Friction (16 page)

‘They've said it's a girl,' says Melissa, her suspicions growing as Colin's eyes shut with desire. He waits for touch down. Seconds happen. ‘I was really hoping for a little boy,' she says.

But Colin can't hear. There should be an almighty hiss as his hands connect with her belly, but there isn't. No sound at all. The palms of his hands. Her body. The baby girl. Melissa's stomach is like an African drum: a bongo, pig skin pulled taut across wood. But hot, hot and wet. A greenhouse in summer. Colin circulates both his hands around her stomach, fingers erect and stretched apart, adapting to the contours of this stack of skin, sliding everywhere in her sweat.

His hands move all over her because they must. They must know every part of this flesh. Around her extruded belly button, around the seams of her stomach where the stretched skin disappears and the soft, silk-like sensation begins. Colin's fingers reach the summit of her belly, then come skiing down, right to where her body levels out and his wrists scrape along the prickly waistband of her underwear. Then down, further, down, of course. Colin, who doesn't touch women, runs his fingers lightly over Melissa's knickers, feeling the tendony, featherlike contents. Then back up, over the belly and down to her breasts which seem muscular and strained. He kneads them until they feel free and mobile. The charity. The healer.

His eyes stare down at the ground, then directly at Melissa's face which appears more alert than at ease. For Colin, all this can never be enough. He brings his leg down from the bed, pauses for a second then bows forward, head first under the covers. Hot air is gassing his mouth, like he's not breathing at all but suffocating. It's pitch black and steamy. He pushes his cheek up against Melissa's body, skids his lips around and around her stomach, wetting his entire face in her perspiration. Drinking it. This is it, something; a feeling, hot flesh, a lovely feeling. Desire. Confusion. He wants this, wants this magic for ever. He is gasping with pleasure.

‘Colin, stop.'

A muffled noise. A voice from outside the covers, not Melissa's. Shit. And oh fuck. Colin pauses, closing his eyes, pressing their lids against stretched skin.

‘Colin, stop.'

Colin edges out slowly, lifting the cover back over his head and placing it down by Melissa's side. His eyes are
reddening. His hair is disturbed and sticks out in strange directions. His mouth is open, lips rendered indistinct by perspiration.

‘Get the fuck out of here,' whispers Deaks, as if he'd rather be shouting at the top of his voice. What have I done wrong? thinks Colin, despairing. He'd massaged her, that's all, that's what she wanted. What the fuck is he complaining about?

‘Get out of here, Colin. I'll deal with it,' says Deaks, touching Melissa on the shoulder and gesturing towards the glowing EXIT sign above the door. Colin ignores him and stares at Melissa. She's fucking fine. What is his problem? He half expects Melissa to leap to his defence, say she was enjoying it and ask Deaks what the fuck his problem is. But she doesn't. She's just staring at Deaks, a look on her face like she's just been dunked by bastards into an ice-cold swimming pool. Colin leaves in silence.

It's five minutes before the text message from Deaks comes in. It tells Colin to meet him at the Wishing Well. Neutral territory, away from the doctors and their large and effective ears. It's another five minutes until Deaks is sitting down in the Wishing Well opposite Colin. No food or drink. What the fuck is his problem?

‘Well, what was that about, Colin?' says Deaks, tapping an unlit fag on to the grey tabletop. Colin says nothing. ‘She said you felt her fucking tits. Do you have any idea how careful I have to be? How much trouble we'd be in if a woman complained?' Again, Colin elects not to reply. He's thinking about his school days in Stretford; the relentless bollockings, the speechless lust, rushing home to wank
into a sports sock. Ha, his innards crease into a smile. The pretty-shitness of life. The painted veil. He looks up at Deaks, who exhales melodrama: ‘She said you tried to finger her.'

‘She's lying,' Colin replies, leaning back on his chair, looking around the cafeteria. A few tired people wait for news of life or death. It's a grey area: Deaks massages the women, helps them but also helps himself. He needs the women and they need him. It's convenient. But, of course, he can't take it as far as he'd like. He can't fuck them or wank over them directly. He sticks within certain boundaries, so as to make it all last: his life, his sanity, his caring sessions with the women.

At an adjacent table, a gingernut in a yellow dressing gown burps horrendously. Colin and Deaks share a glance, then listen as she spews a pink mess on to the table. There's a commotion involving endless reams of paper towels and the drip-drip of sick on to the floor. The mood changes and Deaks leans in towards Colin sympathetically.

‘You have to take what you can get in this life, Colin. If you can't fuck pregnant women, then you do the next best thing: you touch them and care for them.'

‘I don't want to have sex with them,' says Colin, watching the sickly gingernut being led away at snail's pace. It's true, he doesn't want to have sex with a pregnant woman. It's fascination, only fascination.

But Deaks is not convinced: ‘Bullshit,' he barks. ‘I saw you under the covers. The feeling of fucking the already fucked is the feeling that has changed my life.'

Colin flicks his head violently to one side and performs an exaggerated swallow. Deaks smiles an unhappy smile.

‘They let me do it sometimes, you know? Once a year or
so, a woman comes along who wants it. Imagine that. I can't afford to lose my chance. That's why you messing around tonight is so serious.'

An enormous tea urn blows steam from its loose-fitting lid. There is a smell of old food. Colin notices a few drops of pink vomit that the sleepy staff neglected to clean up. He can't imagine having sex with a heavily pregnant woman. Partly because he's unimaginative, and partly because the prospect of such pointless touching makes his lips scrunch with upset terror. ‘Why?' he says. ‘Why do you fuck them, Deaks?'

Deaks's smile widens. His teeth are bared. ‘Because I really, really want to,' he begins. ‘It's a feeling I have. A desire. The same reason your hair is dripping in that girl's sweat.'

Instinctively, Colin spikes his hair with his hand. It stands on end. His eyes are open wide and bright. It's uncommon for Colin to speak to anyone and he feels unusual, like a new person. He even feels a little more normal, despite the fact he's in a hospital cafeteria discussing the merits of sex with pregnant women. Deaks continues to persuade.

‘Everybody has their fetish, Colin. Chances are you're beginning to find your own.'

‘No,' Colin replies. He stares at the cheap tabletop and senses that, deep down, he'd rather be dead. Better to be dead than staring at this tabletop. He slams his hands down and stands up. Deaks's head bows and Colin fights the temptation to bring many plates smashing down on to his crown. Colin grimaces and breathes. Words drop from his mouth like a slow strand of thick spit.

‘I feel . . . that it's not sex . . . It's like I've just discovered
the origin of myself and the rest of us . . . and it was innocent . . . and I'm surprised.'

It's three-thirty on Monday morning and this is a black and sooty world. The lights of the cafeteria appear to be locked in a process of dimming. Getting darker and darker. This plastic room contains not a single drop of natural light. It's just a space that humans have locked themselves in to eat, drink and wait on news of the sick. The air isn't air at all, but a liquid that we bob about in.

Colin, who is certain he doesn't wish to make love to a pregnant woman, but is nonetheless fascinated by their concept, is leaving the hospital. He's working his way down flights and flights of steps. Outside, the air is iced glass; splintering slowly and dramatically all around. There is the possibility of snowfall, Colin stamps his stone feet on the stone ground, searching for the light of traffic and the bus home.

And, of course, the early morning lights of the city begin to glow and nudge at the blacked-out windows of the bus. And, of course, the bus contains people. Tired ones, for whom the scrolling red and blue lights of Rusholme are like a dream; the types of shapes and colours you see when you shut your eyes.

Colin's pale-blue bedroom is almost certainly both cold and odorous. But, in truth, it seems to simply stink of a disgusting coldness. Like it's entirely unified, bound by frost and sharp ice. He picks his way across the warzone floor. It's no man's land at Christmas; cheerful and still, but bloodstained by battle. His wet bedsheets work against the warming instincts of his body. Oh, it's winter and it's always so cold. He brings his legs up into
his body so his knees are resting just below his chin. He shivers, remembering the warmth of Melissa's belly, picturing her lying in that hospital bed. He falls into her sleep.

SHE WON'T COME,
thinks Johnny. There's no way she'll come. He's sitting in one of Withington's fashionable bars, frequented by second-year students and reluctant estate agents. The walls of the bar have had large planks of dark wood grafted on to them. They're decorated in memorabilia: old football pennants, photos of forgotten movie stars, oil paintings of an older world. Or rather, a younger world. Yes, a younger world, of course. We are an ancient civilisation, the eldest and weariest society. Johnny feels old and indifferent.

It's a terrible sign that Rebecca is already fifteen minutes late. It's a terrible sign that Johnny has already finished the cup of tea he ordered on arrival. The waitress, who seems simplistic and happy, is eyeing him carefully. Does he require more tea? Johnny hasn't met Rebecca in a while. After that day at the park, they saw less and less of each other. He phoned her, but she was always busy with university or whatever. In the three months that have passed, Johnny has lost his grip on the society of enjoyment, casual coffee and laughter. He's so upset.

She should come, thinks Johnny, she really should come. She'd texted him yesterday, they'd agreed to meet here. The text came as a surprise to Johnny, a pleasant one: is it finally time to forgive? He takes a moment to arrange the empty mug, the miniature teapot and the jug of milk neatly to one side of the table. There is a rose in a sleek glass vase. There is an old and cold chip.

‘Would you like another cup of tea?'

‘No thanks, I'm fine for the moment.'

‘Would you like to see a menu?'

‘No.'

Since the incident with the porn mag and Zakir's hasty departure, Johnny has been entirely alone. Thinking back, his life casually fell to pieces in a matter of hours. Two jokes, one about a twat and the other involving a surprise porno, were all it took to make him alone and pessimistic about the fifty or sixty years that may indeed be ahead of him. A birthday had passed by, his twenty-first. His mother had sent a card: the only evidence of his getting older and older.

One thing stands between Johnny and an undeniably gloomy life: pornography. The helpfulness of pornography cannot be exaggerated; it has temporarily saved him. During a phase in his life when time threatened to pass out at the steering wheel, Johnny has been able to keep up with himself through the frequent purchase and enjoyment of porn. He has become a wanker. Pornography makes his life exciting. It fills his evenings with tension, glory and imagination. It is a reason to wake up and move about the city, to compile sexual data, attend lectures, shop. Pornography entirely makes up for the absence of friends.

Johnny's virginity is largely self-imposed, not by religion or anything foolish, it's simply a biological thing. Puberty
made a scarcely perceptible imprint on his brain. It half-heartedly decorated his body in wiry, insectile hair. But that was all. It failed to jerk his brain to life and fill it with the necessary shit. So for so long, girls had not been an issue. He'd not been strangled into sex like most of his peers, he had been a carefree and content young man. But this is no longer the case.

Since coming to university and being subjected to the finest and most nubile configurations of flesh and fabric, Johnny is a wreck. He's gasping for breath. His lack of experience with women and the untimely collapse of his relationship with Rebecca has left him lost for words. Pornography was the only route open to him and he has compiled quite a collection. To the Asian shopkeeper, he has become a phenomenal source of business and profit. At more light-hearted moments, he likes to imagine how her quality of life must have improved considerably since he began to purchase seven pornos a week from her. Perhaps she has a picture of him on her mantelpiece. Maybe her and her family thank him in prayer before each meal. He's paying their fucking rent; putting trainers on their feet and making them rich and happy. Johnny is great business.

Besides rejoicing in the seemingly endless line of girls who appear only too happy to remove their clothes and be photographed in a variety of poses, Johnny has become smitten with the activity of phone sex. Of course, it costs him a fortune in phone bills, but his diminished responsibility to lifestyle makes it affordable. Barely a day goes by when he doesn't find himself crouched over his magazines, phone in hand, wanking at speed. But wait – Rebecca.

‘Sorry I'm late.'

‘Rebecca.'

‘The bus was a nightmare, sorry. How are you?'

Rebecca's arrived and her face is glowing, a red traffic light on each cheek. She takes down her hood with its fake fur trim, removes her coat completely and sighs. Winter has stabbed her to life. She's breathless and glowing, eyes scanning the bar. Alert, clean and cold, she rubs her hands together vigorously and stares into Johnny's eyes.

‘It's been ages. What have you been up to?' she asks, taking a seat and examining the miniature teapot for signs of tea. Johnny begins fumbling around with the mug, convinced that, once again, he will inappropriately refer to a twat. Or a cunt.