Life strategies seem to be abound when you don't need them. Alan rolled over on the sofa, barely noticing what was flashing in front of him on tv. At least quiet, he thought. At least not harassed by any woman, wanting to have another go at ?the relationship?. Sometimes he really appreciated being alone. Outside the rain was falling hard, cold air coming from the open window. The smell, out of the kitchen made him half sick- bacon and sausages. He hoped to be like a saint, removed from all the people, maybe in a cave chomping on a turnip. He laughed. It was a cliché he was never to embrace. The smell of bacon was always sickening nevertheless. He ruffled his curly hair, sensing a bit of dandruff between the fingers. It dropped onto his sweater, another rain of sorts. He went on the side, trying not to get up. There was no reason to move. Late at night, quiet, devoid of any distractions, he was just trying to doze off. He liked dreams. They could be of all sorts- crazy, realistic, thrillers- they all made him feel good. He dreamed about recipes. He couldn't remember them in the morning, though, to his despair. They were intricate, they were daring. He tugged the wool blanket around him, trying to close his eyes and drift off. A milky haze set around the room. Suddenly there was a ring. A telephone ring. He got up, groggily and got hold of the mobile.
?Dr Mercer. Is there an emergency?? he barked, with very little grace.
?Ehm..not really. I just...wanted to have a word. It's me, Toby Hayes.?
The shock was so strong it nearly made him drop the phone.
?Toby?- a long silence made of infinities- Why, how, I don't know, why are you calling me? I never gave you the number.? He lighted a cigarette and puffed on it quickly, inhaling the nicotine smoke.
?Well, Jim did. He saw you at a conference in Bristol. I asked.?
The cigarette was not enough. His fingers, holding the phone went clammy.
?Fucking hell, I haven't seen you in years... What's up??
?It's quite complicated.? There was a pause in his voice.?I'd rather come round. It's about Spivell...?
?Spivell..? Are you joking?? He nearly burnt his hand with the cigarette butt and dropped it to the floor. ?Spivell is dead, and buried, and...not important anymore.? he mumbled sitting down. Suddenly his legs felt like jelly, totally useless.
?I beg to differ. They are re-opening the case. You know I have been at the bar for a long time and made some friends down the station, as they say. It might have been years ago, but still, it remains an unexplained death. Some people have just started to wander how really unexplained it was.?
Mercer had a gulp of cold tea out of a mug, rubbed his forehead and sighted.
?What do you want?? He felt irritated by the prissy voice on the other end. He really didn't even recognize it as Toby's. It just sounded like a man on the news predicting the weather.
?Cooperation. That's all.? The couple of sentences had a metallic tinge about them. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of that statement. He used to dream about hearing Hayes' voice- a raspy sort of baritone. Now the reality was grinning at him, a malevolent gargoyle of the past, cruelly filling his head with things that maybe never were.
?In my language it sounds like a lot of shit coming down my way.? He muttered, lightning another cigarette, the phone held tight between his ear and the shoulder. ?Why are you digging it up? I thought you were sick of hearing his name. Don't let me interrupt your little crusade, but as far as I remember you had a year abroad breakdown on Rupert's behalf. You want another one? I am no psychiatrist...?
?Don't be melodramatic Mercer.? He interjected smoothly.?We're not children anymore. It's just about cleaning things up?
?Cleaning things up..? What is there to clean up?He hung himself! For some bloody, inexplicable reason he was unhappy and didn't want to carry on. Maybe his wife didn't love him anymore. Jesus Christ! What the fuck is ambiguous about that?!? Alan nearly shouted, smashing the mug down on the coffee table, images floating in front of his eyes. Eighteen years just rolled into a little licorice sweet, so condensed and bitter. He remembered every moment of Spivell's death. He didn't want to. A dull sensation set in his head, a feeling of not wanting to see your relatives, a weight dragging him down. He barely managed to say hoarsely:
?Toby, be sensible. No one wants to talk about this. You have your life. I have mine.?
There was a silence on the other end.
?According to the coroner's report, there were serious doubts about the suicide business.? The weatherman voice continued as if nothing happened. ?After all, you don't think police likes wasting taxpayers money on a wild goose chase. I would be glad if we could meet sometime and jog your memory.?
?And I'd rather fuck off.? He trembled, his fist clenched. The cat looked askew, turning into the kitchen. Eighteen years is not enough to wipe out a presence of a man. He felt as if Spivell took on some embryonic form, developing and growing, poking out of an egg shell, wet and sniffing. Quite an accomplishment for a dead man.
?You hardly have a say. They are re opening the case. You are a witness, aren't you?? a chuckle ? See you soon.?
?Bye.? he hit hard the button and put the mobile on the table.
(5) The event horizon.
The room was empty, with a desk in the right corner. A desk, some of the drawers opened hastily, a couple of pages dropped on the floor, crisp pages, out of the printer delineating next term's schedule. Alongside there was a scribble ?Not Thursday. Make it Monday instead? in smeared blue ink. The room was pungent with a scent of eau de cologne. Nomad, I thought. Stealing the keys and then making a copy was not a highlight of my career but at least I knew how to lie efficiently about it. I looked at the corridor, if anyone was lurking there. Not a soul. It was desolate and cold, the November kind of a corridor. I closed the door, Spivell's jacket brushing my cheek. A tweedy thing with a crumpled handkerchief in its left pocket. It was weird. Although I was the only one in that room it rumbled with yellowish cigarette smoke fumes and the persistent smell of angry coffee cups, almost suffocating me. At any moment he could just pop in, I thought. It was impossible though. He was attending an opening of a swanky bar in town. One thing Spivell would never let go of- showing off. Many times, outside the staff room I saw him briskly walking, when Wade and Dr Hearse, though smiling good byes, really wanted to see The Ides of March. Spivell was not a popular man
And Hayes...The way he followed him was nauseous. I knew he needed no history extra tutoring with all his cleverness and the amount of work he put into the prep. We were hoarded in the same room, which in retrospect must had been Toby's idea. He was always a tactician. It looked like a Dickensian chamber, bare, lacking any luxuries, a Spartan chamber for developing boys. Two beds, two desks, two sturdy chairs, a small wardrobe, and a sardonic smile of the schoolmaster who designed it. Despite his looks, Hayes was neither vapid nor naive. He realized the alabaster skin and wide opened eyes watering at any opportunity were a passport to god like immunity. Though he attracted bullies like a piece of fruit in Summer beckons flies, he knew a way around it. He chose me- I had a reputation of a few words and ready fists- like one would choose a fighting dog. The hysterics did not fool me. I knew he slept well. His seconds, minutes and hours charted my insomnia every night. I looked at his cheek, when he was stretching on his right side, the arm dangling down, just wanting to brush against it. I found the daily nights impossible. If not for that bloody school I'd might have learnt how to speak to people and he wouldn't had ended up as a tart.
I looked around the room. There was nothing special about it. A couple of biros, an empty coffee mug, a few exercise books. A normal teacher's desk. As I was leaving, though, something stopped me in my tracks. The armchair. At the back of it were hairs. They were not Spivell's and certainly not belonging to the school's dog. A few dark, long,wavy strands, coquettishly perched on the edge. I recognized them instantly. I felt sick. I longed to touch his hand sometime,and, there, it was- his hair spread on the back of a chair, in an abundance, freely. I almost hated Hayes, for all he was, for all I could not have. I left the room and run for down the corridor. I stopped at the lavatory, putting on the latch. I started to sob, without any sense, without any meaning. I bent over the toilet, and all the lunch went down. I knew it was stupid yet I couldn't stop myself. I blew out my nose into a piece of a napkin. And, then, there was a point. It became clear to me, as clear as the galaxies at night. He never cried. The eyes watered but there was no real emotion behind them. Those wide open blue orbs were like ice- frozen. I just realized I fell in love with a piece of perfect engineering. My stomach lurched. I perched over the toilet bowl, heaving. My vision blurred and the nose run snot. I wiped off the mucus off my chin and sat down on the toilet. What an idiot I was!They were not much different from distant stars or the composition of a lightning fluid. At that point, sitting in a cold bathroom, I finally gathered how ridiculous my emotions were. I barely could drew my breath. The coldness of the cubicle seemed to deepen at a great rate, chilling fingers squeezing my helpless arms in a vice like grip. I could not move.
(6) Staff room.
? Lionel, is there any chance you could spare us about 10% of your precious time?? The sour voice of Evans rose above the table like a quiet but persistent chill from the river.
?You seem to have all the time in the world reserved for your mobile. Where were we? Ah...let me see...Have you got the budget Henry? No, not the last draft, the new one Una retyped. She changed the figures for the next term. Well, I changed them, they were ridiculous, as you all know. ? He opened a folder and dived into it, half heartedly, sighing.
?What about the paper-clip order? I am running on empty. Stuff is falling apart because I have no means of putting it together.?
?Can I interrupt you Simon? In whole honesty, I gave you a batch in September, as far as I remember, unless somehow I have started to go senile, all of a sudden.? A wry smile cut through his face.
?Hello. I have papers to bind. Lots of papers. How do you expect me to do it sans paper-clips??
?Economically?? He cocked his head, then just hunched over the budget again.
Hollinghurst twitched his nose a bit, in a peevish way, glancing at The Head.
?Your economy seems to be of an austere kind. Soon we all will have to buy our own paper and pens.? He tweedled his thumbs and sunk into his chair with a visible sulk.
?Oh, by the way, where is Rupert? I was trying to locate him the whole day. He missed two periods and there was no message left. Is he ill?? Evans gingerly ignored Simon's sulking. He was used to the weekly displays of petty malcontence. The man had little joys in his life, mostly confined to disputes about stationery and occasional ventures to Crabtree and Evelyn.
?Hungover, I guess? Hollinghurst sneered. ?I wonder what are we paying him for. He's been indisposed more times than I had holidays in a year. I don't think he even knows his timetable. It would take that special space in his brain he keeps for memorising the name of every bloody bartender in town. You have to admit Kenneth, the man is a liability.? He sat upright, as if reaffirmed by his stance. ? Have you ever seen him sober after 5? I haven't. It's a bad example for the boys.?
Evans looked over the budget again, trying not to lose his temper. The throbbing headache which started just after lunch let itself known with a doubled strength.
?Let's not rehash that old argument. Spivell might have his idiosyncrasies but overall he's a good teacher and the boys do look up to him. He's been with us for two years and the history grades just shot up through the roof. This is a school, not a mutual admiration society. No one requires you to like him, Mr Hollinghurst. I'd rather you left your opinions of Rupert's character outside this building.?
?Well, if I can interject, Kenneth? Henry readjusted his crooked tie ? I believe Simon is quite right. Of course, it does not matter whether any of us likes Rupert or not, but his absenteeism and drinking habits are obvious. We cannot excuse this only because he happens to be quite charming and popular with the students. What sort of an example is he for them? By condoning his ways we are effectively saying that a little bit of flair, good looks and wit is all they will require in life.?
Evans rolled his eyes and brushed the fringe aside.
?Actually, this is probably all they will need.? He muttered in a resigned fashion. ?Their parents are paying us not to cram facts into their heads but to make them into successful doctors, lawyers etc., arty farty types sitting in pretentious galleries. I am heartened by your moral stance gentlemen but effectively it is misguided. If I wanted to turf Spivell out I would have the whole parental committee on my back. ?
?The school before ours managed.? Hollinghurst pointed out.
?Hang on, he resigned, he was not dismissed.?
?Allegedly.?
?OK, enough of this rumour harbouring. This is a meeting about the budget.? He opened the folder with the figures. ?According to the last report there's not enough money for the gym renovation we planned in '91. And this is becoming an urgent problem. Structurally the roof is in a dire need of a repair. The last survey Bennett and Clarke had done shows that it is not a question of ?if ?but ?when?. Basically we will not get the insurance unless the fault is remedied. Therefore, has anybody got an idea how to raise 20 grand fast??
Sniggering laughter engulfed the room.
?That is what I thought...I am about to talk to the parental body this week. I am not sure we are going to raise the whole amount, still, this is the best we can do?
?Kenneth, have you looked through that survey carefully? I think Bennett and Clarke are fibbing a little bit.? Simon looked at his copy. ?According to Mr, hang on..., Darby, the state of the roof is so awful, it's collapsing as we are talking. That certainly cannot be correct. There is some damage to the surface and it does need patching in a few places but the wooden structure is solid. They strengthened it in 1987, and that was a jolly big job. I don't see why are we supposed to nearly tear the whole roof down. In my estimate, if we just do the basic maintenance, that will set us around seven grand back. I would not be surprised if Messrs B & C sent us a convenient number to their usual contractors. I cannot see why we are economising on stationery and throwing money away on projects consuming thousands...?
The door suddenly opened with a hasty thump.
?I am sorry. I know I am late. The pipe broke down in the kitchen. You wouldn't believe. Water everywhere. Marcia was trying to find a plumber the whole morning. No results. It must have damaged the phone line. I couldn't get in touch with the school.? Spivell took off his coat and sat down. The scarf around his throat got tangled when he was trying to remove it.
?Jesus, I am going to strangle myself as a bonus...? The room was silent with just sharp rustling of Rupert's coat and scarf floating in the absolute vacuum of disapproval.
?Hello Rupert. Nice to have you with us.?
Spivell managed finally to disengage himself from the scarf and started to rummage in his briefcase for files.
?I am so sorry...Erm, where is it...?
A dullness of the mind was with him, not only as a hungover, but a feeling of no resolution and the end nearing by. Last night he remembered sparsely- turning up at the bar, drinking, seeing Hargreaves, the orgy of cocktails appearing as from nowhere, and then a blank, a taxi, he thought. Marcia looked at him in the morning with a reproach, the?you have done it again, bastard? look. He did not care. What used to trouble him in the past troubled him no more. The divide between him and his wife crept further and further to form a field between their respectable domains, not unwelcome in any sense. It was his habit to iron out the wrinkles on the surface of existence, to present Marcia and himself as shining examples of happiness- happy and gay. Happy and gay, indeed! He went to Gieves and Hawkes the other day just to put himself together, as if a shattered personality could have been mended by a cashmere sweater and a couple of shirts.
The day the night turned in
to sleep
I felt as if that was a joke
Poor Hargreaves slumped by the bar
A thought came to me
As a sin
I loved him and he loved me not
That turned the Hargreaves in
?Rupert, are you with us?? Evans leaned over taking his glasses off.
?...yeah, I am. What the bloody hell is this?. Bollocks!?- more rummaging-?I am...afraid, I think I left the last term report at home. I can phone Marcia...?
?Don't. We'll manage.?
It was, as ever the dismissive voice of the authority. That voice, that particular voice drilled into his head with a might one not could underestimate. He hated Evans with a passion. Not assembled correctly, he was at loss confronting his colleagues, anyone really. Putting the smile on his face started to be harder and harder recently. The smile covered some of the cracks like in a ceramic dish but became increasingly grotesque, the eyes staring helplessly in a manner that could only be described as panic. He wished to be back at Le Giarden de Cygnes, a hotel he often frequented to avoid Marcia and to avoid himself. It smelled of the boy. His tender smooth body imprinted itself on the sofas and beds. It emanated an aroma akin to lilies, totally inescapable, yet corrupting. The arms that embraced him night after night were white and strong. They were wilful. The truth was he became afraid of the boy, of his whims and child like moods. Oh God, he was a child! A child that treated him as a toy in the most cruel way. Better the boy than the emptiness, he thought, nevertheless. Waking up to that body, next to him, slowly breathing, eyes closed was more than he ever wanted in his entire life. Opening up in the morning and sensing that elusive tongue in his mouth created him, created his whole reality for the day. The feeling of the boy's cock hard against his lower belly, tumescent whilst grasped was the happiness itself. He sighted, ever so gently, embraced, moaning raspier when he came in a flood of white, warm semen. How to go back? The sense of regret and fruitlessness permeated his mind. Just to see that mole on the right side of Toby's neck was enough to stop him in his tracks. He spoke a language that charmed and befuddled whoever listened to it, like a siren. He beguiled with a skill hardly ever known. The moment he had to return to the life he lead was always traumatic. If he could he would freeze all that life in-between as a cocktail. A very dry Martini perhaps. There's only Friday that really exists. The preceding week is like a nightmare born out of drudgery and repetition.
?I think you are right Simon.?- looking at the figures- ?They have overcharged us, and the survey is flawed. I will call them tomorrow. If we can get it down to seven grand, we are fine.? Evans took off the glasses and had a gulp of water. A cough emerged simultaneously.
Rupert turned his head. He just perked up, as if that was a driving force of his life.
?It's all bollocks. I saw it a month ago. They are trying to swindle us for about half of the money. Kenneth, you must be mad to side with them. I should introduce you to my accountant. Ed Lilwall is very reliable and cost cutting.?
The room awoke but not in a spirit of a social conduct but an alarm. Spivell was sitting, arms laid down on the table looking at the head. He readjusted his tie and cuff-links in a very regular manner just to ground himself. God, he could calculate for the world and he knew what was going to pay off. Always jumping the ship towards better and shinier things. The budget was always in his head. This is the livelihood, he thought. An efficient plan could save one from his life. As far as he knew he was already in a vortex, an Alice in the Wonderland hole, that swallowed him up beyond any rescue plan. Toby Hayes- the moment he met him the fate exercised itself. He wanted to punch him on many occasions just to shatter that sight of teenage beauty, the collar bone, the neck just begging for kisses. And he couldn't.
?Well. We will look into that later.? Evans had some more water, wandering where it all came from. Spivell did bother him recently. It was neither the drinking nor the lateness and, especially not the general louche demeanour. That was just Rupert. No, there was something else. The man had a vacant look in his eye, a troubled crease between his eyebrows, a stiffness to his arms. He thought Marcia had to do something with it. A young marriage of five years often gets complicated. Thank God, no children. He just hoped it was going to get resolved soon. Henry looked bored, Simon studied the roof report with an intensity reserved for the matters of the state, and Lionel, as per usual, was occupied mostly by his mobile. Evans wondered why the supper is going to be exactly the same as yesterday's.
7.Lovemaking.
?Marcia! Marcia, how long is it going to take for you to get dressed? Jesus Christ, you have spent hours in there. Get the bloody shoes on , and let's go!?
Marcia sat down fastening her bra and looking into the mirror. There were many things she wanted to do in that particular moment, none of them involving Rupert or going out. She started to put up her tights and then discovered a ladder going down her shin. Awful. She removed the tights and looked for a new pair in the drawer. All there, packed in a neatly bundle of gossamer. Put one of them on, looked at her dress and was satisfied if only in the sense she looked the part. She knew Rupert would be sitting downstairs, reading The Independent and drinking generous double whiskeys, with anger raising up to the boil because of her tardiness, yet tempered by the alcohol he consumed.
?I am coming!? She shouted down the staircase. God, if he cannot hear me screaming inside, it's not worth a thing.
?Better be.? Rupert mumbled in a reserved manner. This was an exercise in politeness and practicality.
Marcia clenched her fist and retouched the mascara. Tears were welling up in her eyes. To be loved was most important to her and it has been denied. Damn the bloody marriage, damn the dinner with the Davises! The breaking point was near by, and she sat with a grim sort of resolution on a stool opposite the dressing table. The gulp in her throat was prominent but she suffocated it with a glass of water. Rose up and descended down the stairs- high heels, glamorous dress, hair set, the whiff of Samsara all around her.
?I am not going.? she announced.
Rupert looked back from his paper, half surprised and half bemused.
?If you have a headache just take paracetamol and sit down for a few minutes. Don't be silly Marcia. We have to go. Do I have to emphasise that??
?Do I look like I care?? She sat down in a slump on an armchair and brushed her long hair aside. There was a quality of a deep molasses to the moment.
?I don't care whether you care. I am just telling you we are going.? He looked at the sports pages, though generally sport never interested him at all. ?Annoying me has no point. What on earth do you think you are achieving? I am pissed off as it is.? He looked from the paper with his clear blue eyes, his jaw clenched rigidly. He put The Independent down and stretched his forearms, observing intently the nature of his hands. ?Marcia, this is not a matter of feelings but pure reason. We promised to go and we are going. He's the head, after all.?
?God, I hate you! You always do that to me!? A single tear escaped from her left eye, followed rapidly by its successors, smudging the carefully arranged make up. She heard herself sobbing helplessly and staring intently at the floor hoping he'd hear the note of despair in her voice and relent. There was an emptiness in her heart, a bottomless chasm that no matter how far one yearned was never to be breached. The sobbing got louder and more desperate. So did a curve in her upright body. Marcia was like a broken musical key.
?I sometimes wonder why we are still together. You have the most alarmingly unpleasant effect on me.? He got up and reached for a cigarette. In a paced manner he headed towards the French windows leading to the garden. He walked out with grace and decorum.
Marcia opened her eyes dowsed with tears and tried to think but she could not. Looking at her left hand with a wedding ring she sobbed. That ring meant to her all and a loathsome burden at the same time. Se sat at the sofa waiting for Rupert. Curled up she thought of hacking the offending finger off. She grabbed her ring and cried harder.
Finally he came back, more composed than ever. He looked at her with a faintly disguised repulsion.
?Are you still sulking??
There was a pitch in her that needed to come out. She was miserable. Didn't say a thing.
He grabbed her face with his hand and then hit it with a force. She stumbled to the floor, snot trailing from her lips, knees bent. The crying did not matter to him. The flies were open. He needed to be satisfied. Marcia wrapped her mouth around his penis and waited for the release. He buttoned his trousers and tidied his hair afterwards serenely.
?The taxi is here. Come on.?
This was the moment she knew she would kill him.
(8) Going out.
The window was dirty and greasy with the fingers of boys who wiped their hands on it, oily from the pies they had at lunch time. Through the window I could see a football pitch. There were some chaps playing down there, running almost chaotically on the grass, their breaths visible in the cold November air. Mr Fort was standing on the side yelling something silently. Not that anybody was listening. They seemed to be utterly lost trying to locate the ball. Idiotic, I though. Turning from the window I noticed Spivell coming out of the lavatory. He looked slightly dishevelled and as if he had a headache. I stuck my fists deep into the blazer pockets hoping he'd not notice me. After all, I was not supposed to be here staring at anything. I was supposed to be in prep. My palms got sweaty and a certain flight instinct asserted itself in my body. Spivell approached me, his wiry legs walking briskly but without any purpose. He glanced at me, a half smile poking out of the corner of his lips.
?Mercer, I see you have found an alternative way of entertainment. Or is it a kind of a psychological study of football you are conducting??
I straightened up, trying to avoid his eyes. At best I did not like him, and the fact he was mocking me so openly did not warm me to him either. He was wearing a stone coloured blazer, a blue shirt and a pair of well tailored chinos. His smile complimented the attire in a way that made it fit, like a well ordered photo, all arranged by Avedon. A tall man, with sandy floppy hair and a handsome face he cut a figure I could not ignore, yet at the same time found repulsive. Beyond the charm was a depth of nothingness that I could almost sense with my fingers as if I stuck them into some bloody mire. Those blue eyes looked at me coldly. The smile was there but not any warmth. I peered into his face and only beheld a departure- the man has waved his good byes and was sailing on a ship towards an unspecified shore. I was not even sure the shore existed at all. It was a departure into the unknown, a journey assisted by stars at night, in total darkness.
?I forgot...the time.? I stuttered, my eyebrows knitted.
?I have heard that so many times.? He laughed. ?Promise not to tell Mr Evans.? He picked up a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. ?Tell me Mercer, why are you here??
?Now??
?No, in general. Why are you in this school??
A perfectly simple question I could not possibly greet with any response. Why is anybody anywhere, really? If Spivell didn't know where he was both metaphorically and literally going, how could I understand my predicament. Even the way he was smoking the cigarette betrayed his inner lack of definition. It was like a prop he chose to deflect the attention from what he was really doing, which was painfully etched in the wrinkles around his eyes, practising non being, in a preparation for a disappearance act there was already underhand.
?My parents sent me here, Sir.?
Almost instantly he started laughing. There was a shard of glass in his laughter, a serrated edge that I didn't know whether was aimed at me or just intrinsic to it. It made me feel uncomfortable. I heard it before but in a detached manner emerging from C11 or the staff room. I tried to figure out what made the laughter so cruel, yet oddly sad.
?I am sure they were right.? He squinted against the ray of autumnal sun coming through the window, his left hand stubbing the cigarette out on the wall. There was something nonchalant and unusual in this gesture it surprised me. He gave me one of his searching looks, possibly longer than they usually were, and shook his head.
?They always know what is fucking good for you, Mercer. You should remember it your entire life, especially if you don't believe it. Especially...It's an odd thing, what we choose to believe in. The fact that this need exists sometimes frightens me.? There was a pause. He extended his hand and lightly brushed my cheek, his fingers both soft and icily cold. He rested it for a while stroking the side of my face in an nearly absent-minded manner. I could feel the longing and ultimately the heavy nature of romance hanging in the air. I knew it wasn't real, though. Spivell grasped at whatever he could just to retain his existence.
? Why are you shivering Mercer?? A line delivered with a flat curiosity was like an extension of the unspeakable gesture he executed in the middle of a school corridor. I was trying not to think. His eyes gazed at me again, glibly mapping my features as if he was trying to remember them, etch them in his mind for the foreseeable future. Spivell was a cartomancer of the uncharted territories; the seas between them deep, viscous, hollow, unknowable. Without another word he withdrew his hand and started walking away, not even turning his head.
(9) Going in.
Came back to the dorm, exhausted from my lunchtime little horror. I was surprised to see Toby lying on the bed with a book on Napoleonic wars. The hair flopped over his eyes and he was pulling an earlobe, the clear indication he actually was interested in what he was reading.
?Hi. What's up?? My voice, even to me sounded hollow. The shiver that entrenched itself in my body has not disappeared.
?Nothing.? He said.
?Any good? The book, I mean.?
?Passable.?
?How do you mean??
?Same old, same old...? He lifted his head from the pillow, smiling.
In that very moment all I could perceive was his silhouette against the window illuminated by the moon- a murky, half lit lamp in a dark hangar. He stretched slowly, the shirt going up exposing his flat belly. A shadow of hair was going down that milky surface. The frame jutted into the evening skyline, cutting with deep gashes into the flat greyness. He lied quietly there, almost laughing. Suddenly he pulled himself and sat upright, looking at me intently. I was offloading some books from the shelf, half aware of the fact he was sizing me up. I froze, for all it was worth.
?Are you still reading? Am I disturbing you??
?Not at all.? He rolled on the side and stretched out his arm. I froze. What on earth did he mean? My hands became clammy and I could feel a distinct pressure in my groin. He looked at me head straight and there was a kind of relentlessness in his gaze. I didn't know whether to follow his outstretched arm or to dismiss it as a sign of an over-familiarity.
?You should relax more Mercer. You are walking like some bloody time bomb. Don't interrupt me...Mercer I have been watching you.?
I nearly wanted to say the same thing though I didn't dare. It was the oppressive environment of the room and all that was happening around me, the haziness of every day which never translated into any positive outcomes, the Autumn beyond the glass pane of the windows, the distant and silent cries of Mr Fort on the football pitch. I often wondered why in the movies of our childhood Octobers and Novembers were always the visions of crisp sunshine afternoons, wrapped in a woollen scarf with a jaunty pattern, when in reality there was just mud, cold, wetness and the unbearable waiting for the end of it.
?I am alright. What the fuck do you want from me?? I slammed a maths textbook on the desk. He immediately rose his arched eyebrows and sat upright on the bed, the t-shirt crinkling around his slim torso.
?Since when have you become so tetchy? Jesus Christ, forgive me if I have offended your sensibilities by asking how you were. Fine, you don't want to talk, don't talk. I will find some quiet place to converse with myself, shall I?? Angry he was not. One thing that always mesmerized me about him was the calmness he exhibited on an everyday basis. No catastrophe could destroy his cool composure. It was almost as if he was gliding through life, effortlessly, as if he just sat in a lovely yacht cruising The Caribbean. And that was a boy who betrayed me every time he drew his breath. He betrayed not only me but the whole school.
He got up and grabbed the new jumper his mother recently bought him. It was a navy blue pullover with plait like pattern on the front reminiscent of a cricketer?s uniform. Another lie cladding Toby in a shroud of normality, the pretence of a sporting prowess and inner temple body cleanliness. Did his mother believed this lie or was she just trying to believe it, with a tenacity reserved for dumb animals protecting their progeny from the world. Oh, the big, bad world... He smiled that smile which gleamed like a sun filled day, like the memory of water touched by light, eternally streched in its impossibility. People believed it because it made them feel wanted and appreciated, warm with a promise of fulfillment of any wish they had on their minds. I often thought if the smile was what bind me to him from the first day when he projected it across the room. It possibly was. After all, I was not immune to the tricks of someone who was a master magician. He might have been only seventeen but certainly preccociously poised on the verge of talent to beguile, bluff and blind with that dazzling smile and the eloquently pitched voice.
?Would you kindly move? You're standing in my way Mercer.? I stirred quickly and nearly jumped to the right. He walked briskly past me on the way to the door.
?Hayes!? There was an unexpected urgency in my voice which surprised me.
?What now Mercer??
?I am sorry. Sorry I have been rude. Just lots on my mind...?
He grinned.
?T's alright. I am not offended.?
?Cool.?
(10). The Inner Life.
November came and gone each year with the same heaviness of the rain and the mist rising in the morning from the frozen blades of grass. Opening his eyes, again, in a vain attempt to chase away the persistent hungover, courtesy of last night's bottle of a cheap whiskey, Alan tried to concentrate on his garden, or the lack of it. He was never a keen horticulturalist and the patch of darkly green aboveground behind his kitchen door was tampered with but twice during all the eight years he's been living at 16 Hydrengea Close. The sight did not bring him any relief. He put the kettel on again and lit a cigarette. The dullness of another Saturday spent sitting, hopefully, on the couch and reading, instead of being called out into the miserable world, was comforting. He wondered whether that phonecall last night really happened. He had a vague recollection of that bastard's voice in its clipped, sharp and unadorned manner. When has he learnt to speak like a soldier? He poured the boiling water over the coffee granules. Yes, that call really happened. It had shook him to the core. For someone who did not like people ghosts were even less welcome. When he slammed the mobile down he must have drunk with an automatic measurment, until his outlook on apparitions was hazy enough to ignore them completely. I am too old for all of that, he thought. Not that he considered himself as having much of a life. He just drifted from a day to a day. Somehow he was never able to do anything. Work was different- he certainly could do that adequately well, if without any degree of charm. He knew his patients didn't like him. His colleagues didn't like him. He couldn't blame any of them. Customarily sour, bad tempered, tired and irritable the way he was, not exactly put him in the league of social sparklers. The only thing he could never reproach himself with was a lack of honesty. If he couldn't tell the truth, as sometimes even the patient knew, like old Beaumont for example, that the end was not far away, he just kept his silence, and they understood immediately. They used to say ?The worse it is the quieter he gets.? He slurped the coffe from the mug, trying to think of whether to have a shower first or try some desperate breakfast in a possibly futile attempt to get rid of that vicious headache billowing between his temples like an oceanic wind. Jesus, Toby bloody Hayes, that self- obssessed little back- stabbing wanker, he still had the power to make even his miserable life more wretched. Alan remembered him from school as the prime example of whom one should never attempt to be. He wished he could have been able to say something nice about him, but all that floated through his tortured brain was the memories of coldness and insincerity. He wondered how much has he changed physically, in a grotesque reminiscence and curiosity that would accompany an excavation of one's ex-wife, obviously hoping that the years were not kind at all. Were the eyes still so clear and gray? Was the skin tount and unblemished on that boyish skull? Was the hair still floppily cascading over the left temple? He extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray, where it joined its former friends from the crumpled pack. He lost all the appetite and decided to have a quick shower.
(11)
The bar was long and cavernous, dark with soft isles and pools of carefully arranged lights. Furnished with leather sofas and easy chairs, it spoke of comfort and tradition. Like his club in The City, it catered for people who wanted some peace, not being recognized, certainly not being spoken to. The majority was hiding behind the broadsheets, and he thought how often this place reminded him of the tube- its warmish hum of the train, silence and basic nonexistence in time, as if everybody, although certainly going somewhere, hold minutes of absolute lack of movement within themselves. He recognized the familiar cigarette fog that always brought to him a sense of despair.
?Rupert, good to see you!? A man in a tweed jacket and nonchalantly open shirt collar called to him from a nearby table. He was large, heavily perspiring as if it wasn't the middle of November but a sweltering Summer's day. He folded his newspaper and whacked it jollily down. He was now waiving hoping Spivell would notice him.
Wydaje mi się, że jesteś bardzo spostrzegawcza, umiesz obserwować ludzi i wykorzystać to potem przy pisaniu. Jeśli powstanie (lub powstał) ciąg dalszy, z przyjemnością przeczytam 
