Читать книгу Black Boxes - Caroline Smailes, Darren Craske - Страница 7

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Bedroom. Ana's first floor flat in a Victorian house near the coast of Tynemouth. The room contains a wardrobe, a bed and a bedside table. The walls are red. The duvet cover is red. On the bedside table there is an empty glass and an open pair of scissors. Next to the empty glass there are two white rectangular boxes. One of them once contained sleeping tablets. The other once contained painkillers.

~Are you still there?~

You've ruined the end.

Now I know what's going to happen.

The plot has you coming back to kill me.

A twist in the narrative.

[five second silence]

I had cast you in the role of handsome prince.

How strange that you should turn out to be my killer.

But that's an end.

And now I need to find a beginning.

~Are you there?~

~Will you listen?~

~Do you remember?~

I am remembering when we were courting.

It was always cold.

I'm thinking back to when you wrapped your arm around me as we walked along Tynemouth beach.

I remember you folding me into you.

The image is practically cinematic.

~Do you remember?~

[five second silence]

We wore matching scarves.

I had knitted them and they had holes where I had dropped stitches.

You had laughed at my fumbling attempt.

[sound: a throaty laugh]

I had dropped many stitches.

But you said that you loved them.

~Didn't you?~

That they were perfectly us.

~Do you remember?~

The scarves wrapped around us.

They bound us together.

You could climb up your scarf to mine.

~Do you remember?~

And then you found that knobbly washed-up stick.

And you wrote our names in the sand in those huge perfectly straight lines.

And those lines stood together and made the flawlessly straight letters of our names.

ALEX+ANA.

You said that our names and our lives and everything that we would ever choose to do would be straight.

And I thought that you liked that.

[sound: sniff sniff]

I thought that the neatness and the organisation and the perfectly horizontalness.

Well I thought that you liked that.

[volume: high]

No kinks and no bends.

A perfectly straight route from here to there.

From there to here.

To nowhere else.

And on that day when you wrote our two names into the sand.

Well I didn't realise that one day.

When you wanted.

That you'd wash away the +ANA that was joined to the ALEX.

[sound: sobbing]

[silence]

But your name would never go away.

It grew fainter, but it is still there.

I still see it there.

I can still see ALEX+ANA.

[sound: throat clearing]

You started a new life.

ALEX+SUE.

But I can't write another name.

There are no other names that are perfectly straight and perfectly able to cover ALEX.

[silence]

But you went off.

And you found that new name.

And it had curves in it because you had decided that you preferred curves.

The lines no longer needed to be straight.

You adapted.

You accepted.

You left me here.

You left me.

Trapped.

[silence]

My room is a box.

A black box.

A sometimes ruby red box.

~Is that confusing?~

You trapped me in here.

[voiced: unrecognisable word]

[volume: low]

I have a front.

I have a back.

They are my window and my door.

My door takes me to my children.

My door keeps me from your Pip and my Davie.

Our two children.

~They are your children too.~

~But you know that they are your children too!~

~Am I trying to be too clever?~

The view from my window is ever changing.

I see the sand.

I see the sea.

And that image is my painting mounted in a chipped red window frame.

A sometimes black window frame.

A perfect square.

A perfect painting.

A painting that holds the memories of you and me.

We met as students.

~I know that you remember that.~

We lived in the same halls.

On the same corridor.

And we met in the first week.

You were so quiet.

All the girls wanted to know you.

To know what made you tick.

You were different.

You carried books around with you.

And you read those books.

You had a guitar.

And you could play your guitar.

Your friends were all girls.

You preferred female company.

And although girls flashed their breasts at you and although girls flicked their flowing hair and offered themselves to you.

You never accepted.

You had integrity.

It covered you in a bubble.

It protected you.

~When did it pop?~

~When did the bubble burst?~

~Was it when you selected that girl from that magazine and trimmed her flawless edge?~

I love(d) you.

I used to watch you playing your guitar in the common room.

And I love(d) you.

~Did you realise then?~

We were friends before we were anything else.

We were friends that became something else.

[silence]

But not until our second year

I was chair of the Poetry Society.

You'd come along to listen.

~Did you realise that they were all about you?~

You used to listen.

You never clapped.

And then afterwards you'd always want to walk me home.

Sometimes you'd hold my hand.

And we'd walk in silence.

Words didn't carry meaning for you.

~How many hours did we spend together?~

~How many hours passed in silence?~

And I always preferred your place to mine.

You lived alone.

You preferred it that way.

You liked your own space.

One room—bedroom/lounge/kitchen.

And then a door to your grubby toilet.

Your furniture was shabby.

Your toilet was always grubby.

~No it was filthy!~

But in the corner, just beside the sunken brown armchair.

Your guitar rested against the wall.

But the guitar would wait, as you mixed, rolled and twisted the end of your joint.

Then you'd balance the smooth roll of paper onto your lip and you'd strum.

And you'd sing your sad sad songs.

And the lyrics wouldn't connect with me and with us.

They were of places and experiences that we'd never shared.

But I wanted to recognise myself within your words.

I wanted to hear you recount experiences that we'd shared.

To be singing about a depth of emotion that you had suffered because of me.

And that's why I kept coming back.

~You didn't realise did you?~

I wanted to make you feel something in the hope that you would commemorate me in your words.

Like you had for the Indian Girl.

That you would give me a purpose in being.

Because you stirred me when you sang and you strummed.

You turned something on within me.

You made me want the performer in you.

And I'd wish that you'd sing and strum something that would make my insides explode.

A song to communicate the words that you never spoke to me.

[sound: humming of an unrecognisable tune]

That was before we ever kissed.

I used to think that first kiss was an afterthought.

A something that you never really meant to happen.

That we'd travelled as far as our friendship could go.

And that the only possible next step was a kiss.

A kiss that should never have been.

[five second silence]

But it did.

And we did.

And then Pip did.

And once when I questioned why you sang such sad sad songs about places and times and happenings that I never understood.

You said, I sing them because I like them.

And that, the words don't matter.

That, it's about the way things join together.

How they loop.

How the syllables become beats.

How the beats have to fit.

It was a timing thing with you.

It was a red thing with me.

The view from here is red.

[sound: humming of same now vaguely recognisable tune]

I had short hair when we met.

~Do you remember?~

I spiked it with cheap gel.

That was then.

Now my hair grows long.

If you call out at my window, I will let my hair fall down to you.

I must remember to blink.

My eyes are dry as I stare out of my window.

Red eyes.

I want to dip my fingernails into my eyes and I want to scratch and scratch and scratch my itch.

But I don't.

But I can't.

[sound: fingertips tapping surface]

A memory may flake off and stick under my nail.

And I won't be able to put it back into my eye.

And then I will forget.

And I can't let that happen.

My memories are all that I have.

[sound: sobbing]

So I look out of my window.

[ten second silence]

And I look onto the sand and I don't blink.

And if I stare and stare and stare through the pain.

Then I can see our names.

I see.

ALEX+ANA.

Then I lie flat.

[sound: a body flopping back onto bed]

My back stuck to my red duvet.

My arms and legs a perfectly straight X.

I open myself.

I open all of myself.

Waiting for you to re-enter into my picture.

I know that you'll return.

~Are you there?~

~Can you hear me?~

You're waiting for me to die.

~Are you there?~

You're waiting to see if you've killed me.

[silence]

I am trapped.

I will not leave this black square box.

[sound: pinging of a filament in a light bulb]

When we were students you liked to sing.

I liked to sing too.

You once told me that I had a sweet voice.

~Did you once say that?

I'm not too sure that you did.

I remember one day.

I couldn't tolerate hearing the same sad song over and over.

About the same Indian Girl.

And how she had broken your heart.

So I asked you why you didn't write a new song.

Something about the two of us.

We'd been together for over a year.

~And do you remember what you said to me?~

You said, I can't write about you.

You laughed when you said that.

And you said, the Indian Girl is the only girl that I have ever loved.

That, nothing could compare to her.

I never asked her name.

~Would you even have told me?~

[sound: glass smashing]

[two second silence]

From the beginning we had problems.

Sexual.

~I know that the topic makes you uncomfortable, but I want to talk about it.~

I have to talk about this now.

There won't be another time.

~You've seen to that haven't you?~

We've never spoken about our sexual problems.

~Where to begin?~

You had a problem entering me.

With intimacy.

From the very beginning.

[sound: a loud sigh]

~Yes you did.~

Your erections were laughable.

And the story of our passion failed to have a beginning, middle and end.

~Do you understand what I mean by this?~

~I don't think that you do!~

You weren't erect or you were erect.

Nothing in between.

And it seemed to me that the level of your stiffness had nothing to do with me.

I wasn't involved.

It was an up and down kind of thing.

There was nothing that I could do.

And I tried.

I tried everything.

Everything.

I feel embarrassed.

[voiced: unrecognisable words]

[volume: low]

At what I allowed you to do to me.

~Do you even know that I tried?~

You'd blame the drugs.

You'd praise the drugs.

~Do you remember?~

I know that you're clean now.

That all stopped when I was pregnant.

Everything stopped when I was pregnant.

~But do you remember sex and your joints?~

~Do you remember the potion that they created together?~

The sparks that you lit.

~Do you remember how you could go on and on and on?~

And that there would be no middle.

And that there would be no end.

You would just stop.

Out of exhaustion.

~Or was it boredom?~

But for me it was pain.

~I've never told you this before.~

You see.

You never considered that you were hurting me.

That your constant pounding.

That your sweat-dripping performance hurt me inside.

You see.

I was too dry.

~Yes dry.~

[sound: cackle of laughter]

In all of the waiting and hoping for an erection and in all of the needing to instantly react the moment stiffness emerged.

Well there was no thought for me.

You didn't consider that I needed to be turned on.

That I needed my buttons to be flicked.

So you made my insides red.

And I longed for the end.

I longed for the fucking to finish.

And I would fake.

~You didn't realise that I faked?~

You thought that you were a God.

My moans and arched back were perfectly timed.

I told a story.

I made it all up.

You see.

You weren't a God.

Not in bed.

Not in our bed.

~Do you realise that you were really crap in bed?~

~Has Sue ever mentioned it to you?~

~Does she fake?~

~Are you sure that you could tell?~

You see.

A performance can be too perfect.

I used to wait for the applause.

[sound: sharp clap clap clap]

You should ask Sue if she fakes.

You were the worst of my eighteen.

Congratulations.

I've made you a certificate.

It's hanging in a shell-covered frame.

If I open my eyes.

And if I stare out from my black box, then I can see your framed certificate.

Suspended in the air.

Just above where the tide meets the shore.

[sound: thumping scrape of window frame on wood]

[silence]

~Do you know that I pleasure myself?~

It was a skill that I learned during our time together.

I'd work myself until the tips of my fingers became numb.

I used to think about you when I did it.

I don't now.

Not always.

[silence]

Noun: Masturbation.

The encouragement of one's own genitals.

Etymology: Latin origin.

Perhaps.

Manus being 'hand', and turbare to excite or stir up.

It entered English in the eighteenth century.

Possibly.

It's a nice word.

A nice strong stimulating word.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Red and white make pink.

The view is not pink.

The view from here is red.

Blink.

Blink.

[silence]

I can count on my right hand the number of times that I have seen your sperm.

Your spunk.

Your come.

I have never tasted it.

~Has Sue?~

[sound: a guttural laugh]

~Do you remember when I asked you if you love(d) me?~

We'd been together for about two years.

And I love(d) you.

I'd always love(d) you.

And I told you.

Over and over.

Sometimes I was overwhelmed with love for you and the words would burst out.

[voiced: [b] sound]

[volume: high]

Voiced bilabial plosive.

I used to be clever.

[voiced: [b] sound]

[volume: high]

Sometimes I was overwhelmed with love for you and the words would burst out.

[voiced: I love you]

[volume: high]

Without restraint.

Highly stressed syllables would gush out without warning.

And I'd hate myself every time that I told you.

Because the silence that came after my words.

The silence that floated from your lips.

It was heavy.

It crashed to the floor and echoed around the room.

And then one day.

Fuelled with vodka and lime.

I asked you if you love(d) me.

~And do you remember what you said?~

~Do you remember what you did?~

You laughed.

[sound: a guttural ho ho ho laugh]

You told me, I will never love you.

You told me, my heart is the size of a pea.

That, it is green and waiting to be mushy.

I never asked you again.

I love(d) you.

It was about that time.

After you described your pea-sized heart.

That was the time when I stopped taking the contraceptive pill.

~I know that I never told you.~

~There didn't seem a point in telling you.~

I stopped taking it because you never came inside me.

You were never capable of coming inside me.

~And how could I talk to you about that?~

I think that was the reason.

[silence]

I have a favour to ask.

If you can hear me.

~Can you hear me?~

It's for the next time that you come here.

And the time after that.

And the time after that.

~Can you bring me a strand of silk?~

I read somewhere that it should be silk.

And I'm supposed to weave it all together and make a ladder.

Perhaps it'd be easier if you just brought a ladder.

~Can you bring a really tall ladder?~

We can use it to climb from my window when we leave to live happily ever after.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Some memories have holes in them.

Where I have blinked too quickly.

[voiced: blink blink]

[volume: low]

~Ob please stop going on!~

~I stopped taking the pill.~

~And I never told you.~

~It really isn't worth this fuss!~

Everything was going fine between us.

It was fine.

~I wasn't trying to trap you.~

~I know that's what you're thinking!~

~But I wasn't.~

At least I don't think that I was.

Holes.

I have white holes in the memories where my eyelashes have ripped the surface.

[silence]

I really must stop blinking.

[sound: humming, unrecognisable tune]

You didn't love me.

But I love(d) you.

It was simple.

Too simple.

I learned to live with it.

~No that's not true.~

I live(d) in the hope that it would change.

That your pea-sized heart would expand.

And that it would become mushy because of me.

And that all of this would happen before it was too late.

That love for me would grow from your mushy heart.

That it would grow and grow.

Kind of like a leaf.

~Do peas have leaves?~

I can't remember.

[sound: undetectable objects thumping to the floor]

And then it happened.

~You know what I am talking about.~

Perhaps you have forgotten the timing.

The placing.

The implications.

But you must remember.

It shocked us both.

I was in the second year of my PhD, studying the etymology of contemporary slang.

You were in the second year of your PhD in genetic engineering.

We'd been together for three years.

We both had paid teaching hours at the university.

We both had funding.

Money wasn't a problem.

We worked in different faculties.

We lived separately.

We saw each other a few times each week.

We had spare time.

I had days where I never spoke to you.

There was nothing wrong with our relationship.

We were plodding along.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

And then one day you came inside me.

[silence]

You ejaculated during sexual intercourse.

The words roll from my tongue.

It was quick.

You were quick.

~Do you remember?~

It shocked you.

It shocked me.

I asked you if it had happened.

I asked, did you?

And you nodded.

[sound: a laugh]

I could tell that you were shocked.

You couldn't find the words.

And I have never told you just how much your sperm excited me.

I have thought about it so many times after that day.

I have thought about it when I was alone.

When I needed a release.

~Yes I mean an orgasm!~

~Of course women need that kind of thing!~

And that thought made a trail of discharge onto my knickers.

I'd push my fingers down and over my soft hair.

I'd push my fingers inside me.

Until they were covered in my own juices.

And then that wetness made it easier for my fingers to work their movements.

And then I'd rub my clitoris.

To stimulate me.

Till I reached my climax.

And afterwards I would lick, suck and taste.

Hoping to experience your sperm.

[sound: sucking]

It's a natural thing.

Female masturbation.

It's a normal sexual act.

Sexual normality.

~What is it to be sexually normal?~

My lines are blurred.

I figure that normality would fall within the centre of your line.

~Is that right?~

And that the line should be Etchasketch straight.

~Is that right?~

~But what is the scale from there to there?~

~And what acts must I pass through from there to there?~

I don't have a ruler.

~How can I pinpoint the exact centre?~

I fear that my estimation may be slightly off.

~Should I use my fingers?~

[sound: unrecognisable sounds, possibly groans]

I had thirty-six hours.

I could have taken the morning-after pill.

I knew where to go and what to say.

The surgery on campus was always well stocked.

I could have gone.

Taken the pill.

Felt nauseous.

Probably thrown up.

And you'd never have known.

You'd probably not even have noticed.

But I didn't go.

i didn't think that there was a need.

I didn't think.

~I did think.~

I didn't think.

~I did think.~

I didn't think. I don't know.

[sound: banging wardrobe door]

~Oh stop shouting!~

~Stop the noise!~

Your voice is too loud.

You're making me blink.

Blink.

Blink.

[sound: humming of an unrecognisable tune]

Your constant questioning is ruining my memory.

~What do you mean?~

I don't know what I was trying to achieve.

There wasn't a goal.

I dislike the word goal.

I'd be happier with aim.

Ambition.

Target.

Aspiration.

Goal carries connotations of sporting achievement.

Our intercourse was hardly award winning.

[sound: laugh to snort]

I didn't think.

Really I didn't.

[sound: laugh to snort]

I didn't think that there was a need.

I mean I remember knowing that I had thirty-six hours.

I remember thinking of hours.

And waiting for those hours to pass.

I could have taken the morning-after pill.

Perhaps I should have taken the morning-after pill.

~I didn't think.~

I did think.

~I didn't think.~

I did think.

~I didn't think.~

I don't know.

I don't know.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

Ok. Ok.

~I did think!~

[silence]

There was a moment.

It came like a wave.

I saw it coming.

And I began to think.

My mind began to wander into a future.

Into our future. And I liked what I saw.

And so I rode.

I jumped in.

I allowed nature to decide.

It wasn't my decision.

~It was out of my hands.~

What would be would be.

[silence]

Que sera sera.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

~Don't be angry.~

~It's too late to be angry!~

I'm only telling you now because this is my last chance.

You see.

I thought that it would be a sign.

A measure of what was meant to be.

I thought that if it was what we needed.

If a greater being had decided that it was what was needed to be.

You know.

To make us be together.

Forever.

Then it would be.

I was putting it in the hands of a greater being.

It was out of my control.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

You see.

I love(d) you.

And I wasn't trying to trap you.

And I didn't want it to happen.

Want.

Verb + object.

Want a baby.

[silence]

Even if I had wanted.

I couldn't have planned.

[sound: a hoarse laugh]

Verb: To plan.

Etymology: French perhaps.

To map.

To scheme.

To arrange.

To plot.

I couldn't have planned for it to happen.

I've already said.

I can count the times on my right hand.

One.

Two.

Three.

I couldn't have planned it.

You had a problem with ejaculation.

~Is that clear enough for you?~

Ejaculation.

It's kind of a pretty sounding word.

~Don't you think?~

[sound: a guttural laugh]

[silence]

Verb: Ejaculate.

To eject words or sperm.

Not sperm.

Let me be proper.

Semen.

Spunk.

To release words.

To exclaim.

Noun: The thing that has been ejaculated.

The words or the spunky semen.

Etymology: of Latin origin.

Perhaps. Ex/e being from or out.

And iaculari, to throw.

I think.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

It's a fine word.

It's a kind of pretty sounding word.

It's a letting it all come out kind of word.

~Am I making you uncomfortable?~

[sound: creak of a wardrobe door]

But when it happened.

~When you ejaculated into me.~

Well I had hope.

I had hope that we would begin a happily ever after.

[silence]

You won't know that I counted down the days till my period was due.

Of course you wouldn't know that.

You see.

I was existing in a haze.

In an exciting blur.

I was distracted.

I was often silent.

~I know that you didn't notice.~

You never seemed to notice the signals that I sent to you.

Signals.

That implies a discreet code or gesture.

But even my boom boom booming signals weren't enough.

Boom.

Boom boom.

Boom.

Boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

[voiced: boom boom boom]

[volume: I high I low]

My period was due on 22nd March.

~How do I know?~

I remember.

It was three days before my twenty-third birthday.

You were still twenty-two.

For another three months.

And you hated that I was older than you.

You said,it isn't right.

~Do you remember what you said?~

You said,the man should be older than the woman.

You said,my father was older than my mother.

You said,my grandfather was older than my grandmother.

You said,that's why I know that we aren't meant to be.

And you said,that's why we aren't quite right together.

~Yes you did!~

~I remember your words.~

You told me that if God had intended for woman to be older than man.

Then he would have created Eve before Adam.

You liked that Eve was an appendage.

An afterthought.

It fitted.

It fitted with how you saw women.

An afterthought sent to lure and corrupt.

But I was older than you.

And that's why I didn't quite fit.

That's why you didn't quite slot into me.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Sue is younger than you.

~Of course she is.~

The tart is always younger.

Never older.

But she plays the role of the witch within this twisted tale.

Let's call her Frau Gothel from now on.

~I know that's not right.~

I know that Frau Gothel should be older than me.

But this is my narrative.

And I get to cast the roles.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Sue's six years younger than me.

~I remember.~

When she was eighteen she'd had a baby.

She'd had Lucy when she was eighteen years old.

~I did the maths.~

~I used to be clever!~

It was an easy sum.

It was an easy analysis.

You left me for a tart.

~Don't you think that tart is a fine word?~

It's light and sticky and sweet.

Not really an insult.

Now slag.

Slut.

Whore.

Witch.

Now if I called Sue any of those four words.

Then you could be insulted.

Then you'd have grounds to be insulted.

But I haven't.

~Or have I?~

I can't remember.

[sound: water sloshing]

Tart.

Tartish.

~Is that an adjective?~

Tartishly.

~Is there such an adverb?~

A tart.

Noun: A pie.

A cake.

A topless sweet thing that you cover with your sweetness.

That you ejaculate onto.

Noun: A prostitute.

An immoral woman.

A wanton slag.

Sue.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

I didn't tell you about the countdown.

The countdown to the date that I expected to be inserting tampons and cradling my cramping stomach.

Expected.

That's a strange word.

It doesn't quite slot into the memory.

It jars.

It sticks out.

You see I didn't expect.

That's the whole point.

I didn't expect to see my period.

I knew.

I knew that I was pregnant.

~Or have I simply manipulated my memory into believing that I knew?~

[voiced: blink blink]

[volume: low]

The countdown to my period lasted for twelve days.

My cycle was regular.

Twelve days from ejaculation to expected blood.

Like the twelve days of Christmas.

~That's a song isn't it?~

You'd know the words.

I can't remember them all.

Just the five gold rings bit.

The words are slow and operatic.

[voiced: sings operatically five gold rings]

[volume: high]

Five golden rings.

Or five gold rings.

It makes a difference.

The gold or the golden.

Adjective: gold makes me assume that the rings are indeed made of gold.

Adjective: golden suggests a matter coloured gold, perhaps containing gold, but not necessarily being gold.

There's a difference.

A subtle yet noteworthy difference.

[sound: a loud sigh]

You should use five golden rings.

One for me.

One for Frau Gothel Sue.

And one for the next.

And one for the next after the next.

And one for the next after the next after the next.

They'd be flimsy and able to be snapped.

Nothing ever lasts.

Not for forever.

It just seems to go around and around and around on the spot.

A ring.

A circle.

The ending and the beginning are one.

Moulded together.

I was due my period on a Friday.

~Yes I remember everything.~

You see I was in Newcastle that day.

I was buying my birthday present from you.

You'd given me twenty pounds to spend.

Twenty pound coins.

I was to buy something appropriate from you to me.

Because I was difficult.

Your word, not mine.

I think that you meant difficult to buy for.

And you said, I am too busy.

You were too busy with your PhD and your university hours.

Too busy.

Busy.

Busy.

Busy.

I was difficult~…~

Elliptical construction noted.

Yet not fully understood.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Adjective: Difficult.

Needing much planning.

Full of problems.

Trouble.

Noun: Ana.

Hard to tolerate.

Hard to comprehend.

Hard to unravel.

Hard to answer.

Hard to deal with.

Hard to fulfil.

Hard to cope with.

Hard to control.

Hard to please.

Hard to satisfy.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Hard to convince.

Hard to persuade.

In considering what it is to be me.

I have become difficult.

Difficult has become Ana.

~Highlight or tick the ones that apply!~

~Do I fulfil one?~

~Do I fulfil two three four?~

~Do I fulfil all of the above?~

Perhaps now is the time to answer.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

The answer to my previous question should be written on a postcard.

You'll need a stamp.

Remember to lick the stamp.

With your tongue.

Address it to ANA.

Not ALEX+ANA.

ANA in the black box.

Owner of the first golden ring.

The one that turned to dust.

The once keeper of a golden ring.

Until it crumbled with the pressure of her fingertips.

My fingers.

[sound: fingers clicking]

~Am I being difficult?~

I wouldn't say that I was.

I'd say that I was being pedantic.

Or even that I was being finicky.

Finicky is a nice word.

That can go onto my list of fine words.

[sound: scratching]

I remember that I was wandering around the city centre.

Looking for something for me from you.

But I wasn't really focusing.

I wasn't really interested.

You see I was in a haze.

I was existing in that haze.

In an exciting blur.

~I know that I've said that already!~

I'm not brainless.

~Or am I?~

~When did it happen?~

~Did I become brainless with motherhood?~

~Or did I become brainless when I abandoned my PhD?~

Your twenty pound coins jingled in my jeans' pocket.

[sound: rattle of coins within a china container]

I bought a round chocolate fudge cake from Marks and Spencer.

And a bunch of yellow roses.

Yellow because you liked yellow.

Roses for love.

But not a single red rose of love.

A bunch of roses to show my love for you.

Not your love for me.

Because the thought that you'd ever love me was funny.

That was a funny joke.

~It still makes you laugh!~

[sound: a snort]

[sound: a high-pitched scream]

Yellow.

The rose was once a symbol.

~Once upon a time.~

A rose was once a thing of love and devotion.

Lovers communicate(d) with flowers.

Those flowers carry their own language.

Colours and tone and words.

The language of flowers whispered words of adoration to lovers across time.

[sound: a sigh]

The words that you whisper(ed) to me were in the agglutinative language of Punjabi.

The adoration was stamped on by the subject.

Then the object.

Then the verb.

[sound: stamp stamp stamp foot to floor]

Our words were always yellow.

Shopping.

I was shopping.

My memory is sort of poor.

Backwards forwards, then round and round.

Shopping for me.

From you.

Because I was difficult.

~Remember?~

And everything that I bought for me from you was from Marks and Spencer.

Because you liked fine things.

And they sold fine things.

And the twenty pound coins were almost gone.

The loose coins jingled in my jeans' pocket.

[sound: rattle of coins within a china container]

~I'm setting the scene.~

You were difficult to buy for.

~Yes I know that I was buying for me!~

But you were difficult to buy for, even when buying for me.

Your tastes were so precise.

So straight.

No creases.

No deviation.

Straight.

~Why am I telling you all of this?~

I'm setting the scene.

The scene: ANA shopping.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Then I think that I wandered into a chemist.

~No I didn't wander.~

I wouldn't have wandered.

I would have rushed.

I would have raced.

I would have been rapid.

I would not have wandered.

[sound: stomping footsteps on carpeted floor]

And I bought a test.

The Test.

The holder of knowledge.

The answerer of questions.

It was in a blue box.

I remember being shocked by the price.

But I can't recall the price.

~I think that it was over five pounds.~

~Maybe even six pounds!~

~Or was it seven?~

Funny how memory plays tricks.

~Not ha ha funny!~

~Obviously.~

Funny as in odd.

Strange.

Difficult.

It always comes back to difficult.

~Ok.~

~Ok!~

~I'll hurry the story along.~

The Test was positive.

I was pregnant.

[silence]

Pregnant.

A momentous moment and/or being with child.

I have adapted the language to suit the context.

Context is everything.

~Is my memory poor?~

It works backwards.

The middle is the beginning is the end.

[sound: a sigh]

I had waited until I got home.

I did the Test in my flat.

I remember it being cold.

But it couldn't have been that cold.

It was nearly April.

I think that

I was shaking. I was shaking.

~Yes I would have been shaking.~

I would expect to be shaking.

In that scene.

In that moment.

I was shaking as I held the Test in my hands.

I was shaking as I fumbled with the plastic packaging that wrapped around the Test.

I remember gripping the seal with my teeth and tugging.

I remember being desperate to pee.

Desperate to know.

[five second silence]

That memory seems right.

That memory seems to fit.

~Do you know that cold flurry of excitement and nervousness?~

Like on Christmas morning when you're a child.

You've hardly slept.

Your body is shaking.

Not cold shaking, just a nervous response.

A nervous energy that has combined with lack of sleep.

The response is a shake.

A quiver.

A bottom lip tremble.

I remember the moment.

I had been waiting.

Counting down.

Eleven Ten Nine Eight Seven Six Five Four Three Two One.

And then it was there.

The moment that seemed to take forever to arrive.

Well it arrived.

And I was almost too scared to know if he'd actually been.

~Father Christmas of course!~

~You don't believe in Father Christmas?~

~You've never believed?~

~Your mother didn't allow you to fantasise?~

~That explains a lot!~

[sound: a guttural laugh]

You must have experienced that cold flurry of excitement and nervousness.

~I know that you will have.~

Fumbling in your wallet.

Checking in your wallet for a ripped out piece of paper.

~You know what I'm talking about!~

That moment just before you masturbated over her image.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

I had read the instructions.

Then I had peed on the non-plastic end of the white plastic stick.

Then I had perched on the edge of the bath.

~Do you remember my post-grad student bathroom?~

It was exactly the width of the toilet and the small white bath.

It was snug.

No shower.

Cream walls.

No window.

But it was always clean.

The toilet was never grubby.

But the ceiling was high.

I am remembering it being too high.

I couldn't even reach it when I balanced on the bath.

I couldn't even reach it when I stretched out my arm.

~No I'm not exaggerating!~

~I remember!~

You see.

The light bulb had blown and I couldn't reach to change it.

~Or was it that I didn't have a spare?~

I can't remember.

Anyway.

I remember that the bathroom door was open.

I remember looking through my legs and onto the Test.

I remember shuffling as my pee emerged to hit the Test.

Then I remember sitting on the edge of the bath.

My feet inside the bath.

No water in it.

And I remember clutching the pregnancy test and letting drips of my pee absorb into my fingers.

[sound: humming of same now vaguely recognisable tune]

I saw the strong blue line gush across the result's window.

There was no doubt.

A positive test.

I was pregnant.

And my response was to cry.

But the tears were warm.

They were happy tears.

I felt a surge of happiness.

I remember because the gush shocked me.

I smiled as the tears fell.

And then I wiped them away with my pee-steeped fingers.

[sound: a muffled sob]

I phoned you.

~Do you remember the phone call?~

~Do you remember how you reacted?~

~Of course you don't.~

You see it doesn't fit with the image of yourself that you have perfected over the years.

The perfect father to Pip, Lucy, Davie and Kyle.

The perfect partner to Ana.

The perfect husband to Sue.

Flawless.

Straight.

Immaculate.

Sin-free and just.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

What you see is what you get.

A perfected image that doesn't quite fit.

I know that it doesn't quite fit, because I know the real you.

I know that what you see is not what you get.

Not at all.

I know the twisted you.

I know the you that hides in the shadows and waits for the dark of night to emerge.

[silence]

I know what you're capable of.

It still terrifies me.

But I have to be strong.

I haven't long.

This is what we both want.

[silence]

I remember the words that you spoke.

I remember what you did.

~You can't forget!~

~Don't Pretend that you can't hear me.~

~I won't let you forget!~

[sound: banging of a wardrobe door]

~Listen to me.~

~Please Alex.~

I haven't long left.

[silence]

The telephone conversation.

It started with my usual,hello.

And my usual,how are you?

Then I cried.

~I cried because I couldn't find the words.~

Because I was frightened of the words.

You kept asking, what's wrong?

And I kept crying.

[sound: unrecognisable sound, perhaps a muffled sob]

And then you shouted into the receiver.

Demanding that I told you what was wrong.

Demanding.

The right verb is demanding.

[silence]

Verb (used with object): Demand.

An urgent asking.

Demanding with authority.

Summoning.

Claiming a response.

Etymology: Old French.

I presume.

It may be derived from the Latin de, which in this context could mean absolutely or totally and mandare, meaning to order.

It was never a request.

I was never given a choice as to whether or not I replied.

It was required.

It was an obligation.

It was a requesting as a right.

A demand.

A demanding demand was demanded.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

~Do you remember when I was clever?~

I nearly had a PhD.

So.

You demanded.

And I had no choice but to say the words.

To speak the words into the telephone receiver.

I told you that I was pregnant.

[voiced: I'm pregnant]

[volume: low]

I just said the words.

~I'm pregnant.~

No other words.

And you said, you must come around straight away.

The must was a strong word.

It was one of your frequently used words.

A modal verb carrying obligation.

But that time it had a different edge to it.

Your voice had changed to being all sweet and soft.

It was a you must that spoke of my benefit from doing so.

Rather than a you must that was a demand for your own personal gain.

That's what it sounded like to me.

But my ears were full of water.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

I remember that I'd never heard that tone before and I thought that you were happy.

That I had made you happy.

I hoped that your softness was warmth.

Mushiness.

I hoped that your green pea-sized heart had mushed.

And I remember smiling to myself as I replaced the telephone.

I remember thinking that everything was going to be good.

To be fine.

To be happily ever after.

But happily ever after was never straightforward.

Happily ever after was never just around the corner.

~Does happily ever after even exist?~

~Is it a state of mind?~

It's not a physical condition.

It's not location specific.

It must be all in the mind.

It is all in the mind.

You see I live happily ever after.

~I do!~

When I look out from my black box.

And when I don'tblink.

And when I don't scratch under my eyelids.

And when I live within the redness of my eyes.

Then I am within the happily ever after.

Within the happily ever after that was before the now and during the then.

I exist within theblink of a memory.

Within theblink.

Just after the firstblink.

Of theblink.

Blink blink.

[voiced: blink blink]

[volume: low]

The memories are fading.

As the redness.

As the soreness envelops the memory.

I become trapped within the blink.

But I exist.

In the here.

In the now.

In the then.

In the when.

In between the end and the beginning.

I am trapped within this black box.

I live happily ever after.

~I do!~

[silence]

So I walked to your flat.

In fact I practically flew.

The wings had sprouted from my back.

~Yes they had!~

I remember the pain.

The scratching split as my skin opened for them to emerge.

I had white perfect feathers curving up to the sky.

~I did!~

I managed a fifteen minute walk in eight minutes of flight.

My feet brushing the ground on every fifth leap.

And I brought the yellow roses and the round chocolate fudge cake with me.

Still within the Marks and Spencer carrier bag.

The handle was all wrinkled and crinkled.

My hands were sweaty from gripping it tightly through my journey.

And I hoped that you wouldn't mind that the bag that held your gift from you to me wasn't perfect.

My mind was a haze.

I had too much to think about.

I was on the brink of something.

[silence]

And you opened the door.

Before I pressed the bell.

You opened the door, just after I opened your wrought iron gate.

[silence]

The wrought iron gate.

It was twisted wrought iron.

Once red.

Twice black.

The thick paint broadened the bars.

I love(d) that gate.

It hung with a lopsided tilt.

The bottom of the gate trailed along the ground, leaving a faint black mark along your cracked pathway.

The rusted hinges creaked.

The scraping noise warned you.

Prepared you for visitors.

~Why did you like to be prepared?~

~Why did you need to be warned?~

One day it would fall to the ground.

I knew that each time that I pushed the gate.

That one time it would be the last.

That one day the hinges would separate.

They would crumble.

They would dissolve to dust. And the twisted wrought iron, with the thick paint broadening the bars would fall to the ground.

[sound: foot banging on the ground]

But I never saw that happen.

You had moved on.

~And do you remember what you did?~

I don't understand why I remember and you don't.

I often wonder if you have altered the events within your memory.

Or if the memory even exists.

Record.

Retain.

Recall.

It should be straightforward.

No twists, no kinks.

~Does the memory exist?~

My memories go backwards forwards.

You see.

The words are crisp and fresh.

My memory is precise.

But.

I don't know if it is accurate.

I don't know if my memory is working.

~How can I test to see if my memory is working?~

[silence]

When you opened the door you hugged me.

I can see a me and a you.

In between the twisted wrought iron gate, with the thick paint broadening the bars and your front door.

~What colour was your front door?~

I can't remember.

My memory plays trickery.

Its illusions confuse me.

I remember the hug.

I can see the hug.

I can recall the tightness.

My body was stiff in reaction.

And your arms gripped around me.

All the way around.

Tightly.

Forcing down the arms of a me.

A me holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag.

And I remember crying into you.

The memory carries a sensation.

A dampness.

Coldness on my cheeks.

I can still feel it.

The smell of sandalwood and drugs.

I can still smell you.

And then you said, everything is going to be ok.

And you said it in those ailing soft and sugary tones.

And the tone had warmth.

A mushiness that I didn't recognise, at that time.

I have since learned to consider it with revulsion.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

But your front door.

That front door.

~Was there glass?~

I must keep this image simple.

No glass.

No glass.

~Was the door an inky blue?~

I don't think so.

I can't remember.

I can't recall.

The colour has beenblinked away.

Let's say that it was red.

Let me fill in the colour.

[five second silence]

The memory needs to be perfect.

~What good is a memory if it is not perfect?~

Perfection.

I must notblink again.

You use those ailing soft and sugary tones with me now.

Every now and then.

When we speak on the telephone.

~When we have to speak on the telephone.~

You stopped coming to see me.

I caused one fuss too many.

I embarrass(ed) you.

One time too many.

I disgust(ed) you.

My body.

My smell.

My look.

They all cause repulsion.

Your word not mine.

[sound: sobbing]

If you sniff into my armpit.

If you nuzzle your nose into my soft hairs.

You will smell you.

The water within my body is full of you.

The secretions are as you try to escape.

~Go on sniff yourself back.~

I still have you within me.

[sound: sniff sniff sniff]

You stopped coming in to my flat.

You arranged to pick the children up from downstairs.

From outside.

From out of my view.

I can't see you from here.

I don't like to leave my black box.

I have no reason to leave it.

But.

Sometimes you telephone and you must speak to me.

And you use those ailing soft and sugary tones.

Your tone is soft and warm.

You pretend to care.

~You were always good at pretending.~

Because there is always a reason for your telephone call.

There is always a need within your telephone contact with me.

Gain.

You seek to gain.

The gain is never mine.

I have nothing to gain.

I have nothing outside of this black box.

My children exist within my memories.

They are no longer real.

They died.

~I know that they still breathe.~

They died within my life.

They exist within memories that I prefer not to visit.

You left.

You left us all.

I cannot recall memories after you left.

I choose not to force them.

I cannot open the door.

I cannot communicate outside of my box.

This box.

My black box.

~Can you hear my words?~

[silence]

~Am I trapped?~

~Do I have an alternative?~

~Is there a resolution to be found?~

The door is closed.

But it will open.

I could open it.

The window has locks.

They are not fastened.

I could open them.

[sound: a yawn]

But I am trapped.

Trapped within the visuals.

Performing within memories.

Experiencing the rawness of emotions from events that should be buried.

That will soon be buried.

In a grave.

With me.

~with us.~

[sound: sobbing]

But you did come back.

You came back tonight.

You came back to kill me.

I need to sleep.

[fifteen second silence]

The memory.

This lack of structure is worrying.

I have altered my way of being.

End.

Middle.

Beginning.

Beginning.

End.

Middle.

The working backwards endwards, forwards, middlewards.

It is somewhat distressing.

The memory was paused within the visual of a me and a you.

In between the twisted wrought iron gate, with the thick paint broadening the bars and your red front door.

~Was your front door red?~

[silence]

We are motionless.

A single breath will gust us over.

Us.

[sound: a loud sigh]

But.

I can't recall the weather.

I can't recall the sky.

[voiced: my memory is falling]

[volume: low]

Let's say that it was red.

That the clouds were red in the pale blue sky.

Details are often insignificant in the backward workings from here to somewhere before there.

And.

Let's say that your arms wrapped around me.

That's a true fact.

I can feel the sensation.

My stiff body and rigidly straight arms by my side. And that was when you told me, everything is going to be ok.

[voiced: everything is going to be ok]

[volume: low]

In warm tones.

In what I believed to be warm tones.

I believed it then.

I don't now.

~Or do I?~

Perhaps I do.

I still think of those ailing soft and sugary tones.

I sometimes enjoy them within the memory.

But.

And there is always at least one but with you.

Then you said that, everything will be fine.

And then you said, abortions are practically routine these days.

[voiced: abortion]

[volume: high]

And that was when I pulled out of the tight tight hug.

~Do you remember those words?~

~Any of those words?~

[voiced: abortion abortion abortion]

[volume: high]

An abortion.

Abortion is a red word.

It brings red.

Red seeps out from each letter and it drip drops to the floor.

It makes the view from here red.

Noun: Abortion.

Etymology: I can't remember.

~Why can't I remember?~

The termination of a pregnancy through the removal of a foetus or embryo.

The noun drips red before my eyes.

Abortion or abortive.

Perhaps I can't recall the etymology because the adjective came first.

I am focusing on the noun.

I know the word abortus.

It is the past participle of aborire.

I believe that it means to disappear.

But then I recall aborire meaning to miscarry.

Past participle.

~Am I making up words now?~

Words sound familiar.

They roll from my tongue.

Meaning seems to be lost.

I am not what I once was.

[silence]

You knew everything about me.

~You used to know everything about me.~

About the me before I was the +ANA in ALEX+ANA.

It was a consequence of being friends first.

So you knew.

You knew that I had had an abortion.

After man number seven.

Three days before man number eight.

I didn't wait.

The intercourse with man number eight, ended with his cock dripping my terminated foetus' blood. Onto my stomach.

I had wanted to be back to normal.

I had wanted to be normal, to pretend that the abortion had never happened.

That was when I knew normal.

When I could recognise my normal self.

I sometimes wonder if I love that dead foetus more than I do my own breathing children.

[six second silence]

You knew that I had been pregnant before.

And that I'd decided not to have that baby.

That foetus.

That foetus was sucked out of me.

[sound: a sucking noise]

And you knew that I'd just gotten on with the whole thing.

On my own.

Without making a fuss or protest.

I never liked commotion.

And you probably saw my actions as calculated and cold.

I didn't think.

I didn't consider before the event.

And then afterwards there was nothing that I could do.

[sound: sobbing]

[volume: high]

I'd had an aboration.

Just like I'd had a packet of crisps.

And I'd had a cold.

And I'd had my purse stolen when I was sightseeing in Trafalgar Square.

~Have I ever been to London?~

[sound: a guttural laugh]

Context.

It is always about context.

A single form, a lexical item can function differently depending on the context and often the co-text.

Traditional word class categories are often too rigid when analysing in relation to context.

The key is to provide as much contextual information as possible.

And I am giving you the context.

The pragmatics are there to be considered.

~A hide and seek of meaning?~

The words and sounds and the silence combine.

The picture is created.

You see.

Abortion is a red raw word.

It scrapes and then it scabs.

And red oozes from it.

Even when it appears to heal.

It never heals.

[sound: scratching]

Noun: Abortion.

Etymology: I need to remember.

Etymology: I can't recall.

I really am confused.

Abortion or abortive.

Perhaps I can't recall because the adjective came first.

I am focusing on the noun.

A noun.

That noun.

~Is it important?~

~Does it alter the meaning?~

The termination: the termination of a pregnancy through the removal of a foetus or embryo.

~Do I need the etymology to continue with the narrative?~

You see.

I see the word abortion.

If I don'tblink.

If I stare out from my black box.

I see the word.

ABORTION.

Curved lines next to straight lines.

Written in the sand.

~Do you remember that I stayed the night?~

After you told me to have an abortion.

I stayed the night.

I smoked your joints.

And I drank your wine.

And we ate my round chocolate fudge cake.

Even though it was not my birthday.

You had the munchies.

You were eating for two.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

The chocolate layered the top of my mouth.

My dry dry mouth.

And then you picked the petals from my ten long-stemmed yellow roses.

You scattered and spread my yellow curled petals across your grubby floor.

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

He loves me.

~He loves me not.~

[sound: sobbing]

~Do you remember our spending the night together?~

~Or that you entered me?~

That you tried to thrust the baby away.

You were hard.

You were too hard.

Your actions were vigorous.

Sharp.

Painful.

We did not talk about my being pregnant.

~Do you remember that we did not talk about my being pregnant?~

~How can you remember something that didn't exist?~

Your memory now exists without me in there.

I am a smear.

Wiped.

Not quite clean.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

You slept.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

~Do you remember waking in the morning?~

You looked at me.

And with your morning breath.

You told me, fuck off.

Your words, not mine.

You told me, don't contact me again until you've got rid of the baby.

You used the word rid.

It's a sharp word.

I dressed.

With tears and snot streaming down my face.

~Do you remember?~

I can see myself.

I can see a hunched me.

Sobbing.

Breathing sharp.

Not speaking.

Fumbling for my clothes within the darkness of your bedroom.

[sound: sobbing]

You were still in bed.

The sheets wrapped around your smooth nakedness.

Your back was to me.

And I left your flat.

I left you within the crumpled sheets.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

You see I had had an abortion before.

You knew that.

But you didn't know that the baby that I had killed haunted my dreams.

Arms missing.

An eye missing.

I heard his crying before I saw his twisted being.

[sound: sobbing]

And I knew.

I knew from the moment that the positive blue line appeared on the test.

I could not abort another child.

I had no right to abort another child.

Consequences for actions.

I was determined to accept my fate.

My baby.

[voiced: my pip]

[volume: low]

And there was nothing that you could say or do that would alter this.

Another abortion was not an option.

~You didn't know that did you?~

But you never asked.

You never asked the questions.

You didn't care to ask.

Words were not significant.

So instead of contacting the campus doctor.

I telephoned a Pro Life organisation.

And I cried down the telephone.

[sound: sobbing]

And they said that they would help me.

That they would help me to say no to you.

And that they would speak to me.

That they would be there for me.

~Yes I told them about you and about what you wanted me to do!~

~Yes I even told them your name!~

I remember being sure that I could hear the lady taking notes.

That I could hear her pencil jotting onto a pad.

I called her from a payphone.

My back sliding down the glass.

As I spoke to her into the phone.

I could hear her scribbling down my words.

[sound: scribbling on paper]

Your name.

It is within a file.

Within my file.

You see I had to tell someone.

I needed to talk to someone.

They could only be contacted between the hours of 11am and 1pm.

And I contacted them during those hours.

I fought with myself.

I forced myself to stay away from you.

I stopped myself from phoning you.

Well that's not exactly true.

~But you know that don't you?~

I couldn't stop myself from pressing the buttons and phoning you.

You were my obsession.

My habit.

And the panic grew and grew inside me.

I'd sit next to the telephone willing it to ring.

But it didn't.

You had no intention of telephoning me.

You didn't need to hear my voice.

I needed to hear yours.

I needed to know what you were doing.

I needed you to be thinking about me.

I was filled with panic.

[sound: a sharp intake of air]

And the panic grew and grew.

And somehow in amongst the panic, I justified my need to telephone you.

I allowed myself to press your numbers.

The pads of my fingers functioned automatically.

And I would call just to hear your voice.

Just for the, hello.

For your, hello.

[voiced: hello]

[volume: low]

And then I would hang up.

My fingertip poised.

Quivering over the button.

[sound: humming of same now vaguely recognisable tune]

You changed your number after three weeks.

[sound: a throaty laugh]

~Well you didn't did you?~

Your mother did it for you.

Your mother did everything for you.

Let me remind you of the story.

~Are you sitting comfortably?~

It was the you and me story at that time.

The ALEX+ANA story.

Then your mother stepped in.

Penny Edwards-Knight.

[silence]

Your mother.

I can't find a definition that fits.

I have no idea what a mother is supposed to be.

I have no mother.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

I have read somewhere.

I have heard somewhere.

It is blurred.

My memory is blurred.

But the relationship that a man has with his mother is an indicator.

A flashing red light.

A signal.

For something.

But I don't know what that something is.

I can't remember.

~Help me to remember.~

~Please.~

[silence]

Your mother.

We had been together for three years and I had not met her.

I asked about her.

I heard you speak to her on the phone.

And I'd ask questions.

About you and her.

But you didn't want to tell me.

~Am I making you feel uncomfortable?~

You'd tell me the curriculum vitae stuff.

But if I questioned the relationship that you shared.

You'd tell me, my mother is nothing to do with you.

You'd tell me, my mother is my ideal woman.

[voiced: ideal woman]

[volume: low]

Those words have stuck.

You'd tell me, my mother is everything that I could hope for within a woman.

~That's a bit odd really.~

~Don't you think?~

~Of course I am not making this up!~

I should have delved into that a bit more.

But I didn't.

I can't believe that I was that stupid.

So for three years I didn't meet her.

I feared her instead.

~Did you have sex with your mother?~

~Did she make you thrust into her until she came all over your cock?~

I often wonder(ed).

I have my suspicions.

[voiced: unrecognisable words]

[volume: low]

Your mother had divorced your father when you were three years old and your sister five.

She still kept the Edwards, but added a Knight to form a double barrel.

~Yes I know that you know these details!~

Your mother had divorced your father because she preferred being single.

She wanted to do as she pleased.

She didn't want to answer to anyone else.

It wasn't about sex.

It wasn't about the double barrel.

Or so you told me.

And from the day of her divorce.

From the stories and details that I have grabbed.

Well your mother planned out every aspect of both yours and your sister's lives.

Your life was to be straight.

A straight line from here to there.

I was a pot hole.

A black tumbling hole.

And when she said jump.

You did.

Right over me.

[voiced: unrecognisable word]

[volume: low]

Your mother was an academic.

Penny Edwards-Knight, the academic.

She travelled the country with a pharmaceutical company.

And was paid a yearly fee by them.

A fee.

I love(d) that you called it a fee.

It made it sound so insignificant.

~It wasn't though was it?~

She was a consultant.

A researcher.

An academic who was easily bought.

Her opinions altered to suit the drug that she was being paid to promote.

And as you'd boast details about your high-flying goddess.

I'd think of her as a chameleon.

A scaly, hard-skinned reptile who changed to fit with her environment.

A crusty reptile slinking around dragging a huge sack of gold behind her.

I hated your mother before I even met her.

I hated your mother when I met her.

The feeling was mutual.

I could see it in her eyes.

I could hear it twist from her tongue

~Did she ever wrap you up with her tongue?~

Your mother.

Ms Penny Edwards-Knight.

She demanded attention.

She demanded.

And for hours before she telephoned, you would practise your backwards language.

You spoke every word to her backwards.

Not forwards.

The language that she demanded you communicate in.

~Do you still use it?~

For the hours leading up to the designated phone call time, you'd refuse to speak to me.

The hours were for you to rehearse, to perfect your backward mother tongue.

And every first Sunday of the month.

Between the hours of one and three.

Your mother expected a long and thorough telephone conversation highlighting the key points of the previous month.

In backward tongue.

You made notes.

Of course you made notes.

~Didn't you realise that I knew about your scribbled points to include in a conversation?~

Theme.

Rheme.

Theme.

Rheme.

You made meticulous notes in the black notebook.

Your little black book.

She bought you a new one each Christmas.

[sound: a throaty laugh]

[silence]

And each Christmas you wrapped the filled notebook of notes.

For her.

Tied it with a red shiny bow.

For her.

[silence]

ruoy rehtom.

ehS dednamed noitnetta.

ehS dednamed.

dnA rof sruoh erofeb ehs denohpelet uoy dluow esitcarp ruoy sdrawkcab egaugnal.

ehT egaugnal taht ehs dednamed uoy etacinummoc ni.

~Do you still use it?~

roF eht sruoh gnidael pu ot eht detangised enohp llac emit, d'uoy esufer ot kaeps ot em.

ehT sruoh erew rof uoy ot esraeher, ot tcefrep ruoy drawkcab rehtom eugnot.

dnA yreve tsrif yadnuS fo eht htnom.

neewteB eht sruoh fo eno dna eerht.

ruoY rehtom detcepxe a gnol dna hguoroht enohpelet noitasrevnoc gnithgilhgih eht yek stniop fo eht suoiverp htnom.

nI drawkcab eugnot.

uoY edam seton.

fO esruoc uoy edam seton.

~Didn't you realise that I knew about your scribbled points to include in a conversation?~

uoY edam suolucitem seton ni eht kcalb koobeton.

ruoY elttil kcalb koob.

ehS thguob uoy a wen eno hcae samtsirhC.

dnA hcae samtsirhC uoy depparw eht dellif koobeton fo seton.

roF reh.

~So where does she step in?~

Step in.

~Is that dramatic enough?~

It was more like a leap with both feet flying into my stomach.

[sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

[sound: banging]

It was almost four weeks after you told me to have an abortion.

[voiced: abortion]

[volume: low]

The story goes that your mother was visiting Newcastle.

Because you weren't from Newcastle.

You were born in a house in a village.

In a village called Mortney.

A village lost in between Liverpool and Chester.

A village where people spoke in money.

[voiced: sings money money money]

[volume: high]

And your community clung to a village hall that was thatched in gold.

And a church, where the preacher was at least one hundred and seven.

Your neighbours fasted for twenty-four hours before communion.

And the preacher spoke in repeated riddles.

Chastising those who orgasm outside of marriage.

I know because he baptised Pip.

~Do you remember?~

He talked of whores and entrapment whilst splashing water on Pip's head.

I still quiver.

[sound: splashing water]

Backwards forwards sideways memory.

~Where are my tablets?~

~Where are my tablets?~

[sound: high-pitched scream]

[silence]

The story goes that your mother was in Newcastle.

Your mother had been giving one of her seminars and she had expected you to meet her for dinner.

It had been a definite date that had been made on the first Sunday of that month.

Of April.

After the pregnancy test.

And you had stood her up.

And that was so very out of character.

Away from your assumed role in her performance.

[sound: a guttural laugh]

You did not jilt your mother.

No one did that.

Your mother did not abide such behaviour.

Abide.

One of your words.

Not mine.

The story continues.

She had driven to your flat.

I don't know how long she had waited for you.

I don't know where you were supposed to meet her.

~Isn't it odd how some details never lock into a memory?~

I wouldn't have overheard the conversation.

And even if I had overheard the backward tongue.

I did not speak your language.

You knew that.

That's why you permitted my being in the same room.

Permitted.

One of your words.

Not mine.

And when your mother telephoned, I would sit in silence.

If you could have stopped me breathing every first Sunday of the month.

Between the hours of one and three.

Then you would have.

[sound: unrecognisable, perhaps muffled sob]

I was always silent when your mother called.

She was never to know that I was there.

[silence]

I am aware that soon you will have stopped me breathing.

~Is it the first Sunday of the month?~

[silence]

Your mother had arrived at your flat and she had found that your curtains were closed.

And that you were not answering your telephone.

And so.

I returned from university and your mother telephoned me.

~How did she get my telephone number?~

I've never asked that before.

I don't think that I have.

~Have I asked that before?~

[voiced: my memory is falling]

[volume: low]

I remember hearing her voice for the first time.

It was gravelly.

A smoker's voice.

~Did she smoke then?~

In my memory, I picture her with a long thin cigarette holder.

Elegant and white.

With her hands always gloved.

My memory is not as it once was.

[voiced: my memory is falling]

[volume: low]

I fill in the holes.

~Does that lessen the value of the memory?~

The lines have blurred.

Your mother told me that you hadn't met her.

She shouted at me that you hadn't met her.

Your mother told me that she was sitting outside my flat in her car.

She told me that she was desperate to use the little girl's room.

I call it a toilet.

She must have been outside my flat when I came in.

She must have watched me come in.

~Had you described me to her?~

~What words had you used?~

~Were they backwards mother tongue words?

She asked if she could come into my flat.

And use my little girl's room.

I had never met her before.

You had never wanted me to meet her.

She had never wanted to meet me.

~What could I say?~