Noughties (32 page)

Leave it. Move on to the second question and come back.

2) “What happened to Ella?”

Now there are two ways I could approach this. I could do
The Anatomy of Melancholy
, or a bit of the old
On Love
 … Where did we lose her? Pregnant tears of regret fall on my paper.

Why did she tell me I was responsible for the pregnancy? I know I am too drunk to think this one out straight, and I feel too numb to even begin getting angry. I need to stop simplifying. I need to grasp Ella’s particularity instead of obsessing over my own. After everything she has been through … how work stressed her out (her high expectations and all those unnecessary insecurities about tutors and what they thought of her), her pregnancy and abortion, the guilt she must’ve felt about keeping everything from Jack, and I guess some guilt toward me too, and, of course, the failed suicide … She wants to escape Oxford,
get away from Jack and me and the feelings we evoke … It’s Ella who’s making all the sacrifices tonight.

(But did she, in fact, tell me I was responsible? It’s too long ago now to say for sure, and the drink only bends the memories. If it wasn’t Jack, and it wasn’t me, then who?

The pitcher on the head smashes! No … it can’t be … can it? I can’t bear to think about that. Just move on … move on …)

3) “Write an essay on one of the following: yourself; you; oneself; I; Eliot.”

The Anatomy of Me
? Oh fuck off.

“Time’s up. Please put down your pens.”

Ejected from Filth, we stand like fallen angels in the artificial dazzle and dynamo glare of Abdul’s kebab van. We’ve caught Ella up. We are both too stunned to begin an inquisition though. What would be the point? What could questions and accusations achieve now?

This wasn’t how I expected it to end. The blood on Jack’s face has congealed. It looks more like the fake stuff you get from the party shop. He could pass for fancy dress. We stand apart at small distances suggestive of dejection and despondence. Our eyes leak vapid blues and greens under the orange light. We’re a misery lineup: Jack, with hands in pockets, looks at the pavement, feet anxiously tapping and swiping; Ella, with arms folded for warmth, for comfort, Jack’s coat over her shoulders, stares forlornly into nothing like someone lost at sea, given up on rescue; I stand phone in hand, subtly spying from body to body, scrunching and spreading my empty mitt, starting to throb from the punch, cold air dissipating the alcohol anesthesia.

“How are you, my friend?” asks Abdul with Middle
Eastern musicality. I put on a brave face for the momentous occasion.

“Sad, Abdul.” He nods to say he knew as much. “It’s our last night, mate. Most likely our last ever Abdul’s.” He looks at each of us in turn, passing us over with thoughtful eyes. Hopefully he mistakes our sulky haggardness for appropriate solemnity. Genuine feeling. Respect.

I think I see a tear filling in his eye. “Nah, you’ll be back, my friend,” he says. I close my eyes and give a series of slow nods.

“Chips cheese hummus?”

“You know me too well.” He has the others’ orders down too—Jack: chips chicken (burger sauce); Ella: pitta salad hummus.

Standing here on this frozen spot, I can feel our paths slowly uncrossing. There are no words. I smear my nose on the back of my aching hand. Ella looks washed up; she has coldened and vacated her body. There is emptiness behind those eyes. Jack and I are too confused to open our mouths; too lost to venture thought or commentary. Our uneasy glimpses and body language are mere footnotes to a much larger piece; a larger history. There needs no underscore.

The ambience is sparse, the city about to shut down into quiet repose: one or two taxis rushing past, drunken zeros drifting through like urban tumbleweed, four different kebab vans humming and buzzing either side of the road. All is a hush of swishes and far-off cries.

Abdul seals our polystyrene treasuries and wraps a piece of kitchen towel round each.

“On the van,” he says with a sniff and a twinkle in his eye, tapping the last box on top. We know not to resist. Respect the van.

“Cheers, Abdul.”

“Yeah, cheers, Abdul. You’re a fookin legend.”

“Don’t mention it, my friends,” he says from up high in his pulpit. He gives us his blessing. “You’ve earned it.” We watch him appreciatively until the moment is ruined by some pissed pissheads, uncompromising in their belligerence. Abdul goes back to work. Plies his trade. See you, pal.

Our communications are in the process of terminal severance as we turn off the High Street and onto Radcliffe Square—that site which once brimmed with potential and promise—for the last ever time. Behind my drunken windows and the dense black of the night, the Radcliffe Camera is but a watery outline. I can tell that Ella is crying. I want to put an arm around her. But I can’t. Jack does.

I’m sending Lucy a text. I know it’s a terrible idea—wait till tomorrow when I’m sober, right? But I’ve got to run with this sense of urgency; it’s something I haven’t felt for so long. It’s a simple text, though the grammar is all over the shop: I ask if I can pop round at the weekend. I know what I need to say to her. She’ll be tucked up in bed, the message waiting for her in the morning. And then the phone goes away for the final time tonight.

We reach college and turn into the lodge. The all-night porter clocks us. His watch blinks 3.30 a.m. at him. What I’d give to be young again, he’s thinking. Don’t do it, mate. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

In the quadrangle we know we have to go different ways. It’s like a movie or made-for-TV drama—the emotion is at that high a pitch. A real tearjerker.

Jack carries on, heading for his room and the relief of unconsciousness.

“Jack,” I say, stopped still. I’m surprised myself. He turns back. My best mate for the last three years.

“Yeah?”

But I’ve got nothing.

“Night, Jack,” says Ella, softly, in recompense for me.

“Yeah, see ya then.” He goes.

This leaves me and Ella. I feel like a dried-up window plant. I could snap at a touch.

She steps into my zone, her foggy breath warm against my face; my face that ducks and glances like a featherweight. She touches my arm.

“Good night, Eliot.”

“Night.”

I awake this morning to kiss the dawn with bated breath. Molten garlic and eggy beer.

I’ve finished uni.

Everything around me colludes to do me harm—the sunlight slicing through the open curtains, the noise of students and parents vacating the college for summer, memories of Filth, and the rancid smell of my self. Most of all, knowledge of my self.
This
conspires to ruin me.

Mum and Dad are coming to pick me up. Hazy plans stretch before me like dim asphalt; like soul-baring macadam. I tip my room upside down and place it all in boxes and suitcases, disordered but momentarily contained.

University: done. But what next?

Dad’s just rung. They’ve parked up on Catte Street. He’ll be out there now, off-loading the sack barrow onto the pavement in front of Mum, plotting the best formations and most effective combinations, as he drops one of the back seats and moves all his car tools to make room. He’s already given me some prep on the phone: suitcases first, then big boxes, then smaller boxes, and then the rest.

Mum gives me a hug when I appear with the first load, all sweaty and doped. I can picture her smiling over my
shoulder as I give her a squeeze and make a kissing noise. Then Dad puts a tight grip on my shoulder and draws me into an awkward embrace, the power and heft all coming from him, less reluctant. Before I can say “Alright, Dad,” he’s headfirst in the boot, legs dangling over the edge, ramming the suitcase into its specially designated corner.

“Need a hand packing any last bits away, love?”

“No thanks, Mum. All done.” I take the sack barrow and start wheeling it toward the porter’s lodge. In the windscreen, on top of the dashboard, I see that Dad has placed a piece of A4, on which is scrawled:
Traffic Warden—Unloading from Hollywell College. My son is an Oxford student. Ten minutes
.

“Won’t be a sec.”

The second suitcase goes in, the boxes of books, the box of DVDs, a box of folders and ring binders, a guitar. Clutching some final bags I lock my door for the last time and go to hand the key to the porter.

“Mate,” a voice calls as I’m leaving the college gates. I turn to see Jack jogging over from the direction of the quad. “You all packed?”

“Yeah, Mum and Dad are in the car ready to go.”

“Ah, cool.” We look at each other inquiringly, like we’re testing the ground all over again. “So, I was thinking … why don’t you just come traveling with me and Scott? I mean, we’re not going for a while, so it isn’t too late.” Jack’s hair is startled into erratic tufts and clumps, his eyes bleary, just out of bed. “And you haven’t got any immediate plans, have you? Might be what you need.”

It’s a tempting offer: Wellingborough or the world? Job-hunting or traveling? Home-mates or Jack and Scott? They’re no-brainers.

New people or Lucy?

“I can’t. There’s stuff I need to take care of back home.”

Jack nods, resigned. “Oh, okay … no worries, bro. If you change your mind … Good luck and that.”

“Cheers, Jack.”

Walking toward my parents’ car I can see the giant domed library in the background … the library that had loomed over me with such dwarfing intention … I turn my back on it.

Tucked in the car at last, a guitar jabbing the back of my head, the lid of a box threatening to take my scalp, Dad rustled a bag of humbugs.

“No thanks.”

“The Saints game is on the telly this afternoon … should get back in time,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Sounds good.”

The formidable colleges began to recede through the window as we pulled away. I saw the shadows of many partings.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” asked Mum, turning in her seat to get a good look … her little boy returning to the nest.

“Maybe. We’ll see.” Mum nodded. I shifted and squinted, the sun blazing inconsiderately across my face.

I hope so.

One final dream. I had it last night after we got back from Filth.

He holds a mirror to myself.

“Looking sharp.”

The pram is on the other side of the room but I don’t
want to go over and look in. I can’t handle a nightmare right now.

“Emotional,” he snuffles, our eyes misting up.

“Don’t,” I say, preening my excellent mane. “Let’s not get teary already. There’s a long night ahead of us.”

“True. You’re going to have to keep an eye on me.” I see the pram in the mirror, a few meters behind. Rejected shirts lie crumpled on the floor and aftershave permeates the air.

I’m meeting the lads at the King’s Arms in twenty; the last night of uni. Pub, bar, club. Standard.

My phone vibrates against the desk, the first of the night. It bears compulsive fingerprints of waxing cream.

“It’s beginning.”

“Yeah.”

I just don’t know if …

The babe is crying.

“What’s wrong?” I say, ignoring the phone.

It’s the future. That’s what’s on our minds. The future, with all its misinformation and lies. It doesn’t seem too hospitable from where we are.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve got you now. Don’t worry.”

I gaze at myself in the mirror through obscured eyes. I want to cry.

“Don’t worry,” I say, finally walking over to the pram and reaching inside.

But there’s nothing there. It’s empty.

Ah mate.