Forget Yourself (18 page)

“People talking.”

“I haven’t asked. Probably, though. People talk a lot.” He rolled it back to me, it bouncing into my knee and nestling against my shin.

“About the page.”

“About it. Yeah.” He caught it once more.

“Have you heard much?”

Frederick kept his focus on the ball as he rolled it back to me, his lips stuck shut.

“Frederick?”

“Of course. I’m not—I’m not sure there’s much point paying attention to it.” He nodded to himself and caught it once more. I wasn’t aware it had left my hands.

“Have you heard them talking about me? About you and me? Me and Burberry?”

He nodded, gently bouncing the ball toward me. I missed it and left it to rest against the wall.

“I might have thought so,” I uttered.

“I wouldn’t worry.”

“Why not worry?”

“There’s—there’s more talk about the trip than about us.” He nodded again.

“Trip?”

“The trip. To the severes.”

I stared at him so he continued. “You know—a lot of people are angry at them. They say they did it, they’re the ones with the worst—you know. They—they say they’re going on a trip.”

“Who do you mean ‘they’?”

“They. Everybody. Some angry people.” He caught the ball again.

I was with Burberry when I saw ‘they’ leave.

We were at the courtyard—we had been waiting to see what would happen. At first we had been alone.

“Where is the page?” she had asked, running her hand over the water tap.

“It’s gone,” I answered.

“Where is it gone?” she enquired. When I didn’t answer she continued. “I’m not prying, I just want to make sure that you’ll be safe, that you’ve hidden it properly. I trust you, I trust that you’ve hidden it well, or destroyed it, and it won’t be found by anyone. You just need to tell me that.”

“It won’t be,” I told her.

Slowly ‘they’ began to arrive. A woman with a rope in her hands. A man with a shard of glass. Then more, a couple, a small group, a crowd. They didn’t seem to notice us and we watched them in awed silence. More came.

Hostile murmurs grew into sharp words.

‘They’ were furious, they were shouting to one another, pulling to and fro. After a while I saw that they were two separate, shouting groups. One group held bars and pipes and—what looked like a hand-cranked drill—in their hands. The others simply raised their hands up, screaming at them.

“Don’t go, don’t go,” they shouted. A man grabbed a woman by the arm, wanting to pull her home, pull her back to what was normal. She spat at him. Others pleaded, “stay here, stay here. There’s no sense in what you’re doing.”

“We’re just going to get it back,” called the others. “We just want it back, it belongs to all of us.” A man with a stick hugged another man. “It’ll be fine. We should go, we should just fucking go,” another bellowed.

“Wait, just wait a minute. We can’t know who did thus. Please, stay here.” Another lunge; more grasping arms.

“We’re doing what we’re doing. We’re only going to look. Yeah, that’s all.” An arm held out: stay away. “They’re the worst regardless. If anyone took it it was them.”

“You’ll get hurt. We don’t know who did this. Listen to what was said.”

“It’ll be fine. We know what’s what. We don’t need telling that.”

Eventually one of ‘they’—raised bar in hand—started the trek to the land of the severes, calling as he went. His calls pulled one or two others, then three or four. Some stayed behind, dropping their tools on the flagstones with a clatter, falling into lovers’ arms. One—who had been calling ‘don’t go’—picked up a rope and followed her lover. The exchange was over.

Burberry stroked my hair. Someone else would be punished for my crime. ‘Whose crime is whose?’ She had whispered it to me one warm night when beads of water kissed the window-wall. I had asked what she meant. She told me that perhaps we’re punished for crimes someone else did. ‘Someone else?’ I’d asked. ‘Somebody not here,’ she’d answered. I hadn’t asked more. ‘We can’t know anything,’ she had added. I had wondered if Tanned had ever heard such words.

We stayed at the courtyard. I flitted from foot to foot, waiting for them to come back. There was no-one else around, they had all gone home to wait for the others. I wanted to see what had happened, to inspect their fingers as they returned; for blood, or even bits of brain. Perhaps they would be chatting back and forth, discussing what they had done, ready for my ears to catch. Maybe they would be silent, their deeds written in the gloom on their faces

There was a clatter, a hollow thud thud thud.

They didn’t come, not all together. Every now and then I noticed one walking home, weapon slung by their side. There was no talking—they were each alone, and they didn’t look excited or sad. I noticed the first, walking as though he were going to collect food or travel to the tap: not fast or slow or slumped or proud. He was everyday, unmarked stick swinging by his side.

Then there was another—was his hair roughed up?—the same, not even bored-looking, just average. Then one more, with a drill, as though she were going to fix one of the grander huts, off to her chore. There were no clues. Perhaps they hadn’t done anything. I needed to know.

I wanted to see. I wanted to go to the land of the severes.

Burberry demanded to come with me, but I told her that I had to go and see it alone—this was my doing. “Besides, I said, it’s better you wait at the courtyard so we don’t miss anything.”

She said there was safety together, but I told her I needed to go alone. She relented, slumping sullenly to the flagstones.

It wasn’t dark, there was little cover, and there could have been anything up to a hundred people watching, but I went. It was the last part of all the world that I had never seen. I had to see what was left.

Now and then there was a bellow as someone returned home to their lover, one with a lurid pink top and a chair-leg in one hand, shortly afterwards one with knotted brown hair and the head of a shovel.

The ground was hard—it was concrete—with a thin layer of dust and sand over the top. It burned beneath the soles of my feet. There was nothing: no bushes or dead trees, not even any huts. I couldn’t see anything but the flat ground and the lone figures marching back to their own lands.

I passed the woman with a rope, off from hanging a hammock, or a man who stole her memories. She didn’t see me. Her gaze was fixed dead-ahead, her expression placid.

There was a clatter, thud-thud-thud, and it grew louder by the step.

There was the chain-fence, the one that divided their land from the land of the moderates, cross-cross-crossed into diamonds. I had seen it once, from the other side, in the distance, back when I had explored the world alone. Now I had to reach out and touch it, slide my fingers along silken-smooth steel. Knots of string clung to it in places, flitting in the breeze. I could see myself beyond it, wandering from the first ever casino tent, over to the far wall, meeting Frederick and hugging and smelling him for the first time.

There was one more of ‘they’ returning home, torn shirt, exposed body hair, weapon gone, more casual than was possible. He was the last of them. Then the land was empty, concrete and wisps of sand.

A sinus-stuffing must choked the air. I had smelled it on old couch-cushions. Mould and fabric and time. Then I saw it: a scrap-built hut, hanging to the far wall, a wave of smoke spiralling upwards. It was the only hut in all the land. It was where they lived: all of them. The walls of the hut were thin, stapled and bolted and glued together, torn sheets of flimsy plastics and shards of corrugated iron stained black-brown, a row of drainpipes duct-taped together, mouldy wood, mouldy fabrics, mould-covered felt boards, all holding up a thin roof of chipboard, smoke rising up from somewhere in the middle. The only hut in all the land. It was made from the dregs of the world.

There was screaming, and it came from inside. I stepped over ragged mounds of litter and shreds of fabric, sobs and screaming louder and louder, until I stood by the hut and rested by hand on the gritty wall.

The screaming stopped, revealing a slow sad hum of words, from over a dozen voices.

“Let him go Jonas, we need to bury him.”

“Just let him go.”

More sobbing. Long, hefty sobs.

“Have they all gone?”

“They’ve all gone.”

“Let him go.”

There was whimper.

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“But what if it was him? What if they come back because of him?”

There was a roar. The thin walls shook to yelps and loud cries, dust pouring from all sides. There was a clatter, thud-thud-thud, and it smothered every voice, it trembled every bone. The whole land trembled from the ground up, and I ran forward on unsteady legs, past the cross-crossed fence, over the stinging concrete ground, then to the deserted courtyard, on and on until I was home.

I crawled to the circle by my triangle hut, hands-on-earth, but the circle was gone, the line had weathered away.

I had to find the page, I had to find it. But what would I do?

Burned.

Watch the page curl and flicker, char upwards into smoke and downwards into ash. There would be safety, then I could forget, then we all could forget. A fire to call the return to how things were.

Buried.

Or I could check it was still in the ground and leave it there. Maybe bury it a little deeper into the earth. Someday it may be found; some day I will answer. Leave it to chance, to the mystery of the soil.

Fluttering.

Dig it out, hold it aloft, fluttering up in the air. Shout it: I did this, it was me. Calling my confession, my voice carried on the breeze. Everything out in the open, clean and clear, my punishment deserved.

Sinking.

Perhaps it would be best to go to the lake—walk, don’t swim, walk until my head was below, release the air from my lungs, draw in water. Punish myself—it was common enough to fall dead, there would be no questions. They would be free of the guilt, they need never know they had wrongly harmed the severes.

I hadn’t decided.

A tiny white corner protruded from the soil. It was the page, the page had crawled up through the ground. It was trying to escape. I pulled at the corner, pulling the paper up. The page came free, then another, then another, then staples, then more. It was a magazine. A woman smiled up at me, glossy-white dress and teeth stained by dirt.

BEAT THE BRIDES
: Ten Ways to Make Your Wedding Stand Out

She smiled, a hundred hundred teeth all in a row, lined in red. They were the central focus of a pale oval face which boasted thick black eyelashes and crowned with Blondee-blonde hair. She smiled, but her thin wisps of eyebrows frowned, menacing, letting everyone know she could get what she wanted. Her full breasts bulged in her cream-coloured and now mud-caked dress, spindle-thin arms clutching severed flowers, red and green, red and green.

Beside her stood her new husband. He was taller, his face brushing the words ‘The Big Dream’, which were big and brash and purple. His hair was slicked smooth and black, a canopy for black eyebrows, themselves a roof for a small black moustache. His eyes were unrusted metal grey, his skin as pale and creamy as his new wife. He wore a meek smile above a black jacket with white trimmings. His soiled white shirt was open just enough to let a few strands of chest hair poke free.

They stood side-by-side, a rain of colourful paper strands falling from the sky, just for them. Below them words danced, inviting the reader to open the magazine up and find out who they were. Blondee obeyed.

It’s a Sizzling Summer—BBQ on the Big Day

There was another woman, housed inside an oval, surrounded by an army of words. She was smiling, head cocked to one side, plumper and with smaller eyelashes than the woman on the front. Someone had scrubbed her eyes away with a pen. She had a long name, and she was an editor. She had some things to tell this month, just you wait, and this season’s hottest wedding will be yours. Some words were larger, grander, and bolder than the others: ‘Deck Chairs’, ‘Barbecue’, ‘Spicy Vows’ and ‘Margaritas’. At the bottom of the page was ‘Julie’ and then XXX, as though she had tried to cross out her own name.