Sheer Blue Bliss (19 page)

What the fuck is he doing here? It's not like it should be, she's not. What then? Leave. He puts his hands on his belly and leans over to retch. Nothing comes up but a sour string of drool.

Hey, stop that. Straighten up, scrub eyes, mouth with back of hand. Ask her for the stuff, Tony, you can ask her nicely and then fuck this misery that closes around you like a fist. You run to escape it, run out of the fingers into the dark, into the lonely lonely heart of the nothing. Patrick has led you here, Patrick with his trail of fucking whores with their eyes so open and their little flowery scrawls and skin so soft, the gifts clutched in their tender arms like babies.

His heart hammers with the fast run of it. Nothing is fixed, nothing is definite, can't think with the darkness hurtling past and that is the plan now, to get himself together and think. One moment a pale autumn day next a fucking tempest. What's a man to do? Water down his neck, through the cotton of his shirt, warmer than you might think.

He stops, panting, hands on his bent knees, cold clean air stinging his lungs. Crouches down and rolls a fag, stands to light it, draws hard on the skinny tube watching the end brighten in the dark. Somewhere distant a ship's lights. Sea sloshing and slurping as it drinks itself over and over. Some kind of hooter far out, a sound that wrenches the gut.

He stares out at the nothing that is the sea, hunches his shoulders and turns his back. Walks through the dunes towards the house, can't see it. Great, that's fucking great, lost now, lost in the dark of the wet of the night.

Hey, hey, hey, it's all right.

This is it. This is what his life has been pointing towards. What he has been waiting for, reading for, preparing for. And look, here,
not
lost, look, there is the window all lit up. A raindrop fizzes on his fag, another licks his cheek. Earlier he lost it but now it must be found. The point of all this. So stop, wait.

Earlier he did lose it looking at that photograph of Benson that made him think of Lisa that made him … No. No. Earlier, before the real Benson arrived, seeing her picture that made him think of Lisa, he ran, the sand shifting under his feet, the sky blowing rags. Knew that nothing was fixed but that a tender feeling would erupt into rage and that there was no control to be had. Does his head in, that eruption. Pelted, lungs searing, eyes burning thistles of light, ran until he left the anger behind, left it crouching somewhere between the wind and the sand. The brightness of those white foam edges joining and ripping, over and over again, like seams. That catching his eyes, over and over. His fucking mother and her jaw sharp above him, the shadow underneath a triangle. Eyes like beaks. ‘In your room.' No touch. And the curtains like her hair and the glass between he thought – or was it dreamed – had her eyes, like a great mother's face pressed there, flattened, watching, and he didn't even dare to draw the curtains against her.

Between the breaking of the waves, had come a clear thought, painful but clean like a knife. How good it is to cook for another person. How that means,
could
mean love. The thought vibrated painfully like a fine blade quivering. How that could mean love. He'd thought to jack it in then. Cannot … ever … love. Not a living person. Yeah, jack it all in, what simpler? A few strides forward, a few swallows, gulps, the sensation of ice. Isn't it supposed to be pleasant, drowning? Don't you just relax? But a wave had lapped his trainer and he'd leapt back. No. He hasn't got the bottle.

He'd thought to go, then, quick, quick. Back to the shack to get his stuff, forget the elixirs, leg it back to civilization, back to Brixton, to Donna and all that. But as he'd got to the top of the dunes a cab had drawn up and it was her. He'd stood watching, stuck. Couldn't go forward or back. He'd come to the edge of his dream and there was nothing, no map, no plan, no dotted line to follow. He was alone. Was and is for ever more.

That feeling is the one he has to overcome and all he needs is the elixirs, the system, all he needs is that and some
time
.

Now he can feel himself calming down, and with the calming down he starts to shiver. If the elixirs cure? But there is no mention of cure. A cure for anger, is there such a thing? Don't hope for that, Tony, don't even hope. There is no cure but there might be rest. There might be all those things what what, what is the progression? Pleasure, Harmony, Happiness, Joy, Ecstasy, Euphoria, Bliss. Ecstasy, Euphoria, Bliss. Repeats it aloud to the rain that trickles in his mouth. Ecstasy, Euphoria, Bliss. And then what? That is a question that is not allowed to be asked.

He grinds the fag-end into the sand, approaches, stands in the trapezoid of window light and peers in. Thick light fuzz, breath, condensation, maybe steam. He pushes open the door. No air, fug, she is smoking a pipe, thick food smell. She meets his eyes, those bright eyes, a breathful of bluish smoke. The floor gives under his feet and he's afraid he'll fall, grabs the edge of the sink.

‘What is it, dear?' she says. He closes his eyes as the room breaks into sparkling fragments. ‘What is it that you want?' Can't fucking cry, can't. The edge of the sink is hard and real under his hands but the floor is soft. And her voice going on and on. Syllables and syllables hurling about with the colours in his eyes until he gets it together through the hard rim of the sink which is real and into his hands which must therefore be real and up his arms into his ears. Holds on to what she's saying as if it's a rope dragging him back to the edge of the sink, to the moment, back into some semblance of himself.

… obviously found the key well it's where you'd look I know, not a place for burglars what's to burgle … and the rain the rain … oh back after town but I liked the fridge I could get used to that the little bottles so generous they are just fill up that fridge day by day have what you fancy I could live like that and those nuts with hot spice on … room-service darling I should coco … that you are troubled … have you tried it … so what is it dear that you want? yes quite a turn if that's your object you achieved it … till I heard you whistling …
quite
a turn, just for a moment you'd laugh if you knew what I thought oh and you wet through … whisky that's the ticket and whisky I've got. A Scotch now there's a thought, sit down won't you by the fire …

He opens his eyes and the room spins and settles. Postcards, shells stuck round the window frames, table, ladder, old woman.

‘OK.' The word like felt in his mouth.

‘Sit down.'

He sits on a flimsy chair which she's positioned in front of the Calor gas heater. ‘Your hair's wet,' she says. She picks up a towel from beside the sink. He'd thought it was a tea-towel, been drying dishes on it, can't use that on his hair, clean towel in his bag but somehow he can't speak or move. She lifts his wet ponytail and puts the towel round his shoulders. The gas heat gnaws his shins. ‘Lovely hair,' she says. ‘Why cut it short when it's so glorious? That's what I say. I do go for all this let it be, let it all hang out whatsit and piercing, yes, ears and noses, I do like that. You got that? Now.' She sloshes whisky into a cup and a glass, straight on top of the dregs of her wine. A fussiness rises in him but he takes the glass. ‘Skoal!' she says. He stares at the gold fluid and the red wine beads still on the sides of the glass, lip smudges round the rim. When he drinks he tips the glass so that his lips don't touch it.

‘Can I?' she says.

‘What?'

‘May I …' She has moved behind him, he looks up at her face. They bloat or shrivel, old women, he's noticed that and this one's shrivelled. She's grinning childishly, eyes bright in the leather face. ‘Comb it for you?' He shrugs. ‘Then it'll dry smooth.' She rummages through a drawer then stands behind him. His shoulders are slumped but he can't straighten them. She pulls out the rubber band, tearing some hairs at the nape of his neck, but he doesn't shout or even flinch. She combs the ends first, holding each lock so that it doesn't pull as she works out the snarls. Her breathing is loud with here and there a sigh. Little snappings of his hair. When she's done the ends she starts at the top of his head and combs down, not gently, the teeth of the comb dragging the back of his scalp.

He can't think who combed his hair last. Can't remember his mother touching it although she must have done. It was very short then, short as possible, so there wouldn't have been much touching. Now he never has it cut. The tap drips, the gas heater pops, the comb in his hair is a faint swish. There is her breath and there is the rain on the roof and below it all, a deep irregular bass, is the rhythm of the sea.

‘Why don't you tell me what's up with you, dear?' Connie suggests. And he thinks, Why not? But then
what?
What could he say?

‘Nothing's up.' Tips another swallow of whisky into his mouth, feels the hot gold settling him. She tut-tuts and carries on combing, pulling the hair from round the sides, combing above his ears.

‘Beautiful hair,' she says, ‘I haven't combed another person's hair for … for donkey's years.'

‘Did you comb his hair?'

She sucks in her breath, pauses for a long moment between strokes. Then, ‘We combed each other's. It was a kind of … a kind of soothing. Do you find it soothing?'

Tony says nothing but yes, that's just what he feels, just temporarily, superficially, amazingly, soothed. He closes his eyes and feels the comb travelling through his hair, the tiny passage of each tooth against the shape of his skull. Patrick sat here, felt just this. ‘What was his hair like?' Tony asks.

Benson answers immediately as if she has been thinking of just that. ‘White the last years, and thinning on top. He never realised that, because it was on top and he couldn't see. I never said, of course. Wavy hair. Black when he was young though already going white when I met him … he was a good deal older than me, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘You know about him?'

Tony feels an urge to laugh. Know about him? I know every fucking word he wrote. But he only nods.

‘Some kind of journalist?' Connie pauses, the comb just above his ear, and then resumes.

‘Me … no.'

‘Then?'

‘Black like mine?'

‘No … quite a different type of hair. This rain! Yours is absolutely straight. Almost blue. Extraordinary that light in it. To paint it would be … yes, extraordinary. Paddy's was coarser and not, to tell the truth,
absolutely
black, more very deep brown, red lights rather than blue. There, all done.' She stands back.

He wants to ask her to continue. Wants to be sitting by the heater having his hair combed for ever, just to hang there, safe and soothed and never have to face what's next. She puts the comb on the table beside her dirty plate and he sees the long black hairs against the pale grain of the wood. The proximity of his own shed hairs and the sticky brown gravy, a bay leaf on the edge of the plate.

‘I'll wash up,' he says.

‘No need.' But he stands and picks up the plate.

‘
De
licious,' she says, ‘if not a journalist, perhaps a chef?'

He feels a crazy buzz of pleasure like a humming in his ribs.

‘Not eating?' she says.

And maybe that is it, what he needs, food inside him to weigh him down. Good wholesome food cooked with love. Love! The word pops in him like a bubble of acid. Wine, whisky, rain in his hair, smoke, adrenalin. All these things, no wonder he feels weird, his scalp tingling from all the combing.

‘Use my plate, no sense dirtying two.'

He ignores that, turns on the tap, there is always a wait for the water, he's learning that already, the ways of this place, a wait, a judder of pipework and then a fierce surge of water that splashes your front if you're not careful and then slows to a reluctant trickle.

‘If you'd just tell me what you want …'

He deflects the splash of water with the plate. Holds it under till the gravy is rinsed off. It'll have to be wet. Can't dry it with that tea-towel now it's been near his hair. Can't eat off a wet plate. He takes another from the cupboard, white painted with worn yellow flowers that look like specks of yolk. The food is no longer hot. He heaps it on the plate, stands by the sink with his back to her, shovelling it into his mouth. It's great, even luke-warm. Maybe he
should
have been a chef. He can just see his reflection in the steamy window. The light shining blue on his hair just like she said, what did she say?
Extraordinary to paint
. The idea gets to him, a new, big idea. He swallows, says nothing until the plate is empty and his belly full. He washes the plate, aware of her uneasy presence behind him. He's better now, back in control. Why is she hovering there behind him? What does she want of him? To comb his hair, to interrogate him? To think she's in control?

‘You do have something I want,' he says.

‘Well, of course I do. Else why would you be here?'

He turns. There is an expression of interest on her face. An at-last-we're-getting-to-it kind of expression. She sits down and takes a sip of whisky from the teacup which has no handle.

‘I want …' he begins. She raises her hand and its shadow catches his eye, a soft crab sliding sideways on the table. ‘I want the elixirs.'

‘Aaaah.' She smiles. ‘I should have guessed. People used to come … but not for years. I'd almost forgotten.'

‘Well?'

‘You've been reading Paddy's book. You must realise he was … prone to exaggeration.' Her smile is almost pitying. She will not dare to tell him the Seven Steps is a lie. She can't.

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning don't believe all you read.'

Time swings loose. Again he's slipping. Oh Christ he needs a shower, his bed. Thinks longingly of his flat, Donna next door, his own bed-sheets so starchy tight. That life … it seems almost together now. But
then
, living that life then had seemed like nothing, just a waiting time, not a real life at all. Is there any way back?