Forget Yourself (3 page)

I couldn’t say anything back. The heavy wrinkles around his mouth moved as though he were still talking. The air was stirred with the hefty metallic clatters from Frederick’s project. Neither his nor Pilsner’s homes were far away—none of the least were far from the courtyard. Of course as a minor, I had never been near their houses. They were left to my imagination.

“I’ve seen young Ketamine,” he uttered, pushing the words from dry lips. He didn’t mention Tie.

“Excuse me,” I moved forward, placing my bucket beneath the water tap.

“It’s dry right now.” His words were matched by a thin trickle. “I have some you can use, if it’s urgent.”

“It’s not.” I sat down on the rough stone.

“You two couldn’t have worked. Like it says, you can’t tie a young thing down.”

You can’t tie a young thing down.

Page 67. And what did that even mean? Only a least would get away with writing something like that in the book. It was under ‘lifestyle’.

“I suppose not, no,” I lied.

I had driven her to the other side of the compound. My lungs felt a tenth their size and breath came in brutal gasps. The air was brittle.

“Careful, careful. Breathe. Breathe long,” Pilsner’s voice was always flat. He reached out to me, stopping his arm a finger away. He couldn’t touch me: he wasn’t my lover. I nodded and drew in shuddered breaths. Pilsner collected a trickle of water in a cup and placed it on the ground. I grasped it.

“Thank you. Thanks.”

Pilsner stood and resumed his leaning on the water tap.

He had been alone since I could remember, since I had arrived at this courtyard for the first time. I had heard that Pilsner had partners once; but it was common knowledge that he couldn’t or wouldn’t—more likely couldn’t—have sex. That Pilsner had no cock. As I sipped at the water I couldn’t help glimpsing at the bulge in his trousers. It seemed normal.

The sky darkened a little more and Pilsner’s shadow doubled.

Frederick’s clatter grew louder. His projects always made noise. Pilsner said it was because he was young—young and youthful like Ketamine.

Frederick, by all accounts, was an artist.

He was the one who remembered that word, or so I was told. He had salvaged a memory of those whose only job was to paint and break and sculpt. Perhaps that was what he had been before—perhaps not—but it was what he was now and he seemed to enjoy it. He was immune from the restrictions of movement, restrictions which meant I knew the minor-corner like my own body, but that the rest of the world was a mystery. As an artist he wandered where he wanted, drawing inspiration from the tattered huts of those beneath his level. With his new profession had come a change in status—he went from least-violent to least-disruption; artists, he had said, caused controversy and not violence. And so it went in the book.

“Hello there, Frederick,” Pilsner hailed.

“Mmm. Mmm,” Frederick nodded nervously at the two of us, a rusted bar in his left hand, jutting at his shin in rapid, uneven jerks.

“Answer him, Blondee.” Pilsner shot me a look, baring his teeth slightly. I lowered my head.

“Hello, Frederick.”

“What brings you here?” Pilsner asked.

“The delivery. The rations,” Frederick responded, making a clear effort to force the words from his mouth.

“Bit early for that. You’d best come back later.”

Despite Pilsner’s advice Frederick nodded and lay on the ground, anxiously watching the sky, his small eyes darting from cloud to cloud. His hair and scrap of a beard were the same muddy colour as the flagstones. He was camouflaged; only his mouth, nose and eyes stood out against the dust beneath him.

“I suppose the others will be here soon enough.” Pilsner aimed his flat statement at me, but I kept my eyes on Frederick and the flagstones. It might have been Pilsner’s right to talk down to me, my crime might have been worse than his, but I didn’t have to like it. I could detest it if I wanted to. He noticed my anger and chuckled.

Slowly people filtered into the courtyard, an excitable mixture of least, minors, and moderates, exchanging glances of warmth and suspicion. Once in a while everyone met in the courtyard, waiting for the rations. An even space was left in the middle. The severes arrived last, hanging to the edge and watching us from the sides of their eyes.

I looked for her. I could smell the rank perfume of the man who lived in the hut next to mine. I could see the tall frame of the man who lived by the bush.

“Blondee.” Tanned’s voice stood firm against the clamour. Tanned was a minor too, with darkish skin and darkish eyes. Even one of his front teeth was dark, darker than the others, though like I say I am no judge of character.

“Tanned.” Tanned was my friend. Friends were unusual, though not unheard of. Friends inspired jealousy. Friends were the reason for my reputation.

“How’re—how’ve you been?” Tanned asked.

I paused before answering. “Not bad.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you earlier, but, you know.”

“I know.”

Leave your neighbours to their grievances.

The handwriting was messy and etched in pencil. Somehow I don’t remember the page. ‘Home is a castle’ is on page 115 so I’m fairly certain it’s near there.

“Perhaps we can meet for a while tomorrow?” Tanned asked.

“Sure. I’d like that.” I nodded. I wouldn’t be able to complain of the company. We waited side-by-side.

The rations come into the world the same as people—with a blink. The centre of the courtyard is empty, then it isn’t. You can focus, focus all of your attention on that centre, but your mind wanders and then the rations are there.

And there it was: the large metal box.

“Blondee.”

It was my turn. It was dark. Casio was rationing this week. My legs ached. I hated waiting until all the least and half the minors had had their turn. Casio had the book in his hairy-slender hands and read my name without passion.

“Blondee. Single. Six large vegetables, seven small. Three bags of carbohydrate. Two proteins. Four desserts. No spare sugar or salt this week. One item of furniture.”

“Thank you.” I took my cue and stepped inside the large box which was flooded with stale light. The vegetables were the same as always. I watched the least walk away with food in colours I had no memory of. This time I’d stock up on orange things, orange things felt right. Six pumpkins, three oranges, two carrots and a banana. I placed them into the stiff bags provided, bags I would return tomorrow. I picked up two of rice and one of chips. A box of eggs and a small block of cheese. Then a yoghurt, a trifle and two rice puddings. The bags felt strangely empty: there was only one of me eating now, and the rations for a couple add up to more than the sum of their parts.

The furniture was a luxury. None of it was ever complete, not by my turn, but it was useful. I placed my bags in the corner and gently picked through the remaining items. More tubes, some planks, torn fabric and a great deal of foam. New foam would be good for my bed but I caressed the fabric between my fingers. It was striped—gold, orange and purple, and smooth as infancy. Patches were stained black though none came off on my hands—maybe it could be washed. I pictured it in the triangle home.

It was Tie who had given me my home. It was funny how no-one ever mentioned the dead, even though Tie had the biggest heart in all the world.

He called me Blondee.

I hadn’t been used to the name and the fat man’s hand was heavy on my shoulder.

He pointed to where I would live. It was an empty space, lying prostrate beneath the wall. A space at the edge of the world. It was covered in dandelions. Fuzzy yellow heads poked through grass and patches of sand.

I had turned to him, ready to fire a hundred questions from the weighty throb inside my head: what does he mean? How could I live there? Why can’t I leave?

He had grinned at me, large jowls framing a small mouth. He motioned to a large window which was lying by the wall. He told me he had no use for it, and that it was mine. Behind it were bundles of junk. It seemed like punishment. I had yet to learn kindness.

I asked him how I could live in it.

He’d suggested I prop it up against the wall and close off one side with some wood, the other with heavy sheeting; it’d make a decent enough door.

This was to be my home? I didn’t remember any particular house from my old life, but I remembered what a house was. It was more than this. This soon-to-be hut, this makeshift hovel.

He’d offered to help put it together with the same hopeful grin on his face.

Casio called my name. My time for collecting rations was up. I draped the gold-orange-purple striped fabric over my shoulders. It spat dust into both my nostrils. I placed it in the bag above the pumpkins.

I took in some deep breaths before leaving. The box smelled of fresh plastic.

THE YOGHURT WAS SOUR.
I ate it anyway, savouring the sharp back-of-the-throat flavours. Blueberry and curdled milk. I stared at the trifle and rice puddings in the squat plastic containers, willing them to be fresh. Perhaps I should eat them today, I reasoned, the weather being so warm. Something smelled bad, like decay.

My elbow still ached from scrubbing at the blackened stains on what would be my orange-gold-purple striped curtains. I remembered curtains, it was a memory everyone had, but they were rare in this corner, where fabric was used for clothes and bedding. I was frightened of being closed in without light or protective glances—but I didn’t have to cover the whole window. It would be elegant.

It was time to meet Tanned. There had been no tea, coffee or milkshake this fortnight so we’d have to drink hot water. The water tap in the courtyard had been flowing freely. We would meet at the bush, as was usual.

I arrived to find Tanned with his lover Burberry, both perched on deckchairs. I squatted on the floor. We nodded in greeting. I hadn’t expected Burberry to be there, though really the two made a visually pleasing couple. They looked like siblings, with the same dark skin and well-proportioned frames—though Tanned’s long hair was straight, whilst Burberry had dreadlocks painted around her full, warm features.

Ketamine’s gossiping had made lovers wary of me, but Burberry was the best of them. Her jealousy was muted next to most, and now and then I would be able to grasp at some time with Tanned, or the two of them together. She had nothing to fear, though since I had lost Ketamine her wariness had grown, something she made as clear as she could.

“You’re looking well, Blondee,” Burberry said, an artificial smile drawn over her face.
^k'12

I thanked her.

But I couldn’t blame Ketamine for my reputation, not entirely. She made things worse but she didn’t start them. How people look here is
important. Everyone has a sex drive, and it influences their actions. Most people found me attractive when I arrived, and I enjoyed their stares, their gaze a soft lingering caress of brief intimacy—intimacy which I missed badly, but of which I also had no recollection. People were nice to me. I was a decent face bordered by butter-blonde hair.

It didn’t take long to learn that the way I looked
limited
intimacy.

I would talk to wandering eyes and slight-smiling lips. I’d been excited about making friends, it would distract me from what I had decided was my death, and from the squalid hovel I’d been housed inside. But angry partners kept their lovers from me, jealous and afraid that I would steal their soul mate away, steal away their only possible achievement in this world. They never said it, but each new friend would eventually avoid me, softly-whispered excuses covering the harsh stares of their beloved. Almost everyone in the compound was coupled and it didn’t do to talk too much to those who belonged to another.

So I had spent the first ages in the new world alone, not sure what to do with myself and sleeping most of the time. The only break had come in brief visits from Tie, who would come to make sure I was doing a little less miserably.

Tanned and Burberry never mentioned Tie either.

“Would you two like a drink?” I offered. “I don’t have much but I can fetch some hot water.”

“We’ve got some tea,” Burberry offered, two mushy used teabags balanced on her hands like old testicles.