is a phone. But not mine. Not Erica's. I click on the phone; the screen lights up.
You have a nice home, Jeffrey. I do so enjoy popping by for a visit. Let us keep in touch on this phone from now on. It has been too long. Sorry to have disturbed you tonight. We're coming up to the halfway point of the month. Enjoy the rest of your night.
DAY FIFTEEN
15TH JUNE 2018
This is what normal life is supposed to be like, I think. This is the sort of place decent, honest, salt
-of-the-earth people go to for recreation. It is a good, clean, honest family venue, the sort of establishment that society expects you to go to.
I can't remember the last time I was in a place like this, and it feels like these decent, honest, salt-of-the-earth-people are looking at me, that they are privy to my secrets, they know I don't belong here, that they have a charlatan in their midst.
The video games have developed beyond all recognition since my days. We'd cross the bridge into town in our school uniforms and then play Space Invaders and Pac Man in tiny, darkened rooms, buttons greasy from the chips we'd hurriedly eaten on the pavements outside. We huddled around the machines in packs of three or four, twenty pence coins (dinner money) disappearing at an alarming rate within the slots. For many of us, on the weekends it was either here, the snooker halls or our bedrooms. Steve Davis could either have become World Snooker Champion, or just really fantastic at Donkey Kong. I, on the other hand, remain shit at snooker, but I always saved Pauline.
Now everything is fresh, bright, wholesome and expensive. The flashing lights and occasional, exuberant noises, though, are a familiar reminder of a misspent youth. The arcade is just a side attraction, something to keep you occupied, keep you slotting those pound coins, help pay the rent. The real, committed hardcore gamers have red eyes and white skin because they live in their bedrooms. This is for amateurs, weekenders. You are not supposed to come here just to play video games; but please feel free to spend as much money on them as you can whilst you are here. Luckily, money doesn't serve much purpose for me.
Jenny sips weak coffee from a cardboard cup. Pulling a face, she pushes the cup away, apparently surprised that the coffee is lukewarm, even though I bought it for her over twenty minutes ago. The young guy behind the bar in a black waistcoat and white shirt didn't ask for my name, thank God. Jenny leans forward, her elbows digging into the plastic table, her chin cupped in her hands. Holding my gaze, she inquisitively raises her eyebrows. Straight lines appear on her forehead. I remember the photograph that was pride and place in our living room in Clapham for so many years when she was Mrs Jenny Clancy; we were a magazine depiction of the perfect, married couple. Looking at her now, I think that she really hasn't changed much, even though so many years have passed and nearly everything else has changed.