Just I’ve been feeling bad about the Aaron Mathews thing. I’m not sure if I should tell Etgar the truth.’
‘Why?’ she says. ‘You didn’t even properly fuck him and you were drunk.’
The feeling that happens in my head is the same as when you wake up after sleeping on an arm. A warm, staticky lack of feeling. I’m still for a little then I’m not. The blood comes back.
I think, fucking fuck shit fuck.
I think, am I going to vomit?
I’m maybe going to vomit.
I throw my computer off the bed. I’m shaking. My heart is beating fast and my chest feels tight. I think, am I going to have a heart attack? I hope I don’t die of a heart attack. If that happens someone will say something retarded about me dying ‘from a broken heart’.
I go into the bathroom and take the co-codamol Mum was given for her gout out of the cupboard. Downstairs, I break ten of the tablets in half and put them into a cup. My hands are shaking and everything is hard to do. Everything is heavy and slow. I add water and crush everything with the handle of a screwdriver. I take off my trousers and my boxer shorts and stretch the boxer shorts over a pint glass and pour the mixture through. A pyramid of white powder collects on top of the boxer shorts. Paracetamol. I throw it away. I drink the mixture. I hold my own hands to try and stop them shaking and my whole body starts to shake and I think I’m going to fall over. I go upstairs and lie on top of my duvet. Amundsen lies next to me. I push my face into his fur. A low moaning sound comes out of me and he does a little grunt. I think to myself, see you in the morning.
5
I wake up and sit up and shake my head. There are tiger cubs inside of it. Last night’s dream is still hanging around my eyes. Something about a bear and a basement. And Drake. Or Paul Rudd. A river. I don’t remember. For a second, nothing happens. My head is a tomb. And it’s one of the best feelings, next to paying with exact change and narrowly escaping rain. When you wake up and the people in your head sit still.
Then it starts.
Everything hurts.
I want to vomit.
I imagine never moving. I imagine a camera filming my body as it decomposes and the footage being sped up so that it looks like I’m being eaten by the air. Alice. Alice and Aaron Mathews. Aaron Mathew’s hand inside Alice. Aaron Mathew’s dick inside Alice’s mouth.
Amundsen’s moved and is asleep at the bottom of my bed. His whole body is expanding and contracting like a slowly beating heart. It’s raining. It’s raining a lot. I push the duvet away and Amundsen flounders, appears momentarily confused, then gets to his feet and jumps onto the carpet. We stand at the window. I groan. I press my nose against the glass. Someone is hurling buckets of water against it, over and over. Amundsen licks my hand. I scratch behind his ear.
I’m dizzy.
I shiver.
I go into the bathroom and run my face under the cold tap.
‘Up,’ I say. ‘Breakfast.’ Amundsen follows me downstairs and waits next to the kettle as it boils. Nesquik tea can upset my stomach so I have normal tea. Amundsen has tripe. I try to eat a Ryvita but it’s too dry, forming small bricks in my cheeks that refuse to shift. I eat a cherry yogurt. My phone rings and I have to answer. It’s Mum.
‘Etgar?’ she says. ‘Etgar, it’s Mum.’
‘I know. I’m here.’
‘Are you okay? Is everything fine? Is Amundsen alive?’ I look at Amundsen. Drops of water and saliva are hanging from his muzzle like icicles from a rooftop.
‘He’s alive,’ I say. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Are you eating okay? Did we leave enough?’
‘Everything’s fine. How’s Russia?’
‘Oh, it’s wonderful. Your Uncle Michael is very happy and Alena is lovely.’
‘Have they done it yet?’
‘Done what?’
‘The marrying.’
‘The ceremony’s tomorrow. It’s going to be in this gorgeous little church surrounded by beautiful fields and all sorts.’
‘Great. That sounds great.’
‘I’d better go. This is expensive and we’ve got to go shopping for a present. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m okay. Say hi to Dad. You should buy them a dog for when she runs away.’
‘Etgar, be nice.’
‘Sorry. Bye, Mum.’
‘I love you.’
‘You too.’
I sit on the sofa and feel like I’m the Titanic. Amundsen gets up next to me and puts his head in my lap. He dribbles onto my leg and saliva soaks through my trousers. I try to play At Least. Here:
– At least I’m not dead (How good is this? Maybe being dead is good. Maybe all of the religions are real and when you die you go somewhere fun and infinite).
– At least I’m not old (I’m older than yesterday).
– At least I don’t have cancer (I might have cancer. I cough all the time).
– At least I don’t have to do anything (I have to walk Amundsen).
I don’t remember all of last night. There are gaps. I remember Marie. I remember Aaron. My phone’s flashing. One new message.
Alice to me: What? U drnk? Miss you txt mexx
I check my sent messages.
Me to Alice: fjkyyyyyyuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Upstairs, I pick up my laptop. The plastic casing has come open and circuit boards are peeking out. It’s blank. Last night it showed a tiny nightmare. I don’t know what I want it to show any more. I scratch my balls. I want it to show naked women who aren’t Alice.
I go to get Mum’s laptop. She won’t know, as long as I delete everything. I close my bedroom door and climb into bed and pull the duvet over my head. Amundsen paws at the door. I decide to find out if chatrooms still exist. Adult sex ones. The ones I used to play on in ICT lessons at school when there was nothing else to do. Ones filled with people bored of work and of sitting at home and of being alone. Where people don’t really say anything, they just type because what else.
They still exist.
There’s one called chatworld.
There’s one called adultchatlife.
There’s one called battychat.
Battychat doesn’t sound
