Meatspace (24 page)

The only sound was the baby crying.

‘Should I call 911?’ the train driver asked. ‘Never mind. No reception.’

A knock came in the door.

‘Hello?’ Teddy Baker asked meekly.

The train driver took a fire extinguisher to the window in front of him. The glass shattered, scattering outside. He pulled himself out of the train carriage and ran off into the darkness. Bob ushered us to follow him. I shook my head.

‘What about the people?’

‘Fuck the people.’

‘Fuck you. You’re a superhero.’

‘Yeah, an unarmed one.’

Bob leapt up onto the broken window frame. I pushed the baby towards him.

‘Fuck that,’ he laughed and jumped down, disappearing into the darkness.

‘Hello?’ Teddy Baker asked again.

‘Open … the … fucking … door.’ The voice that replied to Teddy Baker was too muffled to be chilling, but I still felt like I might shit myself, baby-style.

‘Why would we do that?’ Teddy Baker shouted back.

‘Because I’m out here with a train full of people I’m happy to kill one at a time until you do.’

‘That sounds pretty unreasonable, mate,’ I shouted. ‘What’s the point of that?’

‘Are you British?’ the muffled voice asked, incredulous.

‘Yeah,’ I said back. ‘And what?’

‘I don’t understand your accent man. Put the American back on.’

‘Right. What … do … you … want?’

‘How about we start with my baby?’

Teddy Baker knocked on the door. ‘Are you the baby’s daddy?’ he asked.

‘What the fuck do you think, Einstein?’

‘Can you tell us any distinguishing features as proof?’

‘Distinguishing features? What the fuck? It looks like a baby. A fat fucking baby. Open the fucking door, you wiseguys.’

‘The baby IS fat,’ I said to Teddy Baker, whispering.

‘We can’t give him the baby.’

‘We can’t let those passengers die though.’

‘Why did the mum kill herself? To keep the baby from this guy?’

‘He’s going to kill those passengers …’

‘You guys do know I can hear you, right?’ the muffled voice reminded us.

I mouthed ‘shit’ and Teddy Baker mouthed ‘fuck’.

CLUNK.

Something spanked the door and it rattled in its frame. And again. And again. Like a fire extinguisher. CLUNK. CLUNK. RATTLE. RATTLE. The baby cried again.

The muffled voice shouted, ‘He needs feeding. Come on. Think of the baby.’ The CLUNKing was boring into my brain. Teddy Baker started whimpering.

I turned to the dashboard of the train and pressed go, whacking the accelerator up as sharply and far as it would go. The train lurched forward and we stumbled into the dashboard as the train picked up a momentum that sent it careening into the tunnel. The CLUNK stopped while the momentum of the train was pulling us all forward but started up again when we hit optimum speed.

Teddy Baker whacked my arm because there was a station coming up. Just before the train could hit the station I slowed it to a sudden stop. Teddy Baker and I fell into the dashboard. I pulled myself up, baby in one arm, and through the broken glass pane and stepped down onto the very bare edge of the platform.

Teddy stumbled up and followed, jumping down onto the platform as the door to the cabin thundered open. We ran.

Whistles blowing and commotion followed us up the corridors and tunnels so when we hit the ticket office, Teddy Baker perfected a smooth leapfrog up and over the ticket barrier. I handed him the baby with such force that there was a moment when it was suspended in mid-air. I pulled myself over the ticket barrier and we ran to the stairs. Whistles, calls of ‘stop, police’ and screams all clattered behind us. I looked back and it hit me: we were being chased by policemen. Why were we being chased by policemen? This realisation made me pause, which gave a police pig the opportunity to jump on top of me from the stairs. I crashed to the floor and was turned over and my arms grabbed – knee in the back, proper force – as I was wrenched back. I screamed.

911 is a joke. You called it, Flav.

I turned to the policeman holding on to me. ‘Am I being arrested?’ He laughed. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked. ‘Seriously, I know about you New York City cops. Am I being arrested? Can I get a witness?’

‘Hey,’ the cop said to me. ‘Are you British?’

I nodded.

‘Hey guys,’ he shouted to the people around him. ‘It’s fucking Harry Potter here. Harry Potter here cracked the case, got the Sterling baby back. Motherfucking limey Harry Potter!’

‘Are you sure he’s British? He looks too dark.’

‘Hey buddy,’ the cop said to me. ‘I’m going to need to see some identification. Are you really British? Not … Indian? Middle Eastern?’

New York City Cops. They ain’t too smart.

There are 17 comments for this blog:

GustaveGrime: Kill yourself. Now.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Do I know you, homey?

GustaveGrime: What does it matter? This is terrible stuff.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Listen, man, if you need to talk, air out some issues, I can give you my email address and maybe we can squash this beef.

GustaveGrime: There’s no beef, man. I just think you’re an idiot.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: And I think you’re an asshole. Where do we go from here?

GustaveGrime: Fuck you.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: There, there, little one … get it all out in the open. Cry yourself to sleep.

GustaveGrime: Don’t patronise me. I know about you and your shitty little attitude towards up and comers. When it comes down to it, this blog is bullshit.

Anonymous: Dude, Gustave, chill. Man is too funny.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Thanks, Anonymous. Whoever you are?

DF325: Hey, Aziz. When you back? I am DTF.

GustaveGrime: When it comes down to it, there are people smarter than you, more talented than you, more better-looking than you, but you’ll always win because you’re the bigger cunt than all of them. What’s it to you what I think?

Anonymous: Fuck off this blog.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: Co-sign.

GustaveGrime: Idiots.

AZIZWILLKILLYOU: I think you’re all missing the point. I was shot at! That not cool enough?

History:

Sex tips – Google
How to last longer – Google

I catch Hayley poking around Aziz’s room when I return. She’s holding some photos of us, printed before the digital revolution. I’m dressed as Spider-man and him as Batman in one. In another, we’re laughing at Dad burning meat on a barbecue. She looks at me and places her index finger on her cheek, screwing it lightly, her knee cocked.

‘How’s the booze head?’

‘So bad I cried off travelling up to Liverpool to do a reading. Terrible, aren’t I?’ she says before pointing to the shelves. ‘This room’s like a guest room …’

‘Aziz has a Nintendo Wii and some t-shirts. Everything else he borrows,’ I say. She lifts up his Clash t-shirt.

‘This is tiny. I’m guessing he’s one of those guys who wears everything he likes on his t-shirts so people can form personality profiles of him?’

I nod.

She walks towards me, her arms behind her back. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts and her long legs peek out of them. She has thick calves and slender thighs. She has legs like Popeye has arms and I feel nothing but lust.

I walk into the room and Hayley puts her arms up to hug me.

‘What you doing in here anyway?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, I dropped a contact lens,’ she says, shrugging. ‘I heard a noise. I thought this was the bathroom.’ She pauses. ‘I was being nosey. Okay?’ She sighs, then laughs to herself. ‘I borrowed a shirt. My clothes smell of booze, man.’

‘Yeah, no problem,’ I say, reaching my arms out towards her.

She hesitates, keeping herself just out of my reach. ‘Look at you, all knight in shining armour-y …’

‘It had to happen once in my life.’

Hayley moves past me and walks out into the main bit of the flat. She picks up things, much like Kitab 2 did when he first came here. This time, they are picked up and replaced in an ordered way. She picks up a photo and points it at me.

‘That’s my mum. She died when I was young. A small child. She’s with Aziz.’ The photo is of Mum holding Aziz’s hand. He’s dressed in that Batman outfit. ‘I know next to nothing about her. Like, I know her favourite song and what she smelled like. But not much else, not much useful. She’s barely 3D in my head. She’s just a bunch of static images.’

Hayley sits on the sofa and looks at me. ‘Remember the first time we met?’ she says. I shake my head even though I remember it well. She was dressed in a summer dress, her hair was in plaits, she had an ice cream stain on her brogues. And she was late for a reading. I was halfway through reading a short story and she entered, with bluster and noise. And the stage was right by the door.

‘“Carry on”,’ I bellow like she did that night.

‘Yeah, I still think about that night. You were so funny. When we were sitting at the back, after the thing was finished, on a bench, our heads against the wall, telling jokes. I know it’s stupid but your repeated “that’s what she said” and “that’s a good name for a band” jokes, they had me in stitches.’ She stops. ‘I was so annoyed you had a girlfriend.’ She screws up her nose. ‘You haven’t done those jokes this last week.’

‘That’s what she said,’ I offer weakly.

I move closer to her and she looks away, then back to me. I place a hand on her knee.

‘I’m still me. I think,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she says, kissing my forehead. ‘Anyway, that guy I first met knocked his pint into my handbag.’ She laughs. ‘You ruined my phone and a cheque I hadn’t cashed.’

‘It was partly revenge,’ I say. ‘For you coming in late.’

Hayley leans forward, rubs her forehead against my lips. I pull her mouth up to mine.

We laugh. We kiss. Our kisses carry weight this time.

I get a tweet from Kitab 2. He’s signed up for an account as @kitabtwodeetwo. It says, ‘…’

I don’t reply. Hayley is snoozing across me and I’m respecting the body warmth and the end of my purdah (the messy, quickly finished end) by checking my phone as silently as I can. This is nothing like the videos I stream everyday. This is nothing like being alone. For the first time in months, I don’t miss Rach, but I do understand what made it work. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this intimate with someone. I fall asleep.

I wake up 2 hours later and hear that Hayley has put the kettle on so while she makes us a drink, I check my phone. I notice that Kitab 2 has tweeted me again. This time, he’s changed the handle to @k1tab.

He tweets: ‘@kitab Come dude … I get out of hospital tomorrow.’

10 minutes later, he tweets me again and says: ‘Come on dude. I need answers.’

I check his account.

10 minutes later: ‘Hey @partyorifices. You’re following my namesake @kitab. I’m the real @k1tab. I want to cum. To a party.’

2 minutes later: ‘@kitab don’t bother dude. i sort myself out.’

1 minute later: ‘@kitab dude, still come with me.’

1 minute later: ‘@partyorifices thanks for following me back. I’ll DM you.’

20 minutes later: ‘@kitab I explained the situation to @partyorifices. They’re having an ethnic night for us.’

He’s doing this all in public. Not that he has any followers. But it’s uncomfortable for me given our recent episode with the pornographic picture. It looks crass. Days after my dickpic, months after I decided I was a ‘serious’ novelist, he’s making me look a fool. Indelibly so. @partyorifices has a lot of followers. A lot more than me. I feel uncomfortable. Kitab 2 doesn’t get it. He lives his entire life online. He is not bothered by the self-censorship of holding yourself back for emergencies, of not tweeting your location, making you less susceptible to stalkers, thieves and snipers. I try calling the number he’s left me. I don’t get through. I’m about to phone the hospital when Hayley brings us coffee in bed.

‘Coffee for the bad boy?’

‘How am I a bad boy?’

‘All boys with tattoos are bad boys.’

‘What are you up to today?’ I ask, sipping the coffee. It’s too milky. I pull a face.

‘What’s wrong with it, you fusspot?’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, wincing through a reassurance sip.

‘Would you prefer masala chai?’ she says, smiling.

‘Yeah, and a mango.’

Hayley rests her elbows on my hips and balances her head on her hands. ‘We should go out. On a date. With wine. And dinner. And conversation where we don’t moan about publishers and depressing book sales. We could talk about lots of things, dead relatives, dysfunctional families, special skills – did you know I know how to weld? That’s not even a first date revelation, but I would tell you. Just so you know.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘I mean,’ Hayley says, jumping up, spilling coffee on me. ‘How will you ever know the answers to the following questions: Hayley’s food phobias; places Hayley has travelled to; Hayley’s guilty music pleasures; and the charming story of how I once saw Michael Fassbender in an East London hipster pub drinking Guinness by himself.’

‘You tweeted that one,’ I say, smiling.

Hayley plops herself back on the bed, the vibration springing hot coffee onto my skin. ‘Damn you, internet, there’s just nothing left to know about anyone anymore.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘The more I’ve spent time with you, the more I’ve realised I barely know all the good stuff.’

Hayley lies on me and tells me about all the places she’s visited while I finish my coffee.

Her presence distracts me from my screens.

Hayley is sleeping. She can fall asleep anywhere. Dad says this was my mum’s greatest trick. I can’t stop thinking about Kitab 2 and his open door policy, embarrassing me. But there is a girl I like a lot lying on my chest. Kitab 2 has crossed a line. I don’t want him to associate himself with me anymore. But as Hayley stirs and her hand gently rubs at my stomach and starts to make tentative moves under the covers, I’m quickly informed by my body where my priorities lie.

Hayley leaves me 2 distracted hours later to go read from her novel at a library in Goodmayes. I joke that she will be asked ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ a lot. She jokes that as I’m of the ethnic persuasion, I’ll probably be asked what my parents think of my work.