The Lesser Bohemians (23 page)

So she got out the papers and made promises. You’ll see her often, she said Every summer for at least a month. I’ll send our number once we’re settled and I’ll make sure she calls. You can visit too. I’ll write, of course. But I was so in shock I kept saying I can’t. I can’t. I can’t let her go, until she lost her rag and started saying You’ll upset her. Stop it. Is this how you want to say goodbye? What do you mean ‘Goodbye’? I said. We have a morning flight. That’s when I just started to beg Oh God don’t do this, please don’t take her away. But she couldn’t be moved. My telling you at all, she said Shows more consideration than you ever did. And I could see she was enjoying it but I didn’t care. All I could think of was how to persuade her. How will I send you money? I asked What about her stuff? Keep your money, she said And your junk. We don’t want anything from you and stop deluding yourself that she’s ever needed you in any way. What use are you? What use have you ever been? You, with your filthy, poisoned life and you know exactly what I mean. Just spare us both the pointless snivelling and go in and say your goodbyes. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking This must be a game. Do it, she said Or I’ll take her away and this’ll be one more important moment you’ve fucked up in her life. So I signed the papers and I went inside to her. In here. Still asleep
on the bed. Thumb in her mouth. All pink with sleep and      I had to wake her up to do it      say it      goodbye      and I did.

Eyes closed he asks Pass a cigarette? Lights and

She understood it was bad. She screamed for me all the way out. I can’t really tell you any more about that night. It was the very worst moment of my life and after it, everything soft in me slowly turned to bone.

And, sure enough, even as I watch, all the light drains from him.

I often think if I’d been a few years further on there might have been enough of me to refuse and stand my ground. At the time though, the past still dragged me around, the shame at what I’d done. Feeling I could never get it right. Not knowing that keeping hold of my child wasn’t just selfishness on my part. But I did what she wanted because I was ashamed and I’ve regretted it every day since.

So she took her away that night and      it was two years before she made contact. Two years of nothing and I mean nothing at all. I didn’t know if my daughter was alive or dead. No one did, apparently. Her parents wouldn’t say no matter how much I begged. I chased down everyone I could think of but no one knew      or would tell. I went to the police but I’d agreed to it so I’d only myself to blame. It was      a very bad time. I lost the run of myself, almost entirely. Somehow I didn’t use again but drank myself back to the hospital instead and      a lot of other things started going on too.

What kind of things? I ask. Oh you know, he says Starving myself. Getting very fucking funny about what I’d put in my
mouth. Like a test, or penance. I don’t know what it was. I just remember it causing almost physical pain to eat. How about a cup of tea?

And making he wades through the lamplight, pale, thinking far inside himself. But once it’s done, poured and passed, he sits back down again. What other things? The fucking around, he says. Like with your ex? No, not even a bit. Industrial this time. Will you tell me about it? Oh Jesus, he says     Okay.

Since The Seagull debacle I’d really worked on keeping my dick to myself – not that I’d ever miss a chance but I didn’t chase around after it the way I had. I didn’t want to be that man or for her to have a father like mine. Five minutes after losing her though I was bad as I’d ever been. Worse. Couldn’t see the point of not being and, God knows, I should have but     you see what you want and all I could see was a life without my little girl in it. The fucking chasm in the centre of myself where she’d been and     I couldn’t face it     not at all. So     off I went.

What does that mean? I ask, feeling the cold and his eyes doing nothing to dispel.

Remember that story I told you about the Lamb and Flag? Well, that happened three days afterwards – before I even knew that worse was on its way. I was beside myself. Had already had a bit to drink. I don’t even know what I was doing in that shop, I hate fucking Covent Garden but      there was this little boy skidding about on the knees of his pants. I got talking to him, swapping sliding techniques. When his mother came along we fell into the chat. How old is he? They grow up so fast. Got any of your own? All the while she was giving me the eye. I could
see she was drunk too so     it was easy to mouth Fancy a fuck? over the child’s head because     I knew what the answer would be. So we went to the Ladies at the Lamb and Flag. Me, her and her son. And I fucked her against the toilet door with the little boy sat just beyond – drinking a Coke I’d bought. Jesus Christ. What was that? Even at the time I thought What the fuck are you doing? But of course     I didn’t stop. I did not stop myself. Instead I really shagged her hard – so much it hurt and she was loud. After, getting her knickers back on she kept mumbling Oh fuck! Oh God! When I tried to help her she said Fuck off! I saw myself then, through all her disgust, really saw myself and knew this could go exactly like the drugs. You doing this again then, are you? I thought and, because I wanted to let myself off the hook, the answer was How many things have you had to learn to live without? Poor you. Poor you. You can’t give up anything else. So Fuck you, I said to her and out I went. See you son, to hers and gave him a quid. Then I closed my eyes and I did what I wanted and I closed my eyes for years.

That was the real start of the sleeping around. Just picking women up at first, in bars, parks, at the shops. Women I worked with, met at parties. Friends’ girlfriends. Wives. Daughters. Girls working on counters. Sat at desks. Handing out fliers in the street. Clap clinic doctor in an epic move. Cyclist who fell off her bike outside. Singer-songwriter who’d only do it with her guitar on the bed then lay around afterwards putting out fags on herself. Single mothers. Solicitors. Estate agents, Christ! You know, anyone who would. And if there was too much chasing I’d ask Yes or No love? I don’t mind either way. I could always tell though. It was like a sixth fucking sense, like looking at a stranger but smelling myself. Did a second round with Arkadina too after walking into her on the street.
We were both polite, asked about each other’s children. I lied. Then I phoned her later that night to say how much I still hated her and that I’d booked a room. More fool her, all she said was Where? So every Saturday for the next two years we went at it again. After the first time, she asked What’s happened to you? I said Same time next week? There wasn’t an inch of feeling left in my body and if there had been I’d have cut it out with a knife. So there was no talking or teasing. None of that wanting her there’d been. Just into the room. How are you? Fine. Fuck. Out again. I’d nothing to prove and there were no more games about who was in charge. When she pried I was cold, eventually she was cold in return. No matter how awful I was though, she kept showing up. But maybe she wouldn’t if she’d known about all the other stuff     I mean     there was a lot of void to fill so      clubs of course and all of that. Places you could watch the worst fucking stuff but more often just depressing shit. Still had to look though, no matter how grim. Still had to fuck if I could manage it. There are places for everything, if you have time to look. Sometimes I’d appear at rehearsal so bruised I had to lie about fights – that familiarity breeding yet more contempt. Pornography helped a while until it started sexualising everything right back at the optic nerve. And the sex party bullshit. They were the worst. All the fucking away in packs. Women looking like they wanted to kill you, not knowing if they tried you’d probably only laugh. Half of them not even wanting to be there. Girls trying to show their dim boyfriends what nymphos they were. Couples giving their marriages a shot in the arm. Men who’d rather be with their families – if only they’d ever had one. Or men feeling guilty because they had but needed this all the same. And then the ones like me, circling all those ordinary people, working
out how far down they would go. Taking advantage of their delusions. But never looking too close in case you caught sight of what lay behind. Jesus! The loneliness. And all the shit lies topped only by the shit lies I told. I’ll ring you. I love you. No, I will meet you at Morden. I’m not late because for the fourth time this month I woke up not knowing where the fuck I was or what I did last night. I just did it until I couldn’t feel, until it didn’t even matter. Christ. People. What they’ll let you do. But I did, and would have done anything, to keep that grief at the back.

And his face.

What else? I ask.

You know       don’t make me say.

So I don’t. Let the silence fill. Let his fingers curl. But the hair in his eyes won’t hide it for long, or the blood working under his skin.

Paying, he says.

I knew that would be it. Same as I know I’d rather think of him as only lost instead of finding what he wanted inside some woman he bought.

First through some mate of a mate, he says I know this house, kind of thing and that didn’t seem too bad because we were all getting what we wanted, weren’t we? But there’re only so many times you can watch somebody fake before realising you’d rather do without the charade. So then somewhere a bit grimmer. Eventually just off the street because down there you really are what you are. Don’t care about teeth or clean
underwear and because they’re so much more fucked than you are you hardly smell the fear.

And when you did? I ask.

I tipped. And it never once stopped me. Junkies mostly – how fitting was that? I think I preferred it. I felt at home. No words, just up against the wall behind King’s Cross. Or over the way in some derelict house, knee deep in shit and needles and dogs that died because their owners forgot to keep them alive and not caring either. Not giving a shit about the look or the smell or the state she was in or you were after. Just trying to clean up and calm down before going to the mate’s who’s invited you round – that you’ve kept waiting for over an hour because you just couldn’t do without. I remember having dinner once, at this couple’s house I knew. I was late because      I’d needed to and, on this occasion, I’d nearly got nicked – only just managed to talk my way out – and by the time I arrived I was pretty tightly wound. But I opened with lies about seeing a dog knocked down, then made all this effort to be funny and charming, to prove my innocence. Because you carry it just behind the eyes, so you always think people can see it there inside      and, whoever she was, she was with me all the while. The clammy body. The sore on her arm that wouldn’t close. I had to keep saying Sorry, what? to the woman sat beside. I couldn’t stop wondering if she could tell? The shame was so live I felt almost transparent. But the more I tuned into her, the more I got lulled by her talk. She was so gentle about the kids in her class and her Down’s syndrome son that I caught myself thinking If I asked you      could you make me stop? I just wanted someone to, so badly. I must have looked a right state because she asked What’s the matter? and I      didn’t say. I think I went to throw up instead. After that evening though it started happening a
lot, feeling suddenly desperate for help but so shamed by why I needed it. And I never did ask. I always forced it back down then took some other remedy home instead. Anyway      that’s enough.

And for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look ashamed. He just looks away.

Quiet we go, studying it. He stares at his own hand on the sheet. I watch his eyelashes blink to the twitch of his cheek. That’s horrible, I say. I know, he agrees. Quiet again. Then he gets off the bed. Walks around like ridding himself. Lights another cigarette while someone from the night beyond comes lumping up the stairs. Smoke hid, we wait as they find their key, go in and switch on their TV but, once they’re settled, he says If you want to leave I’ll sort you out a room in a hotel. And I imagine myself falling asleep on some clean white bed, safe from this but Still? I ask. Still? he says. Prostitutes? No! Jesus! Not for years. It was a short-lived thing, a year in the worst and if I could take it back I would      here – he passes his cigarette but shuts his eyes to the light while I smoke. It scares me, I say. I know, I can see. It was a terrible way to behave and way to be in. But looking down on me now, he also looks young and frightened. Together at least in the fear of it. Hedging round the light. Can I touch you? he says then and I cannot think of anything I want more. So go put myself against him. Feel him all round me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he says I can’t imagine what it’s like for you to hear these things. And what it’s like is I’ve pushed my fingers right through his skin, caught hold of his ribs and must now fall with him. Down through the world while he grasps at everything. But we make the same rattling
sound I think. And so keep close together until we are calm. Can let go, finger by finger. Then sit back down. Person looking at person. Like shy and new again.

Did your friends know? The drinking, he says Not really the sex. They tried helping, feeding, sobering me up but he eventually said One day she’ll be back and what use will you be to her dead? Your body can’t take this drinking, love, knock it on the head. So I gave it up, for the next few years. Instead I tried to focus on work and     the other thing occupied me a great deal.

Then one day an envelope arrived for me at their house. Three photos and an address. No explanation or news of her but it was my first gasp of air in years. I nearly collapsed. It changed everything because now I knew she was still there, somewhere, and I would see her again and I didn’t want her to know what I’d become. So I said to them I have to tell you something. Then I told them what I’d done. They both sat and listened. I kept nothing back. They were upset. Really upset. He yelled I was too old to be at that stupid shit and didn’t I know there were consequences to that kind of carry-on? Once he’d calmed down though he said Well, this is what you’ve been but you don’t have to be it any more, you know what you need to do next.

So I got myself back to the shrink. Threw out all the porn. Stopped answering calls from people I shouldn’t. Had a good going over at the clap clinic. And cancelled the Saturday hotel.

She was probably the hardest to face. I was so broken open by getting those pictures I didn’t know if I could handle a scene but     she was owed.

I was waiting when she came in. Usually it was the other way round. Soon as she saw me she said Is this the last time? When I nodded she came sat by me on the bed and took my
hand. We sat for a bit. What happened? she said. I said I lost my little girl. My ex took her away two years ago and didn’t tell me where until this week. Then I started to cry and she put my head on her knee. My poor boy, she said Why didn’t you say? But I could only keep repeating that I was sorry. You know I love you, she said Despite how this has been, I’ve never stopped and, if you ask me I’ll leave my husband, even now and we could start again. But I already knew how it would have to be for me so I said Don’t do that. She stood up then saying Well, I’d better go home. Take care of yourself my love. She kissed me goodbye with more feeling than I deserved. Then she left. And I left. And that was the last semblance of a relationship I’ve had. Once she was gone that chapter closed and I didn’t have sex again for two years.

Life without was difficult – all that energy and time. I didn’t know what to do with myself so I went back to walking and I spent hours walking, all over London, every night. I liked it. I still do – the time to think and how it wears me out. I can’t tell you how much better it was to be clean of all that, to feel sane again. I’ll always be inclined to be promiscuous I suppose but I pretty much keep it under control. I’ve had a few lapses over the years but I usually manage to sort it out before it gets out of hand – which is why the video gets intermittently packed away, you know, things like that. Nowadays it’s not so bad. Not a daily struggle at all.

And writing to my daughter helped. They never let me speak to her so that’s how I kept contact. Every Sunday night. It was something to look forward to. Occasionally I’d get a note from her mother saying how she was. Then, at Christmas and her birthday two, three photographs. I’d study them for hours to work out how she’d changed so that I’d always know her, so
she’d never seem strange and I’d send her passport pictures of me. A few years later her own letters began. Great scrawly things with crayon drawings on or paintings she’d made, telling me all about her school, her toys, her friends. At first only once or twice a year then more than that, then asking Did I have other little girls? About my job? Did I have a wife?

Didn’t you go to see her? I ask. I tried to, he says Right away, right from the start.

I’d ask to visit or for her to come here but there was never a good time for it. Either her mother was pregnant and didn’t need the stress or someone was recovering from whooping cough, chicken pox. There was always something and I soon realised there always would be. So the summer she turned eight, I just went ahead and bought a ticket. When I arrived in Vancouver I went straight to the house. Her mother answered the door and immediately slammed it. I just kept banging on it, shouting I’m not leaving until I see her. I’m her fucking father and this is not what we agreed. After about ten minutes, she showed me in. I kept looking to see if I could see her in the yard behind but got shown into the sitting room. I heard her called down and Jesus, the nerves. My chest. Then the door opened. She was ushered in and my ex said Two hours, no more.

And suddenly there I was again, trying not to cry. Just the sight of her. The first sight of her after all that time. She’d grown so tall. My solemn-eyed eight-year-old. New front teeth all uneven and so beautiful. I just wanted to grab hold of her but I knew not to touch by the way she stood there, watching me. Taking it all in. So I fished about in my bag until I was together enough to get out the presents I’d brought – some books and one of those Sylvanian animal things Hamleys swore all the little girls loved. Do you like them? I asked, holding them
out. She nodded and took them and was very polite. They’re from England, I said. She said Me too. I know that, I said I used to take care of you. She doesn’t know me, I thought and my heart started to break but      then she just said it Are you my English Dad? I am, I said Any chance of a hug? And she did, came over, sat herself on my knee, wrapped her arms around and squeezed the life out of me, like she always had. I can’t describe how it was, after those four years, to suddenly have her there in my arms. I just kept saying I loved her and missed her, and fucking crying of course. Eventually she said Dad, can I open these now? Oh right, I said Of course, and put her down. Then she got on with the serious business of ripping the boxes apart. Getting me to assemble the various structures. Soon enough, she was all talk. Her school. Her ballet class. Her dog. How she was going to camp and when did I think nail varnish was allowed? Would I like her to dance? Of course I would but I couldn’t sing the tune right so that was no good and, Jesus Christ, that laugh! I kept inventing knock-knock jokes just to hear it again. But two hours doesn’t last very long. Bang to the second her stepfather walked in and told her to say goodbye, then go upstairs and wash her hands. So she hugged me and off she went. I remember promising See you soon, as she went on up. Then standing there, with his son in his arms, he said You are never to come here again. My wife and I will not tolerate your being around our children. I only want to see her, I said I don’t want to interfere. You made your choice, he said You have to live with it. No, I said I never chose this and I’m still her father, whatever you think. I’m her father, he said I’m the one she cries for at night. I’m the one who picks her up from school. I’m the one who buys her shoes and. Please, I said I’m not asking much. Her mother promised me and for years there
was nothing. If you were me could you give up on your son? How dare you, he said We are not the same. I would never have put my child’s mother through what you did and if you ever come here again we’ll call the police. If you even phone this house there’ll be no more letters, or anything else.

So I went home and relapsed over every woman I could. It was a bad one. Went on for months. Then I got someone pregnant and that snapped me back to myself pretty quick. She didn’t want to have it. Just wanted me to help. Drive her there. Pick her up. Which I did. And I know she probably made the right choice – what other choice could she have made? – but I left that clinic knowing it was time to get hold of myself because I really didn’t want to do that again. Which meant facing that my daughter was going to grow up without me and I was going to have to learn how to live without her.

I’ve had more than a few furious phone calls with my ex over the years. They always end with contact threatened or how she’ll tell her The Stories. I couldn’t bear for her to hear those and I can’t lose her again so I’ve tried to be satisfied with what I have and     it’s become easier with time. I write my letters and wait for hers. They’ve only become more frequent over the years. Twice a month without fail now. I love seeing them on the mat, even when they’re hard to read. In her early teens she got so angry with me and wanted to know why I gave her up? Didn’t I love her? Didn’t I want her? Said she didn’t care if my letters stopped. But I never stopped writing. Sometimes she’d ignore me for weeks then, out of the blue, reply and I’d be so relieved. She doesn’t seem to be angry any more. I think we get on well. It’s hard though, knowing how much to say about what happened between her mother and me. What’s too much? How do I know when she’s ready? I mostly just answer what
she asks. But this last while she’s been asking about her grandparents a lot and      I don’t know about that. How could I tell her those things? And, really, why would I? Besides, I prefer hearing about her life. She wants to be an actress now. I don’t think that’s such a great idea but      anyway. When she’s old enough she can do whatever she wants and I’ve enough money put by for her to be independent. She could go travelling. Buy a flat. Spend it on a PhD or dresses or whatever she’d like. It’s depressing how money’s turned out to be what I can most easily give but      I hope it will be useful and      that it won’t be all. In the meantime I just stare at the photographs she sends – those same grey eyes looking out at me though she’s almost grown up these days. They keep me going while I wait until she can choose for herself. I’m hopeful though. She always writes Dear Daddy or Dad, and that’s what I’ve always signed. No one can take that away. That word is mine alone.

And that’s how it was for her and me until she phoned that day. Her mother didn’t know, she said and I didn’t recognise her voice. I thought it was you taking the piss, putting an accent on. No Dad it’s really me, she said. I nearly dropped the phone. Just knowing she wanted to speak to me, that she knew I’d want to hear. I kept saying It’s so lovely to hear your voice. But she was straight into When can I visit? Any day, I said. I’d book her a ticket and, whenever she was ready, just to say. I said I’d show her all London, that I couldn’t wait. Me neither Dad, she said and it sounded so nice and for me. She had to go but then she just slipped in I know why she doesn’t let me see you Dad and I just want to tell you that it doesn’t matter to me. I started saying What? But she’d already hung up. I can’t tell you how long I held onto that receiver, just willing the portal to open again. Of course I couldn’t have her here but when she’s coming     I’ll
get a flat or      buy a house in case she wants   anyway      anyway   she’s not coming yet. I was   euphoric   standing out there with her actual voice ringing in my ears. Soon as I came back in here though, that past started screaming in. All that feeling that had been put away for so long. The sheer desperation of the years after she was taken. I couldn’t get it under control. I just wanted her to be coming here right away, fast forwarding into it then remembering she wasn’t. Couldn’t. For years yet. Go for a drink, I thought To settle yourself, and you know what happened after that. I should never have called. I should have known. I just didn’t want to be alone. I could see myself telling you about her too, about how it had been and then I couldn’t and it all got so fucked up instead. I’m sorry for that night, he says – resting his forehead to mine – And for everything. For taking so long to tell you so many things. It’s just, that past is so unclean. So much of it lived without thinking I’d ever be different or survive long enough to want to be changed. I decided, years ago, not to inflict it on anyone again so I closed the door on the idea of being with someone and never thought about what it might mean or how I’d ever explain. And then you came and being with you’s been like having a light shone into the back of my eye. All these months I’ve stumbling around half-blind and      I still don’t know what to say. So whatever you want, to stay or go, I’ll understand but      it’s up to you now.

Then he sits down on the rug, looking up at me. Cigarette smoke rising, falling between. All this time gone by. The hours we’ve spent. Sleepy Song on the record player and his life run right through the room. And I am surprised I didn’t know before. It’s written all over him. All down his legs scars that must have been burns. I never asked but now I recognise them. Places discoloured that only show in the cold, where something
hit him and hurt him long ago. Silvered nicks on his back that reflect the light. Were they cuts? And so many. I kneel down behind. Bless the place with my lips. His body all battle. Too thin, often sore. What he’s done to himself and what he’s had done. But this is the finish. The race is run. Lay my cheek on his shoulder and wrap my arms round. Just the soft of his breath then and weight of his life. We are long nights from the beginning. Come light years from the start. Now he waits, set for pain while I, it seems, hold the sword but I say All I want is you.