The Day Tripper, page 26
Nothing’s been said between us. His eyes bore into me. I don’t meet his stare.
“Off you fuck,” he says to me. His girlfriend attempts to lead him away, but he’s a statue.
The cellophane round the flowers crackles as they shake in my hand. I glance at his furious face and the shock strikes through even the deepest, most private places inside me. Like looking at the devil himself. Every darkened room of my childhood comes back to me, where this face waited, closing in till it was inches from mine. The face that made nowhere safe, nowhere my own. I can hear his voice in my brain. Can smell the smoky house. The smoky breath close to my ear.
This is how clapping eyes on him always felt. Funny how I’m able to forget.
“Yeah?” he snaps, lurching toward me. I stumble a half step back despite the distance between us.
Why is it always this way? Fight or flight. I’m paralyzed between the two. When I was a kid, I always chose flight. Fighting with him near killed me. It did end my life—my life as I knew it.
Why can’t I turn my back, walk away? I’m so sick of it being this way.
“Get fucked,” I say, scarcely raising my eyes higher than his dazzling white Nikes.
Why do I feel so small? He’s got two inches on me at most, a touch broader at the shoulders. But he’s a giant over me. I’m what—twenty-four? He’s got to be close to thirty. Two adults. So why is it just like it was, when I was nine and he was fourteen?
Blake snatches the pathetic bunch of flowers from my grip. He snaps the stems in half and throws them into the road.
I watch with an unfathomable dread as first a car avoids them, before a bus howls over them.
“Jesus Christ, Blake,” his girlfriend says.
He ignores her, hanging on my next move. Everyone knows an act of aggression requires a response.
I wring my hands together, so sick of seeing them shake. “No,” I snap, looking him in the face. “Not doing this.”
He closes in, barging his chest against mine. I’m propelled backward, one foot slipping down the curb. Blake closes the space, on me again. “Let’s have it, cunt.”
Never move backward. First rule of fighting.
I stop scanning the area for a weapon. Who cares there are bottles spilling from a bin ten feet away?
Who cares that I’m shaking?
Who cares that he’s publicly disrespecting me?
That I’m backing away?
That I look weak? Small? A lesser man?
That I’m losing face?
I’ve spent a life risking anything in the world rather than losing face. It’s what led me to Blake, made him take to me, led me into that burnt house, into that garage with him, made me eventually fight back, put me in the water.
I can feel the weight I’m pushing against. The tide of history. This takes so much effort. To resist this headwind.
But I am done. Too done with this bullshit.
I am fighting.
“How could you do it?” I say. It comes out whiny. I’m shoved backward again, my shoulder grazing a road sign.
“The fucking river?” he says.
His girlfriend grabs at his swinging arms, screams at him to stop and take them home.
I shake my head. “How could you do that to someone?” A tear slices down my cheek. I don’t wipe it away.
“You’re a smug cunt that got lairy and got put on his arse.”
“Not that,” I say, two palms raised.
“You got a hiding and you’re still crying about it.”
“The house in West Way. That house that burned down.” I drag my palm over my face.
Maybe no one else would spot it, but he’s up so close it’s unmissable: the skipped beat, the flicker of a thought he never permits himself to think.
“The house, yeah?” I say. “Of course you remember it.”
“Dunno what the fuck you’re talking about.” He bares his teeth like an ill-kept dog, flecks of spit on my forehead.
“You do, Blake.” Each word an effort, forced past my juddering jaw. The tears fall fast now. “You do know. You know what you did.”
Face touching mine. “Don’t push me. Don’t push me, you piece of shit.” But his eyes are at odds with the words. Wild—eyes of the attacked, not the aggressor.
“What you did. In that place. How do you live with it?”
Blake’s girlfriend is still mouthing off to his side. He spins around and points a finger at her. “Fuck off, yeah?” he shouts at her. “Go. You wanna go home so much? Off you go.”
She walks away, shouting every filthy word there is at him, threats through angry tears that this is really it this time.
I’m backed against a lamppost. We’re separated from the busy road by a lay-by. A parked van screens us from the passing traffic and a hundred witnesses.
I keep my hands down low; whatever he does, I won’t strike back. Whatever happens, happens. What more do I possibly have to lose?
“Does it not bother you, Blake? Knowing what happened that day?”
“You’re chatting shit,” he says. His gaze darts up and down, hyperaware. “Don’t chat fucking shit.”
“You hate me so badly, because I remind you. Is that it?”
He takes a step back, wags a finger at me. “You need to sort yourself out. Fucking...prick.” For a second it seems he’s ready to walk away, but he can’t do it.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You try not to think about it, don’t you? And that’s why you can’t deal with me.”
He’s quiet now, swaying on the spot. Torn, perhaps. Fight? Or flight?
“That day,” I say. “When you...” Why can’t I say the words? “When you—”
His hand slams against my throat. The back of my head clangs against the lamppost. His face screws in on itself. He drives all his weight into my neck.
I can’t breathe. My hands wrench at his forearm. It’s like an iron bar.
Clenched teeth an inch from me. “Don’t you ever, ever...”
I’m wrestling his arm. It’s no good. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Ringing in the ears. Blood in my neck, hammering against his grip.
Eyes like they’ll burst out of my face. He glares back. He doesn’t look like a murderer. Not even angry—not when I really look. He looks lost, panicked. More out of control than ever.
Vision swims. Sounds of traffic like they’re coming down a long tunnel.
No strength left to battle with the arm that strangles me.
But still, I stare him out. Make him look at me. Make him remember why it is he can’t cope with me.
He bends his elbow and thrusts me away from him. But he succeeds only in shoving me against the lamppost. The force, instead of pushing me over, unbalances him.
Time slows. It unfolds beat by beat. The unruliness of time shouldn’t surprise me.
Blake stumbles backward. His foot finds the edge of the curb rather than flat ground. Disorientated by rage, he staggers off balance into the lay-by, past the front of the parked van. His hands flail but don’t find a hold on the hood.
Each step with which he tries to right himself lands an instant too late.
My hands clutch my battered throat, knees so weak they are buckling under me.
In ultraslow motion, it becomes inevitable. The approaching car, at forty-plus, can’t see him because of the parked van. As Blake veers, arse-first, into the road, they won’t know he’s there till he’s on them.
His expression is fury, not fear. Unlike me, he can’t see the fate that awaits.
This man would see me dead given half the chance. He’s already had a good go at it.
From somewhere, I find the strength. I spring forward from my crouching start. In one stride I’m off the pavement and into the gap in front of the parked van.
I grab Blake’s shoulder. Throw my own weight backward. His trajectory is slowed. He sees the approaching car. Reflexes out a hand to grab my waist.
At the last instant the driver sees him, brakes and swerves. But they are too late.
The front wing strikes Blake’s hip. The door mirror slams against his thigh, exploding into a thousand shards.
But it’s clear as he clings to me: I’ve saved him from serious harm.
A blast of horn as the car drives away. A shout of dozy tosser from the open window.
I’m standing over him. He gazes up at me. Confused. He’s silent, can’t bring himself to ask the question. To ask why.
“I’m not like you, Blake,” I tell him, inches from his face.
The worst our enemies can do is turn us into them.
“It’s done now,” I tell him. “This never happens again.”
His nod, at first imperceptible, gathers conviction.
“I don’t want to hate you anymore,” I say. He is totally vulnerable beneath me, but this power brings no satisfaction. I feel nothing other than crushingly sorry for him—for the tortured kid who grew up to be a tortured man; for the person in front of me who’s spent a lifetime turning their fear into aggression, their confusion into hate. And suddenly I need to tell him: “I don’t hate you.” Because it’s true.
“And you need to stop hating me,” I tell him. “You understand me?” I care less than ever about my tears. They are no indicator of weakness.
Blake doesn’t speak, but there’s no argument in his expression.
“Maybe you need to stop hating yourself, yeah? We were kids, Blake. Just kids.”
His eyes widen—could be anger, or fear.
I’m crying so hard I can barely speak. “I don’t believe you set out to do what you did. I think it just...happened. I don’t think you...meant for that.”
Blake shakes his head. “I didn’t,” he says, a sharp whisper. “I never did.”
“You didn’t know what you were doing. Not really. I get that.”
“I never meant for it...”
“I get it. What happened, happened. Maybe I’m starting to deal with that. Time for you to do the same, yeah? Take some responsibility for the shit you’ve done in your life.” God knows I’m trying to.
He nods again and holds my gaze, and I can see that it’s over now.
“If we see each other again,” I tell him, “we walk on by, yeah? We’re done.”
“Yeah,” he eventually says.
I help him to his feet. He grimaces as he dusts shards of mirror from the bloodied graze on his hip.
“Looks nasty. Might be an idea to get it checked out,” I tell him as I turn to walk away.
In a daze I wander across the road to where the pub is. I’ve been gone barely ten minutes. Inside, Loz probably isn’t missing me yet.
I stand at the door. People walk past, do a double take at my scarlet face, bloodshot eyes, sheen of tears that still fall. The pub is uninviting now. My unopened ciggies have been battered and scrunched by the brawl. I toss them into a bin.
Slumped in a side alley, I call the only person I can bear to speak to. There’s a moment’s reluctance when I ask Mum if she can come and pick me up, and a suggestion she might need to run it past Dad. But then she seems to glean something from my tone and lowers her voice, says she’ll be right here.
Her old Fiesta still smells like the 1980s. A cassette of the Carpenters plays, worn and warbly. She stiffly pats my knee as we drive slowly through a twilit London and I sob in the passenger seat.
“Yesterday Once More” comes on. The song she sang me to sleep with. The song that—yesterday—we laid her to rest to.
“Can you stop the car please, Mum?” I ask.
She pulls over and shuts off the engine. I clamp my arms around her and bury my face against her hair. Over and over, I tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry.
At first stiff, she softens soon enough, hugging me back and stroking my hair and begging to know what’s wrong.
“I need help,” I’m eventually able to tell her. “Please help me, Mum.”
“Anything,” she says. “Absolutely anything.”
“I think I need to see someone. Talk to someone. Somebody who can help me work through a few things.”
“A professional?” she says. “A...counselor?”
“I think so.”
She nods. “Okay. We can do that, I’m sure.”
“I was... I was...”
Mum squeezes my hand between both of hers.
“I was...abused. A long time ago. But I think I need some...help.”
She hugs me again, harder than she ever has before.
At the uttering of those words, I sense something shift. Like a basement in my soul being opened up to the air and the sunlight; no difference to the damp and the rot right now, but the ventilation and the warming beginning.
Dr. Defrates’s words are in my mind, reminding me that change has to be made whilst you still know change is possible.
“And I need help with the drinking,” I tell her.
I can feel her nodding against my head. Her tears meet mine.
“Even tonight,” I say, “I told myself I could have one or two, like normal people do. And I can’t. And you know the worst thing, Mum? I don’t even enjoy it. I do it because I can’t not. I’ve got an addiction, Mum. There’s no point trying to deny it. I can’t be bothered to be ashamed of it. I’m an alcoholic, Mum.”
“I’ll help you get everything you need,” she says. “I promise you.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can do it on my own.”
“It’s okay, Alex.”
“I know I can’t, actually.”
“Don’t worry,” she whispers, over and over.
We sit in her car, listening to the Carpenters, till well after dark. “It’s going to be all right,” she tells me.
And I dare to believe her.
APRIL 2, 2020 | AGE 44
Panic Room
I’m in hell. Where else could this be?
Huge room with no windows. Dazzling yellow lights. Much too bright. Head pounds, brain bursting out of skull.
Everywhere, frantic movement. And also, abject inactivity. People run, head to foot in blue plastic, no faces. And some lie facedown on beds. Plastic trunking plumbed to their heads like they’re components in a machine. Screens, cables, cylinders. Not a square inch of floor visible. Bleeps, hisses, ringing phones. Stench of disinfectant. But something else too. Like meat, and waste. Death, I suppose.
No strength to raise myself from this chair. Arms won’t respond, bouncing limply on my thighs. Gushing mask strapped to my face. Mist beneath my eyes. What are they making me breathe? Can’t be air—so short on oxygen I’m panting. I find the strength, wrestle the mask aside, elastic tangling round my ears.
Straightaway, one of the plastic-clad people is on me. “Please...” a voice says behind a plastic face shield and a 3M dust mask. Looks at bracelet on my wrist. “Please, Alex. For your own good. Don’t keep pulling it off.”
Again, the tarpaulin over the entrance is swept aside. Huge letters on the wall outside, handwritten, black marker pen:
COVID-19 PATIENTS ONLY.
Another bed in, at speed. Two more wheelchairs too. There’s no room. Why do they keep coming?
Where the fuck am I? What is this place? What the hell is going on?
A display near my head. Figures in red. Heart 144 BPM. Sats 81%. BP 90/45.
Today so far is a mess. Drifting in and out of consciousness. Where did I wake up? A bed somewhere, no idea where. A place I’ve been before, or not? I don’t know.
Ambulance in the street. Did I call them? No clue.
Next thing I’m here. Don’t remember the journey. Like magic.
I’ve been in hospitals before. They are nothing like this.
Flurry of activity at the bed nearest to me. Body turned faceup. Crowd gathers round. One of them jumps onto the bed, thumps ribs. Pumps at chest. There are other people here like me, conscious enough to watch. Faces of horror. How close are we to being on those beds? To having someone try to beat us back to life? Or finish us off.
They pump slower now. Defeat seeping through the crowd. Hand on the have-a-go hero’s shoulder. Enough now. Tubes unplugged. Bed on the move. Space taken within the minute.
Next to me, a man. Sixty perhaps, no more. An iPhone is held in front of him by staff. There’s a face on the screen, a younger woman. He’s been crying all the time I’ve been here, but he stops now. Smiles, convincing. Draws enough breath for a short sentence. Says he’ll be fine. Promises. Needs some help breathing, that’s all. Sedation, the woman in the plastic interjects. Ventilator. Be right as rain. Don’t worry. But I love you. You make me proud every day of my life. Never ever forget that. Promise me you’ll remember what I’ve said. But I’ll be fine.
Her response, whispered, drowned out by the screams of a woman four beds away. “Leave me alone.” “Get away from me.” “Fucking cunts.” Takes four staff to restrain her.
Tarpaulin swept open again. Another bed, a walking wounded this time. More space will come clear soon enough, I guess.
How long have I been here? Ten minutes? Three hours? Something like that.
Rest my heavy eyes. Open them. Someone is crouching in front of me, shrouded head to toe. Have they been there long? Head level with mine. Must be news.
It’s a man. Bright eyes, dark skin. Points at a sign stuck to his apron, written in pink highlighter:
HELLO MY NAME IS SAMUEL, CONSULTANT, CRITICAL CARE.
Big, smiley self-portrait.
Heavy latex hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Alex, my man?” Focused on me alone, ignoring the chaos. How?
Go to say I’m okay. No sound makes it past the mask, keeping me honest.
“I think you need a little more help,” he tells me. “You feel a bit confused, yes? Anxious?”
I nod. Understatement.
“You are still quite hypoxic. We need to fight this virus a little harder. We need to get you on a bed. Need to rest you down on your front.”
