Our Kind of Cruelty(8)

‘Oh, OK. I live next door.’

‘Yes,’ I said, although I couldn’t remember ever having seen her before.

She held out her hand. ‘Lottie.’

I nodded. ‘Mike.’

She smiled awkwardly. ‘Yes, I know. We work together.’

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to arrange my face into a look of recognition, although really my brain was scrambling for who she might be. ‘Sorry, yes of course.’

She laughed. ‘I’m at the other end of the trading floor, so, well …’

‘No, no, I was just being stupid.’ Her features meant nothing to me.

‘Although I think I might be moving over to your team in the near future.’

I vaguely remembered an email I’d received in the week about a change in personnel. The idea of living next door to a colleague was terrible, but I smiled. ‘Oh, great.’

‘Anyway. I’m really sorry to ask. It’s just I’m doing a ten K tomorrow and have to be up really early and, well, the music, I just wondered …’

I turned as she spoke, aware suddenly of Liam Gallagher shouting behind me about champagne supernovas, the noise spilling out into the street. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Normally I wouldn’t be such a party pooper, but you know.’ Lottie was backing down the path as she spoke, her hand raised in a gesture of farewell.

‘I’ll turn it down right now,’ I called after her.

I shut the door and went into the drawing room where the noise hit me like a wall. I snapped off the stereo, the silence immediately pressing around me, my eardrums still beating.

I sat back on to the sofa and poured myself a final glass. In the silence it was much easier to think clearly. Of course V hadn’t fallen in love that quickly. Of course she hadn’t fallen in love at all. She was still in love with me and I knew that to be true for two reasons: firstly, V wasn’t the sort of person to be swept off her feet, and secondly she would never have been so angry about the American incident if she hadn’t loved me. I had to keep reminding myself what I had already worked out: this was all part of our game. This was our ultimate Crave and only I would understand that.

I picked my laptop off the floor and rested it on my knees. Perhaps it would be stranger to simply turn up at her wedding without contacting her first. The rules of any game dictate that a move by one player is followed by the move of another. She had made the first move; I must make the second.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hi

Dear V

I just wanted to let you know I’m back now. Thanks for the invite to your wedding. I’ve let your mum know I’m coming.

I’ve got myself a job at Bartleby’s and I’ve bought a house in Clapham, although you must know that, as how else would I have received the invitation! I really think you’d love it. You should come round some time. It would be good to meet Angus as well. Where are you living now? Are you still at Calthorpe’s? I hope all is good there.

I’m still very sorry for all that happened and I can’t pretend I wasn’t surprised when you told me you were getting married. But I know life moves on. I understand a lot of what you said to me now.

It would be really good to see you.

Much love,

Mike (Eagle)



I debated for a while about putting in the eagle bit, but V had often called me her eagle and I needed to start reminding her who we were. I wanted her to know that I got it, that I knew we’d started playing again.



I woke a few hours later with a pounding head and stiff limbs, the sun streaming through the window, revealing all the particles in the air before my face. I pushed myself up and saw another patch of blood where I had been lying. I reached my hand to my temple, but it was tender to touch, so I stood and looked in the mirror above the fireplace. I was shocked to see a mean, red lump protruding above my eyebrow. It looked like a tiny volcano on my face, rising to a dark peak, from which a thin trail of dried, almost black blood had run down one side.

I showered and brushed my teeth and drank a pint of water to rid my mouth of the taste of rotting meat, all of which removed the desire to die. But still all I felt capable of was putting on a tracksuit and dragging a blanket to the sofa. If V was here I knew she would make me some hot tea and feel my forehead; she would tuck in the covers and ruffle my hair. I checked my email, but my inbox was empty.

The day was very long. I ordered in food and watched the sort of television programmes that had punctuated my childhood, but which V had taught me to despise. Where once these types of shows had soothed me, sometimes even made me laugh, now I could only see them through her eyes, could only see fat, stupid people competing for non-existent prizes, as if humiliating yourself in public was the point.

I checked my email every ten or so minutes. At one point I unplugged and then reset my broadband. But I was worried this had done something to it, so I called my provider, who assured me there was nothing wrong with my connection. I asked Google how long undeliverable mail takes to be returned and was told the postmaster should inform you of a difficulty almost immediately, but confirmation could take up to three days.

The day drifted into the evening and the television got worse, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on books or music. I had my laptop open next to me, my inbox forever on the screen, my finger constantly refreshing the page.