Me, Jack and Graham just stay quiet. In an effort to keep the uncomfortable silence going for as long as possible. All five of us are staring at the screen now. Jack is in last place, as ever. Erin and I are neck and neck on the long bridge that precedes the finish line. Just as we"re about to make the other side, though, she sideswipes me into the river below. I hang my head. Erin wins.
I look at Taylor. He is looking at Erin.
I guess appearances do matter more than anything if the world is full of people like Graham.
"Who wants a cup of tea?" I ask. "Everybody? Jack and, um, Graham, can you give me a hand carrying them up please? Thank you."
I try to give Taylor a meaningful look as we leave the room.
"I think I"ve met someone," Jack says. In the kitchen. He leans against the washing machine. Above which a big Barton Fink Barton Fink poster has been stuck to the wall. "I mean I really do." poster has been stuck to the wall. "I mean I really do."
"Is she hot?" Graham asks.
"Yes, yes she is, actually," Jack says. In the voice of Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords Flight of the Conchords. Saying yes yes like like yis yis. It"s a good impression. It makes me laugh so much I spill the sugar all over the worktop.
"What"s her name?" I ask.
"Jennifer," Jack says.
"What"s she into?" I say.
"Oh, I don"t know," he says.
"What if you find out that she likes the Foo Fighters and Woody Allen films?" I say. Jack hates the Foo Fighters and Woody Allen films.
"It won"t matter," he says. "I really like her."
He seems serious, so I let it drop. Even though really I wonder how he can think that he likes her so much when he doesn"t even really know her. I put sugar in Graham"s tea. And Taylor"s.
"You put the sugar in before the milk?" Graham asks.
"Yeah," I say.
"You"re such a f.u.c.king freak," he says.
"I know," I say. "But at least I"m not a d.i.c.k. At least I"m not branded head to f.u.c.king toe. At least I haven"t sold my skin to a thousand different corporations, like you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your clothes," I say. "Your label-hunting tendencies. Your brand loyalty."
"Nothing wrong with buying quality," he says, sniffing.
"There is if it"s overpriced tat and unethically produced," I say.
"If it"s tat, why would it be overpriced?" he says. "If it"s sweatshop, why"s it all so f.u.c.king expensive?"
"To trick gullible people into thinking it"s good," I say. "Not to mention profit! You give them money in order to display their name. They f.u.c.k you over every which way."
"Well, it"s my money," he says. "I"ll spend it how I want."
"See," I say. "This is the great illusion. "I"ve worked all my life for this money and I"m going to spend it how I like", etc. That"s the myth myth. That because you can afford something you are ent.i.tled to it. That"s why there are so many f.u.c.king cars in the world. That"s why there are so many nuclear weapons. That"s why there are sweatshops, rising sea-levels, snuff movies."
Graham sticks his middle finger up at me. "Swivel," he says.
"They own you," I say. "Body and soul."
Graham unzips his flies and shows me his b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I open his cupboard and put as much of his food onto the worktop as I can before he stops me. That is my revenge. He hates it when I do that.
"Anyway," Jack says, glancing briefly at Graham"s still-exposed t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. "Jennifer was upset. Her mum died recently. A few months ago, I think. And she had a call that reminded her of it."
"It was cancer, was it?" I ask. "I mean, it was probably cancer, wasn"t it?"
"It was," Jack says. "Brain tumour. How did you know?"
"Always is," I say. Toast can cause cancer. Plastic bottles. Red meat. Tissue damage. The sun. The situation is hopeless. It comes from nothing. Maybe I could talk to Jennifer about it. She might understand. Erin"s good to talk to. And so are Jack and Taylor. But none of them know what it"s like to think about it all the time.
"Kenny Hicks came in though," Jack continues, "and we had to get back on the phones. He"s such a pervert, he is. One day somebody"s going to knock seven bells out of him. You can see it coming."
"Deserves everything he gets," Graham says. He finally zips himself back up. "There are some people in this world that I"d properly go to town on if it wouldn"t land me in prison."
"You know Morgana le Fay, from the King Arthur legends?" Jack says. "Well, that was who I thought of when I saw Jennifer. And Morgana she was supposed to be able to inspire profound change. And guide in times of intense emotion, like anger or l.u.s.t. Also she was very good at s.e.x, apparently."
"Well, she wasn"t though, was she?" Graham says. "Because she wasn"t real, was she? This Jennifer bird isn"t Morgana le Fay, Jack. You"re just getting excited."
Jack comes over to the side to pick up a couple of mugs. "I know," he says. "I know."
Jack loves myths. And legends. And folklore. And all that kind of stuff. He reads a lot of history. Sometimes he talks like a book. He writes articles for local papers and magazines. About nearby haunted houses. Or the origin stories that gather around unusual features of the landscape. He"s even had one or two short pieces published in the and magazines. About nearby haunted houses. Or the origin stories that gather around unusual features of the landscape. He"s even had one or two short pieces published in the Fortean Times Fortean Times. He loves the Narnia books, especially the ones where some kid discovers another world The Magician"s Nephew The Magician"s Nephew, or The Lion The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe the Witch and the Wardrobe. But he doesn"t like the film adaptations. As far as films go, he likes doc.u.mentaries Grizzly Man Grizzly Man, Touching the Void Touching the Void. He listens to Fleetwood Mac, Sigur Ros, R.E.M. He is scared, above all things, of the world being no more than it appears to be.
I think that it"s already too much.
He is a complete fantasist. He pays no attention to the war. To the economic situation. To the human-rights atrocities in the news. To climate change. To cancer, getting closer. To the things that stop me sleeping. He just retreats into this other world. That doesn"t exist. He reminds me of Dad.
"You"ll have to invite her round," I say. "This Jennifer."
"I will," he says.
We pause in the doorway of the living-room. Erin and Taylor are kissing. They"re sitting side by side. Holding hands. Their heads turned towards each other. Like five-year-olds might kiss each other. I guess it"s kind of sweet.
"What"s happened?" Jack asks. "Are the fires out in h.e.l.l? Is it getting cold down there?"
"No," Taylor says. "It"s quite simple. It"s commonly believed amongst scientists that, given an infinite timespan like the length of time it takes you reprobates to make the tea then anything that can happen will happen." timespan like the length of time it takes you reprobates to make the tea then anything that can happen will happen."
"Might not give you your tea now," Graham says. "a.r.s.ewipe. Talking science at us when our hands are full."
"Don"t you talk to my boyfriend like that," Erin says. "And give us our f.u.c.king tea."
Taylor loves Blade Runner Blade Runner and and Jules et Jim Jules et Jim. He loves Truffaut. He loves weird instrumental music that I can"t listen to, like Philip Gla.s.s and John Cage. When he"s feeling poppy he listens to G.o.dspeed You! Black Emperor, or Tom Waits. He is addicted to the Resident Evil Resident Evil series of video games. He knows every word Orwell ever wrote. And he reads a lot of science books too. He is terrified of growing old. Getting lonely. Becoming stupid. series of video games. He knows every word Orwell ever wrote. And he reads a lot of science books too. He is terrified of growing old. Getting lonely. Becoming stupid.
We hand out the teas and I look behind me. Back through the open door. Opposite the doorway on the hallway wall there is a huge poster. We took it from a bus shelter. It advertises the remake of Dawn of the Dead Dawn of the Dead. I glance at it. Again, the only way of working out the true personality of a person, their true soul, is by their taste. In films, music, books. Everything sprouts from the one root. The words across the bottom of the poster resonate with me every time I read them.
WHEN THERE"S NO MORE ROOM IN h.e.l.l, THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH.
JACK.
I tried clothes on in front of a little mirror that was about five inches square. The smell of my rattan mat permeated the room and I felt sick at the thought of mine and Jennifer"s first proper "date".
Sometimes Francis bothered me. Erin had told us all about Francis" dad after he went to bed the previous night, and it was awful, but still. His obsession with what people liked liked, and the implication that not knowing what Jennifer liked or didn"t like meant that I didn"t really know her at all, I mean, it boiled down to defining a person by what they bought bought, really, didn"t it? It boiled down to a list of all the c.r.a.p that people bought in order to fill the emptiness they felt inside themselves. What Francis thought of as the essence of a person was more accurately defined as the subst.i.tute for the essence of a person, as far as I could see.
I decided on an outfit jeans and a shirt, which is all I ever really wore when not at work and looked for my hair stuff. I looked on the windowsill, and found myself looking through the gla.s.s at the early September clouds. myself looking through the gla.s.s at the early September clouds.
"I don"t believe in monogamy," Jennifer said. "I think it"s important that you know that right from the start."
"OK," I said, something quivering inside of me. Morgana le Fay, I thought, Morgana le Fay would never have been monogamous either. "OK."
"I honestly believe you can love more than one person at any one time. And also that s.e.x is something that should be enjoyed outside of love as well as inside of love."
"OK," I said.
"I know we"re not together or anything, but I don"t want you to get the wrong idea. Because I like you, and I think that something might happen between us."
"OK," I said. "Yes. I think that too."
She looked at me over the table and our empty c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses, her huge green eyes hypnotic.
"What bar are we in?" she asked. "I can"t even remember, they"re all so similar. And I can"t believe the Fidel Castro and Che Guevara posters!"
"It"s probably called Cuba or Havana or something like that," I said, but really I was still thinking about s.e.x.
"Communist revolution consumed by capitalist enterprise, and then regurgitated. Idealism as a theme." She shook her head. "It"s sad. I don"t really like it in the city. All cities are basically the same and all the places within the cities are basically the same, so wherever you end up for a drink or a sandwich or whatever, it doesn"t really matter. It was inevitable that you would end up there. There was never anywhere else to go. Well, it"s a generalisation. I know." matter. It was inevitable that you would end up there. There was never anywhere else to go. Well, it"s a generalisation. I know."
"I suppose if you take the time to look, you can find all sorts of decent places," I said. "But you have less time in cities." This is better, I thought. I"m finally engaging. But really, I was still thinking about s.e.x.
"Sometimes I think I"m growing up in the wrong decade," she said. "I should be in the sixties."
"I"m a bit like that. Sometimes I think I should have been alive at the beginning of the nineteenth century."
"Why?" she asked, laughing.
I shrugged. "Oh," I said. "You know."
I was glad that she didn"t like the city. I supposed I shouldn"t really get involved with somebody who didn"t believe in relationships, but I didn"t know if I could help it. I looked at her. How could I not fall for her when she said the kind of things that I thought about saying? Although in truth I fell for her the moment I saw her.
Her hair was wavy tonight, held back by a rust-coloured headscarf, and she was wearing a brown dress that reminded me of old-fashioned Roma-style gypsies, like those in the His Dark Materials His Dark Materials trilogy, and she told me that she made it herself. There was a story about an old gypsy fortune-teller who, apparently, spent so long hunched over, smoking a pipe, that she couldn"t straighten her body out at all, and when she died she had to be buried in a cube-shaped coffin. I didn"t mention it though. I was afraid that Jennifer would think me strange. trilogy, and she told me that she made it herself. There was a story about an old gypsy fortune-teller who, apparently, spent so long hunched over, smoking a pipe, that she couldn"t straighten her body out at all, and when she died she had to be buried in a cube-shaped coffin. I didn"t mention it though. I was afraid that Jennifer would think me strange.
I became aware of a figure somewhere in the middle distance, over her left shoulder, standing absolutely stationary, and I looked up at the figure, but it was moving now, making its way towards the exit. Its ident.i.ty was difficult to establish amongst the growing crowd, but I was pretty sure it was him. Kenny.
"Shall we go?" I said.
"Yeah," she said. "Shall we go to yours?"
"Yeah," I said. "OK. If that"s alright with you."
Outside, the street was nearly as bright as it was during the day, and it was as if we"d driven the natural nighttime out of our cities with electricity, and replaced it with a darkness of our own invention, all muggings, murders, rapes. The Christmas lights were up but not yet turned on. Electricity meant we could work all kinds of shifts and stay out all night with our vision unimpaired, and it turned us into unnatural creatures, awake and ravenous all the time.
FRANCIS.
Jennifer came home with Jack last night. She is like the sky at night. She is beautiful and crisp. She is like frost on a bare black tree. I love her lip-piercings. I love her body. Her skin is pale and her hair is black. She is like all those vampire women in all those black-and-white films. She is like Renee French in Coffee and Cigarettes Coffee and Cigarettes. She is like a chessboard. From the moment I saw her I have been l.u.s.ting for her. So badly that it has opened something up inside me. Something very much like a wound. She sat on the edge of the sofa. With her feet pointing at each other. And looked around at all the posters. And the shelves full of books and CDs and DVDs. I asked her what she likes.
Jennifer loves Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and and Secretary Secretary. She likes Patti Smith and Eastern European music. She likes books by Kerouac and Aldous Huxley.
When I went to bed, she and Jack were in the living-room drinking wine. And she was still here this morning. I saw her in the kitchen eating a bacon sandwich. Dressed for work. So I guess she stayed the night. I am confused, time-wise. I don"t know what day it is. One of the problems with working shifts. for work. So I guess she stayed the night. I am confused, time-wise. I don"t know what day it is. One of the problems with working shifts.
We are out in Manchester. Drinking. In celebration of the fact that none of us are working this evening. It"s 9.57 by the clock on my phone. And we"re in a bar called Sandbar. Just off Oxford Road. We sit around a dark wooden table in a corner lit by light from red bulbs.
I am drinking a strong, dark imported beer out of a strange, squat bottle. Graham is drinking lager. Taylor and Erin are drinking red wine. Jack is drinking a guest beer called Copper Dragon. Jennifer is drinking whisky and c.o.ke. She finishes it and sets the gla.s.s down.
"Today was my last day," she says. "Thank f.u.c.k. No more scripts. No more cash incentives. No more sales. No more debt collection. No more Kenny!"
"Speak for yourself," Graham says.
"G.o.d," Jennifer says. "I"m sorry. I just didn"t didn"t think."
"Ignore him," Jack says. "Nothing to stop him looking for another job if he"s that miserable. Except he"s too busy updating his profile on Facebook."
"What are you going to do, Jennifer?" I ask.
"Start drawing again," she says. "Start designing. Try to find a house that I can afford to buy and start living like, you know, freely. Maybe even set up some sort of commune, or collective. I"m nostalgic for the sixties and I wasn"t even alive then." She laughs. "We"d grow our own vegetables."
"It should be Kenny who"s leaving, really," Taylor says. "Should have been sacked a long time ago for hara.s.sment."
"He should have been," Erin says, "but it"s one of those places where you can be as vile, malicious and poisonous as you like and it won"t count against you. You could be the sorriest excuse for a human being. You could be a thousand rats stacked up inside a suit and still do OK. Most workplaces are like that I guess. Kenny will always be there. Always be fine."
"So what are you going to do for work?" I ask Jennifer.
"Oh," she says. And falls silent. She looks a bit embarra.s.sed. "I don"t know if I"ll get another proper job. I"m going to sell the house, and well, I was left a bit of money. I"m going to try and set up a studio, sell the clothes that I make, you know. Might be a while before that ever makes any money though. Wouldn"t mind doing some sort of editing or proofreading if I got desperate, but I doubt that it"s that easy to get into." She laughs again. "I"m just a bit of a pervert for grammar."
I like the way she says pervert pervert. Her lip-rings shine. I want to ask her about her mum. I want to tell her about Dad. She is wearing a tight, low-cut top.
"Who wants a drink?" Jack asks.
"Yes please," I say. I down the one I"ve got.
"Tell us a story, Erin," Graham says. He slurs his words.