Voyage X – Teens

The weather had been improving steadily over the last few days and more and more of us were spending time up on deck. The surf dudes especially were taking the time to expose their manly torsos and be athletic and the shop girls (as we rather sniffily termed them) were suitably impressed. Bermuda shorts and bikinis appeared from somewhere. I got a black pair (shorts, not a bikini) and looked forward to making my entrance somewhen or other, to no doubt breathless admiration and numerous offers (I wish). I’d like to have been up there, being impressive but the only girl I fancied was here with her mum and dad, and in any case I didn’t really feel available. I tried to look at a book on ecology.

What Lou had said to Keith was bothering me, that rather sharp comment about him not knowing what he was talking about. Surely you could have an opinion without having to be an expert. After all, where would democracy be if only people who knew what they were talking about got a say? He’s offended my egalitarian conscience, my anarchist temperament, and, worst of all, he’s insulted my intelligence. On the other hand, even in the realms of art, where individual opinion and personal taste are paramount I’d been neverendingly infuriated by pompous opinionated prats making the most fatuous observations about this work of art or the other, based on totally spurious factoids they’d heard somewhere on the telly. You can like whatever you like but some opinions are certainly more worth listening to than others.
But I digress. I wasn’t keen to challenge him on the science. I guess that’s the appeal of religion – although there are those who know their scripture backwards and have fully mastered all the theological hoopla you could wish for, in religion there is still the unassailable truth of personal conviction that anyone can have and of which any man’s is as good as the next. So there. I look at the pictures.
I see a cut-away diagram of a forest floor – an exquisitely detailed line drawing exposing the roots of what they claim is a kapok tree. It has strange webbed roots standing taller than the tribesman drawn there for scale. (Evidently things are very different here – I was sure kapok came from some sort of goat, but I wouldn’t be surprised to turn the page and find something on the nesting habits of bananas.) As I look closer I see there is a wild menagerie of microscopic organisms there twisting and swelling and probing among the leaf litter. Roots mate with fungi and pale threads envelope every crumb of soil and digest every particle of debris. And over everything, bacteria swarm – swamping the trees, infesting the tapir peeping out from behind the tree, and growing all over that toucan on the branch. I close the book before they engulf me too. What a bizarre idea. Strange books they have here. I hardly dare look again when I see there’s someone else eschewing the frivolity outside. She sits curled up on one of the benches under the windows opposite me. I hadn’t noticed her because of the glare but now someone is standing on the deck obstructing the window and I can see she is looking directly at me. She seems very small, like a child. Her head is bent down and she has her knees drawn up and they are clasped together by her arms.
‘I’m sorry’ I say. ‘I didn’t see you there. Are you ok?’ I see her jerk a little, as if she’s just woken up. I sit forward and try to see her properly. ‘Are you ok?’ I say again softly and edge forward. She has the look of someone who might flee at any moment. I move gently closer, keeping low for some reason, and then move to the side so I can see her properly without the glare from the window. I say something silly about this to explain my movement. She doesn’t react. It occurs to me that I’ve not seen any children on the voyage so far, and there shouldn’t be anybody crazy here. As with physical illness, death apparently takes all that away, leaves you clean, or so I’m told. I wanted to ask Vincent about congenital disabilities, mental and physical – of people who had never known life any other way but I hadn’t got around to it. I edge closer. Her hair is in a ribbon. She wears a white sleeveless top and a short grey skirt. It looks vaguely like a school gym kit. Her feet are bare. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a child here alone. I think about going and finding one of the guides. Maybe they’ll know what to do. I tell her this is what I’m going to do and she suddenly reaches out and grabs my hand ‘Don’t’ she says. ‘I’m ok.’
She lets go of my hand and I sit down across from her on one of the little round wooden chairs that surround the little round wooden tables here in the library. ‘I’ll be ok’ she says and uncurls a little. As she does so I can see she’s not small at all, just very tightly coiled. She looks about sixteen or so; plump but unusually tall, as if she’s just been through a growth spurt (I’ve heard about these things somewhere). She sits up straight, but with her legs bent up in front of her and her arms still clasped around them. I feel like I know her from somewhere.
‘I have to say you don’t look ok’ I say as gently as possible. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A G&T?’ she says. ‘With a slice of lime.’
‘Er... is that such a good idea?’ I say (a little condescendingly I admit.)
‘I need a drink’ she says firmly. It occurs to me that alcohol doesn’t really work here, not like it does in life so I guess it can’t do her any real harm. I turn to go.
‘Oh don’t worry about it’ she says, grinning as if she’s been testing me to see if I’d actually do it. ‘Come and sit down’ she adds unexpectedly and with a disquieting self-confidence. ‘It’s alright, I won’t bite’ she adds, but I’m not so sure.
I stay standing and look at her suspiciously.
‘Well I’m going to get myself a drink anyway’ I say. ‘Are you going to be here?’
‘Probably’ she says vaguely, looking away.
Ok, whatever, I think and head for the bar.
‘Lots of ice’ I hear her yell after me when I’m out the door.

She’s a scary kid I think on the way, and wonder what has happened to her. Probably there just aren’t that many children dying on any given day. It must be terrifying for them. I hurry back and at first I think she has gone but then I notice her looking at the shelves at the far end. Her skirt is very short indeed. Her thighs are chubby and pale.
‘Here’ I say, ‘G&T, lime slice, lots of ice.’ She turns and smiles, comes over, picks up her drink and resumes her previous position on the bench under the window – her knees drawn up under her chin, drink balanced on them. She peers at me from behind it.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you before’ she says.
‘I didn’t see you come in.’
She shakes her head distractedly, as if getting rid of an unwanted thought.
‘Of course not’ she says, irritably. Then she looks hard at me and sips her glass. She narrows her eyes at me. Actually I think I’m more frightened than she is. I expect her to pounce any moment. ‘Actually, you’ll do’ she says quietly and then I really am worried. I know we can’t hurt each other here, but still...
‘Do you like girls?’ she says suddenly ‘I’m sorry – what’s your name?’
I tell her, but don’t feel invited to ask for hers in return.
‘Ok, Gabriel, you like girls?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Sexually Gabriel. I mean sexually’ she says impatiently ‘God...’
‘Erm, yes. Yes I do, rather than boys, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And do you like pornography Gabriel?’
I don’t like this line of questioning at all but I don’t want to avoid it. I haven’t done anything wrong have I? ‘Some, yes, I suppose...’
‘Would you like to see me naked Gabriel?’ she says, leaning back, displaying an impressive cleavage and giving me a broad, rather disturbing grin, showing her teeth.
‘What? No. Of course not.’
‘Really? You don’t think I’m sexy?’ she says moving forwards, leaning on the table...
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘Don’t lie Gabriel. You want to see my body, don’t you? I saw you look, when I sat back here, you checked to see if you could see up my skirt. Now you’re having to stop yourself looking down my front. Admit it.’
I look at her. I feel it’s time to take control, at least of myself. I lean back and take a few breaths. I still don’t know what to say but I sit back and breathe and watch her. She settles back and watches me back. ‘Admit it’ she says, more quietly. There doesn’t seem to be any point in lying, even if I could. I was looking at her breasts. Who wouldn’t? They are remarkable.
‘Ok, I admit it’ I say. ‘So?’
‘So?’ she says, contemptuously, then ‘So...’ considering what to do next. I watch her think. Then she puts her head in her hands and says something muffled.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You can go’ she shouts at me.
‘You bloody well go’ I say, affronted. ‘I was here first.’ She looks at me, a weary teenage expression on her face. Then she gets up and goes back to the shelves. I try to ignore her looking at the books. I look at my own book but can’t concentrate. The snakes and wild pigs refuse to come alive on the page. I turn to her. She’s obviously pretending to look at the books. I put mine down. What the heck, I think. I was bored anyhow.
‘What’s all this about?’ I say.
‘What?’ she says as if nothing has happened.
‘All this stuff about seeing your body. What’s all that about?’
‘I just wanted to know.’
‘You could have just asked me politely.’
‘Would you have told me?’
‘Probably.’
She looks at me coolly. It occurs to me that she actually looks more mature than sixteen. Her expression is older. I wonder if this is the old soul thing again but I can’t see how that would work here. Here surely we are all quite aware of what’s happened to us previously. She sits down heavily on the chair next to mine with a book in her hands. She’s uncomfortably close to me, almost touching shoulders. She studies the spine for a long time, then spins the book between her middle fingers, then slaps it down on the table. ‘Tell me about pornography’ she says suddenly, getting up and marching across the room.
‘What?’
‘Why do men like pornography? Why do you like pornography?’
I sit back and think how to approach this. I’ve thought about this. We used to discuss it in the refectory. I feel defensive but I know what my answer is. ‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing actually...’ I begin.
‘I do know about masturbation, in case you were wondering’ she says and my face does the same involuntary grimace my father’s would have done hearing that word from a child’s mouth.
‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m not a child’ she says. ‘Wank fuck cunt cock. Ok?’
‘How old are you?’ I say innocently.
‘That’s a rude question to ask a lady’ she says, haughtily.
I have to smirk. ‘Whereas saying “cunt” is not rude at all.’
‘What age do you think I am?’
‘Not more than sixteen.’ She looks at me with this very weary and very womanly expression. Then she smiles. ‘How old were you when you died?’ she says.
‘Thirty-five’ I say, bemused.
‘And you look that age now do you?’ And I realise I certainly don’t. ‘Twenty-eight, twenty nine?’ I guess. ‘So how old were you?’
‘Twenty’ she says.
‘No!’ I say, genuinely shocked ‘but... Is everyone? Er...’
‘Yep. I can’t believe you didn’t know this’ she says, clearly very chuffed with herself.
‘Well, I didn’t change much’ I say. ‘I wasn’t that different to look at I suppose. How come you look sixteen?’
‘Why shouldn’t I look sixteen?’ she says and gets up again and stands in front of the shelves, not pretending to look at the books. She’s got a cigarette from somewhere and is trying to light it. Once it’s lit she breathes the smoke out in an affected fifties screen icon sort of a way. Now I know where I’ve seen her before – in the bar with the shop girls, with a lot of make-up on, and some rather more eye-catching outfits. I’d seen her looking at me more than once but pretended not to notice.

Finally she comes over and sits down across from me, her legs crossed demurely. ‘Sixteen was when I was happy’ she says. ‘Was twenty-eight a good year for you?’
‘I suppose it was. Not bad’ I find my glass and take a long drink. ‘They have some excellent brandy here’ I say. We sit quietly for a time, smoke accumulating in the ceiling, a haze lit by the sun streaming in.
‘Tell me’ she says after a while. ‘Did you ever know a woman you truly liked? Honestly? Like a proper friend, nothing sexual, just someone you could talk to, have a laugh with, you know?’
I think about it for a while. ‘In retrospect I’m not sure I had a proper friend at all.’
It’s not the answer she was looking for. ‘That’s sad’ she says, flicking her ash. ‘But I know what you mean.’
‘I slept with a couple of women I’d have preferred to be just friends with, if that’s any help.’
She smiles serenely. ‘But would you?’ she says. ‘Would you have wanted to be “just friends” with them?’
‘I don’t see why not. Sometimes I think I prefer talking to women. I never felt very comfortable with men to be honest.’
She nods, taking this in, as if it’s evidence. Looking away, she sucks hard on her cigarette.
‘Actually’ I resume, ‘now you come to mention it there’s been a couple. Colleen was about as close to being a best friend as I had at college.’
‘And you didn’t ever think...’
‘Oh, at first, certainly – she was a very good looking woman – Irish, like a real colleen if you know what I mean – very white skin and black hair, but then it became apparent she didn’t see me the same way and after that, well we really were friends. Sex would have ruined it.’
She looks at me sceptically and smokes theatrically. She really does seem very adolescent – trying on a look, a pose, a tone of voice.
I say ‘You believe there can’t be true friendship if there are any sexual feelings present at all?’
She considers this and leans back. ‘Not in my experience, no. Sooner or later... it gets messy.’ and then she laughs a little. We sit for a while, and then she goes over and resumes her position on the bench facing me. I notice now she neglects to arrange her skirt to hide whatever’s underneath this time. It’s an obvious challenge. I make it clear I know what she’s doing by shifting sideways so I’m looking away. She laughs a little again. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s the laugh of someone who’s perhaps seen too much and allowed herself to become somewhat cynical, or at least, wants me to think that she has.
‘Don’t you want to know why I was happiest at sixteen?’ she says, taking a drag, and I can already tell it’s not going to be a nice story. ‘It was the year before I let them take photos of me playing with myself. Imagine that – oh well, you probably already have.’
I don’t know what to say. She lights a new fag from the butt of the previous, then watches me sideways for a response. I meet her gaze. She has cool, pale eyes in a wide, freckled face and long fair hair. Have I seen the pictures? On the internet maybe? Could be. She looks down, like she can’t sustain the staring. I look away and look at the dark shelves around us.
‘Do you want to know what happened?’ she says, less stridently now. I’m curious, in, I’m sad to say, a not entirely innocent way, but also she worries me. Again I’m reminded of Vincent’s lost soul. I wonder why she wants to tell me but I decide to listen first and ask questions later.
‘Ok, what happened?’ I say, and her original, more arrogant demeanour returns. She spreads out onto her side, propping her head on her hand, smoking with the other. Her skirt is worryingly short. She has very long but not slender white legs. She smiles at me, a dirty smile, but not inviting.
‘My hairdresser wanted to do some modelling shots of me. Mum was a bit worried but I said don’t worry – we’d been going to him for years. I went up to his studio and he took some photos of my hair, for posters for the shop, and then he said it would be better if I let my top down off my shoulders, which I did...’ She looks at me again, appraising this time, then challenging. ‘You’re already turned on, aren’t you. I can see it in your face. You can see what’s coming.’ I say nothing. ‘But what you don’t know is I was already quite experienced.’ She sits up and leans forward, her strap coming down off her shoulder. She’s doing it on purpose. ‘I wasn’t a virgin. I’d had a couple of the boys at school and an older man when we were on holiday.’
I go to speak and find I have to clear my throat. What a cliché.
‘I (ahem, sorry) never really understood that thing about virgins actually.’
‘No?’ she says with that amused yet humourless smile.
I feel like a dirty old man. I’d wanted to point out that I wasn’t into underage girls but it sounds weak.
‘No. Actually. I preferred a bit more experience...really...’ Why do I feel so nervous? She’s just a kid after all.
She grins and stubs her fag out.
She sees me glance at the ashtray. ‘I suppose this is one good thing about the afterlife’ she says. ‘You can’t die of lung cancer.’ She lights up another. Without the choking effect of smoke in the real world it actually smells quite pleasant. Menthol. She offers me one. I decline.
‘Thing is...’ she continues, ‘having some experience, as I thought I did, just made it worse. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I was in control. The barber did some topless shots that day – he didn’t ask, I offered, and I was quite well developed as you will have noticed’ she jiggles them at me ‘and I thought I was being very adult, very daring, getting out from mummy’s clutches, and when he offered me money for next time, well, I was just up for anything.’ She looks away, toward the window and sighs. ‘In fact, of course all I was doing was being a naughty little girl, as usual, flashing my knickers at daddy’s friends. I thought it was all very sexy, and I liked being naughty. I did the photo shoot – full frontal too, and I did feel sexy. There was a woman there with us and she seemed nice – did my make-up and props and so on. It was all very – er... who was that chap with the young girls in soft focus – big in the seventies? Hamilton somebody?’ I shake my head but I know who she means. I’m waiting for the horrible denouement. I can’t stand the suspense, but instead she goes back to asking me about pornography and what I get out of it. I tell her that firstly it’s just what men do when they haven’t got a girlfriend.
‘No way!’ she says, amused and amazed.
‘Why not?’
‘But no. I don’t believe you.’
‘Why?’
‘When couldn’t you get a “girlfriend”? and by that I’m assuming you mean a shag...’
‘You don’t know the half of it’ I say wearily. ‘I went months, years sometimes.’
‘No way!’ she says again. ‘But what are you? Is there something wrong with you?’
I give her a little rueful laugh. ‘I think you have some funny ideas about men.’
‘I think I know a little more about it than you do buster.’
‘I think you make a lot of assumptions.’
‘And I think you should shut the fuck up.’
‘Sounds like you fell for a lot of bullshit...’
‘Shut – the – fuck – up.’
‘You shut the fuck up.’
She’s seething, pacing. I should leave but I really want to stay. She just wants to beat me – I can see that. She’s angry at me, as representative of all the men who’ve screwed her over no doubt, and she wants to take it out on me. And I’m too intrigued to leave. Plus maybe I want to beat her a little bit too.

She turns to me, apparently having calmed down a little. ‘So it’s alright to look at porn when you’re lonely, huh?’
I shrug but don’t commit myself.
‘So lets just say, in that wacko world where a guy like you can’t just go and get laid when he feels like it, you pull out the magazines and jerk yourself off. Ok?’
I nod, and wait.
‘But if you’re in a relationship? Tell me you had a girlfriend.’
‘I did. I was married.’
‘And you still looked at porn.’
‘Sometimes...’
‘Did she know?’
‘I suppose.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t say anything. We weren’t...Well toward the end...’
‘Ok’ she says, less aggressively. ‘I get it, but otherwise, when it was good did you still look at porn?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘Why? What the hell for?’
And it feels like she’s got to the end of a very long preamble. This is the question she wants answered. Why would I choose to look at porn if I had a perfectly good woman, possibly stripped and ready in the next room?
‘Porn’s different’ I say quietly. ‘It’s a different sort of sex. It’s a fantasy.’
There’s a long pause then. I watch her contemplate her nails and her cigarette. Then she looks at me, apparently trying to decide something.
‘I was in the porn business for four years’ she says, also quietly. I suppose I look impressed but try to change my expression to concern.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. It was ok. Hell, I could have spent four years on the checkouts at ASDA. Talk about exploitation.’ She smiles to herself and looks at her latest cigarette, which has somehow got bent. ‘Filthy habit’ she says to it. ‘I always wanted to give up – cost me a fortune, but I never could.’
I can see her at twenty now, but she looks very world-weary.
‘So, what sort did you go for?’ she asks. ‘Blondes, teens, amateurs... Fisting?’ She’s grinning but it’s not funny.
‘Just the ordinary stuff really’ I say. ‘I liked the lesbian stuff...’
She laughs and nods her head, still looking down. ‘They’re not real lesbians. You do know that.’
‘Well, some of them do a pretty good impression... But anyway I always tried to avoid anything that looked like they weren’t happy with what they were doing.’ I expect her to ask how I could possibly tell whether they were happy or not. ‘And anyone that looked too young. I avoided that...’
She doesn’t challenge me on any of this and instead asks me about my penchant for what she calls ‘girl-on-girl action.’
‘I don’t get it. The man is completely left out’ she says.
‘Maybe I don’t want other blokes near my women’ I joke.
‘You’re jealous? Do you think you’re the only man who looks at those pictures?’
‘Of course not. I was just joking.’
‘Anyway I thought the idea was that you were supposed to identify with the blokes – think you’d like to be them, you know?’
‘What? God no.’ What a disgusting thought. I am nothing like them.
‘So you’re different to other men?’
‘Well... I don’t know. Maybe I just like looking at women having sex but I don’t want to have to look at men.’
She takes a moment to look around and think.
‘I have to ask – did you have to wear all that porn star blonde hair and makeup and implants and stuff?’
‘I didn’t need implants darling. I had the hair and the fingernails for a while though. Mostly I went in for a more “natural” look... I was in Top-Heavy Totty. You may have seen me.’
I shrug once again and smile. It’s all too likely. We sit and look at the windows together for a while, she steadily smoking, me nursing my empty glass. ‘Top up?’ I say. ‘Please’ she says. I go to the bar again.
While I’m there I look about and breathe more freely. She’s pretty intense company but I’d always wanted to talk to someone who had actually been in those pictures – find out what it was actually like for them. There must be millions of them.

‘Cheers’ she says when I give her the glass. I sit down. The light is beginning to change, and the library is getting gloomy. Some people come in, turn the lights on, get out some books and settle at another table. ‘Let’s go somewhere else’ she whispers and we get up and go up on deck. Most people have gone down for dinner. An evening breeze has blown up but it’s still very pleasant. I can smell something new. Something like eucalyptus, something like land. The sky is turning to jade in the west. It’s a beautiful evening. She moves closer but I really don’t want that. I’m not sure why. She feels me flinch. ‘What’s wrong?’ she says.
‘It’s ok. It’s just weird’ I say. She leans around and looks into my face, biting her lower lip, looking into my eyes.
‘Is it because I’m a porn star?’ she says, jokily.
‘I’m sorry’ I say, ‘but I just don’t feel that way about you.’
‘You don’t fancy me?’ She looks bored and hurt at the same time. ‘So... Why have you been talking to me all this time? What’s this all been about?’
‘I just thought it was interesting... you were...interesting.’
She looks me up and down. Disgust or derision moves across her face but it’s not clear if it’s directed at me or herself. ‘Shit’ she says. ‘Typical. I can’t believe it. Sorry, I can’t believe it.’
‘Believe what?’
‘I don’t know, forget it.’
‘What?’
‘No. It’s just all lies isn’t it. I should know by now.’
‘I haven’t lied to you. I don’t think it’s possible here anyway, for some reason...’
‘What?’
‘The truth comes out here. Vincent, my guide said. Apparently lying doesn’t work here. He didn’t say why.’
She looks about, her little pink tulip mouth a perfect ‘o’. She looks like she might cry. She bends over the rails as if she might vomit or howl but nothing comes. Then she turns to me, her mouth still open.
‘But then...’ She looks about again, as if searching for a clue in the darkening sky or the bridge. ‘...they must have been telling the truth...’
I stand silently beside her, waiting to see if she’s ok but trying not to crowd her. I have no idea what just happened. I wait for some sort of explanation but nothing comes.
‘I’m sorry. I have to go’ she says and walks unsteadily away toward the entrance.

Journey IX – Hotel Gomorrah

I sit at the vast picture window that fills the west wall of the room in a heavy towelling gown in a recliner. I watch the breeze flow through the flowering trees a couple of storeys below and a flock of blue birds twitter and whirl together among the highest branches. It’s very peaceful here. I sip my coffee and try to think. In the next room Shamim is moving about – I can hear her humming to herself, probably getting dressed after her shower. I swivel round in the chair and then get up and look at the pictures on the walls. They seem to be reproductions but at least someone here has a modicum of taste. I look about the room a bit more, or the suite I should say. It reminds me of those hotels you see in American cop shows – rather too much chrome and vinyl for my liking but it’s comfortable nevertheless, with a king-size bed and thick carpets and a wide, flat-screen TV, should we want it. I flick through and find an apparently infinite selection of old movies, shopping channels and some quite heavy pornography, which I swiftly change in case she comes in. On the table there is a bowl of perfect peaches and mangoes, and a plastic bucket with melted ice and the empty champagne bottle we finished off last night. Breakfast comes with room service. I order eggs Benedict with smoked salmon rather than ham in a vain attempt to avoid corrupting Shamim any further. I call through to find out what she wants and she appears in a white linen gown, rubbing her head with a towel and looks at the menu. She orders waffles and syrup with bacon, and some orange juice. After the girl has taken our order and gone I make a light hearted comment about the bacon but she just smiles and shrugs and goes back to the bathroom.

The events of the day before are still a bit of a blur. There were high, narrow slit windows in the armoured van so we could see the streets as we careered along, horns blaring and pedestrians scattering. The main streets in fact looked increasingly like a lot of city shopping streets I’d seen in the UK, with bland-looking chain stores and banks and cafes still closed and barred because it was so early. There were CCTV cameras on almost every post. Any direct sunlight was excluded by the many storeys of what I assumed must be offices above. Everything was wet and beginning to steam. Workers in orange overalls with brooms and barrows watched us pass and young men and women in smart outfits trotted along the pavements, bag or brief case in one hand, styrofoam cup in the other. Unlikely looking trees in a worrying shade of green stood at odd angles in holes in the pavement, and despite the efforts of the men in orange, litter was everywhere.

Then we entered what you might call the business district and the light got even dimmer because of the height of the buildings around us. The frontages were all marble and steel and glass and the suits were that bit sharper. Our transport slowed down and they shut the horn off, out of respect for the money I suppose. I looked back in at the others. We were all pressed to the windows, shocked and impressed at what we were seeing here. Muriel alone was sitting hunched on the floor with a terrified look on her face. Our eyes met and she gave me a hopeless stare. I suppose we were all too aware of the horrific damage done to those we’d seen in the shanties and of what could happen to us when we got to wherever we were going. I caught Shamim's eye but there was no warmth there. There were no feelings to spare. I went and peered out the window again, just as we turned sharp left and entered what seemed like an underground car park. At any rate there wasn’t enough light to see anything through the tinted and crazed glass except the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. We all turned and squatted down and looked at each other. Shamim came over and nestled against me. We looked across at her parents who were in much the same pose.
‘Take care of her won’t you’ said her father. ‘I have to look after this one.’ He kissed the top of his wife’s head.
Nicky looked bereft at us for a moment but then huddled down with Muriel, and took her tiny form in her arms. Mike and Agnes got as comfortable as they could.
Then the doors were opened and the two police bundled us out – not roughly, but not politely either. They directed us with the barrels of their guns toward a door, which opened to reveal a badly lit concrete stairwell. We all went up in our pairs as if chained together. I heard Muriel quietly weeping and Nicky trying to comfort her. We knew the worst was coming. Revolting fluids leaked out from under doors as we passed. There were screams and pleadings coming from somewhere not far away, and the smell of blood and urine. Another policemen surprised in an open doorway held a chain with some dark stuff matted among the links. We carried on up, I don’t know how many floors. I did notice however, that as we rose the air became less oppressive and the concrete less stained. Then the guardrails turned from wrought iron to steel and there were frosted glass windows letting in some daylight. Finally we came to a door that opened into a plushly carpeted, softly lit hallway with numbered doors. It was exactly like a hotel and we all, I think, relaxed a little, although still on edge, obviously.
Without a word a door was opened onto a bright, pleasantly furnished room and Mike and Agnes were gently but firmly made to enter and the door closed behind them. Then it was Mr and Mrs Sadeghi’s turn and I could see Shamim wanted to go with them but the policeman wouldn’t let her. Mr Sadeghi nodded and said it would be alright and then looked at me as if to say “It had better be.” I nodded back as resolutely as I could. The policeman gave Shamim and her parents time to hug but then shut them in their room. Shamim and I got the next room together and we didn’t have time to see what they did with Nicky and Muriel. Shamim just sank to the floor against the door and burst into tears. I sat with her but there was no place for me in her feelings. I had little to offer her myself.

So that was how came to share a bed for the first time. Nothing happened of course, how could it? She was a good Muslim girl and besides, we were terrified. We slept until early evening I guess it must have been. That was when I got up and pulled back the curtains, expecting to see a vision of hell from above but instead found a forest. I wandered about and found the bathroom and had a shower. Then I noticed the ice bucket on the table with a bottle of champagne in it and a card propped up against it, which said “With Compliments” and gave the number to ring for room service. There was a menu there too and I sat down and looked at it. It was all totally unbelievable.
A few hours later, when Shamim began to stir I rang and asked for some coffee for us and it arrived almost immediately – the waiter accompanied by a cop with a gun who waited outside. The little man smiled obsequiously. I’d never been in a hotel with room service before, and I wasn’t good at dealing with servants. I smiled at him as warmly as I could and wondered if he expected a tip, but we had nothing to give him anyway so that was out.
I woke Shamim with a kiss and showed her the coffee. She still looked terribly worried, as one would expect but accepted my solicitations graciously and gave me a kiss in return.

We spent the evening sitting around drinking the champagne. I offered to get her something else but she said no this will do fine, and drank from the bottle. I noticed the alcohol did actually work in the normal way here and we both felt quite tipsy quite quickly. We perused the menu and I phoned down for some prawns in garlic and some bread and salad. Again it arrived very quickly and was very good. I wanted to get some more champagne but it didn’t seem like a good plan under the circumstances. It was all I could do to not throw myself at her when I was sober and this wasn’t the time nor the place. (Actually, I thought, this is exactly the place. It’s what this place was designed for.) Then she said she needed to get clean and I told her where the bathroom was and she went through and squealed with delight at the size of the bath. (It really doesn’t take much to cheer women up does it.) While she was in there doing that I got in some orange juice to dilute the bubbly and some dark chocolate which I knew she’d like. Then I blindfolded myself and very carefully carried her drink and the chocolates through.
‘I thought this might cheer you up’ I said, kneeling by the tub. She laughed and wrenched the blindfold off and there she was, covered in bubbles and with her hair tied back, like some decadent fifties movie star, sipping her drink and nibbling a square of chocolate. I sat down beside the bath, looking at her and trailing my hand in the water. Then I felt her move her leg a little, so that my fingers found her toes and she raised her eyebrows at me. I ran my fingers along to her ankles and massaged her feet. She put her head back and sighed.

So when I talk about corrupting her it was the alcohol I was referring to, and possibly the bacon. We lay together on the bed that night, both of us severely aroused to be sure but unprepared to do anything about it. She rapped on the wall adjoining her parent’s room for a while but got no response. We called for room service to ask about them, but got nothing more than ‘They are being well looked after’, implying that they were in much the same situation as we were. Shamim asked when we’d see them and the policeman pulled the waiter out and said ‘All in good time miss.’
Shamim went back to the bed and lay down. I went to the cupboard and found a nightgown for her but she wanted to stay in her dressing gown, and she pulled it tight around her. I kissed her on the head but said no more and went to sit in the recliner and look out at the night, and that’s how we woke up next morning.

We had to wait another two days after that for anything more to happen, We were by turns bored and decadent, horny and frustrated and terrified for what might be happening to the others (and to us next by implication.) The horniness was almost perfectly balanced by the anxiety. I said I understood, what with her culture and so on and she laughed at me and asked if I really believed Muslim girls were always innocent and chaste. I didn’t know what to say. I suppose I had been assuming that and felt suddenly very silly. ‘But there’s still your parents...’
‘Yes’ she said sadly, as if wishing I hadn’t reminded her although I know she hadn’t forgotten.
‘Although’ I add, trying to restore the mood, ‘if we were travelling with my parents I think I’d have felt even more uncomfortable.’
She smiles and asks ‘What are they like?’ and I give her a brief account but don’t really want to talk about them. Then I begin to talk about my sisters and where I grew up and before I know it all the crap about my time faffing about and not knowing what to do comes spilling out.
When I’m done she looks at me appraisingly, nodding and smiling gently. I wait for the verdict. She comes over, puts her hand behind my head and kisses me. ‘You are a good man’ she says. ‘You try. I admire that. You don’t let them beat you.’ and once again I am reminded of Sophie and how she used to re-interpret me to myself and I can’t believe what lovely women there are in the world. I used to think maybe Sophie was a bit soft in the head where I was concerned, but here it is again – respect and understanding. I decide to tell her about Sophie there and then, sitting together on the bed, holding hands, and she listens and nods and understands and then she tells me about Mica, her boyfriend in Muswell Hill and how much she misses him. And although we hold each other and kiss, still we don’t make love. We know we can’t do that.

On the third morning there is a knock on the door. We’re both in bed in our dressing gowns watching something terrible on the TV. I go to the door and get given an envelope. The bearer stands there and waits as I open it. Shamim looks over my shoulder at it. ‘What is it?’ she says.
‘Seems to be an invitation’ I say. ‘A Mr Rit Large, whoever he is, requests the pleasure of our company... And there’s a room number. Where is this?’ I ask the porter.
‘You will be escorted to the penthouse’ he says. ‘Shall I inform Mr Large of your intention to attend?’
‘Do we have a choice?’ asks Shamim
‘Of course madam. There is always a choice.’
‘Will my parents be there?’
‘If you mean Mr and Mrs Sadeghi? Absolutely they will be there. All your friends will be there – unless they refuse of course.’ We nod and say we’ll be there.
‘Excellent’ he says and backs out, bowing slightly. I shut the door on him. Shamim looks at me with raised eyebrows, and a hopeful expression on her face.
‘I have nothing to wear’ she says.

Vincent VII – On being a student

‘I have a question’ I say to Vincent as I sit down next time.
‘Very well’ he says, putting his papers down for the moment. ‘Go ahead.’
‘If there are people, old souls out there, in life, remembering their previous lives – how come they don’t tell everybody about it, about all this?’
‘It’s a good question’ he says. I wait for more but he doesn’t look about to elaborate. I watch him expectantly. ‘I don’t know’, he says finally as if irritated by my impertinence. ‘It’s a mystery.’
‘But people must have said something about it, when they get back.’
‘I never met one. Anyway – to continue your story.’
I think he’s not telling me everything he knows, but it doesn’t seem worth pushing it right now. I try to think where we’d got up to.

‘So you didn’t really enjoy being a student’ he says.
I think about this. ‘I think it was a really important thing for me to do’ I say finally.
‘That’s not quite what I asked.’
‘It was a roller-coaster to be honest. It was pretty insane. But it was good, all in all. I wouldn’t have missed it.’
‘How “insane”?’
‘Oh well, Art students, you know? We’re not the easiest company in the world. Looking back on it, we were all so egotistical, so pretentious, so incredibly full of crap. We had these “deep” conversations about things we knew fu... absolutely nothing about – existentialism and Buddhism and what have you, and we read all these difficult books and listened to some pretty extreme music...’ I drift off a bit, thinking about this guy I knew called Will who read us Rimbaud and played us his Throbbing Gristle LPs. He was really weedy with long lank hair and NHS specks and he seemed very keen to get to know me for some reason. It seems funny now. I was more into Scott Walker and Julian Cope by then and I’d have been reading Milan Kundera and Angela Carter. Happy days.
‘You were, I presume, somewhat older than most of the others?’
‘A bit, but most of the people I hung out with were also mature students. Mind you, that meant twenty-five to thirty five, so not all that mature to be honest. We did our share of misbehaving.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘Not really. Tell me.’
I feel oddly embarrassed about this, in front of Vincent, looking at me so earnestly, more like a priest than a counsellor. I can’t imagine him misbehaving or understanding why anyone would want to. On the other hand, he keeps surprising me and I think I’m getting quite fond of him as time goes on, despite his off-putting manner.
‘Oh, you know, there were dinner parties, demos, lectures, extra-marital affairs, staying out all night, getting wrecked, throwing up, sexual experimentation, the usual’ I admit, glibly.
‘You did all that?’ he says, smiling.
‘I didn’t do drugs much – they make me paranoid. And I never tried group sex – I don’t do willies.’
He sits back and thinks for a while. I recall his concerns about blasphemy. Oh well, he did ask. He’s only himself to blame.
‘Except your own presumably’ he says. I think it’s his way of calling me a wanker but it’s hard to tell. I give him a silly grin. He chooses to ignore it.
‘You had affairs? Or “dalliances” should we say?’ he says, returning to business.
‘Yes I did. You don’t want details I assume.’ I hope he doesn’t. I’d like to talk about sex actually, but not to Vincent.
‘Not really’ he says.

There’s very little to boast about in all honesty, but I had my moments – like the time I took all my clothes off at a party because this woman I fancied wanted to draw me. I’m not sure why but I never had much compunction about being naked in public and I’d been doing some life modelling at the tech to make a little extra cash. And actually I really liked it. It felt powerfully erotic. I guess I knew I had a reasonable physique, so that helped, but in truth I think I was just an exhibitionist.
As it was she made me at least put a towel over myself before she’d come near me and then we spent the rest of the night there on that sofa, kissing and touching each other up. I remember she was a little older than me, and quite big, but curvy and soft, unlike Pamela who was just big. I had my hands under her dress and worked my fingers round her bra and knickers. Then after a few minutes frustrated with that she disappeared to the bathroom and came back stuffing her underwear in her handbag and, giving me a very dirty grin, we settled back in for the night, pressed together there in the gloom, rubbing and caressing with the party in full swing around us.
We thought we were very daring, and of course we were ‘artists’ and unshockability was part of our image, but it really hadn’t been that sort of party. The power of it was extraordinary, the vulnerability and lewdness, and everyone around us, aware of what we were doing, probably pretending not to watch but secretly having a good old gawp.
I didn’t see her much after that unfortunately. She smiled sheepishly at me when we ran into each other in the corridor, but I think she felt it was all a bit too much in retrospect. I suppose she was right, her being on the staff and all, but I’d have been more than happy with something more conventional from her. She was a very sexy woman. Actually I think everybody avoided me for a while after that little display.
Otherwise I think there were three or four women in all over those five years. Who am I kidding? I know exactly how many there were – there were six, which actually isn’t many by the standards of art students generally, and two of those were not really women I would have chosen if I’d been in full command of my faculties – it was like Pamela all over again. (I didn’t like to disappoint them – how lame is that?) The others though... looking back on it I just want to bang my head on something.
Victoria springs to mind (a different Victoria, not mad, Scottish Victoria). Her friends called her Tori but she preferred to be called Vikki. I haven’t thought about her for ages. I really liked Vikki, and I don’t know why I didn’t stay with her. She was so completely different – older than me by a couple of years and tall and slender in a soft, warm kind of way, and not beautiful in a classic sense but intensely sexy. If you’d met Vikki you’d have thought she was a bit too posh and silly and she used to wear these ridiculous outfits – all cerise and sequins, but she was actually a bright and sensitive woman, training to be a masseuse at the tech. In bed she was just so – what would you call it? Rude? Shameless perhaps? Pornographic certainly. She loved to be watched. This was early on in my student life, long before that night of debauchery at the party and I think it was the first time (at twenty-seven) that I’d ever really had proper sex, as it’s supposed to be. Vikki was extraordinary to watch – swivelling and grinding and dripping onto me. She had an antique leather Moroccan riding crop hanging from the bedstead (which left little heart-shaped smacks all over her bottom) and a Polaroid camera in the night stand.
In retrospect I wasn’t ready for it. It sounds stupid but at the time it seemed too raw, too messy, and a bit scary and I’m ashamed to say I was embarrassed by that accent. The other problem was that I was sleeping with her whilst still seeing one of the more ‘motherly’ types at uni so I gave myself a hard time about that and went for the safe option out of guilt. What a prat! Within weeks I was writhing with regret. I still can’t believe I let her go.

I look over at Vincent. He’s doodling again.
‘I don’t know...’ I say, exasperated with myself. He looks up. ‘I was just obsessed with getting myself a woman but I still didn’t really believe that anybody half decent could possibly be genuinely interested in me. Honestly, sometimes I think back and some woman I spoke to comes to mind, and I’ll recall something about something she said and it suddenly occurs to me – She might actually have been interested in me! And I didn’t even realise at the time, or maybe I suspected it but couldn’t really believe it and didn’t want to make a twat of myself. Stupid huh?
‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this’ I say, ‘like these are my greatest regrets – not screwing up my marriage or my career but missing the opportunity to have more sex. Pathetic isn’t it.’
‘I think it was Betjemen...’ he says slowly, seriously, laying down his papers on his knees. ‘When they asked him what he would like to change if he could have his life again, he said “I’d have more sex.”’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. So you are in excellent company. Did your work suffer from this “obsession”?’
‘Hardly. I was in the studio every opportunity I got, at the college and at home. I never stopped. Working off my frustrations I suppose. I rather fancied myself as the latest in a long line of English visionary painters – Blake, Gill, Spencer. I worked incredibly hard – all night quite often, and then couldn’t sleep with all the ideas buzzing around in my head. I don’t know how I kept it up.’
‘And they liked your work, the tutors.’
‘Well, that was the other thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘They said it was too “parochial” Hah! –  too “English”. How stupid is that? I mean, I am English. I mean I’m sorry but it’s my culture. It’s where I come from. I love other countries, and I have a lot of complaints about England, but it’s where I grew up. It’s my home. I can’t think of any other place in the world where that would be considered a bad thing. I mean look at what the Mexicans and Russians are doing – it’s all about their landscape, history, traditions... Anyway I just kept on doing what I believed in, what I’d been doing as long as I could remember.’
‘But you did change later on.’
‘Yes. Well, to be honest I’d started on the 3D pieces in the studio at the college already, just to do something different, free up my thinking a bit, so it wasn’t the end of the world. I mean, they said my painting was “technically excellent” and that I certainly had my own voice (which I took as a great compliment) but I know they thought it was all a bit conventional. Anyway I didn’t want to go for abstraction, so I went the other way – “found art”, installations and so on. It kept them quiet, and I was quite good at it, and...’ and I shrug and sit back. ‘... the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘But you feel you let yourself down?’
I think about this. I’m not sure really. Actually I think they let me down, for going for novelty and kitsch instead of what I think of as real art but mostly I’m angry with myself for giving in to them. There’s a thin line between originality and novelty. A lot of people these days don’t seem to be able to tell the difference.
‘At the time I thought “Ooh, big impressive career in the media. Look at what I’m doing” but it wasn’t really me. It wasn’t anything like what I wanted to do. Maybe I was just trying to prove something.’ I look at the floor and fiddle with a scrap of paper.
‘I sold out’ I confess. ‘Anyway, it all went tits up in the end.’
He looks at me, perplexed, but I think he gets the picture.

He sits and leafs through his notes for a while, considering something. The sea feels quite rough today. I can see the tops of waves occasionally through the windows above his head. I wonder where we are. I wonder if there’s a map. He puts his papers down and looks perplexed at me.
‘How did you feel after you gave up the post grad project Gabriel?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Relieved? Vindicated? Like I was well out of it.’
‘Not disappointed?’
‘Well, yes, of course.’
‘You didn’t see this as a major set back at all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘To your future as an artist.’
‘Um... I suppose so.’
‘How did you see your future at that stage?’
I sit blank minded. I can’t think. I haven’t a clue. ‘I suppose I thought I’d manage, you know, sell some pictures, have a private exhibition. There were loads of galleries in Brighton at the time, and there was London.’
‘And you would have been content with that.’
‘Well, it wasn’t what I’d hoped for exactly but it’s not the end of the world. It’s like what I was doing before really, what I’d imagined I might do before...’
‘Before what? Before your degree, or before you began the post grad project?’
‘Before everything. It was like going backwards. I don’t know. Like I said, a lot of what I did later on did seem like a sell-out, like it wasn’t really me, but then...’
‘What?’
‘Well, it was good that it wasn’t really me. I wanted to do something different, to be something different, reinvent myself or something. I was really stupid enough to think I could do that.’
He sits silently, waiting. He knows I have more to say.
‘It was ok for a while. I could enjoy the freedom, but then... I didn’t know what to do. The project had given me a new route, maybe not exactly what I wanted but it was a stepping-stone. I knew there was something not right about it but I thought maybe something real would emerge eventually.’
‘But then it was all gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘So how did you feel after you gave up the post grad project Gabriel, really?’
‘Like shit. Like I was shit. Like I’d never be anything else, ever again. It was all gone, everything. My parents were right about me.’
‘And how did Mar help?’
‘What?’
‘How did Mar try to help you?’
I can’t think of anything to tell him. I just remember her bustling around, “having to do everything”, while I just sat, and watched her. I shake my head.
‘She didn’t help, but I still can’t convince myself that I deserved any help. I just think, maybe, if I’d tried harder, no, if I’d just shut the hell up and done as I was told...’ But I know even as I’m saying it that I couldn’t have. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to just kow-tow like that. I just couldn’t. Is that intolerable? Is that just too bad a way to be? Could I expect anyone to love me when I’m like that?’
‘I think you know the answer to that already Gabriel.’
‘Maybe...’
‘We need to continue this later. I’ll see you next time.’
I stay sat down for a moment as he gets up. He stands and looks at me, waiting. I can feel the tears in my eyes and I look away.
I say. ‘You know, I knew Mar couldn’t be in love with me, almost from the start. It just didn’t seem very likely.’
And I get up and leave.

Voyage IX – God, and Other Hypotheses

I had an interesting conversation with Olly the other morning. I found him sitting up on the forward deck, looking at a book. It was still early and the sun was still small and the sky was a clear creamy pink with coral streaks in what I suppose we must call the west, if where the sun comes in from is the east. It’s strange how quickly I’ve got used to this colour in the morning sky. It doesn’t seem as wrong as you might think. It even seems right in a way the sky in life didn’t. The evening sky tends toward green – a clear glaucous green that becomes deeper and deeper, through turquoise to something I can only describe as green slate. Sometimes though, on very clear nights, the colours are violet and indigo, or lapis lazuli. Mornings are sometimes golden – like milk and honey. Azure skies only really occur at mid morning and by mid day the sky may completely lose all its colour and become a pure milky white. On a really clear day, at noon, if you lie very still you can hear the sun move.

I glance at Olly looking at the sky. Some different birds have joined us this morning – large, dirty grey ones but with vivid flashes of aquamarine under the wings. They wheel about silently as we sit.
‘It’s beautiful here’ he says without looking in my direction and makes me jump a little. I wasn’t aware he’d seen me. I walk forward and he moves the chair he’s had his feet on, inviting me to sit with him.
‘Yes, it is’ I say. ‘You look like you’ve been here all night.’
‘I have’ he says and offers me his flask. I show him I already have a mug and offer to go down and get him a fresh one. He says ‘Maybe later.’
It’s still very chilly at night but it’s getting quite warm in the sun these days. I have on my quilted coat and I’ve brought a blanket with me. I pull up another stool so we can both put our feet up and then I arrange my blanket over my pyjama legs and get comfortable. Something sleek and black breaks the surface and disappears off to port. It’s very quiet. I have no idea what powers our craft but it doesn’t make a sound. Up above us the windows of the bridge reflect the sky.
‘How’ve you been?’ I say casually. I want to ask what has happened between he and Lou since the row. It’s been a week. I miss them but I don’t feel comfortable asking. He grins knowingly at me nevertheless.
‘I’m fine lad’ he says and resumes looking. ‘I’ve spoken to Lou...’
‘Oh yes?’ I say, as if nothing had been further from my thoughts.
‘It’s alright. We’re alright. We’re actually very alike, Lou and I. Sometimes we just rub each other up the wrong way. You heard the conversation didn’t you. You were there...’ I nod. ‘What did you think?’ he says.
I’m not sure what he’s getting at. ‘About what, exactly?’
‘Oh, you know, science, faith, God and so forth.’
‘I don’t know’ I say, by way of playing for time.
‘Well, for example...’ he says briskly, but stops, and shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t know either. Not now. Did you have a faith, in life, or do you still...?’
‘That’s what I don’t know’ I say. ‘I went to meetings at the Buddhist centre for a while, and a couple of times at the Quaker meeting house...’
‘Ah’ he says, nodding ‘Did you meet Ted Little? This was in Brighton I take it?’
‘Yes, Ted was the chap who led the meetings wasn’t he – read out the notices and so on.’
‘Excellent chap Ted. What did you make of them? The Quakers?’
‘It was ok... well, not much really. A bit like the transcendental meditation – I couldn’t really concentrate. I was bit bored to be honest. I’m always thinking something will happen...’
‘Enlightenment...’
‘Something like that, but I’m impatient I suppose. I always want to get back to my painting.’
‘Perhaps that is your religion – your access to the transcendent I mean. You don’t strike me as the contemplative type exactly.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I can sit and look at the sea for days at a time when I’m supposed to be doing something else...’ and I tell him about my garret in Hove, and the view from up there.
He smiles and tells me about his place on the river in Southampton. ‘Always something going on down there...’ he says. I get the impression it’s not always something good.
We sit quietly for a while, contemplating. I really want to ask him what’s happened to his faith now. ‘What do you make of all this here, now?’ I say as casually as possible.
I hear him take a deep breath. ‘I suppose I trust God knows what he’s doing and has chosen not to let us in on everything’ he says, but he doesn’t sound sure.
I nod, trying to look understanding. ‘Mr Sadeghi said something similar.’
‘Oh?’
‘“We trust in God.” he said. I didn’t ask – he just said that.’
‘You must introduce me’ says Olly. ‘We can compare notes. I had a lot of Muslims on my patch. I envied them.’
‘Really? How come?’
‘Their simple devotion. We Christians were too full of interpretations, contradictions, different versions. They don’t really have that. They have the word of Mohammed, direct from God and they recite it – no fuss, no argument. That seems to be about it. Have you spoken to the girl – er...’
‘Shamim’
‘...Shamim about it? I see you’re friendly.’
‘I haven’t. I’d like to. I don’t want to offend her.’
‘I’m sure she won’t be offended. You should ask.’
‘To be honest Olly, no offence, but it all seems a bit, well, academic now. Sorry.’
‘No, don’t be sorry, and no offence taken by the way. I know what you mean. I mean, I’m used to basing my faith on miracles, on the highly improbable, not to say implausible, but this...’ he shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what to think. To tell you the truth I’m extremely angry at God for not warning us about this, but then I think...’
‘God moves in mysterious ways?’
‘Er, yes’ he says and looks at me unhappily. ‘But it’s really not much of an explanation is it’ he says. ‘You can’t just keep on saying “God moves in mysterious ways” every time you come up against something that doesn’t make sense. Surely we should be able to say which states of affairs are consistent with “God’s way” and which are not. Surely not just any old state of affairs can be equally consistent with God’s plans. Keith says maybe the bible doesn’t tell us everything, but in this case the bible is positively misleading. And if it can be this “misleading” how can we be said to truly understand anything at all about God from reading the bible? I confess to being flummoxed Gabriel. Any particular significance to your name Gabriel by the way?’
‘I think mum just liked it. She was a big Archers fan.’
‘Ah... Well anyway.’
We sit and think for a bit longer. I still want to talk about what was said the other day with Lou. ‘But what about intuition and so on?’ I say. ‘I mean, you were saying your faith came more from some deep intuition about the universe than from the bible.’
‘But Lou put paid to that didn’t he. How do I know where these “deep intuitions” came from? And why furthermore assume they tell me anything about the ultimate nature of the universe. He’s right. It’s presumptuous to say the least, possibly downright arrogant. I never thought of myself as an arrogant man but there you are.’
‘But his scientific “hypotheses” must be equally groundless surely?’ I feel the old debating Me, from college surfacing. I mustn’t let it get out of hand.
‘Ask him. I think you’ll find he has an answer to that’ says Olly, resignedly.
‘But he can’t account for all this, surely.’
‘And he doesn’t try. He doesn’t need to. But in any case, I didn’t disagree with him on any of that. Keith is more the creationist if you remember. Actually I believe in science as much as Lou does, more probably, since he doesn’t see it as a belief system. Lou said I have a morbid compulsion to believe.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know. I always thought it was better to believe in something rather than nothing. Obviously I’d prefer it were Christ but...’
‘But now you’re not so sure.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Well I think you should stick to what you believe – do what seems right to you.’
‘And what do you believe Gabriel?’
It takes me a while to answer. I was never religious but he’s a vicar and I feel self-conscious. ‘I suppose... I do believe there’s a consciousness in the universe, and I believe it cares what happens to us. I don’t believe it is involved in everything that goes on, like everyday events. I suppose a lot of it, he or she or whatever set in motion and then it observes, maybe intervenes sometimes. I believe it communicates with us if we let it and maybe makes things happen so that there’s some justice in the world, you know, like karma. I used to believe in reincarnation, but not like this.’
‘What about people who have different beliefs to you?’
‘Well I always thought there were many routes to God or whatever you call it, ‘Truth’ maybe. None of us understand fully. They’re all truths in a way.’
‘But what about terrible beliefs?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean fascists and fundamentalists. They really believe in what they do. Some people seriously believe God wants them to kill queers. I had a case of ritual child abuse to deal with once. A family were convinced their child was possessed by evil spirits and forced him to drink petrol.’
I don’t know what to say about that. I mean, obviously they’re wrong but I don’t see the relevance. ‘Did the child survive?’ I ask.
‘If you can call it that.’ I don’t pry further.
‘What I’m asking, Gabriel, is do you think they were merely working to a different version of the truth, or another aspect of the truth if you like, or were they just plain wrong?’
‘They were wrong, obviously.’
‘And I agree, but they believed that what they did was right, they really did. They believed and that was what their belief told them to do. I know, we lose sight of this in southern England, middle class, prosperous, basically decent law-abiding people. You can be tolerant of other peoples’ beliefs when the differences don’t matter much. You all want love and peace and justice and all the rest of it, but not everyone is like that.’
‘Well maybe there is something evil out there too, misleading people.’
He smiles and claps me on the back. ‘Now you’re just making it up as you go along.’
We stand and look for a while. The wind is picking up.
‘Actually, I think I was mostly a pagan’ I say very casually again, trying to pretend I’ve not said anything controversial. Olly just smiles and pulls his collars up. It’s starting to cloud over. Rain is on its way.
‘Good for you. Buddhist, Quaker, pagan. I wish I could have been so agnostic’ he says. ‘You were a seeker after the truth.’
‘Well I didn’t look very hard to be honest. I just didn’t think the rationalists could have all the answers.’
Heavy drops begin to land on us. Olly pulls his hood up and stuffs his hands deeper in his pockets. I can see I’m going to get very wet if I stay here. I fidget a bit. ‘You go’ he says through his collars. ‘I’ll be alright. Honestly. I’ll see you later.’ He slaps my back and I get up to go. I think of what happened to Vincent’s ‘client’ and worry about him but he’s clearly not to be pressured. I collect my things and head down for breakfast.

Journey VIII – Hummer

In the morning, such as it is, we are awoken by the screech of brakes and a powerful engine. Shamim and I are still holding each other and take a while to disentangle ourselves.

Nearby a very tall black man in military garb and sunglasses stands next to what appears to be a huge, bulky, brushed steel 4x4 with tinted windows.

‘This is Charles’ says Jeb. ‘He’ll be your guide for the next part of the journey.’ Charles whips his glasses off and smiles broadly at us as he comes and shakes all our hands vigorously. We notice he has a nasty black machine gun under his left arm. We’re all very apprehensive but he seems to be enjoying himself.

‘Ok’ he says rather loudly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to collect your belongings from the cart and stow them in the rear of the vehicle and then I’ll show you what’s what.’ He claps us all on the back as we go past with our bags, nodding cheerfully, still holding the gun.

‘Will we be needing the other equipment Jeb?’ asks Mike.

‘Why don’t you go ask Charles there?’ says Jeb.

Mike turns to him but before he can ask Charles tells him he has everything they’ll need in the back.

Once that’s done we look around at Jeb and say our thank-yous and goodbyes, and give him a hug and the women have a little cry and then we find our places in the low interior of the vehicle. There are three rows of three seats, like huge fleshy sofas. Nicky takes the seat beside Charles up front, Shamim and I curl up on the one behind them (to keep an eye on her, we joke), Shamim’s parents behind us (to keep an eye on us) and the threesome cram in at the back with Mike in the middle (keeping them apart). Everything smells of chemicals. Everything is grey metal except the thickly upholstered black leather seats and the grey carpet.

‘Ok, see you later Jeb’ we hear Charles call from outside and then he sticks his head in and points out the drinks, the music, the TV, the food, and, last but not least, the weapons. Then he looks around at us and laughs at the looks on our faces.

‘Seriously though, the rule is you do not leave the vehicle for any reason unless I say so. As your guide you will know by now that I can protect you all the while I am with you, but if you go off on your own I take no responsibility for what happens and I won’t, repeat, won’t be coming back to find you. Is that clear?’ We all nod. Then he looks at Nicky in particular.

‘What?’ she says.

‘I’ve heard all about you’ he says, then breaks out the smile again and ruffles her hair. She acts all offended but is really lapping it up.

He gets in, fiddles about with the dashboard. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to buckle up’ he says over his shoulder but he needn’t have worried. It was the first thing we did when we got in. I watch him take extra care to arrange the belt across Nicky’s bosom and I see her giggle. There’s the tiniest pang of jealousy but nothing much. Shamim has her head on my shoulder and her hands in mine and I’m more than happy.

At first we don’t notice the engine has started. There’s this low growl from underneath and I realise we must be well sound-proofed when I remember how loud it was when it arrived. We start to move off, ever so gently, like a plane taxiing to the runway. We turn down a track between high banks of refuse and pick up speed. By the time we’re out on the road we must be doing ninety, and we join a lot of other cars hurtling along a very wide motorway. By this time we’re all sitting up in our seats trying to see where we’re going. Everybody is driving like maniacs, weaving about, overtaking on the inside, cutting each other up. On the way we see two horrible wrecks being bulldozed off the carriageway. I thought I saw some bodies still struggling amongst the wreckage as it was scraped out of the way but at the time it seemed unlikely. One guy up front appears to be playing dodgems. We hang back. Then, as the road sweeps round, the city swings into view - a wild composition of silver and black shards, blocks and domes, strung with billboards, cables and scaffolding. We peel off along an over-pass and plunge into the city, through a tunnel and onto a broad highway fenced in with advertising billboards so that all but the tops of the tallest buildings are obscured. On the way we’re involved in several ‘minor’ collisions but do not stop to see if anyone needs help. Almost all the vehicles in any case seem to sport some sort of armouring. Some, like ours, apparently come with dozer blades and bull-bars fitted as standard but others appear to have had rails, spikes and steel panels welded onto the bodywork. Slices of sheet metal stick out at all angles, and some appear to have gun turrets and rocket launchers. Everything is dented and scorched.

Charles explains to us over his shoulder (taking his eyes off the road for far too long for comfort) that there are no traffic lights or roundabouts here – no real regulations at all.

‘They’re considered contrary to the spirit of free enterprise’ he shouts cheerfully. ‘It’s survival of the hippest, the fattest, the fastest and the slickest here my friends. No one else need apply.’

‘How do you get about if you can’t afford an armoured car?’ says Shamim.

‘With extreme caution’ he says, grinning.

At last we slow down and go from mayhem to gridlock.

Peering out, the street is packed with everything from rickshaws and mule carts to armoured SUVs and juggernauts. Pedestrians take their chances and some knock on the glass and hold things up – presumably hoping to sell us something. Charles tells us it’s best not to open the windows.

Eventually we turn into a side street and then into what looks like a garage. Charles turns the engine off and looks around, smiling, if anything, even more broadly. ‘Still with us?’ he says. We all nod but can’t say anything coherent.

‘Ok, now I’m going to take you up to the safe house. And you must stay absolutely as close to me as you can at all times. Got that?’ We all nod again. ‘Excellent, follow me’ he says and throws the doors open. The full cacophony of the city assaults us as we sit there, making it hard to concentrate. All the sirens and engines and yelling we heard from afar are right there, just outside the armoured door we just came in through, as are all the smells of sewage and solvents. And it’s hot too, like a sauna. We follow him as closely as possible to a door in the corner that leads to a lift. He squeezes us all in and we rise to the ninth floor where the doors open and he springs out with his gun at the ready. Nothing happens and he beckons us out and we move as quickly as we can to a door at the end of the corridor that is held open for us. A small, rounded, white woman greets us and shows us into a dimly lit room with dull brown and orange seventies furniture. We’re all too wired to sit down. We have nothing to say.

‘Hey, this is Georgia’ says Charles. ‘She’ll be looking after you for the duration. Do as she says, and er...’ he looks at her quizzically ‘I’ll see you all later.’

‘Ok’ she says.

‘Ok’ he replies and waves at us as he departs. We all look at her hopefully.

‘Well, make yourselves at home – kitchen through there, bedrooms through there, bathroom there, help yourselves to food and drink. Anything else you need let me know. Ok.’ And with that she leaves too.

We all look at each other. It’s still early. We don’t know what’s going on. Some of us go tentatively up to the windows to see what’s happening outside but what with the grime on the glass and the smog it’s hard to tell. Mostly it looks like something out of Blade Runner but without the old-world charm. As the day progresses we see people driving wildly, people running about yelling and others firing guns, just in the street below, a service road of old, grimy, brick built warehouses, all with steel doors and boarded-up windows. Police cars cruise through sometimes but are not reassuring. We decide it might be best to stay away from the windows. We check out the fridge and find a lot of processed meat products and sweet carbonated drinks. The cupboards contain nothing much but sweets and biscuits. The shower works but we don’t trust the water. Mike turns the TV on and we’re astonished to see something that looks uncannily like British daytime TV, but isn’t. Then there’s a shopping channel but the reception isn’t good, then a channel showing nothing but Eastenders. ‘Now I know I’m in hell’ says Mr Sadeghi.

I slump down in one of the sofas and look about me. Shamim is with her mother, discussing something. She looks over at me and smiles as reassuringly as she can. Looking at her there, her slender body under that light cotton dress I’m not sure how long we can remain chaste. In any case it’s the only thing I can imagine doing here that’s not toxic or violent or depressing. I pick up an old magazine and find it’s a used copy of Take a Break. I put it down again. I’d rather be bored.

Nothing further happens until late that night. There’d been a lot of screaming outside earlier on that evening – a woman desperately shouting no no no, more and more frantically until she went quiet and we all looked around at each other sitting there in the gloom, all in various states of unsettledness, the women weeping, the men just sitting there, stunned. I guess we were all thinking we should go and try to help but we were all too terrified for our own safety. The worst part was later on when there was something going on in the hall outside and someone kicking and hammering on the door. We couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then there was some shooting out the front and a squad car turned up and took someone away. We just all sat there. There was nothing else for it. I don’t think any of us slept at all that night.

Early the next morning a key turned in the lock and we thought it would be Charles or Georgia but instead two men in police uniforms came in and told us to get our things together. They took us down in the lift in two lots, and then out into the street to an armoured van. It was the first time we’d been outside and the heat and the fumes and the noise were just unbearable. Mr Sadeghi kept asking what was going on and where was our guide and where were they taking us but they ignored him, locked us in and drove off.

Voyage VIII – Leviathan

Life (but not as we know it) goes on. The weather has definitely improved. The sky is bluish. The waves have become jolly and tuneful, instead of angry and dark. More birds appear each day, and one morning, what I can only describe as sea monsters rise and blow. Everybody comes up on deck to see them. I’m sure they’re not whales. Something about them is lacking. I never saw a real whale, in the flesh, in my life, but even from the telly you can tell just by looking at them there’s some sort of intelligence at work – some sort of awareness in their eyes we relate to. Not with these... These eyes are merely for detecting light, for registering movement, for identifying prey. This experience does not have quite the uplifting effect whale watching has I’d imagine, but it’s certainly awe-inspiring – their disinterested way of cruising past, the sheer numbers of them, and the sheer size. One of them is considerably longer than we are, and looking down through the water I can see a whole mass migration of them, all heading to some distant feeding or breeding ground. It’s like one of those Escher prints with fish ever receding deeper into the darkness. Is it my imagination or is it possible to see further into the water here than it is back in the world? Maybe it’s a trick of perspective. I wonder, since we don’t strictly need to breathe here, if it would be possible to go free diving. Not here obviously. Not with these things about. That would be, well, not suicide obviously, but certainly not very bright. Then I wonder if they breed, or, like us they merely come here when they die and go on, wandering these unlimited oceans for all eternity. Maybe they don’t even feed. I consider chucking them the last of my croissant but would rather not draw attention to myself. Those jaws are easily as long as the boat is high.

Shamim is watching the leviathans go past. I don’t see her parents with her. I don’t know if I’m making some silly assumption about her culture but I feel it would be inappropriate to make any advances, although she is very attractive. On the other hand, the fact that I can’t imagine anything happening between us means I can go over and just start a conversation without anxiety. How maladapted is that? My genes are just doomed.
‘Hey there’ I say, cheerfully.
‘Hey’ she says back, smiling broadly. ‘I thought I’d see you up here. They’re really something aren’t they.’
We lean over and look down at them. A smallish one (but as long as a bus nevertheless) passes underneath. Its body just goes on and on.
‘I was just thinking about going diving’ I say. ‘Not now, obviously, but if we don’t need to breathe...’
‘Maybe when we get to shore’ she says. ‘The water is very clear. Maybe we could get some goggles. It would be wonderful not to have to bother with all that clutter, tanks and weights and so on – just swim as deep as you like – live underwater if you want to.’ She smiles at me again, that enigmatic smile she has.
I don’t want to monopolise her but, to be honest, she’s better company than the others now. After that last argument it’s been weird with Lou and Olly. Ned tries to get things going and we play games, or they do at any rate, and we chat. Keith sometimes joins us but more often he’s with some other people in the games room, playing pool. It’s like that last debate just got out of hand in a way that changed everything. In retrospect I suppose it’s not surprising. This happened at college. Early on I enjoyed taking part in our lively and often somewhat brutal debates, safe in the knowledge that we could hold it together, not take it personally, take the rhetorical derision and polemical contempt in our strides. I thought I was so mature. We thought we were so very well informed... Oh well. I’m more wary now, and, frankly, the opportunity to have my say doesn’t have the same appeal any more. It’s not that I don’t have a view. I just don’t think it’s that important to explain it. Does that make me older and wiser or what? Anyway, these days I avoid religion and politics – how very English is that?
So talking to Shamim now should be a lot easier. I freely admit to knowing nothing about where she comes from and am happy to ask polite questions and listen to her answers. I ask her about her home back in Iran, her family, friends, music, the shops (she loves to talk about shopping – the universal language of womanhood). It turns out she is a trained scuba diver – something I always wanted to try but she puts me off when she talks about all the equipment she had to buy and lug around. We agree that the sea should be enjoyed as close to naked as possible and I have to suppress any trace of non-platonic intent. The way she smiles at me makes this very difficult however. I’m sure she doesn’t know she’s doing it, or the effect it has on me.

Later on, after the leviathans have passed, her parents appear, arm in arm. They’ve been watching from the other side of the boat and Mrs Sadeghi is still breathless with excitement.
‘Did you see that?’ she says over and over. ‘Did you see that?’

Vincent VI – Friends

‘Something is troubling me’ he says, leafing through his papers. ‘You don’t appear to have had any friends, or, at least, you haven’t mentioned any of them to me. Why is that?’
‘I didn’t have any’ I say, with as straight a face as I can manage. He evidently can’t tell I’m joking.
‘I’m sure that can’t be true’ he says. ‘All that time at college, living in Brighton, going out? I’ve heard it’s a very lively place.’
I think about it. Actually it’s true – not a joke – I didn’t have much in the way of friends there. It took me a long time to start talking to the others, and then I lost touch towards the end. I don’t know why.
‘There were a few people I hung out with. It changed as time went on’ I say, non-committally.
‘Why do I always feel, Gabriel...’ he says, ‘Why do I always feel that I am actually only hearing a small fraction of the thoughts you have in response to my questions here? Hmm?’
I look at him. I don’t know what to say. Has he been reading my mind? Maybe they can do that here. He did say something about knowing what questions to ask...
‘Look Gabriel. I do not know what you are hiding – probably nothing very much, but if you will not tell me I will naturally assume something, so... For God’s sake Gabriel, tell me. I’m not here to judge you. Apparently nobody is... Trust me Gabriel, please, or I cannot do my job.’
I look at him. I do trust him, as much as anyone here. It’s just... ‘It’s just, I was such a wanker’ I say.
‘Good’ he says. ‘That sounds honest.’
‘I got accepted at Art College and I really thought I’d made it. I thought I was so cool. I stuck two fingers up at my parents and...’
‘Not literally I hope.’
‘No, not literally, but they knew how I felt. I was sick of all that crap at home and I was on my way as far as I knew. And then I got there, and... well, I don’t know. I hated it.’
‘Why? What was the problem?’
‘Well I had to start all over again. I had to take lectures in drawing and using paint and the history of art and... things that I’d taught myself years before. And then there were the other students and I just thought I was going to have a wild time, going out, clubs and pubs and parties, and having sex and everything, and... It just wasn’t like that. I just felt so – I don’t know – wrong. Like I was this sad old git and a bit of a weirdo. Everybody seemed to be so much younger than me and they were all shagging each other silly, even in fresher’s week.’
‘That was important to you to – to have a lot of sex.’
‘Well, up until then, there’d not been... and I hadn’t had much of a social life, so yes, I wanted the whole student life style, but yes, sex as well. I’m not proud of it but there you are.’
‘Good. That sounds honest too.’
I stop and catch my breath. It all seems like it happened last night. Excruciating. A whole night club full of these bright young things, flirting and laughing and running around, and this still, small, sad space around me.
He frowns and thinks for a while. ‘How was your work coming along at this time?’
‘I thought it was a total waste of time. Apart from compulsory studio sessions and lectures it was exactly what I would have been doing on my own at home. It all seemed totally pointless.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if you lacked confidence in your abilities Gabriel.’
I’m taken aback by what he’s said. People were always on about lack of self-esteem back then. I’d always assumed that’s what I had.
‘I think I always knew, if people could just leave me alone to get on with it I could do something exceptional.’
‘But they wouldn’t.’
‘No. They always had to interfere, make me do things their way.’
‘And you resented that.’
‘Well, later I realised they were just getting everyone up to a level, but at the time I just thought they were treating me like a kid. Plus I should have taken the opportunity to meet people and make friends, but I just went home and worked on my stuff there. Like I say – wanker.’
‘When did all this change?’
‘Actually one of the students came and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing.’
‘And who was that?’
‘Victoria. Victoria Sponge – I don’t think that was her real name. She was another mature student, bit older than me – completely mad Glaswegian. We’d chatted a few times in the refectory. She came over unexpectedly one day and saw my paintings and asked me why I was fucking up. I’m sorry... the f word. It’s just...’
‘It’s ok. It’s the G word I have trouble with. Carry on.’
‘Oh, ok. Where was I?’
‘Fucking up.’
‘Ok. Er...’
‘So she thought your work was good?’
‘She thought it had “potential”. She told me that she’d over-heard that I’d be chucked out if I didn’t get my act together.’
‘Good of her.’
‘I don’t know. I never did find out why she did that.’
‘Perhaps she liked you.’
‘Maybe...’ He doesn’t challenge me on my equivocation this time.
‘Whenabouts was this?’
‘Christmas – that first year. I went along to a party with her and the other mature students and I felt awful. I just despised them all. I’d seen them at lectures – all down the front, being so attentive and studious, taking notes, asking lots of questions...’
‘But you became friends nevertheless.’
‘Not exactly. Vicky was a bit too mad – complete drama queen and control freak. She used to wear her fetish gear around the college at the weekend, which was a bit distressing given how skinny she was. A lot of that group really were very odd – especially some of the older ones – lots of piercings and some other dangerous stuff – event and physical art, whatever that was. You’d catch them mincing about the place dressed entirely in feathers or rubber or whatever, shrieking from the mezzanine, and making “objects” out of discarded fast food. I think there were a lot of personal crises going on there.’ I smile at the memory but Vincent doesn’t react.
‘And what were you wearing at the time?’
‘Black combats. I thought I was an anarchist.’
‘Aha.’ He thinks that’s funny. I only discovered later, having done some reading that actually I really was an anarchist.
‘Honestly, it was a zoo.’
‘But you did find a group of friends eventually.’
‘Yes, I suppose it was that winter. There was this bunch mostly from the workshops – more into things like ceramics and metal work, and embroidery believe it or not. They were a bit more practical and also quite political – and more safety conscious too.’
‘And you fitted in better with those people.’
‘Well my stuff was quite traditional in a way – quite workman-like really. And they hung out with the overseas students too so we got to go to some cool parties, so yes, I liked them. They were a good bunch.’
‘Even so, you seem bored by these questions Gabriel. Friends do not seem very important to you.’
I look about the room and try to remember their names and faces. I hardly bothered to keep in contact with any of them once I was with Mar. It seemed sad at the time but I can’t say I missed any of them very much.
‘I suppose I was used to being alone, and they all moved away after graduation. I sent e-mails but it all just petered out. I never went to see them, and they never came to see me. I suppose that’s how it is.’ I shrug as if none of it really mattered.
‘Be honest Gabriel.’
‘Well, things were not so much fun by the final year. Everything was more intense and there’d been arguments – silly disputes about politics or whatever. Or rivalries about the studio space or who’d slept with who. But that affected everyone, not just me. I don’t know...’ and I shrug once more, try to show I don’t care but I do. By the end of the course I was on the outside again, looking in.

‘I think we were all a bit too close there, for a while. We all went out together, to gigs and down the pub and we had parties and went for walks in the country and it was really good. We were inseparable. I don’t know what happened. I kept wondering if it was something I’d said, but we were all pretty outspoken and Kat was downright nasty on a regular basis. And then there was the night I ended up in bed with Jo and I know she and Mark were pretty close but that sort of thing was happening all the time. Mark got away with much worse behaviour and they just loved him all the more. Jo was more of a friend anyway, and we still were, even after that night. I suppose there was the Irish girl – Colleen, from humanities. She was about as close as anyone to being a real friend but I’d even lost track of her by the end.’
Vincent sits quietly and watches me as I prattle on. Of course he doesn’t know who any of these people are and it doesn’t matter. It’s all in the past isn’t it. The fact is, if I’m honest about it, I know there’d been something about me all along – something not quite right. Either it took them a while to realise or they knew it from the start but tolerated me for as long as they could. I know it sounds paranoid, and a small insistent part of me disputes this theory but I can’t deny it. Who was I kidding? It was the same with Mar. None of it was real. I suppose I’m just not a very likeable person – too self involved, too intense, a bit too spikey someone once told me. So they tolerated me out of what? Charity? Pity? Or perhaps they just didn’t want to make a scene. This is why I shrug. Because after all, I knew it would happen sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. I look up at Vincent. He’s still watching me. I can’t bring myself to try to explain all this. I know he wants to help and I do trust him but even he won’t get it, because being lonely isn’t like the storybooks. It’s not a misty romantic place where the sad lost little boy is found and treasured by kind strangers. No, lonely is an eyesore, as the song says. To be lonely is to have failed to find friends, to fit in, to be the kind of person people like to hang out with.
Anyway, I’m wallowing and Vincent is still waiting for me to say something. I don’t know if I really believe all this stuff about it all being my fault but I know I did something wrong. And it’s not that I can’t imagine what it might have been because I can imagine all too well. The list is endless (Things I Might Have Done to Piss Everyone Off volume 54). I just don’t know, in this case, which it was.
‘I did something to piss them off. I don’t know what it was’ I say at last. The session is nearly over.
He nods seriously. ‘Did you ever ask anyone about it?’ he says after a while.
‘Sometimes.’ I say vaguely. ‘It didn’t help.’
Actually I think it made matters worse – I was not only arrogant and abrasive but needy and insecure too. Brilliant combination.
He nods but says nothing. We pack up for the day.