Читать книгу Three Steps Behind You - Amy Bird - Страница 15

Chapter 3

As I ride the bus home, I wish I’d been able to tell Adam about book three. I may read it again later, for my own enjoyment, but I don’t intend to share it with anyone. It’s not that I question its brilliance, rather that they wouldn’t understand – wouldn’t understand how necessary the character progression was. Some of it, they would even call brutal. Perhaps parts of it were a little forced. And some of it, they would call sheer coincidence, or a windfall. But in the moment, the characters had to seize their opportunity and could not have acted differently. That’s the real test.

I get off the bus one stop early and run home. That’s the sort of thing Luke might do. He’s quite fit, you see, and I’m not – yet. I want him to start running in the novel, when he gets agitated about what he’s doing.

Luke went for another of his runs, past her house, hoping she would be in, that he could make an excuse and ring the doorbell. He ran holding a bouquet of roses, the thorns digging into his hands, but he did not feel the pain; it was nothing to his love for her.

I map out the paragraph in my head. Too bad there are no roses round here. The pollution from the road has killed off every flower, turned every house grey. Somehow it even seems to have turned the curtains inside the houses grey. As I jog along, I see only houses that either are boarded up or should be. And then I’m back at my own half-house, an ‘a’ to someone else’s ‘b’. ‘A’ is for Adam, though, so I struck lucky there. There are some drawing pins at home, I’m pretty sure. They will do for a start.

In my bedroom I take one of the pins out of the noticeboard. It’s holding up a school picture, one I particularly like: there’s me in my little shorts, standing next to Adam. We were inseparable at school. I was always there, by his side. He used to joke about that, when we were older. ‘Oh, it’s my shadow, Desperate Dan,’ he’d say, and everyone would laugh. He’d cuff me round the head affectionately to show it was a joke, and everyone would laugh some more. Popular, Adam was, and it was good of him to allow me to share in his charismatic glory. One time, I’d popped round to his house just as he was heading out – the rest of the gang were already there. He looked surprised to see me, but his mum insisted that I go out with them too, and so he invited me along. Sure, we both would rather have been alone together, but what can you do? People will always interfere, if you let them. Like Helen, when she came along.

The pin is rather sharper than I’d imagined it to be. And it looks a little rusty. I click the gas ignition on the hob and hold the pin over the flames, watching how they engulf it. The orange is so rich yet so translucent. I can’t believe it would hurt me if I just – ah!

I dart my fingers away, almost losing grip of the pin. But I hold it firm. I have to feel Luke’s pain; I have to know how to block it out, like he does, with the rose-thorn.

Turning off the hob, I retire to the sofa. I take the pin between finger and thumb, and press it into my skin. I don’t go very deep the first time, just leaving an indentation. Blood, there needs to be blood – otherwise how can I know what it feels like, the blood dripping round the thorn? I press a little deeper. Ow! That hurts. And only a miserable little pin-prick. I need to distract myself somehow, while I do it.

I pick up the phone and dial.

She answers.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘Hi, Nickie’ – that’s what Luke would do, shorten his beloved’s name – ‘it’s Dan.’

I dig the pin into my leg. Blood starts to appear under the surface.

There is a sigh from Nicole.

‘Hi, Dan; I’ll get Adam.’

‘Actually, Nickie, it’s you I want to speak to.’ I dig the pin deeper. Blood breaks the skin.

‘Oh!’ says Nicole.

Silence, as I continue to remove the pin, then drive it in again. I can imagine her there, in the bedroom, darkness, semi-dressed, wondering when this will end.

‘What do you want?’ asks Nicole, her voice tight.

‘Just to thank you, for this evening.’ Pin in, pin out, more blood. Mustn’t cry out. ‘And to say I’m really sorry about the wine.’

Nicole seems to relax a bit, getting used to me. Like Helen did, before the end.

‘Oh, that’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.’

‘Well, I hope you can clean up the blood.’ Shit. ‘I mean, the wine, the risotto, I hope you can clean it up.’

There is silence on the other end of the line.

Then, ‘Dan, if you’ve something to say, just say it.’

I stay silent. Make her wait.

‘Nickie?’

‘Yes?’

‘See you soon.’

She hangs up before I do, leaving me to examine the pinboard of my leg. I’ve done quite well, considering. And it doesn’t feel so bad. Only like some little ants, making pin-prick bites at your flesh. Attracted to blood, ants are. So I’ve heard. Unfortunately the sofa has suffered for my art, covered in tiny flowering buds of red. I’ll need to wash it. I pull the once-cream throw off the sofa, and drag it to the shower with me.

There’s a scene in the book when Luke is in real need of a shower. He’s been attending to his dinner date. I haven’t quite worked out the climax of the novel yet, but I think the scene is around that point. Luke likes his showers hot, to scrub everything away. Too bad the water in my shower is like ice. I’ll have to do that research elsewhere.

I come out of the shower shrunken and cold. That’s what a numb lobster would feel like, I guess. Their legs still move a little after you make the first incision, even when you take them out of the freezer. Slowly, pedalling through the air. The lady on Google says they feel no pain then, though, that this is perfectly normal. People believe what helps them, I guess.

Still shivering, I dry myself quickly and climb into bed. I will treat myself, I decide. Leaning over the bed, I pull out my secret stash. Some people would keep porn under their bed, I suppose. Lots of women with unattractively large bosoms, like Helen had – maybe that’s what she used to force Adam away from me. I bet Nicole keeps old theatre programmes under her bed (their bed) to remind her of when she was adored. Instead, I unlock the real book three from its chest. Yes, this is perfect bedtime reading. I smooth my hands over the handwritten pages, remembering, the excitement I felt when I wrote it, of that earlier closeness. And how happy I was for Helen to have the star turn, in the end.