EIGHT

I thought it was love, that feeling of weightlessness. The light reflected in your eyes. The world spinning around us. I thought it was love.

It’s after midnight and I’m driving. I’m pissed off because I had to drive us there and now back, which meant that I couldn't drink and so had to sit there sober, listening to your friends talk about new kitchens and good schools and how playing Mozart whilst pregnant practically guarantees you will spawn a genius. You had a few glasses of wine that painted a high blush on your cheeks and from across the room you gave me reassuring glances that I tried to ignore.

Now the hedgerows blur past like it’s them moving and not us. Chips of mica glitter on the road; brief counterpoints to the scattered stars overhead. You take my hand and I glance away from the road to see you smile like it all might work out between us, if we tried hard enough. If we listened.

“You look pretty” I say. You press your lips into a line, trying not to smile. “You have nice hair,” I say, “because it smells like coconut and it’s very soft.” You turn away, but I see in the reflection from the window that you are smiling at the old game. “When you brush your teeth, I can see you counting down two minutes in your head. Sometimes you tap a foot along to the beat. You clean each part of your mouth for thirty seconds and then you spit out the foam and use your hand to cup water into your mouth. I love that.”

I try to concentrate on driving. “You look kind of funny,” you say to me, after a while. This is your part of the game. “Your hair always sticks up in the morning and that Lynx shampoo you use makes it smell like a fourteen-year old boy on his first date. You never brush your teeth properly.”

You turn your smile to full-wattage and damn it brightens everything.

There’s a moment of silence, the night sounds and engine noise subdued, and I dare to hope we could do it, that we could close the gap between us. And then I look back to the road and see that the road is gone. And the feeling of weightlessness becomes a sick turning motion and when our car kisses the tarmac again our seatbelts hold against us in a crushing embrace.

That feeling of weightlessness is not love. It’s simple physics. The light in your eyes is not a new hope, it is just the lights of the jeep that has hit us.

Our little Fiat didn't have a chance and as the windscreen safetyglass falls on us in gummy clumps, I wonder why I didn't feel the initial impact. A warning bell rings in my ears and a tightness grips my abdomen. We’ve been hit, we have-

I frantically pull my seatbelt aside to check on you. I turn your head towards me, marvelling at it's curious weight now that you’re not holding it up. How did your graceful neck support such weight? And your eyes roll back into your head and I note the thin trickle of blood at your temple and I brush the hair from your brow and see the utter stillness in you and it is now that I know the gap between us will never close. It has been irrevocably widened into the chasm between life and death. Moonlight glitters in the broken glass and on the mica in the road and it spins silver in your hair. Somewhere close, an animal screams into the night.

Somewhere closer, the steady, wet, split-splat-split of petrol, dripping from the tank onto the concrete. It forms a puddle, and it spreads, and I barely hear it because I know that you are dead.

***

Letters sitting on the countertop, two months after your funeral.

They sit unopened. One is a utility bill, and probably safe to open. One is from some upstart record company (I recognise their logo from the constant emails they send, trying to get me to buy their stock, offering cut-rates and special offers which automatically means that the tunes will be shit and sit on my shelves for months). Another is from the insurance company. Royal and Sun Alliance. I've been ignoring their calls and know that I will have to talk to them eventually, but this letter only causes me a small discomfort. At some point they will send a representative round to talk about how much money I should be claiming and how they have an investment department who would just love to help me manage this newfound wealth. Oh, they won’t come right out and say it, they will use tact and guile, but they will want to give me their tainted money and then take it all back, tied up in guilds and stocks and management fees. The hell of it is, I will probably let them.

The letter I am terrified of opening, is the one that looks the most innocuous – small pastel-pink envelope, handwritten address. The postmark declares it was sent from Bristol. I know who the letter is from. The cursive, looped handwriting that echoes your hand so much it hurts. The “i’s” are dotted with a simple mark rather than the cheerful circles that you used, but in all other respects the resemblance is uncanny.

The letter is from your mother.

I stare at it for a long time. My eyes prick with tears, but I blink them back. It's common knowledge that the act of crying makes you feel better, that it is a release. But I have recently found out that common knowledge doesn't mean shit when it's four in the morning and you've cried so hard your eyes are red-raw and there are no tears left, just lurching sobs that wrack through you like convulsions. After these harsh fits of grief, I do not feel better. I do not feel release.

"You all right Andy mate?"

It's Bill Turner, a regular customer who's become a close friend through his sheer determination on his part. He’s poking his large, roundish head through the door, trying to disguise his surprise at seeing me here at the shop so soon. His clear blue eyes meet mine and he smiles. It softens his features.

"Yeah Bill, it's okay. I'm... " I pause, not wanting to lie. I've said too many automatic 'I'm fine, doing alright, getting along better' over the past two months and I'm sick of the false sound of the words. "I'm here at least" I say, "First day open in fact. And I'm glad that you're my first customer, Bill. Come in mate. It's okay."

Bill stands in the doorway, wringing his hands as if he can glean some comforting sentiment from them to offer me. He soon gives up, putting his arms awkwardly at his sides and instead of a platitude, he asks the usual question; "Kept anything back for me?"

I can't help but smile. "Of course Bill. Only the best for you." I hand him a stack of records from under the desk, removing the post-it with Bill’s name on it. In the age of 99p downloads and free delivery, this kind of personal service is the only way I can hope to make money. "There's a bit of jump-up, some pretty deep stuff from Dillinja in there. Oh, and a cheeky little samba-type thing that is surprisingly good. It’s got cowbell all over it." I hand him the headphones, which he plugs into one of the display-decks. He slips a record onto the plate, drops the needle, and listens.

Bill is a real addict. He closes his eyes and just stands there, waiting for it to kick in. When it does, the corners of his mouth twitch and he can't help but nod along. After a while he turns the volume down, opens his eyes and puts the record back into its sleeve. "Yeah, it's pretty good," he says, which is all part of the game, "Not great though. Might work as a filler. Let's see what else you've got."

But before he puts the next record on, he notices the open jar of peanut butter on the counter, next to the unopened letters. He raises his eyebrows. "On the hard stuff already mate?" he asks. I quickly move the jar underneath the counter. Bill knows something is wrong, but decides not to push it. He puts another record on and closes his eyes again.

Peanut butter straight from the jar had been your favourite. I had never gained a liking for it, despite the many, many teaspoons of the stuff you offered me. I didn't like the cloying texture, like so much wet clay in my mouth. I had often shunned the offered spoon in favour of a kiss, and there the nutty taste on your breath was delicate.

Sun-pat, Skippy, Crunch-O. You'd started eating jars at an alarming rate over our last six months and had stopped offering me a single taste. This was a change that I couldn't, or perhaps chose not to, acknowledge at the time. But last night, when no more tears would come, I had taken one of your jars (still with indentations from your little teaspoons) and ate from it. I can't say I liked it, but the claggy texture was a strange comfort.

“Come on mate, we’re leaving.”

“What?” I say, watching him lift the needle from the record.

“We’re leaving.”

I stand there, not sure if I should protest, not even sure what I’d be protesting against.

“Look, it’s nice that you’ve opened up so soon, it’s nice that you are moving on, putting on a brave face, working things out, all that crap. Okay, it’s nice. But you’re not ready.”

“I’m not,” I say, not sure if I am agreeing with him or just leading him to his point.

“You’re not. And so, as your only friend-“

“Bill, you’re not my only friend.”

“The only one that counts. The only one that’s here, anyway. So, as your only friend, I say come on, we’re going for breakfast.”

The way he said it made breakfast not sound like just a morning meal, but like a mysterious elixir, a healing ritual, a rite of food and conversation and fulfilment.

“Fine. I could close-up for half an hour,” I survey the empty shop, “I guess it’s not exactly rush-hour in here at the moment is it. Greasy Spoon then?”

“Fuck no. Have you not been listening to me?”

“What’s wrong with the Greasy Spoon? I like it.”

“Nothing’s wrong with the Grease, but I’m talking about Breakfast. Capital B. You know where we’re going, and we’re not waiting in line with the other chumps. I’m cashing in my chip.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You can’t cash in your chip, Bill. I mean, it’s your chip. You earned it. Seriously.”

“Seriously. You need eggs and bacon and tomatoes and sweet maple syrup, you need a coffee, some toast, those little potato fries they do with the herbs and the muffins and a milkshake. Fuck, remember their milkshakes? I think I cried the first time. We’re going to The Breakfast Club, and we’re not waiting. Come on, we’ll get the tube.” 

“Okay,” I said, oblivious of the trouble this one small word would cause. I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay.”