Hope and Other Stories Read online

  I tell Simon I’m going to the cigarette machine and get up. The guy is still clocking me, blatantly, I love that. Pretending to put money in the machine, I push the button for Silk Cut. It rumbles, I slap it and walk back up to the table.

  ‘They’ve run out, I’m just going over to the chippie.’

  Simon has started chatting to a guy with fluorescent orange hair and merely nods in acknowledgement without looking round.

  Walking out the pub I sense the guy with the shorts following me. My legs go a bit shaky, it’s so fucking long since I’ve done anything like this. He comes out behind me, just like I expect him to. Joe Orton was right. I don’t know how you know, you just do. This surge of bravado just comes from nowhere. When I pretend to go back into the pub he blocks my way, grinning.

  ‘You don’t really want to go back in there, do you?’

  ‘What would you suggest like?’

  He shrugs his shoulders and we both walk back towards my new pad with his mutt. The last two days have had a dream-like simplicity about them.

  6

  His snoring wakes me in the middle of the night. I’m horrified to find him beside me and even more horrified to find his smelly dog squeezed in between us. How could a bottle of red wine and a vodka be so kind on the features of someone so grotesque? The snoring makes him doubly unappealing. I stare at him for a minute with an uneasy mix of anger and morbid fascination till the sound of his honking drives me out of the room. My rage is then propounded by a recollection of me not being able to get a proper hard-on when he tried to suck me off. I want him out of here, I wish he was dead. Did he say he was from Haymarket? That’s where I’ve seen him before. Thank fuck I’m away from there now.

  Stomping through to the living room, I attempt to roll a joint but my hands are shaking because I’m so annoyed. Just be assertive, I tell myself. Striding back through to the bedroom, I stand beside the bed looking down at him.

  ‘Hey, hey pal. Wake up.’

  He just lies snoring. I give him a gentle shake. ‘Hey, come on, you’ll have to go.’ Still no response so I shake him more firmly. Surely that should have woken him up. Perhaps he’s pretending to be asleep. I jostle him until he rolls onto his back. Still the awful noise continues. The anger is pumping adrenaline through my body. Lifting the quilt up, I grab his feet and pull him off the bed. As he thuds onto the floor his head cracks on the floorboards. Shit, I panic but the pain wakes him and he fumbles blindly for the duvet, wondering what’s going on.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’d rather you went home. Nothing personal you know. I just need some time on my own.’

  He seems confused but ok about it all and starts stumbling into his ridiculous outfit again. Not knowing what to say, I go back through to my joint as the decisive action has curtailed my trembling. After a couple of minutes he comes through to say goodbye.

  As I open the front door, I allow him to kiss me, just so he’ll go away.

  ‘Do you live here now then?’

  Though I don’t want him to know I do, the pose is almost irresistible. Compromising I give him a what-do-you-think shrug.

  ‘Probably bump into you again sometime,’ I say as I shut the door, knowing that life can sometimes be that cruel. Dammit, and the Phoenix is so convenient now.

  Stripping the covers off my bed I stuff them in the washing machine. Remembering the joint, I take it through to my bedroom and start rummaging through one of my unpacked boxes of stuff. Why have I let that bastard get to me? I’m on a real downer now because I’ve sacrificed two years of celibacy for someone so inconsequential.

  Hyper-alert through rage and remnants of the speed, I thumb through photos of myself as a teenager and think what a fat geek I was. I find a ticket for BB King at the Playhouse from years ago and remember my hot date that night with a computer salesman I met in a toilet, who said he was going to take me away from it all. We snogged in the middle row. He told me I made him feel like James Dean. That was the last time I saw him. I hate BB King. My 1992 diary keeps coming to the top of the pile of junk but I’m trying to ignore it as diary-reading makes me feel like such an old fag. Perhaps one random page won’t hurt.

  Monday 7 May 1992

  Mum lost her job. Wept a lot. Felt panicky and angry all day.

  Tuesday 8 May 1992

  Felt depressed in the morning but was unemotional by bedtime.

  Wednesday 9 May 1992

  Felt neither here nor there in morning. Threw a wobbly in a restaurant. Unemotional for the rest of the day.

  Thursday 10 May 1992

  Watched Taxi Driver. Felt mildly paranoid. Felt OK at night.

  Friday 11 May 1992

  Felt fine all day. Couldn’t sleep.

  Saturday 12 May 1992

  Felt bad when I woke up. Didn’t get Napier job. Thought when I was happy it was perhaps only mania. Felt better at night but couldn’t sleep.

  Jesus, have I always been such a sad bastard? I go back to bed but can hardly think for thinking about it.

  7

  Waking up in my new home is rather disorientating and my first thought is that I must have copped with some old pouve or other. Once I’ve opened the shutters (yes, proper shutters, it’s like fucking Paris), got Maria Callas blaring and christened my new toilet it feels significantly more homely. I devote most of the morning to swallowing strong black coffee (proper stuff, natch), smoking joints and nosing round the flat. Hope has some amazing clothes – as if Lena Martell, Quentin Crisp and the cast of a blaxploitation movie maybe shared a wardrobe at some point. Everything smells of her, in a good way.

  Rummaging through her drawers, I’m intrigued to find out what kind of knickers she might wear. The bland, pastel-shaded Marks and Spencer briefs sort of disappoint me but are at least better than the shoulder-length passion-killers mum wears.

  Noticing a Miller’s Antiques Guide in the tightly crammed bookcase I wrench it out and begin thumbing through it. Maybe I can identify some of the things she has stashed in here. It’s tiresome at first having to negotiate the lopsided weight of the flimsy pages. As I squint at the tiny print of the index and slowly begin to find things though, I start to really get into it. Hours pass as I study dishes, ornaments, sideboards, prints, totting up figures, not with any master plan in mind, just because I’m enjoying teaching myself about it all.

  By teatime I’m bored with it and exhausted by my own enthusiasm. Feeling listless and strangely alone I’m back in full-fledged sad bastard mode again in no time at all. When Hope’s not back by seven I feel so frustrated I have to go for a lie down. I want to go out somewhere where there’s no faggots, just for a change. Drawing a blank on suitable ideas I watch light dancing on the ceiling from the cars outside till I finally hear the door being unlocked. It’s half eight. Hope drifts in singing ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’. Jumping out of bed I rush into the hall to greet her like a dog that’s been on its own too long. She does a bit of her line dancing for me and I’m so pleased to see another human being again, it seems good.

  ‘Oh it’s trite but I love it. Don’t you get like that sometimes?’

  She hangs up her cape and I follow her through to the living room.

  ‘No major disasters? No urban insurrection in Dublin Street? My God, this place looks unnervingly pristine, my dear. Was it a wild party or are you a Virgo?’

  ‘Just a Virgo, I’m afraid. I’m very anal about dust.’

  She feigns horror.

  ‘I’ll try to be liberal about it, darling, but I’m allergic to dust myself. Who am I to make spiders homeless?’

  As she floats around the room, animated, I think how full of life she is and how empty of it I am. I think of my own mother – defeated, bowed and living for the bingo. Maybe energy is genetic. Hope tells me she has tickets for a whisky tasting at Waterstone’s and asks if I want to go with her. It sounds just about right. Maybe some of her will rub off on me.

  8

  The tasting is downstairs at the East End Waterston
e’s. A red-faced wag with a bushy beard describes each malt with such affection and desire that I almost manage to convince myself that I’m not only here for the beer. The really peaty ones are absolutely divine. My first two have me that safe, glowy way. Hope is circulating and seems to know everyone intimately. I’ve still no idea what her background is or where all the money comes from. It’s too soon to ask her outright.

  A few of the staff I know through Shirley are buzzing around but I’m in one of my shy moods, so just stand in a growing daze, tripping-out over the whisky. My favourite is Isle of Jura because it smells like poppers and takes me from gloriously glowy to borderline pissed so beautifully. As I lean against one of the tables, a heavily made-up creature of indeterminate gender gestures to two measures at my side and stammers,

  ‘Pleashe … away … I’m fucking guttered.’

  Knowing that two more will probably push me over the edge I sniff both and knock them back. Jesus, whisky makes me feel really straight. It’s such a manly drink.

  By the time Hope gets round to me, queasiness is making the thought of a joint and an armchair very attractive. Arm-in-arm with the man who gave the talk, she introduces me as her flatmate. Giving my hand a limp, clammy shake he begins quizzing me about what I do, where I come from, what I think of Edinburgh, how I know Hope, which I’m not really up to lying about. The way he launches at me and the intense eye contact suggest he’s quite taken by me but he has terrible halitosis and I have to turn my head when he speaks to me. Hope observes with a worryingly conniving look. I’m starting to wish I’d stayed in. Why is it always the ugly blokes who go for me? If once, just once, a little Death in Venice chicken would return my glance, but no, it’s always those seedy, cruisey types who don’t wash their genitals very often. Why can’t I force myself to like people? I don’t really like anyone, particularly myself.

  Hope though, I do like, but I don’t want to be here. I always feel like a nonce unless I’m around people who seem less self-assured than myself. Oh God, Hope has just catapulted herself into a circle of luvvies and embraced everyone. The racket of their squawking and the fanfare of own trumpets being blown is grating on me. Now she’s wittering away to the trannie person that gave me its drinks, their faces almost touching as they converse. The spectacle upsets me somehow. What am I thinking? Why do I suddenly feel jealous about some old woman? I’m sick of this.

  Barging up to Hope I tell her I’m leaving, I don’t feel well. Her eyes try to speak to me out of the jumble of sycophants. Standing like a prick for a few minutes, expecting her to come over, she doesn’t, so I make for the exit.

  Walking out onto Princes Street, I feel like a Christmas puppy in March. The cemetery in Waterloo Place blinks seductively at me but I feel like I don’t want that any more. I don’t know what I want.

  The walk back to the flat does nothing to lift a feeling of growing doom. I can’t even be bothered to roll a joint when I get in. Besides, my chest is fucked because the blow at the moment is full of plastic. Home by nine on a Saturday night. It’s fucking shocking. Lying fully dressed on the bed I listen to little cracks of noise outside. Am I destined to spend the rest of my life watching car lights on the ceiling? I just want Hope to come home. I’m lonely. I want to know that she likes me. I want to win her over. I’m still sitting waiting at one the next morning. Getting up, I close the shutters, undress, then get back into bed. What a sad bastard.

  9

  Despite my early night, the blackened windows allow me to block out the world until well after noon the next day. Hope is back as I can hear her singing about the flat. The sound is faintly erotic. It feels like we’re lovers who’ve had a tiff. I worry about myself sometimes. Irritated by my feeling of non-specific mardiness, I force myself out of bed, stretching flamboyantly as I walk over to open the shutters. The streets below are that quiet, restrained Sunday way, as if the houses have all been abandoned. Perhaps I should do some sketches and flog them to the rich bastards that live around here.

  Then I notice a figure opposite the flat, just standing against the railings. I look away then back to confirm the signal my eyes are sending to my brain. Jesus, surely not. It’s the ugly bloke I brought back the other night, just standing there with that fucking stinky dog. What the fuck is he playing at? What does he want? Hope can’t find out about Friday night, she’ll think I’m such a scab. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Should I ignore him or go and see what he wants? How long has he been there?

  Hurriedly struggling into my black Levi’s I look down again. What a fucking weirdo. He’s just standing there smoking. The sight of such an eyesore in my lovely new street offends me. Once I’ve finished dressing I go through to the living room and ask Hope if she needs anything from the shops. She points to a reading room’s-worth of newspapers on the coffee table.

  ‘Most of the papers are there, dear. They keep me entertained until at least Wednesday. There’s cholesterol in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m just after some fresh air, really,’ I blush. God, this is pathetic. How can leading a charmed life be so complicated? I’ve decided to take the guy for a pint as I don’t want us having a barney in the street. We can go round to the New Town. It’s usually full of creeps anyway. Christ, what if the bang on the head yesterday morning’s turned him into a psycho?

  He gives me a huge smile and starts walking towards me before I’m even out the stair. Jesus, I can’t even remember his name. Standing stiffly, I allow him to kiss me then push myself out of his embrace and towards the pub.

  ‘I was just trying to work up the nerve to come up and see you.’

  Hell, no.

  ‘Look, it’s not convenient for you to come round the house. I live with someone. They were away the other night. We’ll have a drink,’ and I bluster onwards, unable to attempt communication again until I have a pint in front of me. He walks briskly at my side, gibbering away a lot of shite about the New Town, trying to impress me with historical details I couldn’t give a toss about. Why am I even allowing this wanker the courtesy of giving him the brush-off face-to-face?

  We sit at the back of the pub, me with a pint, he with a bloody Mary. As his arm sneaks round the back of my shoulders, I push him off.

  ‘Look, pal, the other night, like. Is it OK if we just leave it at that? I shouldn’t have taken you back, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did your mother never tell you not to go with strangers when you were little?’ he smirks, refusing to take me seriously. Gulping back a third of my pint, I try again.

  ‘Seriously though, you won’t come round again, will you?’

  Leaning back, he takes a contemplative sip of his vodka.

  ‘Married, are you?’

  ‘No … well, sort of … it’s kind of complicated.’

  He suddenly starts raising his voice. Thankfully it’s empty up the back where we’re sitting.

  ‘Why do arseholes like you make yourselves available if you’re not prepared to go all the way? Fuck, I must be some sort of magnet to bastards like you. You think you can just fuck me and forget it, eh?’

  Now he’s standing up, hands on hips, having a right queeny fit. What a mess.

  ‘Ok, ok, I’m a bastard, I know. So will you keep away?’

  Vodka and tomato juice are running down my face, my eyes smarting with Worcester Sauce. Making for the bogs, I hear the pub door being yanked open violently. Fuck! Grabbing a toilet roll from one of the cubicles I feel something slimy on my fingers and notice cum squirted across the tissue. Yelling, ‘Bastard!’, I kick the cubicle wall in anger and hear a terrified voice inside squealing, ‘Fucking hell!’. Heading for the exit, I see the barman surrounded by a little huddle of poofs, cackling away, watching where we’d been sitting on close-circuit TV behind the bar.

  ‘You don’t want to go upsetting that one,’ someone laughs at me as I leave.

  10

  I almost expect him to be standing outside when I leave for work the following morning. Still feeling quite unnerved by yesterday’s perfor
mance, I find myself checking behind me as I cut down through Canonmills. Once I’m inside the safety of the shop I castigate myself for my paranoia. As long as I avoid the Phoenix it’ll be fine.

  Once I’m settled with my coffee and a fag, I start reflecting on the previous night. Hope’s sort of flirting with me, I’m sure she is. She put her feet up on my legs when we were sitting on the settee together. Her heel against my balls gave me a semi. If she noticed she certainly didn’t seem to mind. What the fuck is going on there? I have to sort it out.

  Every time the shop door goes, I jump. Shirley phones at lunch time to tell me he’s coming round for a visit tonight. I find myself feeling strangely envious that he’s known Hope all his life. I’m thinking about her a lot – about our conversations and her voice and her strong, intelligent face. It’s almost like I miss her. This feeling intensifies as the day progresses, until at three I ring her on the pretence of telling her that her nephew’s coming round, knowing they’d made the arrangement prior to him speaking to me.

  ‘I’ve just got a few chums round for Canasta, they’re leaving soon.’

  ‘Erm … have you spoken to Angus?’

  ‘Oh yes, round about eight he said. Anyway, must dash. They’ll be cheating next door.’

  I’m just mumbling, glad to hear her voice.

  ‘OK … erm, yes, well, see you later.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I missed having you around today. It felt strange …’

  Although I want to tell her I feel the same, I mumble a bit more then tell her I have to go. God! I bang my head off the desk. What an arsehole I am. I’m bewildered by my own emotions.

  11

  In the evening Hope cooks us up a Mexican sensation with tacos and nachos and lots of gorgeous little side dishes which I force myself to eat some of. We drink tequila slammers and at one point the three of us are lying on the carpet, hysterical. Shirley is singing Ethel Merman numbers to himself, obscured by the table. As I roll onto my side to get up, my eyes meet Hope’s and stay there for a few seconds. Despite a terrific urge to kiss her, I feel my face starting to flush and stand up.