Forget Yourself (21 page)

“You had a penis, Blondee?”

“I don’t know, Tie.”

“You were sure, so sure, my dear—you were a wife.”

There was nothing I could say to him. These memories weren’t mine; they were from someone else, from another world. I was a wife and I had been married to a husband.

But I couldn’t remember his face.

“Perhaps they are stories, just stories—ones you remember from the old world.”

Burberry would have agreed that they were fictions—that imagination is stronger than memory, maybe even that I was deluded. She would have said that it doesn’t matter anyway, that only right now is important. But she was gone.

I hadn’t invented either: husband or farm.

They were no longer night memories, either. They came in the morning, in the middle, in the dusk. Tie always saw them—I had the feeling that he was showing them to me. Perhaps he had always been showing them to me.

There was the farm again. I hadn’t seen it from the front, not yet, but I knew where it was. Who was I now? I reached inside my stiff navy-starched trousers. No, no penis. I looked down but my breasts blocked the view. I was big and sturdy and my limbs felt heavy. I had a bag over my shoulder. I swung it round to my front, which took a couple of tries, then rifled through. There were parcels, and letters, all with a small stamp in the corner. Dart Delivery Ltd.

My name was Helene, and I was delivering the post, with thick frizzy hair and rings about my ears. I stomped toward the door, which chimed as I approached it. I hadn’t even been close enough to knock when it opened.

“Helene.”

There he was, the man I had been not moments ago, forever ago, the penis I had thrust with now hanging limp. “Here with mail already? Come in, go on, fuck policy.”

“Hermee,” I greeted. He was young and naked, a little hair and a little belly that didn’t match the rest of him. He smelled of root vegetables.

An earnest smile, his cock once flaccid, now hard, demanding. He had said he was an artist in the old world, but no—he lived in this place, naked, exposed. My quiet husband had always been in charge, despite being so young.

He turned and wandered down the hallway, his firm body weaving a little as he went. I nodded, feeling my chin against my neck, then followed.

We were sat at the table, cheery yellow Formica, a mug of Veg-Quickmix each. There were three letters spread between us, each addressed to the farm. Hermee picked them up. I could see groups of naked people eating, outside the window.

“Listen to this, listen to this one,” he commanded, pointing at the letter.

“Dear occupant—” he made a face, “—Occupant? Anyway—dear occupant, la la—your organisation is in violation of social behavioural orders.”

He laughed. “It’ll be them down the road complaining, that church, the one I told you about. Always moaning. They could do with a trip here themselves. Anyway, here, it goes on—This has been your third notice. Please evict all occupants not belonging to your immediate family or spouse.”

He set it down on the table. “We’re all family here, they really should know that. We’re all here to get away from that. It used to be fine, down in the city, but—” his voice trailed away before building again “we need this place. You understand that right?”

“Hermee,” I soothed, “I just deliver the post.” I smiled, trying to get him to smile back. It worked.

“Look,” he grinned, “they’ve sent the same letter twice. They can’t even get that right.”

I giggled for him, but I knew I wouldn’t be delivering the post to the farm much longer. It was a shame, they were a friendly lot. Who knew where they’d be taken?

“You can’t be more than one person, Blondee. And you certainly can’t have been him, your husband from this world.”

I saw him, inside and out.

My arms were empty. My hair was getting wet.

I snapped my head up, getting it away from the chlorine-scented waters which trickled down my neck. My back was bare. So was my front. My leg was tickled by a twig as my arse rested on the soft clammy earth.

I was by the lake. I was in a circle. I could taste morning on my breath. I was losing track of where I was—I’d be in one place, and then another, then back again. Where had I been? It was a dream, it wasn’t a memory.

“Can’t it be both, my Blondee?”

“Why do you talk like that? You didn’t talk like that before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you cut yourself up.”

“So what do you think it is, Hermee?”

“Don’t call me that, Tie.”

“Do you prefer Helene?”

“Shut up, Tie.”

“That’s what you were called.” He sounded hurt.

“It was a dream.”

“It was as real as that husband.”

“How did you even see those memories?”

I knew he wouldn’t answer that one. He hated questions about himself, and I thought I heard him growl. It served him right for calling me Hermee. It was a stupid name, and it had never been mine. They were stories then, either ones I had been inventing or ones I had simply remembered. I had filled them with people from my world, to try and make some sense of them. That was it.

Right then my biggest problem was getting back to the hut without being seen. It was wrong to be naked when not on top of a bed.

So I set off, covering myself with my arms.

Between the lake and our hut, there was a woman.

“Blondee.”

I didn’t know her name. She had an unwomanly figure. I nodded.

“I got married just before the last rations.”

I nodded again. I had no idea why she was telling me. I wondered if she was bragging. She didn’t seem to notice my nudity.

“The wedding was everything you said. There weren’t many people there, people were busy. It was beautiful though, just like you described. It was beautiful, it really was.”

“That’s good.” I spoke so softly I only mouthed the words.

“I went to all of your talks. I learned everything. It worked—I have a husband of my own.”

“Good,” I mouthed.

“I just—”

“Go on.” I found my voice.

“Will I stop thinking about her? I was with someone else when he asked me to marry him, and he was the first to ask, so I said yes. I thought I’d stop thinking about her. I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this—I’m sorry, I really am, I just don’t feel like I’m doing things right. It’s the walking, I find it hard to walk like a woman should walk and I think there’s something not right with me, really I’m sorry to say this to you—I’m sorry, I just don’t seem to be getting any of it right. Will it get better, is it normal to feel like this—is it right?”

My voice came louder than I expected. “Just keep going.” She nodded as though she was shaking and scuttled away, her hips swaying oddly as she did so.

I reached our hut to find Frederick crouching by his box.

“Blondee.” He stood, still facing his clothes.

“Frederick.”

“Where did you go?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.

“To the water. It looked peaceful outside.”

“You went naked? And isn’t it peaceful in here?”

“It’s peaceful plenty. I just felt like going outside.”

He looked suspicious, but he knew I couldn’t have been with her—she was lying under the ground by the courtyard, where Tie used to be. He had no reason to suspect that I was being unfaithful. I had been good to him.

“I love you.”

BURBERRY.

“
I GIVE MYSELF TO YOU WHOLE.
”

The words left my mouth quickly, slipping from my lips. It was beyond my control. They came so easily, I must have always known them.

Frederick stood before me, shifting from foot to foot. Our neighbours—least and minor—surrounded us, their expressions a mixture of awe and curiosity, envy and fervour. This was the first wedding but there would be others to follow. It was going well.

Do You Love Me?

No, I willed the question away. No. I turned my face slightly, glancing through the crowd as much as my view allowed, but she wasn’t there. Did I want her there? Did I want her seeing this?

I had to speak, I had to say the next line. He looked on edge.

“To you and to no other,” I continued. I needed to clear such thoughts—this was my big day—I needed to be happy.

There was a low rumble from the group. I turned my head again, a tiny pivot to the right. They were smiling. Perhaps they were happy for me. Perhaps they remembered my fling with Burberry.

Do You Love Me?

Do you love me? She had asked, and I had answered.

She had never found the magazine, and I hadn’t always been careful: I’d even brought it back to the triangle-hut, once or twice. I thought about what would happen if she had found it, what she would say, how it would fit into her breaking of the rules. One afternoon I was lain on our bed of foam, the scent of her skin curling around my nostrils, the pages in my hands above my head. She’d come back early, her face agleam. She was excited to see me. I quickly dropped it to the floor, and her eyes missed it. They were trained on my face.

“Happy to see me?”

And I had smiled and kissed her, moving over so she had space to lie by my side. She’d run her fingertips over my neck, the tips of her nails gently grating. I’d closed my eyes, bringing myself to the room with the mantelpiece, watching my husband. Her lips had then met my forehead and brought me back into our glass triangle. I’d shivered as she moved her hand down my spine, my toes curling, fingers clenching. I’d wanted to taste her.

“To you I will be observant.”

Small droplets danced about Frederick’s forehead. He coughed, he grinned. This was his wedding too. I tried to cough myself, but my dress clutched at my body, pressing my breasts into my lungs and my flesh into my bones. I looked down at myself, my curves somehow more robust, more pronounced. I had been sewn in—there would be no taking it off until it came away in his hands, filled with a mad lust for soft creamy skin beneath a stubborn cream-coloured dress.

Your wedding night, went the five-page spread. Spread spread spread. Spread rose petals. Spread yourself, spread yourself gently before him. Spread yourself so he may take you. There are techniques you can use but first, first spread yourself and be ready. If you are a virgin take deep breaths. There was a woman rolled back on an elegant bed, the largest bed I had ever seen, her lips smeared red and the boundaries of her body blurred by nearly-see-through clothes which covered bust-to-thigh.

He looked on edge. We had only fucked the once, but soon he would crawl atop me, ravenous and ready. I would feel the bulge of his belly on mine and it would be his breath on my face. He would drive himself into me with unworldly force, my husband, beetroot-scented, filling me over and over. I would spread myself before him and I would be his.

Do You Love Me?

I had savoured her taste, her scent, her breath about my chin and cheek as her fingers curled and curved around me. She’d been wild and slow, and took her time with my body. She had always taken her time until I was ready. I would pounce on her in return. I had known when it was the last time, this was the break-up sex, this was it without her knowing. She came whilst looking into me, I love you, I love you, thinking it would be forever. Her breath on my face.