Chapter 35 #2
Fully naked, I go to the basin – avoiding the mirror now – shove my hand under the soap lever and push it.
Empty. Of course it’s fucking empty. I turn back behind me and root around in the bag.
I know it’s in there somewhere. I nicked it from the corner shop – where the fuck is it?
There. Hand sanitiser. I squeeze it onto my palm – as much as I fucking can – and start to rub it all over my body.
All over my face, my fucking nose – ow, fuck – over the blue splodges on the insides of my arms, in my hair, scrub my tongue with it, over my feet, up my arse.
Stings like fucking hell, but feels like I’m getting the evil out.
Cleansing. Sanitising. Does that mean: to make sane?
Fucking hope so. I can almost feel the alcohol from it seeping into my system, a slow release. I want to drink it.
No. No.
I’m good. I’m doing good.
New me.
Sparkly me.
I open the Sainsbury’s bag and pull out the shirt and trousers I nicked from the Oxfam. No underwear, but that’s fine. A tie. Forgot I did that. Well done. That was clever. See, I can be clever. I must give myself some credit.
Fuck. My head is—
‘Hurry up in there!’
Jesus fucking Christ. Sounds like the devil.
‘Two seconds!’ The kid took ten minutes at least. I pull on the new clothes.
They smell dusty. They’re a bit big, a bit oversized, but I can work with that.
And they’re covering everything, which is what I wanted.
Now for the shoes. I pull them out of the bottom of the orange bag.
Swiped these from Camden market, from one of the stalls.
I actually like the guy, so I hope to pay him back one day.
I push my feet into them – they look well nice – ball up my old clothes, place them into the empty bag, then shove the whole thing in the bin on the bathroom wall.
It’s got a little metal flap thing, so I have to use my foot, kicking it till it’s all the way in.
Then it’s gone. Any evidence of the last two weeks – goodbye.
Yeah. That’s it. Good.
I stare at the mirror.
I look all right, actually.
Suavest I’ve looked in a long time. Suit a tie, me.
She’ll let me in. She has to.
‘Hurry up – I need to see your ticket.’
Fuck. The ticket man. ‘Coming!’ It’s always the men. Fucking empathy issues.
I neck the last of the Alka-Seltzer, scrub my tongue with a big blob of the hand-sanny – for one final oral clean – then open the door.
‘Hello. My ticket’s on my phone and it’s died.’
The man narrows his eyes. He stares at me. It’s weird. He looks like a cartoon character, like he’s been made by Pixar, with his uniform and big friendly belly. ‘Off at the next stop then, mate.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine.’ It’s where I’m going anyway.
All part of the plan.
He looks at the phone in my hand. ‘I’ll have to call the transport police. You can pay them at the station.’ He gets his little walkie-talkie out.
‘What?’
I can see the man with the girlfriend looking at me. He’s glad this is happening. Happy. Like it’s the right thing.
‘Please, mate – don’t do that.’
He presses the button on it. ‘Can I get assistance at the station please.’
How do I stop this. I just need to get there.
I can’t tell if he’s gay. Might as well try. I mouth at him, If you let me off, I’ll give you a blowie in the bogs. Then I wink.
He frowns. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing.’
Someone talks to him through the speaker. Muffled voice. ‘You need the police, Nigel?’
Nigel. They’re all called Nigel.
‘Yeah, please.’ He’s still staring at me. He definitely saw what I said. I reckon he is. Everyone is a bit gay. The train is spinning a bit. There’s no room in this fucking carriage.
‘Sure you don’t want a quickie?’ I hear someone laugh. But I’m not being funny.
He speaks into the walkie-talkie. ‘Yes, police please. At the station.’
Jesus fucking Christ.
More running then.
‘I’ll pay,’ I say. ‘Chill. I’ll charge my phone at the station and pay. OK?’
He stares at me some more. ‘I need to make sure you get off.’
‘Don’t worry, mate. I’m not staying on this train any longer than I have to.’
He stands in front of me, staring, until the train slows. He definitely fancies me. Intrigued at least.
Fuck. Finally.
The doors open.
‘Bye, Nigel.’
I squeeze through the bored, plugged-in people, and through the gap in the doors before they’ve fully opened. My feet fucking hate me as I run down the platform, hop the fence at the bottom of it and bolt down the road.
I need her now. Just need her. I don’t want to be sweating when I get there. I need to look like I want help. Which I do. I actually do.
All the roads, all the houses look the same. I can’t remember which one it is, which is weird.
When I find it, I slow down. Walk, arms out, so the wind dries the sweat patches.
Then I see it. The house. Fucking hell.
I can see her through the window in the front room.
Shit. I walk up the little pathway, seeing the rose bushes on either side – don’t remember those – and press the bell.
I straighten my tie. Pull the shirt down.
No creases. She will help me. She will. I check my reflection in the glass panel.
I look good. It’s fine. I’m doing good. This is the right thing to do.
I can hear someone moving down the corridor. Can hear other people. I think they’ve got guests. Was not planning on that. Not at all. Not sure this is a good idea anymore...
Bail?
The door opens.
Too late.
‘Leo? What are you doing here?’
Fuck. I nearly lose my breath. There she is. ‘Hi, Mum.’