The Bones of You (3 page)

I returned to the sofa and picked up my glass. There was an inch of whiskey left in the bottom. I saluted some imaginary friend, raised the glass, and finished off the whiskey. It tasted flat. But it was better than wasting the liquor.

I slumped down onto the sofa, feeling tired and strung-out. I promised myself I’d finish unpacking and clean the place after I’d had a little rest.

So this was it: my first night in my new home. When I thought about it, the image of that waving figure in the dream had felt like a greeting. I hoped that the experience wasn’t some kind of warning, that it was in fact a sign that I belonged here.

Because, let’s face it, I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

TWO

A Lonely Dawn

The next morning I was awake before dawn. I sat with my back propped up with pillows against the headboard and stared at the opposite wall and the curtains across the window. I was lonely. There was nobody in the house with me, nobody with whom to share this new place.

Shadows twitched as the sky outside the window lightened. I got up and opened the curtains, sat in the wooden chair by the window and watched the sun climb. I wasn’t due to start work again until the next day. Evans, my supervisor at the factory, had given me a few days off so I could get the house in order. He knew how hard I was finding things, and was a decent enough guy. We’d had a few pints together, been for the occasional curry. I had the feeling he was trying to make what we had into a proper friendship, because nobody else at the factory would give him the time of day. He had only been in the job a few months. My coworkers thought he was strange; they didn’t trust him. I didn’t think they’d realized yet that he was gay—in my experience a lot of macho manual workers don’t tend to notice such things until the evidence hits them right in the face—but it wouldn’t be long until they did.

To me, Evans was just another lost soul, much like me: somebody trying to make his way in the world without causing too much damage to the people around him.

On impulse, I decided to go out for a short run. If I wanted to start karate training again, I needed to work on my fitness. There had been too many late nights, too much drink and bad food. I knew that I had to get myself in shape—not just mentally, but also physically. Starting off on this new phase in my life was like training for a fight: everything was linked, mind and body. It was all connected.

I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, staring at my face in the mirror. My stubble seemed to have gained some gray overnight. I needed a haircut. The lines around my eyes looked like somebody had slashed me with a blade and the scars had healed badly.

When I was done, I put on my shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and some old running shoes I’d hung on to just in case a day like this one ever arrived—the first day of a new training regimen.

I left the house and did some stretching in the street. Calves, hamstrings, a few trunk twists. Then I started to jog toward a concrete subway tunnel half a mile away. I’d driven past the tunnel when I arrived, and had clocked the distance on the car’s odometer.

My legs complained a little as I ran, but I kept my pace slow and steady. I didn’t want to break any records. All I wanted was to get my heart pumping, wake up my muscles.

I’d forgotten to activate the stopwatch feature on my wristwatch, so I just kept an eye on the time. It took me six minutes to reach the mouth of the subway: a slow pace, but a manageable one.

My footsteps echoed, reverberating off the concrete as I ran through the tunnel. I checked out the graffiti on the walls as I approached the other side: abuse, obscenities, and several telephone numbers to ring if you wanted a blow job. Basically, it was all the usual stuff.

As I ran, I experienced an odd sensation. The opposite end of the tunnel seemed to waver, then shrink, as if it were receding, moving away from me as I ran toward it. I rubbed a hand across my eyes, blinked away sweat, and tried to focus on my breathing. I was less fit than I’d thought. This was pathetic. I couldn’t even run a mile without gasping for breath.

Eventually—it took much longer than anticipated—I reached the other end. I felt like I’d been running for an hour. My legs hurt, my back was coated in sweat, and I was breathing hard. I stopped for a rest, leaning against the concrete arch as I tried to get my breathing under control. I felt weak, ridiculous. I was glad there was no one else around to watch me as I wheezed like an asthmatic old man.

I looked at my watch: I’d gone just over half a mile. It felt like I’d run three, and at a fast pace.

For some reason the thought of going back the way I’d come didn’t appeal, so I started running away from the subway tunnel instead. There must be another way around, even if it added some distance to the journey. The last thing I wanted was to go back inside that dark, dank place with its hollow sounds and its spray-painted walls. It reminded me too much of the dream I’d had the day before. I needed the daylight, the open air, the sounds of traffic on the road above the subway, and the sight of people getting into their cars and setting off for work.

I turned right and headed along a residential street that ran alongside the elevated section of main two-lane road. After a short while, I came to the point where the road level matched that of the footpath upon which I was travelling. There was a narrow point where I could cross. I looked both ways, increased my pace, and made it to the central reservation. I had to pause a moment to let a few cars speed past, then I made it the rest of the way over.

I was sweating, but it was cold. As I headed back toward home, I glanced right, at the concrete subway tunnel, and saw what looked like a tall, dark figure vanishing into the entrance. Again, I was reminded of yesterday’s brief bad dream and the figure I’d glimpsed.

When I reached home, I unlocked the door and lurched inside. I sat down in the hallway with my back against the wall, taking in big gasps of air. My exhaustion was disproportionate to the exercise I’d taken. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. I’d always been reasonably fit, even when abusing myself with bad living. I felt like I’d been training at an atmosphere, perhaps halfway up a mountain in a hot climate.

Once I managed to calm down, I stood and climbed the stairs. I stripped and stood under a hot shower for fifteen minutes, enjoying the scalding sensation of the water on my skin. I kept my eyes closed and tried to keep my mind empty, but for some reason I remembered that tall, dark figure entering the subway. In my memory—if not at the time—the figure turned to look at me and was in the act of raising a thin hand when it was swallowed up by darkness. Was it waving, beckoning, or trying to warn me away?

I stumbled sideways, hitting the bathroom tiles, slamming my elbow hard against them.

Jesus, I’d been nodding off as I stood there, lost in the embrace of hot water. How was that possible? Why the hell was I so tired? I couldn’t remember another time when I’d ever fallen asleep on my feet like that.

The stress of the move was having more of an effect on me than I’d anticipated.

The image of the figure was now fading; all I’d seen was someone walking to work, crossing beneath the main road so they didn’t have to face the traffic. For some reason I couldn’t quite work out, my mind was turning this into something sinister, as if I were trying to scare myself.

Stepping out of the shower, I switched off the water and grabbed a towel. I wrapped the towel around my waist and stood there for a while, drip-drying. My mother had always called it that: “Make sure you drip-dry. I don’t want you treading water all over my carpets.” My chest ached; my eyes itched. Christ, what was wrong with me today? My emotions were out of control. Perhaps it was the excitement of finally setting down some roots, creating a base for myself where I could safely take care of my daughter, if only on alternate weekends.

Or maybe I was cracking up under the pressure of holding down a menial job, renting a house in a bad area, and being kept away from Jessica by her drug-and booze-addled bitch of a mother.

Once again I found myself staring at my face in the mirror, but this time all I saw was an old man, way past his prime; a man who saw strange figures in subway tunnels, tried to fool himself that he could make a new life for himself, and pretended that his existence actually mattered. I drew back my arm, made a fist, and straight-punched the mirror. I felt no pain as the glass smashed, sending crooked-lightning cracks spreading out in a sun-ray formation from the point of impact.

Slowly, I ground my knuckles into the broken glass until they bled, still feeling nothing. Then I took my hand away from the mirror, stared hard at my damaged skin, and started to pick tiny slivers of glass from the wounds. When the small, shallow cuts were clean, I licked away the fresh blood. The taste reminded me of old times; it reminded me of fighting.

Downstairs, while I was dressing my hand with a couple of cheap supermarket sticking plasters, the phone began to ring. I went into the living room, trying to remember where I’d left the handset. The ring tone drew me toward the sofa, where I found the little black flip-top model under a cushion.

“Hello.”

“Adam. It’s Evans.”

“Hi, mate. What’s up?”

“Listen, I hate to do this to you, and I know I said you don’t have to come in until tomorrow…”

“But you need me to work a shift tonight.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Any chance of it?”

I paused, looked around the room, wondering what else I possibly had to do this evening. Finish unpacking my meager belongings, TV and a takeaway, read a book, set up my ancient, clunky laptop and masturbate to harshly lit Internet porn that took ages to buffer.

“No sweat, mate. What time do you want me in?”

“It’s Jacko’s late shift—five till midnight. The daft fucker’s gone and sprained a wrist, so he can’t operate the forklift.”

“A wanking injury?”

Evans laughed, but it was only out of politeness. By this point, he’d probably heard that same joke fifty times or more. “Playing football…and at his age. He was in goal. Reckons he stopped a rocket from some big center-forward and twisted his wrist backward from the power.”

“Yeah…right.”

“My response exactly. It’s more likely he fell over scrambling after a tap-in and bashed it against the post.”

This time it was his turn to pause.

“Listen, I’ll make this up to you. Next time you have Jess over, you can have the Friday off.”

“You sure? That’s this Friday.”

“It’s a deal.”

“But I’m still getting paid for tonight’s shift?”

“Of course you are. What the hell kind of piece of shit do you take me for?”

“Whatever kind you want, Evans. See you tonight.”

I ended the call before he could thank me again. I liked the guy, but sometimes he was a little…full on. He never knew where to draw the line, and there were occasions when his familiarity made me uncomfortable. I didn’t need a friend. I was happy to go for the occasional drink with the bloke, but that was where it ended. If I wasn’t careful, next thing I knew he’d be inviting himself over for dinner with a rose between his teeth.

“Christ,” I said, tossing the phone back onto the sofa. “That’s all I fucking need.” Despite my reservations, the image of a lanky, badly dressed Evans trying to woo me with flowers and chocolates brought a smile to my face.

I went back upstairs and put on some clothes. Nothing fancy: just a pair of blue jeans and a faded university sweatshirt. Still just about clinging to the front of the shirt was the emblem of the college karate squad I’d once been part of. The olden days, ancient history. If I tried hard enough, most days I could even forget what subject I’d studied to gain my degree.

A first: English literature.

Fuck. Maybe I couldn’t forget about it after all.

I shrugged on a jacket and left the house, went looking for a pub to call my local before I had to head in to work.

THREE

Working Stiffs

I’d been at the warehouse for over two years. It was easy work; I could do it without thinking, just get into the zone and let my mind go blank. I couldn’t even remember why I’d taken the forklift certification course all those years ago, in my early twenties, but it turned out to be a wise move. Perhaps I had a premonition that this was the kind of job I’d end up in during my late thirties, lost and lonely and trying to make ends meet.

But I enjoyed the casual banter with my workmates, the constant smell of diesel oil from the trucks that came and went, and the sense of impermanence, of dislocation, that seemed such a big part of working at a place where goods were simply stored for a while before being moved on to somewhere else. It seemed symbolic of something much larger in my own life, something I didn’t want to examine too closely but was happy to look at from a distance.

The warehouse was quiet that night. There wasn’t exactly a lot of work to do, despite Evans’s panic about being a man down. I read a novel while I waited for the trucks to come in, and when they did, I unloaded quickly and quietly, just working through my hours until home time.