An Hour in the Darkness (3 page)

I don't know what old Wendell Holmes meant by
the
magic string
,
but I think he meant trying to grab hold of the thing that you want most in life. Yeah, I'm convinced that's what he meant. He's telling us – in his own poetic way, of course – that only a very few are lucky enough to get hold of their own
magic string
. It's because they never sing the song that is bursting inside them. I hope to God I don't die without touching
the
magic string
and all. I know I probably won't get hold of it – but Christ – you've got to at least try, haven't you?

And that's why I knew I had to go back and try all over again with Ronnie. I reckon I knew she was my
magic string
and it was fucking crucial I tried to sing the song inside me again. I almost did as well.

Look, I just don't get on with people too well, okay? I don't let people get too close. This sounds tragic, I know, but I find it a whole lot easier to walk into a room full of strangers than I do walking into a room full of people I know. I can't afford to stay too long in one place because they'll discover I'm nothing special. I've got to tell you about a thousand jokes an hour to keep you laughing because I know that as soon as I stop, it's over for me. I'm terrified that once I stop you'll see I'm ordinary. I can't stay in one place for too long. I've got to lay down some magic pretty quickly – normally within the first few minutes – and then I've got to get the hell out of there while you're still dazzled. I've got to leave you thinking that the memory of me was a lot more special than the real thing. I swear I just can't keep it going for too long, okay? Once my tired routine is finished, and everyone is talking about the normal stuff again, I'm done for.

Listen, if you ever meet me – and I hope you do – you're going to think I'm a real funny guy. But when the laughter stops you're going to see one sad individual. I don't want you to see that person, okay, so it's better that I get the hell away from you as quickly as possible. I'll break my heart to make you laugh. Believe me, I really will. I'm ready to get down and die in front of you just to make you smile. If you're laughing then everything's okay; if you're not laughing then everything's not okay. It's all pretty tragic when you analyse it. And believe me, I have. About a million times already.

Pretty soon, young man, you'll be the only one who notices the person with the frightened look in their eyes. Look, that person with the frightened look in their eyes is me, okay, and I sure as hell don't want you to have to see him. I don't want to put you through it. It's chronic really. It sure must be the most embarrassing thing in the world: watching a person struggle like that. I feel real sorry for you. Listen, I can't do it any differently, okay? I've tried about a million times, but I can't deliver. I swear I want to be normal, like everybody else, but it's a no go, I'm afraid. I'm virtually begging you all to love me.

So I left the fountain and went and stood on the edge of the market again. I was on the outside looking in. I knew that, of course I did. I stayed there for an hour or two, trying to catch Ronnie's eye. I love all that catching girls' eyes stuff, don't you? I'm just a flirt at heart, I suppose. I love to give girls the eye and then flirt with them a little so that they think they've got a chance with me. Then I love to let them down all of a sudden. Listen, one moment I'm going to be fooling around with you – trying to break your goddamn heart and everything – and then the next minute I probably won't even look at you. Christ, I won't even speak to you if you're not careful. And it's probably breaking my heart a lot more than it is yours, okay? Listen, it's probably a lot easier to break my heart than you think.

I used to get pretty lonely in my room, but I think I already told you that. Jenny used to come and visit me sometimes, but she could never stay long because we both knew that she shouldn't have been there. She used to sit checking her watch about fifty times an hour until I just about begged her to go home, for Chrissake. I sure as hell missed her after she'd gone though.

It's funny, one minute I couldn't leave the room because I was too scared to go outside and the next minute I had to get out before I went crazy. Honestly, that's how it was. I used to walk around all day just to have something to do. I just kept walking. I really did. I couldn't stop myself. I was like a goddamn marathon walker or something. I think I must have walked to the moon and back during that time. I was scared of stopping because I knew I'd probably start screaming if I did. The panic was always there, just a few inches in front of my face, and I knew the only way I could stop it was to keep walking. Sometimes I had to walk about a hundred miles I was so terrified. I knew that if I stopped, I was finished.

I woke up one morning and needed to see my dad. It was cold in my room and I knew that Dad was the strongest person in the whole world back then. I wanted to tell him about the screaming because I figured that if anyone could make the feelings stop, he could. Listen, when I was a kid I thought my dad was frigging Hercules or something, okay? I thought he could beat just about everybody in the whole world back then, including Sonny Liston. My dad could move goddamn mountains if he wanted to. I sure as hell was a disappointment to him.

I went back to my home village and found Dad sitting at a table by himself in his favourite pub. He was staring at a glass of beer in front of him. He looked like the saddest person I ever saw. I knew pretty much straight away that he couldn't help me because he had enough pain of his own. I knew he was thinking about Jenny. Hell, we were all thinking about Jenny.

When Dad lifted his head up I couldn't tell whether he was pleased or disappointed to see me. I was trying my hardest to look cute, but he looked straight through me. His eyes looked awful blurry and tired. I sure wanted to hug him all of a sudden, but I knew that was impossible. I always have to work twice as hard to please my dad. I suddenly wished Ronnie was there too because I desperately needed her to see what a real man looked like. I wanted her to fall in love with him like every other girl in the world did.

“Hello Dad,” I said cheerfully; it sounded ghastly.

“Hello son,” he said.

“It sure is good to see you again. Take the pain away, won't you?”

I felt pretty bad afterwards – you know – asking him to take away the pain so quickly like that, especially when he was so deeply troubled himself.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said. I don't think he heard the bit about taking the pain away.

“Gee, thanks, Dad, I'll have a soda pop.”

I sure don't know what I was thinking – you know – talking in a silly high-pitched voice like that, like I was still a child, or something, and asking for a soda pop, for Chrissake.

“What the hell is a soda pop?”

“I've no idea, Dad.”

“For Chrissake, have a proper drink. Have a beer, alright?”

I just nodded. I could never get it right with him.

When Dad came back from the bar he put the drink down in front of me. Then we both stared at it for about eleven days or something. We never said a word. In the end I drank some of the beer, just to have something to do, and shivered, and then nearly died because it tasted so cold and awful.

Dad started the father and son bit. You know the sort of thing. Telling me about the facts of life and all that other crap. He kept asking if everything was okay and I just nodded, and felt uncomfortable, and took another sip of my beer, and then nearly died again because it still tasted so foul. I knew it wasn't the right time to tell Dad about screaming and wondered how I was going to get away.

I sure as hell felt a fraud sitting there, I can tell you. Listen, you'd better understand that when a dad and his son have a drink in the pub they should talk about how well Leicester City football team is doing. There should be no mention of screaming at all because something like that is really going to ruin the party atmosphere. Your old dad wants to hear that his son is doing just fine, and everything, and that he's got the best job in the world, and everybody at work thinks he's a swell kind of guy. Your father does not want to hear that you're scared to death and might start screaming any day soon. Your dad wants to hear that you're just about the most popular kid around and that everybody is just bending over backwards to be in your groovy gang. Listen, Dad, nobody wants to be in my gang, okay?

Then I did something really stupid and it was only because I was feeling so crummy and nervous, and everything, I know.

I picked up my beer mat and ripped it into small pieces. Then I placed them down on the table in front of him. I'd made a little building, for Chrissake. Dad looked mortified and I didn't blame him one iota. He put his beer glass down for a second and looked at me for a thousand years. I couldn't hold his stare though and just gazed down at the ruined pieces of beer mat like they were bits of ripped-up human flesh or something. I felt so ashamed of those bits of torn-up beer mat, suddenly, and I wanted to collect them together and hide them. My dad sure makes me feel nervous all the time, I can tell you. I just can't relax in his company, I swear it.

Anyway, I just sort of ran my trembling fingers through the pieces of beer mat for a few seconds. Then I sat back in the chair, folded my arms tightly and tried to make it look like I'd never seen them before. I tried to look like I didn't know who the hell had done it, but it certainly wasn't me, okay? Dad continued to look at me, but I couldn't look back at him for all the tea in China. All I could do was stare at the pieces of beer mat arranged in between us. I felt something near to disgust when I looked at them.

“What did you do that for?” Dad finally said.

“Sorry?” I said, without looking up at him.

“This is a pub. People are looking at you. Don't you care that they think there's something wrong with you?”

“Is that what they think, Dad?”

“You don't come into a pub and start tearing up your beer mat.”

“Don't you?” I said it quietly.

“What's wrong with you? Why do you do things like that?”

“Sorry, Dad,” I said.

I was so sorry by then I think I started to cry or something. I sure was sniffing loudly.

“Don't cry, for Chrissake.” Dad started looking around the bar.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Don't keep apologising. Just stop crying. Drink your beer, for crying out loud.”

“I don't like it. It's too strong.”

“Fucking hell.”

Dad sagged in his seat and shook his head. Then he let out a long sigh and rubbed his tired, yellow eyes. He looked ruined – like the beer mat – and I felt pretty awful about things. It just about cleared me out, if you really want to know. Then he lowered his head and looked down at the floor.

“Don't do that, Dad.” My hand sort of hovered around his head for a few seconds, like I was going to stroke his hair or something.

Anyway – luckily – by the time Dad looked up my hand was safely in my lap. Listen, you'd better understand that your dad really doesn't want you to stroke his head tenderly like that, especially when you're both drinking in the pub and you're on a good night out, for Chrissake.

Well, Dad just stared at me for about a million more years. There was a hell of a lot of staring going on that day, I can tell you, and most of it was coming from Dad. Then he started chewing the ends of his fingers until I could virtually see the bone. Listen, my dad chews his fingernails too much, okay? My dad's fingers always look real sore and I'd hate myself if I thought I was the reason why.

“How are you feeling?” he said suddenly, so that it made me start. “You look terrible. You look like death warmed up. You keep blinking your eyes. Stop blinking your eyes. People are watching you. Can't you just be normal?”

I sure felt sorry for blinking my eyes like that in front of Dad. We were in a public bar, for Chrissake.

“Sorry, Dad,” I said.

“Don't keep saying sorry. Just don't blink. Do you know why you do it?”

“I don't know. I really don't. When somebody tells me to stop – i.e. you – I just kind of have to do it more. I do it more when you're here because I know it drives you crazy and all. I know it must be hard on you watching me show myself up in public like this.”

“Just don't do it. Why is it every time I'm with you in a public place I've got to whisper?”

“I don't know the answer to that, sir, I really don't. It sure is something I'm going to think about though. I'm going to figure the answer to that one out and get right back to you.”

Poor old Dad picked up his pint and finished it off in one manly swallow. His hands were shaking badly, but I didn't mention it out of politeness.

“You'd better go,” he said.

“Okay, Dad. Sorry.”

Anyway, after all the drama of seeing Dad, I went back to the market and tried to sing my song again. Ronnie saw me coming through the crowds though. I know she did because she went directly to her boss. She did not “Pass Go” and she did not “Collect £200”. Ronnie's boss just stood there cleaning his teeth with a matchstick, for Chrissake. As Ronnie was speaking to him he kept looking over at me and nodding like he was weighing up quite a few things. It looked to me like he was contemplating something. When Ronnie had finished talking he walked out from behind the stall and came towards me. Listen, if you have a matchstick between your teeth it makes you look pretty tough, okay? I waved at him to ease the situation, but he didn't even crack a smile. I was determined though. I knew I was going to try and sing my song again, no matter what.

It sure seemed to take Ronnie's boss a long time to reach me. I had plenty of time to stand and watch Ronnie. Boy, but did she look pretty that day. The light shining through the cracks in the market roof lit her face up in the most delightful way. Beyond the market hall, rain sparkled in bright gaps. It was a beautiful thing. I'm convinced of it. I could hear music from somewhere. I think it was from the CD stall behind me. Ronnie's dark eyes glittered like beads and her mouth was nervous in a way I liked. I wanted her to be tough – of course I did – but I also wanted her to have a sweet side. If she hasn't got all that fear and tenderness in her eyes, well, it's just not worth it. Not in my book anyway. Not in the long run.

Well, I moved in for the kill, but Ronnie's boss cut me off at the pass. From being about a thousand miles away he was suddenly right in front of me. He was so near, in fact, I could have pulled the match out of his mouth with my own teeth. I could smell him too. He smelled of fruit. He was the real fruit man, not me.

“Listen, buster,” he snarled. “Clear off.”

That nearly killed me. Calling me buster like that as if we were in a gangster film or something. I was shaking like a madman though. It was all pretty intimidating, if you really want to know. He was like some crazy James Dean or something. I really hate all that macho confrontation stuff, don't you? I thought he was going to take the match out of his mouth and strike it on my clean, white, innocent throat.

“James Dean was gay, you know.”

It was a cheap shot even for me.

“Scram.”

“I forgot my fruit yesserday,” I drawled.

I was trying to act like an American gangster myself or something. I kill myself sometimes, saying things like yesserday instead of yesterday. Listen, I warned you I can be a pretty funny guy when I want to.

“Okay, buster, just buy your fruit and clear off. And don't start any of that crazy stuff again. I don't want you scaring my staff, okay?”

It made me laugh a little more when he said “my staff” like that, like he had about a million people working for him. We both knew damn well that Ronnie was the only person who ever helped him out. Anyway, I told him I wouldn't disturb all his staff, I just wanted to buy some goddamn fruit for the weekend, if that was alright.

So anyway, I wandered, real casual, up to the stall and Ronnie started eyeing me up and down like I was a bleeding murderer or something. I started to examine the fruit on sale like I was a connoisseur from Del Monte
or
something. It was all just a game really. Ronnie asked me real politely if there was anything I wanted, and I sort of went along with it and pointed to different types of fruit I reckoned I might need for the weekend, and old Ronnie started putting them carefully into a bag, and eyeing me real suspiciously at the same time as if she thought I might explode at any moment.

And I was doing well, really well, and old James Dean was happily sucking his match at the back of the stall again. Things were back to normal. Ronnie's boss shouted over to Ronnie that he was going to fetch a cup of tea because it was so damn cold. I wanted to shout back that if he did a bit more work then he might warm up a little. He didn't even ask Ronnie if she wanted a drink, for Chrissake.

Anyway, after he'd gone I sort of lost it again. You know, thinking about the song and the magic string, and everything, and how I might as well try to get hold of it before it floated out of my life forever.

“So, do you come here often?” I said. I was just warming things up, if you like.

“What?”

Ronnie looked scared and it shook me a little.

“Oh just shut up and kiss me, you crazy fool,” I said.

I switched my twinkling eyes back on and old Ronnie got the full, dazzling effect.

“Don't start all that nonsense again, okay? I'm warning you this time.”

“You cut me to the quick, you know?” I tried to sound all wounded. I was all wounded, I admit it.

“Is there anything you want?”

“What
sayeth you, fair maiden, would you care to ride with me upon my trusty white steed?”

I was sure playing up to the camera. She must have thought I was really out to impress her with all that trusty white steed stuff.

“Don't start all that mental crap with me again, okay?”

“Listen, Ronnie, old sport, old fruit, why don't we just cut to the chase? Throw down your fruit and let's get married like they did in the good old days before the war. What war? I don't know. Any war. Let's just do it anyway. Just me and you and a dog name Boo. And Jenny, of course. Jenny loves a church wedding more than anything in the world.”

“Please go away,” she said.

Ronnie sure sounded sore about something.

“I will only go away with you.”

“Are you sick?”

“Sick with love,” I whimpered.

I picked up an apple for some reason as if that were the only way to prove something like that. Love had got me all confused, I admit it.