Boys and Girls (24 page)

‘I know you call me stupid, Susan – but you cannot believe it. You truly cannot believe that I or anyone else could honestly
be so very very stupid as to meekly accept the blame for this one. No no – not this one, Susan. Because that is what you are trying to do – and in the way you always do it. Beyond belief. You assume control, what you imagine to be control – you do this under the guise of
having
to, because no assistance or even intelligence is ever forthcoming. But you take it, Susan, you take it – you seize control before an issue can even be considered, before any help can even be offered. Because you
have
to have control – it gives you a reason to dismiss me: this time, next time – and historically then, and for ever. And because I am seen to be not dealing with the problem –
quiet
, Susan, don't utter, don't speak, just don't even … don't say a damn fucking thing, OK? Right. So – because I am seen to be not
dealing
with the problem, and you of course
are
, you make it appear that therefore I am the
cause
of the … problem, the omission, the sin, the slight, the disaster, whatever real or mythical incompetence or crime I am most recently perceived to have committed. Within the narrow of your eyes. And sometimes – maybe even often – I am, of course. The cause. I grant that. On other occasions, I know, I just
know
that this is very far from being the case – but if it is trivial, as, Susan, so many of these frankly hysterical crises of yours so frequently are, then of course I just sit back and let you get on with it. Why not? It's quicker. It's quieter. You can revel in your fat-mouthed smugness.
No
, Susan – not a word: I won't hear a word from you until I'm finished with this, all right? And not even then, because then I'm going to bed – I'm tired, I've had it. Why shouldn't I be tired? Why shouldn't I? Even when I say I'm tired, you round upon me as if I am a brainless villain, an unthinking vandal. But this one, Susan – oh no. Oh no. Tomorrow, you can deal or not deal with it, I just don't
frankly care. But
never
 …
never
try to tell me that Amanda, our child, my little girl, has seemingly taken leave of all her reason because of something
I
have done. This I will not have. You may have forgotten, Susan – I don't know, in your twisted and selfish little mind, you may have found it convenient to let slip from your memory that you have told Amanda that she is soon to have not one but
two
daddies, yes? And that this will be …
nice
. Well evidently she doesn't think so, you see? It would appear to me as if she is making some sort of a protest, no? In as touching and sincere and clumsy and heart-rending a way as only an immature child could possibly consider. I can barely stand to look at her, the way she is tonight. This, Susan, make no mistake, is
your
doing. Oh yes. This is so wholly down to
you
, my dear and horrible Susan, that I really think you had best sort it out. And soon. And soon. I leave you now. I'm tired. Goodnight.'

Susan just gazed at him amongst the shadows as he turned to go, her eyes struck wide and mouth fallen open into a box, as if she had been slapped and slapped again, still fearing that this might be far from the end of it. And then she revolved immediately – sat down close to Amanda on the side of her bed. Enough. She could not – would not – squander a single second on even attempting to decipher the rant and ramblings of a madman: men were nothing when set against children, and she had her own child here to attend to. Who now, mercifully, seems to be asleep. All the stubborn fury, the ugliness, gone from her now. Smeared lipstick, which I hadn't before noticed … and on her closed and gentle lids a bruising of that awful and ancient kingfisher eyeshadow that I haven't used or thought of in simply centuries: where on earth did she find it? Well. Get some disinfectant. Clean her up. But first I
just must ease off this jacket of hers – far too light and flimsy for a night such as this, what could she have been thinking of, might have caught her death … and of course I must rifle the pockets: three pounds, a few other coins, a roll of Polo, phone … and no I won't let my pain and disappointment remuster and choke me as I pick out and lay aside this battered little packet of ten Silk Cut … I shall just note it, and add it to the heap, add it to the heap … (And how could he, Alan? How could he say it, that I am twisted and selfish? I am a sensualist, is all I am – one who simply feels things. What I do – I do it out of love.)

Susan started as Amanda's head rolled over and lolled to one side as she began to speak – that soft and enticing tone, distant and dreamlike, that Susan well remembered from so many dank and fevered infant nights, and being in here, cooling and soothing her.

‘What is it, Mummy …? What you said? A
rogue
piercing … what is that …?'

‘Nothing, Amanda. It's nothing. Go to sleep.'

‘I think I know …
I
am the rogue. I am, Mummy. Because I did it myself, you know. I did. All on my own.'

‘You—?'

‘Mm. With a drawing pin. And because you're my mummy, I think you ought to know something else as well … Oh God, I'm just so
tired
 …'

‘Sleep, Amanda. Just sleep. Know what …? What should I know?'

‘Oh … nothing. Just that I'm not a virgin any more. Goodnight, Mummy.'

Susan's hand flew up to her mouth and attempted to stem the trembling there. She felt the hot swell of tears expanding
her eyes, making them bulbous and sting. She willed herself to be still, to remain so utterly still, until she was sure that Amanda was asleep. Only then she unclenched her shoulders – and as she blinked, the fat warm tear rolled over and away, and then another, and now her face was creased up and sticky with the streaming down of more and more. She felt them, the tears, as they hit her fingers, which were insistently caressing Amanda's arm. And beneath them, her kneading fingertips, the tattoo was pale and blurred and began to run. The pad of Susan's thumb gently rubbed away the remaining inky vestiges of this loathsome little transfer, so very crudely applied. Susan nearly laughed. It was pretend. Only pretend. Maybe like everything else. Just Amanda being silly. And then Susan's throat was caught as she fell with a wail on to the neck of her child, her chest now pumping and racked by convulsions, and quite careless of waking her own sweet baby she held on to her head and kissed at her eyes in desperation as she coped with her rasped-out exhaustion – and even when she was sure she could no longer breathe, she had to continue to sob.

And I had – meant to, I mean. When I said to her, I'm tired, I've had it, I'm just going to bed, that's exactly what I'd intended to do. Why not? Let her wallow in the murk of her own disaster: wash my hands of it. But when I left her – and I didn't storm, I didn't stamp (no door was going to be slammed by me, on that I was determined) – I was almost skipping: had felt so very oddly, um – buoyed up and overjoyed, you might say. High and electric-eyed – like I'd been shot with the whoosh of a full syringe of something toxic and very thrilling that lit me up and made me ripple. Not often I square up to her, just let her have it – can't remember the last time I could even have
mustered the energy, let alone the cold raw steel of daring it would have cost me. But this time I was nerveless – just let her have it. The accumulation of just how much resentment had billowed right up in me and taken me over – God, I felt, was on my side; yeah, justice was mine in the eyes of the Lord … and I just let her have it.

So still my heels were tripping and lifted by the kick of all that – and only when I was back downstairs could I openly marvel at my very madness, confront the white-out of incredulity in the face of my own and almost magnificent forgetfulness. For there, as if tentatively seeking admission, was the scarred and apologetic snout of my own fucking car sticking its way into my own fucking hallway – splinters of paintwork, a crumble of glass, to say nothing of the house itself so very thoroughly open, not to say breezy, and available to anyone who had simply thought to ease open a little wider the drunken door and have a shufti. And it says absolutely everything about the insular and quite blind exclusivity of the area, you know, the fact that as far as I am aware, no one had. No one, apparently, had heard or seen the collision – no passer-by thought it odd that a car should be seeking entry into a house, the ears of not a soul were assaulted by all of the wretchedness that followed. There is a case for presuming, of course, that there is actually nobody in this street at present (what with it being a weekend, when a good deal of Chelsea invades the Cotswolds), but once one might at least have expected the cold white shaft of a torch-led and flickered investigation by a sole and uncertain probing policeman, in the far-off days of such dim-remembered and fairy tale quaintness. But no – nothing, apparently. I very much hope. And so what, in fact, to do …? And only then I heard it … a
muffled sort of bump – not my imagination – and coming from somewhere … and at once I was alert and frightened close to death: so there
is
an intruder, a thief, a looter, a masked and demonic axeman – on the prowl and bent on blood. If only I had a gun – if only it wasn't illegal to purposefully slay a black-hearted burglar when so joyous an opportunity was spread before you … because then I could quickly nip up and get my piece and shoot the scoundrel dead (I think, you know, I'm still a little drunk). The sort of thump, I heard it again … and yes I know, it's extraordinary, it's barely believable even from me: just how thick-skulled can one man be? For clutching a table lamp, I had nosily traced it, the crump, the shifting and ferrety noise, to the lavatory door – behind which, yes, oh dear dear me, was still, it would very much seem, my new chum Blackie.

‘Blackie, old man. You all right in there?'

Something stirred, Alan could have sworn it.

‘Hear me? OK, are you? Coming out at all? What do you think?'

‘What …? That you, Alan? Thank God, Can't really hear …'

‘No well – tell you what: you come out then, Blackie. All right? Then we can talk to one another.'

‘What …?'

‘Look, Blackie – you see just next to the doorknob thing? The door, yes Blackie? In front of your face. Big white bugger. Got it? Well now right next to the handle thing, OK, there's another sort of thing, sort of snib thing – lock affair. Just turn it to your right … no hang on, other way round – left, I think. Yeh, left. Confusing when you're not actually in there … anyway Blackie – just turn the thing, all right? And then I'll open the door. OK? Got that? Yes? Hall
ooo
 …?'

‘
What
 …?'

Alan wagged his head in a sort of careless despair (because enough is enough, quite frankly, and the rush I had earlier, well that's just long gone, and I'm really bloody tired now, tell you the truth). And in the face of really nothing better to do at that precise instant, he waggled the handle – was surprised and pleased when the door swung open.

‘Wasn't locked, Blackie …'

Blackie was standing – he smoothed the palm of his hand the length of his waistcoat which had taken him, he estimated, all of ten minutes this time (could easily have been more, age I've been stuck in here) to button bloody up – and still one of them, you know, had pinged right off, still around here somewhere, damned if I'm going to crouch down again to look for the little fucker – last time nearly occasioned a hernia.

‘Ah yes – wasn't
locked
,' agreed Black. ‘Of course, of course. That's what threw me, you see.'

‘Mm. Sorry about all the noise and chaos tonight. Not always like this, I assure you. Thought you weren't coming out on purpose. Could hardly have blamed you …'

‘You'll have to speak a little bit louder, I'm afraid Alan – this ear thing, practically gone. Useless little bloody piece of junk …'

‘Right-o. Now listen, Black – I truly do think that a nightcap is in order, but first – do you think you could do me the most tremendous favour and help me push the car back out and on to the drive? Then I think we just might be able to jam the door shut and, well – attend to all the rest of it in the morning, hey?'

‘Good
Lord
 …' said Black, frankly amazed by what he was seeing. ‘Alan – there's a
car
rammed into your door …!'

Alan turned to face it, and his eyes cranked up into enormous.

‘Christ Blackie – you're
right
! Well God Almighty – who can have left that there? How very untidy.'

‘Want some help? Getting it back on to the drive?'

‘Inspired idea, Blackie. I said inspired IDEA, Blackie! Can you HEAR me? Yes?'

Black looked pained, as he narrowed his eyes and touched his lobe.

‘Now I can …' he said quite quietly.

Alan tried slipping into the driving seat (and Christ it's freezing tonight – I'm going to be in need of that whisky, later on) and releasing the handbrake while signalling to Black to push on the bonnet, but Black – can't think what's wrong with the man – he seemed disinclined to get himself down and bend his back into the thing, so Alan, he signalled with his flattened lips and a flapping hand the abrupt termination of that particular scheme and he got out of the car and indicated to Black that he now should be the one to steer the car while Alan got down to the pain of pushing the bastard. It began to move – but Alan had to call out to Black when the half-detached and twisted bumper was clawing determinedly at the prised-away door frame but soon gave that up when it became quite clear from Black's quite impassive and near beatific expression that he had heard not one bloody single word of it – and so the crumpled up bumper became wholly detached and clanged on to the doorstep and Alan just kicked it away roughly with the absolute contempt that he felt it so very justly warranted. Black jammed on the handbrake and after a couple of failed, though manful and wind-inducing attempts he managed to heave himself out of the car, and was now at Alan's side.