Need. A child needing, imploring on Will’s face.
No, not on Will’s.
On his face.
On its face.
I didn’t answer, couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Sometimes I look at myself, and all I see is contempt. My face is full of hatred and I think, why would it hate me, I am beautiful, but then I move, and I move, and I move, and it’s all hatred, all ugly every single time I try to smile and then…” A shudder, breath drawing in, going out. “Do you love me? Come on!” A laugh that was lacking patience, a humour that had only a passing wit. “Come on, Will. Do you or do you not love me?”
I tried to speak, yes, no, maybe, perhaps. Nothing formed as my mind searched for the right answer, the way out, and couldn’t work out what that might be.
Will’s face darkened. Eyebrows closing in, eyes crunching up tight, a childish sulk on an ageing face, not Will’s face now, I hadn’t ever seen it with such a look, couldn’t call it his; he lunged forward now and rammed the barrel of the gun hard enough into my broken leg to make me scream, digging it in, and I howled, an animal sound from a stranger’s throat, my voice not so high as it had been a few bodies ago but so much more intense, a lungful of agony across my teeth, and I doubted if it had ever made such a sound before but not-Will pressed harder and roared, his left hand around my face, pulling it into his.
“Do you love me?!”
As he pressed the gun deeper, his cheek next to mine, I reached up with the shard of shattered mug in my hand and drove it, as hard as I could, into the top of Will’s neck.
My bloody hand slipped and missed his windpipe, pushing instead into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. Fresh red blood spurted out as ceramic edge penetrated skin, punching through the bottom of his mouth beneath his tongue, and he fell back even as I rolled on to him, putting both my knees on top of the arm that held the gun and twisting it. A bullet fired, a twitch in the finger, and another, great bone-jarring jumps of noise and light, but I held on, held on, as beneath me the hot body writhed and choked, coughing blood, eyes goggled and face pale, and as I prised the gun from his fingers and curled backwards, kicking my way free of him and scrambling back.
Then he looked up into my face and, with a piece of coffee mug sticking through his jaw, he smiled. “D-d-do.” The sound tangled with the blood in his mouth, a rivulet spouting at the corner of his lips. He coughed, sending droplets splattering in my face, and tried again. “D-do you l-like… w-what you see?”
I raised the gun in my one good hand. His smile widened to a grin. His teeth were fake, dentures stuck in with gum, stained with blood. I turned my face away and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 64
Bodies.
No one can track a ghost during rush hour.
A crowded train. A busy station. Shoulder to shoulder, skin brushes skin, breath breathes breath, we inhale the sweat of the tall man’s armpits, crush the old lady’s feet beneath our boots.
I
whoever I am
rode the Paris Metro from here to there, surfing the arterial pulse of strangers’ flesh.
Where Janus was, who Janus was, I didn’t care, as long as someone who was Janus was where I needed him, her, whoever, when the journey was done.
I slipped from skin to skin, a bump, a shudder, a slowing-down and a speeding-up, a swaying of the carriage, a stepping on another’s foot, I am
a child dressed in school uniform,
an old man bent double over his stick.
I bleed in the body of a woman on the first day of her period,
ache down to the soles of my tired builder’s feet.
I crave alcohol, my nose burst and swollen from too much of the same.
The doors open and I am young again, and beautiful, dressed for summer in a slinky dress and hoping that the goosebumps on my flesh will not detract from the glamour I seek to express.
I am hungry
and now I am full,
desperate to pee by the carriage window,
eating crisps in the seat by the door.
I wear silk.
I wear nylon.
I loosen my tie.
I hurt in leather shoes.
My motion is constant, my skins are stationary, but by the brush of a hand on the rush-hour train
I am everyone.
I am no one at all.
I ride the train to Gare de Lyon.
To Janus.
To somebody else.
An uninspiring station of minimal merit.
The nearest food is on the other side of a flagstone concourse where nothing grows and no one waits.
The trains are roaring TGVs heading to Montpellier, Nice, Marseille. The commuter trains are full of suburban dreamers, men and women who aspire to boulevards lined with fir trees and the sound of old men playing boules. I become one of these women for a minute, my suit sharp, briefcase heavy, a copy of the latest thing, by the latest recommended cultural wonder, tucked under my arm. My ticket is to Troyes, where the streets are clean and the mayor always says hello. I look for platform 10, and see a woman eating a baguette, devouring a baguette, standing by the barrier. Her hair is fair, her face is young, her dress is small and black, her coat is lined with fur, and she wears upon her wedding finger a band of silver studded with jade. The wedding finger taps out a rhythm, and the rhythm is one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, while feet move, almost imperceptibly, to the motion of the waltz.
I stand by her side, start to hum a tune, the same style, the same beat. We do not look at each other until she finishes her baguette and says, “I hope I didn’t just ditch a very beautiful body for nothing.”
“You didn’t.”
“You have a plan?”
“Where’s your ticket to?”
“I don’t have a ticket. I saw her on the train and suddenly realised that I hadn’t finished my dinner.”
“You’re married,” I said.
Janus shrugged. “I’ve got two condoms in my bag and a spare pair of black lace pants. I think I’m having an affair.”
“If you say so. Either way, you don’t have a ticket, and unless you know the pin number to your host’s credit card…?”
Janus sighed, brushing crumbs off the white collar of her fluffy coat. “What do you suggest?”
“A train out of here.”
“They can’t have followed us. I changed dozens of times.”
“Yet the fact remains that they found you,” I replied, eyes still moving everywhere except over her. “They found me.”
“Fine,” she grunted. “Pick a train. I’ll find someone boring to wear on it.”
We caught the Montpellier TGV.
I caught a man whose wallet proclaimed him to be Sebastian Puis, owner of three credit cards, one library card, one gym membership, four supermarket loyalty cards and a voucher for a free haircut at a salon in Nice.
Janus rode Marillion Buclare, dark hair, deep puppy eyes and a pendant around her neck which proclaimed “Love” in Farsi. The train was not so crowded that Sebastian and Marillion could not have sat together. We did not.
Sebastian Puis owned an iPod. As the train began the long slow hum of acceleration out of the station, I flicked through its contents. I had heard almost none of the music he possessed, most of which appeared to be some sort of French rap. Twenty minutes later I laid the iPod down. Sometimes even I struggle to get into character.
Across the aisle a boy of fifteen gestured furiously at his teenage companion. Stick with me, he said, stick with me and I’ll see you all right. Them kids at school, they think they’re something, but they’re not, they’re all talk talk talk, they don’t know, I know, I’ve lived it, I’ve fucking lived it, I’ll see you’re good. Got a phone? Gimme. I’m gonna prank-call my brother again. He gets so mad. Just so mad. It’s amazing. This one time I called him fifteen times in a day, then sent him a picture of my balls. It was the best. I’m the fucking best, I’ll see you all right.