Forget Yourself (16 page)

Finally he turned to me, the only movement his neck, still with one arm on the tap and the other to his side.

“You told me that, Blondee.”

“I had another.”

He turned away, back to his original position.

I stepped toward him, not stopping until we were a toe’s length apart, the stench of his body filling my nostrils, the stench of mine filling his. I wasn’t going to leave—I was going to write my memory in the book.

He spoke without looking at me.

“What do you want, Blondee?”

I was confused. He knew what I wanted. I answered honestly.

“I want to write it in the book.”

I couldn’t leave it at that. I would tell him my memory—he would be the first. If he heard what I had remembered then he would realise how important it was. This would change everything.

So I did. He stood rigid whilst I told him about the ornament, about the bowl of water, about the rough fingers and the mantelpiece. I told him that this man was my husband—I had remembered marriage. You see, I told him, two people get married and then they stay together. They don’t leave, you keep one another. That was how things were done on the outside; that was how we did them before. I rambled and rambled until I wrung myself breathless.

He listened. When I was done he spoke. I jumped back. He was unmoving but his mouth contorted, his face reddening. His voice boomed.

“I hear you, Blondee. I hear you. I know what you want. You don’t just want to rebuild yourself like everyone else here. You want to rebuild everything, all we have, all by yourself. But you’ll destroy it first, there’s no other way. Do you know that? You’ll destroy it. I won’t let you. How could I let you? You’re destructive. We were wrong, so wrong to label you a minor. You’re the worst of anyone here.”

He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His voice softened.

“Blondee, I’m aware I’m angry at you. And you’re angry at me. Neither of us will listen—anger closes the ears. But you must pay attention to me: stop this. Stop this whole thing. What we have now is fragile, more fragile than you realise.”

“I had a memory, Pilsner.”

“I will never let you write down a memory, Blondee. We write down our memories to work together, to add to what we’ve made together. You must understand—it doesn’t matter what we did on the outside, or what we were like before. The book is important because it binds us all. You’re not interested in that—you want to rewrite the whole thing to make the world as you want it. This marriage memory doesn’t even fit with how you’re living now—with your two. You want to change things and you don’t even know how or why you’re doing it.”

He stood up fully and stepped away from his perch at the water tap.

“Blondee, I’m not letting you near the book again.”

I held myself back, back from tearing and biting his skin, and not stopping until I reached bone. I wanted to hurt him. How could he say those things? The book was there to help us remember, to help us get back to ourselves. It was there to help us know what was real and what was pretend. He was a liar. He picked at the book and chose what he wanted to follow. I knew what the world was like—he didn’t care.

“Don’t be angry, Blondee. Anger’s hard to get rid of. The world is too small.”

I left him behind.

TIE WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN GOLD
: he would have had no use for it. He would find a use for wood and metal and planks which could make huts. He would take his furniture rations and with a heart so full it would burst, he would lay the useful items to one side for someone else. He would save them for someone new, someone new who would arrive in the world with nothing, no clothes, no home and no hope. He saved me the window and the pieces which would make my home, pieces which I would never have had access to, not as a simple minor. I fell into the world and was caught by his generosity. He was never thanked.

I had been there for the next arrival, the one after myself.

The new one was scared, of course. He was scared; he was a minor; he was a sexual. I could never remember why. He cried a lot, even more than most. He was young but not so young. Tie guided the new naked man by the shoulder, over to the edge of the wall where he had been stacking new furniture. I had followed behind.

The man quivered and asked where we were taking him. He hadn’t realised that we were fellow captives, not captors, and that we could take him nowhere but the world.

Tie, so matter-of-fact, told him we were taking him to his new home.

The man’s voice rose and he stammered, this was not his home. Get your hands off me, spit mixed with tears, throwing himself from Tie and toward the wall.

I shouted at him.

Tie murmured that it was all right and walked over to the wall, to where the man had collapsed in a heap. I stood still and watched.

I couldn’t hear a word, but at first only Tie’s lips moved. I watched his mouth forming gentle words, trying to soothe the man who sat with his head between his legs, his back heaving.

There was a cry, the man leapt to his feet, the man struck Tie which his hand, across his face. Calmly Tie stood, and gently, so gently, took hold of the man’s wrists and sat him down. The man’s torso still heaved, but now his head was erect and Tie continued talking. Soon he joined him, and they talked for hours, oblivious to my watching. Eventually the man smiled and they stood, surveying the pile of treasure before them. I walked over.

Tie told me that it would be dark soon and the hut still wasn’t built. He asked me if I would help.

The man wordlessly turned to me, his eyes shimmering. Hopeful.

I told him I would. I told him my name.

The man told me his name in return, but I forgot it since. Perhaps he died.

For the next hours we built, until his hut was complete, more-or-less. The weather had been cool and I had hardly begun to sweat, but salty water poured over Tie’s bumpy face. We said goodbye after Tie fetched him some sheets and walked toward the courtyard surrounded by night.

I asked Tie why the man had hit him.

Tie replied that the man was scared.

I asked if he’d said thank you.

Tie asked if I’d said thank you.

I felt my face burn. I hadn’t. I had cried for my old life, I had yelled and I had asked endless questions but I had never thanked him. There hadn’t been room for that.

I said thank you.

He laughed and told me it wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. The man, like me, needed a home so he gave one. That was that.

The night was the usual ink-blue-black, and I carried my anger, knotted deep inside me. It was casino night; though once again the tent was different.

“We can make three tents,” someone had said, “least, minor and moderate, then we could all have a casino night at once, without waiting.”

And there had been more talk, the tents were erected and the booze was divided: the least had half the drink, the minors a third, and the moderates the rest.

“What about us?” a voice at the edge shouted. No-one heard.

And where would Jay go?

I’ll hop between the three, he’d offered, a noble glance at those around.

And that was that. A cheerful murmur and three tents later, there we were. The new tent for the minors was smaller, and at that moment quiet and subdued as we waited for Jay with the drink. I waited by Burberry—people were still staring at us, still whispering about us. What was there left to say? We could hear Jay’s voice from the least tent, already speech-slurred and sloppy.

We were all huddled together, squashed into a group. I was pressed against Burberry and someone with black hair who smelt vaguely of smoke. It was too cramped to play games and so we waited for the drunken man with the drink: our only entertainment.

“Should we get him?” someone asked.

“Would you?” asked another. “If you want to go into the least tent then go ahead.”

We heard laughter, then a voice from the other tent—Frederick?—who told Jay he’d better move along. Our tent was filled with a sigh and a chuckle of relief. Jay step-stumbled in through the opening.

“Jay,” everyone said in unison. He looked drunk, dazed and startled, and began to make his way back out again until a hand—Tanned’s hand—dragged him back inside.

“Come on then,” Tanned held up his glass. The woman by him giggled. Jay nodded and filled his glass, then made his way around, pausing every few seconds to down a deep swig from the bottle.

Each chipped mug and glass was filled, emptied, and filled again until the room carried a healthy murmur. Burberry chatted idly away to someone whose face I couldn’t see, and I leant my own face against the fabric of the tent, letting it caress my cheek.

“Go on, drink it,” Jay instructed me, spilling bitter-cream alcohol into my glass and almost standing on Burberry’s shin. I obeyed, raising the glass to my mouth and letting the thick gloopy liquid slide downwards into my stomach, hoping it would ease the knot of anger.

The tent grew hot, too hot, the murmur was a roar, the tart and bitter stenches of sweat and perfume and booze clogging up my lungs, which heaved and gasped for air. I threw myself from the mass of bodies.

Outside it was chilly and clear. I lay on the ground, head on the flagstones, gulping at the night air. When I had had enough I listened for familiar voices, but the conversations were so loud they all blurred into one.

How could he stop me?

How could he keep me from the book?

Couldn’t I go right then if I wanted?

So I did.

Since the beginning no-one had knowingly committed a crime: sex-criminals had never had inappropriate sex, the violent ones had never harmed anyone, the disruptives lived by the rules and no thief, like me, had ever taken anything that wasn’t theirs. To live up to the burden of the crime you carried would be to expose yourself. If anyone saw—if people knew—it would be terrible.

I was on my way to steal time with the book. No-one would be there. It wasn’t my turn and if Pilsner had his way it never would be, but I would go to the book.

I hurried to my triangle hut for a candle. Everyone was still in the casino tents, but at every corner of the world their voices would be heard. A roar carrying the occasional burst of searing laughter. They were cheering me on, a hearty approval of my transgression. I found a thick candle under my bed and hurried back through the noise-encrusted night.

I made my way to the book’s house. Glimpses of tin rusted in the candlelight. The noise of the tents found their way in through the doorway and round gaps between the wall and ceiling, bouncing from wall to wall. In the centre of the room, where it always lay, was the book. By night its blue covers were black, its pages grey and yellow. What was I going to do?

I was going to read. Wasn’t that what I always did?

The book seemed heavier, first the covers and then each page weighted down by memories, none of which would ever be mine. It was too dark to read from a normal distance, the words a steady smudge, so I moved the candle nearer, then my face, a warm glow toward my forehead and age-ripe pages under my nose.

They’re not memories. They’re inventions. Stories. Creations. People think they’re real.

Burberry’s messy scrawl. It was wrong.

There was a scream and then a guffaw from each of the walls, which died into the usual murmur. I skimmed my eyes over the blue ink, the red ink and black, moving my face away each time I needed to turn a page.

It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’ve got no way of knowing.

Burberry again. How could it not matter? How were we ever to find who we were if nothing we remembered was real?

Pages flicked between my fingers, brittle as thinly-sliced bone. Where did I fit in here? I had lived in a house, with a living room and a husband, not a hut. Where was I?

You want to rebuild everything, all we have, all by yourself.

Pilsner. The words were red as heat. Of course I wanted to rebuild, wasn’t that the point? That was the book, that was its purpose.

A yelp and more laughing, the vibration of tin. Songs and dancing and crimes. I couldn’t keep my eyes clear, and they flooded, my throat swelling, my breath a gasp.