Three of the green garlic capsules, no, better take six, a double dose. Two long red hawthorn capsules, they’re good for my circulation, regulate my blood pressure, the garlic does that too but hawthorn improves blood flow to the heart muscle, and I need a strong heart so I don’t go back to my shoes again. In my shoes, out in the hall. I’ve hidden something in there under the orthopaedic insole, it’s a sort of emergency supply, but I don’t need it any more, I’ll chuck it down the toilet later and flush it away, but actually an emergency supply’s only for a real emergency, and I’m sure that won’t happen now, and if it does I’ll stick it out, so I might as well just leave the stuff in my shoe. You should never throw away emergency supplies, and certainly not flush them down the toilet. It’s a pretty clever hiding place and all, under my sweaty insole.
And the way she searched me, turned every pocket inside out, patted down my shirts with both hands — but she never thought of my shoes. I’m proud of that hiding place and I add three ginseng capsules to the other pills in my palm. So now I’ve got six garlic, two hawthorn and three ginseng capsules. Isn’t there a joke about impotence, how you’re supposed to tie a ginseng root to your dick or something, but I don’t think that’s why my sweetheart got me the ginseng capsules. I’ve been taking the stuff for days now though, and when we’ve got through all this I’ll spend a whole day and a night in bed with her. I’ll make us a baby, oh yes, how often have I dreamt about the two of us having kids? And she has too, I know she has, she wrote to me when I … No, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about the toilet brush, toilet brush, toilet brush, what are those bastards doing with the toilet brush …? So one of these extra-large valerian capsules as well then, they used to take valerian root in the old days for heart palpitations, St John’s wort. ‘Sweetheart,’ I shout, my voice almost cracking, ‘I’m taking all your healthy medicine!’
And then I stuff all the tablets on my palm, a proper tower, into my mouth; a couple of them fall out again, I swallow and retch, swallow and retch and put the vodka to my lips and feel like someone’s ramming their fist into my oesophagus. The toilet brush, the toilet brush, take the fucking toilet brush away. I scream, high and shrill, and there are tablets stuck to my lips and my chin, and I feel the vodka wetting my shirt. There’s a knock and a ring at the door. And I turn around in circles a couple of times, drop the bottle, a terrible crashing and smashing, I don’t stop turning in circles, the bottle must have fallen on the table and knocked over all the other bottles of healthy juice. And I turn around and around until I fall over, I’m lying on the floor, I want to crawl to my shotgun, want to crawl to my shoes, didn’t I crawl to my shoes a while ago? Then I want to crawl into the bedroom and lie down with her. But there’s a knocking and ringing at the door, no, I haven’t been to my shoes for hours, since yesterday, since forever, since my sweetheart got so mad and sad at me I haven’t been to my shoes, and I know that now for sure, because now it’s not just knocking and ringing at the door, it’s knocking and ringing inside me too. I beat both fists against my chest and scream, ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ and now I feel like I’m bathing in hot water, almost boiling hot, bathing in a huge saucepan that’s bubbling and simmering all around me now, and I know the only thing that can save me now is my shoes, but how am I supposed to get out of the boiler and out of the water to my shoes? There’s that story about the cooks in the canteen who used to bathe in the soup kettles, but I never believed it. My mother used to tell me it sometimes, she worked in a canteen as well, but now I believe her, believe every word of it, because that’s what I feel like, as if I was being boiled to death in a huge soup kettle. The lid’s fallen closed, and when the lid closes the kettle heats up automatically — the soup doesn’t want to get out and doesn’t scream and shout when it’s done. I’m screaming and shouting, there’s a crashing and splintering, and I don’t know why I’m bleeding, but then I’m suddenly perfectly still, I give it all up, I’m perfectly light and I can’t feel my scalded skin any more. I go out into the hallway, walk to the door; I’m so light I think I’m floating. But the door’s open already, and I’m floating around between the cops. The cops shove me and hold me, drag me across the hall back into the living room, see my shotgun, one of the cops takes my shotgun, and then I’m in the bedroom with them. ‘Leave her alone,’ I say. ‘She’s got nothing to do with it, just leave her alone, please.’ But they don’t leave her alone — they pull the cover off her. And I hit out all around me; I want to launch myself on the cops but they hold me tight.
She’s naked, and her skin’s so white I close my eyes for a moment. The cops say something but I take no notice, I just look at her lying there so still in front of me. Her hair’s fallen over her face so I can’t see her eyes. What I see is my hands round her neck. The marks of my hands.
They lead me out of the bedroom, my arms behind my back. It’s dark in the living room, broken glass crunches under my feet, and as they shove me into the hall I turn around one more time.
Outside the window, in the light of the street lamp, Mary Monroe smiles at me.
FATTY LOVES
She was very shy. She always looked down at the floor when she came up to the blackboard. An eleven-year-old girl with brown hair down to her shoulders. Year five. Sometimes she wore her hair in a short ponytail. She was slightly pale. A long school year, year five. Later she turned twelve. That was after the summer holidays, at the start of year six. He still remembered her birthday very clearly. The way her friends had whispered and laughed as he stood at the garden gate and waved at her. He’d been sweating, and his face must have been bright red, like it always was when he sweated. She’d smiled and raised her hand briefly and then looked down at the ground. She was very shy. She raised her top lip slightly when she smiled and he saw her front teeth. The two in the middle were a tiny bit longer than the ones next to them, but just a tiny bit. And when she thought about things and got annoyed, all the numbers, that small crease ran from the top of her nose to her forehead.
He thought of all this often, imagining it, especially when he was alone and eating, and he ate a lot and was usually alone. Always, actually. He was eating a whole salami. Now he put it aside; the pain was back in his left arm, starting in his chest, aching, getting stronger, so strong that his breath came short and he felt dizzy. He laid the salami carefully on the plate, alongside a thick pork cutlet in aspic and three slices of bread and butter. He walked around the kitchen, massaging his left arm and then his chest, went to the door, saw the dark, long hallway ahead of him, the white doors, bedroom, living room, and went back to the table. He sat down, his belly brushing against the table, and the plate and the teapot and the glass gave a slight rattle. He’d hardly drunk any coffee since the stabbing and aching in his left arm and chest had started to come more and more often. He’d been meaning to go to the doctor for weeks, but he barely left the house now.