Lolito (3 page)

Authors: Ben Brooks

Blue team won, the programme ended, and Nan pulled herself up using only her arms.

‘Nan’s going to have a bath,’ she said. Standing in the centre of the living room, hands on her hips, she looked more solid than any other human I’d met. ‘Give Nan a kiss.’ I stood up and let her smudge pink lipstick into my eyebrows. ‘Another half an hour and you get to bed. Do your teeth downstairs.’

‘Okay. Night night.’

‘Goodnight.’

She yawned, adjusted a shoulder pad, and went upstairs. I didn’t want to brush my teeth. I wanted to sleep. I waited a few minutes then followed her up and climbed into bed. Sleep wasn’t hard to find. It happened. In a dream, I was being chased by an army of Redwall animals. Stoats, ferrets, foxes and bears, with thin red eyes and oversized weapons. Along the River Moss, through the Mossflower woods. I could see the Abbey but it wasn’t getting closer.

They were.

They were almost here and –

I woke up with wet hair and a room devoid of angry animals. Wind was nudging the window. My mouth was
dusty so I knocked back the duvet and climbed out of bed. I itched my eyes. There was still a bit of scared left in me from the dream.

‘Nan?’ I said. She wasn’t awake. Baths make you sleepy, she taught me that. The warm makes your head slow down. ‘Nan?’ My door was open. It was always open. I padded along the hallway, trying to keep my sound small, which was easy with the carpet being teacup-deep. The bathroom door was framed with light. Nan might have fallen asleep in the bath, I thought. Which is dangerous. You drown. ‘Nan?’

I pushed the door open.

Nan wasn’t asleep in the bath, she was dead in it, balanced by the taps in a crumpled handstand. She was wearing green underwear and a flesh-tone bra. Her body looked bigger than usual. All the skin was piled up in one mound, sagging down over her tits and face, her grey legs pointed away from each other like TV antennae. They had the texture of kebabs.

I didn’t run forward and hug her. I didn’t slap her face and ask her to wake up. I didn’t repeatedly say ‘please, no’.

I knew Nan was dead. I’d already seen enough dead bodies on TV. This was exactly how they looked. There’s no fight left under the skin and everything flops, like a kite kept indoors. Everything goes where gravity wants because it’s waiting to melt back into the ground and come back as dogs and gold and flowers. We learned
about it at school. Unless you quickly put electricity into the tits, a dead person is dead.

Mum kept her voice calm when I called. She could hear the scared in mine. Talking was hard. My cheeks were thick with snot.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. I need you to stay calm. Go and sit downstairs. Wait for Uncle Sawicka. Please, try not to panic. Have a biscuit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘What if. Mum. A murderer.’

‘Did you see someone?’

‘I don’t know. No. What if he’s hiding? Or invisible?’

‘Etgar, no one’s there. Now, please, go and wait for Uncle Sawicka.’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise me?’

‘Okay.’

‘I love you.’

‘Okay.’

I hung up. I went into the kitchen and took two knives from the block. I turned on every light. I sat outside, to the right of the front door, down in the tall grass and the thistles, seeing bear shapes in the black.

I push open the door and the smell of shit climbs into my nostrils. Everything’s black. I turn on the lights. Amundsen has done two shits on the living-room carpet. I didn’t leave the conservatory door open. I kick him. He whines. Stupid. I open the drinks cabinet and take down Dad’s bottle of Famous Grouse. He only drinks whisky during sports finals, election nights and Christmastime, and he won’t notice, and if he does it doesn’t matter. I pour some into my mouth and it hurts. I turn on the TV. It’s a quiz programme. A man in a blue suit is looking into the camera and rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to light a tiny fire.

In which film is it said, ‘Some dreams come true. Some don’t. Keep on dreaming’?

a)
Autumn in New York

b)
Pretty Woman

c)
Basic Instinct

d)
Runaway Bride

I shout
b
at the screen. The man says he doesn’t know. I call him a fucking dick idiot. I shout
b
. I imagine Julia Roberts aggressively hugging me until my sides go numb. Julia Roberts shampooing my hair in the bath. Julia Roberts massaging my back, and purring, and reading out the Wikipedia pages of notorious serial killers to me, so that I can fall gently into a deep and dreamless sleep. I pour more Famous Grouse into my mouth. The man guesses
d.
I shout
b
at the screen. The answer is
b
. Alice and I watched it on a laptop while tenting under her duvet. The man is a fucking moron. The man laughs and shakes his head.

I have an idea.

I pour more Famous Grouse into my mouth.

I go upstairs and turn on my computer. I play Salem.

Kayleigh Evans just had a wicked night with Mary, Sarah, and Chris at Liquid.

Miles Drinkwater passed his driving test today.

Dannie Everton is now employed by the Queen’s Arms.

Alice has used my computer to log into her Facebook.

This means that her password might have been saved by autofill. This means I can get into her Facebook. This means I can find out if Aaron Mathews was lying.

I get into her Facebook.

Chris Parsons is looking forward to his London trip tomorrow. Time for bed.

Dear Chris Parsons, fuck you. Nobody cares.

Alice’s profile picture is her and her dad on the beach in Antigua. I think, where the fuck even is Antigua? I think, fuck you. Marie Denton is online. Marie Denton is Alice’s best friend. Marie Denton is grade seven on the clarinet and was briefly addicted to diazepam.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Antigua is fun. I am having an amazing time here haha.’ This is an accurate impersonation of Alice. She types that she’s laughing even when she is definitely not laughing.

‘Hi,’ Marie says. ‘Cool. You have Internet?’

‘Just for a minute. I needed to ask you something.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Just I’ve been feeling bad about the Aaron Mathews thing. I’m not sure if I should tell Etgar the truth.’

‘Why?’ she says. ‘You didn’t even properly fuck him and you were drunk.’

The feeling that happens in my head is the same as when you wake up after sleeping on an arm. A warm, staticky lack of feeling. I’m still for a little then I’m not. The blood comes back.

I think, fucking fuck shit fuck.

I think, am I going to vomit?

I’m maybe going to vomit.

I throw my computer off the bed. I’m shaking. My heart is beating fast and my chest feels tight. I think, am I going to have a heart attack? I hope I don’t die of a heart attack. If that happens someone will say something retarded about me dying ‘from a broken heart’.

I go into the bathroom and take the co-codamol Mum was given for her gout out of the cupboard. Downstairs, I break ten of the tablets in half and put them into a cup. My hands are shaking and everything is hard to do. Everything is heavy and slow. I add water and crush everything with the handle of a screwdriver. I take off my trousers and my boxer shorts and stretch the boxer shorts over a pint glass and pour the mixture through. A pyramid of white powder collects on top of the boxer shorts. Paracetamol. I throw it away. I drink the mixture. I hold my own hands to try and stop them shaking and my whole body starts to shake and I think I’m going to fall over. I go upstairs and lie on top of my duvet. Amundsen lies next to me. I push my face into his fur. A low moaning sound comes out of me and he does a little grunt. I think to myself, see you in the morning.

I wake up and sit up and shake my head. There are tiger cubs inside of it. Last night’s dream is still hanging around my eyes. Something about a bear and a basement. And Drake. Or Paul Rudd. A river. I don’t remember. For a second, nothing happens. My head is a tomb. And it’s one of the best feelings, next to paying with exact change and narrowly escaping rain. When you wake up and the people in your head sit still.

Then it starts.

Everything hurts.

I want to vomit.

I imagine never moving. I imagine a camera filming my body as it decomposes and the footage being sped up so that it looks like I’m being eaten by the air.
Alice. Alice and Aaron Mathews. Aaron Mathew’s hand inside Alice. Aaron Mathew’s dick inside Alice’s mouth.

Amundsen’s moved and is asleep at the bottom of my bed. His whole body is expanding and contracting like a slowly beating heart. It’s raining. It’s raining a lot. I push the duvet away and Amundsen flounders, appears momentarily confused, then gets to his feet and jumps onto the carpet. We stand at the window. I groan. I press my nose against the glass. Someone is hurling buckets of water against it, over and over. Amundsen licks my hand. I scratch behind his ear.

I’m dizzy.

I shiver.

I go into the bathroom and run my face under the cold tap.

‘Up,’ I say. ‘Breakfast.’ Amundsen follows me downstairs and waits next to the kettle as it boils. Nesquik tea can upset my stomach so I have normal tea. Amundsen has tripe. I try to eat a Ryvita but it’s too dry, forming small bricks in my cheeks that refuse to shift. I eat a cherry yogurt. My phone rings and I have to answer. It’s Mum.

‘Etgar?’ she says. ‘Etgar, it’s Mum.’

‘I know. I’m here.’

‘Are you okay? Is everything fine? Is Amundsen alive?’ I look at Amundsen. Drops of water and saliva are hanging from his muzzle like icicles from a rooftop.

‘He’s alive,’ I say. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Are you eating okay? Did we leave enough?’

‘Everything’s fine. How’s Russia?’

‘Oh, it’s wonderful. Your Uncle Michael is very happy and Alena is lovely.’

‘Have they done it yet?’

‘Done what?’

‘The marrying.’

‘The ceremony’s tomorrow. It’s going to be in this gorgeous little church surrounded by beautiful fields and all sorts.’

‘Great. That sounds great.’

‘I’d better go. This is expensive and we’ve got to go shopping for a present. Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m okay. Say hi to Dad. You should buy them a dog for when she runs away.’

‘Etgar, be nice.’

‘Sorry. Bye, Mum.’

‘I love you.’

‘You too.’

I sit on the sofa and feel like I’m the
Titanic
. Amundsen gets up next to me and puts his head in my lap. He dribbles onto my leg and saliva soaks through my trousers. I try to play At Least. Here:

– At least I’m not dead (How good is this? Maybe being dead is good. Maybe all of the religions are real and when you die you go somewhere fun and infinite).

– At least I’m not old (I’m older than yesterday).

– At least I don’t have cancer (I might have cancer. I cough all the time).

– At least I don’t have to do anything (I have to walk Amundsen).

I don’t remember all of last night. There are gaps. I remember Marie. I remember Aaron. My phone’s flashing. One new message.

Alice to me: What? U drnk? Miss you txt mexx

I check my sent messages.

Me to Alice: fjkyyyyyyuuuuuuuuuuuuu

Upstairs, I pick up my laptop. The plastic casing has come open and circuit boards are peeking out. It’s blank. Last night it showed a tiny nightmare. I don’t know what I want it to show any more. I scratch my balls. I want it to show naked women who aren’t Alice.

I go to get Mum’s laptop. She won’t know, as long as I delete everything. I close my bedroom door and climb into bed and pull the duvet over my head. Amundsen paws at the door. I decide to find out if chatrooms still exist. Adult sex ones. The ones I used to play on in ICT lessons at school when there was nothing else to do. Ones filled with people bored of work and of sitting at home and of being alone. Where people don’t really say anything, they just type because what else.

They still exist.

There’s one called chatworld.

There’s one called adultchatlife.

There’s one called battychat.

Battychat doesn’t sound like something I would be
interested in. I click on adultchatlife and select the ‘adult chat’ category. Lines of words and emoticons and laughter flash and scroll up as quickly as numbers in a matrix. If people laughed and smiled that often in real life then real life would be markedly more bearable. If the whole of real life was one big chatroom then everyone would have to be honest with everyone else and no one would secretly sort of fuck Aaron Mathews and no one would be alone. I think, don’t think about that. I give myself the name Herman441.

Missyeti: lol @ Sammy

Overandouty: frog = Corinne

Stud40: frog would be too small

Corin19: fuck off over

Macyl: lol cor

Sweetballs: anyone ever fuked a animal

Biggybigbig: lol

Homealone002: lol

Mistymale: haha

I don’t understand. I scroll up and there’s a link to a video. I click. The video is of a chimp sat on a flat, dirty island of straw in its zoo enclosure. It’s holding a frog in its hands and raping the frog’s mouth. Me and Alice watched this video two years ago. It was Alice’s fourth favourite, after zombie prank, haunted toaster and 24-hour Nyan Cat.

Entropy: how u make dog suck ur dick

Sweetballs: put sugar on

77ACE77: this vid is sick

I try to think of a joke that will endear me to the group. A simple, bad joke that will make a woman think I’m the kind of person worth pressing her tits against a camera for.