Forget Yourself (27 page)

“Pace yourself dear, you don’t want to look unwomanly,” Tie uttered, his voice a wet whisper. He was making fun, but he was right. The other women were sipping theirs, watching with unheard envy as their husbands gulped from their glasses and held them up for more.

Jay made his rounds and staggered out of the tent, Ketamine following behind. They were greeted by a roar of applause from the minors. He had left us with most of the juice, but had taken a little for the minors as well. Dice appeared, green mats were laid and cards were strewn about between us. Frederick placed our spare rations—which were better than the others—into the middle of the group. The tent was grand, with enough room to lie down if I wanted. One or two of the men did, or rested on their elbows. One or two wives glanced over at me, wanting to know if it was acceptable, but I kept my eyes lowered.

The Queen of diamonds was smeared with purple lipstick.

“What do we have?” Frederick asked, a little too loudly into my ear. “Shall I hold them?” he mouthed, but I was already placing the rations into his hand.

Everyone had put on their best clothes, and so it was easy to spot which of the least were first in line for rations, and which were further back. Some even wore multiples of layers, something which would never happen in the sweat-stained heat of the minor tent.

“Ah, we need better luck soon,” Frederick groaned quietly.

I nodded, running my fingers over olives, wrapped tight in clear plastic. I finished the rest of my glass as the booze passed nearby.

“Blondee,” Tie warned. The other women had barely touched theirs.

The tent grew louder and we lost more hands than we won—though I was sure some were trying to help us—and the air warmed.

A man in the corner looked pale, his wife was feeling his forehead. They weren’t noticed until he staggered from the tent, her giving a small, stunted wave goodbye.

We won some hands, and the rations were piling up by our knees. Much of it was chocolate, and I wondered if I could place some on my tongue without looking rude, or ruining the game. I decided I couldn’t. I also wanted the swirls of cheese, but they too were forbidden until the end of the game. I was feeling hungry.

“See, we’ll see if we can win another,” Frederick gasped, his lungs heavy, his breath sour. He held up his glass, but the man opposite held the bottle of booze upside-down, exaggerating his unhappy face.

“I’ll wait,” Frederick said, “I’ll wait until he, Jay, gets back.”

Jay didn’t come back. More and more people looked ill,

a man,

a man,

a man,

one woman,

another man. They left in pairs, concerned wives taking their husbands to bed. The one ill woman staggered out with her husband, the two of them leaning against the weight of the other. As soon as they were out of sight we heard a loud retch from beyond the tent.

Frederick leant his face against mine. It was cold and wet.

More people left, two-by-two, manly stumbles and womanly waves. There were worried looks on faces, and cards were held with trembling fingers, but no-one said anything. Husbands and wives whispered to one another, wives cooing and shushing, with gentle kisses on the cheek or hand.

“Do you need to leave, Frederick?” I whispered. He shook his head.

“We’re winning.”

Soon there were just a half-dozen of us left, the other two wives staring at the ground, their hands clenched to their husbands, each husband growing pale.

The green mat, covered in discarded cards, was splattered in orange, all shades of orange, a loud heaving filling the tent, before being silenced by a shrill scream.

We stepped from the tent as carefully as we could, following each cry, following the violent chatter. Screaming.

I felt fine. I felt fine. Frederick’s hand was slimy.

The screams came from the moderate tent, and we were joined by frightened minor wives and ill-faced minor husbands, all of us stepping as quickly and as gracefully as we could toward them.

Frederick and I entered first. Ketamine was screaming, over and over, endless. In the centre, spread amongst cards, in amongst mouldy bread and bitter chalk-sweets, there was Jay.

There was Jay; his orange-splattered face and sprawled body.

There was Jay; his eyes half-open, half-closed.

There was Jay; the tips of his pubes poking up from his trousers; his skin white as paper.

THE WIND HOWLS HERE LIKE A GHOST. I can hear small leaves sliding over the tarpaulin.

Jay was first.

Jay was only the first.

Life was expelled, forced out from every orifice: a pale husk remained.

The shrieks of frightened wives were everywhere. You couldn’t avoid it. The stone woman watched it all. Her face remained unchanged.

Did I tell you she’s here with me, here in this hole?

She’s in my hand.

Her face never changes, I can tell you that. Whatever happens she looks the same. I don’t envy it.

Wax-paper skin. Frederick too was forcing life from himself.

But I didn’t shriek.

SHE WATCHED OVER US
, and sometimes I liked her and sometimes I wanted her away. Either way it was my fault, I had brought her indoors. She never changed expression, and never looked very happy or very sad. She didn’t have eyes, or lips really, perhaps that was why. She was stone. Still, sometimes she seemed nearly real, and I’d offer her a luxury: something rare, a little packet of mustard, or red licorice. She never took it.

“She’s not real, my dear.”

“And you are?”

Frederick grew worse. He’d stopped speaking now, and his eyes stared in blank confusion, unseeing. Once or twice I’d left to get more water, and I’d left her next to him, hoping he wouldn’t be too afraid. It was better to be watched over, even if it was only by the small stone woman. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think he’ll die?”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry,” Tie whimpered. He had been saying that a lot recently. He had been less rude in general.

My arms ached and creaked when I moved them. I had been filling the bucket several times a day, getting more water, back and forth to the courtyard. At first he had been sick, over expensive fabrics and even in his box of clothes. Now he lay naked, curled up, like a fleshy stone. He had even been sick at her stone feet, even
on
her feet. She didn’t look angry.

At first he’d kept running out of the hut, behind it, and I’d hear the hurried scrape of earth as he frantically dug a hole, and then a groan. He’d left more and more often, until there weren’t any scraping sounds, just another groan. That was when I started going for water. Water would help, I had heard that somewhere. He wanted it—he’d gulp it down, droplets racing down his neck.

“Frederick?” I tried, shaking him a little. He turned his head, opened his eyes and stared for a moment, before letting them fall closed again. I thought about climbing in with him, wrapping my arms around him and telling him he’d be fine.

I’d been sleeping in the yellow chair. He wasn’t leaving the bed to shit now, and I cleaned it up as best I could, but the satin sheets were stained. I brought a cup to his lips and tipped water into his mouth, before collapsing back into the chair, my arms stiff at my sides.

My back hurt. I stood to the sound of my bones clicking. I scavenged the kitchen to see what I could make for breakfast. I wouldn’t be able to give him any. I shoved some poppyseed crackers in my mouth and wandered over to the bed. I noticed we were out of water, and went to get more, preparing my arms for the work.

“Are you ready, Blondee?”

“Ready for what, Tie?”

There was a furious buzzing. I let the door slam behind me and tried to cover my ears. It came from everywhere. The air was thick and dirty—rancid and soiled.

“People are sick, darling Blondee, everyone is sick.”

“I know that, Tie.”

I pulled my shirt over my mouth. It smelled of my own sweat. My stomach was exposed but I didn’t care. One or two wives were milling around, their faces twisted in confusion, obviously unsure what to do with themselves. I passed them without a word.

The courtyard was quiet, pristine. Pilsner stood by the water tap.

“Blondee.”

“Pilsner. Could you step aside, I need some water.”

He stepped over slightly, watching me as he did so. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Is he ill?”

“He is.”

The water fell in a sickly trickle. It would take ages to fill the bucket. I sighed.

“Some are worse than others,” he stated, flat and matter-of-fact.

“Worse?”

“Go over there,” he motioned to the moderate land, “go over there and see.”

I hesitated.

“No-one will stop you. You’ve been there before, we both know it. Go on, I’ll watch your bucket.”

Over the embankment I couldn’t see anything different—perhaps there was more vomit on the ground, mushed into the gravel. I wandered, not sure what I was looking for. Near the huts the buzzing was deafening, but there was a silence, a quiet I couldn’t work out. It was as I was running my knuckles over the spine of a dwindled tree that I realised. There were no voices. No cries, no shouting, no whimpering or retching or grunting. There were no frightened wives. I had to leave. I returned to the courtyard.

“It’s—”

“They’re all dead. Pretty much. Most of them are, I haven’t checked everyone.” Pilsner kept his voice still as ever.

“It’s not—” I mumbled, kneeling down to the bucket.

“It was the booze. But you know that, right? It was the booze. I’ve figured it out. The moderates, they drank it raw, without anything to mix it with. It was the booze.”

“Right.”

“But you’re giving him water, that’s good. I think a lot of people will live—but more will leave before it’s done. They won’t get help you know, they believe all they need is each other. But you helped, Blondee, you helped make it that way. Most of them don’t even know to fetch water. It’s probably just as well, there wouldn’t be enough to go around, not all at once.”

“It was that way before.”

“I don’t know how many people will live, Blondee. How could I? The severes didn’t drink anything, no-one gave them any. Perhaps there will be more of them than there are of us, when all’s said and done. We’d be in trouble then, Blondee, I’m telling you.”

“There must be something we can do,” I choked, my voice rough and coarse as wood. Even without enough water, there must be something to do, I knew there must.

Pilsner didn’t say anything.

The book, the book must have something, it must have some answers.

“The book,” I pleaded, “there must be something in the book.”

“There isn’t.”

“Let me see it,” I had to see it, “let me see the book. I can help, I can find help I know I can.”

“You’ve done enough, Blondee.”

“Pilsner—”

“Enough.”

The bucket was overflowing. Pilsner turned the tap off and handed it to me. There were tears, I couldn’t stop them, I just had to keep them from falling into the bucket.