Chapter 16
Mallory
I haven’t done this before.
Clearly.
I wouldn’t call it stalking, but I am struggling to find another word for it.
Driving up and down Turnpike Lane searching for someone I have met only once is definitely something.
I’m currently going with the term creative flare, but the anxiety and the awareness of how this could look (I suppose not far off lunacy?) need to be swallowed in order for me to continue.
There is context to this.
The context is a desire for freedom.
Isn’t that everyone’s context?
I pull into the side of the road, pushing my sunglasses up my nose.
Yes, I am wearing sunglasses. And no, it’s not because people do it in films. It is because I feel less like myself in them.
Or more like myself. I’m unsure at this point.
Regardless of the reason, I turn on the radio.
It’s 6 Music playing. I hate 6 Music: everything is so plinky-plonky and glockenspiel-y that it hurts my brain and heightens my anxiety.
But it’s locked to default, because that’s what I want people to hear when I give them a lift.
So they think my music taste is peripheral and therefore edgy.
The truth is, I love the Scissor Sisters and ABBA.
But that doesn’t seem the correct tone for what I’m doing. Which I have established is creative flare.
I turn the channel over to Classic FM to calm me.
Dramatic orchestral music fills the car, sending a wave of panic through my body.
It is heavy and rousing, intense and loud, which makes me grip the steering wheel.
Something strange happens. The music inspires a sudden vision of myself.
I am still in the car, I am still wearing sunglasses, but I am in the scene of a film.
And I am being played by Saoirse Ronan. She is smoking, rolling the window down and coolly blowing the smoke out of it as she searches the pavement.
She looks cool, and strong. Fierce and determined.
And then it leaves, as quickly as it came.
I try to pull it back, but it won’t come.
I am a little surprised. Not only because my vision knocked five to ten years off me, but because I – as her – looked so confident. Saoirse Ronan. Strange, I would never have thought her, playing me. I guess she has the right intensity. And she’s kind of edgy. A medium-budget indie.
A car honks.
I turn to see someone behind me yelling that I can’t park here.
I quickly release the handbrake and move on, heading back down the road, until I see him.
Leo.
Stumbling towards the bus stop, with a can of lager in his hand. He waves at the bus pulling in, throws his can and jumps on at the back door through a stream of people moving out onto the pavement. The bus continues on.
I follow slowly behind, keeping enough distance to allow for the bus to stop.
After about twenty minutes, it pulls over outside a row of little independent shops, and Leo alights.
When he steps onto the pavement, he turns to look back down the road – towards me – and fleetingly I see his face.
It looks swollen – purple-black streaks run from the corners of his eyes down into his cheeks.
He puts half a cigarette to his lips, lights it, then begins to walk away – limping slightly – in the other direction.
I watch him take a left around a corner, down the side street running off the main road.
I put my indicator on and follow, feeling an odd sensation running down my spine. I’m not sure if it’s a thrill, or a warning, or my conscience. But it isn’t telling me to stop.
The street is lined with trees and uniformly preened houses. This is Muswell Hill. It’s where most people graduate to from Crouch End when they need a third bedroom.
When I get back later, I’d like to talk about us having a baby.
A horn blares.
I swerve.
Shit.
‘Sorry...’ I mutter, simultaneously realising I have drifted to the middle of the road and frantically waving an apology to the car heading towards me.
When it passes – the driver’s middle finger firmly raised – I am left feeling only gratitude that I had the foresight to fulfil my Saoirse Ronan RayBan-wearing fantasy. Because people might know me here.
I have to be careful.
I gather myself and place my gaze back on Leo. The soundtrack – sorry, the radio – is now a little more intense. Rising strings. Deep and melodic. The scene before the scene.
I don’t think Leo looked when the car’s horn went. I don’t think he saw me.
It’s hard to drive at walking speed, so I pull over and sit at the side of the road for a moment, watching Leo gain some distance down the pavement, before I continue on. I repeat this cycle for about five minutes, until he suddenly turns off the pavement and into the car park of a building.
A church.
Interesting.
I would not have taken this man for religious. His story continues to surprise. And in stories, surprises are good.
The unexpected is what keeps the reader wanting more.
Perhaps he would be played by someone like Timothée Chalamet. But then again, Timmy isn’t really rough enough around the edges, and in the film adaptation it might be nice to find a new up-and-comer. Give them a break into the industry.
I make a mental note.
I park on the road outside and watch him hobble through the parked cars, up to a small door on the side of the building. It’s not a pretty church – all stone and spires – it looks more like a community hall. Peeling paint, dirty windows and a battered sign that says LET HIS LIGHT SHINE.
Leo stops outside the door, where there are two men smoking.
It looks shifty.
They talk with Leo for a moment and turn to point into the door.
Leo nods and enters.
The two men throw their cigarette butts on the floor, glance around the car park and go inside, leaving the door ajar.
I look at the time. Three minutes past two.
This fantasy is insane.
This is insane.
But it’s also exciting.
And it’s a church. How bad could it be?
I turn off the engine and make my way towards the little door, keeping my sunglasses on. It’s not sunny, but it’s bright – and Saoirse would wear them inside, I’m sure.
*
I hover at the periphery of the church hall.
It is not exactly the most cheerful of rooms. Hanging from the walls are tapestries of anxious and pained faces on top of naked bodies nailed to crosses, upset women washing men’s feet and a king murdering babies.
The ceiling is low and oppressive. The floor is a scuffed dark oak, and there are remnants of what I assume were either children’s parties or weddings swept into its corners – popped balloons, cake crumbs and flakes of faded confetti now clumped together into little grey piles.
A strong smell of must lingers. Shards of light enter through rectangular glass panels near the ceiling, cutting through particles of dust that float over a circle of plastic chairs directly at its centre.
The chairs are full of people.
Leo is in one of them. Slouched forward, with his cap pulled down, staring at the floor in front of him, where a ring of candles and sheets of laminated yellow paper have been placed. Each sheet has words in aggressively bold type.
EASY DOES IT – KEEP IT SIMPLE – LET GO, AND LET GOD
Let God do what?
I don’t think any of those apply to me.
There is something about the way people are sat – very stoically and sombrely – that makes me feel I have entered the set of some kind of Jonestown massacre re-enactment. I scan their hands quickly for any sign of Cool Aid.
‘Are you coming in?’
I look up to see one of the men who was stood smoking at the front door glaring at me hopefully. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he whispers, smiling sadly. ‘Is this your first time at a meeting?’
A meeting.
Oh. This is recovery.
So, less group suicide, more Euphoria.
‘No,’ I instinctively say, without any prior thought. It’s a mistake, I know it is, but he can’t think I’m unsure. I must go with it. ‘No, no. I’ve been to a few.’ A flash of pity enters his eyes. Does he know I’m lying? ‘A fair few.’ I wave my hand, like this is nothing to me.
‘Oh? I’ve not seen you around.’ He has a gold tooth. And a gold chain that says HUGS NOT DRUGS.
‘I’m new to the area,’ I whisper.
‘Well, welcome. You’re in the right place.’ Well, I know that. ‘The meeting’s starting. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’
I look at the little hatch in the wall opposite, where a woman with no teeth and a light-blue Lilo and Stitch T-shirt stands, stirring heaps of sugar into a mug of tea. ‘I don’t have any change.’
The man looks confused. ‘You don’t need to pay for it—’
‘Right!’ I say. ‘No, I know. I meant – just in general.’ Brush past it. ‘I’ll take a seat in the...’ Oh, sweet Jesus, what do they call it? The God circle? The circle of fire? The halo?
I just point instead.
He nods empathetically, like he has seen many versions of me in his time.
I try to eradicate his doubt by stepping confidently towards the circle of doom, where the people are now all saying things in unison.
There’s a couple of empty chairs, and I notice one exactly opposite Leo.
I find myself practically frogmarching towards it, heavily stamping out my anxiety with each step, my doubt hidden firmly behind my sunglasses, which I have resolved to keep on throughout whatever this may be.
When I sidle into the chair, I look at the person next to me.
He is sobbing. I smile sadly, like everyone else is doing.
Has it started? Is this the beginning? I glance around the faces of the other participants.
I don’t want to sound judgy, but they all look a little different to what I thought I might see. It doesn’t feel very Euphoria.
I place my hands on my lap, as a mark of respect.
OK, so what happens now?
Everyone shuffles in their seats. Some exchange little glances of recognition. There are more sad smiles aimed in my direction.