Dispossession (49 page)

If
she didn’t know.

o0o

It’s a short step from Albuquerque to Milan. Or in this case
il Milano
, which is the best Italian restaurant
in town, and therefore the one that knows us best. We got our regular table and
our regular waiter, young Gino with the big eyes and the cherubic smile, the
party soul and just as well his mother’s in Treviso, she wouldn’t want to see
what we’ve made of her cute son or what he does for fun these days. She really,
really wouldn’t want to see it.

Two litres of the house red to get us started, orders for
gamberoni
— “shells
on
,
for Christ’s sake, Gino, I shouldn’t need to tell you that, where’ve you been,
sodding Treviso?” — and
antipasti
and
sardines; and the cigarettes came out while we were waiting, and already the
lights were starting to shine a little brighter, we were sharp and witty and
laughing loud, we loved ourselves and each other and too bad if the rest of the
world didn’t love us, what the hell did they know?

o0o

No need to hurry: no pressure from the staff, and we weren’t
going anywhere that wouldn’t wait for us. So we ate through the menu, and idled
over espressos and liqueurs, amaretto or
sambucca
a la mocha
, pale blue flames and three coffee-beans floating, “like
drowned flies,” Vanessa said, because she always did say that, it was the
ritual.

And then it was out into the street and into the first pub
we came to, one quick pint and on to the next; and now we were hurrying
suddenly, last orders like a whip to sting us on. Not a problem, last orders,
this was a rage and we weren’t going to
stop
,
we weren’t going home at eleven o’clock like good little children ought. It was
a challenge, that was all, something to be defied, to be stared down and defeated.

o0o

After the pubs, the clubs. We wanted to dance, we
needed
to dance; with such a load aboard, on such
a night, we needed to move and sweat in a hard light, we needed each other’s
hot bodies as a counter to our own.

Rites of Passage
is a
queer club, by and large;
Gay Rites
they
call it, as they would. But they’re a tolerant crowd, they give us rights of
passage, in and out as we choose most nights and welcome on Thursdays. This was
a Thursday; a good rage doesn’t happen by chance, it just has to feel as if it
did.

So we pulsed and thundered, music in our bones and every
cell awoken. Between dances we drank Red Stripe viciously cold and straight
from the cans, and then hauled each other back to the dance floor again. And
yes, I danced with Laura, how not? Been doing it for years. Warm body, fine
bones, skin oiled with her own sweat and mine and five hundred others’, the air
was sodden with it. And oh, it was cruel to hold her, separated by so little
and so much; and oh, what the hell, it was just my life, that was all. And so
much better than the other thing, not to dance with her, not to see or speak,
not to touch or hold or sweat with her at all.

o0o

After the sauna, the ritual plunge into ice water; after
being so hot, crucial to be cool for an hour. We left
Rites
before it closed, waited for Colin to be
sick in the gutter — just another part of the ritual, he always was; not the
booze, he said, it was the dancing and the heat and then the sudden change, air
and silence did him in — and straggled arm-in-arm up a quiet alley that was only
a little noisier for our arrival. Cooling already, we were, running close to
empty.

We hammered discreetly on a discreet little door, no lights
showing, no noise. And known here too we were let in, we were found a table and
a bottle of bad German wine; and we sat still like good children and listened
to the jamming. Blues and easy jazz, nothing frenetic this time of night, just
souls in harmony doing what comes right.

o0o

About four o’clock they threw us out. Nothing aggressive,
just, “Don’t you kids want to go home?” and
take
the hint, if you want to be taken back.

We did that, we always did. A night at Delilah’s was a
privilege and we valued it, wouldn’t abuse it. Wouldn’t take risks, so we took
the hint instead, said goodnight and left them. Stumbled over our feet a little
on the way out, perhaps, but it was dark in there and the tables were too
close, and the aisles filled with bags and instrument-cases and people’s big
feet; and swayed all across the road as we headed for home, perhaps, but there
wasn’t any traffic and we were just reclaiming the highway for pedestrians, and
what was wrong with that?

Split up when we had to, going this way and that. Said
goodnight slowly, slurringly, fumbling over arrangements to meet again, some of
us in one place and some in another; and said goodnight again, and some had
hugs for everyone and some had kisses for a few. And I got hugged and kissed,
no different; but not as I should have been in a world with no wicked sense of
humour, not as I yearned to be. She kissed me, sure, but only on the cheek and
fleetingly; and her hand squeezed my arm, and what did that mean?

“’Night, then, Ben,” she said; and
Yeah, right
, I thought, supplying the elision for
her, getting at least one message I could read tonight.
Good night, chalk it up as that, that’s good enough.

And I smiled, brushed a hand meaninglessly across her
shoulder, jerked it at the others like a last brief wave and went walking off
up the hill alone.

Again.

Naturally.

o0o

Home to a dark flat, and the Yale achingly hard to get into
the lock, scratching and scratching; and then at last inside, grabbing the door
to stop it crashing too loud against the wall, not to wake Jacko. Closing it
so, so softly; and going through to the kitchen almost on tiptoe, opening a
fresh pint of milk and swallowing it straight from the carton, chug-a-lug; and
dribbling toothpaste onto my treasured silk shirt when I cleaned my teeth, and
standing for a minute over the toilet wondering if I was going to puke, and
thinking maybe I should take a bowl to bed with me just in case, and
no, that’ll only make it more likely, forget it, you’re
not going to puke, not you, boy, not tonight...

And keeping a hand on the furniture or the wall all the way
through to my bedroom, and stripping off in about ten seconds and dropping onto
the bed because I couldn’t stand upright any longer, feeling my way under the
duvet almost comatose already, and the last thing I heard was Jacko coming in,
being desperately quiet, not to wake me....

o0o

And that was the night, that good good night; and then there
was the morning.

Which began with a hammering, more than in my head, dragging
me halfway up from sodden dreams; and then light and action, more than
movement, a tremendous shaking; and I opened claggy eyes on the morning and my
hangover and Jacko.

He was bending over the bed rolling me to and fro with hands
of long experience, almost a year my flatmate and this the only way to wake me.
Surprising that even this worked, after a good rage; and we’d never had the
chance to find out before, no one had ever
wanted
to wake me after a good rage, and why the hell was he doing it now...?

I grunted, shoved him away, glared at him as best I could
with no focus yet to my bleary sight. I could see his wild hair, an afro
wrecked by sleeping, and I could see his weak beard, too thin to hide the weak
chin behind it; I could see his bathrobe hanging open, showing his scant red
body-hair and his bones beneath; I still couldn’t see what he was here for.

Couldn’t ask either, I was in no fit state to shape an
English sentence. Sour saliva pooled behind my teeth; if I tried to use my
mouth too cleverly I could yet throw up, and with a witness now. So I ran a
hand down over my face, rubbed at a night’s rough stubble, grunted again, the
best he was going to get. It was enough, apparently.

“Your sister’s here,” he said.

Which was instant chill, a dose of wide-awake potion and my
mouth suddenly desert-dry, no question of chucking up.

“I haven’t,” I croaked, “haven’t got a sister.”
Send her away, get rid of her, get her out of here...

“Well, she says she’s your sister. And I wouldn’t want to
argue, the mood she’s in. Very stressed-out, this girl is.”

I disinvested, I divorced her, I disowned them all and
denied them thrice before cock-crow; I’ve got a decree absolute, no family,
none of mine...

But yes, that sounded like my sister; and if she was here,
she wasn’t going away. Not fair, to send Jacko back with unforthcoming
messages. She’d just shred him, and then come through to find me.

“Give me a minute,” I said.

“Sure. Make her a coffee, shall I...?”

“No.” That surprised him; the question was pure rhetoric, of
course he’d make her a cup of coffee. But, “No,” I said again, and meant it.
Not in my flat. No welcome, no refreshment, no returns.
“Go back to bed,” I said, “I’ll deal with Hazel.”

And not in my bathrobe, either. That was a lesson early
learned, not to put myself at any disadvantage. I pulled on yesterday’s jeans
and a sweatshirt, slouched through to the bathroom for a pee and a quick wash,
no distractions and no hostages to fortune. I pulled a comb through my hair,
checked myself in the mirror, even thought about shaving; but no, no need to go
overboard. If I was going to play student for my sister, I had to look the
part. So I rumpled my hair again,
I’m hung over,
right? And it’s Friday morning and I’m cutting lectures, and for God’s sake
give the girl what she expects to see
, and unbolted the door at last.

We never bolt the bathroom door, Jacko and me; but Hazel was
in the flat and I hadn’t even stopped to think about it. All my life I’d been
snatching refuges from Hazel, bolting doors against her.

And now I walked down the passage damp and fresh and afraid,
head numb and stomach twisting for more than all last night’s alcohol; and I
hesitated by the closed living-room door, and my hand was trembling where I
lifted it to the handle.

o0o

And I walked in and yes, there was Hazel.

In her leathers, stood by the window, watching the bike
perhaps in this neighbourhood, as if anyone in this neighbourhood would be
stupid enough to steal Hazel Macallan’s bike.

Her helmet was on the table, her hair was cropped to keep it
neat under the helmet, her eyes were hard and sisterly. I looked away, trying
to be angry with her for coming,
why don’t you,
why didn’t you ever, ever listen to me? Go away, we’re through, it’s over, no
more family...
But all I could manage was contempt, and that was all for
myself.
Too scared to meet her eye to eye, eh, Ben
old buddy? Your sister, your twin, and you can’t even look her in the eye...

My twin, yes, half an hour older and she’d exploited that
all our lives; but I’d let it happen. Along with everything else I’d let
happen, just because that was easier than the other thing, easier far than
standing up to her or Laura or anyone. I wasn’t good at standing up, and
especially not this morning; already I wanted to drop onto the sofa, pull a cushion
down over my face, give myself away completely.

Didn’t do that, still had just a hint of pride left —
family pride
, something whispered,
Macallan pride
, and maybe it wasn’t so easy after
all, you couldn’t just walk away from blood — so I gestured vaguely, said, “Sit
down, Hazel,” the first words I’d spoken to my sister in three years, near
enough.

And she jerked her head in an abrupt negative, and already I
felt foolish and ineffectual; and then my rough and heavy-handed sister did
what she’d come to do, used what she had, no compromise and no allowances
allowed.

“Marty died last night,” she said.

And then I did sit down, or drop down rather, straight down
and lucky the sofa was there or I’d have gone all the way to the floor; and
after a second of staring I brought both hands up to cover my aching eyes, to
give myself a moment’s rest from this world of family and never mind what Hazel
thought, she knew it all already.

o0o

My cousin Marty. Three years older, three stone heavier than
me: at least that and likely more by now, so long since I’d seen him and
never more and isn’t this what you wanted, aren’t you
supposed not to care?

Of course I was supposed not to care. I’d divorced them all,
Marty included; and if not one of the reasons, Marty was at least a symptom of
why I’d done it. He was a bully and a bruiser, shaven head and tattoos and scar
tissue in unexpected places, that he delighted in showing off; and he was an
enforcer, that was his talent and that was how my family used him. To lean on
people, to encourage them to be convenient — and to punish if they were
obdurate, if they made a nuisance of themselves. Marty used to enjoy the
punishments.

But it was Marty who taught me how to swim as a kid, even if
his idea of lessons did include a lot of duckings in deep water; and it was
Marty who really taught me how to drink, for all that I like to tell that story
differently, back when I was fourteen and even the family face wouldn’t see me
served in any pub in town. And the year after that he got me laid for the first
time, he devoted half an hour of his own birthday party to that generous cause;
and I hated his life but I loved him regardless, and he was my cousin, and he
was dead.

And that didn’t happen, not to family. Not at twenty-five.

“How?” I demanded when I could talk again, when I could face
a world with Marty gone and Hazel right there, back in my life again.

“You’ll hear,” she said like the good soldier she was,
always had been. Under orders, clearly. “They’ve called a meeting. Everyone’s
coming.”

And
everyone
manifestly
included me, except that I was no good soldier. I’d handed back my shilling and
decamped.