Forget Yourself (15 page)

She relented. She allowed it. Her dogs were glued to her sides.

The thick-skinned hands plunged her into water and she vanished down, down into the soapy sea, thick reams of foam obscuring her, head-sized bubbles bursting at the surface. The thick-skinned hands pulled her up again. Soap clung to her face.

Why wasn’t she fighting? Why were her arrows sheathed?

She was shrouded in a dry cloth, rubbing at her, rubbing hard enough to rub away her colour, and what if those hands rubbed away her colours until she shone ghost-white?

“Stop it,” I shouted. “Stop.”

The towel was removed. Her colours remained.

The stone woman was placed onto a shelf. No, she was placed onto the mantelpiece. She stood above the fireplace. There were flowers either side of her—roses and lilacs, red as her lips, white as her teeth. The fireplace was the focal point of the room—our living room. Yellow wallpaper and a smart green-striped couch. Sanded floorboards.

My husband dried his hands on the towel, his eyes wrinkling in amusement.

I opened my eyes, the blur of evening pouring through my eyelashes. I was no longer in Frederick’s bed. I leant backwards. Humming, humming drifting through the air. It was Burberry. A line had been traced around me, so I twisted my neck to see where it went. It was all around, the two ends missing one another where it had begun, where it had ended. I was in a circle, a circle I had made. When did I get here?

“Blondee.” Warm breath on my neck.

“Burberry,” I leapt to my feet, stumbling beyond the lines, outside my circle.

“Blondee,” she said, her voice low and slow, “where have you been?”

I had no answer. I had been outside the hut of my enemy; I had been in the bed of my lover; I had been in a house, a real house with a husband and a stone ornament. I bit my tongue as I remembered the word. Burberry planted kisses on my neck, ran her hand over my shoulder, and led me inside.

IT WAS THE MIDDLE
of the next day by the time I reached a decision: I was going to rebuild the memory. If Frederick could build a whole city or dense forest, then I could recreate a living room.

I made my way to an empty patch of the minor corner: a place of bare, dry earth and some worms. I arrived with a plank of wood from the hut in one arm and a bag of my rations in the other. I set them down by the wall.

I had tried to remember more, to recall the name of my husband, to remember more of the words we had passed back and forth. To remember something other than the room with the fireplace. I had failed—the memory was already starting to blur indistinct. I had to hold onto it. It was the most detailed, most important memory any of us had. I couldn’t lose it.

To recreate it, I told myself, would give me a chance of keeping it. Perhaps it would even spur more memories. If only I could make it solid, tangible.

I pressed my hand to the wall at the edge of the world. At this deserted section it was discoloured—an eight-step width was brown rather than grey. Perhaps my home, the living room at its centre, was just on the other side of that wall? Perhaps that was even where my garden began?

I pickled up the plank: that would be the mantelpiece. But it needed to be at shoulder-height, and how could I make it shoulder-height? I had no way of attaching it to the wall. Instead I placed two cans of milkshake on the ground, balancing the board atop them. It would have to do. I placed twigs upon it as substitute flowers.

For the stone woman I used a stone—that was simple. I placed her on the board, which wobbled then stayed more-or-less stable.

For the bowl of water I used my bucket. The water tap had been almost completely dry, so instead of a mass of foaming water I had a dribble. It would do.

For my husband I used the rest of the bag of rations, a cloth sack with clumps of food inside—it was much smaller than him but I had no other option. I had thought of asking Frederick or Burberry, but I already knew their faces, they had already made their own memories with me—it wouldn’t work. Besides, I hadn’t even told them about the memory yet. It was the bag or nothing.

But it wasn’t right.

The sack-husband was lumpy and lifeless. The mantelpiece collapsed. I peered into the bucket, but there was nothing.

Of course, the stone woman belonged in the bucket—that was how the memory started.

So I took the stone and placed it into the bucket.

It still wasn’t right.

I stood before the sack-husband and tried talking to him. But what could I say? I had no memory of myself. What was the sort of thing I would say as his wife?

“Be careful,” I said, pointing to the bucket stone.

He didn’t respond.

I gave up and sat down by the mantelpiece. I picked up one of the cans of milkshake and began to drink. It was sour.

I was the only one who remembered marriage. But away from my memory it seemed alien. Still, marriage tied people together. Marriage would stop people flying away.

I drew a circle, then pressed my eyes closed. I tried to go further. I uttered the words to myself, listening to the lull-lull of my own tongue, ‘stone woman stone woman stone woman’. I tried to turn my husband around, to grasp him by the shoulder. But he couldn’t be turned, he had no back. But he
was
my husband. I tried to open the door to the room, but beyond the door there were only walls, beige and prickled.

I could go back, back to that room, and stand and watch the yellow walls but there was no beyond, there was nothing else. Me, a living room, a husband. That was it.

“Have you had memories?” I asked Burberry, stepping back into the hut.

She lay with her back to me, her breathing even. I took her shoulder and turned her toward me. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Blondee.”

“Burberry,” I kissed her lips. “Burberry, have you had memories?”

“I have lots of memories, many, many, many.” Her voice was churned with sleep.

“Really? What were they?”

“Well,” she said, slowly pulling herself up, resting her forehead on my collarbone for an instant, “I remember kissing you. I remember holding you last night. I remember eating yesterday, I ate cold soup from a can—”

“You know what I mean,” I squeezed her shoulder. She laughed, gently, slowly.

“Of before? Of outside the world?” She was toying with me, making me play for an answer. I nodded dutifully.

“No,” she leant back. “No, I don’t.”

“None at all? Not ever?”

“No.” She closed her eyes. It would have been quiet at that moment, but for Fluffed flitting around next door. Finally she spoke, licking her lips to keep them from sticking together. “No-one does.”

“What?”

“I don’t think anyone does, not really.”

“What?”

“What else is there to say?” she asked.

“No-one does? No-one has any memories at all? But what about the book, what about—”

“And they’re memories, are they?”

“They’re memories of the outside, of the old world, how things were, of the world before.”

“They’re not memories.” She sounded certain, spread before me as still as stone.

“Then what are they, Burberry?”

“Inventions. Stories. Creations.” She was quiet for another moment. “I’m sure people think they’re real.”

I stared at her. She lifted herself up, propping herself on the foam mattress with her elbows.

“Or maybe they’re real, maybe they’re all true,” she continued. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it? We’ve got no way of knowing.” She looked hard at me, as though she were trying to find a speck of dust on my face. “Why? Have you? Have you had any memories?”

“No.”

The curtain-cloth had been pulled closed, its colours collapsing about the room. Burberry lay down and rolled over, her breath descending into even sweeps. I ran my hand along her back. In the book there are hundreds, hundreds of memories, and I had no way of recalling them all. Burberry was wrong.

I decided to make her breakfast, pulling the tray from beneath the bed, a small array of coloured boxes sliding into view, an old t-shirt bundled into the corner. It would be rations-time again soon enough, and all we had were powdered egg, jelly squares, salt-pepper-mix and rice. I was certain it wouldn’t go together, but it would make for a good spider-lettered recipe. We had run low on food earlier than ever, but I had been hungry, and I had eaten more than my fair share. Today I would eat less. When I was single I would often starve for a day or two before the next ration. It wasn’t helpful to gather rations whilst hunger gnawed at your insides. For a moment hunger looked to me like an animal, small and furry with huge teeth. I wanted to feed it. There were few animals within our walls.

I stepped from the hut, boxes bundled in my arms. A short gasp leapt from my throat. The sun had risen, throwing purple light over the sand and grass and mud and huts, purple as a raw throat, deeper and richer than before. Wordlessly one or two figures wandered, faces driven upwards, nothing to say or do but wonder at the sky. It didn’t mean anything, the sky must have always played such tricks. But it was beautiful, that couldn’t be denied—deep-red-purple to rich-blue-purple, the clouds scattered like fresh innards above our heads.

At the fire tap there was a queue, people trying to cook their morning meal whilst watching the scene above without scalding their delicate arms or burning their bellies. One man failed, and even those who rushed to help him as he shrieked and growled in pain couldn’t help but witness the world above. His skin blistered in the same heavy hues.

Fluffed was there, not saying a word to me as he cooked tart chilli and canned beans, a scent which stung my nostrils almost as much as his ever-present perfume. I wanted to greet him, to say hello or smile, but I was cowed into blank-faced silence by the strange light. At my turn I cooked quickly and methodically, before leaving the food by Burberry’s sleeping form. I didn’t eat any.

Outside again I lay on the ground, my thoughts interrupted by the odd slow and unsure footsteps of those facing the sun. I knew my memories, I knew the world on the outside, I knew of marriage and husbands and mantelpieces. Watching his rough hands in soap water I knew he was mine. He was mine and he wouldn’t fly away. But I couldn’t marry twice, two separate people all at once. The hunger animal squirmed about my gut.

Those who are lazy go hungry.

The middle of the book.

I thought of the book, blue spine and golden lettering saying ‘Notes’. I had to put my memory in there, I had to transform this memory into ink before it faded.

That meant I had to find Pilsner.

HE STOOD HIS AGE-OLD GUARD
at the water tap. We were alone. He didn’t greet me: he simply glanced at my approach and then watched the middle-distance. It was up to me to greet him.

“Pilsner.”

Still he said nothing. He stood motionless as an ornament, one arm leaning on the tap, the other hanging limp at his side. I glanced around to see if anyone was approaching. No-one was.

“Pilsner,” I repeated. Still he made no movement. He was waiting for me to leave. He was scared, I could see it in the tiny motion of his left eyelid. He was afraid of me. I wasn’t leaving.

“I had a memory,” I said, my voice rasping with frustration.