Tin Man(6)

He wanted to say that because he’d never been able to say that to anyone, and Billy might be a good person to say it to. But he couldn’t. So he walked past him without looking, walked past and ignored him just as his father would have done.

He didn’t go back to the line. He got on his bike and began to ride. The back wheel pulled away every now and then, but the main roads had been gritted, and soon he was racing away, thinking about nothing, a body expending so much effort trying to escape from something he could never put words to. When he got to Cowley Road he was distracted by a light coming out of Mabel’s old shop, and that’s why he didn’t see the car until it was too late. It sped out of Southfield and it happened so quick, the terror of freefall. He stretched out his arm to lessen the impact and when the kerb rushed up at him he heard the crack in his wrist, and the heavy thud winded him. He saw the taillights of a car moving away, heard the rhythmic sound of rotating bike wheels. He let his head rest against the cold pavement and the weight lifted. He could breathe again.

A man ran out of the dark and said, I’ve called an ambulance. And the man crouched down at his side and said, Are you all right?

Never better, said Ellis.

Don’t sit up, said the man.

But he did sit up and he looked about at the snow.

What’s your name? asked the man. Where’d you live? The sound of a siren coming towards them, getting louder. And Ellis thinking, All this fuss over nothing. I’ve never felt so clear.

When he was small, Ellis remembered how he used to like to watch his father shave. He used to sit on the toilet cistern with his feet dangling, looking up at his father because his father was so big. The air was steamy and the mirror dripped with condensation and neither said a word. His father wore a vest, and sunlight streamed through the window and fell on his shoulders and chest, and his skin was patterned by fleurs-de-lis that had been carved into the glass, and the overall effect made his father look as if he had been sculpted from the finest marble.

He remembered how he watched his father pull his skin this way and that way, drawing the razor across the bristles, the sound of sandpaper in the folds of soap. And sometimes he would whistle a tune of the time, and then tap tap tap, the foam fell into the steaming water and small black flecks settled against the white porcelain and remained there, a tidemark, when the basin ran dry. And he remembered thinking that his father could do anything and was afraid of nothing. And those large hands that liked to spar in the boxing ring were also capable of beautiful gestures, like splashing on to his cheeks and neck the sweet musky scent that completed him.

And once, in that sweet state of completeness, Ellis reached out and held him. A brief moment of ownership before his father’s grip tore into his arms and wrenched them away, before the sound of a door slam instantly replaced the tap tap tap of love. And Ellis remembered thinking how he would have given anything to have been like his father, anything. Before the pain of that memory stopped him reaching for him again.

He didn’t know why he thought of this now, lying in his bed, plastered from hand to elbow, and he could only conclude it was because earlier in the hospital, the nurse had asked him if there was anyone she could contact.

No, he’d said. My father’s away on holiday in Bournemouth with his woman, Carol. She wears strong perfume. That’s how I know when she’s been around. They always thought I never knew but I did. The perfume, see?

Talking bollocks because of the drugs.

And now he was in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things he could have done that would have made this moment more convenient. Top of the list, he thought, was a Teasmade. They were ugly. But they were useful. He just wanted a cup of tea. Or coffee. Something warm and sweet, but maybe that was simply the shock coming out. He felt so cold, pulled on a T-shirt he found under his pillow. He thought the room was shabby. All the jobs he never finished. All the jobs he’d never started. A garage full of oak floorboards, five years in the waiting.

Music from next door bled into the room. Marvin Gaye, old-school seduction. It was the students. He didn’t mind them, they were company of sorts, and he sat up and reached for a glass of water. He used to be friends with his neighbours but he wasn’t so good at it now. He used to be in and out of their homes, but that was before. But his neighbours were now students and, next year, there would be another bunch not to get to know. He looked at his watch. He leant across the bedside table and took out a Voltarol and co-codamol and finished the last of his water. He exercised his fingers as best he could but they felt stiff and swollen. He wasn’t sure what the bottle of whisky was doing next to his bed. It was that fairy again, he thought.

The music from next door turned to sex, and he was surprised because he’d assumed sex was not a frequent occurrence for the students next door. They studied Statistics and, statistically, they had little chance against the kids studying Literature or PPE. Or Art, come to that. Well, that’s what he thought. It was just the way it was, some subjects were sexy. The bed was knocking against the wall, they were hard at it. He lay back down and started to drift off to the sound of a young woman coming.

When he woke again, the clock said seven. It was dark outside and streetlights lit his room. It could be morning, though it was probably evening. Absolute silence in the world. Nobody watching out for him. He rolled out of bed and stood up shakily. He felt bruised and tender and could see mauve shadowing spreading across his thigh. He went across to the bathroom.