The Fly Guy (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Alison was supposed to be there at nine, but by the time Martin pulled up outside the restaurant it was twelve minutes past.

“Blame me,” he said as she stood from the car.

“I will,” she said and closed the door.

Martin watched her walk quickly with her handbag above her head to the door of the restaurant. The vibration of their argument was still in the car.

They had sat in silence till they got to the first roundabout, Alison with both hands on her handbag in her lap and Martin in his loose jeans and grey sweater top, and then, as the car veered onto the slip road and her head lolled to the side so that her hair touched the glass of the passenger window, he pushed down the accelerator and they were speeding down into the rush and spray of the motorway. Alison said,
Jesus, slow down!
The motorway was moving fast, the surface water was thrown up into a constant cloud around the cars, so that tyres disappeared, and the steel and glass shells were agitated, their outlines unreliable. It was the lights, the pairs of red lights ahead of the pumping wiper blades that gave any sense to the road.
I thought we were in a rush,
said Martin. Alison slammed her handbag in her lap. As she started to shout a truck overtook their car, splashing water against the door, and blinding them with a flash of water as it passed. Everything was noisy and distorted.

“I would like to get there alive! Slow down! How can you have nothing to do all day and still manage not to be ready when we need to go? This is the only thing I asked you to do, to get me there on time, and you can’t even do that.”

“You’re such a drama queen. We’re only a bit behind. How come this is such a big deal anyway? You never get this dressed up if we go out.”

“We never go out—Watch out! You’re too close! Slow down!”

The rushing traffic on the wet road and the constant whipping of the blades across the window was loud in Martin’s head and Alison’s voice sounded shrill and anxious on top of it. His fingers gripped the wheel and he clenched his teeth. His muscles tensed and he pushed down on the accelerator even more, swerving out of his lane and overtaking cars in front, then swerving back into the lane.

Alison started really shouting now. “Martin! Martin! Stop, it’s too fast!”

Martin pulled out of his lane again, just as a car came speeding up behind them. There was a loud beep and flashing headlights. Martin pushed his foot to the ground. Ahead he could see there was a queue and cars ahead were slowing. He took his foot off the accelerator and pressed the brake. He felt the tyres slide and control of the car leave his hands. The feeling was like being electrocuted—all of a sudden every cell in his body was vibrating at a different speed and the car lost all of its weight as if the steering wheel had come off in his hands—and then he caught control of the car again and the moment was over. The motorway traffic slowed as it started to bottleneck into the city roads. Martin and Alison were soon part of a long wet metal chain, as the water on the city roads squeezed the traffic even tighter together. The pools against the footpaths had spread into the streets. The urge to rip the steering wheel from its mount and crash the car had passed, but Martin still seethed. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Alison.

“You didn’t even think to invite me,” he spat. “I bet the others there are bringing their partners.”

“You’ve always said how much you hate this kind of thing.”

“I’ve never been to this kind of thing.”

“Well if you wanted to go, you should have said, and then I would have made you buy some clothes and get a haircut. You haven’t been out of the house in weeks. When was the last time you even had a shave? Just let me out here, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“No, you won’t. If there was something for me to shave for, or get dressed up for, then I would. You have no idea how fucking hurtful that is, you know.”

“Well do something about it. Do something about something for once, and just trying to drive like a moron does not count as doing something. Right at these lights. Ten minutes late now.”

“Alright, stop going on about the time! I’m sorry okay? I’m sorry I caused you to be late.”

“It’s up here on the right. Anywhere here.”

“I’ll drop you right outside.”

“You don’t have to, anywhere here is fine.”

“I’m dropping you right outside.”

“You can’t stop right outside.”

“I’m stopping right outside.”

After she had walked through the door of the restaurant without looking back, he pulled away and was back in the traffic.
My God,
he thought,
I need a drink, I need to get out of this car. I need to change this. I need to do something.

He drove aimlessly through the waterlogged streets of the city. His mind was like a piece of short elastic, he tried to stretch it but it kept snapping back to his angry desperation, and every time it did, it hurt him more. Before long he was driving alongside the great wide river, swollen and fast flowing, the massive weight of water rolling and muscular, moving with blind unfulfillable purpose.

There was an old bar in the docks that he had not been to in years. He used to meet a girlfriend there, years before he met Alison. It was the only place she felt they could go where she could be absolutely sure no-one she knew would see them together. The promise he kept was to never mention her husband or family when they were together. She would talk about her teaching job and the people she worked with. The bar would gradually fill up with old men, talking about racing results and football scores. The seats smelled, and on the yellowed walls were old pictures of the shipping yards as they had been, of men standing proudly in the past, surrounded by cranes and boats and full storage yards.

The streets were quieter the closer he got to the old dockyards, the lights were further apart, there was more space for darkness in between. He turned down a side street and pulled over. As he turned the lights of the car off and took his keys from the ignition, his phone beeped. It was a text message. From Alison. In the shadows of the car, the phone screen illuminated Martin’s face as he read.
Sorry about earlier. I feel terrible. I don’t like us fighting x.
He read the message again, and was just about to press reply when somebody fell against the bonnet of the car. He snapped up in his seat. The window had steamed up and he couldn’t see.

There was a shape on the bonnet that was sliding off as if it had been hit. Martin’s heart seemed to double in size and he felt it fill his chest. He opened his door and stood out, his big heart now pounding as he peered around the door of the car. The person was standing up again, unsteadily. It was a woman.

It was Zoe.

Her hair was wet, pushed down onto her head and her white jacket was stained with grime from the wet street. She held a handbag in one hand and with the other leaned against the car to steady herself.

“Zoe. Zoe, are you alright?”

She looked up at Martin. He could see the effort in her face as she tried to focus on him.

“It’s Martin, Ozzy’s friend. Are you okay?”

“Ozzy, that cunt,” she slurred. “You know him? Well you can tell him from me that he’s a cunt. From me. Cunt.”

“I will, I will. What are you doing out here? Who are you with?”

Zoe looked around her, and then at Martin. Her face changed. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth downturned, and she said, “I don’t know. Ozzy, cunt … but I don’t know …” Her voice broke and she started to cry, “… I don’t know where I am.”

Martin stepped to her and put his hand on her arm, rubbing it, tilting his head and bending his knees a little, so that his face was level with hers. “Don’t worry. Hey, I can give you a lift home. Don’t worry, we’ll get you home safe and sound.” She looked into his eyes and wiped her hand across her nose. The rain was beating down, running down her face. His face was getting wet, too, he could feel drips running down his collar.

“Really?” she said. “Really? Home?”

“Of course. Come on, you’re soaked.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes? What’s your name again?”

“Come on, I’ll get you home.”

“I want to go home.”

“I’ll get you there, Zoe. Come on. Who were you with?” He walked her round to the passenger side and opened the door. “Who were you with?”

“I don’t want to go back to Ozzy’s, I want to go home.”

“Sure, we’ll get you home now.”

She stumbled into the car and Martin closed the door. As he walked around to his side, he looked up and down the street. There was no-one around, no traffic had passed, nothing except the rain falling through the lights and into the shadows. At the end of the road he could see the distant yellowed light from the windows of the bar, the Bucket O’ Blood, though its outline was lost through the dark and the rain. He sat into the car. The sound against the roof was a frantic metallic Morse.

Zoe looked a mess. He could see her bra through her netted top which looked like it had been ripped at the collar. She was soaked through and seemed to be just about holding her head above a rising tide of unconsciousness. In one hand she held her handbag, and in the other she was clutching a broken necklace, a cheap string of badly coloured amber glass beads. She turned to look at Martin, her eyes straining with the effort of focusing.

“I recognise you, I know you. What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked. “What was your name again? Matty?”

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine started and he looked again in his mirrors. Deserted. The only movement was the water falling from above, dappling the street lights, and the water of the great broad river behind him, pushing all the waste, the sediment, the unwanted excess, beyond the city.

“Max,” he said. “Max is my name.”

***

Chapter Eighteen

Lucy takes the joint being handed to her. She holds her breath in and passes the joint around the table. Then she laughs and a cloud of smoke comes from her mouth and she coughs. She is with Franz and two friends of his.

Martin has never seen her laugh before.

One of Franz’s friends is doing an impression of a dancer, posing and moving around the kitchen table. Franz had delivered some clothes for Lucy. He had been back and to the house a few times, each time bringing more clothes for Lucy and helping her try them on. Gregor had seen they were getting on well. This time Gregor had spoken quietly and evenly to Franz in another room while Lucy pulled a new dress over her head and turned to see her side profile in the mirror. Then Franz came through the door and told Lucy to get her shoes on if she wanted to come to his place for a party.

Now the long curtains are drawn across Franz’s balcony door and a breeze is pushing them gently, softly billowing into the room. Lucy’s laughter bounces gleefully around the apartment. Franz comments on how lovely it is to hear her laugh. She says it does feel good, like she hasn’t laughed in the longest time.
Gregor, he takes care of me,
she says,
but he’s not exactly a bottle of laughs.
They all laugh again, and their laughter rolls itself out of the balcony door, bouncing off the opposite building, down onto the narrow street below, reverberating with a life of its own.

Martin sees the voices, clasped together turning one over the other like a ball of colours lighting up the street. He turns his attention back to the apartment.

It’s later. Lucy is lying back on the sofa, dozing off as Franz and one of his friends continue to chat and laugh at the little table. The night is still warm, the balcony door is still open, the orange curtains are still billowing gently. She knows that soon Gregor will be there to collect her and bring her back to his immaculately clean house, and so she wants to enjoy this feeling of unadorned comfort. She smiles as she drifts off. She can hear Franz explain that the reason he won’t ever ask the guy out is because he enjoys the feeling of having a crush, and fulfilling the wish might totally change the feeling. It’s better to stick with what you have if you’re happy than risk it and end up heartbroken. That’s happened too many times.

Lucy feels herself slowly sinking into the old battered couch, she senses the warm embrace of unconsciousness. Gregor will be here soon to pick her up.

Lucy wakes in the quiet of the front room. The sofa has become uncomfortable. The balcony door is closed and Franz and his friend have gone to bed. She sits up. There on the table is Franz’s phone. She picks it up and pushes the keys to write:
I’m in. First chance to contact. Not my number. G address 406 Alderway south. Do not reply.
She types in the number and presses send. On the phone display a letter grows wings and ascends like an angel. She clears the message history and deletes the text log. On the table is the box with tobacco and weed in it. She sits at the table and rolls herself a joint. She puts it in her pocket and rolls another.

***

Chapter Nineteen

The next day the rain stopped. In the morning Alison was making coffee and looked out the window to see a patch of blue in the sky. She went to the front door and stepped outside. The clouds had whitened and broken up. The sun shining through was a gentle balm on the young skin of the estate, and there was a freshness, a rejuvenation in the air that she breathed in deeply. The front door of the house opposite opened and a tall man dressed in shorts and t-shirt, carrying a gym bag, walked to his car door. He waved across at Alison.
It’s stopped,
he said with a beaming smile. That was the first time Alison had ever heard him speak.
I know, at last, isn’t it great,
she replied.
I was going to build an ark,
he said and they laughed as he got in his car. Alison stayed on the doorstep and as he pulled away he gave a salute and she waved. Her car was not in the driveway. Martin must have had an early night and would be getting some shopping in before the Saturday afternoon rush.

This is the kind of day that we should go walking,
she thought, and we can get over that stupid row last night.
Walking is always good for getting perspective on what seems like a big deal. They could go somewhere nice for lunch, a country pub, or make lunch and bring it. I wonder what Martin will bring back from the shop, if he’s thinking the same thing.
Alison was idly thinking these things and enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face when her car pulled in to the driveway.
Not a very thorough shop then,
she thought, but that thought stopped as she saw Martin emerge from the car.

He had had his hair cut. Right back. And his beard was gone. A rush of joy passed through her and she clapped her hands together and squealed. He stood by the car with a sheepish smile, rubbing his now shaven scalp.

“Oh, my God, Martin, you look totally different!”

“You like it?”

“Yes, yes!” she ran toward him “I love it! Oh wow! You look a lot younger! And I can see your chin, your lovely, lovely chin! Martin, you didn’t say anything!” She ran her fingers over the thin film of hair from his forehead over his crown and onto the back of his head. “Oh I like the feel of this. It’s like having a new man. Who’s just been released from jail.”

“Good, I’m glad you like it. Wait till you see my tattoos.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you? Do you like it?”

“I’ll get used to it I think. It’s nice not having a beard. Weird. Feels odd you know? But I like it. And you’re right, it is a damn fine chin. Hey, you’re still in your dressing gown. Come on, get inside. First though …” he opened the car door and took out a plastic bag. Inside was a shoe box.

“What’s this? For me?”

“No, for me,” Martin said and pulled back the lid. Inside was a pair of running shoes, with black and red stripes down the side.

“What? You’re going to start …”

“Well, just around the estate you know.”

“Martin, I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not going to do a marathon or anything, don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like I’m suddenly going to be an athlete. Just a bit of running.”

Alison looked again at the running shoes and stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“I think you’re great,” she said.

“I haven’t done it yet, I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Yeah, but most people don’t bother even trying. Are you going to start today? It’s not raining. Can we go out? I would love a walk, wouldn’t that be nice? Have you smelt the air?”

“I can smell coffee. Let’s get you inside, you’re not dressed, come on.” He put his arm around her and they walked together away from the car and through the front door. They didn’t mention the argument the night before. Martin didn’t ask how the dinner had gone. Alison didn’t ask what he had done for the night. The clouds drifted further apart, thinning as they spread, letting the blue and the sun pour through, rolling its way over the streets of the new estate and to the hills beyond.

* * *

Martin started to jog around New Acre estate every morning. As Alison pulled out of the driveway he would wave her goodbye and tie the laces of his running shoes. He would close the door and put the key in the zip pocket of his shorts and set off.

It took him a while to get used to moving the weight of his own body at more than a walking pace. At first he pushed himself too hard too quickly and by the time he was at the second turning he was bent over double, hands on his knees, with his heart thudding in his chest. Only on the third day did he find his natural pace. He started to take different routes around the estate, exploring every road and cul-de-sac, until by the end of the week he had found a good circuit.

The tarmac beneath his feet was not as tough as he had thought it would be, there was a slight give, a sponginess, not like the streets of the city. His route took him out of his driveway and right, straight down Paxton Drive, past the turning for Scott Close and Barry Close, then across the road and left down Wyatt Way.

The houses on Wyatt Way changed. The driveways were wider and the gaps between the houses were more pronounced. There was an extra window in the upstairs although the houses didn’t seem any wider than the ones on Paxton Drive. As Martin jogged down the slight incline of Wyatt Way he would glance up at the extra upstairs windows of the houses, hoping to see evidence of elaborate lives, imagining the extra room stretching the possibilities of the lives lived within, but never saw anything behind the glass.

Once he reached the end of Wyatt Way, Martin turned right along Macintosh Close, and here a wooden fence ran straight along beside him while across the road the houses nudged back closer together and the driveways squeezed back to their regular size. Sometimes a cat, thin and grey, would leap up from the path in front of him, balancing on the thin slats of wood and eyeing him, watching him coming closer, out of breath and sweating, before lithely disappearing into the greenery on the other side.

Martin didn’t encounter many people while running. New Acre didn’t have a local shop or any kind of commercial centre within it, so there was no reason for people to walk. He did pass the occasional woman walking a dog or pushing a pram, and there was a cursory exchange of nods, but that was it. Only at the edges of the estate did he have to consider moving aside for anything. That was where the bushes and trees had started to stretch their branches over the wooden fence, making a slow effort to reclaim the space as their own, and Martin ducked a bit or ran on the road until another house stood between him and the countryside.

When he reached the end of Macintosh Close, Foster Road curved back up the hill again and joined to Scott Road Martin steeled himself for the climb back up to his house. Here he didn’t look at the houses, he had his head down, focusing on lifting his knees and his feet, one after the other, feeling the strain in his calves and the sweat on the back of his neck and the burn in his lungs as he pushed himself up the hill.

The first time Martin took this route, all the way around New Acre and back up the hill, he got through his front door and went straight for the sink. He poured himself a pint of water and held himself up on the sink edge, gulping it down before slumping to the floor and listening to his heart race, feeling his neck tighten with every breath. His chest ached with every breath like an iron plate compressing his lungs and his thighs ached and burned. This is what change feels like, he thought. Like it wants to kill me.

***