Untouchable Things Read online

  When he gets home there’s a letter in his mailbox, typed and unstamped. He’s curious, slips a finger under the seal and brings the opened jar of olives over to the table before unfolding the paper inside.

  And that’s when he ends up with bits of half-digested olives splattered at his feet. The opened letter falls to the floor to join the briny green gunk. José calls to a God he no longer believes in and sits with his head in his hands.

  Scene 12

  Michael wakes from a night of underwater dreams to the trill of his alarm. For a minute he lies still, waiting for the reverberation running through his body to still. What day is it? Monday, of course. Another Monday of double lessons and post-weekend backchat. And not just in the classroom. He sags at the thought of his colleagues with their matey laughter and staffroom cliques. Is this really what he wants to be doing? After all his grand dreams of social justice, is this all he has amounted to? A secondary school teacher?

  He can put a radical spin on it – deprived kids, minority kids – but is he really making a difference? He pictures the slouches and smirks of his Year Tens. Like hell he is.

  The clock says 7.11 which means he can have ten more minutes and grab his breakfast on the way. The phone rang at least five times yesterday. Catherine, no doubt. They’ll patch things up in the end but he doesn’t want to talk to her now. It’s better to stay away from the lot of them. He needs to go cold turkey on anything to do with Seth. Especially with the latest Jake fiasco.

  He steers his thoughts back to teaching. It’s a meditation technique Rebecca told him about when she was doing those workshops, something she uses to get into role. Acknowledge the thought that’s troubling you and then move it aside. Like brushing a hair off your face.

  He knows things are never as bad as they seem on a Monday morning. He has done some things he’s proud of, connected with a few kids. He’s even been getting quite busy at parents’ evenings, less likely to be treated as a joke. Trelawny is a pain but basically rates him. Still there’s a thought that he doesn’t want but he can’t brush this one aside. It’s forcing its way into his head more and more these days, forcing him to acknowledge it.

  After everything that happened he’s following in Mr Fleming’s footsteps.

  He turns the shower onto red, cranking the dial clockwise until all he can think of is the heat of the water. Tiny jets fly out from the top of the shower head and pepper him in the face. As he leaves the house he grabs the same battered black bag he’s been using for years.

  Scene 13

  Charles sighs and puts his briefcase down in the hall. Another long day. He puts a hand to the small of his back and stretches. As usual the kitchen cheers him, light and orderly and, dare he say, rather well designed. The cleaners have been and there’s a neat pile of post waiting for him on the granite breakfast bar. He sifts through it: bills, pizza flyers and an odd typed envelope without a stamp. Probably some local councillor trying to get his vote. He grips it with both hands to rip it down the middle and throw it in the recycling. But it won’t tear.

  Cursing mildly he takes the silver paper knife from the shelf above and slits the envelope. To his surprise he pulls out a photograph. The girl is red haired and scantily clad. He shouldn’t really, but he looks more closely. She’s young and skinny, but a little too skinny. His eyes move up to her face. She’s his sister.

  Sarah pouts back at him, a little self-consciously, from beneath a red wig.

  Scene 14

  Rebecca is being reckless. She laughs, throws her arms out and whirls.

  Midnight shakes the memory

  As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

  She wouldn’t normally walk down by the canal late at night. But the good thing about having Big Worries – a missing lover whose father has been maimed and murdered – is that Small Worries such as personal safety don’t make it to the starting blocks anymore. And she’s been drinking. Anna met her after her rehearsal and they both seemed to need to hit the bottle. She was surprised to see Anna turn up alone – it was always two for the price of one with her and José. Rebecca, for once, didn’t probe. She had enough on her plate.

  She’d met Jake again yesterday. She didn’t really want to but nor did she want to break a potential connection to Seth. She’d chosen the venue this time – somewhere central and well-populated. Not a word was said on either side about the fact that he’d found Charles and José breaking into the Shepherd’s Bush house. While never dropping his cockney charm, he quizzed her about they were all saying to the police. She twizzled clammy hands under the table and tried to change the subject.

  He asked her a lot about the job too, where she was rehearsing, her schedule. Two months ago she’d have been touched by the friendly interest and encouragement. Now she gave cagey answers disguised as modest deflections.

  It’s dark on the canal, patchy light from the street barely illuminating the tow path, and now and then she stumbles. But she likes the cool, slightly sweaty smell of the water and the sense of rebellion. She is partner in crime with the wind which tickles her ankles and lifts the sticky hair from her neck like a lover. Rhapsody on a Windy Night, she thinks, and lifts her head to follow the streetlamps. There’s even a moon, three-quarters full, blurry round the edges like her mind. La lune ne garde aucune rancune. She’s saying it for Seth, in case he’s out there, listening. He would appreciate the reference.

  And of course hot on her heels is the dreadful Andrew Lloyd Webber version, “Memory”, chasing her towards the next streetlamp.

  There’s something strangely appealing about a power ballad at this moment and she joins in at the key change, giving it her best Elaine Paige. If Seth was here she’ll have driven him off now. She laughs because she can picture his expression. And because, despite the fact she’s clearly falling apart, rehearsals for No Exit are going well. Never before has she been able to channel her life so effectively into her art. He’s still inspiring her from wherever he is.

  Or is it what Michael said, that he was feeding off her creativity and now she is free? Seth the vampire. She tilts back her hair to expose her throat. Come and get me then. Make me yours. She closes her eyes and imagines his teeth sinking into her neck.

  It turns her on, which isn’t surprising because everything does at the moment. She exists in the sweet spot where anxiety and desire and fear meet. Ahead of her there’s a bridge. If she slipped under it no one would see…

  Snap. A sound like a twig underfoot behind her. She whirls and listens. Only the wind riling the litter-strewn edges of the tow path. But the moment is broken, the bravado gone, and she sees herself as she is: all alone by a canal after midnight. She starts to walk, upping the pace with each step. Another crack behind her. She turns as she runs, flings a glance into the shadows, a shape perhaps, moving, but her right foot twists and she has to face forward, search for the next exit. Steps are on the far side of the bridge. She stumbles into them, up them, the back of her mules slapping each step and giving her away. Up onto a deserted street, not enough breath for tears. Sporadic street lamps and dark houses. Keep running. The main road in sight. Another glance over her shoulder. She sees the shadow, coming for her, stretching a giant finger along the ground to hook her back.

  Scene 15

  She’s never fought with José before. Nothing more than a barb or two that touched a nerve, and of course that thing at the Childhood group, but that was over so quickly. He’s her buddy, her touchstone, her pocket rocket. And she’s just said some terrible things to him. It was the shock, the fact that he hadn’t told her before. The way that she suddenly felt she didn’t know him.

  She doesn’t want to think about him doing that, being that. A rent boy. It’s too much of a reality check and it makes the end of her fingers curl. No one wants to imagine their friends having sex. And maybe this sort of sex is worse. Men on men. Men in men. Her chin retracts as if someone’s stuck something smelly under her nose. There it is, her latent homophobia. Maybe it’s in everyone,
like racism.

  She frowns as she weaves through the post-work ruckus, stepping off the pavement to overtake a pushchair and feeling the breeze from a bus sailing too close to her. This fecking city. And now José’s being threatened, blackmailed, and stands to lose everything. Poor José, she thinks, and then remembers she’s angry with him.

  She bangs straight into someone coming the other way, so hard it nearly knocks her off her feet and the briefcase slides from her hand. It’s instantly kicked into the gutter by the oncoming surge and papers start to spill into puddles. Fuck fuck fuck. She steps down to grab the papers but is beaten to it by an unseasonal black Fedora hat.

  Time stops.

  People carry on pushing past her as she stares at the hat at her feet. “Seth.” The name leaves her mouth before she can stop it, a squeak, instantly absorbed and carried away by the Tube-bound multitudes. She stands with outstretched arm as he rises to his feet and lifts his head.

  Jake raises his hat and winks down at her. “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Carmel.” People carry on pushing past. There’s a tingling behind her eyes. She tries to back away but he takes her arm. Tightly. Her legs won’t move.

  “Careful, now, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Let’s get you somewhere quieter.”

  He steers her into a side street, holding her briefcase with his spare hand. She leans against a garden wall. “I can scream, you know.”

  He chortles. “You disappoint me, Anna. Resorting to such feminine tactics already? And all I’ve done is pick up your briefcase for ya.”

  She holds out her hand. “Give it back to me.”

  He shakes his head. “Anna, Anna, Anna. Needs to learn some manners.”

  She can’t help staring at the hat.

  “Oh, this.” He takes it off and examines it. “I’ve always ’ad my eye on it. Does it suit me?”

  “You fuck…” She tries to snatch it but Jake’s too quick.

  He pops it back on his head. “And I thought you liked dressing up. Now, listen, seeing as you’re ’ere, I just wanted to check that you’ve not been letting your mouth run away with you to Mrs Plod. I know what you women are like when you get together. Wouldn’t want things to get unpleasant for you, would we?”

  “Don’t threaten me. I know it was you who sent the letter to José.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Nope, you’ve lost me now. I prefer to do my business in person.”

  “Liar. You’re a coward.”

  He shrugs. “Sticks and stones. You know, I used to think you were a right laugh. Until you got so serious. Lighten up, love, and do us all a favour. Here’s your business-woman briefcase.” She grabs it from him. “I’ll be seeing you around. And don’t forget what I said.” He taps the side of his nose and winks. “Ciao, baby.”

  Scene 16

  José has called in sick again. Then the phone rings straight back and he picks up to brief whichever colleague about whatever client but it’s his mother. He’s angry with her straight away because it’s the working day and why would he be at home anyway, and then he has to say he’s sick and that’s all the entry point she needs for her favourite subject, her only subject, the handkerchief to her eyes, the sniffle in her voice as she wishes he had a chica bonita to mop his brow and make him soup.

  “Mama…” He can’t shout at her when she’s crying. But he can’t hear this, not today. He pretends the office is calling him and hangs up.

  Back in bed he’s shivering like his body believes it really does have a fever. He needs to eat, but food feels like an indulgence he doesn’t deserve. A salt spray of shame stings his eyeballs and the back of his throat. He’s lost everything. Even Anna. The flare of memory: Seth holding him, forgiving him, redeeming him. Wiping out his past and making him whole. But isn’t this Seth now, threatening him, punishing him? He remembers the pantomime, the sense of being toyed with like a captured mouse. What is Seth doing to him? Why?

  The door to his flat bangs suddenly, three times, and his heart hammers a response. Father Christmas come to claim him. He sticks his head under the duvet. He’s not here, why should he be here, it’s a Friday morning. The door bangs again, repeatedly. Then a female voice calling, nasal and no-nonsense.

  “José. Open the door, for feck’s sake. I know you’re in there.”

  He shrinks from the sound of her. The things she said to him.

  “José. We need to talk. I have your feckin’ key, you know.”

  Fine. Let her use it then. He turns his face to the wall like a sulking child.

  She rattles around and finally gets the door open. “José?” It’s a one-bedroom flat and it doesn’t take her long. He feels her standing over him, hands on hips. “It’s ten o’clock, man. Are you ill?” He stays put, looks at the wall. A touch to his shoulder over the duvet. He shrugs it off.

  “You need to get up, get some air into here.” He knows she’s taking it all in, the scattered clothes, unwashed cups. “Look, I need to tell you something. Why don’t I wet the tea while you put some clothes on? Come through when you’re ready.”

  He doesn’t expect to move but her restlessness has permeated him. He puts on his dressing gown and finds her ransacking his kitchen. “I’ll do it.”

  She turns and grins. “Knew that would get you up.” But her grin fades as she takes him in. He knows he looks rough, hasn’t shaved since Monday. He tells her to sit down while he makes the tea. He takes a tray to the coffee table and they both perch on the sofa like nervous guests.

  “What’s wrong with you, then?” Always so direct, so insensitive. He shakes his head, looks out of the window. She can try a bit harder than that. She jumps up. “Got any sugar?”

  “Sure, on the worktop.” It’s his cue to tease her about her latest, evidently abandoned, resolution, giving up sugar in hot drinks. But he doesn’t take it. She brings the sugar over and puts it on the coffee table, but stays on her feet, twisting her hands.

  “I bumped into Jake yesterday. Literally.”

  He looks up at her but says nothing.

  “I don’t think it was an accident.” Her voice wavers a bit. He sees now that she doesn’t look too good either. Like she hasn’t slept. And he realises she’s not in work herself.

  “He threatened me. The stupid bastard threatened me.”

  He feels himself softening so he grabs something hard, the edge of the table. “What happened?”

  There’s an appeal in her voice as she tells him. She needs him now, needs some reassurance. She’s frightened. Like he was on Monday when he needed her. The things she said to him.

  She sits next to him. “I’m sorry.” He knows what it costs her to say sorry. The next second her face melts into a gush of tears. “Those terrible things – I don’t know why I said them. I just felt like I didn’t know you anymore. It was the last straw, to lose you. I couldn’t bear it.”

  He wants to cry too, surrender to the wave pushing up from his chest, but it scares him. Instead he dams it with his lips and puts a hand on her knee. “I should have told you.”

  She looks up at him with her child’s face. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I didn’t…” and he feels the wave now, rising to the surface as he shudders, “Because I hate myself for that bit of my life and I didn’t want you to hate me too.” The words spew out along with the sob, detritus washed ashore in a storm. He reaches out his arms and she’s there, clinging to him.

  “I could never hate you, José. You’re my best friend. I love you.”

  He loses it then, making noises he doesn’t recognise as his. “What am I going to do, Anna? What am I going to do?”

  She holds him until the wave passes. Then she lifts his head and scrapes the tears away with her palms. “Listen. All you’ve received is this note. There’s nothing really in it, no specific threat. It’s just to scare you.”

  He gazes at her, desperate for her words to be true.

  “No prizes for guessing who sent it, of course.” She sees his face. �
��No. Seth would never do that. Remember how he helped you?”

  He nods, runs a tongue over his lips, wanting to believe.

  “It’s Jake. Look at the way he threatened me yesterday. He’s dug around a bit and found out. He’s rattled by you and Charles breaking in. He’s just warning you off, nothing more.”

  José nods again. He can’t even think. Anna sounds so sure he agrees with her like he always does.

  “You can’t let him take you apart like this. He’s playing with you. You have to hold it together and tough it out.” She sighs and he catches a look he isn’t meant to see. “God knows what else we can do.”

  Scene 17

  Michael notices his sweaty palms again with his Year Nines. What is this strange awkwardness that has infiltrated his teaching? It seeps through his clothes and into his conversations with colleagues. He struggles to make eye contact, fluffs his standard classroom jokes. The boys sense it too and give him pitying looks. He has a sense of being stranded on a precipice, leaning out and looking down, drawn to the glinting rocks below.

  He feels dizzy and his eyes hurt. He rubs at his glasses with a hanky; maybe he needs a new prescription in his lenses. It’s 4.30 and he should be at home but he has to supervise detention. Scott Mullen bends his blonde head over the question paper, the only one in today. He’s usually a good boy but he’s started hanging out with the wrong crowd, trying to be popular. Michael looks at the thin shoulders and feels a tingle of pity. He sees himself there, fourteen and friendless. With any luck Mullen has more of a family life than he did.

  He rises and paces the room, looking at the wall displays. A project on rural development in South America, cartoons from Year Seven depicting the founding of Rome. He treads the old parquet floor until he finds himself directly behind Scott Mullen. He can see the speckles of black fluff on the back of his shirt that need batting off, the wiggling of muscles as he writes. A thought rises up from his feet. He could find out once and for all what it meant. The thought enters his lungs, stops his breath. He may never have this opportunity again.