Love in a Blue Time (19 page)

‘Sorry? Did I hear you right? I think I might have to kick your head in.’

‘Try it.’

This was the moment Vance had been waiting for. He took it slowly.

‘Not your head. Maybe I’ll break a few fingers, or an arm. It’ll be educational for you.’

Vance moved towards Rocco with his fists up. Rocco stood there. Bodger extended his arms between them.

‘But you can’t even fight,’ Vance told Rocco across Bodger. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do.’

‘No? Burger Queen – bring me some French fries too. Two French fries and a knickerbocker glory! Ha, ha ha!’

Vance said, ‘I’m tempted, but I’m not going to fight you now – because I might kill you. I’ll fight you tomorrow.’

‘I used to be a skinhead.’

‘Ha! See you tomorrow morning. On the Rim. No rules, skinhead.’

‘Bastard, I’m going to stick your head in a bun and eat it
with onions and relish! Ha, ha, ha!’

Vance smacked his fist into his palm. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to get damaged. Badly. Oh, oh, oh, you’re going to cry!’

‘Can’t wait,’ said Rocco. ‘And by the way, can I have a green salad on the side?’

A few drinks made Rocco feel even better. And when his mood declined he had only to recall Vance’s sneering face, manicured hands and Nigerian shirt to lift himself. How could a fool from a nothing place upset him? He would get the first punch in, and stamp on the bastard.

Teapot was in the pub and when Rocco told him about the fight they went into a field and practised karate kicks. It had been some time since Rocco had kicked anything but Lisa out of bed, and he kept tripping over even as he imagined his boot meeting Vance’s balls.

Struggling for breath, he got up and declared, ‘It’s desperation not technique that’s required. I’m going to rely on insanity.’

‘That’s right,’ said Teapot. ‘Go mental.’

‘Now fuck off.’

He was glad to be alone. But when it got dark he became uneasy. He wanted to be in bed, but knew the night would be sleepless. He would have to think about Vance and prepare the lies he had to tell to Lisa. It was better to go from pub to pub.

He had been doing this for some time when Teapot tracked him down.

‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ said the teenager. ‘Come here!’

Rocco tried to swat him away. ‘I’m saving my energy for tomorrow.’

Teapot almost picked him up and dragged him out of the pub. Rocco had no idea why Teapot should be in such a hurry. Teapot pushed him through the town’s narrow streets to the beach and along the wall. There, Teapot took his hand and told him to be quiet.

Bewildered, Rocco followed him, and was helped onto the top of the wall. They lay down; at a sign from the ever-helpful Teapot they peered over the top. In the gloom Rocco could see Moon lying with his head between a woman’s legs. Looking at the sky, she was humming to herself, as she liked to. He had imagined she only did that for him.

Bodger was ashamed of his outburst. He wanted to apologise to his friend and explain that fighting was childish.

Searching the pubs he stopped and sat down several times, recognising that it had been Rocco who’d insulted him and that he’d always done everything he could to help him.

When he opened the door of his house, Bodger heard Vance and Feather.

‘Tomorrow there’s going to be a fight,’ Vance declared. ‘We’re civilised people, but we want to beat each other’s brains to porridge. The strongest will triumph. Love and peace – out of the window! The thought of a fight – it’s frightening … but don’t we love it?’

Feather said, ‘Strength and wisdom aren’t the same.’

Bodger hurried in. ‘The weather will spoil everything anyway.’ He sat down. ‘We have to care for one another. Yes! Otherwise we lose our humanity.’

Vance went on, ‘We have the weak – people like Rocco – dominating the strong with their whingeing. They want others to do everything for them. But they will deplete our strength and drag us down. Selfishness, wanting something for oneself, is the law of reality. But if I benefit, others will benefit.’

Feather took all this equably. ‘Who says who is weak and who is strong, and in what sense?’

‘Him, presumably,’ said Bodger. ‘The new God enterprise.’

‘Get real,’ said Vance. ‘Half the people who drag themselves to your surgery are skivers. They watch soap operas day and night. Why should we spend valuable resources keeping them alive?’ He turned to Feather. ‘I hope you’re coming tomorrow.’

‘I’m a pacifist.’

He smacked his fist into his palm.

‘That’s just voluntary ignorance. You should come and see what life is like.’

Rocco lay on the sofa and became aware of an unusual clattering sound. Wondering if children had got in upstairs, he ran to the stairs. No, it couldn’t be that – the entire atmosphere had altered, as if there’d been a collision in space and the world would be extinguished. He moved to the window. The earth had turned grey. It was raining on the hard ground. Tonight surely, was the end of summer. The evenings would draw in; no one would lie on the beach or gather at the War Memorial; the coach parties and foreign tourists would leave. Only they would remain.

For most of his life, at this time of year, he would be returning to school, and a new term.

He remembered as a kid running into the garden with two girls and getting soaked. They had snuggled up to one another in fear. No longer was he afraid of thunderstorms and now he ruined girls. Never had he planted one tree and never had he denied himself the opportunity to say something cutting or cruel, but he’d only wrecked everything.

Already aching from the exercises he had attempted with Teapot, he would feel worse tomorrow. What did it matter? He would encourage Vance to do him in, not only to break his arms – which wouldn’t affect his brain – but to destroy his spirit and remaining hopes. It would be a relief.

It seemed not long after that Teapot turned up with his
motorbike and spare helmet. He and Rocco smoked some of Moon’s Mellow Wednesday, practised some kicks, and went off.

Lisa had returned as it was getting light and had fallen asleep on the sofa with a coat over her. Rocco kissed her face and smoothed her hair.

There had been a moment – Moon was lapping between her legs and her mind was running free – when she’d projected herself into the future and looked back. She saw that these people, like the teachers and children at her first school – all pinches, curses, threats and boisterous power – were in retrospect just pathetic or ordinary, and nothing to be afraid of. She knew, at that moment, that she had already left.

When she thought of what she’d been through she didn’t know how she hadn’t gone mad. Her own strength surprised her. How much more of it might she have?

Feather rose early, meditated restlessly, and started out with a rucksack and stick. Why was she going? It was ridiculous for a pacifist to be present at such an event. But she was curious. She thought of Rocco. He had suffered; he understood something about life; he liked people. There was no cruelty in him; yet he fucked everyone up. And the person he made suffer the most was himself.

She stopped on the way to eat and drink; she washed in a rain-filled stream. For a change the air was moist. She wondered why this journey wasn’t more enjoyable and when she sat and thought about it she realised she was tired of being alone; it was time to find a lover, particularly with winter on its way.

The others drove as far as they could and then walked up the chalk downs, until they could see the town in the distance, and the sea beyond.

She was walking up the Rim when a car approached. It was Karen, who was distressed. But Feather didn’t want a lift.

She walked to the very top, a flat area with a pagan pedestal. The first thing she saw was Vance unpacking new running shoes. He wore sweatbands around his head and wrists, a singlet and a pair of shorts. Rocco hadn’t given a thought to what he would wear, and had turned up in his ordinary clothes. He noticed that Bodger had arrived, but refused to acknowledge him.

Teapot rushed over to Vance. ‘Please, Mr Vance, Rocco’s terrified. He’s shaking all over. Don’t hurt him. He’s had some Mellow Wednesday. You can’t beat up a man in that condition.’

‘I’ll teach him a lesson,’ said Vance, hawking and spitting. ‘After the beating he’ll be an improved person.’

‘Look at him.’

Vance glanced over at Rocco and guffawed. ‘He’s disgusting, it’s true. But that doesn’t change anything.’

Teapot said, ‘And he’s upset.’

‘So?’

Bodger was standing nearby with his doctor’s bag. ‘What about?’

‘He saw his girlfriend being fucked – last night.’

‘Who by?’

Teapot leaned towards them. ‘Moon.’

Bodger went pale.

Across the way, practising his kicks and trying to make himself usefully mad, Rocco twisted his ankle. Teapot helped him up, but Rocco could barely walk and, when everyone was ready, Teapot had to cart him to the fighting place. Rocco stood there on one foot, breathing laboriously.

Karen stood a few feet away, tugging at her hair. She was watching her husband but seemed, also, to be thinking about something else.

Vance was dancing around and when he turned away to
give Karen the thumbs up, Rocco, windmilling an arm as he’d seen guitarists do, took a tremendous swing at him, which missed. Then he hobbled towards Vance and attempted a flying kick.

Rocco collapsed and lay there shouting, ‘Beat me, Burger Queen. Kick my head in. Kick, kick, kick!’

‘Get up. I’m not ready yet. Get up, I said!’

Vance reached out a hand to him, and Rocco got up. Then he tried, once more, to attack Vance who danced around him until, taking aim, he landed a nice punch in the centre of Rocco’s face. Rocco fell down and Vance bestrode him, picking up his arm and bending it back over his knee. Rocco refused even to whimper but his face was screaming.

Bodger, with his hand over his mouth, murmured, ‘Don’t, don’t …’

‘A fight’s a fight, ain’t it?’ said Vance.

‘Please, Vance, you’re just making more work for me.’

‘Kill me, kill me, Queen,’ begged Rocco.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Vance. ‘I’m on my way.’

Suddenly there was a sound from the bushes. Feather, naked but covered in dirt and mud, rushed screeching into the space and began to dance. Vance stared at her, as they all did, but decided to take no notice – until Feather took up a position in front of him and held up her hands.

‘I’m breaking my fingers,’ she said.

Vance continued his bending work.

Feather snapped her little finger and waved it at everyone.

‘Now the next,’ she said. ‘And the next.’

‘No, no, no!’ said Bodger.

‘What the hell is going on?’ cried Vance. ‘Get her out of here!’

Bodger rushed into the centre of the fight and threw himself on Vance.

Rocco had thought, somehow, that he would never get home again and had no idea that he’d be so glad to be back.
The books, records and pictures in his house and the light outside seemed new to him. He thought he might read, listen to music and then go and look at the sea. Vance had been right, the fight had done him good.

Lisa, pale and thin, didn’t understand why he was being so gentle. Somehow she had thought he would never come back. She was prepared for that. But he had returned.

He stroked her face and hair, looked into her eyes and said, ‘I’ve only got you.’

After, they sat in the garden.

It had been raining. A strong sea was running. It was early evening when Bodger, Feather and Vance came up the lane past Lisa and Rocco’s house. Bodger carried a couple of bottles of wine and Feather some other provisions. They were on their way to her place. She had arranged to massage both Bodger and Vance, but now her right hand was bandaged. All day Vance had been fussing around her, both contrite and annoyed, and kept touching her reassuringly, as if to massage her.

‘I’m not apologising to them,’ said Vance.

‘I wonder what they’re doing,’ said Feather. ‘Stop for a minute.’

‘Just for a second,’ said Bodger.

They all looked over the hedge.

‘Well, well,’ Vance said, ‘Who would have believed it?’

Rocco had dragged a couple of suitcases outside and was attempting to throw the contents – papers and notebooks – onto a shambolic bonfire. As the papers caught fire, the wind blew them across the garden. In the doorway Lisa, with a cardigan thrown over her shoulders, was folding her clothes and placing them in a pile. As they worked, she and Rocco chatted to one another and laughed.

‘It’s true,’ said Feather.

Bodger turned to Vance. ‘You’re a bloody fucking fool.’

Vance said, ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘This didn’t have to happen!’

Feather said, ‘Go and tell them.’

‘It’s too late,’ Vance said.

‘Tell me if this pleases you!’ Bodger cried. ‘Be glad then – and dance!’

‘Bodger, they’ve been wanting to get out for weeks. And I’m paying for it.’ Vance added, ‘It’s amazing, he’s actually doing something. And we’re left behind.’

He turned and saw Moon scurrying up the lane, calling out, ‘I’m not too late, am I?’

‘You’re always late, you little shite. Who’s minding the shop?’

‘Vance, please,’ said Moon. ‘I’ve shut it for a few minutes.’

‘Get back there and open up – before I open you up!’

Moon looked over the hedge. Vance was about to grab him when Feather gave him a look; Vance noticed that Moon was crying under his shades.

Rocco had seen them by now, but he didn’t look up. He stood by the fire flinging balls of paper into the flames.

Wearing her black dress and straw hat Lisa stood in the doorway smiling. In a strange, abstract motion, she raised her flat hand and waved to all of them. Vance turned and walked away up the lane, lowering his head and shoulders into the wind. Lisa went back into the house. Without moving, the others stood in a line watching Rocco until it began to drizzle and the fire went out. At last they went away, wondering what they would do now. It was raining hard.

One morning after a disturbed night, a year after they moved into the flat, and with their son only a few months old, Baxter goes into the box-room where he and his wife have put their wardrobes, opens the door to his, and picks up a pile of sweaters. Unfolding them one by one, he discovers that they all appear to have been crocheted. Not only that, the remaining threads are smeared with a viscous yellow deposit, like egg yolk, which has stiffened the remains of the ruined garments.

He shakes out the moths or flies that have gorged on his clothes, and stamps on the tiny crisp corpses. Other flies, only stupefied, dart out past him and position themselves on the curtains, where they appear threateningly settled, just out of reach.

Baxter hurriedly rolls up the clothes in plastic bags, and, retching, thrusts them into the bottom of a dustbin on the street. He goes to the shops and packs his wardrobe with fly killer; he sprays the curtains; he disinfects the rugs. He stands in the shower a long time. With water streaming down him nothing can adhere to his skin.

He doesn’t tell his wife about the incident, thinking, at first, that he won’t bother her with such an unimportant matter. He has, though, spotted flies all over the flat, which his wife, it seems, has not noticed. If he puts mothballs in his pockets, and has to mask this odour with scents, and goes about imagining that people are sniffing as he passes them, he doesn’t care, since the attack has troubled him.

He wants to keep it from himself as much as from her. But at different times of the day he needs to check the wardrobe, and suddenly rips open the door as if to surprise an intruder. At night he begins to dream of ragged bullet-shaped holes chewed in fetid fabric, and of creamy white eggs hatching in darkness. In his mind he hears the amplified rustle of gnawing, chewing, devouring. When this wakes him he rushes into the box-room to shake his clothes or stab at them with an umbrella. On his knees he scours the dusty corners of the flat for the nest or bed where the contamination must be incubating. He is convinced, though, that while he is doing this, flies are striking at the bedsheets and pillows.

When one night his wife catches him with his nose against the skirting board, and he explains to her what has happened, she isn’t much concerned, particularly as he has thrown away the evidence. Telling her about it makes him realise what a slight matter it is.

He and his wife acquired the small flat in a hurry and consider themselves fortunate to have it. For what they can afford, the three rooms, with kitchen and bathroom, are acceptable for a youngish couple starting out. Yet when Baxter rings the landlord to enquire whether there have been any ‘outbreaks’ before, he is not sympathetic but maintains they carried the flies with them. If it continues he will review their contract. Baxter, vexed by the accusation, counters that he will suspend his rent payments if the contagion doesn’t clear up. Indeed, that morning he noticed one of his child’s cardigans smeared and half-devoured, and only just managed to conceal it from his wife.

Still, he does need to discuss it with her. He asks an acquaintance to babysit. They will go out to dinner. There was a time when they would have long discussions about anything – they particularly enjoyed talking over their first impressions of one another – so happy were they just to be together. As he shaves, Baxter reflects that since the birth of their child they have rarely been to the theatre or cinema, or
even to coffee shops. It has been months since they ate out. He is unemployed and most of their money has been spent on rent, bills, debts, and the child. If he were to put it plainly, he’d say that they can hardly taste their food; they can’t even watch TV for long. They rarely see their friends or think of making new ones. They never make love; or, if one of them wants to, the other doesn’t. Never does their desire coincide – except once, when, at the climax, the screams of their child interrupted. Anyhow, they feel ugly and their bodies ache. They sleep with their eyes open; occasionally, while awake, they are actually asleep. While asleep they dream of sleep.

Before the birth, they’d been together for a few months, and then serious lovers for a year. Since the child their arguments have increased, which Baxter imagines is natural as so much has happened to them. But their disagreements have taken on a new tone. There was a moment recently when they looked at one another and said, simultaneously, that they wished they had never met.

He had wanted a baby because it was something to want; other people had them. She agreed because she was thirty-five. Perhaps they no longer believed they’d find the one person who would change everything.

Wanting to feel tidy, Baxter extracts a suit from his wardrobe. He holds it up to the light on its hanger. It seems complete, as it did the last time he looked, a couple of hours before. In the bathroom his wife is taking longer than ever to apply her make-up and curl her hair.

While removing his shoes, Baxter turns his back. When he looks again, only the hanger remains. Surely a thief has rushed into the room and filched his jacket and trousers? No; the suit is on the floor, a small pyramid of charred ash. His other suits disintegrate at one touch. Flies hurl themselves at his face before chasing into the air.

He collects the ash in his hands and piles it on the desk he’s arranged in the box-room, where he has intended to study something to broaden his understanding of life now
that he goes out less. He has placed on the desk several sharpened but unused pencils. Now he sniffs the dirt and sifts it with the pencils. He even puts a little on his tongue. In it are several creamy ridged eggs. Within them something is alive, hoping for light. He crushes them. Soot and cocoon soup sticks to his fingers and gets under his nails.

Over dinner they drink wine, eat good food and look around, surprised to see so many people out and about, some of whom are smiling. He tells her about the flies. However, like him, she has become sarcastic and says she’s long thought it time he acquired a new wardrobe. She hopes the involuntary clear-out will lead to sartorial improvement. Her own clothes are invariably protected by various guaranteed ladies’ potions, like lavender, which he should try.

That night, tired by pettiness and their inability to amuse one another, she sits in the box-room and he walks the child up and down in the kitchen. He hears a cry and runs to her. She has unlocked her wardrobe to discover that her coats, dresses and knitwear have been replaced by a row of yellowish tatters. On the floor are piles of dead flies.

She starts to weep, saying she has nothing of her own left. She implies that it is his fault. He feels this too, and is ready to be blamed.

He helps her to bed, where the child sleeps between them. Just as they barely kiss now when they attempt love, he rarely looks into her eyes; but as he takes her arm, he notices a black fly emerge from her cornea and hop onto her eyelash.

Next morning he telephones a firm of exterminators. With unusual dispatch, they agree to send an Operative. ‘You need the service,’ they say before Baxter has described the symptoms. He and his wife obviously have a known condition.

They watch the van arrive; the Operative opens its rear doors and strides into their hall. He is a big and unkempt man, in green overalls, with thick glasses. Clearly not given to speaking, he listens keenly, examines the remains of their
clothes, and is eager to see the pyramidal piles of ash which Baxter has arranged on newspaper. Baxter is grateful for the interest.

At last the Operative says, ‘You need the total service.’

‘I see,’ says Baxter. ‘Will that do it?’

In reply the man grunts.

Baxter’s wife and the baby are ordered out Baxter runs to fetch a box in order to watch through the window.

The Operative dons a grey mask. A transparent bottle of greenish liquid is strapped to his side. From the bottle extends a rubber tube with a metal sieve on the end. Also feeding into the sieve is a flat-pack of greyish putty attached to a piece of string around the man’s neck. On one thigh is a small engine which he starts with a bootlace. While it runs, he strikes various practised poses and holds them like a strangely attired dancer. The rattling noise and force is terrific; not a living cretin could proceed through the curtains of sprayed venom.

The Operative leaves behind, in a corner, an illuminated electrified blue pole in a flower pot, for ‘protection’.

‘How long will we need that?’ Baxter enquires.

‘I’ll look at it the next couple of times. It’ll have to be recharged.’

‘We’ll need the full Operative service again?’

The Operative is offended. ‘We’re not called Operatives now. We’re Microbe Consultants. And we are normally invited back, when we are available. Better make an appointment.’ He adds, ‘We’re hoping to employ more qualified people. By the way, you’ll be needing a pack too.’

‘What is that?’

From the van he fetches a packet comprised of several sections, each containing different potions. Baxter glances over the interminable instructions.

‘I’ll put it on the bill,’ says the Operative. ‘Along with the curtain atomiser, and this one for the carpet. Better take three packs, eh, just in case.’

‘Two will be fine, thanks.’

‘Sure?’ He puts on a confidential voice. ‘I’ve noticed, your wife looks nice. Surely you want to protect her?’

‘I do.’

‘You won’t want to run out at night.’

‘No. Three then.’

‘Good.’

The total is formidable. Baxter writes the cheque. His wife leans against the door jamb. He looks with vacillating confidence into her tense but hopeful eyes, wanting to impress on her that it will be worth it.

She puts out the potions. The caustic smell stings their eyes and makes them cough; the baby develops red sores on its belly. But they rub cream into the marks and he sleeps contentedly. Baxter goes to the shops; his wife cooks a meal. They eat together, cuddle, and observe with great pleasure the saucers in which the dying flies are writhing. The blue pole buzzes. In the morning they will clear out the corpses. They are almost looking forward to it, and even laugh when Baxter says, ‘Perhaps it would have been cheaper to play Bulgarian music at the flies. We should have thought of that!’

The next morning he clears the mess away and, as there are still flies in the air, puts out more saucers and other potions. Surely, though, they are through the worst. How brought down he has been!

Lately, particularly when the baby cries, he has been dawdling out on the street. A couple of the neighbours have suggested that the new couple stop by for a drink. He has noticed lighted windows and people moving across holding drinks. Leaving his wife and child in safety, he will go out more, that very night in fact, wearing whatever he can assemble, a suit of armour if need be.

His wife won’t join him and she gives Baxter the impression that he hasn’t brought them to the right sort of neighbourhood. But as he is only going to be five minutes
away, she can’t object. He kisses her, and after checking that the blue pole is functioning correctly, he begins at the top of the street, wearing an acrylic cardigan purchased from the charity shop, inedible combat trousers and a coat.

The first couple Baxter visits have three young children. Both adults work, designing household objects of some kind. Kettles, Baxter presumes, but it could be chair legs. He can’t remember what his wife has said.

He rings the bell. After what seems a considerable amount of hurried movement inside, a bearded man opens the door, breathing heavily. Baxter introduces himself, offering, at the same time, to go away if his visit is inconvenient. The man demurs. In his armchair he is drinking. Baxter, celebrating that night, joins him, taking half a glass of whisky. They discuss sport. But it is a disconcerting conversation, since it is so dark in the room that Baxter can barely make out the other man.

The woman, harassed but eager to join in, comes to the foot of the stairs before the children’s yells interrupt. Then she stomps upstairs again, crying out, ‘Oh right, right, it must be my turn again!’

‘Will they never stop?’ shouts the man.

‘How can they sleep?’ she replies. ‘The atmosphere is suffocating them.’

‘All of us!’ says the man.

‘So you’ve noticed!’

‘How could I not?’

He drinks in silence. Baxter, growing accustomed to the gloom, notices a strange gesture he makes. Dipping his fingers into his glass, the bearded man flicks the liquid across his face, and in places rubs it in. He does the same with his arms, even as they talk, as if the alcohol is a lotion rather than an intoxicant.

The man stands up and thrusts his face towards his guest.

‘We’re getting out.’

‘Where?’

He is hustling Baxter by the arm of his black PVC coat towards the door. Immediately the woman flies down the stairs like a bat and begins to dispute with her husband. Baxter doesn’t attend to what they are saying, although other couples’ arguments now have the ability to fascinate him. He is captivated by something else. A fly detaches itself from the end of the man’s protuberant tongue, crawls up the side of his nose, and settles on his eyebrow, where it joins a companion, unnoticed until now, already grazing on the hairy ridge. It is time to move on.

Taking a wrong turn in the hall, Baxter passes through two rooms, following a smell he recognises but can’t identify. He opens a door and notices an object standing in the bath. It is a glowing blue pole, like the one in his flat, and it seems to be pulsating. He looks closer and realises that this effect is caused by the movement of flies. He is reaching out to touch the thing when he hears a voice behind him, and turns to see the bearded man and his wife.

‘Looking for something?’

‘No, sorry.’

He doesn’t want to look at them but can’t help himself. As he moves past they drop their eyes. At that moment the woman blushes, for shame. They give off a sharp bleachy odour.