Alphabet (34 page)

Simon –

Yesterday I finished the electrolysis on my face! It's rather swollen today but once the skin has settled down I am going to be able to use much less make-up and already, in the last stages of it, I have been noticing how much less unwelcome scrutiny I get when close up. Most days, I feel completely confident with strangers. My bubble doesn't get burst and I can't tell you what that is like! So, after the session I went out and spent £100 in Monsoon, a silk skirt, and a blouse for Mum as well.

Simon is struggling with his letter to the Parole Board when he receives this and really, he thinks, it's enough to make you weep. The contrast. The innocence.

I know it must be almost impossible to imagine the pleasure of this kind of thing and I don't underestimate how baffling this must be for some of the people who know me, or rather who knew Vic. I've lost some of his friends, gained others of my own. I may lose some of those again, once I'm through, and start over with some new ones. Of course, I hate to lose anyone, but that's how it is.

Simon, I want to clear something up. I appreciate your encouragement and support and there was definitely some kind of spark between us, wasn't there? But I wouldn't want there to be any hint of romantic feelings. I'm just not ready for that kind of thing at the moment, and after my operation, well – to be honest, after going through all that I'm going to want someone who is there, physically. I'm a very sensuous woman and that will be important to me. Also, as far as you and I are concerned, there's a lot we don't know about each other. Hopefully, after the operation, we can do something about that. Meanwhile, I know I am horribly self-obsessed!

I will let you have the clinic details nearer the time. Thinking of you. Keep in touch.

Romantic feelings? Spark? What exactly, is she saying here: is it what she seems to be saying, or the opposite of what she seems to be saying? Is she trying to put ideas in his head? In any case, she is a man . . . It's confusing enough that he decides to get a second opinion, or as much of one as he can without handing the letter over. He brings the photograph along with him, though.

‘Look, you may well be way out of your depth here,' Joanne tells him, her hands signalling wildly. ‘I mean, if someone is going through a change like that, you can't know where you are. You can't be sure what she wants you for, can you? Or how long any state of mind will last. I mean, the goal posts can move at any time. So, try to keep a distance, is what I'd advise.'

‘Well, I suppose I'm safe enough, in here,' he tells her, deadpan. She misses the joke, offers to get him some other pen friends, via the Prison Reform Trust. They are really interesting people from all walks of life, and, of course, vetted to some extent as to their motivation.

‘Maybe,' he says. But not yet.

Dear Charlotte,

Thank you for being so clear. Even if you were to have those kinds of feelings for me, I suspect my past would put you off, once you knew the details of my offence. I have had considerable problems relating to women.

Just to reassure you I do not have those kind of feelings you mentioned. I am struck by you as a person and find what you say very interesting and that is what is important to me.

Who is this I am writing to? he thinks, momentarily horrified, as he studies the photograph again, seeing at the same time Charlotte, the man in the hospital bed and the amazing hybrid creature he became. It's heavy. On the other hand,
Introduction
to the Social Sciences
seems pretty straightforward.

Dear Simon,

An excellent piece of work. The points you make about the theory of
anomie
with regard to the goals of individuals in contemporary society are both insightful and well expressed. You have made very good use of examples, and likewise your choice of quotations is apt and well referenced. Smaller points are marked on the text.

Should you eventually choose a Social Sciences degree, which I feel you would be very capable of, I would be delighted to work with you again.

He tapes Michael Barnes' letter to the wall above his desk, and next to it, the photograph of Victor-becoming-Charlotte.

Simon,

Details of how to contact me after the op are on the card. What can I say? I feel quite tearful, now that it's happening. Partly they are happy tears but also they are for Victor, who very soon will be gone for good. I am glad, but at the same time I was used to him and I will be so new, and all on my own, somehow. I'll miss him. You'll think I'm mad but on Friday I had a goodbye party for what's left of him! Over forty people came. It was pretty outrageous.

It's nothing, and it's everything. I'm like the mother at my own wedding. It's being born all over again into new flesh. I'm scared of the pain now but everyone says it isn't so very bad. My friend Diane is going with me.

Wish me luck.

Charlotte.

At work, he's still pressing sheets and still with motor-mouthed Keith. Apparently he does a good job.

‘Like I told you,' Keith says, ‘I got the home leave OK and I took the coach to London, Stubby, you know Stubby Yates? He'd set me up to collect some stuff, a big order, from someone he knew and the idea was I could collect, then get back north to see my mates, then shove it where the sun don't shine on my way back in, right?' He wipes sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘You listening?' he asks. Simon grins and shrugs; the steam hisses again and Keith gets into his stride, explaining how the contact didn't have the stuff and the contact went off home and he waited and he waited all night in some club for it to materialise, drinking Tangos until he pissed orange, and then gave up, got on a coach and went home, up north, where it turned out they were all either dead or inside except for one bloke, and he'd moved. Then, when he eventually found the place, the bloke wasn't there and his girlfriend was in tears, said that he'd just stolen her cash and gone to Wolverhampton.

‘Wolver-fucking-hampton!' Keith relives the moment, watches, as if it's nothing to do with him, while Simon stacks a folded sheet on the outgoing trolley, reaches down into the bin for a fresh one.

‘So I get a sawn-off, liberate a motor, drive there, right? I find the place straight off. I kick down the back door. Boom! I storm right in waving the sawn-off, yelling, You Bastard! And it turns out to be the complete wrong house, just this bog-standard family, two kids, nicely turned out, all sat round the table having roast chicken for lunch. I yell, Sorry! run straight out, but they call the cops, there's helicopters, the lot . . . I was almost glad when they got the cuffs on me. The only thing you can say is, I was so busy I kept off the drink, eh, mate?

Simon loads another sheet into the cart.

‘But I've wrecked my parole and got all these new charges, plus Stubby's out to get me because I owed him, and that's why I've had to come in here on the Rule, see, even though the company's bad. Yourself not included mate. You're the one that got bleach down his throat, isn't that you? Me, I'd've messed the place up, taken a few with me. I'm a man of action. Plus, I like to talk.'

‘Feel free,' Simon says. Any moment, the bell will go off. It's Friday: he gets computer time after lunch. Over the weekend, he'll read
What is Philosophy?
Tuesday, Charlotte has her operation. He's already sent a card. Wednesday, he'll call the hospital.

‘Bit of a dreamer, aren't you?' says Keith.

42

His back turned to the corridor, his head under the perspex dome, Simon leans on one hand, elbow locked, into the wall of the booth. Cheery string music, intended to distract waiting callers from the passing of time, follows the receptionist's instruction to
hold
,
please
. Nonetheless, the units on Simon's phone card are steadily devoured; good, then, that he guessed this might happen and managed to get hold of an extra one just in case . . . The music stops and a woman's voice says: ‘Hello, Simon!' The voice swoops downwards on the second syllable of hello, then rises again – not quite so far – at the end of his name and this, he assumes, must be Diane, the friend Charlotte said would accompany her to the hospital.

‘Can I speak to Charlotte?' he asks.

‘Speaking!' the woman on the other end of the line says, releasing a few small bubbles of laughter. ‘It's me! How do I sound?' She sounds, this time, definitely flirtatious and his own voice needs a good cough to clear the way for it to emerge. ‘Great!' he says. ‘You sound happy. Congratulations.'

‘It's just wonderful,' she tells him. ‘No pain at all! I'm doing really well. Everyone here has been fantastic.' It is a completely different person he is talking to, no doubt about that. He feels a kind of panic, his mouth dry, heart racing suddenly in his chest. He leans closer into the wall.

‘I've got to say, this is really weird!' he tells her.

‘Yes!' Charlotte says, enthusiastically. ‘You're meeting me for the first time. And likewise for me, except that Victor remembered you and I've got the rights to his memories. I've
inherited
them!'

What do you say to
that
?

‘Oh – it looks like I got a good report,' he tells her. ‘From the Parole Board. I'm moving soon.' That is
fantastic
, she tells him. She knew it would be a good year! It has been such a lovely surprise to get his call – but right now, she has to go and have what she calls ‘some yucky medical stuff ' done.

‘Do let's keep in touch,' she says.

There are just a couple of units left on the second card. He puts it in his pocket, walks down the grey linoleum corridor to the deathly fug of the TV room, the screen there, two feet across, the colours all tuned up to their maximum, a kind of radioactive effect. He stands by the door looking in: there they all are, hunched and stocky, grizzled, stringy, clean-shaven, avuncular, the child molesters, pornographers and rapists of this world, a few real sadists thrown in . . . The local news is on. Something about a toddler being rescued from an abandoned well after being missing for three days. It's amazing what can happen out there, in the world. Even in here: one bloke's face is streaming with tears, as he watches the interview with the kid's ecstatic parents. And he, Simon, can't help thinking about it: a man he met has turned into a woman with an extraordinary, trapeze act of a laugh. You can't say life is entirely dull.

But neither is it straightforward: the Parole Board's official letter turns out to be more complicated than expected. On the one hand, he can move on, but on the other:
It was felt that good
progress has been made in terms of coming to terms with the offence
,
although you have not yet given adequate attention to addressing some
of the behaviours contributing to it, which the Board considers should be
a prerequisite for any further recategorisation
.

Alan visits him to discuss his feelings about this, which are not good. At the same time, he has to write an essay of two thousand words entitled ‘How do we know we exist?' and mid-way through it he is moved, by sweatbox, to the new place. It's modern, just four storeys high, built in acrid yellow, knife-edged brickwork. There's an excellent gym, but not much in the way of gardens.

He sends Charlotte the new address, along with a brief note to say that he hopes she is having a good time but he doesn't hold out much hope, because as far as personal letters go, nothing has come for over a month. It's the end of it, he supposes. Very likely it – he – has served his purpose. Perhaps Charlotte wants to start over, with no one knowing the way she was before? He could understand that, but it would be nice to be
told
.

You must be wondering where I got to! Yes, I am having the best of times. Stitches are a thing of the past, and I must say, now that the icing is on the cake, I look good! Plus, it all seems to be
working
! So, I'm getting to know myself. My confidence is so much better. The result is, I have been a bit hyperactive and find it rather hard to say no to anything because absolutely everything is so much more fun now. I have been out most nights, meeting just loads of new people in the last two weeks but I am really going to have to be more sensible soon. Everyone is telling me to slow down, I've got the rest of my life, but that's only half true, isn't it?

After you're forty or forty-five, the action is bound to diminish, even if it doesn't completely stop . . . Plus, of course, most people go a bit wild at first. When I start my new job soon I will have to get up bright and early again, so I guess they have got a point. It's in a company that makes and distributes games, it'll be word-processing mainly and making arrangements, etc. My boss, Tony, seems pretty reasonable. Quite good-looking. Very girly job, which is nice in a way, but I expect I'll get bored. It'll do for now. Once I've been working for a while, I'll be able to afford a holiday, so there's the plus side. How's things, Simon? I hope life is treating you well too?

Simon hesitates to say that no, actually, it's a bitch right now – but on the other hand, he has a feeling that if he doesn't tell at least some of the truth, there's no real point to any of this and it could end up the way Vivienne Anne Whilden did, or worse. Charlotte may be a good-time girl, he reasons, but she's said herself that she did inherit Vic's memories, which must include plenty of less-than-perfect moments.

I hope you'll forgive the frankness, Charlotte, but I need to get this off my chest. I am getting very distracted at the moment because I've had this meeting with Alan, who says I have to come up with some kind of plan for the rest of my sentence. The Board did give me my move to here, but they made it clear that further progress would be dependent on me addressing outstanding issues that have been flagged up. So I asked him how, exactly? Then he tells me they are now beginning to run these special training courses, somewhat along the lines of one of the treatments at Wentham, where I was until a year ago. I got thrown out of there, partly, I'm sure, because I wouldn't go along with one of these courses. He says, there's a new thing starting now, would I consider another go at it, a module, all on its own, lasting just four months or so. So I told him I'd rather be shot in the head. Alan said sorry, he knew I'd feel like that, but there isn't another option . . . I'll wait until there is, I told him. Not his fault, but I had a go at him and I feel bad about that. Plus, right now, I am really struggling with the Introduction to Philosophy. I don't mind reading about it, but writing the arguments out in essay form, where you have to define every single word as if people hadn't been using them since the year dot: it's a real wind-up when you just want to get on and say what you mean but never end up getting there at all and forgetting what it was. Well, Charlotte that is how it is for me right now, I hope this is not too heavy. I can say I am putting weight back on and managing to keep on track with my yoga and aerobic fitness, so that is something at least. Also, as you can see, I have got my typewriter back. Well, don't wear yourself out, forty-five is a long way off. Simon.