Where the dual carriageway began there was a series of roundabouts over which a small viaduct split the sky. At the side of the viaduct were a few outcrops of green — fast-growing trees, spiky bushes that had ensnared windswept litter, scrubby defiant grass — elevated from the street on tilting brick embankments. Almost impossible to climb. Almost.
I jumped and grabbed the top of the sloping wall, put my trainers flat on the bricks and slid down a little. The wall was slippy. I gripped tighter with my fingers. One foot found purchase on a cracked brick. I nipped the toe of my other trainer into a gap in the mortar. Tested it with a little bounce. It would bear my weight for a few seconds while I found my next foothold. I moved my other foot, lost my balance, ended up scraping my knee and hurled myself upwards, laddering my tights and nicking my shin. At the top of the wall I rolled onto my back and lay there, panting. Above me leaves, just leaves. I got onto all fours and crawled under a bush, out of sight of the pavement and passing traffic. Wide, flat ivy covered the ground in a sea of tongues. Between the ivy, skeletons of sycamore seeds lay pale and brittle like moth wings. I heard footfalls and a man’s low laughter. I turned onto my side like I did in bed, into the foetal position that was slowly eroding my left shoulder. I closed my eyes and listened to the tidal ebb and flow of traffic.
Where were my allies? My sad captains? Those moonsick girls I drank with over long winters behind the bowling alley, driven there in cars we didn’t know. Those times when we were all strangers and everything was so far away but all we needed to do was run towards it. I had not grown much. I had not reached anywhere. I was still running. When I wasn’t lying down.
I opened my eyes and saw leaves above me, flickering in the wind.
THE IMPORTANCE OF QUESTIONS
Something slimy by my hand. I threw back the duvet (my duvet, my room) to see a chicken carcass, grey and sunken-ribbed, crouched on a dinner plate. Chicken jelly had gathered around it. I retched. A sound in the hallway.
‘Hello?’
The door opened and hit the clothes rail. ‘Fuck!’ Tyler’s arm appeared round the door and shunted the rail over.
‘Is it morning or night?’
‘Night.’
It all came back as it always did: in shards and splinters and burning arrows. I remembered waking under the bush and walking and buying a hot roast chicken, getting back to the flat and getting into bed with the chicken.
‘How are you?’
‘My mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night. How are you?’
‘Pretty stoked actually. The talk was amazing.’
‘Can’t have been that amazing if you’re using the word “amazing”.’
I lifted the plate off the bedsheet and held it steady. Tyler peeled the end of a nail off with her teeth and spat it onto the floor.
‘Jim says he wants to cook you dinner,’ I said.
‘Are you getting me in practice for seeing you in situ?’
‘Oh, just come and have some fucking spaghetti.’
‘But will he let us drink in there?’
‘He’s buying the wine.’
He bought good wine, too. Rioja. Two bottles. I saw Tyler glance at them in the middle of the dining table when she came in and then look away. I wondered whether we should have asked her to bring a date to even things out. Jim poured two glasses of wine and a pint of lime and soda for himself. We sat down.
‘I almost came in your place for a coffee yesterday,’ he said to Tyler.
She was loosely blowing on a Medusa-like forkful of spaghetti. She stopped blowing. ‘My place?’
‘The coffee shop.’
Personally I think it’s insane that people ever try to eat and talk at the same time but this is the situation you often find yourself in at dinner parties and restaurants. Not that this situation was either, of course: we were just three friends sitting together having dinner. Still, I wished we were on the couch watching TV with our bowls on our knees.
‘You should come in sometime,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a free shot. Of syrup.’ She raised her glass of red wine. ‘I’ve got the decorators in!’
‘You know that means you’re on your period,’ said Jim.
She looked at me and tipped the glass into her mouth.
All things considered, they did a reasonably good job of barbed civility until dessert, when Tyler said: ‘I haven’t asked you, but are you two having a first dance?’
It was an odd thing to hear her say. I haven’t asked you. Like she was a stranger or a not very good friend. I looked at the table. The red cloth was splodged with cream where Jim had spilled the trifle.
‘We’ve discussed this,’ Jim said. ‘We talked about having lessons at one point, put on a bit of a show.’
‘A show.’ Tyler’s teeth were dark and grainy from the wine. We were halfway through the second bottle.
‘We decided against it,’ I said, getting up to smoke out of the kitchen window. ‘I’d bottle it on the day, I know I would.’
‘Just get some drugs in you,’ said Tyler.
I was afraid that if I went to the bathroom they might kill each other. I turned the lever on the window and pushed the pane open. Cold air whirled in. I got up on the counter and pulled over the ramekin I used as an ashtray at Jim’s.
‘It’s a drug-free occasion,’ Jim said. ‘Has Laura not mentioned that?’
‘I was just kidding,’ said Tyler.
‘Just so you know. Charlie’s not invited. Or any of his illegal friends.’
Silence. I exhaled. I thought, They’re actually going to leave it there. Thank fuck.
‘Weeeelllllll, of course you know they shouldn’t be illegal in my opinion. But for the sake of what this pathetic government deems “legal” for tax purposes, I’ll respect your frankly patronising request.’
My hand shook as I held my cigarette.
‘The libertarian in me wants to agree with you,’ Jim said. ‘But it’s not as simple as legalise drugs and they become safe.’
‘It’s a start. Out of interest, are you presenting this as a health issue or an organised crime issue?’
‘Both. Besides, people on drugs are wankers. Especially coke. Coke is the worst.’
Tyler emitted a squeal. ‘How do you NOT KNOW I’m on coke right now?’
‘Because you’re asking me a question,’ Jim said. ‘Ever noticed how someone on coke doesn’t ask a single question?’