The Sacrificial Man (28 page)

In the bedroom they lay, thinking only of love, and they didn’t hear the soft tread of Alice’s mother coming upstairs with a pile of washing.

Mrs Dunn paused, and wondered for the hundredth time what it was they did in there, so silently. She worried about things, things she’s heard about on the TV, like drugs. Like solvent abuse, apparently just sniffing a pot of nail polish can kill instantly.
Do you know what your teenager is up to?
The headline demanded that morning, making her flinch. Her daughter was so contained, so aloof, that she knew she would not know. The room always smelt of nail polish after Lee had visited. If they were sniffing solvents in there…

She couldn’t discuss this with Alice. She hadn’t the words. But if she should happen upon them, if she had an innocent reason to go into the bedroom and found them in the act…

Telling herself that this was what any good mother would do, she made her way up the stairs, silently avoiding the steps that would groan under her weight, stopping when she was outside Alice’s door, her hand raised in the air by the handle. She listened at the door, fingers touching the aluminium blade of the handle, daring herself to push it down. Finally, she opened the door.

She didn’t find them, as she expected, bent over a pot of candy pink nail varnish, inhaling fumes. Instead, she found them on the floor. Lee was naked, on her back, and alongside her was Alice, holding her tight. She was sucking her breast.

Alice was excelling at her studies, absorbing facts and ideas at a marvellous rate. She was hungry for knowledge, for understanding, and it was clear she would go far. Her decision to remain at school to take A levels was welcomed by all her teachers: we wish her well with her continuing education. That’s what her form tutor said in last year’s report card. But Alice didn’t excel at everything; she failed at the break times, at lunchtime. She failed at interaction with others. In the sixth form block, the other young women avoided her. Lee was no longer at the school so Alice was always alone between lessons. She often sat in the library, surrounded by a barricade of books.

She didn’t care about not having friends. It was their loss, their error, if they couldn’t see what a good friend she would be. She held her nose in the air and looked down on them and they hated her for it. She taught herself to rise above such pettiness. She resolved not to desire friendships, and she still had Lee. Why would she need more than one friend?

Lee worked as a lifeguard at the local swimming pool, and talked of joining the Forces. She’d worked hard at getting in shape and valued strength and fitness. Lee wasn’t like Alice, she couldn’t immerse herself in learning. She preferred practical subjects, using her hands.

Alice used her brain, her mind. Of all her three A levels, Alice was best at English. The teacher encouraged her, told her she should think about studying it at degree level; he said she had a knack for interpretation. The interpretation of words and details. She had a literary eye. And then she discovered Keats. They were studying
Ode on a Grecian Urn
:

More happy love! More happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above…

Alice understood immediately how the figures on the urn were immortal. Understood straight away how a frozen image could transcend the inferior, too-human passions. She thought of her mother, of that single image that had haunted her down the years; her immortal Mummy, frozen in time on the bedsit floor, forever beautiful, eternally loved.

Alice had found a way to be understood. The Romantics gave her a world in which her feelings made sense. The relief was immeasurable.

Between poetry and Lee there was little choice. The ethereal over the physical.

Lee was heavier now, weighed down by swimmers’ shoulders, muscular thighs and smelling of chlorine. Alice no longer asked her to strip, and anyway she wouldn’t feel safe since her mother found them. Nothing was said, but her mother stopped coming to her room. She wouldn’t say anything to her father, Alice was sure.

Alice knew she wasn’t a lesbian. Her desire transcended gender. What she wanted from Lee wasn’t sexual. Her need for Lee’s body, for the stillness of her flesh, was spiritual. But how could she explain that to her mother? She would never understand. Instead, Alice would bide her time until she could escape. And Keats was showing her the way.

Alice was in the doctor’s waiting room, but she wasn’t sick. Her mother, who brought her there, was in with the doctor. The waiting room was full and two children fought over the dirty dolls’ house in the corner. Alice assumed her mother had asked her to come along because she wanted moral support. She’d been tearful all morning, and bleached the floor twice before they left home. Maybe she needed more anti-depressants. Alice yawned and waited.

When her mother appeared she looked older, her eyes weary and her forehead wrinkled with worry, but then Alice sometimes forgot that she was an elderly woman. Her smile was thin and her hands were clasped around themselves as she said in a whisper, “Come with me, Alice. The doctor wants to see us together.”

Alice’s heart thumped, in spite of her controlled teenage nonchalance, all chalky foundation and red lips and feet encased in Doc Martens, her heart had no disguise. It hurt to think her mother was unwell.

The doctor’s door was open, under a large sign announcing ‘Room K’. Eleven rooms; so many sick people. Her mother stood aside and Alice took the chair pointed out to her by the man behind the desk.

It wasn’t their usual doctor. This man was older, with a bushy beard and tiny dark eyes. He wore a brown cord jacket with leather patches, and looked nothing like the other GPs, who wore smart shirts with ties, or bow ties. This doctor looked like a hippy.

“Now then, Miss Dunn. Or may I call you Alice?”

Alice mumbled yes, but she was surprised. When had a doctor wanted to call her by her name? She looked to her mother, who had taken the opposite seat and was studying the floor, maybe thinking how dirty it was. Her mother looked so pale and faded. She must be dying, thought Alice, a sharp grip squeezing her heart. That was why this doctor wanted to call her by name. She braced herself for bad news.

“And you must call me Dr Murray,” he smiled, as if he’d just told a clever joke, then placed his hands flat on the desk, a magician showing he had nothing up his sleeves. “Alice, I’m not a medical doctor but a clinical psychologist. Your mum has referred you because she has concerns about you.”

Her mother was still staring down at the carpet. Dr Murray smiled at Alice, as if these concerns were good things. Alice glowered under her white foundation, realising that she was the reason they were here. Her mother had referred
her
! Her mother wasn’t sick at all.

“Now, Alice, I explained to your mum that at sixteen you’re not strictly speaking a child anymore, so any assistance I can give must be with your full consent.” He paused, smiling, inviting trust. “So your mum will leave us in a little while, and you and I will have a chat. But first I want you to hear from her why she is so worried. Mrs Dunn?”

Alice watched her mother struggle with words, which eventually came out defiantly and accompanied by sniffs.

“You’ve always been so withdrawn, Alice. You’ve never had any friends to speak of. Except for Lee, of course. I just thought you were shy. But then, after I found you both… ”

“You told him, didn’t you?” Hot anger burst in her chest.

“Alice, what else could I do? It’s not natural… ” She started to cry.

Dr Murray pushed a box of tissues across the desk, saying in a kind but firm tone, “Now, Mrs Dunn, I’ve already said that homosexuality is not a sign of psychological disturbance. All sixteen-year-olds have issues around their sexuality.”

The penny dropped on what he was saying. It is all Alice could do to keep her voice level. “I’m not gay! Is that what she told you?”

“You’re bound to feel ambivalent about it, Alice, especially when your mother clearly struggles with… ”

“No, Dr Murray! This has nothing to do with my mother. I’m not a lesbian. I don’t find any woman even slightly fanciable.”

“But your mother said that she found you and your friend – ”

Alice erupted, “Especially not Lee – she’s spotty and fat!”

Her mother had stopped blowing her nose. Dr Murray cocked his head in curiosity. “Oh? But Lee is your best friend?”

“She’s not a friend. She’s a leech I can’t shake off.”

“So do you have any friends?” He was interested, and so was her mother.

Alice pushed out her lower lip and looked at them both like they were idiots. “I don’t need any friends. I have poetry.”

“Poetry? You like reading?”

Alice’s mouth becomes a sneer. “No, I don’t like reading. I live in images. I can achieve a state of sensation without the need for reason.” She looked over to her mother. “I would hardly expect her to understand that.”

Smith: I want to see you.

Robin: When? This weekend?

Smith: Yes. We should start planning out the details. June 16th isn’t far off.

Robin: We still haven’t discussed how you want to die.

Smith: Poison. A slow, lingering death. I want to savour every moment.

Robin: What type of poison? Paracetamol?

Smith: Something else. Something that brings pleasure. Don’t you have any students who use drugs?

Robin: What do you think?? But getting them to supply me would be too risky. Whatever we use you should buy it.

Smith: You answered my ad – I thought you liked playing with risk?

Robin: I’d like to keep my job.

Smith: Point taken. But I don’t know any drug dealers. Although I’ve got a good mate who uses a lot of dope. He works across from me, so I could speak to him tomorrow. The dealer he uses must sell harder stuff too. I’ll get his number.

Robin: I just had a thought. I do have a student who has failed a couple of essays. A total druggie. Maybe he would be interested in an exchange? One grade for one hit.

Smith: I thought you said it was too risky?

Robin: Not when he has something to lose. Without my help he’ll have to drop out. But I could make him an offer. He gets his pass, and everyone’s happy.

Smith: Let me ask my friend first. If he can’t help, then you can ask your student.

This was how Smith and I planned; messages on our computer screens, one sentence communication that helped us prepare. Smith wanted to die of a drugs overdose, and his friend from work gave him the number for a drug dealer, but the mobile went unanswered every time he tried it. We were both getting impatient. It was time to try it my way.

I waited in the lecture hall, watching the students fan out into the corridor. I waited until the hall hummed only with noisy air conditioning, the sound of no words. Still, I waited. Alex was slumped in his usual place, near the back of the hall. Despite being drugged to the eyeballs, he always made it to lectures. This told me a great deal. It told me that he didn’t want to drop out, despite all signs that he was going to fail anyway. It gave me the advantage.

Alex was too stoned to have learned anything that day. There was no notepad on the desk, no pen. His pupils were wide as saucers, his body caved in a stupor. Awoken from his doze he looked up and scowled.

I opened a bottle of water and placed it in front of him. “Drink it. It’s dangerous to become dehydrated.”

But water was not the medicine that would cure him. He was spaced out and his pupils were dark; he needed a stronger fix. His face was waxy, unreal, and his clothes were loose. He was a marionette, limply waiting for life to be pulled into him by a puppeteer. By me.