The More You Ignore Me (27 page)

Gina was at that very
moment lying in the back of a lorry belonging to someone called Dunk, or Duncan
to give him the name he was christened with. Dunk was seventy-one years old,
came from Chester (‘Only complete Roman town wall in England,’ he had already
informed Gina twice) and couldn’t quite believe that a woman under the age of
forty had agreed to have sex with him. He was a widower, whose wife Jennie had
died four years ago, leaving him lonely and bored. His children, Mary and Tom,
had both emigrated, one to Canada and one to Australia — he frequently forgot
which one was where. Having been a lorry driver all of his life, he had decided
to go back to work with a small, busy haulage firm who were quite happy about
the fluidity of his age, given that he often forgot what he had told people.

To
Gina, this was a small price to pay for being delivered to the home town of the
man of her dreams. In hospital she had occasionally succumbed to young male
patients who were locked in and deprived of their usual supply of sexual
partners, and who paced the ward like panthers ready to pounce. It had in no
way entered Gina’s head that the supplying of sexual favours was anything other
than a neutral arrangement, designed to empty them of their frustration and
thus make their stay on the ward a little more bearable. Some of the nurses had
an inkling of what was going on and either ignored it or had a quiet word with
Gina. One of them said to her, ‘Come on, you don’t want to become the ward
bike, do you?’

Gina
rather did.

Dunk
finished his grunting business reasonably swiftly and put the radio on in his
cab. It was Radio 2 and some unidentifiable musical mush drifted around them as
Gina fumbled in her bag for some Rizlas and tobacco.

‘Thank
you, that was nice,’ said Dunk, totally sincerely.

‘S’all
right,’ said Gina as her yellowed, dirty fingernails poked and prodded at the
roll-up.

‘Fancy
some grub?’ said Dunk, not exactly an invitation to dinner but as near as damn it.

They
were in the lorry park of a motorway services near Manchester and when Gina
nodded her assent, Dunk climbed down from the cab and went in search of a
Ginster’s pie and a cup of tea for them. Gina lay back humming along to the
music and pleasantly surprised at the slight dimming of the voices in her head.
She gave not a thought to her family; she increasingly found that when she was
away from them, they ceased to exist for her, and each renewed contact with
them after a period of incarceration or liberty from the little cottage was a
bit like meeting them for the first time.

‘Here
you are, love,’ said Dunk, pushing a pie and some tea in a polystyrene cup into
her hand.

Gina
grunted something unintelligible which Dunk with his poor hearing took as an
expression of gratitude. He was well aware that Gina wasn’t what he’d call ‘the
full shilling’ but she seemed in need of a little TLC, and although Dunk felt
vaguely uncomfortable that he’d exploited her for his own ends, he was resolved
to show her how thankful he was to have had a bit of female contact. His wife
Jennie hadn’t been too keen on it for the last ten years of their marriage, so
to find a woman who had assented so readily to his suggestion was like a gift
from heaven.

‘Can
you take me to Manchester then?’ said Gina.

‘Righto,’
said Dunk cheerily ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Can we
go to the Salford…’ She stopped. ‘Shit, I’ve forgotten what it’s called.’

‘Well,
what is it?’ said Dunk. ‘What sort of place?’

‘Do you
know Morrissey?’ asked Gina, as if she was asking, ‘Do you know Jesus?’

‘Don’t
believe I do,’ said Dunk. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s
my saviour,’ said Gina, ‘and I’ve got to go to him.’

‘Blimey,’
said Dunk, ‘that sounds quite serious.

Gina
started to sob loudly ‘It is serious, more serious than anything ever in my
life,’ she said. ‘I first heard Morrissey sing in my house. So I came to
Manchester.’

‘That
doesn’t really make sense,’ said Dunk, who was not an expert on mental illness
and hadn’t come across any examples of knight’s-move thinking before, in which
the sufferer misses out the second logical step of a thought process, thus
arriving at what seems to be an illogical conclusion.

Are you
going to take me?’ said Gina in her little girl’s voice, an affectation that
had survived the turmoil in her mind caused by her illness.

‘Of
course, love,’ said Dunk and turned the key in the ignition. ‘We’ll head for
Salford and then on the way you might come up with a bit more info on where you
want to be.’

As they
approached Salford, Gina said, ‘Salford Boys’ Club, that’s it… that’s where I
want to go.

What on
earth for? wondered Dunk, but he didn’t gainsay Gina who, he had correctly
assessed, had a right temper on her.

Dunk
pulled in to the side of the road and asked someone for directions to the boys’
club. He was immediately corrected by the indignant passer-by ‘It’s fooking
Salford
Lads’
Club,’ he said. Ain’t you heard of it, mate?’

‘Course
I bleeding haven’t,’ said Dunk, ‘or why would I be asking?’

‘That
way mate,’ said the passer-by pointing.

‘Ta,’
said Dunk and roared off.

Gina
became animated. ‘There it is! There it is!’ she chanted over and over again.

Dunk,
who was becoming increasingly uneasy about Gina’s mental state, tried to soothe
her.

‘All
right, all right,’ he said softly.

But as
they drew level with the building, Gina’s expression changed.

‘Fuck,
fuck, fuck,’ she shouted. ‘Quick, drive, escape, go, faster, go!’

Without
thinking, Dunk put his foot down.

‘What’s
the matter?’ he said.

‘I
fucking knew,’ said Gina. ‘I fucking knew.’

‘Knew
what?’ said Dunk.

‘Can’t
say it’s a secret, after me, want to get me, lock me up.

‘Where
shall I drop you?’ said Dunk uneasily ‘Don’t know, got to think, nowhere to go
now they’re here, shit,’ said Gina.

By this
point Dunk had realised that Gina definitely wasn’t ‘right in the head’. He
could see she was vulnerable and needed protecting. But do I really want to
lumber myself with a nutter? he asked himself.

Then he
thought of the sex, then he felt guilty, then he felt altruistic, then he felt
revulsion, then he felt ashamed.

‘You
better come home with me,’ he said.

Gina
brightened. ‘Morrissey’s home, that’s it. Let’s go there.’

Mark and Alice did not
have a comfortable experience in the gay district of Manchester.

The
heaving, colourful and fascinating sights of Manchester stood largely unnoticed
as they concentrated on their pursuit of Gina. They had very little money and
after some discussion outside one of the pubs, they agreed that if they were
going to have a drink and something to eat, it was probably not possible to
afford a bed and breakfast for the night. So they decided they would sleep in
Mark’s friend’s little car.

The mass
of people milling past afforded them a bizarre, theatrical entertainment, their
own miniature carnival. Occasionally Alice saw someone in the crowd who looked
a bit like Gina, but none of them was Gina and as each fresh hope was dashed,
their spirits sank lower.

Eventually,
they felt brave enough to go into a pub. Inside sat a selection of gay men of
all ages.

Alice
felt she was in a zoo for exotic birds.

Mark,
still struggling with the manly side of himself, which was expected of the sons
of hardy country folk, felt simultaneously uncomfortable and fascinated.

‘What
do you want to drink?’ he asked. ‘I’ll go to the bar.’ Alice asked for half a
lager and he left her sitting at a table and pushed his way through the crush.

‘What
are you doing here, Alice?’ said a voice Alice could only describe as ‘fruity’.
It belonged to a man at the next table who appeared to be a flamboyant mixture
of Oscar Wilde and a builder.

‘How do
you know my name?’ she said, surprised. ‘Oh, I don’t, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s
just that you look like Alice in Wonderland with that expression on your face
in amongst all these mad hatters.’

She had
to agree that there was an amazing selection of strange headgear on display.

‘I’m
looking for my mum,’ she said. ‘She’s a big Morrissey fan and she’s run away
from hospital and we think she might be here in Manchester looking for him.’

The man
extended a hand, the nails of which, Alice observed, were obsessively
well-manicured and painted with black nail varnish.

‘Molly’s
the name,’ said the ostentatious character.

‘Hello,’
said Alice.

‘Hello,
Alice,’ said Molly ‘What does she look like?’

Alice
described her mum.

‘Fuck
me sideways, dear,’ said Molly ‘She’d stand out like a sore thumb in here. I
certainly haven’t seen anyone answering that description but I’m happy to ask
around for you.

Despite
the uncomfortable feeling that Molly would be using her and her family as the
centrepiece in a stand-up routine, Alice thought this was a small price to pay
for getting some information on Gina’s whereabouts.

‘Thank
you,’ she said.

‘And
who’s that very tasty young man you are accompanied by?’ said Molly ‘Is he
spoken for?’

‘No,’
said Alice and then wondered if she’d made a mistake. Would Mark be the target
of some sort of romantic assault from Molly and friends?

Mark
was doing equally uncomfortably up at the bar. Having ordered two halves of
lager and turned down the offer of a free cocktail from the immaculately
dressed and coiffed barman, he thought he’d better turn the talk to the Gina
situation.

‘I’m
looking for a woman,’ he ventured.

The
barman guffawed.

‘Bloody
hell, love, this isn’t the right place to start.’

Mark
felt his face flushing bright red, although it was concealed by the flashing
red lights positioned round the bar.

‘No,’
he said. ‘My friend’s mother has gone missing from hospital and we think she
might be wandering around Manchester.’

‘The
words “needle” and “haystack” spring to mind,’ said the barman. ‘Manchester’s a
fucking big place, you know.’

‘I
know,’ said Mark irritably, feeling he had been cast in the role of country
cousin.

Just as
he was preparing to deliver a wounded speech about being perhaps a little more
in control and knowledgeable than maybe he looked, a hand belonging to someone
behind him began to very gently stroke his left buttock. Alarm shot through him
at this unwarranted assault on his person and he spun round to see a smiling,
good-looking man staring at him in a humorous way as if this was a perfectly
natural thing to do and had been carried out in lieu of an introduction. Any
remaining doubt that Mark had about his sexuality has extinguished as his
instinctive response to the man’s touch closed that book for him once and for
all.

‘White
wine spritzer, please,’ said the smiling man.

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t have enough money to buy you a drink.’

‘Hope
your arsehole’s as tight as you are,’ said the man, giving the impression that
this was a well-worn line.

The
predatory nature of his expression and his assumption that this sort of
behaviour was perfectly acceptable made Mark feel as if he was from another
century. He turned back to the bar, paid for his drinks and then turned with
what he thought was a neutral yet vaguely threatening expression on his face
and headed back to the table where Alice sat waiting.

He put
the drinks down and whispered, ‘I hate it here, can we leave after this?’

Alice,
conversely, was enjoying herself immensely; it was so rare that she was able to
sit in a pub without there being at least one allusion to her appearance and
her suitability as a sexual partner. A whole room full of men, none of whom
either did or didn’t fancy, her was an absolute joy.