Part 4
* * *
As far as reunion shows go, this one was surprisingly good. Maybe I just missed
it. Maybe I just missed standing up there, mashing buttons, mangling samples,
making the floor shake with my bassbomb. Maybe I just missed a sea of faces
bathed in smoke and random lights, a dark hive of bodies and limbs, smell of
sweat and ganja.
I saw Kevin smile quite a few times during the gig, I swear I did. The man in
black smiled. His hairy face actually allowed the grin to surface for a few
seconds here and there. He missed it too.
We were good. We were anarchic and noisy and sloppy and charming and cheesy, but
we were good. It felt really good to be there. Fuck, Jimmy, you could have been
there with us.
But he wasn't, it was his decision, if you can call random madness a decision,
he was unavailable, lost, fading fast, surfing on the wave of fear and guilt and
panic and self pity month after month after month after month. He was dead to
the world, a zombie, he was falling apart in his head, long before his body
started falling apart. He was beyond. The virus was eating him and his sanity.
It would move on to his body if Gothboy leaves any body for it to devour. Some
people cope with it, some people kill themselves. Jimmy was not brave enough to
kill himself and he couldn't cope with it. He was our friend but he was dead. We
were dead for him and he was dead for us. Dead friend. Dead friends. You usually
remember them with affection. Kevin and me tried not to remember Jimmy as much
as we could help it.
"Man, we fucking rocked."
Kevin was sweaty and smiling through his beard, his earrings like beacons in
changing darkness of the venue.
"I told you, man. I told you. We fucking rock, man, we rock hard. We own this
place, man."
Yeah, it was good, it was better than I thought it would be. It was good,
healthy fun. It was two men slapping each other's back and giggling and speaking
like schoolboys. I felt so high. I felt so innocent. I felt so... right and
purposeful. It was good.
* * *
"No, please, STOP IT, PLEASE, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"
No. I am afraid I can't stop now. She used it. She used the word. But I can't
stop now. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck, I can't stop this now, no. I am not in
control any more. It's happening and I am spiralling down like a goose shot in
mid-air.
The first time she used the word. She is screaming in such fear, in such panic,
were I able to stop this, I would. I swear I would. I am sorry. I truly am
sorry. I didn't mean this to happen.
But it is too late to be sorry now, the noise grows in volume, the confusion
grows in complexity. I am almost blind, there's something red over my eyes and
when hands grab me (dozens? hundreds?) and throw me to the ground, I lose sense
of time and place. The sound that is repeating, I know it: it's fists colliding
with my skull, blunt, loud noises of bone against bone. Then enter the kicks.
Everywhere. Fucking hell, it hurts so much it hurts so fucking much. I assume
Clarissa is still screaming but I can't see, I can't hear. Fuck. This is going
to stop. I know that. It always does. If it just didn't hurt so much, I could
cope with the humiliation...
The humiliation is what gets me. Despite all it's what gets me. I wish Clarissa
didn't see this. Oh, OK, I agree, it would also help if the whole club was not
there to witness me being thoroughly beaten and thrown out, but if I had only
one wish to be granted by cosmic powers that be, it would be for Clarissa to
have not been there. But she was. And she was begging me to stop, long after
there was no way in hell for me to stop it. Even though I wished I could.
As it is often the case, it started with me trying to impress a woman. The
extent of idiocy created by male attempts to impress females is scary.
So, we are in this club, OK, and this big, blonde guy starts talking to me about
me pimping Clarissa to other men. Now, I admit it, I am not what you'd call a
role model for young people to look up to, but I swear I wasn't going around
bragging about me making Clarissa a whore and taking money for that. Among other
things, I'd really feel insecure telling other men about these things. Fine,
don't believe me if you don't want to, it is true. I only felt comfortable
mentioning this in front of women. It makes me look cool. It makes me look
strong and dominant. Damnit, it makes me look sexy and powerful doesn't it?
So this guy heard it from another guy who heard it from another girl who heard
it from Sandra. Uh-oh. Yes, I did tell Sandra about it, it was a good evening if
I recall well and I was feeling fine and drunk and when the subject came up, it
felt only natural to talk about it. And I did. There's nothing wrong with that.
There is nothing wrong with that.
Now, this guy, I know him from here and there and around. We're not friends, not
even acquaintances, I don't know his name. He knows mine, but many people do,
OK? So he starts talking and I talk back. This is what going out in the evening
is about isn't it? Just being there and swimming in the sea of noise and
conversation and alcohol and bodies.
But the conversation soon takes a turn I don't like at all. This guy sounds to
me as if he is out to prove something. And I don't feel comfortable around him.
He tells me about his experience with "whores" and I leave a decent impression
of listening to him with polite attention. All the while I am hoping to spot a
crack in this dialogue and get the hell out of it. He makes me feel dirty and
cheap and I don't want to feel this way, I have come to groove and have a few
drinks and smoke a joint and grab some of Clarissa's arse in front of all those
people, I haven't come to discuss women being raped and exploited.
Now, he says things I wouldn't even dare pronounce. He tells me what women
really want and need and how he's come to know that. He tells me what he did to
this and that woman. He's bragging and he's fucking annoying me and I wish I had
told him I am not in the mood to talk when I could. He tells me about how he
went to Kosovo as part of an expedition of journalists and he tells me about
brothels down there and about what they did to slaves working in those brothels.
Am I supposed to admire him? He tells me he nearly bought one of the slaves from
her owner and brought her back with him but decided that paperwork would be too
much trouble which would effectively kill the advantage of her price being just
200 dollars. Before I comment, and I am not even sure what I'd say, he goes on
to tell me that owning slaves is not new to him and then explains all about
"this slut" he had met and then made his slave and what he did to her (and some
of it makes me shiver, is he trying to impress me?) and how he sold her after
growing bored of her.
"She used to be a school teacher!!", he exclaims, triumphant and self-important.
I hate this jerk by now. What I see as a secret, as something to share with
selected persons only, in whispers and allusions, he laughs and brags aloud
about. What I feel like a fistful of burning embers in my intestines and what I
still do not dare name is just a pastime to him. Call it my insecurity, no
problem. No problem at all. Just the thought of him laying one finger at
Clarissa fills me with rage and fear. And raging fear. Because, she... She
might... Oh, no, no, come on, come on, be serious, how could she, come on, be
realistic, could she?
Couldn't she?
I try to control myself. I really do. I want out of this situation, I want out
of this place and I want to go home and I want Clarissa to be near me. The
simple things. The things I can control. I don't want this fucking redneck
breathing his crap into my face.
I tell him that what he described sounds like fun but that it's not really my
bag of beans.
He looks down at me as if I just told him I have a vagina in the place where my
manly snake should be.
He tells me I haven't seen nothing until I have seen a "whore" raped and beaten
up begging to be hit again because she is scared what you might do if she
doesn't. I tell him I'd rather skip that. I believe I even use the expression
"pretty fucking disgusting".
He tells me that I am full of shit and that I should be the one to talk.
I tell him that he has no fucking idea whatsoever about me and that he shouldn't
be making assumptions he might be sorry to discover are wrong.
He tells me that I should cut the crap. He tells me I should get off of my high
horse, that we, the Brits have invented concentration camps. He tells me that we
have done things in India that were worse than anything Nazis came up with. He
tells me we are natural exploiters. He calls me a fucking bigot and a racist.
What the fuck?
What the FUCK??
What did he just call me?
My mother was Indian, my mother was from Bombay, you idiot. I received so much
fucking racist insults from skinheads when I was a kid it's not fucking funny.
He tells me that I think I am better than him. I don't know. He calls me a
faggot. He tells me I am dickless. He tells me I masturbate looking at other
guys fuck Clarissa because I can't get it up when left alone with her. He is out
to fight. I can see that clearly now. It is not too late. I see what he is about
now. I can see his wish to prove his manhood and his dominance, I can see his
stupid schoolboy act and his simple mindset. It's cool, I see what he is about
now. It is not to late. I can get out of this unscarred. I understand it. I can
walk away now.
And then I punch him in the face with all the helpless anger and frustration I
can muster.
Seconds pass as I wait for the noise to subside. Seconds pass, hours pass, years
race by, fucking lifetime spirals down the drain, making an obscene sound. They
don't seem to get tired as they keep kicking and punching me.
Next time, I will use a bottle and I will be out before anyone understands. Next
time I will be smarter. There will be no fistfights. I will not be the victim.
This time however, he is indeed better than me. By the time the security guys
descend on us, he has already spilt enough of my blood to make the whole scene
resemble something out of Halloween flicks. My fists leave no visible marks on
his face or maybe it is just my vision betraying me. By contrast, my hearing is
fantastic and, regardless of the fact that the music has not decreased in
volume, I can hear his and mine breathing, I can hear Clarissa scream.
"No, please, STOP IT, PLEASE, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, PLEASE!!! KALI!!!"
Too late, too fucking late, the word, the word, she used it, I can't, no, I am
sorry, sweety, I am sorry I have betrayed you, I am sorry, sorry sorry sorry
The security guys are big and look scary and I would never pick a fight with
them. But they have seen who started this, everyone has seen me attack this
asshole with my fists, everyone has seen my impotent rage at work. And they know
I need to be taught a lesson.
They make so much noise, God, when will this stop?
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
Please forgive me.
* * *
The miracle of DVD burning.
The DVD is meant as present to Clarissa.
First time, however, I watch it alone. I have strapped my self to my seat, I
have put my crash helmet on, my fire extinguisher is ready to be used and a
bottle of Vodka is riding shotgun by my side. Just in case. Just to keep my fear
at bay.
The miracle of DVD burning. The miracle of digital technology. The capability of
making your own films at home: your digital camera bought second hand for one
third the price, your cracked editing software and cheap video card in your
computer, your DVD burner locked and loaded and - puff you're off: one man
Hollywood out to conquer the world. What once took tons of money and heaps of
people and arcane technology is now available in portable form. One night of
sweaty sex and sweaty editing, one morning of burning and next afternoon your
new masterpiece of homemade porn hits the streets. There are people who will pay
for this, there are many of them out there.
But this one is not supposed to be commercially available. The brothers have
made it for her. Oh, they say it was made for me, but it is clear enough who it
was made for. Isn't it?
It was something I couldn't say 'no' to.
I was aching. I was miserable. I hated myself. What else is new?
But seriously, I could refuse. I could have said 'no'. I had a choice.
The twins, Julian and Andrew got back in touch one weekend and they had a
proposition. They were very polite in their email and it was obvious they were
experienced and could be trusted. They asked about Clarissa joining them at
their place next weekend. They actually asked whether I'd allow her to join
them. They thought about inviting some friends around and having an exciting
weekend. Of course, I was more than welcome to join in, they actually sounded
very friendly, as if we have become close and somewhat intimate through the fact
that the two of them and their dog fucked my girlfriend out of her senses. Aw,
they were friendly and they were very polite and I was an asshole, as usual.
They said that they will, of course, understand if I say no, as Clarissa's sole
owner and master. I was free to say no. But, they said, they were hoping I
accept their offer as the time they had with Clarissa was "very intense" and
they felt she had the potential to provide even more. I was free to say no.
I was aching. I was smashed up and glued back together again, I was good for
nothing for more than three weeks, slowly recovering from the severe beating
that I deserved/ caused/ called upon myself. There was no way in hell I could do
this. I was free to say no. I didn't even have to mention this to Clarissa. I
was free to refuse. I had every right to do it. I was recovering from beating, I
was hurt and fucked up. I needed to rest. I couldn't stand a thought of spending
two days watching people fuck and torture my girlfriend. I couldn't stand a
thought of seeing her please them. No.
I didn't even have to mention this to Clarissa. It was a polite request and I
could have rejected it politely. I didn't have to mention it to Clarissa.
Her breathing got heavy almost within seconds. Her face went red. Her eyes were
watching in disbelief, asking, begging, promising.
"But... You won't be there?"
No. No way. I couldn't do it, please don't ask me to do it. I'd rather be
anywhere else than there.
You don't need me. The panic takes me over as I repeat this in my mind. You
don't need me.
"You don't need me." It still hurts when I try to grin so I have to make this
just a small smile, but I make it twice as convincing.
You don't need me to have a good time.
"You don't need me to have a good time. I am going to be busy next weekend and
you know I am good for nothing as it is."
She does, there is no dispute here. She has seen her Nick, her Master beaten to
a bloody pulp and she knows just how helpless I was. I am still just as
helpless, I just make an effort.
It takes some time, but I know she will accept. I can't take this away from her,
no. I can't be that selfish. This is her dream coming true. This is her chance
to live what she just read about in that story about Rachel being abducted and
raped and tortured. And she read it without breathing, she read it without
blinking. This is her dream becoming reality. I will not be an asshole this
time. I will not. Just this one time. I can do it. I can.
* * *
Kevin has never played the UK before and he found the difference between these
and American crowds to be significant. I asked if that meant that he is
displeased with the way UK audiences reacted to our music, but he was quick to
dispel that notion. He said it was just... very different. I made a point by
saying that we are also very different now. It was obvious and needed no
explanation. We haven't played live for quite a while and we were not a
three-piece any more. It was just me and him, bouncing ideas off each other,
improvising around each other's sounds and accidents. We were together for a
long time and it worked like a dream. We sounded a lot tighter now, even for all
the obvious fresh chaos in music we were making, the absence of Gothboy's stage
antics probably contributing to this significantly.
But we were really good. Really good. It was a new entity altogether, a new kind
of beast we brought into life, new energy, new blood. It felt good. It felt good
coming back home and then just doing this amazing music. Kevin wasn't sure about
this and I wasn't sure about this either, but Martin insisted we give it a shot
and I desperately needed something to do, something to occupy myself with. I
thought that just coming back home after a decade and then some, would give me a
lot to work with, impressions, memories, old friends, old places and new,
especially in the state I was in. But, of course, no. You need to do something,
you need to occupy yourself with something to prevent yourself from dissolving.
So the result was new music and lots of it and they seemed to love us.
* * *
The DVD was made from two days worth of video footage, edited down to just above
two hours. Which is just as well, some more of it and I wouldn't have been able
to sit through. I'd run out of gasoline, the bottle was dangerously low on fuel
the way it was. I was low on self esteem, the way it was. The way we were. And
all that.
It was a rough, homemade cut, unconcerned with subtler ways of video editing,
abundant with abrupt jumps and cuts, awkward angles, bad lightning, grainy
sound... I held my eyes closed through parts of it and the sound itself reminded
me of any abstract tape-splicing composition done by any number of noise artists
in Japan, America or Europe back in the eighties. Sounds concealing their
sources, words half-forming in the air but cartwheeling around the room and
escaping understanding, human-made noises begging to be recognised as
expressions of pain? pleasure? fear? fun?
What it lacked in subtlety, the footage made up in mercilessly clear narration.
The order of events was chronological and just plain logical.
It starts with Clarissa being presented to the posse. A loud cheer and noisy
appreciation from a group of people. Maybe ten of them, maybe less, maybe more,
can't tell for sure, the people operating the camera never bother with doing a
shot of the whole room. There are people of both sexes there but I think it is
safe to say that males prevail.
The camera jumps from Clarissa to the group in the room and back. Clarissa
stands there, smiling. The movements of the camera are jerky and I can't be
sure. The smile is there, I know she is scared. I know she must be scared. She
must be scared.
Clarissa stands there, bowing her head. Clarissa stands there smiling. I have
seen this DVD only once, I am not sure how well I remember.
Clarissa is getting an enema. She is being cleaned inside in front of all those
people. The experienced hands lead her to the bathroom and attach the gadgets to
her as others watch and chat among themselves. A tall, dark, longhaired guy
orders her around and I can see her looking at him with such mixture of fear and
adoration it hurts me. He explains all about her being filthy and how they need
to do this to make her even acceptable for what they will do to her later. He
asks her whether she understands and she responds in the softest voice I know.
The low fidelity reproduction turns it into something straight out of the
forties, the lines of text edited out of Bogart's films, left unheard, censored,
haunting the dreams of all of us who always imagined them there, pasted them
into empty spaces.
Clarissa is being filled with liquid. She is being plugged. She is being
exhibited for all to see. She is being mocked and degraded. She is naked and
barefoot in a house full of people still fully dressed and pointing at her.
I hear her saying that there is too much fluid in her, she says that it hurts
her. But she is obedient.
I don't know how long they leave it inside her as the video jumps straight to
the moment when she is made to spread her legs around the toilet seat and take
the plug out. I hear her moan when the dark water gushes out. It's a moan of
relief, isn't it? Ah, well, one can fool himself when there's no one around to
point out the obvious.
Fastforwarding is not an option. I will sit through all of it. I don't want to
miss something important.
Actually, I lie, I'd love to miss it. I'd love to have never seen this, but it
is not an option either. Seeing it is bad enough. But not seeing it and then
spending time thinking about what might be on that DVD would be worse. It's a
pick-your-torture situation, just like in all those jokes with people ending up
in hell. It's probably funny when you are not the one being joked about.
Clarissa is made a servant for a while. The merry guests at the twins'
fuck-party sit and stand around chatting and drinking and eating. Clarissa is on
all fours. She is collared. She is wearing a pair of thin, sharp high heels (I
bought those for her. I DID!), her silver ankle chain and make-up, nothing else.
Her anus is filled with a large, thick butt-plug. A chain is attached to her
collar and one of the twins (I decide to stop trying to identify them and will
continue calling each of them just "a twin") leads her around the room, and she
is crawling on all fours. The twin approaches one group of his guests at a time
and demonstrates how obedient his puppy-girl is. He makes her do things for
their pleasure and amusement. She lies still when he orders her. She licks his
feet when he orders her. She hurts her own breasts when he orders her. It is
amazing to see how viciously she pinches her own nipples, how savagely she
squeezes her own breasts when being watched.
"What a slut!" a female voice exclaims from out of the field of vision lent to
me by the camera.
Of course, the people were not invited to watch only. They express their wish to
participate and to be pleasured. Clarissa is not just an exhibition item here.
She is to be used.
She is ordered to beg and she does. She crawls up to a guy standing with another
guy and a girl and she looks up to him and begs him to let her suck his cock. He
teases her and makes her beg more and more and more. He makes her say awful
things about herself. He makes her kiss his shoes. He steps on her head and pins
it down to the ground. The camera manages to catch the expression on her face,
despite the bad light. Her eyes are closed, she is completely motionless, under
his foot she awaits further instructions.
The next several minutes are a mix of sucked cocks, caressed balls, licked
assholes, kissed feet and toes. Clarissa sucking one guy and jerking the other
one off. Clarissa sucking two cocks alternately, then both of them trying to
break into her mouth at a time. Clarissa sucking a thin, high heel while the
owner of the shoe is making out with a guy whose cock Clarissa just had in her
mouth. Clarissa being sprayed with semen over her face and breasts. Clarissa, on
the bathroom floor, sucking one guy off, her head turned back at a very
difficult angle, her neck strained as she makes an effort to pleasure him,
another guy between her legs, thrusting into her, again and again and again.
They come, one at a time and they are replaced one at a time, while her hands
are getting busy preparing another pair of guys to fuck her. More sperm on her
body. Then an abrupt cut to a close-up of a pussy being spread with male
fingers. For a second I am terrified, but I realise this is not Clarissa, no,
they haven't had her clit pierced, this woman is a bit heavier than Clarissa,
obvious when the camera zooms out and then the pussy starts leaking. A stream of
piss is quickly followed and when I see where it hits I close my eyes for one
painful moment. I open them, hoping that the dream is over now, the nightmare is
over, the dreaming is over, but it's not. Clarissa...
Her mouth is open. Not all of it gets in, as it is difficult to aim with your
pelvis while you're standing, so most of it falls on Clarissa's face and hair
and on the floor, but her mouth is open, inviting, obscene. She is held down and
she is moaning in humiliation. And her mouth is open.
I take a sip from a bottle. I take a long, painful sip from a bottle. My eyes
fill with tears, fucking Russians, what the fuck is this anyway, how can anyone
in their right mind even think of drinking this. This shit is poison, it's
liquid fire, it burns me, burns my mouth and my throat. It hurts. It's poison.
It doesn't cure anything, it's poison.
Clarissa's ass is being fucked by several people in the row. She is receiving a
lashing before the first guy penetrates her, a cane is used to stripe her ass. I
can barely make her words out due to the fact the camera is focused on her arse
and that she is speaking through cries of pain, but I can hear her thanking
them. She is begging to be punished. She is thanking for the punishment. She is
a dirty slut, worthless and nothing, she is only worth if the punishment brings
them pleasure. A hand pulls the plug out of her anus and sticks it in her mouth.
Then the first of the cocks impales her. There is no KY, no lube, just a bodily
motion that forces it in. He pulls out after a couple of thrusts, spits into her
open anus and then pushes back in.
By the end of this particular episode, I have taken a couple more long sips of
poison. Clarissa's arse is read from the lashing she received and her anus is
stretched more than I have ever seen it before. Someone pulls out of it and
sticks his two index fingers in and then pulls into opposite directions. I don't
know if I hear Clarissa cry in pain as the noise around the camera rises with
everyone cheering. Her asshole is stretched, wet and slippery from precum and
sperm shot in and around it, the camera almost sinks into it. It's obscene, it's
scary, why the fuck am I watching this?
After multiple cumshots, she is finally given a chance to rest, but not before
she collects as much of the spit and semen off her ass with her palms as she can
and then licks it all off.
She is given a chance to rest, but not me. Not me. The video cuts to something,
without a pause. Motherfuckers, didn't anyone teach them how to do blackouts?
The video cuts to something on the floor and for a second I can't tell what it
is I am watching. But I am drunk by now, seriously drunk. It doesn't help.
I realise it is people, the twins and some other people pulling back to let the
camera catch the event on the floor. It is Clarissa, doing it again, God, again.
It was probably not easy making the animal accept it this way and therefore the
video cuts directly to action. Clarissa is doing it again, she is fucking the
Doberman, only this time, she is lying on her back and he is on top of her. It's
interesting, I say to myself in absolute horror, the doggystyle position should
be more degrading, right, but seeing her lying on her back, her arms around him,
her legs around him, I see her embracing him like her lover, her lover of
choice, her partner, her lover from hell, her partner in sin. It's strangely
surrealistic, it's horrifying, it's beautiful and disgusting, sweet mother, how
can she... And I hear her moan. And I see her sucking his cock until he comes
into her mouth and the camera catches every single detail of her in the effort
of licking his cock clean and gathering all the semen from her lips and cheeks
and swallowing it. The camera zooms in into her face and I just can't describe
the expression on it. I can't.
The day two is signified by Clarissa having more clothes on. It breaks down to
stockings and suspenders and a set of bra and panties that get shot away fairly
early in. They do so many things to her that I can not even remember them. It's
all one chaotic painting in my head now. Bodies on bodies, fluids and colours,
textures and shadows. She is lying on her back on a bench obviously made for
this kind of thing. Her legs are spread and her ankles tied down. Her head hangs
down over the edge of the bench and one after one, men take her head in their
hands and fuck her mouth. Others come from the other side and fuck her pussy and
ass, brilliantly exposed in this position. She is being fucked and whipped, her
breasts are being tied and tortured with clips and pins and wax. She is being
pissed upon and cum upon. I don't remember how it ends.
* * *
So.
I told Clarissa that the DVD is fantastic. I told her she will love it. I
promised we will watch it together. I promised that she will get what she
deserves for being such a slut. She laughed over the telephone. She was...
happy? Is that the word?
Anyway, it all happened pretty quickly from that point on. It's either that or
my memory is blocking out the details, either way, I remember only main events
and don't seem to recall anything else.
We never watched it together, of course. Be serious. I assume that she has seen
it later, after all, it was a gift for her, I could not deny her the gift that
was made for her. I am not that selfish.
It's funny me saying that after what I did.
In any case, I wasn't planning any of it. It just happened.
She agreed that doing blood tests was a reasonable thing to do. I told her that
I trusted the twins but you never really know and she agreed. Better safe than
sorry, with all the VD's shooting around, right? Besides, I was doing mine as
well, and she'd accept to do hers without any explanation had I demanded so.
Lou was a friend for a long time. So she called me first. You don't do those
things normally, a doctor-patient relationship means certain levels of privacy
and discretion, but Lou called me first, we knew each other for almost a decade
and Lou knew I needed protection. Oh, not that men usually admit that, but Lou
knew I needed protection, she was a woman after all. We were never a couple or
anything of the sort but she knew. So she called me first.
Initially, I thought the room was shaking. But it was just me. It was morning,
not early morning, I admit, but I was fresh out of bed, taking my time getting
ready to go to the hospital and pick up our results. And I thought the room was
shaking but it was just me. I stood there for God knows how long and then asked
Lou:
"Are you sure?"
It must have been a funny voice.
No, she wasn't "sure" but she was pretty sure. Further tests will confirm what
she already knew.
"Does Clarissa know?"
My voice was controlled by something else at the moment. My mind was just
frozen, marvelling at the fact that my mouth continued to produce coherent
noises.
"Did she tell you about it?"
Of course she didn't, you stupid woman.
"Then she probably doesn't know, it's probably very early."
It was a dumb conversation. I was unable to say anything intelligent. I told Lou
I'll come over to the hospital a little later to pick up the results and that
we'll discuss it then. I told her I have to call Clarissa as well.
But I didn't do either.
Instead I just picked up my passport and a bag. I am not sure what went into it,
I was stumbling around the house, unable to make rational decisions. I took
money and credit cards and keys and my laptop. I hobbled out of the house. I
never even paid in full for it.
I caught a coach and then I slept at the airport, I assume my mobile phone was
ringing away furiously by the time I got on the plane, but I left it home.
The hours on the plane just went by in stupid repeating of the same circle of
thoughts in my head.
I fucked up real bad by moving to America. I fucked up real bad.
Clarissa was pregnant for the third time.
Perhaps it wasn't me. Perhaps it was me. Statistically, it was probably me. Does
it matter? She was pregnant. She was going to have a baby. Does it matter whose
baby? It's hers. It is her child.
* * *
Ruth is laughing as I describe the way me and Gothboy broke into the store in
the middle of the night in some godforsaken part of the west back in 1995. I am
trying to get used to the British weather again. The dampness, the depressing
grey skies. Racer X races around the park chasing the birds away and making some
children scream in excitement. She is still a puppy, technically, but she is one
big dog, eight months of life have brought a vast amount of experiences and
impressions to her and have had her grow up to be a beautiful long haired German
Shepherd. She is barking out of pure joy now.
I could never have a puppy when I was a kid.
Ruth says she is glad I am back. She has seen one of our performances last month
and thinks we are really good. Not that she'd know, she couldn't tell our music
from random noise if her life depended on it, she is 34 after all, one divorce
behind her, but she makes an effort and I appreciate it. I am not sure what we
are at this point. We were an issue a long time ago, sure, but we are different
people now, aren't we?
"It's funny", she says "I have been to the states so many times and I have never
once thought about visiting you."
"That's cool", I say, "that country changes people anyway".
"I'm glad you are back, though. Really nice to have you back."
"Thank you, Ruth." I say as I watch Racer X digging furiously at the base of a
tree. I wonder whether someone will fine me because of this. "It's nice to be
back." I am silent for a moment. "You know, it all looks so much more real here,
you know? As if everything over there is like being in a dream." That sounds
really pathetic. "It's good to be back, period." I conclude.
But I know better than that. Someone is back. But I am not sure if it is me. Is
it?
The End
Thanks to all the people who have read this story, those who reviewed it and who
sent me emails. Thanks to the one who inspired this story.
