flat as I ducked into the stairwell of the block. The stench of piss and wet dog slapped me round the chops and made me realize that I’d just been having a barney with a piece of glass!
Don’t worry, Ash, you’re seconds away now.
I took the stairs, of course. I needed the exercise, and I just couldn’t risk the lift. It’s not the getting stuck in there that bothers me. I sometimes wish for that. Then everything would have to stop. I would have to stop for as long as it took. It’s the closest you could get to having the world stop turning for a bit so you could jump off, if you know what I mean. But I wouldn’t, not in that lift, ’cause when my legs got tired I couldn’t sit on that floor knowing what’s been puked, pissed and gobbed on it.
By the time I got to Floor 4, I was already flagging. Man, you’re thirty-nine, not fifty-nine! A door slammed somewhere up at the top of the block and gave me my second wind so I could get to my place before I’d have to pass whoever it was on the stairs coming down. Floor 6, and right on cue the theme music to Casualty blasted from Number 57 so loud that their front door buzzed at me as I flew past. I had absolutely no idea who lived there, never seen them, but I knew exactly what they liked to watch on TV – we all did. Even though there was another floor between me and them, I knew they couldn’t get enough of Casualty, EastEnders, Coronation Street, and now this new version of Casualty called Cardiac Arrest – it can’t last, not two dramas about hospitals and blood and grief: surely people don’t have the stomach for it?
Floor 7 and Roddy and Dave in Number 58 were pumping out the House hits as per.
‘La da dee la dee da, la da dee la dee da,’ went Crystal Waters with her voice like the phlegmy mutterings of the old girl who sits outside Costcutter dozing in her wing-backed chair.
Here’s me trying to teach people what makes a good voice and a classic performance and these two dopes below will slam on another Acid track like they’re trying to undermine me. And now this stuff’s crossing over into the top 40 I can see that look in my students’ eyes sometimes that says: I just wanna be a star, be top of the charts, where 2 Unlimited and Snap! are, so why you getting me to sing all this old Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin crap?
Nearly there, Ash, nearly…
I finally reached my floor and the door opposite mine, Number 61, gently clicked shut like it always did when I reached the landing. It’s enough to make you paranoid, don’t you reckon? But I knew that her eye wouldn’t be at the peephole for long once she’d seen it was me. It wasn’t me she was waiting for. It was that bloody ape Daryl. I knew his name ’cause I’d heard her squeak it a thousand times through bruised lips as he crashed down the stairs telling her she’s dumped (again), and that she’s a whore and a fat one at that. Her name’s Rachel – I knew that ’cause he’d be roaring it into her door later, and she’d open it, like she did every time, and she’d let him in. Why did she let him in? Is it that she actually liked it, the way he treated her? It’s beyond me, I tell you.
My hand shook as I turned the key – it’s nothing though, just the fact that it’s bloody freezing tonight. It’s March, what do you expect? The heavy door slammed behind me and the windows all shook as if to try and get the argument going again, but I weren’t rising. I was going to be sorted in a minute.
I whacked on the TV. I already knew what was on BBC1 thanks to my neighbours down below, so I started flicking almost before the tube was warmed up. I landed on Channel 4 News first. There was talk of Nirvana’s lead singer again, put himself in a coma this time, it seems, after a cocktail of champagne and Rohypnol. Jesus, look at Courtney Love, what a state! Although I blamed the likes of Kurt Cobain for the lack of interest the music industry has in really fine singers today, I couldn’t tear myself away from the news, any news about celebs in the music biz. If it was good news I’d search between the newscaster’s words like someone reading their horoscope, vainly trying to find a comparison that signalled imminent success for me. If it was bad news, and it usually was, I’d just use it to feel better about the state of my life. So I dived in the kitchen and grabbed a pot of houmous and a bag of Doritos, the black-handled knife and the Red Leicester from the fridge, holding the crisp packet between finger and thumb, out in front of me like a dead rat so it didn’t make a racket and block out any of the sound from the TV. I was back on the sofa in a flash. I had a bit too much momentum in the rush, forgot to sit down gently and so a cloud of dust puffed up around me from the frayed green armrests. I could taste it. I’m such a scumbag! But where would you start? The sofa’s beyond saving. I’ll chuck it out and get a new one…when I get the time…and the money.
They’ve finished with Kurt and Courtney already, back to Iran…The time! As if you haven’t got the time, Ashley Bolt! You teach about six hours a week, drop off and pick up a few things here and there, do the odd gig – once in a blue moon – and you reckon you haven’t got the time. Ah, houmous and Doritos! Better than sex, eh? Haven’t got the money then…you can’t argue with that. I don’t earn enough to waste on sofas, furniture. It’s just things; things don’t matter. That’s what Kurt, even Kurt Cobain, would say. But then he can say that, can’t he? – he can afford to. Better than sex! Finish the cheese, quick! Like, when was the last time you got your end away to know about that? Iran, Iraq – how could you live like that? That would be the time with the bondage girl, who pulled a cat-o’-nine tails from her bag and told you to whip her from behind. Harder, she said. You can’t do it hard enough, she said. Bloody right, I couldn’t! Me and Jim had a laugh about that one. But then I bet she did too – probably thought I was a right letdown. I wonder whether it would make any difference if I lived in Cathedral Apartments…’Course it would. People would come back. More students. I wanted to make a proper dinner, something hot. Now I’ve had all this cheese and crisps. You knew you would. Don’t kid yourself, you dick! Now the knife’s here. Must phone Dad. Why should I? Why does she do that, that Rachel? They know I teach singers. Do you reckon they do it on purpose, those two, play it loud to undermine me? I’d probably get complaints myself in Cathedral Apartments. Got crumbs down the side of the sofa. Like it matters! But it should. Perhaps I should change the way I teach, add some of this House stuff. Stick to your guns, boy, that’s your trouble. Kurt Courtney Rohypnol Good for a comedown after a night on the pills Date rape Cheese Clean off the knife It’s clean Ah
Ah
Ah.
Peace.
The more it hurt the more I cut. The knife with the black handle had a short, sharp blade. I slid it backwards and forwards on the inside of my forearm, pressing harder each time. And the chaos all went. Everything just stopped. Except the to-ing and fro-ing of the shiny blade. All was peace and quiet in my head. Nothing existed outside either. I couldn’t hear the TV. I drew in the smoothest, longest breath. I rushed. An endorphin rush, if you know what I mean. Sex, orgasm – you’re on the right lines. The buzz off a pukka E – maybe. Scratch an itch, an itch that you couldn’t get to for ages because the time wasn’t right, or the place. Yeah, any itch, on your inside leg, your back, your bum, anywhere. It wasn’t appropriate in public, that paralysing relief you know is coming when you scratch the itch; it’s going to make you look weird in front of others. But the longer you leave it, the more frustrating it gets, and the greater the relief when you finally get on your own…
So what if that itch is deeper? Deeper than your skin, I mean. What if that itch isn’t an itch at all? What if it’s a place, a person, something they said, something they didn’t say, a thought, a dream, a nightmare, all of these things and more, crashing into the little space inside you?
The relief. The stillness. And then the blood popped out of the space between the blade and a flap of my skin and slid so fast, like a red and silent bolt of lightning looking for earth, down my forearm to my elbow. The first sound was the tapping, fast tapping of the blood dripping onto my khaki combats,
