Читать книгу The Go-Away Bird - Warren Fitzgerald - Страница 6

I live here because I can’t afford to live anywhere else. Well, you wouldn’t live here for any other reason, would you? It’s a hole, but where else can you live in central London for forty quid a week, eh? Nowhere, I tell you. And I’m only here because I was lucky enough to know ’Chelle from my time at the charity, and she moved up north and sublet the place to me. So, yeah, I always have to think twice before answering the buzzer, or turn down the telly and creep to the peephole for a squiz if someone hammers on the door, but…central…forty quid.

Nearly there. Hold on, a couple more minutes.

Surprising I get any students at all when you think about it. I can just imagine their faces as they look up from their A–Zs, reckon they’ve found it…Well, this is Couper Street. They see the tall glass-fronted foyer with the concierge’s (don’t have a go if I’ve spelt that wrong! Not many of you would get it right first time. And as for my pronunciation…there’s only one person who’s allowed to correct my French – you’ll know why when you meet her)…Anyway, where was I…the concierge’s desk with alien green light all round the bottom of it, so the bloke looks like he’s hovering above the metallic turquoise floor in a little spaceship, ready to welcome the residents, or to exterminate the uninvited filth. They see the massive potted plants with polished green leaves that match the spaceship lights; they see the rows of locked pigeonholes, one for each flat…sorry, apartment…lined up behind the concierge and his floating desk, as if he’s standing guard over loads of little safes in a bank vault or something. And they see nothing else in this huge foyer that stretches the length of the block, except for the big cardboard sign in the corner window advertising the fact in blue and yellow that for a mere £475,000 the ‘penthouse’ apartment is still available – I wonder why?! They look impressed, even a bit excited. Then I can imagine their faces as they read the tiny letters on the glass door that say: CATHEDRAL APARTMENTS. So they turn round, looking for Frapper Court. Right street, wrong side. And their faces drop as they see the defaced council sign welcoming them to /rap/e/Court.

Nice.

Why do I find it so difficult to remember that I would’ve found that bloody hilarious when I was their age? Because I seem to take everything so personally these days, I suppose. Because, although I’m no little shrimp to look at – well, not particularly – if I’m honest with you then I’d have to say that I’m a bit scared of the little bastards, dressed in their baseball caps, enormous jeans and huge plastic clocks hanging round their necks, trying to be Flavor Flav or Chuck D. I’m scared of the feeling of humiliation if I get another football smacked into the back of my head, and the laughter that ricochets off the beige hard face of my block, so it’s like even my own windows are dissing me:

No sanctuary for ya, even here, mate!

You can shut up. Call yourself windows! You’re so thin and weak I could push you out with one finger from your grotty metal frames – laugh at me then as you plummet down eight storeys and shatter on the pavement with nothing but a puny hiss. You can’t even keep the rain out half the time, let alone the cold and the noise. Christ, if this was my own place I would’ve been in touch with that nice old bloke from Everest, had him come and ‘fit the best’, had you out on your ear and replaced with some lovely double glazing ages ago.

I tore my screwed-up eyes from the windows of my flat as I ducked into the stairwell of the block. The stench of piss and wet dog slapped me round the chops and made me realize that I’d just been having a barney with a piece of glass!

Don’t worry, Ash, you’re seconds away now.

I took the stairs, of course. I needed the exercise, and I just couldn’t risk the lift. It’s not the getting stuck in there that bothers me. I sometimes wish for that. Then everything would have to stop. I would have to stop for as long as it took. It’s the closest you could get to having the world stop turning for a bit so you could jump off, if you know what I mean. But I wouldn’t, not in that lift, ’cause when my legs got tired I couldn’t sit on that floor knowing what’s been puked, pissed and gobbed on it.

By the time I got to Floor 4, I was already flagging. Man, you’re thirty-nine, not fifty-nine! A door slammed somewhere up at the top of the block and gave me my second wind so I could get to my place before I’d have to pass whoever it was on the stairs coming down. Floor 6, and right on cue the theme music to Casualty blasted from Number 57 so loud that their front door buzzed at me as I flew past. I had absolutely no idea who lived there, never seen them, but I knew exactly what they liked to watch on TV – we all did. Even though there was another floor between me and them, I knew they couldn’t get enough of Casualty, EastEnders, Coronation Street, and now this new version of Casualty called Cardiac Arrest – it can’t last, not two dramas about hospitals and blood and grief: surely people don’t have the stomach for it?

Floor 7 and Roddy and Dave in Number 58 were pumping out the House hits as per.

‘La da dee la dee da, la da dee la dee da,’ went Crystal Waters with her voice like the phlegmy mutterings of the old girl who sits outside Costcutter dozing in her wing-backed chair.

Here’s me trying to teach people what makes a good voice and a classic performance and these two dopes below will slam on another Acid track like they’re trying to undermine me. And now this stuff’s crossing over into the top 40 I can see that look in my students’ eyes sometimes that says: I just wanna be a star, be top of the charts, where 2 Unlimited and Snap! are, so why you getting me to sing all this old Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin crap?

Nearly there, Ash, nearly…

I finally reached my floor and the door opposite mine, Number 61, gently clicked shut like it always did when I reached the landing. It’s enough to make you paranoid, don’t you reckon? But I knew that her eye wouldn’t be at the peephole for long once she’d seen it was me. It wasn’t me she was waiting for. It was that bloody ape Daryl. I knew his name ’cause I’d heard her squeak it a thousand times through bruised lips as he crashed down the stairs telling her she’s dumped (again), and that she’s a whore and a fat one at that. Her name’s Rachel – I knew that ’cause he’d be roaring it into her door later, and she’d open it, like she did every time, and she’d let him in. Why did she let him in? Is it that she actually liked it, the way he treated her? It’s beyond me, I tell you.

My hand shook as I turned the key – it’s nothing though, just the fact that it’s bloody freezing tonight. It’s March, what do you expect? The heavy door slammed behind me and the windows all shook as if to try and get the argument going again, but I weren’t rising. I was going to be sorted in a minute.

I whacked on the TV. I already knew what was on BBC1 thanks to my neighbours down below, so I started flicking almost before the tube was warmed up. I landed on Channel 4 News first. There was talk of Nirvana’s lead singer again, put himself in a coma this time, it seems, after a cocktail of champagne and Rohypnol. Jesus, look at Courtney Love, what a state! Although I blamed the likes of Kurt Cobain for the lack of interest the music industry has in really fine singers today, I couldn’t tear myself away from the news, any news about celebs in the music biz. If it was good news I’d search between the newscaster’s words like someone reading their horoscope, vainly trying to find a comparison that signalled imminent success for me. If it was bad news, and it usually was, I’d just use it to feel better about the state of my life. So I dived in the kitchen and grabbed a pot of houmous and a bag of Doritos, the black-handled knife and the Red Leicester from the fridge, holding the crisp packet between finger and thumb, out in front of me like a dead rat so it didn’t make a racket and block out any of the sound from the TV. I was back on the sofa in a flash. I had a bit too much momentum in the rush, forgot to sit down gently and so a cloud of dust puffed up around me from the frayed green armrests. I could taste it. I’m such a scumbag! But where would you start? The sofa’s beyond saving. I’ll chuck it out and get a new one…when I get the time…and the money.

They’ve finished with Kurt and Courtney already, back to Iran…The time! As if you haven’t got the time, Ashley Bolt! You teach about six hours a week, drop off and pick up a few things here and there, do the odd gig – once in a blue moon – and you reckon you haven’t got the time. Ah, houmous and Doritos! Better than sex, eh? Haven’t got the money then…you can’t argue with that. I don’t earn enough to waste on sofas, furniture. It’s just things; things don’t matter. That’s what Kurt, even Kurt Cobain, would say. But then he can say that, can’t he? – he can afford to. Better than sex! Finish the cheese, quick! Like, when was the last time you got your end away to know about that? Iran, Iraq – how could you live like that? That would be the time with the bondage girl, who pulled a cat-o’-nine tails from her bag and told you to whip her from behind. Harder, she said. You can’t do it hard enough, she said. Bloody right, I couldn’t! Me and Jim had a laugh about that one. But then I bet she did too – probably thought I was a right letdown. I wonder whether it would make any difference if I lived in Cathedral Apartments…’Course it would. People would come back. More students. I wanted to make a proper dinner, something hot. Now I’ve had all this cheese and crisps. You knew you would. Don’t kid yourself, you dick! Now the knife’s here. Must phone Dad. Why should I? Why does she do that, that Rachel? They know I teach singers. Do you reckon they do it on purpose, those two, play it loud to undermine me? I’d probably get complaints myself in Cathedral Apartments. Got crumbs down the side of the sofa. Like it matters! But it should. Perhaps I should change the way I teach, add some of this House stuff. Stick to your guns, boy, that’s your trouble. Kurt Courtney Rohypnol Good for a comedown after a night on the pills Date rape Cheese Clean off the knife It’s clean Ah

Ah

Ah.

Peace.

The more it hurt the more I cut. The knife with the black handle had a short, sharp blade. I slid it backwards and forwards on the inside of my forearm, pressing harder each time. And the chaos all went. Everything just stopped. Except the to-ing and fro-ing of the shiny blade. All was peace and quiet in my head. Nothing existed outside either. I couldn’t hear the TV. I drew in the smoothest, longest breath. I rushed. An endorphin rush, if you know what I mean. Sex, orgasm – you’re on the right lines. The buzz off a pukka E – maybe. Scratch an itch, an itch that you couldn’t get to for ages because the time wasn’t right, or the place. Yeah, any itch, on your inside leg, your back, your bum, anywhere. It wasn’t appropriate in public, that paralysing relief you know is coming when you scratch the itch; it’s going to make you look weird in front of others. But the longer you leave it, the more frustrating it gets, and the greater the relief when you finally get on your own…

So what if that itch is deeper? Deeper than your skin, I mean. What if that itch isn’t an itch at all? What if it’s a place, a person, something they said, something they didn’t say, a thought, a dream, a nightmare, all of these things and more, crashing into the little space inside you?

The relief. The stillness. And then the blood popped out of the space between the blade and a flap of my skin and slid so fast, like a red and silent bolt of lightning looking for earth, down my forearm to my elbow. The first sound was the tapping, fast tapping of the blood dripping onto my khaki combats, making a dark purple stain. The sight of the blood on my arm had already made me stop pressing with the knife. But it was still held in place, the edges of the wound were hanging on to the blade, they were lips kissing it, thanking it for the feeling. The only feeling that made sense sometimes. The little alarm of dripping blood brought me back to reality.

Fuck, my combats’ll be ruined!

And so the next part of the ritual began. I jumped into the empty bath and dropped my trousers, turned on the taps and tried to soak them before the blood stained, at the same time running my arm under the cold one. I reached over and opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out my brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide – magic stuff this; every home should have one. Did you know hydrogen peroxide breaks down really quickly when exposed to light? That’s why it’s in a little brown bottle: the brown filters out the sun’s rays. It’s a great antibacterial thing – you can use it as mouth-wash, clean kitchen surfaces…even highlight your hair! I held my arm over the sink, whilst my feet kneaded my trousers in the bath, and poured a little over the cut. It fizzed and bubbled, all pink. Stung a bit too, but that’s a small rush after the main event. I poured again and again until the fizzing was white – it stops the bleeding and cleans the wound simultaneously, you see? Grabbed a bit of gauze from the cabinet and stuck it over the cut with tape, nearly slipped in the bath, my feet tangled in my combats – Christ, I had no intention of killing myself!

I wandered in my boxers back into the living room, switched off the TV – it was threatening to invade the little bit of peace I’d just created for myself, pull me back into chaos again too quickly. I sat back in the sofa, saw the bloody knife on the table and had to get up again, take it to the kitchen and give it a quick wash before I could sit and enjoy my peace properly. I tell you, I love this flat…no, there is something about it, honestly. Sat there, slouched on the sofa, I stroked the rough armrest as if it was a balding cat, and all I could see out the window was sky. Sky and the tips of the big tree across the road, the only one round here; its naked branches looked swollen in silhouette with budding leaves. The thin red clouds against pale blue could’ve been the sky outside a plane window or something, as I’m on my way somewhere warm, with fresh air and a beautiful landscape, shitting myself about this new life I’m going to, but knowing I’m alive – for the first time in ages having something worth shitting myself about. Then, as if to remind me that that wasn’t the case, a black dot of a plane weaved through a couple of clouds, flashing its lights smugly, and those thin red clouds were suddenly scar-shaped and sore-looking.

More flashing lights, coming from the street below, made the black tree top turn blue every few seconds. Curiosity dragged me from the sofa. The crowd was in the way, kids, women, blokes, so I couldn’t see what they were so interested in. But judging by the ambulance and the only car in the middle of the road, the driver still in his seat, but with his feet on the road and his head in his hands, it was pretty clear he’d just knocked someone over.

So if the ambulance is there, what are you lot doing, eh? Helping? No chance. Enjoying the show, more like. Getting your next fix of grief and drama since Casualty’s finished and EastEnders ain’t on till tomorrow. But what if I went down there in the street now, with my cheese knife, and started cutting my arm outside the Costcutter? They’d all run a mile; lock themselves in their scummy flats until the nutter had gone. Why? It’s OK to stand there and watch the little girl’s brains leaking onto the tarmac, but not me making a little cut in my arm. Because she didn’t do it to herself. If I hurt myself then it’s not just blood and guts and broken bones, it’s mental and emotional pain too. And no one wants to deal with the kind of emotional pain that makes you do that to yourself. That’s not entertainment, is it? It’s not good drama. And it’s certainly not art, right?