Chosen Read online

  I followed Bruce, Celia and Marion along the beach. Every time I took a step I heard the shingle rattling and shifting right down into the centre of the earth, and even when we’d left the fire behind I still had cinders flying in my eyes. We had to clamber over many breakwaters; it felt like hundreds more than usual. I got stuck on top of a high one, petrified of leaping onto the dark crunch of the beach. Bruce came back to lift me down, his hands big and tight on the soft of my waist.

  I would have gone home, but by the time we arrived at the flat I needed to pee from all the cider, and didn’t think I’d make it. The flat was above Freeman, Hardy and Willis in the High Street. You had to go round the back and up an iron staircase that juddered and clanged and gave off a sickly metal smell.

  Inside, that smell gave way to a mixture of candle wax, joss sticks and cats. Sitar music was playing – Ananda Shankar, Bruce said. Marion was swaying along and watching Bruce greedily as he skinned up. I sat down and shot up again, shrieking – the sofa had shifted under me – and I realized I’d sat on the legs of a sleeping person. He sat up grumpily and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Hey, man,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Bruce mimicked. I flushed. The carpet was thick with cat hairs. The guy shifted his legs and patted the sofa beside him.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  ‘This is Melanie and Marion,’ Bruce said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Marion asked.

  ‘Bogart,’ he said, and chucked out a laugh.

  ‘Bogart?’ With his long wavy hair and beard, he looked like Jesus or Cat Stevens, though rather cross and rumpled.

  ‘As in, “Don’t”?’ Bruce said. I didn’t get it. Bogart’s eyes warmed as they looked at me, the irises round and brown as chocolate buttons.

  Celia came through with a trayful of mugs and a huge teapot. As she leaned to put the tray down I saw right down the front of her blouse between her hanging breasts to a loose roll of tummy. Her hair was a bit grey, I realized with a shock. It was the first time I’d socialized with a grey-haired person. I sat up a little straighter. I didn’t want tea or to smoke any more, but I didn’t know how to get out. The sitar was playing ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’, which made me nauseous.

  ‘Tea?’ Celia started splashing it into a selection of pottery mugs. The tea reflected shimmery patterns on the ceiling.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘I’ll be late.’

  ‘For what? Her mum’s dead,’ Marion explained and I shot her a look.

  ‘Your mum’s dead?’ Bogart leaned forward and looked at me intently and the way his eyes seemed to see right into me made me flinch. He put his hand out and touched my hair, pushed it away from my face and tucked a strand behind my ear. For some reason that made tears come. I stood up too quickly, stumbled and jolted the tray, spilling the tea.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Marion, but she was lying back on a beanbag holding a spliff as if she’d been born to it. I was afraid I was going to throw up on the hairy carpet. The floor was tilting, I was sure. I thought of all the thousands of shoes in the shop below me, neat in their boxes, all in their pairs, and that made me lonely.

  ‘I’ll walk you,’ Bogart said. ‘I need to get some fags anyway.’

  I looked helplessly at Marion but her eyes had gone into stars. Bogart staggered to his feet. I followed him down the stairs, clinging to the metal, not breathing until I got down and on to what I knew was solid ground, though it didn’t feel particularly solid. To my surprise he took my hand.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he said.

  I told him. His hand was soft and warm and dry.

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘That’s twice me.’

  ‘Far out, man,’ he said, and kissed me. I let him. I’d hardly been kissed before and never by an adult. We got to a cigarette machine outside a corner shop. He got his cigarettes then pressed me against the wall and kissed me again. A real snog, the beard grinding against my face. I was squashed between a drainpipe and the cigarette machine. His tongue went into my mouth like a warm eel and made me retch.

  ‘I think you touched my uvula,’ I said.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Far out.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘it’s just . . .’ Only I didn’t know just what. We were nearly at my house. He took my hand. What if a neighbour saw – but so what if they did? I was cut loose. There was nobody they could tell tales to about me any more. I felt very flat and in danger of folding up like a paper dolly with paper clothes, the sort you fix on with tabs. It wasn’t even properly dark; the sky was a high, light blue, only the ground and the houses were dark. Above the rooftops, the moon was a sickly grin.

  ‘Here we are,’ I said when we got to my house.

  We stood outside for a moment. I didn’t know what to do. In the end I said, ‘Do you want a coffee or some thing?’

  Having a stranger in the house made me see it differently. Stella had left her knickers bleaching in the sink so that’s how it smelled. I put the kettle on. He suddenly came up behind me and I shrieked but he calmed me down as if I was a nervy horse, stroking and mumbling until I lay back against him.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. The tap was dripping into the knickers with a very intricate sound. I was chilly and he was warm against my back. I yawned.

  ‘We’re going to be together, man,’ he said.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Soon as I saw you.’

  ‘But –’ I said, and then stopped. The warmth of another body against mine was persuasive. And his eyes were melting brown. And he was so much older that I was inclined to believe him. And anyway, anyway, history has proved him right.

  We ate all Stella’s custard creams and then we went upstairs. My room was so babyish, with its single bed and posters of Cat Stevens, but he didn’t seem to care. When he took off his clothes and his penis jumped out, I was shocked. I’d never seen a full-grown one before. It seemed like a joke or an exaggeration or a foodstuff of some kind. It didn’t seem part of him at all with his ribs and the fine black hairs on his chest and then this swollen pointing sausage.

  I changed into my pyjamas in the bathroom. We got into my bed. I was startled at myself that I should be so slaggish. But this wasn’t a boy, it was a man and, besides, nobody would know or care. Stella wouldn’t be laughing at me any more when she found out.

  He kissed me and touched me and I just let myself open up to him. He lay on top of me and when he pushed in it was a burning pain and not much pleasure, and then a mess.

  Afterwards he smoked a cigarette. It was awkward and the mattress was tilting and I was trying to keep my bottom out of the sticky patch.

  ‘When did your mum die?’ he asked.

  ‘The end of May,’ I said.

  His breath stopped halfway through a puff. ‘The end of May?’ he said. ‘May this year?’

  ‘The thirtieth,’ I said.

  ‘Christ.’ He sat up, scattering ash everywhere. ‘Wow. Man. And what about your dad?’

  ‘He lives in Saudi with his new family. He does send money.’

  ‘So, you live alone?’

  ‘With my sister.’

  ‘Older?’

  ‘No, she’s thirteen.’

  A series of unreadable expressions flickered across his face, and he got up and walked about the house. I put on my dressing gown and followed him. He went in all the rooms, just put his head round the door as if looking for something. I didn’t like it when he peered into Mum’s room or Stella’s. I was shivering, with cold and strangeness. In the hall he put his arms round me and held me tight enough to stop the shivering. ‘You poor little chick,’ he said, stroking my back. I slumped against him. I needed to sleep.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. I went to wash and looked in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet. I thought, I’ve done it. What if I’m pregnant? I thought he’d get his clothes on and go hom
e, but when I got back into the bedroom he was in bed with his arms held out. I climbed back into his arms and clung.

  ‘I knew that this was meant,’ he said, ‘soon as I saw you walk into that room.’

  ‘But you didn’t see me walk in. I sat on you!’ I said. He didn’t say anything to that, just stroked and murmured and eventually fell asleep. I slept hotly and uncomfortably, with my head against his booming chest.

  †

  Bogart never left except to fetch a rucksack full of stuff and his guitar. After a week of cramming into my room, he suggested we move into Mum’s because of the bigger bed. At first I said no. Then I made him at least buy some new sheets but still, lying there with him on top of me, I’d always think of Mum.

  He had a very windy stomach. Sometimes in the night I got out of the Mum-memories and the smell of farts and crawled into the innocent space of my own narrow bed. He was vegetarian and was always soaking chickpeas. Jars full of mung beans sprouted on the kitchen windowsill.

  Stella didn’t mind anything except us being in Mum’s room. Although she was living in the house, she was on a different planet. She hardly ate – sometimes I’d find half a biscuit in the tin, the broken end sucked soft by her need for something sweet. She grew fur on her arms and the slopes of her cheeks. Bogart worried about her weight and her obsession with cleaning, and did sometimes get her to eat the yogurt that he made in a vacuum flask. He talked about her as if she was a baby and even tried, when term started, to get her to go to bed at half past ten. We were in the kitchen and she was worrying at the grouting round the sink with a bleachy toothbrush.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ she said.

  He thought about that. It was just the sort of question he liked, even then. ‘A mortal body animated by spirit –’ he began, but she cut him off.

  ‘No, I mean who do you think you are to tell me what to do?’

  I had my new timetable spread out on the table. Celia had come round. She laughed at the table mats with Constable’s Hay Wain and I wanted to sock her in the mouth. I didn’t like such big breasts in our kitchen, brushing so close to Bogart’s face.

  ‘You’re a scrounger,’ Stella told Bogart.

  ‘Stell!’ I said.

  ‘You’re like a hermit crab,’ she said, ‘scuttling into our house just because our mum is dead.’ I was going to point out that that wasn’t what hermit crabs did but she’d started to cry, the first time I’d seen her cry since Mum died. I went to hug her but Celia beat me to it and had her engulfed in her bosom.

  Stella submitted for a minute then she pulled away. I followed her to her room. I hadn’t been in it for weeks. It was neat and cold with the window open, but still with a strange sweet smell. She was curled up in a little ball on the bed. I sat down beside her. She let me stroke her arm. I could feel the beat of blood through the skin.

  ‘He makes a mess in the kitchen,’ she said, ‘and in the bog. What would Dad say, or Aunt Regina, or the social worker?’

  ‘Probably freak out,’ I agreed. Bogart started to play his guitar downstairs. I looked at Stella; surely she must at least enjoy his music?

  ‘Do you want to go to Saudi?’ I said. ‘Or Peebles?’

  She shook her head. ‘Do you?’

  I thought about it. Here I was, living almost like a married person with someone I hardly knew. In Saudi, maybe, I could go back to being a child again. I wanted someone to give me rules to break or follow. But then I imagined taking on a stepmother and two half-sisters. The only sister I wanted was Stella. I stayed beside her, listening to Bogart singing a song about a thin green candle, and to Stella breathing, until she fell asleep.

  When I got back in the kitchen, Celia had gone and Bogart was frying onions. I stood watching him. From the back or the side he was good-looking enough, but you would only know his magic by looking into his eyes. He had this way of gazing at you that pierced your soul. Once he was looking at me, I could refuse him nothing: my own will shrugged its shoulders and slunk away. I suppose I loved him by then, though I didn’t want to. I knew I should be telling him to leave; it wasn’t fair on Stella. I was her big sister and it was up to me to care for her.

  It was her fourteenth birthday on the first day of term, the most terrible day to have a birthday. And even if she wasn’t going to eat it, I was going to make her a birthday cake.

  ‘Do you mind, er, like going?’ I said to Bogart.

  He turned round to face me. I stared at the table, but he put his finger under my chin and looked into my eyes. ‘Going where, honey?’ he said.

  But I couldn’t do it. I wriggled on the end of his finger. ‘Going to get some cake stuff,’ came out of my mouth. ‘I want to make a cake for Stella.’

  ‘A cake for Stella!’ He laughed.

  ‘You never know, she might have a bit.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ he said.

  ‘No. I want to.’

  ‘While you’re at school, then you come home with Stella to a fresh-baked cake. Far out, eh?’

  In the end I was grateful, the first day of term was busy and absorbing, getting different teachers and timetables for my new A-level subjects. I didn’t mention Bogart to anyone else. The teachers and everyone were nice to me since I was bereaved. It felt so false. In my blazer pocket was a prescription for the pill, given very grudgingly by the doctor.

  It was a melting golden afternoon when we came out of school. An ice-cream van was tinkling Brahms’ ‘Lullaby’ and Marion was waiting for me. She wanted me to come to hers, but I had to go to the chemist and get my pills.

  ‘Mum says you should come to tea, both of you,’ Marion said. ‘She doesn’t think it right you living on your own. You could come once a week.’

  ‘Tell your mum we’re fine,’ I said, and I think she was relieved. I watched her walk off down the road, satchel bumping against her hip.

  Bogart’s cake was not the pink and white confection of my imagination – it was dark brown and shaped like a brick. I’d bought and blown up a few balloons and wrapped presents – a velvet smock and a copy of Bonjour Tristesse, which I’d read carefully, so I didn’t mark the pages. Bogart gave her Siddhartha and I felt jealous. He’d never given me a present – but then it hadn’t been my birthday yet. Dad sent her a cheque, and Aunt Regina a nightie.

  ‘There’s something else. A present for us all,’ Bogart said.

  ‘Where?’ Stella asked.

  ‘You’ll have to wait till Saturday.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He tapped the side of his nose and grinned.

  I put a night-light on top of the cake and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’. A balloon fell off the lampshade and popped on the candle flame, making Bogart say, ‘Holy shit.’ Stella did look pleased with our effortful celebrations. She even smiled at Bogart before she took the bread knife to the cake and sawed three slices. It was amazing to see her eat. She just took a bite as if this was quite an everyday thing to do. When she saw me staring she said, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I took a bite myself. It was made with molasses and wholemeal stuff, quite dry and hard to chew. Why did Stella eat it? To be polite? Or was she starting to get better? Would she have got better? She opened her presents and held the smock against her; it was maroon, beaded, bought from the Indian shop on the seafront.

  Bogart rolled a joint and made a pot of tea. I was petrified the police or the social worker would burst in, but why should they? My new timetable was in my satchel and my first homework: read A Passage to India. I wanted something plain to eat, something with mashed potato, and then to do my homework and go to bed early.

  Stella, to my amazement, continued picking at the cake, cramming crumbs in her mouth and giggling. She reached for the joint and Bogart let her.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ Stella said, just as he was saying, ‘It’s her birthday,’ their voices sliding into a collision that they found funny. Suddenly I needed to throw up. I got to the bathroom in time and stayed
there for ages, my cheek on the seat of the toilet, which thanks to Stella was spotless. I put my lips around the end of the tap and drank water, swilling it round my mouth. I looked in the mirror at my cheeks, white where they were usually pink, and at the shadows under my eyes.

  Downstairs, Stella was puffing away and nibbling at the cake. Bogart had his feet – bare and yellow-soled – up on the table.

  I looked in the cupboard. ‘Shall we have spaghetti?’ I said. Stella put the joint in a saucer and Bogart quickly snatched it up and filled his lungs. Stella got up and stared past me. Her widened eyes looked pink and rabbity.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘I know you don’t want spaghetti.’

  She pointed towards the door.

  ‘What?’

  Her lips had gone white. Her pointing finger shook. ‘Mum,’ she mouthed.

  ‘Woah there,’ Bogart said. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, can’t you see her?’ Her mouth tried to form a smile, a smile for Mum.

  Bogart frowned at me as if there was something I could do.

  ‘Let’s watch telly,’ I said.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she said. She closed her eyes and swayed and then she opened them and started to giggle.

  ‘You monkey,’ Bogart said. ‘She was having us on.’

  ‘She was there,’ Stella insisted, ‘but she was wearing, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Telly,’ I said, and steered her into the sitting room. I turned it on and it was The Clangers, Granny Clanger knitting tinsel out of frost. When Mother Clanger came on, fussing about and making Small and Tiny go into the warm cave, Stella started to cry.

  ‘They’re just puppets,’ I said, but I was fighting against the urge myself, the sweet whistling creature was nothing like our mother, of course, who, even if she was still alive, would probably be sneaking vodka into her tea.

  A smell of burning curry powder drifted from the kitchen and my mouth filled with the taste of sick.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ I said, ‘it’s your birthday.’

  ‘It was Mum,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.’