Tom Houghton (32 page)

‘Yeah, that's it!' one of the boys shouted. ‘Again!'

Spencer stood over me then, straddling me, bringing that same clenched fist to connect with my right cheek, my left eye, my ribs. I lay there motionless, stubborn. I would not fight back, nor struggle.

I felt someone kick hard into my legs. The concrete beneath my head was cold and rock hard, bruising my scalp. The silver of my outfit was tearing at the seams, exposing my naked flesh. I heard laughing; Simon Harlen's distinctive laugh. Someone was pulling the material free from my waist, exposing my genitals. Spencer was off me now, panting, his fist bloodied, his right arm still hanging limp inside its sling. He walked out of the room, shoulders slumped.

I still could not move, didn't dare. Play dead, that was it, the only way out. I was conscious of my exposure, mortified. I was aflame with humiliation, it crawled its way over my skin and bubbled away, melting flesh. My whole face felt tight, explosive. An ache, a shooting pain, stabbed deep inside my head. There was the taste of blood in my throat, salt-rust, thick and dirty. Fitz's shoes walking towards the door, out into the yellow light of day. Moisture now. Warm liquid, the stench of ammonia. The pattering of falling spray, soaking my groin, its warmth soothing, encouraging my own bladder to finally let go.

Now I was alone and everything was so quiet I thought I might be at the bottom of a lake. Cool, dark, but difficult to breathe.

I
don't know how long I was lying on that cold hard floor, wet and stinking, battered and bruised. There was a possibility it had been hours, days even. I wanted to cry but refused to allow myself. I was deeply ashamed, but that felt barely adequate. I do not know of a word that truly captures the intensity of my shame. I felt completely desolate at the lost hours of work put in by Mrs B, as though I had abused her generosity. I wanted to be in that boat again with Mal, to reach over to him and place my hand in his and tell him of my fears, to answer that lingering question of his.
Yes, there is something I have to tell you, Mal, yes, please listen to what I have to say. I trust you, Mal, I love you enough to tell you who I really am
. And then he would put his arms around me and his strong chest would provide the cushion for my tears.

I wanted my existence to have never happened in the first place.

It hurt to move, but slowly, painstakingly, I brought myself to an upright position. I looked down at the folds of jelly covering my stomach. I loathed them. I could never be like Mal, would never be attractive to anyone. I was not like Harlen or Fitz or even Spencer, I was
other
, and always would be. There was no escape. There was nothing.

A large slit had been torn in the crotch of my outfit; an arm of it was hanging by a few threads. I saw one of the antennae some metres away, like a stray cockroach leg. The room spun as I carefully forced myself onto all fours. Vomit rose in the back of my throat but I swallowed it back down. I spat some blood from my mouth, tuna flesh red. I winced as I stood, steadying myself against the corrugated metal of the roller door. I'd never felt such pain, never imagined my body could be under such duress. My head continued to thump.
You deserved this. You deserved this.

It was difficult to walk but I managed to make it to the side door, fearful the boys would be out there waiting to have another go at me, perhaps sharing a post-bashing cigarette and laughing at how easily beaten I was. But the Michaelses' yard was a barren landscape with its dead grass and empty garden beds. I stumbled down the slope of the lawn, almost fell. The sun was bright but low, making it difficult to see. The Michaelses had an ancient clothesline – a wooden post either side of the yard, each crossed with T-bars, six lines of metal stretched tightly from one to the other. I did not see it, and the tilt of the T-bars made the lowest wire connect with my neck, pushing my head back to make it jolt again with pain. I almost fell, reached for the silhouetted line, pulled down on it hard and hung there for a moment like a caught fish. Another deep breath and I carried on. The sensation of the wire on my neck was liberating.

The walk back to my house was a marathon. I wove like an actor playing drunk, stumbled regularly but unpredictably. Younger kids pointed and laughed at me. I tried to cover my modesty with my cape, but it too seemed to be torn. I thought how surreal the scene was even as I lived it, appreciated that my vision was blurry, wondered when the director was going to call ‘Cut!' Grace Kelly dead on impact. James Dean decapitated in his sports car. Thomas Houghton Hepburn hanging from the rafters.

The house was empty. So my mother had managed to drag herself out of bed for something, or someone, other than me. But for once I was thankful. I did everything in my power to ignore the pain, pretended my body was not crying out its objections to my every move. I walked into my bedroom, found it almost impossible to bend down, but somehow managed to reach under my bed for the shoeboxes containing the movie cards. Each felt incredibly heavy. I took the boxes, one by one, into the garage. It took me an eternity to get the task done. I found myself back in my bedroom then, pulling the pathetic dolls from under my bed. I dumped them on top of the pile of movie cards, all out of order, such chaos and beauty. I found my grandfather's kerosene, knew where the matches were kept. There were flames and smoke within seconds, the liquid fire ran with the fuel I had carelessly poured. It did not take long for the dolls' clothes to ignite, their skin melting like wax. I stood there watching, transfixed. A funeral pyre. The cards folded in upon themselves, springing to life with blue-yellow flames, then simply faded to black. I caught glimpses of actors' names before they disappeared, photographs I'd clipped from magazines, all the perfect squares. I knew I should feel a sense of loss, or waste, so many hours spent creating them, so much fastidiousness. But instead I felt a bizarre sense of cleansing, as though I was free of invisible shackles. The fire was small and soon burned itself out against the cement floor. Charred cardboard pieces floated dramatically about the garage.

Behind me, I sensed grey light. The image of Katharine Hepburn freeze-framed on the television was aglow, paused in time. How long would she remain like this, captured by me, the immortal moth?
It's okay, Katharine, I was never good enough to be him.

The rope was coiled neatly, saddling the corner where two rafters met. I slid the shaky stepladder in place beneath the rope. I worked deftly; my hands made decisions for me. I was thinking nothing other than how to complete the task at hand, concentrating on efficiency. The pain stabbed away at me internally, my head was throbbing an unfamiliar rhythm. Everything felt heavier, unclear. I had never tied a rope properly before, did not know how to fashion a noose. I pulled one end of exposed rope and the coil unravelled smoothly. I fastened it about halfway along the thickest rafter overhead. It hurt to lift my arms above my head but this was inconsequential. I tied the end of the rope through a loop, wound it around again and again on the rafter. I pulled down on it, tested it against some of my own weight. It creaked disapprovingly but I was confident it would hold me. I was high on the top step of the ladder, my head pressed against the grain of the wooden rafter. I saw for the first time from this angle the countless boxes and bags of my grandfather's possessions and I realised finally that it would have been a never-ending task removing all traces of the dead man, making this space my own.

My thoughts then turned to Thomas Houghton Hepburn. A boy forsaken, lost and lonely. I wanted to be with him. I needed to see him, to touch him. We were one and the same.

The rope prickled against my skin when I tied it around my neck. It was thick like a snake, ready to constrict. I tied it two more times, and the knots hung heavily on my chest. My pulse was racing, a thrill coursed through me.
Not long now, Tom. Not long.

The garage was no longer. I was in a New York loft; the furniture was of another age. There was a dull sense of foreboding, regret, but I pushed through. My sister is downstairs and I love her more than anything. We are a formidable duo, with the secrets we keep hidden from our parents. I feel some guilt that I am leaving her behind to face the world, but she is bold and confident and she will be much better off without me here to weigh her down, damage her, as I ultimately will. I realise now I am setting us both free. I am edging towards the open air, ever closer. I squeeze my eyes closed more tightly and I step into the unknown, away from the familiar.

It was stupid of me to think that it would be instant. There was no bullet to burst apart my consciousness. The rope's hands clasped tightly around my neck and did not relent, but they could have been tighter. It felt as though I was still able to breathe, but the ability was reduced, only a fraction of my windpipe could expand for my breaths. I shifted my head to a different angle and the hands gripped tighter still. The weight of me was dead now, impossible for me to turn back. I forced my weight further down still. My face was heating up, my eyes were bulging towards a new level of pain.

Fade out.

T
he last person I expected to see in the dining room of the hotel was Victor. I suspected he was here to nurse me through yet another of my hangovers, fill me in on some of the sketchier details so I at least knew whether an apology was necessary, and to whom to make one. But the way he marched told me things would be different this particular morning.

He plonked himself down heavily in the seat across from me and waved the waitress away impatiently.

‘You've really fucking done it this time,' he spat at me.

‘Oh god, please don't have a go at me, not now, Victor, I'm barely holding back the vomit as it is.'

He was sweaty despite the snow outside, dark circles rimmed his eyes. ‘I've fucking had it. I've had you.'

‘It was a little fondle,' I said defensively, unsure why he felt the need to throw it all out of proportion.

‘Why should I be surprised? You think that's it? Another fucking blackout? You've got a real problem, Tom, did you ever think about that? You're gonna end up like Lana, you do realise?'

That blow struck hard and I froze as if winded.

‘Wanking Eddie off at the table in front of Grace wasn't exactly the high point of the evening but it certainly wasn't the lowest either, you fucking selfish cunt. Doing a back door runner without paying, leaving your
boyfriend
alone with us, people he barely knew, after all those hurtful, truly gutless things you said about him. What leads you to behave like that? Who the fuck do you think you are that you can do that to other people and then just wake up the next morning and get out of it by being cute and regretful?'

‘Victor, please, I'm sorry, what more can I say?'

‘You don't even remember, do you?'

I looked at him and felt like crying. The heavy breakfast had done nothing to lessen my nausea but what really scared me was I longed for nothing more at that second than a drink. I didn't know what to say to him; I had no idea what he was talking about.

‘You went back to the bar, Tom.'

‘What bar?'

‘Jesus fucking Christ, the one where my producers were. I took you away from them because you were showing all your tell-tale signs and I thought,
No, not this time, I'm not going to let it happen
. So Grace and I dragged you away with Eddie and then you just went right back there without me.'

‘Jesus, Victor, what did I do?'

‘I jeopardised my entire reputation bringing you here, Tom. I knew it was a fucking risk but I thought you would take this and make a go of it. You owe me more than a few paycheques, mate, and now you've fucked me with a fucking barge pole and I can never forgive you.'

‘Get to the fucking point, Victor.' I grasped my head with the pain of raising my voice.