Chris Cleave Ebook Boxed Set (62 page)

I looked back in the mirror. I am Petra Sutherland I said. This season’s colours are jade and tan and burgundy. I had one of Petra’s
Sunday Telegraph
articles on the table in front of me. I was practicing talking posh. Talking posh is like anything else Osama you can get used to it pretty quick. The trick is to read one of Petra’s sentences aloud and then straight away say something of your own. It’s an effort but you can trick your brain into doing it. Like when me and my husband used to bump start the Astra. I picked up Petra’s article and I read aloud.

—At a basic level the democratisation of high fashion is demonstrated by the hipster boot-cut pant, which is now the most common trouser shape.

I watched my lips in the mirror.

—At a basic level the democratisation of Petra Sutherland is demonstrated by the fact that I am her.

I smiled. The more I practiced the better I got. You should try it yourself Osama. This season’s bloodbaths will be crimson and carmine and scarlet.

—I am Petra Sutherland. It is September now and the faces on the balloons of the Shield of Hope have faded. The summer sun turned them pale and now one has the impression that London is defended by ghosts.

I shook Petra’s head at myself in the mirror. She wouldn’t of said ghosts she would of said spectres. There’s a difference. I tried again.

—I am Petra Sutherland and my city is protected by spectres.

There it was. I smiled.

—I am Petra Sutherland and my city is protected by spectres and my boyfriend is on a cocaine-fuelled downward spiral but I must remain cheerful.

I tried a cheerful smile in the mirror. I almost fooled myself.

—I am Petra Sutherland. I am wearing chestnut corduroys. I am wearing a bolero jacket with frilly ruffs. I am wearing myself out through overwork. I set off for the paper at the crack of dawn and I don’t come back until late. I find I am happiest in the office up to my neck in fabric swatches and freelancers’ copy. I have started to rather dread coming home. Jasper has turned into something ghastly. He neglects himself. He has to be goaded into the bath like a sheep reluctant to be dipped. His behaviour is monstrous and unpredictable. The morning after a really big night he cowers in bed with the pillows over his head crying like a baby. When he has sufficiently recovered he will get up and mooch around the house. He will smash crockery and guzzle coffee and sometimes even make an appearance at the paper. Where he is increasingly unwelcome. His column has followed him downhill. His words are not words any more they are 800 bared teeth. His column is a snarl against anything and anyone that is not Jasper Black. It can’t be long before the paper drops him.

—I am Petra Sutherland. People at the paper have started to talk. Or more exactly they have stopped. Conversations falter when I join them. Subjects are changed. The weather has taken a turn for the worse lately hasn’t it?

My lip gloss was smudged. It was the way her mouth twisted when she talked about Jasper. I wiped off the smudge with a cotton ball and started again.

—I am Petra Sutherland and the girl hasn’t helped. I don’t know what I was thinking. I remember hoping that once he had her up close Jasper would see how dreadfully bloody ordinary she was. But she has failed to bore either one of us. Jasper paws at her bedroom door at night. She won’t let him in because she’s mooning over some policeman. And then one night I walked in on her in the bathroom. On the edge of the tub her candles were burning down to stumps and she was lying quite still in the water. When she heard the door open she just stared up at me. I should have left. I stepped inside and locked the bathroom door behind me.

I had my eyes closed. I was remembering Petra forgetting herself. I heard a noise and I opened my eyes and gasped. Jasper was standing behind me. His reflection was watching mine in Petra’s dressing table mirror. His stubble was thick and black and his eyes were very small in their puffy white rings of skin. He looked like a dying panda. He was wearing grey boxer shorts and black socks. Nothing else. He was starting to get a bit of a gut I noticed. When he spoke his voice was empty like a toy without batteries.

—Hello Petra, he said. I’d have thought you’d have been on your way to work by now.

I froze. I couldn’t think what to say so I didn’t say anything. Jasper came closer. He put his hands on my shoulders and I jumped. He smelled of nightmares and stale smoke from Camel Lights.

—Oh come on Petra, he said. Don’t I even get a hello?

I looked at him in the mirror. He looked straight back at me and his eyes were as empty as his voice. You could tell he was mainly thinking about finding the Neurofen. I took a deep breath. I made sure I got Petra’s voice just right. Cold and hurt.

—Hello Jasper. I imagined you wouldn’t be awake for hours.

—Uh, said Jasper.

He walked into the bathroom and started going through the medicine cabinet. I heard him throwing packets of stuff on the floor. I stood up from Petra’s dressing table and followed him into the bathroom.

—Oh darling I can’t bear to watch you suffer.

I found the Neurofen and passed him the shiny silver box. He closed his hand over mine and he looked at me.

—Have you done your hair or something? he said.

I shook my head no.

—You look different, he said.

—It’s your hangover. I’m just the same.

Jasper screwed up his eyes.

—Hangover, he said. That’s what I have. It feels as if the world is
ending. It feels as if mice have got into my neurons and chewed off all the electrical insulation.

He rubbed his chin.

—Oh god, he said. I was a total cunt again last night wasn’t I?

—No Jasper last night you were just ordinarily awful. You’ve been high for 3 days. The night you really were a total cunt was -Saturday.

—What did I do? he said.

—You wouldn’t believe me even if I showed you the bruises.

Jasper groaned and sat down on the floor.

—Jesus Petra, he said. I’m sorry. I’m completely fucked.

—We’ll talk about it when I get home from work.

—Talk about it? he said. I know what that means. You’re going to leave me aren’t you? Please don’t. If you leave me Petra I think I’ll go mad I really do.

His eyes were darting about all panicked and I wished I hadn’t pretended in the first place now. I put my real voice back on.

—It’s alright Jasper it’s only me.

Jasper looked up at me and blinked.

—Petra’s gone to New York. Remember?

He opened his eyes wide then closed them quick. I suppose the light hurt them.

—Oh, he said. You.

—Yeah. Come on. Get up.

—Jesus Christ.

He stood up and went to the sink and ran the cold tap and popped 4 Neurofens out of the pack and swallowed them. He stood there with the tap still running and looked at himself in the mirror above the basin.

—Bad Jasper, he said.

He stood there looking at himself a long time. I don’t know what he was looking for. Maybe something funny to say but he seemed so sad. I went up behind him and I turned the tap off. I put my arms
around his tummy and I put the side of my face against his back. He didn’t move he just started crying. It wasn’t much. Just some tiny sobs. He wasn’t making a fuss. I stroked his tummy.

—Thanks, he said.

—You’re alright. You’ll feel better in a minute.

—There you go again, he said. Why can’t Petra be more like that?

—I reckon she’s too busy earning the money you’re putting up your nose.

—Petra doesn’t give a shit about me, he said. She doesn’t care. I wish she’d just go.

I smiled at him in the mirror.

—No you don’t. Who’d have you then?

—You would, said Jasper.

—Don’t be daft.

—Why not?

—Listen Jasper you’re an alright bloke but you’ve got to pull yourself together and let me make a new start.

Jasper turned round and put his hand on my bum and started stroking my neck with his other hand.

—So why not make a new start with me? he said.

—Cause you smell of death and I’m late for work.

He took a step back and stood there scowling at me in his socks and boxers.

—You’re still seeing that policeman aren’t you? he said. Mr. Timberlands.

—Yeah. I’m seeing him today.

—Isn’t he married?

—We go to a hotel. Monday lunchtimes.

—How romantic.

—Says Prince Charming.

I looked Jasper up and down and Jasper looked at the floor.

—It’s this godforsaken world, he said. It’s brought me down.

—Nah Jasper it’s the coke bringing you down. You ought to try looking on the bright side.

—Ah yes, he said. The bright side. Every week I have to write 800 words about a world that’s turning to rat shit but never fear dear
Telegraph
readers because the bright side is that we can all watch the world turning to rat shit on our plasma TVs while we enjoy our ebullient housing market and our preemptive action against tyranny.

Jasper spun round and smashed the side of his hand into the mirror above the basin. A big ugly star of cracks spread across it.

—Oi! Calm down will you?

—How exactly am I meant to calm down? he said. There is no fucking bright side. Barrage balloons go up over the city? Let’s do DIY! Curfew keeping us cooped up indoors?
Big Brother
’s ratings soar! How do we react when they intern the Muslims? Who cares when this year’s hot new thing is threesomes!

—Jasper. Listen to yourself.

Jasper stared at me and suddenly laughed. It was a horrible laugh.

—God I’m sorry, he said. You’re right. I’m ranting again. Listen you don’t have any coke do you?

—You know I don’t.

—No, he said. Of course you don’t. Still. No harm in asking.

He sniffed. He wiped his nose with his hand all cut from the mirror. Blood dripped down onto his lips. It was real blood. It wasn’t just in my head for once I didn’t know whether to be sad or happy about that. The blood ran down onto his teeth while he talked.

—People have forgotten the horror, he said. Do you remember the noise of the explosion?

—Don’t.

—It rattled the windows, said Jasper. It echoed and echoed through the streets. I can still hear it in my head. And then there was your face. Your poor little face when you started to realise. That’s horror. You realising you had no one left to grill fish fingers for. That’s what it all boils down to after all the politicking and the posturing and the 800 balanced words from pompous cunts like me. Horror.

Jasper turned round and held on to both sides of the basin. He dropped his head and blood dripped on the white enamel. I took him by the wrists and I led him out of the bathroom into the bedroom. He was muttering.

—Sleep Jasper. Try to get some sleep now there’s a good boy.

I wrapped a towel round his cut hand and I tucked the duvet in around him. I stroked his hair.

—Hush now my darling boy. Hush.

He closed his eyes and I sat with him for the longest time till he seemed to sleep. His eyeballs rolled under the eyelids. His fingers twitched. There were broken things in his dreams and they were after him. I went and fetched Mr. Rabbit out of my bag and I tucked him in next to Jasper. Mr. Rabbit always was good for nightmares. I sat there for a long time stroking Jasper’s hair. You never really lose the habit of looking after a boy I suppose it’s like riding a bicycle. Or cleaning a Kalashnikov if that rings more of a bell Osama I mean who the hell knows what a boy like you got up to after school?

When Jasper was calm and still I went back to Petra’s dressing table. I put her earrings back in the drawer. I used her makeup remover and a cotton pad and I scrubbed her face off mine. I took her clothes off and hung them in her wardrobe. I took off her bra and her knickers and I put them back in her drawers and I stood there naked and shivering. The clock said 8:45 a.m. It was time to put my own life back on.

* * *

I was late in at work that morning and I wasn’t the only one. The buses weren’t running properly and mine just didn’t turn up at all. Something to do with bomb scares left a hundred of us waiting in the cold grey rain on Bethnal Green Road. There are so many bomb scares now. You can’t leave a ciggie butt unattended these days without someone coming and doing a controlled explosion on it.

Everyone was late for work and complaining to people on their mobiles. Loudly so that the rest of us could all get an earful. People
took it in turns. That’s how the English have a good moan these days Osama. Heaven forbid we should actually grumble to our neighbours in the bus queue. We’re not like you hot-blooded Arab types. That’s what Terence would of said. It’s the climate you see. It’s the rain on Bethnal Green Road that makes Britain great and I stood in it for half an hour before I gave up and walked to the tube and the tube was closed too so it was your typical bloody London good morning.

There was nothing for it I had to walk to work 5 miles through the rain and the 3 million other people whose buses hadn’t come. It was a struggle I don’t mind telling you. I don’t know what it is with London and umbrellas it’s like everyone’s trying to have your eye out. Rain makes us vicious. People were bumping into each other and giving it the old lip and stepping into puddles and all the traffic was jammed and as if all that wasn’t enough it was effing Monday wasn’t it.

Halfway along the Embankment I saw this man lose it. He was crossing too close in front of a bus and the bus driver hit the horn. The man jumped back and dropped his briefcase and it burst open. His computer and his papers and all his little gadgets fell out into a puddle. The man crouched down and started trying to grab all his stuff up but the crowds didn’t give him a chance they just carried on walking on his papers and his iPod and his fingers. OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE the man was shouting. CAN’T YOU FUCKING ROBOTS GIVE ME A CHANCE HERE? HAVEN’T YOU HEARD THIS IS MEANT TO BE A CIVILISED FUCKING COUNTRY?

A few of the crowd gave him this look like civilisation was one thing and Monday morning was another. OH BOLLOCKS TO ALL OF YOU THEN shouted the man. He stood up and he was holding the one thing he’d managed to pick up off the road and it was his biro. The end of it was smashed and black ink was running down his hand and spreading down his white shirtsleeve with the rain. The man lifted his face up into the sky then and just screamed BOLLOCKS TO THIS! BOLLOCKS TO BOMB SCARES! BOLLOCKS
TO THE TERRORISTS AND BOLLOCKS TO THE POLICE AND BOLLOCKS TO COMMUTING!