Our Kind of Cruelty(23)

I shook my head and for a terrible moment I thought I was going to cry. Thought I was going to lay my head down between the gravy jug and my plate and weep. ‘No, no lady.’

Elaine tapped my hand. ‘I hear Verity’s getting married.’

‘Yes.’

‘She rang to get your new address. Are you going to the wedding?’

I felt the atmosphere round the table shrink and spiral. Verity had sat where Jayden was on quite a few occasions. I had been embarrassed to bring her at first, but she claimed to love it in Peacock Drive. She said it made her feel cosy and Elaine and Barry had always marvelled over her, as if I had brought them an exotic flower to look at. And it all felt wrong suddenly. It was too much that she wasn’t sitting here now and we weren’t talking about our wedding. I wanted to tell Elaine and Barry what a mistake it had all been and how V and I loved each other in a way no one else could possibly begin to understand.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s next Saturday.’

‘What’s he like, her fiancé?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t met him.’

I saw Elaine glance at Barry. Jayden had taken out his phone and was swiping at something on the screen.

‘So, you’re all right about it then, are you?’ she asked hopefully.

I smiled like I knew she wanted me to. ‘Yes, of course.’

Her body seemed to relax at that. ‘Oh good. It’s just Barry and I knew how hung up on her you were and we didn’t want it to have upset you.’

I felt a million miles away from Elaine and Barry at that moment, the gulf of understanding between us so immense it was as though we meant nothing to each other.

‘She’s a lovely girl, but there’s plenty of lovely girls out there, especially for a fantastic young man like you.’ Elaine was looking at me very closely, as if trying to tell me something with her eyes, so I kept my smile rigid.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said.

She looked at me quizzically. ‘Well, of course it is.’

‘No, I mean, between me and V. It’ll all work out fine.’

‘It’s nice you can be friends,’ she said, but I saw her smile had slipped, a bit like a wig on an old man’s head. ‘Maureen’s Sarah got married last year, to a man she met on one of those internet sites.’

I thought of Maureen’s Sarah and her doughy body, her lank, thinning hair, her oversized glasses. I could feel my own muscles tense, even though I was sitting down, and it seemed ridiculous that Elaine could suggest such a thing.

‘Hang on there,’ Barry said. ‘The poor lad’s only just turned thirty, you don’t need to go marrying him off.’

I felt so tired by the time I left I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it home. My eyes ached with the pressure of keeping them open and my throat felt raw and scratched. By the time I stepped off the tube I was shivering against the warmth of the day and I felt the sweat popping on to my skin on the short walk back to my house. Once there, all I could do was strip naked and climb beneath my covers, giving in to a restless sleep in which V visited me in so many different forms I found myself unable to keep up. I woke through the night to the sounds of foxes mating and people laughing and at one point I reached across the bed and felt V’s solid shape. But when I pulled her towards me I realised I was holding a pillow and kicked it away from me in disgust.

Even though I dreamt of her all night, the only one I clearly remember is her standing in her new doorway holding her eagle towards me. She had ripped the chain from her neck and it lay crumpled and pathetic in her hands. Be careful, I said to her, or you’ll lose it. It doesn’t matter, she answered, you’re not coming are you?

I didn’t feel any better when my alarm sounded in the morning, in fact if anything I felt worse, a deep sickness now also lodged in my stomach. I called work and left a message explaining I was ill, something I couldn’t ever remember doing before. I slept most of that Monday as well, my dreams not unlike a rough sea. But by evening I knew I was over the worst of the fever. I ordered food on my laptop from my bed, chicken soup and dumplings, with fine noodles. I paid enough for it to be delicious and fresh and for a while I felt better as I ate it slowly, leaning against my pillows, listening to the news on the radio.

But my thoughts have always waited in darkened corners for me, watching for moments in which I am lulled into a false sense of security.

Their favourite torture is to remind me of my solitude. That there is no one to bring me chicken soup or feel my head or even care about my fever. As I lay weakened in bed they dragged up a memory of standing behind the bars of what must be a cot, my nappy so wet I can feel the urine stinging my skin, my throat raw from crying, my hands freezing. I don’t know how this memory ends because it is fogged. I don’t even know if it is a single memory or something that happened many times.

I have always preferred the ones which feel more concrete. It’s easier to cling on to the hard facts: my stomach rumbled so much in class other boys used to gurgle at me in the playground; my trousers would often fall to my knees because there was nothing to hold them up; I had to explain in front of the whole class that we didn’t have any books in our house; I faked illness whenever we had a school trip because it would have meant bringing in a packed lunch; I was never asked to one other child’s house or birthday party; I spat at my feet to stop myself crying; cold can penetrate into your marrow in a way that nothing else can; I was very, very good at lying about the origins of my bruises and scratches.