Voyage XIV – Kids today

Today is quite stormy out and the ship is rolling somewhat. I’m told it’s not possible to be seasick here (or any other sort of sick) but Liz is making a fuss anyway and Harry is taking the opportunity to show what a big man he is by comforting her and taking the piss out of her more-or-less equally.
‘Anyway, how old were you?’ he says turning unexpectedly to me. Apparently it’s been a subject for debate in my absence. I shrug, trying to smile enigmatically. I’m not telling them, not after what Lucy said. I’ll let them guess.
‘What do you reckon Ray?’
Ray shrugs. Solly pretends not to have heard. He looks at his cards and takes a sip of his drink. Harry squints at me.
‘Eighteen’ he says at last and I’m disappointed that it’s so obvious. I don’t confirm his guess but he takes it that he’s guessed correctly anyway.
‘What was it then? Some sort of accident?’ Again I see Liz flinch and look away. I shake my head. ‘Suicide?’ he says loudly. I look away but I can feel him looking at me. ‘Got no fucking time for them. Fucking loser’s way out. Have to learn to fucking face up to life like the rest of us. You’re not going to tell us then? How you did it?’
‘It was exposure’ I say quietly. ‘I died of exposure.’
‘You what? Exposure? How’d you manage that?’
I don’t answer. He goes back to his cards, still muttering about suicides. I decide to say something anyway. What’s the worst that can happen?
‘I do think people should be free to decide if they don’t want to live any more’ I say, as inoffensively as I can.
For some reason there is very little reaction. I’m slightly disappointed.
‘What about their mums and dads?’ he says quietly, looking from his hand to the cards on the table and back again over and over again.
‘Well, if they’ve tried their hardest... if there doesn’t seem to be...’
‘You think it’s alright to top yourself’ he says, still not looking up.
I look around at the others. Brenda is the only one looking at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
‘I’m not saying it’s alright’ I say. ‘I’m just saying maybe, sometimes it’s understandable.’
I notice Liz is crying again. Solly’s expression tells me I should have known to expect this.
‘What, even if it breaks his poor mother’s heart? It’s understandable is it?’
‘If he’s that unhappy... and there’s no way...’
‘How can you be so insensitive?’ he says putting his cards down and looking down at his wife. ‘You alright love? Can I get you anything?’
Liz shakes her head and we play quietly for a while.
‘Kids’ says Harry cheerfully, flicking a card neatly onto the pile ‘Who’d have them? Not like it was in our day is it love?’ Liz, still facing away from us, shakes her head.
‘I can’t keep up with it’ says Ray.
‘You were a teddy boy weren’t you saying Ray?’ asks Brenda.
‘I was. Well, you knew what was what in those days. Not like now.’
‘Punks and Rude Boys. What’s that when it’s at home?’ says Solly.
‘New Romantics...’ adds Ray.
‘Bunch of poofs’ adds Harry, predictably.
‘And that music they listen to – fucking racket some of it. You see them on Top of the Pops, can’t even sing most of them.’
‘Can’t even play their instruments. I reckon, put them up against Buddy Holly...’
‘Roy Orbison.’
‘He could play...’
‘The Shadows. Not that nancy-boy Cliff Richards though.’
‘Ooh I used to like Cliff’ says Liz and she starts to sing ‘We’re all going on a... Summer holiday’.
‘Cut it out I’m trying to concentrate here’ says Harry, shrugging her off. ‘You seem to have got over your sea-sickness remarkably quickly.’
I watch her wonder if it would be too obvious if she tries to look sick again. She decides against it. She wasn’t getting much sympathy anyway.
‘What I don’t get, right, is that Boy George’ says Solly. ‘I thought it was a girl at first. I didn’t half feel like a plonker.’
I can see none of them feel comfortable with this image and they all look at their cards.
‘What about Adam Ant?’ says Ray, ‘What’s that supposed to be?’
‘Let’s ask Gabriel’ says Solly. I knew this was coming. ‘Hey, Gabriel. What do you make of all this new romantic stuff?’
I see Harry lining himself up to enjoy himself at my expense. I can’t think of a way out. I try to look like I’m thinking about it.
‘Do you like Adam Ant Gabriel?’ says Harry, asking as suggestively as he can.
‘Some of it. I quite liked their second album.’
‘What’s your favourite song?’ says Solly.
I avoid their gazes. I know they’re not even slightly interested in Adam and the Ants. I know this is a wind-up. I cast my mind back. All the titles sound stupid anyway – Ant Music, Ant Invasion, Prince Charming. I liked Killer in the Home best.
‘I don’t know’ I say casually. ‘I wasn’t that into them to be honest.’
‘So who did you like?’ says Solly. ‘Seriously, I’m interested.’
I don’t trust him but I give them a list anyway ‘Talking Heads, The Specials, Ian Dury, The Cure, Bowie of course...’
‘I liked David Bowie’ says Brenda. ‘What was that one – Major Tom to ground control?’
‘Space Oddity’ I say, knowledgeably. I didn’t like that one so much but I humour her, trying to keep on her good side.
We sit and play a bit more. I actually have a good hand. I feel a win coming on perhaps.
‘It’s not like the old days is it though’ says Ray. ‘You can’t dance to it can you, or sing along?’ and he starts into Only the Lonely with lots of exaggerated yodelling. People turn and look. He pretends not to notice, rearranging his cards. Then Solly leans in and starts singing too. It’s very embarrassing.

After they’ve finished (and got a small round of applause from a group near the bar) Ray says ‘Well, at least we knew how to have a good time, didn’t we Sol’ and I assume that’s today’s lesson over but I assume wrong.
‘Fucking kids today’ says Harry ‘Don’t know nothing. That fucking David Bowie’s queer too.’
‘He’s not’ says Brenda, aghast ‘Is he?’
I nod. ‘Bisexual’ I say, and I know I’m asking for trouble.

‘What’s that mean?’ says Harry.
‘You know, AC-DC’ explains Liz out the side of her mouth, nudging him with her elbow. He doesn’t react, just carries on rearranging his cards. There’s still time to get out. I just need an excuse.
‘Talking of kids’ he says, laying his cards down and glancing at me, ‘our youngest... Sodding waste of time. Let us down twice he did – I won’t tell you what with. I don’t want to embarrass Liz here...’

‘Stop it Harry’ she says quietly, stroking his arm pathetically.

‘I said if you want to do that sort of thing you can do it in someone else’s house, not under my roof. I told him didn’t I...’
‘Yes dear. You did’ she affirms, head bowed, tears beginning to fall, still stroking his arm. No one speaks. We sit and wait to see what comes next.
‘My eldest’s the same’ says Brenda. ‘He used to be such a lovely little boy. I don’t know where he gets it from.’
‘Gets it from the telly I expect’ says Ray, throwing his cards in, picking up his glass. ‘Not like in our day.’
‘Kids at school...’ says Brenda.
‘Fucking disgrace’ says Harry.
‘That’s the trouble with young people’ says Ray. ‘Think they know the lot just because they’ve been to college. I tell them – when you’ve been around as long as I have, then you can tell me how to run things and not before. Bloody out all night then they expect me to put up with them in the morning. It’s my house I tell them. If you don’t like it...’
‘But we used to get up to some tricks Ray, didn’t we’ says Solly, winking at me inexplicably. ‘We had some laughs.’
‘Not like now, all the blokes in makeup and green hair.’
‘We’d have decked them if they’d turned up looking like that.’
(This is weird actually. I’m fairly sure Ray and Solly never knew each other in life. I suppose it was all much the same wherever you went back then – teddy boys, mods and rockers. I might ask them about it another time.)
‘What I don’t get is why they want to fucking look like that. It’s ridiculous. Who’s going to fancy them looking like that, well, except other you-know-whats.’
‘Jamie had a nice girlfriend’ says Liz. ‘You remember Karen don’t you?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Go and do your mascara. You look like shit.’
We sit in silence for quite a while. It occurs to me that one of the reasons I’m not moving is because I want to know what’s going to happen, which surprises me.
Liz comes back and sits down. ‘All I was saying Harry, is that Jamie hadn’t changed that much...’ Harry glares across the table – not specifically at me, just generally. Liz strokes his shoulder ever so gently. ‘He’s still your son.’
Harry stands up explosively. Cards and drinks go everywhere. He holds his hand up as if to slap her but doesn’t for some reason.
‘I said I don’t want to talk about him’ he shouts down at her. ‘You got him admitted, you can deal with it. Right?’
‘But I can’t, not now, can I?’ she says, cowering defiantly.
‘Fucking waste of space’ he says and stomps off. Liz gives him thirty seconds and goes after him. I make my excuses and head out too. I note Lucy and the others are at a table not far away and have been listening. I give them a shrug and carry on to my cabin.
Once there I realise I feel incredibly angry. Why do people let him get away with it? I don’t understand it. And I wonder what happened to Jamie. What was he admitted for? Drugs? Mental illness? Attempted suicide? Being bisexual perhaps? I wouldn’t be surprised. Jamie has my sympathies. He’s better off without his father anyway, wherever he is.
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Joe VIII – The Big Frieze

‘So what happened? Why didn’t you get to college?’
I’ve relaxed a lot with this process now. I sit back and look at the ceiling before attempting an answer. ‘Maybe I had better things to do?’ I suggest.
‘Bullshit’ he offers, levelly and after some consideration. ‘You were scared. Tell me I’m wrong.’
It’s ok. I can take it. I think about it a bit more. ‘Scared of what?’
‘You’re stalling. You know what. At least be honest with yourself.’
‘Ok. Err...’ I stop again. I think he’s partly right but I don’t know what to say about it.
‘Ok’, he says. ‘You were afraid you’d try your hardest and fail. How’s that?’
‘I don’t think so’ I say. I sit and try and work out what it actually felt like to be in that situation. I think about what it was like when I had to try and find a job after I failed my exams – with all those adverts in the paper, all those forms they sent me. I couldn’t imagine what the employers wanted to read about me and anyway I knew what they would think of me even before I started. What was the point? It was just a waste of time.
‘I just couldn’t start – it was too complicated’ I say. ‘I didn’t know where to begin. It was like getting lost... or something like that.’ 
‘You were afraid of getting lost?’ He looks doubtful.
‘I think I’d have been ok if I thought I was heading in roughly in the right direction but it all felt so – I don’t know – muddled, like a big mess I didn’t know how to get through. It actually felt like, if I’d started something, and tried, even reasonably hard, and done ok, or even if I’d failed, it’d’ve been ok, but I couldn’t even start... do you see...what I mean...at all?’
‘Tell me something that feels like that – something you couldn’t start. No, forget that – is there something you did start, failed at and still felt ok with?’
‘That’s easy’ I say. ‘I was in this competition – they wanted a frieze for a doorway at a local community centre. They specified how big it had to be, colours, materials, cost. Only the subject matter was left up to us. I had this big idea for an underwater scene that fitted perfectly – it was down at the harbour, this building, the sea scouts and kayak club were going to use it. It was a bit of a dump but they were going to do it up. Anyway, I think my scheme was a bit dark for them. They wanted something sunny and bright – yachts, sunshine, mer-fucking-maids, whatever, but the sea there isn’t like that, it’s dark and encrusted and oily and rusty, not ugly, you know, but not pretty-pretty. Anyway – I had all that. I was going to use all these layers of colour – to get the depth of water – like glazes... anyway, they didn’t like it. I could see they wouldn’t get it, although – they had this local historian on the panel and he was really into it, really pushing for it, and I could see he really understood it....’
Joe is watching me, half smiling. ‘Go on’ he says.
‘The thing is, I was a bit pissed off, because I knew it was the best, and I knew these other judges were a bit, you know, tra-la-la, happy birds and flowers, but it didn’t matter. I’d done something I knew was good. It just didn’t appeal to them. But I had impressed the person I could respect. 'Course, I’d like to have won, and I could have done with the book tokens, but it was ok. I didn’t have to win. I was satisfied with my work. It was enough. So...’ I smile at the memory. It had been a good experience, frustrating, but good.
And Joe smiles too. ‘Ok. I get it’ he nods and looks at me. ‘So what did your family say?’
I look down at my feet. I’ve stopped wearing shoes. It’s not hot out, but it’s pleasant. I never wore shoes before if I didn’t have to. People were always going on at me “you’ll catch your death” or “you’ll run something through... don’t come running to me” but I never did. I’m not stupid.
‘I don’t think they were very interested really. Amelia liked it.’
‘Didn’t they talk about it? Didn’t you talk about it with them?’
‘I don’t think there’d have been much point.’
‘How old were you when all this happened?’
‘Fifteen, sixteen...’
‘So what did they say about it at school?’
‘It was the art teacher got us started on it – entered us in the competition.’
‘What did he say – she say about it?
‘She – she was cool, but the school wasn’t really very supportive – I think she was going to retire, and they all thought she was a bit weird...’
‘But you liked her?’
‘No, she was weird – probably should have retired ages ago. Hairy legs under her stockings.’ I shudder a little and Joe smiles. ‘I know, I know’ I say. ‘But it was a rough school.’ I feel a little guilty. I know they thought I was a weirdo too. ‘We should have stuck together, us weirdos, huh?’
‘I didn’t say that’ says Joe holding up his hands and feigning innocence, but I know he was thinking it.
‘But your parents didn’t know about this competition? Why not?’
‘They’d have just said something like “won’t get you a proper job”, or “what about your O levels?” They’d have agreed with the vicar.’
‘The vicar?’
‘He was on the panel.’
‘Tra-la-la?’
‘Exactly.’
Joe smiles, and chuckles to himself and shakes his head. I think he’s laughing at me.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Oh...’ he looks around the room, thinking about how to put it. ‘It’s just... You seem very sure of yourself. No no, don’t get me wrong. It’s a good thing.’
He studies me. I watch him.
‘It’s not a criticism – believe me. It’s just, given the rest of your story, you don’t seem to have had many doubts about your abilities, as an artist I mean. And I’ve no doubt your confidence was well-founded. That’s quite interesting don’t you think?’
I’d never really thought about it. It makes me feel quite proud. Joe looks very pleased anyway. Somehow I always knew I could paint. I wonder where that came from?
I also always knew it didn’t mean anything at all about my chances of success. To get on in life it’s more important to please people, say the right things, wear a tie. It has nothing to do with ability. If you want to be a ‘success’ it’s better to be mediocre, predictable, ordinary, inoffensive. Popular in other words.
   
He’s still watching me but now looks uncomfortable. ‘So what about your O levels?’ he says after a pause.
‘I did ok. Passed. It’s not exactly MENSA.’
‘And you went on to do A levels?’
‘Only person in my class to try. Headmaster didn’t like to take risks.’
‘What happened?’
‘Failed. Completely. Couldn’t even get a pass.’

Voyage XIII – Immigrants

Later on, Harry and Liz leave together. There appears to be some sort of quiet row going on between them. Ray and Solly smile knowingly at each other and then conspiratorially at me.
‘Slight marital contretemps I suspect’ he says in a nasal voice.
‘Never pretty’ says Ray, rearranging his latest hand.
‘Better out than in’ says Solly.
‘As the actress said to the bishop’ adds Ray burping. ‘I do beg your pardon’ he says to Brenda. She waves it away with her cigarette hand and looks at her cards.
On the odd occasion that Harry and Liz leave early the mood improves markedly. Brenda never says much usually but she can quite funny. She smokes long black cigarettes and waves them around while she thinks. We play for a while in silence.
‘You shouldn’t pay too much attention to Harry you know lad’ says Ray eventually. This is new, this camaraderie. I’m not used to it. What’s he up to?
‘He’s got a bit of a chip on his shoulder, that’s all.’
‘A bit?’ says Brenda ‘More like a whole fish supper if you ask me.’
‘He’s got a point though, don’t you think?’ says Ray, turning to me. ‘I mean, how would you feel – a whole lot of Pakkies move in next door? Now I’ve got nothing against coloureds. Perfectly fine...’
‘Decent...’ interjects Solly.
Ray nods. ‘Most of them, but...’
‘But’ says Solly, as if he’s made his point.
‘You wouldn’t want the whole lot of them moving in next door. Do you see where I’m coming from?’ I try to look neutral. I remember our neighbours back home. Not exactly shining examples of the British way of life. We’ve got an old lady one side can hardly get herself to the loo and doesn’t see her sons from one week to the next, and the other side is rented out to students and is slowly being allowed to fall apart by the absent landlord. My mum and dad are forever having to go round and help out. 
‘I don’t know really...’ I say vaguely.
‘Think about it’ says Solly. ‘Your average British family these days, it’s not two point four kids any more, more like two if your lucky. Some have three or more, but loads more have one or none at all.’
‘Got to allow for mortality too’ adds Ray.
‘Right, and infertility. Stands to reason. Everybody wants kids but nobody wants a load of them. We’re not replacing ourselves. Got an ageing population is what it is. Meanwhile, Abdul and all his mates are coming over here, families eleven, twelve...’
‘More’ says Brenda. ‘One lot near us had fifteen kids, I swear.’
‘Taking over. Can’t speak a word of English a lot of them either. Good workers mind, but I ask you, what’s this country going to look like in fifty years time?’
‘Well we did go there first’ I suggest without much confidence. ‘I don’t think...’
‘Listen’ says Brenda into my face. ‘Until the East India Company went over and sorted them out they were living in the Stone Age. We did them a favour.’
‘Railways, democracy...’ adds Ray.
‘But maybe that was how they wanted to live’ I mumble. ‘Wasn’t it up to them? I don’t think we had the right to...’ and I can hear this weak, pleading sort of sound in my voice as I say it, and I hate myself for it. Why can’t I just say what I mean, what I believe?
‘Progress. You can’t stop progress’ says Solly.
‘Well...’ I begin, but Brenda cuts me off.
‘Look, you want to live in filth, you live in filth’ she says. She’s suddenly really angry I realise. Is it my fault? I’m not sure.
‘That’s not what I meant really...’ says me, trying to be nice again. God I’m pathetic.
‘I like my comforts’ she says fiercely, in my face ‘and I’ve worked bloody hard for them, and I won’t let anyone...’ she jabs her finger at me ‘tell me...’
‘Let the boy talk Bren’ says Ray ‘Go on lad.’
My mind’s blank. I can’t remember what I wanted to say.
‘What I meant was...’ I say slowly, playing for time, but Solly takes over.
‘Thing is, you’ve got to be realistic. All through history, it’s the primitive have been subjugated by the more technologically advanced. It’s survival of the fittest.’
We leave it there. I shrug and head off. I know they’re wrong.
Later, in bed, I think of all the things I should have said, like, ‘I don’t care if a thousand ‘Pakkies’ do move in next door as long as they’re alright with us. And another thing – I bet the food would be better.’ But I know I never will.
It takes a while for me to get to sleep.
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Journey VII – Caste

Considering the places a lot of the populace seem to tolerate living in I suppose I haven’t done too badly. My little chamber is at least fairly private. Although it has no door, hardly anyone ever finds their way this far through the tunnels so I have the place to myself. Or, rather, we have it to ourselves.

When I was arrested and taken to administration the only question they asked me was what use was I. I didn’t know what they meant at first but then the administrator, a tall, worried looking man in what appeared to be a suit made by someone who had not seen a suit for a very long time, gave me some examples – was I a cook? a leather worker? a musician? I told him I had been a student and hadn’t really had a job before, as such. ‘A student of what?’ he said irritably. I told him art and he tutted and wrote something down on the top sheet of a pile of papers. Then he used a rubber stamp in what I can only describe as a blur of rubber-stamping and I discovered he’d given me a cleaning job.

My job is to sweep and generally remove the clutter from a sector of the lower tunnels running underneath the main chambers. I don’t think there was anything personal about this choice for me. It was simply a matter of giving me whatever was next on the list. The tunnels in question are rather low ceilinged and are close to the main drain where it joins the river that runs under this place. It’s stinky and damp but relatively cool, and the residents are withdrawn to say the least. Nobody much bothers me down there.
In return I get this room and a few coins to spend on food and whatever. My room turns out to be one of the sheds I’d seen set into the hillside as I arrived but it’s more like a second world war bunker, made out of some sort of concrete. I’m told nobody else wanted it because it’s too cold in winter and plants and animals tend to creep in but I don’t mind. I’m used to that sort of thing. Mostly I’m glad of the seclusion and the fact that I can easily climb out onto the surface and look at the view, which is stupendous. Miranda comes and sits with me when we’re sure nobody’s looking and actually it’s quite nice. I like us here like this, sharing a place together. She seems more relaxed now but a little tetchy. Her wounds healed quickly and I’ve erected the tent on the floor of the chamber so she can move about in there without worrying about being seen. I still don’t know what’s going on with her. At first she seemed to think I’d settle here and she could move on and do whatever she had to do. I don’t think she was particularly looking forward to that but she wanted to ‘get it over with’. She seemed surprised at first when I told her there was no way I was going to be stopping here once the spring came. I think she’d assumed I’d be happy to stay anywhere if there were other people around, but after giving it some more thought she could see what I meant. In truth I think she was happy to have an excuse to postpone our parting a bit longer.

Actually, I don’t mind the squashed, lightless, airless feeling of the main chambers either. I like the heat and the stench down there and the noise and the fact that there’s always something going on – maybe a fight or a show, or just somebody slaughtering a goat and dismantling it to sell the parts.
Occasionally a noisy and colourful entourage of people who seem to think themselves very important passes through and everybody does their best to make way although these dignitaries seem to take delight in deliberately veering off into the crowd so that, if they’re not quick enough, people get all their belongings trampled into the floor. I never saw anyone complain openly but quite frequently fights break out afterwards as everyone squabbles over the spoils. Everyone seems to carry a knife or a cudgel of some sort. I stay out of the way as best I can but the carnage sometimes is disturbing. There’s a lot of nasty wounds and sores about too I note, especially in the less salubrious precincts, which is interesting. I wonder how they got them. Fighting maybe.
There don’t seem to be any women about either. I wonder why.

It’s actually a fascinating place but I don’t know how they all tolerate living like this all the time. I have to go outside regularly even if there’s a frost or rain. The old chap in charge of the vegetable plot above my room is friendly enough but doesn’t say much. I share my beers with him sometimes and he offers me his pipe. I take it as I don’t want to be impolite and actually it’s quite nice but Miranda said ‘Don’t even think about taking that up as a hobby’ – like she’s my wife or something. She is funny.

It is an extraordinary place though, the whole settlement I mean. I commented on the amazing feat of tunnelling involved in making it to one of my colleagues (ostensibly my superior) and he told me rather tersely that the whole thing had been built, not tunnelled out. He told me this in a tone of voice that suggested that he thought the idea of hollowing out a hill would have been rather a primitive, vulgar thing to do, whereas erecting this, from scratch... well... I had to admit it was impressive. I asked about the building material and he told me it was all a kind of clay, collected from further up river and fired by building a pyre within each new chamber. Finally he told me that a whole new layer of chambers was going to be added to the western flank in the spring. He then gave me to understand that I should stop asking questions and get on with what I was supposed to be doing. I mused for a while on the structural implications of all that extra weight being added year after year and I wanted to ask how they worked it out and if there had been any major collapses but he was gone. He wouldn’t have been interested anyway probably. Nobody is much interested in talking about anything apparently. I imagine that everyone here must have come the way I did at some time, must have died and crossed the ocean and trailed all the way to this place, to make a settlement and... and then what? What comes next. This can’t be it, can it?
I asked Miranda about it and she asked me what I’d expected eternity to look like. The gardener told me, with some deep satisfaction that ‘Everybody here knows his place. It has always been this way’ and he implied I should not think of rocking the boat, or there would be dire consequences. He looked, on closer inspection (he pulled up his shirt and lifted his hat to show me the scars) as if he’d endured a few consequences himself in his time so I didn’t argue.

Come the spring the word went around that they’d be clearing the area for the new chambers to go in soon. They’d be needing a lot of labour and already, it was said, the more ‘purposeless’ citizens were being rounded up in case they made a run for it. I’d noticed there were a lot less down-and-outs in the usual places. I never found out where they’d been taken but I feared I might be next since I was so near the bottom of the heap, and the newest arrival too. I watched the barges drifting down river, laden with the clay and I couldn’t help notice the increased security on all the exits. It really felt like it might be a good time to move on and Miranda agreed. I looked at the tent. If I took it down someone might notice and would know I was intending to leave. Maybe I should leave it behind I thought. I looked at Miranda who looked back at me and we wondered what to do. I pointed out that surely she could leave whenever she wanted to but she just said no, that wasn’t going to happen and carried on with whatever she was doing.
A few days later a heavily armed ‘functionary’ delivered me a call-up notice.

I should consider myself relatively lucky I suppose. I only had to work part time. They said they needed me to carry on with my normal duties while the construction work went on, but I was told I’d have to get them done in the afternoon because I’d be labouring every morning. Even that didn’t sound too bad – my normal duties were fairly minimal and I was usually finished by early afternoon (Some of the other cleaners seemed to take a very long time indeed over their chores). Nobody ever checked up on me.
Nevertheless, emerging into the early sunshine that first morning on site, the prospect was not encouraging. All over the hillside, people were milling about with spades and picks, baskets and barrows, carting soil from where it was being stripped, onto a gigantic pile to one side, ready to be put back once the work was completed. Allotments and dwellings were being cleared away and the bare superstructure underneath opened up and emptied. In some places it looked as if people had been taken by surprise and not had time to pack their belongings. ‘The purposeless are always getting in the way’ said one of the men in my group, a tall, muscle-bound and intensely grimy man who was obviously used to this sort of thing and rather enjoyed it. ‘They never learn’ he added contemptuously as a small woman in her nightgown stumbled past, clutching a picture and a pot plant and a bundle of clothes to her chest. I learned that the women were all kept hidden in their chambers ‘until required’. I never did find out what they were ‘required’ for. Here and there stood the tall, bulky security men in their black body armour and with their batons at the ready. A cordon of them stood at the perimeter. Clearly nobody was getting out unless they said so.
Finally, after much standing around, a functionary came up and indicated we should head off up the slope. Another man pointed to some baskets and directed us to go further along. Once we were there an obese man in nothing but a pair of shorts but with a big stick in his hand shoved and tugged us into position and then, with a signal, baskets full of soil and rocks and weeds began to be passed along to us, and our empty baskets were passed back to be filled. We did that more or less all morning without a pause. I couldn’t believe it. Why did everyone put up with this? I looked around at the workers on either side of me in the chain with an ironic, disbelieving expression on my face, hoping for a little acknowledgement of the absurdity and injustice of the situation but all I got for my trouble was a sneer and a slap.
When I left early to begin my cleaning shift I was tripped and spat on by some of the others. They didn’t like part-timers.

I put up with this for about a week I suppose. I was sick of being literally pushed around. I didn’t understand why our supervisor had to physically push and pull us about instead of opening his mouth and just speaking to us. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like he was any better than us. He was on the same pay and the same hours. It was just that he’d been given a big stick. Everybody hated him but secretly coveted his job. I just wanted to get out.

On the third day I sustained a deep cut in my hand from a carelessly wielded spade and Miranda bathed and wrapped it for me. I wasn’t allowed to take any time off but already I’d become worried by of the number of injuries that were being inflicted daily up there. Nobody seemed to be being very careful and in fact it often seemed like some of the ‘more experienced’ workers were deliberately taking their frustrations out on the rest of us. And frustrations there were. Without much in the way of shelter or breaks, everybody was short tempered and clumsy by midday. ‘Accidents’ happened all the time and new labourers had to be drafted in continuously. Whilst going about my cleaning duties, patrolling the normally crowded lower tunnels with my barrow and shovel it was obvious that the place was already a lot quieter than usual. I wondered how many inhabitants the colony housed all told. It had to be thousands – tens of thousands. There was no way of telling. I kept my head down and got on with my job.

At the end of the first week (although time was not measured in weeks – it just trailed on and on) I told Miranda I had a plan and she said ‘Oh thank goodness for that.’
There was no time to waste. I collected all our belongings together in my rucksack, keeping her safe in my overall pocket and hid everything in my barrow under a lot of trash and with my broom and shovel on top. I took it down by my usual route to the lower tunnels and stood there beside the river, looking as if I was starting work.
Once my supervisor had wandered off I put the pack on my back, grabbed the shovel and dropped off the edge into the water.
It was as simple as that.
I kept the shovel because I thought I might need a weapon or a tool. I expected at least some sort of guard at the outflow and at least some bars or a grating. If that was the case I wasn’t sure a shovel would be much use but I thought, well, what else have I got? I’d tried to take a pickaxe off site but they made me leave it behind.
As it was there was no guard and no grating. The river flowed, dark and malodorous out into the valley unimpeded and we drifted, underwater (since we didn’t need to breathe) out into the countryside once more.
A little further on, when we were out of sight I hauled us out onto a muddy slope and we sat and looked about for a moment, checking to see if we’d been followed, or if maybe there was a patrol out here or something. Miranda jumped out and pointed out that there were other fresh footprints in the mud. Somebody else had had the same idea apparently. Well good for them. Perhaps we’d meet up with them later on. I felt amazingly elated. It had been so easy. Why hadn’t everyone done the same? And why weren’t any of the guards coming after us? How stupid were these people?
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Voyage XII – White meat

I’m sitting with the bloody Rat Pack again. Ray pulled me, literally, by the elbow over to their table – on the face of it affable, full of bon-homie, full of whiskey (why does alcohol still work on these people? Maybe it’s just the way they are). I know my face betrays my irritation – I have gathered the courage at last to not try to appear pleased to see them, but they don’t notice, or at least, it doesn’t change their behaviour. Harry looks at me with total... What’s the word? I need the noun of ‘to despise’. Despision? Despisity? I like ‘despision’ – it sounds like a cross between suspicion and derision, which is exactly right in this situation. Harry looks at me with total despision. With Ray, the words that spring to mind are obsequious and condescending. Solly I don’t know what to make of, but I know I don’t feel comfortable around him. These days I notice he’s always watching me, like he’s expecting me to do something wrong, like he doesn’t trust me. Actually I get that from all of them to some extent, like there’s something they expect from me and never get. The other day, we’d been sitting around for a while, playing cards, as usual and Harry said ‘Don’t say much do you.’
Obviously I didn’t reply. He looked at me, apparently waiting.
‘Doesn’t say much does he’ he said to Ray, as if I couldn’t hear him. Uncle Len used to say that to me – ‘Not got much to say for yourself have you.’

Anyway today I am going to try to work out why they are so keen to have me around. I don’t think it’s sexual, whatever Joe says, but it is a bit sleazy. It makes me squirm, and it disturbs the other people around us. What is it?
Just after that last session with Joe I actually came out with it and asked them, straight up, why they want me along and Solly’s face just changed completely. I’ve always felt that, of all of them, he was the one I could talk to, if it came to it. But he put his face right up to mine – he’s quite a bit shorter than me – I hadn’t noticed before, and says ‘Nobody’s forcing you.’ and he looks really angry, jutting his jaw and clenching his teeth. He breaths it in my face, through his teeth. ‘Nobody’s forcing you son’ he says and then steps back, still tense, like he’s ready for a fight. I say nothing. I’m shocked. Ray breaks the tension with a jovial hug ‘Don’t be daft son’ he says. ‘We like you. You make us laugh, doesn’t he Sol...’ and Solly’s face just as suddenly goes back to being his usual cheeky self. Ray puts his arm around my shoulder and steers me back to ‘our favourite table’ and orders champagne, like we’ve got something to celebrate. For a moment I’m flattered – they like having me around. You can’t believe how stupid happy that makes me, but not for long. Soon I sit and wait for it all to change again.

What was that about? I ask myself later. Nobody is forcing me, it’s true. Once again, as usual, it’s because I don’t want to make a scene, don’t want to cause a fuss or embarrass anybody. Ok, that’s not very manly of me, but the fact is, they might well make a scene, it’s quite likely, or who knows what they’d do. They might do anything. They scare me. What they might do scares me. We’re all stuck here on this boat together for I don’t know how long, and I can’t hide in my room the whole voyage. So I go along with it, for a quiet er... after life.

So today I’ll try to work out what’s going on. I’ve never done this before – never tried to think about why other people behave the way they do, or myself for that matter, but since I’ve been going to Joe, well, it’s interesting - human behaviour. Normally, when things got weird before I’d just retreat to my room, go do something on my own. Can’t do that here can I?
I get myself a glass of bubbly – I rather enjoyed it that last time, never had it before.
‘Oh God look at it’ says Harry when he sees my glass, and slaps his cards face down on the table and leans back. ‘Will you have a word with him?’ he says to Liz. He’s using his jolly man-about-town face today. Liz demurs.
‘It’s what he wanted’ says Sol, winking at me. Harry picks his cards up again and begins sorting them. ‘Might as well deal him in’ he says, indicating me, and Ray shuffles and deals.
‘Fucking wogs’ll ruin everything anyway’ says Harry to his cards. I start at the word, but nobody else reacts. I think I missed the first part of the conversation.
‘Well, like I said’ says Solly ‘they’re making a rod for their own backs, fucking Nelson wotsisname. They deserve everything they get.’ and lays his cards down. Everybody huffs and tuts and throws their hands in. Solly picks up all the bottle tops. I put my cards in the pile too. I don’t even know what they were. ‘Your deal’ says Ray to me, chewing his matchstick as usual. Who does he think he is? I take a moment to register. ‘Me?’ I say. Ray passes the deck to me, deliberately roughly, so I drop some.
I pick them up and shuffle them. It’s something I actually can do quite well because I used to do card tricks. This skill, I think, pisses them off more than my incompetence. At any rate, after a few sarcastic comments the first time, they ignore it. I try not to do anything flash, but it’s a habit.
‘Doreen’s their house keeper anyway’ continues Solly. ‘Says this way everybody’s happy.’
‘Course she’s happy. Knows her place.’ says Harry, nodding.
‘She don’t want change. Mol treats them very fair. More than she should, truth be told, but she’s always been like that.’
‘Too soft?’
‘Soft as a brush, but, well, decent, I’d say.’
Harry looks at him sceptically, a little cruelly maybe. I still don’t really know what they’re talking about. He shakes his head and studies his hand.
‘Could happen though’ adds Ray. ‘Look at India.’
‘And what a fucking balls up they made of that’ says Harry. ‘Now look what we’ve got’ and he turns to me, leaning far too close again. ‘I’m from fucking Croydon me, born and bred. Now look at it.’
I haven’t been to Croydon. I don’t know what he means. Am I stupid? I don’t know. Should I understand? What do they mean?
‘What are you looking at?’ he says suddenly to me and shakes his head exasperatedly. ‘What have you got?’ he says impatiently. I look blank. I don’t know what he means. He tips my cards ‘Your cards. What have you got in your hand? Gawd luvvus. Are you with us for fuck’s sake?’
I try to concentrate. I sort my hand, although he must have seen it. I have nothing. ‘I don’t really know Croydon’ I say, randomly rearranging my hand ‘What’s happened to it?’
He looks at me and smiles oddly. ‘I expect your sort’d like it’ he says. ‘Shh’ says Liz and pats his arm weakly.
‘Don’t you shh me. The boy doesn’t know. I’m telling him.’ Liz looks doubtful but accepts it. She can’t do anything anyway. Useless cow. Suddenly I hate her more than any of them, for being so weak, after what he did...
‘Do you eat white meat?’ Says Harry suddenly, his little blue eyes sparking at me from deep among the folds of his raw, bristly skin.
‘What?’
‘Simple question lad’ he says. ‘Do you, or do you not eat white meat?’ Solly smirks. Ray doesn’t react. Liz appears to be weeping a little. Brenda is looking at her cards.
‘What, like pork or chicken?’
‘Of course. What did you think I meant?’
‘Sometimes...’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Leave the boy alone Harry’ says Ray. ‘Lets play. Your turn’ he says to Liz and the game continues. I am completely baffled.

Joe VII – Hawkeye

‘MASH!’ says Joe as he enters, making me jump a little. ‘My favourite. How is Miss Hotlips anyway? Have you spoken to her much?’
I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about Lucy just yet, and she’s all I want to talk about.
‘Oh... Ok. So, what was it about MASH that you particularly liked?’
I sit and think for a while. My mind is blank. Why does he want me to talk about MASH? Was it something he learned in counselling classes or something? I don’t want to talk about MASH. I want to talk about Lucy. Why on earth did I tell him I didn’t?
‘Erm... I don’t know’ I begin vaguely. He gives me that look. ‘I mean it. I can’t think...’
‘Take your time...’
I sit and think for quite a while. Lucy comes into my mind – I can’t get rid of her. She’s nothing like bloody Hotlips. Hotlips was sort of thick, and she was with that stupid guy – what’s his name?  Major Burns. I really didn’t like him. Lucy does have nice lips though. There’s just the faintest trace of a moustache along her top lip – just a very fine shading. You’d think that would be fairly off-putting but somehow it just makes her even sexier.
‘What are you thinking?’ he prompts.
‘Major Burns and Hotlips’ I say, fairly hurriedly. ‘Why did she like him so much? He was a complete wanker.’
‘I don’t know.’ He thinks about it for a while with me. ‘Do you think it was bad writing – unrealistic – that a woman like her would be interested in a man like him?’
I consider it – it doesn’t seem unrealistic now I come to think about it.
‘I don’t really understand what women see in men to be honest’ I say. ‘I always think they just sort of tolerate us.’
‘That’s fairly harsh’ he says. ‘You don’t think much of men then?’
‘Well, look at them...’
‘Who exactly are we talking about? Me? You?’
‘No. I don’t know. No, not you, not a lot of men I suppose. Some men.’
‘Ray and Harry?’ he suggests. I nod. Absolutely. ‘Women seem to really like men like Ray. I have no idea why.’
‘What about Hawkeye Pearce?’ he says, grinning at me. ‘What about Trapper – what about Radar?’
I have to grin. I remember them. They feel like old friends. ‘What about Klinger?’ I say and we both nod and laugh.
‘It’s weird,’ I continue ‘because they were in the middle of a war, and there was all blood and guts, and yet...’
‘And yet?’
‘They were together. It felt like they were really close.’
‘Like a family?’ he suggests.
I pointedly ignore that. ‘They were all in it together’ I say.
‘You feel like you’d have been comfortable with them there?’
‘Maybe. Apart for all the shelling and so on.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Oh I don’t know though. Maybe not. Usually, sooner or later. I suppose... I make people feel...’ I cast around for the right word.
‘Uncomfortable?’ he says.
I nod. ‘Sort of’ I say. ‘They feel...’ I shrug. I can’t think of the word – pissed off? embarrassed? frustrated? ‘Awkward’ I say finally. ‘Not relaxed anyway, with me around.’ I sit and look into space for a while. I know it’d be exactly the same as it always is. And there’d be nowhere to go. I’d be trapped with them, at MASH 4077.
‘I always wanted to be like Hawkeye’ I say after a while ‘you know, sort of cool and witty, and sarcastic, but not nasty – d’you know what I mean?’
‘I preferred BJ’ he says.
‘Excuse me?’
‘B.J. Honeycut. You remember – I’m not sure if he replaced Trapper or Trapper replaced him. They were both cute’ he muses. ‘But enough about me - tell me more about why you liked Hawkeye.’
I think about it a bit more. ‘Women liked him’ I say. ‘He always had women around.’
‘He rather used them though didn’t he?’
I feel slightly affronted. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, different nurse every night – BJ wasn’t like that.’
‘Maybe he had something going on with Radar.’
‘No, Radar had a thing with the colonel. Definitely. I think maybe BJ just went with out the helicopter boys.’
‘I think – getting back to the subject (ahem) – I wanted to be Hawkeye because he was in the middle of everything – everybody liked him, or respected him anyhow, but he didn’t try too hard – he didn’t try to impress anyone. In fact he just said what he thought didn’t he – people respected him for that – even if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear – he got away with it. I guess he was a good surgeon too, which helped...’
‘Plus he had the war to be sarcastic about, which everybody agreed...’
‘Do you remember the episode where he’s cracking up and he remembers seeing a Korean woman kill a chicken to keep it quiet so the enemy won’t hear it? They were on a wrecked bus – but it turns out it wasn’t a chicken, it was actually her baby she smothered, and that’s why he’s so messed up.’
‘I remember that episode.’ He nods slowly. We take a moment to think about that.
‘But they all still looked after him when he got back’ I say, ‘and helped him, even though he was seriously losing it, even though he was a real mess...’
Joe looks at me for a while – frowning a little. ‘Well of course. Why wouldn’t they?’ he says.
‘I don’t know’ I shrug. But I do know and it makes me feel very sorry for myself. I can’t imagine what that’s like – to have people care that much, to try that hard. They’d have just told me to pull myself together and got on with what they were doing.
But I wasn’t in a war. I didn’t see a woman smother her baby so the enemy wouldn’t catch her and rape her. All that happened to me was I couldn’t keep up at school and I got dumped. Boohoo. Poor old me.
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Voyage XI – Jamming

I’ve started to hang out with Lucy and that lot more. It took a while before I got the nerve to ask if I could sit down with them. It was like a school kid wanting to sit with the seniors. When I finally did, Matt and Damian were really cool about it and Lucy didn’t object, even though I can’t stop looking at her boobs and she keeps having to tell me off for it.

We tend to hang out in the forward lounge – there’s a lot of big sofas there, or up on deck, on the deck chairs. The weather is a lot brighter now, but still a bit fresh for sun bathing if you ask me. Damian is really skinny and pale, but he takes his shirt off and lies there with his sunglasses on nevertheless. I did him in charcoal a while back and Lucy thought it was hilarious – black spikes, white forehead, black shades, white nose, black choker, white ribs, black drainpipes, white ankles, black plimsolls. I don’t think it’s possible to get a tan here. You either have one or you don’t. You don’t have to cut your hair or trim your nails either
I talk quite a lot more with Lucy. She seems impressed that I know who George Elliot and Nina Simone were. We discuss all sorts of things – university, feminism, travel, and sex. We talk a lot about sex. My whole sex education has been my Dad’s Mayfairs and there’s quite a lot they don’t cover. She told me about the clitoris and the female orgasm. She even drew diagrams. I think I’m obsessed with sex, which is funny for a person who is still a virgin at nearly nineteen. All I could think was how I wanted to have a practice on her, and it almost seemed like it might be worth asking but I didn’t. I’d heard of oral sex but I’d never realised what we were aiming for, if you see what I mean, or that there was a thing, exactly, to aim for. I guess I thought you just sort of, I don’t know, licked it, generally.
I think I really envy women now because they have all these different sorts of orgasms that can apparently go on for hours and we just have this one quick spurt and that’s it.
‘A man is just totally fixated on his penis’ she said. ‘All he wants is to get in there as quickly as possible and...’ (She makes this rhythmical grunting noise in my ear – ‘Uh uh uh uh...’ over and over until it’s really beginning to bother me. ‘That’s what it’s like’ she says eventually) ‘and then it’s all over and you’re left with the washing up, as usual. Or, which is worse, you get a guy who thinks he knows all about foreplay, but he just thinks it’s about going on and on and on until you’re both rubbed raw and wondering what's on the telly. You men – it’s just like you haven’t got a clue.’

She’s right, I haven’t. I don’t even really know what foreplay is but I don’t like to ask.
One of her favourite topics is pornography (It’s one of mine too, but in a different way and I keep quiet). The way she talks about it though it’s as if it’s nothing but violence, like it’s all under-age girls being forced to have horrible things done to them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that. Well there was that one thing I found in the lorry park. That was horrible, so I do know it goes on. I suppose it never occurred to me to wonder who all these women are, having their photos taken, or how they feel about it. Most of them just look bored to be honest – just smiling woodenly for the camera and holding their vaginas open. It’s pretty crass. But then sometimes, the ones I like, they look like they’re normal women having a laugh, or maybe even actually enjoying it. I don’t know. I can’t believe they all hate what they do. They must be bloody good actresses. Lucy says you can tell it’s really all about child pornography because they force the women to shave but I always thought that was just because you could see everything better. And anyway pubic hair can be a bit off-putting. I never liked mine. I used to shave it off sometimes and then the stubble got bad so I didn’t do it any more. I know for a fact she can’t stand men with beards anyway so she can’t talk. Maybe she likes young boys, which would be good news for me.

Another time I remember having this heated debate with her about breasts, because she’d noticed me looking – again. Well, hers were quite hard to miss to be honest. I’d find my eyes homing in on them in the middle of a conversation and it was very off-putting. All the blokes commented. She wore these tight, low cut tops too, which didn’t help.
‘My god! What is it with you people?’ she said, amazed, aggrieved and amused at the same time. ‘It’s just a pair of breasts for god’s sake. Men! You’re just like children, just transfixed...’
I looked at my book, embarrassed. We were in the lounge. People were listening. She was talking quite loud.
‘What is it? Tell me, what is so fascinating? They’re just big blobs of fat for feeding babies. Look’ she said and took hold of them and wobbled them about in my face. ‘Fat’ she said again, grinning. She evidently thought it was amusing, making me embarrassed.
I gave my usual considered opinion, that is, I shrugged and said ‘I don’t know.’
‘Look at them’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Look. Get an eye full’ and she pulled her shoulders back and thrust them at me. I still thought they were fantastic.
‘Tell me what you're thinking’ she said, challengingly.
I was struggling to say anything at all. ‘I just...’ and I tailed off, shrugging again. I looked around. Nobody was overtly listening but I knew they could hear.
‘I don’t know why I like them. I just...’ I said finally.
‘Doesn’t it bother you that you’re just automatically adopting this crass stereotypical male behaviour? (She does a thick voice) “Ooh, look, there’s some tits” you say to yourself. “This woman is clearly in need of some ogling.”’
‘I’d never say anything like that.’
She pauses and looks away. She’s taking time to think.
‘Ok. You see a woman in the street and you don’t know anything about her, except she’s got these huge breasts. So obviously you’re interested, but you don’t think “Maybe she’s got a Phd in psychology – I’d love to go and talk to her.” do you?’
‘Well I can’t tell if she’s got a Phd in psychology just by looking at her can I? And any way, I wouldn’t fancy her just because she has big boobs.’
‘No?’ she looks sceptical ‘What else?’
‘Eyes?’ I say, without much conviction.
‘Oh give me strength. You want me to believe that? I’ve never met a man who’s attention extended anywhere above the neck for longer than it takes to – I don’t know – light a cigarette.’
I’m silenced again. But I do like women's eyes. Always have. I loved Camille's eyes. They were a gorgeous olive green colour and they really sparkled. Lucy’s eyes are lovely too but it’s hard to ignore that cleavage for long. In all the excitement her breasts seem to have swelled even more than usual.
‘I do like eyes’ I say, finally, quietly, ‘and hair. I love long hair.’ She appraises me suspiciously, ‘and she wouldn’t need to have big breasts, necessarily, just... nice breasts.’
‘What about no breasts?’
I think about that. ‘Not really.’
‘So you would dismiss a woman completely on the grounds of being flat-chested, no matter what else she may have to offer?’
Actually I think I might. It’s a bit too masculine or something. It’s just sort of weird.

‘I don’t think it’s like that really’ I say after a while.
‘What isn’t?’
‘Attraction. It’s not just about physical stuff. It’s the whole look of her. I don’t know – it’s like the way she dresses or the way she moves. Subtle things. Like the expression on her face...’ I go off into a bit of a dream, thinking how that feels, to see a woman like that.
‘You’re still just working out how to get into her knickers Gabriel’ says Lucy, laughing sarcastically.
I study her face as she shakes her head and goes back to her book. My feelings for her shift slightly. Sometimes she’s not very attractive at all.
‘So why bother to ask me at all if you’re not going to believe me?’
She turns her head and looks hard at me. ‘I thought you’d at least be honest about it’ she says.
‘I am being honest’ I say. She goes back to her book, still smiling slightly. Why is she being like this? What can I say to convince her?
‘We could be friends’ I suggest hopefully. ‘I wouldn’t just dismiss her completely. I just might not want to have sex with her.’
‘I don’t think men and women can be “just friends”‘ she says, which seems a bit sad. ‘There’s always something else.’
‘But if he doesn’t fancy her at all...’
‘Still. There’s always something, sooner or later. Trust me.’ and she looks a little sad. I didn’t really fully realise until much later that she was talking about herself, about her life, about how men had looked at her – her and her breasts and how they’d never really wanted to be “just friends” with her. No, I didn’t realise this until I was at the retreat, but I got my first inkling of it at this moment. She wore her breasts like that, as a challenge – gawp if you dare, fantasise at your peril.
‘I just like looking at breasts. I don’t know why’ I said finally, not looking at her. ‘I mean, why do people like looking at flowers? It doesn't have to be logical.’

Anyway she seems to like my work – I showed her some of my pictures and she seemed really interested. I want to do one of her soon. She said she’ll pose nude for me... I think she said that. Probably she was having me on. Anyway, a few days ago we were all sitting around talking about what we’d do different next time – it’s a common subject with us. Nobody else I’ve met seems to want to talk much about their past life or their next, just stay in the present, but Damian especially can’t shut up about it. He’s got this idea about getting a punk band together by 1974 so he can “be there” when it starts. He wants to call them The Sex Objects. We all think that’s very funny, all except Lucy that is.
He’s a good musician too. He does these really funny rip-offs of old Sabbath and Zeppelin numbers on his guitar, like using the sound but faster and furious-er. It’s ridiculous and really cool at the same time. I asked him if he could do Purple Haze but nobody messes with Hendrix apparently. I think he was impressed by the fact that I knew about Hendrix at all.
Anyhow, I was saying that next time, I would try to lose my virginity a bit sooner, and Lucy just looked coldly at me. Damian said he’d want to fuck a lot more women next time. Lucy said to me ‘What else?’
‘Go to more parties, and gigs’ I said, doubtfully.
‘But you’ll still be the same person’ she said, as if that was a real problem.
‘Yeah, you gotta handle it different next time man’ said Marcus, another guy who was hanging out with us. ‘I mean, you can’t just be your same wimpy self all over again, you know what I mean? Women want you to stand up, make a move for yourself man, not all this hiding in the back.’
‘You’d think some girls would go for such a quiet, sensitive chap as yourself, wouldn’t you Gabriel?’ says Lucy looking at me. I don’t know if she means it but I love the way she says my name, curving her lips around the ‘B’.
‘Nah, that’s crap’ says Damian ‘except for your “Mad Bitch” of course. They’re always on the lookout for the confused and vulnerable.’
‘Damian, you’re a disgrace’ says Lucy sexily.
‘Well if all else fails, your mad bitch’s a distinct possibility. She’s a bit desperate, grateful for whatever’s going, willing to do the leg work...’ Everyone laughs. ‘I mean, she’s the one’ll get off her arse and come to grab you – none of this you plucking up the courage shit – she’ll nag you onto the dance floor and bingo, you’ve scored.’
‘Plus you’ll be up all night with her. She really goes, your average mad bitch...’
‘On the other hand she’ll literally have your nuts nailed to the bed if you try to make a run for it.’
‘Literally?’ says Lucy.
‘Literally. These are not my original pair. These are in fact made of pure new wool. My mum knitted them for me.’
‘I’ll take your word for it’ she says, pouting at him. I sometimes think something’s going on between them. I don’t know. Sometimes, she looks at me, I feel so amazingly light and free. Other times, I just want to drop into the ocean and sink.
‘You should learn to play guitar – be in a band. That’s always a good one’ says Matt. Damian looks doubtful.
‘I might get a car next time’ I say, although I can’t imagine how. I’d have to fork out for lessons first.
‘Nah.’ says Matt. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. You just end up giving everyone else a lift everywhere, so you end up not drinking...’
‘You could smoke.’
‘You could, if you’re a wanker.’ Everyone looks a bit awkward, recalling too late that Matt was killed by an intoxicated driver.
‘Just saying...’
‘I don’t think it’s about what you have’ says Lucy finally. ‘If you want to know the one thing that a woman wants? – every time? – it’s a man who knows who he is and feels good about it.’
‘That’s cobblers’ says Damian ‘I fucking hated myself half the time – and I got plenty.’
‘Yeah, but your self-loathing was kind of like an art form – you really went for it – you did believe in yourself in a way’ observes Matt.
‘I believed in being bad news’ says Damian, nodding deeply.
‘You did. And a woman appreciates that in a man’ says Matt.
‘Some women’ says Lucy
‘Younger women’ says Damian, gleefully.
‘Masochistic women’ says Lucy.
‘Exactly’ agrees Damian ‘Same difference...’
‘Gabe’s not mean enough’ observes Marcus. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’
‘I’ll bet he’s not’ says Lucy, turning to face me. ‘I bet he could be a right bastard if he wanted to, if he had the motivation. If he had the nerve...’
I don’t know what it is – sometimes the way she looks at me. What is she thinking? Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing to her. Sometimes I feel like she wants me – both at the same time.
I look at her. The conversation among them heads elsewhere but I saw her wink at me, I swear.
Sitting beside me I can see her shoulder exposed, soft and milky where her top has slipped, then a smooth curve between her armpit and the start of her breast. The fabric hangs away from them and I can see where the curve goes down, concave to convex. I look up, as if surfacing from a deep dive and register the faces – did anyone see me looking? I can’t tell.
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