Lolito (4 page)

I type more things and other people type more things. We talk about sexual positions and types of porn and types of tea and how to record audio from YouTube videos. We are bored people with nowhere to be and nothing to do. It is fun and it means I don’t have to think. I play Gold Panda in the background to make myself go calm. Alice sends me a text and I turn off my phone.

Macy1: Herman I’m pming you my gmail

Tinybearo: does anyone got legit zooey deschanel nudes is that exist

Stud40: macy add me I’m
[email protected]
Herman441: okay

Macy1 to Herman441: my gmail is
[email protected]
add me so we can chat properly. I think you’re funny.

Herman441 to Macy1: You’re nice too. I’m at work right now and I have some stuff to do. I’ll add you when I get home so we can chat. Hi.

Amundsen’s still pawing at the door, so I open it and let him in. He bounds in circles around the room, comes to a stop and tries to make me stroke him by assaulting my hand with his face. He wants to go for a walk. The rain has almost stopped. There are only tiny flecks of water settling on my window now. Leaving the house is scary. I’m worried the sky will get too heavy and I’ll fall over. I think about Aaron Mathews pumping his hand backwards and forwards inside of Alice’s vag. I think about Alice’s mouth being open as wide as a mouth can be open, so wide that it cracks and splits at the corners. I think about her asking him to choke her.

I should go for a walk.

People like walks.

I don’t like walks.

We go downstairs and I attach Amundsen’s lead. I put on Mum’s purple waterproof, Dad’s bucket hat, and my old wellies. I look like a paedophile.

6

The field opposite our house is a collection of rugby pitches surrounded by lanky, coniferous bushes. There’s an oak tree in one corner where boys with bicycles sit to smoke weed and punch each other in the head. Mostly people walk their dogs in laps around the edge. When it snows this is where everyone comes. When it snows this is the battlefield, but today it’s almost empty.

I let Amundsen off the lead and he immediately runs to a coke can, sniffs it, and shits on it. He looks back at me and wags his tail and grins. I tell him he’s done a great job. The only other person in the field is a tall man in a felt coat walking an orange terrier on the lead. The terrier keeps running ahead and the man doesn’t, so it gets pulled up on its back legs like a drawbridge.

We walk slowly.

The sky is pink and the moon is a ghost. Amundsen examines condoms and carrier bags while I think about Alice. I try not to think about Alice, which means that I am thinking about Alice. I think about jumping off a tall building and leaving a note behind that says ‘Alice Calloway murdered me’. I probably shouldn’t do that. I definitely won’t do that. If I did that then I would be dead and Alice would be upset so it is a lose/lose. Do I want Alice to be unhappy? I don’t want Alice to be unhappy. I want Alice to go back in time and be unfingered by Aaron Mathews.

The wind hums.

It starts to rain. It crescendos. We’re halfway around the field. I don’t want to run. I’ll fall over if I try. I’ll fall over and I won’t want to stand up and I’ll lie in the grass and sad dogs will eat my body. Maybe I should do that. It might be fun. I clip on Amundsen’s lead and we climb in between two of the bushes and sit on a muddy bank behind them, facing the back of a black garden fence. The rain gathers pace and tumbles down louder. It makes the ground hiss and the air smell like wet soil. Drops of water drip from the ends of branches. I shiver. I press my nose against Amundsen’s nose. I feel like I’m going to fall into the ground.

‘Room at the inn?’ I look to my left. A miniature woman in a yellow raincoat has appeared. She’s holding a small dog. Wet, white curls of hair are stuck down
against her forehead. Her face is dappled like bruised banana skin.

‘Um.’

‘This is cosy,’ the woman says. She pushes the bushes aside and climbs in and sits down. ‘You did good. Cats and dogs. It’ll be fish next. You wait.’ She smiles at Amundsen and strokes him with both hands. ‘Who do we have here?’

‘Amundsen.’

‘Amundsen, that’s a name. Who gave him that?’

‘I did,’ I say. ‘After Roald Amundsen. The first man to reach the South Pole. He got hungry and ate his dogs.’

‘Big shoes. I’m sure you’ll manage. Won’t you? This one’s called Mushroom. After mushrooms. Love them. Absolutely love them.’ I laugh. Mushroom climbs over Amundsen and arranges himself in my lap. He’s the size of a shoebox. ‘He likes you.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m Mabel.’

‘Etgar.’ We shake hands. Mabel’s palm feels like car tyres.

‘You’re at school?’

‘St Catherine’s.’

‘Good. That’s a good place. How old does that make you?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘You’re a big fifteen. Look at those bones. Sports bones they are. Rugby bones. I’m seventy-two. Do you
know, a man on the radio yesterday said we’re all going to live to be two hundred. Two hundred. Imagine that.’

‘That would be terrible.’

‘Dear lord. I’d rather jump off a bridge. Two hundred years. Two hundred years. What would you do with two hundred years?’

‘TV.’

‘Oh God, and wouldn’t you? They’d put a 100–200s category into
X-Factor.
Each episode would last four hours.’

I laugh again.

‘No school today?’

‘Easter holidays.’

‘Ah. Easter. Eggs.’

‘My parents are away in Russia. I’m alone.’

‘Alone,’ she says. ‘Then it’s good we’ve both got these strong young men to look after us.’ She nods at the dogs. I look down at Mushroom. He’s licking my knee. We sit, not saying anything, until the rain gets quieter and more slow. Mabel tells me that she walks Mushroom at the same time every day so maybe we’ll see each other tomorrow. I say that I would like that. The dogs shake themselves off and we climb out of the bushes.

*

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Amundsen’s lying on my feet. I can feel his heartbeat through my toes. He’s asleep
and making sounds like a big man shivering. I’m drinking Nesquik tea and eating microwave lasagne and watching a video of a man putting a kitten into a wire cage then setting it on fire. I don’t know why. It’s boring.

I click on Alice Calloway. I open her photo albums.

Berlin 09: Alice wearing the red dress with miniature horses on it. Alice holding a coffee mug the size of a baby. Alice outside the Reichstag, pretending that an inflatable hammer is her dick.

Snow day 10: Me sat on Alice’s chest in a field of snow. Alice with a snowball in her mouth. Aslam punching Sam. Sam punching Aslam. Alice bagging Aslam.

I should stop doing this. It isn’t fun and isn’t helping.

Geography trip Lulworth: Alice straddling an orange rock. Alice hugging Emma. Alice building sandcastles. Georgie drawing a dick in the sand.

I don’t want to do this any more.

Sarah’s 18th: Alice and Sarah and Emma and Paige stood by a row of black shots lined up on a bar. Alice with both of her arms in the air. Alice and a topless man through a fisheye lens. Emma vomiting at a bus stop.

I don’t understand why I’m doing this. I feel sick.

Georgie’s: Alice on a horse, holding a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Emma giving Alice a lovebite. Georgie’s mum downing shots. Alice hugging Georgie’s mum. A closeup of Alice’s face, grinning wildly through smudged orange lipstick.

I slam the computer shut and punch it. I’m crying.
If I was the subject of a documentary then this would be the part where I smash the camera and hit the cameraman. I would shout ‘get that fucking camera out of my face, it’s over’.

My phone flashes.

Hattie to me: u okay? Aslam told me.

Me to Hattie: I’m just going to hide a while. I’m okay.

Hattie comes over sometimes and we touch each other because we’re bored and because what else. I don’t know what now. I should stop looking at Alice. I rub my eyes with my t-shirt and open a bottle of Mum’s Merlot and fill a pint glass with it. I add Macy on gchat. She’s online. She says hi.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Work over?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘UK. You?’

‘Same.’

I blink. She’s closer than I expected. I always think of people in computers as existing in a quiet, distinct place that almost never overlaps with real life. ‘Where?’ An unpronounceable, politically stable country with national service and bidets.

‘Inverness.’

I search Inverness. It’s in Scotland. There are pictures of green hills and thick clouds and wide, metallic bodies of water. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘The prosperous hub of the
Highlands.’ That sounded too formal. ‘Old Invy.’ Good one. She’s going to disappear.

‘Haha.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘Look after my kids. Housework. Nothing exciting.’ ‘Great,’ I say. That’s a stupid thing to say. ‘I mean it must be nice to have free time.’

‘I guess,’ she says. ‘But it can get lonely around the house.’

‘You don’t have a husband?’

‘Would I be in chatrooms if I did?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Not many men are interested in a woman with two kids. And there’s only so much you can do on your own.’ ‘Like what.’

‘Haha you know like what.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘You’re funny. What do you do, hon?’

I think of a job and search it.

‘I’m a mortgage broker,’ I say. ‘I act as an intermediary who brokers mortgage loans on behalf of individuals or businesses.’ I think, is that convincing? I think, maybe not. Still too formal. She’s a woman, not a boardroom. I decide to add a personal touch to make it convincing. ‘Mainly for individuals,’ I say. ‘Mainly for women.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘High-powered.’

Nothing happens. I fill up the kettle and put it on. I try to fit my fist inside of my mouth.

‘I haven’t seen you around the rooms before,’ she says. ‘It was my first time.’

‘It’s hard to find anyone sane.’

‘The people seemed weird. That man who kept typing about sex with animals.’

‘It’s mostly people like that. Every now and again you meet someone worth talking to. Is Herman your real name, hon?’

I have no idea what ‘hon’ is.

Is anyone’s real name Herman?

‘No. It’s Tom Swanson.’ I have given myself a composite name made out of my two favourite
Parks and Recreation
characters.

‘Mine’s Macy.’

‘Hi Macy.’

‘Hi.’

‘What do you normally do in rooms?’

‘Not much. I have a few friends that I like to mess about with. Like Corinne. Just meet people really. Chat. Anything. Sometimes other stuff.’

‘What other stuff?’

‘Haha. Like cyber and stuff.’

‘Oh.’

‘You ever cyber?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Loads.’

Literally never.

‘I prefer real life . . . but sometimes it’s not possible.’ ‘What do you look like?’

‘Pic for pic?’

‘Okay. Wait. I’ll take one.’

I go upstairs and open Dad’s wardrobe. There are shirts of various colours on hangers with ties threaded through them. A black one looks small. I put it on without a tie and button it up to the top. I unbutton four buttons. I button up two buttons. I push my hair back. It looks like Bugsy Malone.

On the computer screen my face looks tiny and new. If I turn my head slightly to one side and tip it back then my jaw looks more like the jaw of a mortgage broker. I need to make her want me. I need to be six Aaron Mathews.

‘You took one?’

‘Almost.’

Alice to me: I miss you txt meeeeeeeeexxxxxxxxxx

I make the photo black and white. I make it sepia. I chug some wine. I make it black and white again.

‘I did one,’ I say. ‘I look stupid.’

‘Send it. I sent mine.’

I open the email and download the attachment. The woman who appears in my computer is thin and blonde and attractive. She looks strong, like someone who could punch through walls. I would guess that she is thirty-five, but I can’t really tell because I’m not good with ages over my own. Her skin is the colour of buttered toast. She is smiling and her teeth sit together perfectly like bathroom tiles. I don’t know why she is looking for
sex in computers. She should be having passionate, physical sex with men who trim their pubic hair and compete, successfully, in triathlons.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I say. ‘Amazing eyes.’

Amazing nipples showing through the t-shirt.

‘That’s sweet. Your turn.’

‘I’m scared. I look really stupid. You’re the winner.’

‘Send it.’

‘Okay.’

I send it and I wait.

‘You’re handsome. Relax. You have good eyes. I like your shirt.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘It’s mine.’

‘You’re funny.’

‘Thanks.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘What will you do today?’

‘Do laundry. Wash dishes. Try to forget I’m doing either. Nothing exciting. You?’

‘Maybe watch television and go to bed. Nothing exciting either.’ Amundsen comes out from under the table and pushes his face into my leg.

‘Tell me what it’s like where you are. I want to try and picture it.’

I look around the kitchen. There are four plates, two mugs and a dirty cafetiere stacked next to the sink. All of the surfaces are black and the floor is cheap laminate. The pint glass next to me is half full.

‘I’m in my study,’ I say. ‘I’m sitting in an extremely
luxurious swivel chair. The carpet is deep and red. If I put my bare feet on it my toes disappear. There are Daniel Clowes prints on the walls.’ Amundsen headbutts my knee. ‘Sounds perfect.’

‘What’s it like where you are?’

‘Well, I’m lying on my bed. It’s king-size and it always feels empty. My carpet is green. There are two big windows. You can see woods and a part of the loch. It’s bright outside and there aren’t any clouds.’

‘I wish I could climb into yours.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s no fun if you can’t climb back out again.’ I don’t know what she means. I still want to climb through. I want to be anywhere that isn’t here. Amundsen rears up and drops his paws onto my thigh. He wants to go outside and I want him to not shit in the house.