‘Morning, lovey. How are you doing today?’
Sheila. Quiet voice. Gentle voice. She works the room, looks at me. Tries to judge how I’m feeling.
‘Can I get you anything? A drink, or—?’
No food. Food no longer on the menu. I have had my last meal.
‘Tea?’ I say. ‘Please.’
‘A cup of tea? All right, lovey, sit tight and I’ll go and get you some tea.’
Cup of tea. Floods the mouth. Floods the buds. That’s something to say. Cup of tea. Forever the first thing to get me moving in the morning. It’s my — what do they say? — my control. My control state.
Cup of tea floods the tongue, teeth, throat, tonsils.
All the Ts.
Six sugars in my cup of tea, I used to have when I was little. Couldn’t do that now. Spooning out the sludge in the bottom of the mug. Happy days.
Wh—?
Sheila plants a teacup and saucer on the cabinet beside my bed.
‘Here we go, lovey. I’ve brought a fresh glass of water for you too in case you’d rather have that, all right?’
I smile up at her. Hope the smile reaches my face.
She sits awhile as the tea cools beside us.
‘Jackie tells me you had a bit of trouble in the night.’
‘Mm, yeah.’
‘Breathing bad again, was it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, awful.’
She tuts, sympathetically, and takes up my hand.
‘What’s, uh — what’s the day?’
‘It’s a lovely bright Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday? I can’t keep track.’
‘Still, at least you’ve got an excuse, eh? You’re allowed to lose track when you’re feeling a bit peculiar. I don’t know what my excuse is.’
‘Heh, no.’
‘You feeling a bit better now, though?’
I nod.
‘A bit strange. Really, really weird dreams.’
‘Yeah, that’s normal. That’s quite normal for morphine.’
‘But — better than awful.’
‘That’s good. We aim to please, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well now, I can’t hang around here gassing all day. I should get on.’
‘Right.’
‘Have you got your buzzer? It’s there by your hand, look.’
Look. My hand is next to the buzzer.
‘I’m just outside, OK?’
‘OK.’
She leaves, leaves the tea steaming behind her.
I know I’m not going to drink it.
I can’t taste anything any more.
Tongue, teeth and tastebuds, all dead.
All dead already.
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.