“I just paint when I can; I don’t much like it. I paint with my own blood — I mix it in with the paint. Always acrylic. Mostly faces, faces of me. No one really knows their own face, not even when looking into a mirror. As I do when trying to memorise mine … We can never be truly objective.”
“But they’re still self portraits?”
“Maybe.”
“Why do you paint in your own blood? Does that … Is that painful for you?”
“I don’t know … It’s not that it has a better texture or anything … It’s just the same as if I painted without. Why not paint in my own blood? Most people who paint just mix in water. What is the point in that? Not putting in anything of yourself, I mean?”
“There’s no point, I guess. I don’t know much about painting. I never took to it. Art, modern art, galleries, artists, they leave me cold …”
“I want all my paintings to be destroyed. I like a good cull. I destroy most of them myself. They hold no meaning for me, how could they?”
“What do you mean?”
“I paint for myself and no one else. I paint because I will one day die. Because I want to die. Because I hate myself. Each time I destroy one of my paintings I am destroying part of myself. I am a cliché and I like it that way …”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand. Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all meaningless.”
“What is?”
“This is.”
“Us?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“This … This … This is a mask. I wear it. I say I paint to people so they can have a mental image of me …”
“So you don’t paint?”
“Yes, I do paint … It’s my mask.”
“Mask?”
“People wear masks. They are forced upon them. These masks, they do not even know they are wearing them. These masks help them to exist, to co-habit within society. They are clowns for it … I am aware of my mask, as clichéd as it seems. As clichéd as it is. It’s why I want to end my life, why I find life, society, so obvious, so ugly. And those who don’t, those clowns, find life so entertaining.”
Again, she began to yawn. I looked over to the whitewashed offices; the man who spent his working hours walking from desk to desk was standing motionless by a photocopying machine. He was wearing a white shirt, a red tie, and a grey cardigan that looked a size too small for him. The murky water of the canal was bereft of life: not a swan, goose, or coot in sight. Even the banks were empty of pigeons. The murky water was calm, the slight swirl of a thin layer of scum and oil broke the stillness, its thick stench heavy in the damp air.
Each Saturday morning I used to accompany my mother on a bus ride to the other side of London to visit my grandmother — on my father’s side — for the day. She never took the tube because she thought it a breeding ground for germs and pestilence. I took this journey with my mother every Saturday up until the age of twelve, when my mother finally learnt how to drive. I may have been six years of age on this occasion. I was sitting at the bus stop with my mother. The bus, as usual, was late. Behind the bus stop was a public house called The Willow Tavern, which has long since been demolished and flats with large balconies have been built on its land. In front of the pub there used to be a car park. The car park was surrounded by a chain-link fence, fitted with thick spikes on each link. I presumed this was to deter people from driving straight from the road, over the pavement, and onto the car park when the pub was closed. Pubs don’t seem to have these same spiked, linked fences any longer, at least I haven’t seen any. I remember being bored and walking over and sitting on it, between two spikes. It started to sway like a swing in a playground and I began to purposely push myself forward and backwards, forward and backwards with relative ease. And then, before I could figure out what was happening, there was sudden blackness. Just blackness. Warm, like a large duvet had been pulled over me. When I opened my eyes my mother was crouched down over me. She was crying, a frantic look upon her face. Two strangers — an old man and woman whose faces have never left me — were also standing over me.
“He’s opened his eyes.”
“He’s opened them.”
“Oh, son … Son … Son …”
“He’s okay, lady.”
“He’s shaken …”
“Oh, son …”
I quite enjoyed the trip in the ambulance at first. I remember the sirens in particular; I was quite content for a moment. And then I noticed the blood. Blood, my blood, was everywhere. I was covered in it, my mother was covered in it — the paramedics’ hands were covered in it. I reached a hand around to the back of my head. Fear gripped me instantly. I remember thinking that I was going to die. I remember — like it was only yesterday — being convinced that I was dying, that there was nothing anyone — my mother, the paramedics — could do for me. I remember starting to shake, to holler and scream. I became convinced the ambulance was taking me to the hospital to die. My memories of this unpleasant episode are bathed in red. Blood red. The sickly sight of my own blood. I began to wail.
“Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood?”
My mother, still sobbing, held me and told me that everything was going to be okay, that I would be fine. For the first time in my life I didn’t believe her. I was convinced otherwise. I continued to think that I was dying. I continued to ask her over and over again all the way to the hospital, I remember it like it was yesterday.
“Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum?”
I was convinced. My mother soothed my head, shushing me all the while.
“Shush … Shush … Shush …”
* * *
The clouds suddenly began to darken like a giant bruise across the sky and a breeze picked up around our ears. My right leg began to shake. I was anxious. I wanted to pick her up and take her with me somewhere. To the Rheidol Café. Anywhere. I wanted to be with her and the longer these silences persisted the stronger grew my urge. Little by little she was beginning to consume me. But I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I kept on looking at her, waiting for something, waiting for her to do something. She was still looking over at the whitewashed office block. I’m sure she was looking directly at the man with the white shirt, red tie, and grey cardigan one size too small. I’m positive she was.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with anyone — I seriously think I’m incapable of love in that way: to actually love someone. I have certainly felt love for things, I have felt the love of others, but I seriously don’t think I have ever loved anyone. The closest thing I ever felt to feeling love for someone was a long time ago now. It was a girl, we fleetingly lived with each other. We used to spend all day in bed together, only getting out from the bed to either piss or prepare food. One Sunday she spent the whole day colouring in each individual freckle on my right leg with a blue Biro. Each freckle as unique as a snowflake. She spent all day doing this, tattooing each individual freckle, each individual shape with her blue Biro. It literally took all day. I lay there, allowing her to do this, quite curious, as she worked on each individual freckle patiently, with tenderness and care. The light outside was beginning to fade when she finally finished her task — although we could never be certain she had actually coloured in each and every freckle. When I finally looked in the mirror, at first glance it looked like my entire leg was blue, but on closer inspection I could locate each individual freckle. I didn’t know I had so many. I hadn’t realised. I’d never given it much thought before. I had more freckles than unblemished skin it seemed. I liked that. I kissed her passionately. Then I became concerned that I might get ink poisoning. It took me a full hour in a hot shower to scrub each individual dab of delicate blue Biro off. I felt like we had achieved something, that we had both discovered something together.