Meatspace (32 page)

And in my first email address, one I’d set up on a 14.4bps connection, with Aziz, on our first modem, a month before the accident, the very first email I’d been sent … it was from Aziz. I’d set up [email protected] and Aziz had set up [email protected]. And when we’d set them up on our 14.4 dial-up connection, he’d sent me an email.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Received:

Subject: test

Yo Kit,

Test email …

If you are the Captain of a sinking ship, the best example you can set is to get off that ship as soon as you can. Really, you should be the first off.

AZIZ.

I’d forgotten about that. The only email he’d ever sent me. The only communication. The only representation of his voice I had. I only had memory and a few photos and his pay-as-you-go mobile phone, which he got to help him sell stuff. I never threw it away. I kept it all these years. I find it comforting to call. Now we live in communications, missives, tweets, statuses, emails, likes, aggregated search filters, recommended videos, round robins, listicles, sparrowface, duck lips, selfies, event invites, texts and I had none of these from my brother. None to remember what kind of person he was, only the barest fringes of my memory. You can construct entire people out of everything they’ve ever done digitally. But not Aziz. I only had that email.

Then, when Rach moved out, it was like he’d lived with me all along. He told me he was going to coach me through my break-up, ‘stick with me kid and you’ll be fine’, and the spare room, the office where Rach worked from home, it was his, and he was there. I didn’t question it because if I did, he could leave, he would leave and I’d lose my brother again. And, it’s only now, telling my dad and my ex-girlfriend and my new girlfriend this that I realise I’ve tricked myself into believing he was here.

I don’t tell them that. I tell them about the blog and how it became easy, like he was there, to update this one story we had written, and make it him now, because him now, he should be able to exist electronically. He pre-dates social media, he never lived to make his mark and fuck it, he deserved it, he deserved to make his mark. He deserved his presence.

He deserved to live for ever, tweeting and blogging and Instagramming. Not me. Him. Because if he was doing all that, it meant he was back in meatspace. What I don’t say is that room next to mine, it would hum with the sounds of him bringing girls home, watching television till 3 in the morning, working out, whistling to himself. The flat was filled with Aziz. And that made it so much easier to accept that Rach wasn’t there anymore.

Aziz was in the building.

But Aziz doesn’t live here anymore.

‘Kitab, beta … that sounds … crazy,’ my dad says.

‘Memories eventually lie,’ I tell him.

‘This,’ he sighs. ‘This is a bigger lie.’

‘He’s my brother. Don’t you dare take this away from me.’

‘Life goes on, kiddo,’ my father says. He shakes his head. I can feel Rach and Hayley both looking at me with pity in their eyes.

‘Aziz is dead,’ I say, almost as a question and almost as a reminder.

‘How did he die?’ Hayley asks.

‘He was always riding that bloody bike too fast,’ Dad says. ‘Always too fast.’

‘He was cycling down the high street where Kit grew up,’ Rach says, the pragmatic objectivist. ‘Fast. He swung onto a zebra crossing to get across the road and a car hit him.’

‘Were you there?’ Hayley asks.

I shake my head. I wasn’t there so I still don’t feel like it happened. If I didn’t live-tweet it, it didn’t happen. I don’t have a timeline of events. I look around the flat. It feels half lived in. It doesn’t feel like our place anymore. I look at Rach. She definitely doesn’t live here anymore.

Where’s Aziz? I need him.

The sad truth of it is, that guy from the radio, he contacted my publisher directly and told them he was desperate to have me on the show. I said no.

‘You don’t need me. Just remember me. Just remember how fucking awesome I am. Just remember. In that brain. Remember
.
’

‘You need to shut that blog down,’ Dad says. I nod my head. I think about Kitab 2. The weirdo did me some good. He got me out of this flat. Out into the world. Away from the chutney.

‘I’ve got nothing left to say, Dad. That blog’s done. It was Aziz’s story. I just wrote it down.’

‘Hayley,’ I say. ‘I’m not crazy.’

‘Okay, chico,’ she replies. ‘It’s okay. We can talk later, okay?’

I walk over to the fridge, I grab a tote bag that’s hanging off a drawer. I open the fridge and I pull out the 5 remaining jars of chutney. I place them in the bag and thrust my hand out to Rach. ‘Here you go,’ I say. ‘You’re finally all moved out.’

‘Thanks,’ Rach stays. ‘Look, I …’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll just go running or something, get out more, that sort of thing.’

‘I was gonna say, I’m going to delete you from Facebook, I think. It’s too easy to stalk people. Is that okay?’

‘Whatever,’ I say.

‘I’m going then,’ Rach says. I nod. She turns around to leave. She shakes Hayley’s hand, firmly, like they’ve struck a business deal and she kisses Dad on the cheek.

‘Rach,’ Dad asks. ‘Isn’t your mum single?’

‘Not for you, Rasesh,’ she laughs, opening the door. ‘Not for you. You’re trouble.’ He giggles to himself as she closes the door. Rach has left the building. I am no longer in a relationship.

I look at Hayley. It’s complicated.

‘Dad,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’

‘You did,’ he says. ‘I was hurt. I was really hurt. I still am. But I realise I am not innocent in this. This is my fault as much as yours. I should be more of a father, and less of a friend. Eh, kiddo?’

‘No, Dad,’ I say. ‘I should be more of an adult.’

There’s an awkward silence. Dad shuffles his feet. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘We will talk about this properly, but I do have a date. A third date, with a girl called Madhur. I really like her.’

‘Third date?’ I say, surprised. ‘You should go.’

Dad’s already half out the door before I get to finish my sentence.

‘Double date?’ he says, looking at Hayley.

‘We’ll see, Dad. We’ll have to see about that.’

He walks out of the door. I follow him. I close the door behind me. It’s just him and me in the communal area. He looks back at me. ‘I don’t need the money,’ he says. ‘I think you need to take some time, think about things. Use that money to buy you some time.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say. ‘Are we okay?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, we’re not. I’ll tell you something about Aziz, that you never ever got right in any of those blogs. Something you forgot. And in your book too. I read your book. I never told you but I read it. And you know what you missed? Aziz was never good with the ladies. He tried. Oh, he tried. He could talk to any man in the world, about anything. And everyone was his best friend. But with girls, he would go silent, and he would go giggly and he could not get a word out. He was shy. Not that you’d know because all you saw was loud Aziz. There was a shy Aziz too. He was a sweet boy. He was such a sweet boy. Anyway, son, we are going to spend more time together. Proper time. You and me. We could go for a walk. We could go on holiday. Not always dinner. Not always the same place. And you’re going to talk, too. You never talk. So I just keep on talking about nothing, about girls, because that’s the only thing I have going on. Because you sit there, wishing you were somewhere else. I’m your dad, beta. You have to tell me things. You’re broken up with Rach, fine, that’s sad, she’s a nice girl. Talk to me. You’re upset about a bad review in the
Telegraph
, that’s annoying. Talk to me. I have a Google Alert set up on my son’s name. I love him. I’m proud of him. He should know that.’

I’m crying.

Dad wipes a tear from his face.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say.

‘This other Kitab, Aziz, this new girl – they get your attention, your interactions. What do I get? One dinner a week? Come on, beta. There’s only you and me. Let’s make a change.’

I make a weird noise, a horse neigh. I’ve never heard it before. Dad walks over to me and he cuddles me. I cuddle him back. We stand there for a few moments. I can feel him drying his eyes. I wipe my tears into his jacket.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I have a hot date tonight. Don’t ruin my clothes.’

‘You should get going then, Dad.’

He lets go of me, wipes something off my cheek, pats it and goes to leave. He stops, facing the door. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It will be hard work, but as long as that’s enough, we’ll be fine.’

He opens the door and is gone.

*

Dad has left the building. I walk back into the flat and it’s just Hayley and me. She walks over to me, her arms folded, and buries her nose in my armpit. I giggle. It’s ticklish.

‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’

Hayley nods. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I do. Do you want to go for a walk?’

I grin. That’s exactly what I want to do. I take my phone out of my pocket and leave it on the counter. ‘I’m ready. Let’s go.’ We walk towards the door.

History:

Writing tips – Google
Get motivated to write – Google
10 essential tips for writing – Book
Writers handbook – Book

I choose meatspace. I start waking up early, eating properly, spending a minimum of 4 hours a day out of my flat. I allow myself an hour of internet 3 times a day. I build a routine, something I’ve sorely lacked.

I find a job copywriting for an ad firm near me. They let me work from home. I choose to hot desk with them. I get up early each morning and I sit at my desk and write for 3 hours before I have to be at work. The feeling of being surrounded by people again, on coffee rounds, talking about
Game of Thrones
, standing over each other’s desks and picking apart the finer details of full stops, punchier headlines and puns – it feels electric.

The sounds of my alarm clock barely register over the heavy purrs of Hayley as she lies next to me. I take my laptop into the other room and start writing. It feels forced, then it feels easy, then it feels like the worst thing I could be doing but I’m getting it done.

I get the occasional email from Kitab 2. He asks for me to provide him a reference to reapply to school with. He’s doing an English Literature degree in Bangalore, much to his father’s disdain and wants to write a novel based on his week in London. I reply that I’m happy to. He’s grown on me. My mentor.

I see Dad regularly. He moves into a flat nearby, out of my childhood home. We sell most of the contents and he sets himself up with an Ikea catalogue-style place. Near me, he sees me more often and he’s able to enjoy what he describes as ‘the carnival atmosphere’ of where I live. We go for walks, to the cinema, sometimes to concerts – old Bollywood song evenings where we sit on cushions, sip red wine and listen to the songs of Dad’s for ever ago. He tells me stories about Mum. I tell him stories about Aziz, ones he has never heard.

My news channels become just that, news channels. I close my Facebook account and sign up for a new email address. Before I delete my Facebook account, I do a search for my name and find a third Kitab Balasubramanyam. His avatar is a photo of his torso. We’re growing in legion. I’m not so much a ‘me’ anymore. Time for me to leave. I click delete.

I open the fridge, trying to make a cheese and something sandwich. I notice there are no chutneys. Just a jar of Branston pickle. Perfect, I mouth to myself.

Hayley spends a lot of time at my flat. She doesn’t like her flatmates much. A collection of different herbal teas comes with her, filling one of my cupboards up with box after box.

One afternoon, Dad is over and I’m showing him how to make roast potatoes. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking beers and he looks at me.

‘How is the second novel coming?’ he asks.

I tell him all about it. I talk him through the plot. He asks questions, I make up answers to disguise the fact I haven’t thought of that yet. He gets me to define my audience. He laughs at the right bits, he gasps at others.

We talk for 30 minutes about the book and during a natural lull he puts his elbows on the table. ‘I’d like to see those books, the ones you and Aziz wrote,’ he says. ‘It would be nice to read my 2 sons’ adventures.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sure.’ I go and get them. We spend the rest of the evening acting out the stories in Aziz’s voice and gestures, remembering how he relayed details with his entire body. It feels good to talk about him like he’s not there anymore.

As we remember him, he feels more alive to me than he has done in years.

I’m walking down the high street and a car passes, music blaring. It stands out because it’s not grime or hip-hop like it usually is in this area. It’s a song from the 80s. It’s by Elvis Costello. It sparks a memory. Aziz and I are riding bikes through my old neighbourhood. The roads are empty because it’s the middle of the day. The sun is shining and I’m wearing a t-shirt with Shaquille O’Neal on it. Aziz is wearing a Clash t-shirt Dad hates. Because they’re loud and obnoxious, according to him. And probably have lots of tattoos.

He’s going faster and faster and encouraging me to keep up. I feign a lack of fitness but it’s because I’m scared of speed. Aziz lifts his hands off the handlebars to the sky. He is graceful and in command of that bike. He is practically flying. He turns round to me and I’m close enough to see him wink. He steadies himself and then brakes suddenly swinging the bike round to face me. He starts bellowing at the top of his voice, semi in tune, I join him when I know the words. It’s our favourite song, a tape we found amongst Mum’s things, ‘Shipbuilding’ by Elvis Costello recorded over and over again on one side of a blank C-90 tape … both Aziz and me, with all the will in the world,