Other People Read online

  At first she didn’t know where she was or how she had got there. She assumed that that was what memory was doing to her, subtracting day after day so that she would always have to start from the beginning, and never get ahead. Then she remembered the day before and (this was probably an earlier thought, the second thought perhaps) the day before reminded her of the idea of memory and the fact that she had lost hers. And she had lost it, she had still lost it, and she still didn’t know what exactly this entailed. She sent light out into the corners of her mind . . . but time ended in mist, some time yesterday. She wondered what happened when you lost it, your memory. Where did it go, and was it lost for good or were you meant to be able to find it again? Well, here I still am, she thought finally; at least I haven’t died or anything like that. Something about sleep worried her, but she let it pass. And even she could tell it was a beautiful day.

  She sat up, testing her wet senses, and blinking at the light that had made the long journey back again while she had slept. Small but influential creatures were screaming at her from above. She looked up—and realized she could name things. It was simple, just a trick of the mind’s eye. She knew the name for the birds; she could subdivide them too, to some extent (sparrows, a hooded crow staring at her humourlessly); she could even loosely connect them with memories of the day before: the jumpy, thin-shouldered, frowning, supplicant dogs, a long cat flexing its claws on the glass of a shop window. She wasn’t sure how things worked or what they had to do with each other, how alive they all were, or where she fitted in among them. But she could name things, and she was pleased. Perhaps everything was simpler than she thought.

  As soon as she stood up she saw them. In the middle distance over the damp green land there was a wasted, scattered area against a line of forgotten buildings. Other people were there, some standing, some still lying flummoxed on the floor, some sitting in a close huddle. For a moment she felt the squeeze of fear and a reflex urged her to hide again; but she was too pleased and too weary, and she had an inkling that nothing mattered anyway, her own thoughts or life itself. She started to move towards them. How bad at walking she was. They seemed to be people of the fifth and second kinds, which was encouraging in its way.

  As she limped into the slow range of their sight, one of them turned and seemed to eye her coolly, without surprise. Even at this distance their faces gave off a glow of distemper, suggesting rapid changeability beneath the skin. She was getting nearer. They did not turn to confront her although some knew she was coming.

  ‘Mary had a little lamb,’ one of them was saying in a mechanical voice not directed at her, ‘—its face was white as snow . . .’

  She came nearer. They could harm her now if they liked. But nothing had happened yet, and it occurred to her exhaustedly that she could probably walk among them as she pleased (for what it was worth), that indeed she was condemned to move among the living without exciting any notice at all.

  Then one of them turned and said, ‘Come on, who are you?’

  ‘Mary,’ she lied quickly.

  ‘I’m Modo. That’s Rosie.’

  ‘Neville,’ another said.

  ‘Hopdance,’ said the fourth.

  ‘Come on then, come in the warmth.’

  With nonchalance, with relief, they included her among themselves. She sat on their square grill, beneath which a vast subterranean machine thrashed itself rhythmically for their heat.

  ‘Here, wet your whistle, Mary. Keep the cold out,’ said Neville, handing her a shiny brown bottle. She tasted its spit and fizz before Rosie claimed it.

  Neville went on, to no one in particular, ‘Twenty-two years of age, I was one of the top six travellers for Littlewoods. My own car, the lot. They wanted to do a, an article on me in the papers. But I said—no, I don’t want no publicity.’

  ‘No, you don’t want no publicity,’ agreed Rosie sternly.

  ‘You can keep your publicity, mate. That’s what I told them.’

  ‘Publicity . . . ? Hah!’ said Hopdance, then shook his head, as if that settled publicity’s fate once and for all.

  She resolved to be on the lookout for publicity. It was obviously a very bad thing if it was to be so vigilantly shunned even here . . . She peered at them through their hot breath. Their skin was numb and luminous, but all their eyes were ice. I’m one of them, she thought, and perhaps I always have been. And as she looked from face to face, sensing the varieties of damage which each wore, she guessed that there were probably only two kinds of people. There were only two kinds of people: it was just that all kinds of things could happen to them.

  * * *

  Correct: but only as far as it goes. (I generally find I’ve got some explaining to do, particularly during the early stages.) These people are tramps, after all.

  You know the kind of people I mean. The reason they are tramps is that they have no money. The reason they have no money is that they won’t sell anything, which is what nearly everyone else does. You sell something, don’t you, I’m sure? I know I do. Why don’t they? Tramps just don’t want to sell what other people sell—they just don’t want to sell their time.

  Selling time, time sold: that’s the business we’re all in. We sell our time, but they keep theirs, but they don’t get any money, but they think about money all the time. It’s an odd way of going about things, being a tramp. Tramps like it, though. Being a tramp is increasingly popular, statistics show. There are more and more tramps doing without money all the time.

  I’m obliged to deal with these sort of people fairly frequently. In a sense it’s inevitable in my line of work. I’d far rather not, of course: they’re always wasting my time. I’d avoid them if I were you. You’re much better off that way.

  * * *

  ‘I know what you are, Mary,’ said Neville, leaning forward to tap her warningly on the thigh. ‘You’re simple.’

  Mary nodded in agreement.

  ‘See?’ he said.

  It was true. She knew little, and what little she knew she would have to keep to herself. She would have to learn fast, and other people would have to show her how.

  ‘Aren’t you a beauty though,’ he added slowly. ‘Here, isn’t she a beauty though, eh?’

  Mary hoped he was wrong about this . . . But the accusation clearly wasn’t a very serious one; the man’s hostility gave out, and he turned away, raising the bottle to his lips. It wasn’t too bad here, Mary thought, though she was quite curious about how long it would go on.

  ‘Right, come on love, you’re coming with me. On your feet, girl.’

  Mary looked up expectantly. It was someone of the third kind—a girl, she thought, one of me. Mary had noticed her before, out on the edge of the other people there, hanging back with a certain sense of her own exclusiveness and drama. She was big, one of the biggest people Mary had ever seen. Her numberless hair was a violent red, trailing from her head in distracted spirals; and her eyes were ice.

  Without protest Mary was helped to her feet. As she straightened up, Neville made a cunning but enfeebled lunge towards her. The big girl thumped her great fist down on the back of his neck and then kicked him skilfully, so that he barked his forehead on the metal grill.

  ‘You leave her alone, Neville, you dirty little sod! Ooh, I know you, mate. Yeah, that’s right! She needs a good friend to look after her, that’s what she needs.’

  Neville murmured grumblingly as he curled up away from them.

  ‘What? What? You want to watch it, mate, or I’ll kick your bloody head off. All right? All right? . . . Come on, my love. Let’s get away from this lot. Scum of the earth, they are—the pits. I mean, some people. Where’s the consideration? I mean, where is it?’

  With her shoulders working, the big girl marched Mary off towards the pale line of forgotten buildings. As soon as they turned the second corner she halted and looked Mary carefully up and down.

  ‘My name’s Sharon. What’s yours?’

  ‘Mary,’ said Mary.

  Sharon
looked into Mary’s eyes. She frowned. Her broad face seemed to carry an extra layer of flesh, a puffy afterthought grafted on to her natural features. It was a layer of delay; there was a sense of missed time about everything one would get from that face, thought Mary. Something skipped a beat between the face and any feelings that might prompt it.

  ‘Phew, girl. Someone’s done you over, haven’t they?’ She laughed harshly, and started to straighten Mary’s clothes. ‘We all do it though, don’t we? Isn’t it a scream? I mean, I like that every now and then myself, providing they’re all nice boys of course, and it’s just for fun.’ She lifted an erect forefinger. ‘I won’t be peed on though. I just won’t stand for it,’ she added with considerable hauteur. ‘I will not be peed on!’ She brushed dirt from Mary’s shoulder. ‘Mm, they could have put you somewhere after though, couldn’t they? I mean, a couple of quid for a nice little hotel or something. But you know what men are like? It’s silly that we love them so much, isn’t it really?’

  Mary was ready to agree. Sharon was flouncing on, however, and she followed. Mary was getting worse at walking all the time. She attributed this fact to the knot of mighty pain that had wedged itself somewhere in the plinth of her back. What a pain, what a grabby pain. It hurt her, too, because of its wayward naturalness, its suspended familiarity; it was a simple and unworrying pain, she felt. But it hurt. That was the trouble with pain; it wouldn’t really bother you much if it weren’t so painful sometimes.

  ‘This is where I stay when I’m down this way,’ said Sharon, leading her past a series of metal traps, behind one or two of which she could see old cars sleeping. ‘Not that I’m down here too often, mind you.’

  They moved past the flat walls of an empty cave. There was a brackish smell of wetness and age, and a richer smell that was man-made and attacked the juices of the jaw. Someone smothered in clothes looked up sheepishly from the ground. Near him a toppled bottle creaked gently on its axis.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Sharon briskly. ‘That’s Impy. His name’s Tom really, but I call him Impy because he’s . . . important—impotent. Aren’t you, Impy, you little wreck!’ She turned to Mary and said conciliatingly, ‘You know, I think it’s always better to laugh about these things, out in the open, you know. Otherwise he’s bound to get a complex about it or something. Eh, Impy? How are you this morning then?’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Tom.

  ‘Well you go out and get some then. Don’t look at me. Now this is Mary and you keep your bloody hands off her. What’s the matter with you, girl? You look like you’re giving birth . . . Does, does it hurt?’

  Mary nodded in apology.

  ‘Where? Where does it?’

  Mary stroked her sides gently.

  ‘Did they do your back in too? What sort of pain?’

  ‘Just a simple pain.’

  That frown again, and that little click of time as it showed on her face. ‘Whew! You are simple, aren’t you.’ She reached for Mary’s waist with hands that were less harsh than Mary feared. ‘Here,’ she said. Mary felt pressure lifting from her middle. ‘Everybody’s something. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from life. Everybody’s something. Don’t mind him—you’ve seen it all before, Impy, haven’t you?’ Gracefully holding Mary’s hand aloft, Sharon helped her step out of the skirt. They both looked down and saw a complicated network of bands and clips. ‘You aren’t half a mess, my girl. Were you in somewhere? Well take down your knicks! You must have been in somewhere. Over here. Come on then! . . . Gawd, you’re helpless, girl. Take some looking after.’ Sharon slipped her fingers into the central band. It started to come away quite easily. ‘You’re pretty though. I always wanted to be dark. It lasts longer. Talks nicely too, doesn’t she Imp? That’s it, now crouch down. Go on, silly. You . . . just let it . . . That’s it. Ah, don’t—no need to cry now. Silly girlie. Everybody does it. Everybody’s something. You know what my granny used to say to me? “Everybody’s queer dear, except you and me dear, and even you dear look a bit queer dear.” We’re going to take you away from here, yes we are. We’re going to get you fixed up.’

  3 Inside Out

  Mary, of course, had no very clear notion of what being ‘fixed up’ by Sharon might entail. Fixed, fixed up. But she thought it sounded quite a good idea, and she didn’t have a better one.

  They headed off together towards the distant, stirring streets. The grass was kind to Mary’s feet; Sharon hovered hugely in the corner of her eye. Already she felt less fear about the question of her re-entry into the vociferous, the astronomical present. And she was pleased about everyone being queer. Mary looked up. The corpulent beings of the middle-air were hanging around again, rolling slowly on to their backs to enjoy the sun. She wondered with interest what Sharon had in mind for her.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Sharon suddenly. She halted and placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder. ‘Scuse my French.’ She crooked a leg and groped downwards. ‘Hate walking on the grass in these heels.’ Her heels did indeed look particularly vicious, curved on to a thin prong and secured to her ankles with metal clamps. ‘God, we’ve got to get you some shoes as well, girl. I generally keep, you know, a little wardrobe down here but . . . You must be fucking freezing. Whoops!’ She straightened up with a grunt. ‘It’s lucky the weather’s turned.’

  They walked on. The weather had turned. It was lucky. Everything was coming right. Mary now felt inclined to dismiss or at least extenuate the insidious burden of what had happened to her while she slept. Because something had. Boy, something certainly had. Something had come at her in the night, something had mangled her, something had turned her inside out. Whatever it was had hated her life, had wanted to murder her soul. Was this how the past got back at you? Perhaps. It made sense, in a way, for the past to wait until you were asleep before sneaking up on you like that. And the worst thing was that she had wanted that violence done to her. She had brought it about. And she had wanted more.

  ‘You know, Mary,’ said Sharon, ‘I’m buggered if I—sorry—if I know why I keep coming back here. I don’t know for the life of me why I still do. Only for Impy I suppose, soppy old fool that I am. I’m not accustomed to this sort of circle at all really. I’m not like them. But, you know, get a couple down you and, you know . . . When I wake up I never know how I got here. But we all do it, don’t we? Silly really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘I suppose it is.’

  Mary walked the streets again, but with purpose now. Accordingly they seemed rather less effusive to her eye. Sharon knew the way: her progress was bold, even brazen, and yet she saw nothing. The streets did not strike her, nor did the other people and their storms of fortunes.

  They walked quickly and Mary was always trying to catch up. The streets Sharon led her down varied in size and demeanour. Some were owned by the raucous cars: these were given over to movement, so that the very air seemed to shoo the people along in its gusts and backwash. When enough people massed on a corner the cars would arrest themselves and wait in lines, rumbling with impatience. Occasionally a man whirled hectically out to dodge across the precipitate passageways, while the snouty cars stuck with menace to their tracks. Other streets were owned, collectively and with civic pride, by their buildings, the houses: these were in the interests of quiet, and their air was still. You hardly ever saw anyone going into the houses and you practically never saw anyone coming out. Anxious to divine the laws of life, Mary assumed that once you got inside you stayed there, avoiding the streets and all their chances. Here, cars nosed about with diffidence or had already come completely to rest, and people could cross more or less as they pleased.

  ‘Money money money money money money money money,’ said Sharon. ‘You haven’t got any, have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money!’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Let’s have a look then . . . You must have had a skinful last night, my girl.’

  Sharon delved expertly into Mary’s black bag, while Mary
looked on in wonder. She hadn’t given it a thought—and yet the bag had remained at her side, its straps still clinging to her shoulder. Mary almost lost her balance as Sharon’s movements suddenly grew driven and frantic, her hands working deeper downwards.

  ‘Hello-ello-ello, what have we here?’ In her trembling fingers Sharon held up the two scraps of wrinkled, faintly luminous paper. ‘Know what we can get for this?’

  ‘Money,’ Mary ventured, but Sharon wasn’t listening now. With huge strides she crossed the street. Mary was nearly running again.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ panted Sharon. ‘Clan Dew? Couple of Specials each? Some nice Port Character?’ She slowed down. ‘Or what about a bottle of Emva,’ she said shrewdly. She halted and looked at Mary with narrowed eyes. ‘Or shall we get some spirits . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘let’s get some of them.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’d be best,’ said Sharon, on the move again. ‘You know, this time of the morning, spirits are more . . . refreshing. Don’t you think. It’s awful really though, isn’t it. But we all do it, don’t we? Now you wait here, killer. Be back in a sec.’

  Sharon made her entrance to the sound of a bell. Mary peered through the glass sheen and discovered she could read. Now this is more like it, she thought. Signs told her in elementary style about money and goods. Whoever drew up the signs kept getting the numbers wrong and was repeatedly obliged to cross them out and put new numbers in their stead. Using a trick of her eyes Mary looked beyond the window through to the gloom within. There were the bottles that the signs had pictured and praised, flamboyantly ranked against the wall. Sharon was inside this complicated grotto, busy doing her deal. The exchange occurred, with the man giving Sharon something extra before she turned and came back through the reflections towards the door.

  ‘Hair of the dog,’ said Sharon in the sidestreet near by. The bottle top gave a crack as she twisted it off. ‘Your health, my girl.’ Her bulky face, with its puffed layer of time, looked both glazed and intent. She poked the small bottle into the hole in her head—her mouth, that wet and curious private part, a thing that seemed to have no business there, too vital and creaturely against the numb contours of her face. With an unobtrusive movement Mary lifted a hand up and checked. Yes, she had one too. And from the inside she could trace the scalloped bone curved on to the hard inner lips. Was there anywhere else like that in your body, a place you could feel from the inside and outside at the same time? She couldn’t feel one; and so she felt mouths must be very important.