I filled a Fosters glass a quarter of the way and carried it back to my desk. Sat staring. Drinking. Staring. It was no good. I picked up a book of poetry and took it with the whisky down to the grass. It was sunny for March — not warm but the light was cold and yellow and cheap, like margarine. I sat in the shade by the wall and bent my legs, making a lectern of my knees. Strained to read as the sun shifted meanly over the Manchester skyline. A blackbird clucked in a nearby hedge. A thousand tiny flies went about their business. Early spring. Things awakening. I kicked off my shoes and socks and surveyed my feet. Oh, they were ugly, my feet. Monkeyish. Almost clawed. They hadn’t yet invented the kind of therapy required to console me about them. When I was younger I’d tried to make myself feel better about them by telling myself that Lolita had monkeyish feet and she was desirable. Granted, in a sick, twisted way, but beggars couldn’t be choosers — or rather, mill-workers couldn’t be choosers, because that’s where my long-toed feet had originated from. The girls who worked in the mills of Lancashire (my maternal grandmother being one of them) had to limbo under the moving threads to clear detritus as it fell from the looms. They couldn’t bend for fear of cotton-cuts (think machine-driven paper cuts) so they developed a way of picking things up with their feet, snatching and gripping with their toes then kicking their legs back against their bum to grab the bits between their fingers. Toes stretched and became more dexterous as a result. Darwin got involved (I know, impossible, but throw me a toe-bone here). Jim said I might be able to play the piano with my feet, that he’d teach me.
Jim. I missed him in a physical way, like a thirst. Missed his mouth and his composure and his steady loving eyes. I didn’t buy the whole ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ spiel. I was with Rochester on the matter: a cord was tied to my ribcage at one end and tied at the other end to Jim’s, and the further away he got, the thinner the cord stretched. Memories helped and didn’t help. What had he said to me the other day? We are not defined by how we are but by how we try to be.
What if you try too hard to be everything? I countered.
Lie down, he said. Lie still.
I finished my whisky, picked up the glass and got to my feet. I walked to the stairwell and up the stairs. As I walked past my desk I checked my phone. Two missed calls. Tyler. I called her back. She answered on the first ring.
‘I’m outside a city-centre drinking establishment and there’s a chair opposite baying for your ass.’
‘I’m writing, remember.’
I heard her suck on a cigarette.
‘Fine. I’ll still be here when you change your mind.’
The bloodrush of temptation. An alfresco drink (and a cigarette at the same time, a rare luxury) with my best friend on a sunny eve. In March, too. How many evenings like this did we get in March? If that wasn’t an oasis in the wilderness then—
‘Are you on your own?’ (As if I could somehow make this about compassion…)
‘Only until you get here.’
Ohhhhhhhhh. She cajoled me like an over-confident boy at the bus interchange. She was persistent. She was cocky. She was good.
‘Jim’s back in the morning.’
‘So just come for a couple.’
‘Ha! That’s a good one.’ I inspected my fingernails. ‘Anyway, I’ve already had a whisky and a beer.’
‘You do know that beer isn’t even alcohol.’
Another drag on her fag. She was enjoying this. The practice scales of her siren call. I said: ‘Don’t you have work at seven tomorrow anyway?’
‘Baby,’ (‘Baby’, was it? Three drinks at least, likely on her fourth) ‘I’ve got work at seven tomorrow every day for the rest of my life, serving mochafuckingchickenlattes to people counting off the days in little coffee stamps. What gives? Only the fact that there are nights in between.’
And there it was, as always, swinging my way: The Night. With its deals, promises and gauntlets, by turns many things: nemesis, ally, co-conspirator, master of persuasion. It tosses its promises before you like scraps on the road, crumbs leading into the forest: pubs, parties, booze, drugs, dancing, karaoke…
Here, kitty.
Here, kitty kitty.
Whatever your peccadilloes, The Night knows.
I looked at my laptop, at my desk with its dirty mugs and fag-ash archipelago. The grubby keyboard from eating on the job. The dimp-filled saucer (had I smoked that much today? Holy fuck). The hob lighter I used as a lighter. The Marlboro packet with the take-heed photo of the bloke with the big neck tumour and bigger moustache (Tyler: Difficult to say which of those disturbs me more…).
I said: ‘I have £1.72 to last me until payday.’
‘Are there no notes on the towel rail?’
‘No.’
‘Check underneath.’
‘I did, yesterday.’
‘Well, I’m buying. Correction: I have bought.’
She hung up. My laptop screen flicked to sleep mode, displaying a bashful black-and-white photo of Jim sitting outside a pub the previous year, a half-drunk pint of Guinness in front of him. It was a confusing sign: half-warning; half-endorsement. I chewed my thumb. I’d need a shower and something quick to eat although I could always get something when I got there, yes that made more sense. I could throw my jeans on, a t-shirt, cardigan, trainers — no need to dress up. No need for much make-up. But then… Didn’t I want to be full of the joys of productivity and rejuvenating sleep tomorrow? I could make it quick. I could. ‘A couple’ might be optimistic but five drinks was a good number to have in mind. Yes, five drinks was jolly but not silly. Five drinks was just normal. I could use the last of my money to hop on a bus the few stops into town, Tyler could pay for a cab home, saving more time, getting into bed Even Earlier — because I hadn’t been out all week. That was right, I hadn’t been out all week. I deserved a break. Also it made sense to get some input, some fresh inspiration, no one ever wrote anything good in a vacuum…
My phone beeped in my hand. A text.
THIS WINE IS SO COLD AND IMPOSSIBLY REFRESHING THE GLASS IS STICKING TO MY HAND AND I’VE GOT YOU A PRESENT
Here, kitty.
THE RETURN OF JIM
Thirst woke me. Thirst and Fear.
Oh fuck. Oh holy fuck. What time was it? My head pounded with its own globe-splitting seismic beat. I scrabbled for consolations. I was in bed. I had made it there. But I was meant to be going over to Jim’s and cooking a meal and giving him a hero’s welcome and on top of all that I was going to have to make myself stop smelling like a six-week-old bar towel that had been twice through the digestive system of a yak. My armpits were cadaverous. I liked smelling of myself but this—I took another sniff and boaked: sour booze and raving and not nearly, as always, enough water — this was pushing even my own tolerance. My hand found my phone, finger pressed it awake, eyes and brain interpreted numbers. 10 a.m. Jim was home at lunchtime, which meant twelve at the earliest, to be safe. Two hours. Doable. Just about. I could have a bath at his place once I’d put the food on. Yes yes, this was shaping up fine. Now all I had to do was work out how to move my limbs.