The Bird Room Page 9

  I want to tell her about the things I’ve put on eBay.

  It doesn’t seem like the right time.

  The hand moves to my crotch. It massages my crotch. It unbuckles my belt. It unzips my jeans. I can’t look her in the eyes. I look at the top of her head instead, as it lowers towards my lap. I put one of my hands on her head. I don’t know what to do with the hand so I just sort of rest it there on top of her head. She tugs at my jeans. I lift myself off the sofa, so she can pull my jeans and boxers down over my knees. My penis is limp. It looks very small. We both look down at it. I’ve not had an erection now in over a week, maybe two. Not since I lost the note.

  She puts my penis in her mouth.

  I try to imagine I’m watching this on the computer, that this is a free preview clip I’ve downloaded from some amateur ex-girlfriend site.

  I feel nothing.

  She takes my penis out of her mouth.

  It’s still small. Small and wet and cold.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she says.

  A tear is crawling down her face.

  ‘I want you to ignore me,’ I say. ‘I want you to ignore me completely.’

  The tear stops moving. It freezes halfway down her cheek.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, and a sheet of something falls heavily and definitely between us.

  The alarm wakes us up as usual. 8.15. Alice reaches across me to turn it off. Her arm manages not to touch me as she does this. She sits up and brushes hair from her face.

  ‘Are you still ignoring me?’ I say.

  She licks something from the corner of her mouth and breathes in deeply. She’s still half-asleep. Light from the window is tangling in her hair.

  She’s not looked at me yet.

  She’s looked in my direction, but not at me.

  ‘Well?’ I say. My voice sounds like a piece of wet string.

  She lifts herself out of bed and walks to the wardrobe. There’s a small blue bruise on the back of her thigh in the shape of a horse’s head. She opens the wardrobe and takes out some clothes. I watch the bruise disappear beneath her grey work skirt. She unbuttons the shirt she sleeps in and throws it onto the bed.

  The warm sleepy smell of her comes from it. It comes out of the shirt and upwards towards my nose, but doesn’t go into my nostrils.

  Even the smell of her is ignoring me.

  She fastens her bra and buttons up her work blouse.

  She goes into the bathroom and turns on the tap. She brushes her teeth and spits in the sink. She goes downstairs and finds her keys. She opens the front door, then closes it.

  I lie in bed a long time, staying on my side of it, making sure I don’t touch the pillow she’s been sleeping on.

  I get up and put on my dressing gown.

  I have a piss.

  I go into the empty spare bedroom and turn on the computer. No new emails. I look at the things I’m selling on eBay; three bidders for the lamp, seventeen for the guitar and some of the CDs have sold. Then I download porn; any clip I can find with the description ‘amateur British girlfriend’. None of them is her. With each new clip I watch, it feels like something inside my brain is being sanded away. I check my emails again. Still nothing. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. I check my spam mail: ‘You have 400 new messages.’

  Two hundred for penis enlargement.

  One hundred and ninety nine for Viagra.

  One for discount golfing equipment.

  I think of Barry and all those other old blokes down the pub. I wonder if they still have that scam going with dodgy knock-off Viagra. The first time I met Barry, he tried to sell me some ‘Vs’ in the pub toilet. I said I was alright. He said if I ever changed my mind I should give him a call and stuck a stained little business card in my pocket:

  Barry Turner – Garden Solutions

  ‘Planting, mowing and everything in between.’

  (tel:) 0779 664 6645

  I go into the bedroom. I take my jeans off the back of the chair and empty the contents of my wallet onto the dresser table. Will may have that note she wrote me, but Barry’s card is exactly where I left it.

  Friday night. Her long black coat is gone from the hook. She’s out. She’s at Will’s. She’s not coming home. Three in the morning. I’m lying on the floor in the hall by the front door like a rug. She’ll have to step on me when she gets in. She will wipe her feet on me.

  I watched her get ready. I stood behind her as she put on her make-up in the bathroom mirror. I followed her into the bedroom and watched her open the wardrobe and take out three different dresses, all black. She held them up against her body and swayed from side to side, watching herself in the dresser mirror. She chose the shortest one. She put on a pair of earrings, sprayed herself with perfume and used straightening irons on her hair. It took her an hour and a half. She listened to Erasure and then to Prince. She sang along. ‘I wanna be your lover.’

  I sat on the bed and watched her get ready. I didn’t say anything.

  Now I’m lying on the floor in the hall, watching the crack under the front door, waiting for it to turn from black to blue or for Alice to come in and find me, whichever comes first.

  I won’t fall asleep, I tell myself.

  When I wake up there’s a free newspaper lying on my leg. The crack is letting in bright white sunlight. It hurts my eyes.

  I squint at the coat rack.

  Her coat is hanging from the hook.

  Her boots are back by the door.

  She’s in the shower. I can hear her. She’s singing.

  There’s this group of lads that hang around the top of our street once it gets dark. I used to pass them on my way home from work. They sit on the wall and smoke fags and swig from big blue bottles of cider. They’re terrifying. They watch you walk past and think about the different ways they could mug you.

  I’m on my way to the post office. I have to post our toaster to a man in Cardiff. The hat stand in the corner of the living room is now up to seventeen bids on eBay. The coffee table is at twenty-four. I’ve not sold my granddad’s watch yet, even though it’s the most expensive thing I own. It’s a last resort. I imagine selling the watch on eBay and making maybe six hundred pounds and then my parents coming round on a surprise visit. They come round on the anniversary of my granddad’s death. We talk about my granddad and then they ask to see the watch. They sit in the living room as I go upstairs and pretend to look for it, forever.

  The lads watch me walk past. They eye up the parcel under my arm.

  Alice was out again last night. She’s begun to smell different, of roll-ups and aftershave. She’s begun singing different songs in the shower, too; ones I haven’t heard.

  ‘Alright, mate,’ says one of the lads.

  ‘Fucking pansy,’ says another.

  They jeer and shout as I scurry off down the street, and I feel something small and hard ping off the back of my head, a stone or a bottle top.

  Being ignored was a bad idea. It hasn’t helped. I feel worse. I feel redundant. I’m beginning to wonder if I still exist.

  I want to do something dramatic.

  I want Alice to see me again.

  I want none of this to have happened.

  Speaking doesn’t work.

  Maybe I’ll get a tattoo on my face, of the words I LOVE YOU and I’M SORRY.

  At the post office, cashier number four is bored and glassy-eyed. I put my parcel on the scales and ask for second-class postage to Cardiff. Cashier number four doesn’t speak. I have to look over at the till display to find out the price.

  I’ve not spoken to anyone in over a week. My tongue is the colour of something rusting.

  I put the correct amount down on the counter. The cashier takes the money. He prints out a label and sticks it to my parcel. He presses a button and a computer voice says, ‘Next customer to cashier number four, please.’

  According to my receipt it’s just gone five. Alice should be home f
rom work soon, unless she’s out again with Will.

  If the lads are still there on the way back, I’m going to say something offensive to them. I’m going to take their big blue bottle of cider and throw it into the street.

  The lads will beat me up. They will kick my fucking face in. They’ll stamp on my knees and boot me in the ribs and leave me lying on the pavement with my face swollen and bloody and some of my teeth missing.

  I will pick myself up and hobble home. Alice will be in the kitchen eating dinner. She’ll look over at me when I come in, her fork frozen inches from her mouth.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ she’ll say, her mouth opening wider and the fork falling onto her plate. ‘Oh, my god. You poor darling. What happened?’

  She’ll stand up and come towards me.

  She’ll reach out her hands to stroke my face softly and carefully.

  Then she will begin to cry.

  * * *

  The lads are still sat on the wall on my way back, passing the bottle of cider between them and smoking fags. They have their hoods up. It’s spotting with rain.

  When I get close to them I stop.

  They look at me.

  ‘What do you want?’ one of them says, putting the bottle down on the wall.

  ‘Yeah?’ says another.

  ‘Do you want to bum us, mate?’ says a third.

  I reach for the bottle of cider.

  ‘Oi!’ says one of the lads.

  He jumps down from the wall and pushes me backwards. Something jars sharply in my spine. I feel scared. I turn and run, hearing the sound of the lads clattering down the street behind me.

  ‘Fucking get him!’ one of them shouts.

  ‘Yeah!’ shout the others.

  I outrun them. I am propelled down the street by the fear of getting hit.

  I reach my door and fumble with the key. I get it open, slam it behind me and peer out through the spyhole. The lads are gathering at the end of the path. They don’t know what to do. A couple of them spit at the house and throw empty cans and stick up their fingers. It’s raining heavily now. After a while they drift away.

  Alice is in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cornflakes for dinner. I sit down opposite.

  ‘I almost got beaten up by those lads at the end of our street,’ I say.

  She lifts a spoonful of cornflakes up to her mouth.

  ‘I just posted our toaster to a man in Cardiff,’ I say.

  She lifts another spoonful of cornflakes up to her mouth.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if I still exist,’ I say.

  I get up and go into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. I bare my teeth. I stick out my tongue. I put my hands on top of my head. I’ve not had a proper conversation with anyone now in over a week.

  I open the phonebook in the hall and dial a number.

  ‘Good evening, Dixons,’ says the voice on the other end, clear and professional.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking about buying a widescreen TV. I was wondering which one you’d recommend …’

  The voice begins to list widescreen TVs. It tells me about their various merits and prices.

  I listen for a while. Then, very softly, I rest the receiver on the phone table and walk away.

  She’s put candles on the table. Two placemats are arranged, next to two knives, two forks, two soup-spoons. She’s tied up her hair. She’s put on a necklace. She’s wearing the short black dress again. The oven is humming. The smell of meat and sauces comes from it. A pan of home-made soup simmers on the stove. Alice skitters from the table to the oven, then over to the fridge. She takes out a bottle of red wine. This is how they do it in the London bars, she’s heard him say. They refrigerate it.

  She puts the bottle on the table and adjusts the wine glasses next to it.

  She’s not wearing a bra.

  She seems nervous and excited.

  I’m not dressed for the occasion. I’m not wearing any socks. I have day-old ketchup down the front of my shirt.

  She lights the candles and turns off the light. Then she stands back and smiles to herself.

  She is blowing out the candles and turning the light back on when the doorbell rings.

  She runs to answer it.

  ‘Come in,’ I hear her say.

  Then Will’s voice. ‘You look great.’

  The door closes. She is taking his coat and hanging it up. Will is kicking off his shoes. A sound like a kiss.

  I look at the pan of soup on the hob. I could pour it down the sink. I could take out whatever’s cooking in the oven and boot it into the yard. I could pour the bottle of wine over my head and stick the candles up my nose and drop the glasses on the floor.

  ‘Come through,’ she says, leading him up the hall. ‘Sorry about the mess. I’m a bit disorganised. Oh, wait here …’

  She runs through and lights the candles, then turns off the light.

  ‘Okay,’ she calls. ‘Ready.’

  Will has to duck to get through the doorway. He sees me straight away. He gives me a weak surprised smile then looks down at his shoes.

  ‘Alright, mate,’ he mumbles. ‘Didn’t know you were …’

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Alice says. ‘It’s almost ready.’

  Will takes the space facing the oven. He watches her back as she pours soup into our two fanciest bowls. Then he looks over at me, fiddling with the stem of his glass.

  ‘So,’ he says.

  ‘It’s carrot and red pepper,’ she says, putting the bowls of soup on the table. ‘Wine?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, taking the bottle and pouring it.

  I sit down at the empty end of the table.

  ‘Are you … erm …’ says Will in my direction.

  ‘Right,’ she says, scraping her chair as she sits down. Then she smiles at him. ‘I’m so glad you came over.’

  I feel something cold brush my leg. I shuffle back in my seat and look at it under the table. It’s her foot. She’s placed it on top of Will’s foot.

  ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ says Will. He’s relaxing a bit. He’s cocking his head and grinning at her.

  I stand up quickly. My chair falls over.

  I go into the living room and turn on the telly.

  I sit down on the sofa and flick through the channels.

  They laugh at something.

  I turn up the volume.

  They laugh again. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  I turn off the TV.

  I go through and take my place at the table, picking up my chair and sitting in it.

  ‘Nice, um, soup,’ says Will, eyeing me.

  His brow is furrowed.

  His hands look big and stupid.

  I take the wine bottle from the table and pour the remaining third over my head.

  Alice starts clearing the bowls away and then serves the main course. It’s chicken. She’s using my favourite plates; my ones from uni with the paintings of Italy on them.

  ‘Those are my plates,’ I say when she puts them on the table.

  ‘They’re nice plates,’ says Will, uncovering some of the design with his fork. ‘Italy,’ he says, nodding at it.

  ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Start.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, looking over at me again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she says. ‘Don’t you like chicken?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he says. ‘It’s just …’ He nods my way.

  ‘It’s what?’ she says sharply, her face souring.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says and lifts a forkful to his mouth.

  They begin to eat. Will compliments her on her cooking. She reaches over and puts her hand on top of his, brushing his big stupid fingers with her thumb. Her eyes are sparkling again. Will tells her about work, how he’s taken on this important new commission. The London exhibition really boosted his profile. He’s selling more than ever, and if things keep going the way they’re going he might even be able to move.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she says.

  She’s im
agining herself moving in with him, becoming the wife of the great artist. In her head she’s stretched out naked on a white sheet and Will is painting her, permanently capturing her beauty.

  They make a lot of noise when they eat. They smack their lips and talk through their food.

  Will opens another bottle of wine. He clenches the bottle between his thighs, straining and grunting, and Alice watches him lovingly, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. The cork comes out with a loud plop. A bit of wine spills onto the lino.

  They finish their meals. She clears the plates away. They stay at the table, talking. They finish the second bottle. She offers him coffee but he asks if there’s any more alcohol and she comes back with a bottle of vodka and two tumblers. My tumblers.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Salut.’

  ‘Let’s move through to the other room,’ she says, ‘where it’s more comfortable. No, no, don’t bother clearing away. I’ll do it later.’

  Alice totters slightly when she stands. She lets herself fall against him, throwing her arm around his waist as if to steady herself.

  ‘Whoops,’ he says. ‘I’ve got you.’

  She doesn’t move her arm away.

  I follow them into the living room.

  Will sits on the sofa, holding his drink. Alice is in front of him, dancing. No music is playing. She holds out her hands. He puts the glass down by his foot. He stands up. He takes her hands and puts them around his back. She rests her head on his shoulder.

  They turn slowly.

  His hands are on her back.

  They turn.

  His hands are on her back.

  They turn again.

  His hands are on her arse.

  They stop dancing. They’re kissing now.

  His hands are in her hair.

  Her leg is thrust between his.

  Her shoe is hanging off her foot.

  She is biting his ear.

  Will leans over and kisses her shoulder. Then he stops, some of her hair caught in the stubble on his chin, and looks at me in the doorway.

  ‘But what about …’ he says.

  ‘What is it?’ she says.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘Sure you can. Come here.’