Animals (23 page)

When Tyler was dressed we walked across town to Charlotte Square Gardens. We bought a quarter-bottle of whisky on the way and passed it between us as we walked along the humped footpath that ran round the Castle. According to myth a serpent lay stretched out beneath the city, the path curving over its rounded back. In the gardens we bought two cups of white wine from a stall. Tyler flicked through the programme. Festivals, like cities, were places to lose yourself: pop-up holiday towns with all the attendant lawlessness. Bandit country.

‘AHA,’ said Tyler, stopping on a page and pouting, ‘I wondered whether
he
’d be here.’

‘Who?’

‘Marty.’

I downed my drink. Pulsed once down low.

‘In fact, he’s on right now, interviewing someone over there.’ Tyler nodded to a marquee. ‘It’s just started. Here, grab this a sec.’ She handed me the programme.

‘Is there nothing else on?’ I said, leafing through it frantically. ‘I mean, it’s good to have options, isn’t it? The very essence of festivals is options, no?’

She put her hand in her pocket, fumbled around for a minute, pulled her hand out, sucked her finger. ‘You want?’

‘Where’s that from?’

‘I siphoned some off and hid it in the Christmas tree. Who says poetry doesn’t have its uses.’

Now.

You can judge me for this, but I think I’d reached such a point of disbelief and angst that … Yeah. Anyway. Whatever. I had some.

We walked across the gardens. When we got to the marquee, there was a NO ENTRY sign and a chain – an actual chain – across the door.

‘Fuck is this?’ said Tyler, yanking at the chain. A man in a suit with an earpiece came running over.

‘Sorry, ladies, no latecomers admitted,’ he said. ‘It says so on your tickets.’

We didn’t have– well, of
course
we didn’t …

‘She’s PREGNANT,’ Tyler said, pointing at me. ‘She needs to sit down. This is an infringement of human rights.’

‘There are seats in the refreshment tents.’

‘She has leukemia, too. It’s her dying wish to be at this festival and hear some words of comfort and inspiration before the end. With her doomed unborn in her poisoned womb –’

‘Tyler, you heard the man,’ I said. ‘Let’s go see something else. Anything else.’

The man glanced at my abdomen and walked away.

‘Fuck this shit,’ Tyler said. She tore off a piece of her t-shirt, dipped it in the remains of the whisky, set fire to it with her lighter and then lobbed it into a nearby bin. The bin burst into flames. Somebody screamed. The man in the suit ran off shouting FIRE! and returned with a fire extinguisher. As he was extinguishing the flames we dipped under the chain and crawled under the door-flaps.

Inside the marquee there was a sparse audience, intently listening to the writer onstage. We sat on the back row, putting our wine beneath the chairs.

‘Would you look at him,’ said Tyler. ‘The bombastic bastard.’

I would not look at him. I was shaky all over. What if he knew, somehow?

‘A question from the audience next!’ Marty said.

I looked at Tyler. She was openly dabbing. She swigged her wine and gargled to get it all down. A man in front of us turned and scowled.

‘Here,’ I said. She passed me the bag and I put it between my knees to needle out a few surreptitious nailfuls. There was a lot in the bag.

‘Your novels tend to have happy endings,’ said a woman down near the front. ‘Don’t you think happy endings are unrealistic?’

‘All endings are unrealistic,’ said the author demurely.

Oof – this woman was good. I looked to my right again. Something was amiss. It took me a moment to work out what. Knowledge crashed in; the proverbial china shop reduced to smithereens. Tyler wasn’t in her seat. I scanned the room, panicking. Her wine was still there beneath her chair and so was her jacket, slung across the back. Then I saw her, haring down the side of the marquee towards the stage. Oh holy fuck of fucks I couldn’t cope with this, couldn’t cope with this at all. When she reached the stage she clambered on and grinned. The writer noticed her and stopped talking. A terrible hush fell over the marquee. Someone stood up on the front row and said something to Marty but he gestured for them to sit back down again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Tyler Johnson – my old spar!’

Mortifications. Mounting.

Tyler took a little bow and then took the microphone from the writer’s hand. The writer sat there, confused.

‘Say, this obsession with realism – or what I think you’re pertaining to here is better defined as naturalism,’ said Tyler into the mic. ‘It drives me up the fuck-ing wall.’ I shrank further into my seat, my fingers finding the rim of my wine glass. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never stopped reading a book and thought,
What am I doing here, sitting in this room, reading? I was just on a ship at sea, with one arm in a sling and the mother of storms approaching and sharks circling the hull. Thank fuck! It was just a story
… I like a bit of style. Craft. Panache. Self-consciousness. Whatever.’

‘Are you a writer?’ said the writer.

‘Yes,’ said Tyler. ‘In every other way apart from the actual writing of things. I often think of getting my thoughts down on paper, to process them, to leave something behind. But I won’t be put in a box until I’m put in a box, know what I mean?’

I went down for my wine again and stayed low.

Tyler said: ‘Does anyone up here have anything to drink?’ The writer and Marty shook their heads. ‘Right then,’ said Tyler, ‘that’s me. Enjoy the festival, mufux.’ She made a peace sign, dropped the mic and jumped off the stage. As she bounded back to her seat the whole marquee – the canvas itself – was watching us.

‘Tyler,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘that was the most revolting display I’ve ever seen, which where you’re concerned is saying something. We’re leaving.’

‘What do you mean? They loved me. I’m made for this shit.’

‘What, bad manners?’

But then, a sea change: the irrepressible swell of fuckedness. Neurons failing to receive, kicking back, muting their phones and signing off for the day. I felt my eyes peel, my brain warm through, my limbs align. She was right. Everything was cool and fine. They loved her. They loved us both. Which was handy because we loved them, too, everyone in the tent. Everyone loved everyone and we were all made for all of the shit all of the time.

‘You should lecture at universities,’ I said.

‘Yeah, I’ve often thought about that.’

After the applause we waited outside the tent for Marty. Tyler said
Thank you
to everyone as they left, like it was her wedding. ‘Isn’t this just like old times?’ she said.

The good feelings. The good feelings. Was it just the drugs? Was it not the truth? I didn’t care, and not caring was a kind of purity in itself. Anything could feel pure when you were under the influence. Licking a toilet cistern. Talking to a moron. Putting on a purple jumpsuit and doing star jumps to ‘All Night Long’ by Lionel Richie. The most dickish and dull of activities, ideas and objects were suddenly invested with an intense and intriguing glamour. Who wouldn’t want to reside in that place, that world?
Only a fool, my friend, only a fool.

‘Laura! Tyler!’

He grinned. ‘How are you?’

Oh, you know, wanking over your cockshot occasionally.

He kissed us both on both cheeks and put an arm around each of us. He smelled of new leather. Aftershave. My stomach boaked.

‘What are you two reprobates doing here amongst all the proper people?’

‘We came on a whim,’ I said.

NOBODY TRAVELS THREE HUNDRED MILES ON A WHIM, DICKHEAD.

‘Impressive whim.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your wine’s run out.’

‘Probably for the best.’

‘Probably not.’

Stop it
, I thought. This is categorically not fair, on anyone.
In fact, let’s shake hands and bid each other farewell and turn round and walk off in opp –

‘Fancy another?’

‘Yes.’

Arguably, the joy of the intoxicated world is not reality. (Tyler:
Reality is for people TOO WEAK FOR DRUGS
.) Those aren’t your real feelings because we base our concept of reality on how things are most of the time. The dust settles and the dazzle fades and you realise you feel nothing for jumpsuits or morons or Lionel Richie except the embarrassment that the memory of your involvement with them demands.

Know what? I
tire
of reality.

We sat round a wooden table outside the marquee. There were four of us; Liz the author came for a drink, too. She was a good woman. She lived in Nottingham with her husband and three sons. She wore a lot of precious stones. Practised Reiki in her spare time.

‘Laura’s a writer,’ said Marty.

‘That’s great,’ said Liz.

His leg brushed against mine under the table and I moved away, quickly. My reflexes were catlike. I was enjoying thinking that sentence.
My reflexes are catlike.
I thought about offering him some mandy.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘Introduce me as a writer.’

Liz turned to me. ‘Have you had anything published?’

‘I’m working on a novel.’

‘What’s the title?’

‘Well it was
Bacon
but I’m thinking that’s too glib and I had this like weird epiphany the other night when I was on a plane on my own and I now think it should be called
Killing the Changes
you know because that’s more mysterious and I want the book to be mysterious and complex even though it’s about the simplest thing really and that’s love.’

‘What’s your name? I’ll look out for you.’

‘Laura Joyce.’ She looked at me. ‘I know. I
know
.’

‘In the particular is contained the universal,’ said Marty. ‘That’s Joyce. The other one.’

‘In the
sub-atomic
particular now,’ I said. Liz looked at me oddly. Was I not making sense? Because I actually thought I was being pretty fucking profound. I thought about offering her some mandy. ‘I could always send you … if you …’

‘Good luck with it!’ Liz chugged a large mouthful of wine.

‘Liz!’ Tyler cried, standing up. ‘Do some Reiki on me.’

‘Oh, I’ve got to go.’

‘Just a little, would you? I’m all tense with driving and being beaten up.’ She rolled her shoulders.

Liz stood up. ‘So lovely to meet you all,’ she said. ‘Marty, thanks for a lovely event.’

And she was off.

‘So,’ said Marty, nodding at Tyler’s eye. ‘What happened, badass?’

‘A drug dealer. Taking everything into account, it was a small price to pay.’ I saw Zuzu’s face and cast it away. ‘I’ve got some of the drugs I stole on me, too.’

‘I’d never have guessed. Share the wealth, then.’

She did. We all did.

When dusk fell we went to a supermarket for cigarettes. The queue for the manned counter was long – just one young man in front of the masked tobacco wall, with eight self-service counters bleeping away to our left as we queued. Unexpected item in bagging area. Approval needed. Everybody and everything was impatient.

‘I like those self-service checkouts,’ Tyler said. ‘You can rant at them and it’s not a person. You can take it all out on those fuckers.’

‘I once pretended to be blind in a chemist,’ I said.

‘Oh, this one’s great,’ said Tyler. ‘She –’

‘– I was looking for saline solution for Tyler, and I couldn’t find the eye section so I found a sales assistant and said,
Can you point me to the eyecare section, please? Sorry – I’m a bit blind
except he took “a bit blind” literally, came and held me by the elbow and made a big show of guiding me across the shop and I didn’t know how to correct him, I didn’t want him thinking I’d been flippant or worse still made some kind of sick joke, and I was really regretting saying it so I went along with it and pretended I was actually blind. He led me across the shop, moving people out of the way for me, and I let him lead me, thanking him, and then when he deposited me at the eyecare section I said,
I think I can take it from here
. But he wouldn’t let it be, he pressed a bottle of saline into my hand and then started guiding me over to the till, and I thought, I’m going to get rumbled here when I have to chip and pin so I said all indignant
I’m not completely incapable, you know!
which saw him off.’ I exhaled profusely, which felt good. ‘I still feel bad about it.’

‘That’s because you like feeling bad,’ said Tyler, wrenching a pack of ibuprofen off a plastic holster.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well, you like a good telling-off at any rate. That’s why you like the idea of God. He’s the ultimate angry teacher.’

‘That’s so interesting,’ Marty said.

‘Know why they keep the toiletries behind the tills?’ I said, to be more interesting.

‘Because they’re more expensive.’

‘Nope, there are boxes of chocolate over there worth more than deodorant.’

‘Enlighten me, Miss Joyce.’

Miss Joyce.
I liked that. No I didn’t. Yes I did.

‘Because they’re what homeless people are most likely to steal.’

‘I steal handwash from bars to give to homeless people,’ said Tyler. ‘I’m like Robin Hood, not in tights.’

I’d seen her help someone out of a supermarket once. The man had bought two bottles of super-strength cider and there were three staff and two security guards around him like he was a dangerous dog. Customers were staring. The man had paid, he had a carrier bag and a receipt in his hand, he was just taking his time to pack up and struggling with the bag handles. Tyler batted the people around him away.
I’ll get this gent out, no need for all this.
She escorted the man to the doors. He was grateful. He said
They look at me like I’m shit, you know, but I’m not shit I’m just pissed.
Would she have helped him if she hadn’t been pissed herself? Who gave a shit.

Marty said he knew of a place called Deco, a wine bar. We stood outside the front door finishing our fags. Down the street, a busker was singing ‘The Boxer’.

‘Boom,’ said Marty softly as we passed. I liked him better when he was smoking.