The
long split-level room offered next to nothing comfortably accessible or
recognisable to ease the apparent tension between these two men. The walls of a
colour not-quite-there, a vague hint at tones never fully realised, frozen in
their development as if in some faulty Polaroid snapshot.
Tiny
droplets of water still trailed Skunk, though more sporadically now than
previous, joining the depressions from his boots and skinny walking stick as he
crossed the carpet.
deleted name: Do you
want to eh... Look eh, why don’t you give me the coat, take a seat, and I’ll
get us some beers, okay? Please?
Skunk
angled himself somewhat awkwardly from out the borrowed long coat, this
activity causing it to exude or displace more of its oily perfume around him.
In his host’s absence, he ascended the three wide and shallow steps to the
upper level where two pairs of prints hung upon opposing walls. Dark squares
hard and central to large white paper bordered by black wood, they gave up
nothing until viewed from only inches when deep grey shapes became apparent and
then close-to formed what he believed abandoned industrial sites.
deleted name
(returning with two bottles of Moosehead): Polish. They were a gift from a
friend of mine there. Here
handing
his guest a bottle, and Skunk taking it with a quiet
Skunk:
Thank you.
Skunk
watched as deleted name tipped his head right
back to swallow and saw breaking in the bottle’s green glass neck bubbles
luminous in what remained of the late spring light.
Her
death had become the subject of an as yet unspoken conversation that began to
demand voices of them both. They had viewed her body in silence, that room’s
quiet scent making space for Skunk, the coat he would not remove, and whatever
contribution deleted name made to the smell of
his own property, the whole queer tableau framed by an abstract triptych, three
enormous vertical prints of strange black and orange blotted masses that seemed
to ebb within themselves behind her, and Skunk now turned from the Polish
prints and away from deleted
name, heading slowly
for the lower part of the room, offering
Skunk:
This is only my second death. I have no no I have nothing to... I don’t have
anywhere to go to really, to pool some sort of
deleted name: Your
mother, right?
Skunk
(only momentarily surprised): Yes. But eh, that was different, you know. She’d
already been dead to me for a while before she really before she died.
Before she died...
deleted name sat
down in the sofa beneath the back window. His current suspicion that this might
be a long night would prove correct, for by the time the sun came up the carpet
would buoy two neat rows of Moosehead bottles with both men cried-out drunk,
and the diamond stylus of his turntable having spiralled its way through all
four sides of “Public Castration”. He folded his legs beneath himself.
deleted name: I
would have to count my deaths to give you a number, and I really don’t want...
That’s something I really don’t want to do just now. But I think what you
you...
He
coughed, hesitant.
deleted name: One of
the things, one of the worst things I think about death, about dying is,
it’s for the person dying, as well as actually dying, I’ve tried talking
about this before, you know, and it’s really difficult to give it over into
words. I know dying itself is, I’ve seen it, you know, I’ve watched...
It’s that preliminary moment, that cut-off point between the possibility of
recovery and the knowledge of the end of life, it’s... If you’re dying, not
only do you have to make some kind of attempt at sense of that, you know, that
my-life-is-ending-what-do-I-do? thing, but you also have to deal with the
resignation of those around you to your dying. And that’s something I’ve
found really... When my father died oh years ago now, well he knew, he was
given a date which was actually pretty accurate, the doctors gave him his
lifespan on a plate, and we all... They told me too, obviously, so I
knew he only had so long left. Imagine how it was for him, knowing that
I knew, and having to deal with that, both of us knowing that the way we acted
with each other and everything we said was coloured by this fact that we both
knew he would soon be dead. Basically a line of people visiting you to say
goodbye. It doesn’t leave much room for ah
Skunk
(angry): Is this supposed to make me feel better about all this? That I didn’t,
that I wasn’t... Because it’s not, okay, it is not helping.
He
studied the stereo equipment at the edge of the steps, a blank black of hidden
electronics with an absolute economy of front, a bare minimum of detail and
controls which suggested expense beyond anything that ever made public retail,
and the speakers in the corners of the room each equally suggestive of a
similar quality, their potential for volume rendering the room even more
anomalously quiet.
deleted name drank,
and waited.
Skunk
was surprised to find a record on the turntable, no artist or title on the
centre label, just a large “4”
blocked out white against the orange background, and a tiny black line that
separated into words as he leaned in close: “BURN
ONE”
The
weight of those two words so upset his centre of gravity as to make him clutch
both hands to the walking stick, a quick collision of glass against wood,
overspill wetting his fingers and then running the length of knotted hazel.
He
looked up and out of the window. It had finally stopped raining.
His
consuming wish was to return to her in her room, but unfamiliar as he was with
the geography of this house, he knew without help he could only become lost.
