Slights (36 page)

  She was breathing strangely. "What's wrong?" I said. She sucked air in through her mouth with her tongue sticking out, blew it out through her nose with her face screwed up.

  "The air tastes all right on the way in and foul on the way out," she said.

  We went to my room where I scrabbled around for a sweet cough lolly. "There, this'll make your mouth taste better," I said.

  "Lollies are fattening," she said. We walked. She began to lean less heavily on me.

  "Tell me about the place you went," I said.

  "There wasn't a place. Ow." I squeezed her arm. I knew there was a place.

  "Why won't you tell me? When you went to sleep and you went to another bedroom where the walls were round like a ball and it was dark as dark and cold as cold and there were people with sharp teeth to eat you up."

  She began to cry and didn't stop. Peter came to collect her; he said, "That's it, Steve. The end," but it already had been. It was like he was telling me what to do. I saw her face, still crying, turned to face me as they drove off, and she could not resist a wave. I waved back. The girl had forgiven me already. Maria would have me arrested, crash bang fuck off Steve.

  Peter won't answer the phone. I can only get a minute of words on the answering machine, and I'm trying to be concise. Maria called me to say I was to leave her parents alone.

  "They're my mum and dad, not yours, and they love me. I am the daughter. Just because your Dad was a bully and your Mum was a slut doesn't mean you can claim somebody else's parents."

  "What are you talking about, witchy poo? You never knew my parents. How are you fit to even talk about them?"

  "I'm only going off what my husband told me."

  "Oh, your husband, is it? Well, he was my brother first, don't forget. I'm the one who gets to bury the body."

  "What?"

  "Look, I only saw your parents because I felt sorry for them, anyway. None of you kids appreciate them."

  "We appreciate them. And we'd appreciate it if you left them alone," she said, and slammed down the phone, effectively cutting off my access to the last word.

That's one reason I was the last to know. Because Peter could hardly bear to talk to me. I don't know if I was the last to know; I certainly wasn't the first. How Peter heard before me when she was my oldest friend, I don't know. Perhaps I was out when they called; I must get an answering machine.

  "Steve, I'm afraid I've got some bad news about Samantha." Peter's voice was cracked and weak.

  "Murray? What's he done now, the arsehole? If he's hurt her, I'll kill him."

  "It wasn't Murray. Well, they don't know who it was. Hit and run, Stevie. It was hit and run."

  "Well, did she get the number plate or anything?"

  "No, Steve. I've done this terribly. She's not going to make it. Well, she hasn't made it already. I mean, she's dead."

  My first thought was – always had to do everything first.

  "But why would she do that?" I said.

  "She didn't do anything, she was run over." Peter was frustrated; he thought I was being obtuse.

  "Thanks for telling me, Peter. I'll spread the word." But when he got off the phone, I realised there was no one to call. I didn't know the phone numbers of any of her friends.

  I found out where the funeral was and I showed up in black. I whispered to her friends. I knew her best; I was the one who saved her from loneliness when she was a new girl. I was her housemate.

  "Why? Why?" I whispered. "When she had so much to live for? Why did she do it?"

  "She didn't do anything. It was a hit and run," they told me one by one, the same words, the same tone.

  "But she was on the road," I said. I just wanted them to think. If she had wanted to die, then we should be happy for her success. We don't have to cry or feel sorrow. She got what she wanted.

  She got what she deserved.

  I looked at photographs of us together: at school, growing up, in fancy dress, drunk. I played her favourite music, a bit of George Michael, and I drank vodka in memory of her.

  The last time we drank vodka together was the night before she left my house without speaking. And didn't speak to me again. That's another reason I didn't go to the funeral; we hadn't spoken.

  I heard a knock on the door. I had photos all over me. The vodka spilled, I dropped my cigarette. There was a man with a parcel when I opened the door. A padded envelope, a note inside:
Stephanie,
Samantha wanted you to have this. Mrs Cord.

  Inside was a tape. Written on it was a coincidental date; the night we had last drunk vodka together. The label said
Steve Searle
and the date. The writing was shaky. Underneath it was the label of a George Michael album. Sticky tape covered the no-record holes. She really liked George Michael; why would she tape over him?

  I played the tape the next day. It took me a while to realise she had recorded my dream talk. She had invaded my dreams and stolen the words I spoke in my sleep. That voice sounded different; it was my other voice. My research voice. My voice sounded wonderful, seductive. "Can I help you? Why not talk a little, ease yourself. You know I'm a good listener. Just tell me this and that. Your little things. Nothing else matters, does it? Only those little annoyances. We can be happy if those are settled."

  Silence for a moment.

  Screams, then, and shouts, then growls.

  "Mmmm," my voice said. "Mmmm. Comfy? Can I adjust anything for you? Can I help you, Sam? Tell me
slights
. Tell me tell me tell me what you see ooh dark. Mum. Safe and dark and cold. Not warm. See ya there, old friend to celebrate. Slice slice, very sharp. It's nice. Alive. Makes you feel alive since high school too short."

  Screams again.

  "Mum," I said. "Wait for me. Wait for Samantha. We're coming."

  I can clearly remember the dream. In it, I died and went to a place which was very crowded, glary. I saw Mum there, a glimpse of her hair, and I shouted to be heard.

at thirty-five

No one will talk to me. No one. The journos have picked up some tension between Peter and I and are edging closer to my front gate. Do they know what the cops know? Dougie Page sent me a plane ticket, he wants me to run, run, run away.

  I re-read Samantha's diary and wanted to do something with it. It was a good piece of work, my most creative yet. I thought ahead: I send the diary to a tabloid, it's published, Peter is investigated, Maria leaves him, Samantha's death is investigated and the diary is discovered to be a fake. An investigation into who faked the diary. I am discovered.

  Too complicated. I sent the diary to Maria instead, with a note from Samantha. "I thought you'd like to see this." They never twigged, as I did after I sent the thing, that, according to the diary, Samantha thought Maria was going to die. Why would she send the diary? My plans went awry, anyway. I didn't hear from them for two weeks, but I called and left messages as I usually do, all things normal. I called Maria's parents, because I knew they loved me and wouldn't dump me. Always the long rings, then, "Hello?" Her Mum, nervous.

  "It's me, Stevie!" I said. I wanted her to weep for joy.

  "Oh, Stevie, what did you do? Why did you upset our girl? Why hurt Kelly like that? She has bad dreams all the time."

  "I didn't do anything, Andrea. You know what teenagers are like. They get away from you."

  "Maria makes us feel so bad for giving the girls to you. She's saying me or her, me or her." She did a good impersonation of Maria's brake-squeal voice, and I laughed "Not funny, Stevie. We can't see you any more. Not even in secret." I never realised they kept my visits secret.

  "But that's silly. It was only an accident."

  "I'm sorry, Stevie. We liked it when you were here, but you can't come here any more. We can't manage." It looked like I wouldn't be going to their place for Christmas after all. That was the saddest thing. She hung up. I sat there, the phone saying beep beep beep, and I felt far greater loss than I had with the deaths of all my people. My lungs swelled to fill my chest, I sucked in air in tiny wheezes and blew it out in gusts. I had a headache behind my ears, and pressure on my throat. I blinked. Blinking stung my eyes. I rubbed them and they were wet. The realisation I was crying made me cry. I never realised how painful it was. I always thought it was quite a pleasant, if weak, thing to do. But it hurt, my shoulders, my back, eyes, lungs, throat. It is violence. I've seen people do the same thing, when they're dying, not crying. The fight that goes on between tired body and instinct to live. The death agonies, though they are past suffering, gasps of breath, shouts, shoulders heaving.

  I'm crying, not dying.

  Then Peter called to say they were coming to visit, not to bother with biscuits, they would bring some. They always brought their own food, and sometimes their own plates, so I wasn't overly concerned. Maria made a cup of tea and we sat at the table, waiting for the fun to start. Peter said, "Steve, I want you to tell Maria that you wrote the diary."

  "What diary?"

  "The one you sent us, Samantha's diary."

  "I found that under the bed."

  "And the note?"

  "It was in the front cover. That's the only reason I sent it. I didn't want to cause trouble but it was Samantha's wish from the grave. Why, what was in it?"

  Maria laughed. "My goodness, you are highly moralled, aren't you? Didn't even read it."

  "It wasn't my diary," I said.

  Maria laughed again. Her fingers seemed thinner, like claws. Her whole body seemed smaller, like she was drawing herself in to protect herself from contamination.

  "Did you write it?" she said slowly.

  "No, I did not," I said slowly. I ate a biscuit. Convention is such a comforting thing. My brother and his wife arrive to accuse me of forgery and they bring tea and biscuits which we enjoy.

  "I swear I didn't write the diary," I said.

  Maria said, "Well, Steve, either way, I think it's best if you don't see the girls for a while."

  "Oh lord," I wanted to say, "don't throw me in the briar patch." I hate those fucking girls. "That seems a little harsh," I said. "You're punishing me for something I just said I didn't do."

  "Oh, we know you did it. We just wanted you to admit it," she said. She took a last swallow of milky tea. I picked up the milk carton.

  "Oops, sorry folks, three days past Use By."

  Maria's mouth turned down. "Goodbye, Steve. Come on, Peter." She left the room, without the remaining biscuits. If I could get Peter to leave without them, I wouldn't have to cook dinner.

  "Look, Peter, no matter what you think, I didn't write the diary. You can't dump me for something I didn't do." He looked at me quite tenderly and I forgot he was my brother. I closed my eyes.

  "Steve, it'll be okay. Just give her time to see the joke, all right? And no more jokes for a while."

  I grinned. "Always I am deadly serious and people laugh into my facial features."

  He punched my shoulder, but gently. "We'll see you in a little while," he said, and left, without the biscuits.

  But he was lying. I never saw him again. I explained what happened, message after message on his machine, what had happened to me over the years. I said, "If you'd ever taken the time to listen to me you'd know all this. You could have stopped me." I said I wanted to start again, from childhood, and I wouldn't make him cry. I wouldn't be Dad's favourite. I wouldn't go out for lunch with Mum. I wouldn't scare off Samantha, or Bess. I wouldn't go out with Scott or dump Ced. I wouldn't hurt anybody, or myself. I wouldn't stay in the house or the same job or keep the car or hate the shoe man or throw milk at Peter. I wish I could change my past now I know my future. Stalin did it.

  Peter never called me back. I sent letters, photos, I got a courier to drop off a big photo of me and Peter as kids, two grinning kids squeezing each other. I remembered later that, just before the photo, I had deliberately wet my pants on Peter's leg to pay him back for telling everyone I wet the bed, so there is a stain for all to see. It was a bad choice of photo.

  I sent him a telegram: I'M FINISHED, it said. IT'S OVER. But he didn't come running. He didn't save me.

  I wished I'd kept a copy of the diary. It was probably burnt by now, my greatest literary effort since

"The Sacking of Troy".

  There is a report on the news: "Police are taking steps to track the killer dubbed as 'The Local.'" Nice of them to let me know.

  I needed to take steps of my own.

  I bought giant orange garden refuse bags and cleaned out the garden. I piled every bone in there, even Muffy's, and the ones which looked like lamb shanks. The compost heap had done the best job it could. I took them to a building site where the foundations had been dug but not poured, and I threw the lot in. Some of it wasn't bone; I threw that in as well. The smell was sickening. It had been okay spread out; all together it smelled like slaughter. I can imagine this: they build over the bones I laid. The building is completed, a monument to comfortable living. The people move in, and stay, or move out. It is a noisy building, and not just because the walls are thin. It groans, shrieks sometimes, and suggestible tenants think words are spoken. The stories grow. Ghosts are seen, accidents occur. People feel depressed in certain rooms; in others arguments erupt, in the hallways people are rude to each other, in the lifts they make outrageous jokes others repeat for days. There is an elderly couple whose son lives overseas; his spirit comes to them every couple of weeks. They annoy him by calling him to see if he is still alive.

  "No, I didn't send my ghost to see you last night. No, I was here. I didn't leave. Yes, I'm fine."

  There is a young woman who has a demon lover, a young man who has one too. A child who finds a playmate, an outsider who finds a friend. The apparitions come and go; the people are always available.

  I left the bits and pieces at home. That was Dad's collection. It belonged there. No one would care; it was just a pile of old junk, no matter what Dougie Page said. I gathered the things all together and covered them with dirt, a nice dirt mountain. If anyone pulled down the mountain they would think the things were ours, a family mountain. I now had a collection like Maria's Mum's: lots of lovely little things with personal stories. I shuffled through them, each item precious.

  I wondered what people would think of my collected mound of rubbish. Peter would try to stop them; he has a tendency to over-estimate people's intelligence. They won't make any connections. He'll become visibly distressed as the various items are unearthed, and won't offer a reasonable explanation for their presence. He'll say that the backyard had been used as a rubbish dump for as long as he could remember, and each item could have been a family one. He'll try not to look at the mound. They won't bother to ask me.

  I sat amongst my treasures, my clues. An earring depicting a marijuana plant, a purple shoelace, a set of keys with #1 on the tag, a beige earplug, a red brick, a mop head, a paint brush and a popped balloon. A cheap plastic watch; a brass lighter; an old coin; a bottle top; a gold chain, tarnished; a shoe heel; a wallet, empty, mass-market pigskin; a coin holder; an elastic band; a tie bar; a shoe marked with red crosses; a child's lunch box; a squeaky toy; a TV dial; a squash ball; a damaged glass cufflink. A pipe, pearls, white buttons, false fingernails, a silver ring, a silver earring, a belt, a tie pin.

  I wished I had read all of Auntie Jessie's books when she was alive; she could have explained so much. I finally made it through the box. Three days after my thirty-fifth birthday, I have finished my box of books. I finally found the one that began, "Dear Stevie," and the one that ended, "From your Auntie Jessie," and I realised all the messages in between were for me. That she already knew what I would do; what I would become.

  I picked up the book on magnetism and I stared at it in the dim light of the grey afternoon, the oldfashioned writing a scrawl to my untrained eye. Then I put it back with the other things.

This is what she wrote in the margins of the different books in the box. In
Children and Others
by James Gould Couzens, she wrote: