Waving Not Drowning 11: Two Birds in a Nest

Now that I’m away from the intense gaze of the psychiatrist, small fragments of that night reveal themselves to me.
I remember the party.
The taste of pear in my mouth.
Balancing with one leg over the water.
Then the force of it pushing into my nose, burning the back of my throat. A sharp pain between my eyes, so acute that it disorientates. I can’t see what’s up, what’s down. A cloudy vision of tea coloured sludge consumes everything.
Then the drive for self-preservation takes over.
Let go of his hand.
Swim as hard as you can.

But there is no sign of Stephen back at the flat. It looks like a hurricane has ripped through the front room but then I remember that’s always the way it looked except now I’m sober and seeing everything properly. The Playstation has gone, as has the television. All the knives, forks and spoons are missing. Initials carved into the bedside table. I go into the front room and sit on the sofa, there is a tiny circular plastic container on the floor.
The top is ripped open.
Small pellets roll onto the carpet as I push it with my foot.

* * *

Sorry I've sped ahead again. At this stage we’re in the flat but it's before the fall. Before the Chippity Cheep and the curly haired jogger who saved my life. And after the bit where you climbed to the top of the pipe and saw me sitting on the sofa watching a show called ‘How Fat is Your Cat?’ or some such rubbish.
Back then I was alone pretty regularly.
I could have predicted the outcome of every day with heartbreaking accuracy.
But that changed.
It changed beyond all recognition.

After a few days it became clear that Stephen had pretty much moved in. Danny visited less often and now usually knocked for Stephen at about four in the afternoon. Stephen would then disappear for a couple of hours or more (which was good because this gave me time to have a bath and at least pretend that my life had some semblance of order and routine). Then he would return and we would eat dinner together in front of the television. He never told me where he’d been and I never asked. I figured it was important that he maintained something of his old life just as I’d tried to keep hold of some of mine.

I was still speaking to Ruth everyday. After her visit, we’d had a disastrous lunch in the Barbican, during which I’d had to stay sober whilst she told me all about her change of heart, how the pregnancy was ill-timed, Jim had been working late all the time, she thought he might be seeing someone else. The whole time she spoke I stared at the table next to us. A woman sat nursing a large glass of Merlot. She sipped at it delicately and then dabbed her lips with a napkin. It was all I could do to stop myself from grabbing the bottle from the table and glugging the contents down. Ruth could see I was distracted but I’d blamed it on the mythical ‘new man’ in my life. To all intents and purposes I’d described Stephen, just leaving out the ‘he’s only fifteen’ part. The truth was I didn’t even know his age, I guessed fifteen but we hadn’t discussed it. But as I’d described him to Ruth, I’d realised all the other things made him sound like a cool and desirable partner. He liked the Wombles (after I’d re-educated him), his favourite meal was Smash and cheese with fish fingers (he touchingly thought of this as a ‘home cooked meal’) and he loved watching avant-garde horror films (well this was how I described it but in reality it was anything that involved people being dismembered, chopped up, meeting a violent end, especially if it looked really bloody and gory).
‘Do you think it’s serious?’ Ruth had asked just before we’d parted.
I’d hesitated. Not because I didn’t think it was serious. There was definitely something very serious about my situation, my life and where it was headed but that was not something that could easily explained when I was stone cold sober. And not without some pretty heavy repercussions.
‘I’m not sure,’ I’d replied.
Which was true. My head at this point was pounding from the lack of alcohol, I’d reached a stage where all I could think about was my next drink, how it would taste and how many seconds I had to count before it slipped down my throat. Ruth had looked relieved. That was the kind of friend she was. Even if her life was troubled and fraught with problems, she was happy at the thought that I was potentially getting mine together. This made me want to drink even more.
What would Ruth think if she knew the truth?
That I was basically an alcoholic paedophile?
Except I wasn’t a paedophile.
Not yet anyway.

So after the lunch, Ruth called regularly. In theory it was to talk about me, my new relationship with ‘Steve’, when could she meet him, why couldn’t he come over for dinner, blah blah. But really I knew she needed support. Things didn’t sound good. I mean even I (as an alcoholic paedophile) could see that being pregnant and stuck in what sounded like a floundering relationship was demoralising. Talking to Ruth also provided me with some semblance of order and routine. I created a fantasy around Steve. I even told her I was applying for jobs with a new coffee chain that had started up in town (I even made up a name for it ‘Barney’s Beans’). Meanwhile in reality everything was up for grabs. Getting up at eleven or maybe even one, going to the off licence to get supplies, mooching around Whiteleys with Stephen in tow (how many versions of the same game can there be?), sometimes getting burgers or fried chicken, more often than not going to the supermarket to get Pringles, Smash, fish fingers – all good home made stuff, then nesting in the evening and into the following day.
This was our nest and Stephen and I were two birds.
I was Mother bird and he was my Son.
No he was little brother bird and I was big sister bird. It was all innocent I guess that’s what I’m getting at. How could it be anything else? We talked. We talked a lot.
And not just about Grand Theft Auto.

It was about midday and I’d just woken up. As usual my head was aching in a dull monotonous sort of way. It just needed the juice to get it going. Stephen entered the bedroom carrying a small round tray. On it he’d placed a large glass of my favourite tipple, some toast and small note.
‘Aww thanks that’s really sweet,’ I said, ‘but you know I can’t eat anything just yet.’
I had to drink on an empty stomach, that was the only way to sort my head out, toast only made the process longer.
‘Read the note,’ he said.
I positioned a big pillow behind my head, took a large sip of my Pear Pleasure and unfolded the note.
‘Stephen 4 Jess Big Time’ it said.
‘That’s really nice,’ I said nodding, my stomach doing a mini lurch of dread.
Did he think this was some sort of romance? I drained my glass.
‘I really like you,’ Stephen said sitting down on the bed.
I pulled the bedclothes around my shoulders. I was wearing a rather shapeless M&S nightie but felt horribly naked. I looked around the room. Overflowing ashtrays, a chair covered in young boys clothes, a copy of Nuts magazine lying open, a gormless big-breasted nitwit staring seductively at the ceiling.
Why did everything suddenly seem so sordid?
‘Yes well I like you too,’ I replied in my stuffiest, least seductive voice.
He wasn’t attracted to me was he?
Stephen lent over and kissed me on the forehead. He smelt like he’d been marinating himself in Lynx. I instinctively pulled away.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked calmly.
Suddenly he looked like a thirty five year old trapped inside a teenager’s body. Was he actually an adult and I hadn’t realised it? Was he one of those weird men who pretended to be children but were actually middle aged? No he wasn’t. He was a boy. His twig-like legs and concave chest said as much. I had to stop this. Leaping out of bed, I pulled on my dressing gown and went into the kitchen. Stephen followed me in.
He put his hand on my shoulder. I ignored him, lit a cigarette and stared out the window.
‘Check Yo’Self’ was still scrawled on the wall.
At first glance it seemed to be in Latin, so little relevance it had to my life at that moment. I was no longer ‘Check Yo’ Self’. I was Jess. I didn’t have to speak ‘youth’ to get kids to listen. The kids LOVED ME! They brought me breakfast in bed and stayed over. They thought I was cool. They gave me funny little love notes. But it was actually a warning. CHECK YO’SELF. Don’t go there Jess. You may be swimming in pear medicine but it’s wrong!

I wondered whether paedophilia was like some sort of contagion that you caught just hanging around young people. Did it sneak up on you after you’d ingested too much pear wine and were feeling lonely? Would I be like that teacher who ended up having two children with her thirteen-year-old student? I imagined sitting in prison, a big shapeless prison sack hanging off my body. Stephen would come and visit, he’d give me the weird hand shake and then we’d talk about the short cuts on the latest video game, special offers at Kentucky and what to do when I got out. Maybe if I was locked away for a few years we’d be able to settle down properly when I got out. Perhaps that was the mistake, I kept going for older men when really what I needed was someone who didn’t question things and was grateful for any attention they received. But that was sick! I would be taking advantage. And anyway it was clear that I didn’t fancy him. Just looking at him made me queasy.
‘We are going out…aren’t we?’ Stephen said breaking into my reverie.
‘Well no,’ I said stubbing out the cigarette, it was making me feel even queasier, I needed more booze to deal with this, ‘we’re not dating Stephen, we’re just friends.’
Stephen laughed. It wasn’t a jolly laugh. It sounded cynical and reminded me of the time before I knew him when he’d been ‘Grey’ and there’d been the finger and all that stuff.
‘But isn’t it what you want?’ he asked moving closer.
He was moving his pelvis in a way that made me uncomfortable.
Troll like coffee madam trades sex for accommodation.
Alcohol- mad sex addict abuses teen dropouts for kicks.
‘No I don’t want that,’ I said pushing him towards the cooker as he edged nearer and nearer.
He immediately shrugged, trying to regain his cool once more.
‘Forget it then,’ he said.
He stomped out and into the front room. I heard the bleeping noises of the Playstation as it whirred into gear. I reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. It looked like a student fridge, full of beer, more beer and some aged Taco dip. I drank half the can in about ten seconds. There was a noise, as far as I could remember no one cried in video games. I went into the front room, Stephen was hunched over the controls, his face all red and angry tears streaming down his face.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked sitting next to him.
‘Nothing,’ he replied elbowing me in the side.
He reached for the remote and turned the volume up full blast. The character in the game had entered a long dark alleyway and was now banging his head repeatedly against a brick wall.
‘Stop that,’ I said.
He ignored me and carried on. The character got back into a beat up car and reversed running over two men and a girl on a bicycle.
‘I like you a lot,’ I said softly.
‘Go away,’ he muttered.
‘No I mean it.’
I lent over and grabbed the remote off the sofa arm and switched the TV off.
He sighed heavily and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘Danny said you fancied me,’ he said shaking his head.
Seeing him crying made him look like he was five, not fifteen. I reached forward and pushed away a strand of hair. All I wanted to do was look after him.
‘He said that you wanted a boyfriend,’ Stephen continued his eyes not meeting mine.
I pulled away. Was that really what they all thought? That I was some desperate lonely, old woman who wanted a boyfriend? I stood up and saw my reflection in the mirror. My hair was back-brushed around my head, my eyes dark and tired, the tatty old dressing had an old tea bag stain on one arm and a lump of yellow looking …egg? on the collar. What was I doing? They were right! I was a desperate old woman. That was EXACTLY what I was. Stephen looked up at me.
‘He said you were loaded,’ he said flatly.
I laughed. Not a nice laugh. But the laugh of a thirty five year old ex-alcoholic who has rather dramatically lost her job, fallen off the wagon and been taken for a ride by a bunch of teenagers. They just wanted my money. They were taking advantage of me! Not the other way around. But then something about the way that Stephen looked at me, something about the way he ran me a bath before he went out to play/hang out/sniff mobile juice with Danny told me he was different. He liked me; we seemed to have lots in common. Or was I just constructing a story? Now it was my turn to cry. I went back into the bedroom pulled the duvet up around my ears and gently rocked myself. But no tears came. I was no doubt so dehydrated that my body was conserving every last drop of water.
‘I NEED A DRINK!’ I shouted like the old lush I’d become.
Underneath the duvet it stank of Lynx. Had he been spraying it in the bed to tempt the ageing lush? I stood up and pulled the bedclothes off. Scooping them up with one arm I strode towards the kitchen. So they thought I was desperate heh? I’d show them. I was a successful Barista. At least I rented my own property! I didn’t rely on charity. I piled the washing into the machine and selected a boil wash. Boil the teenage Lynx boy. Boil all the sordid mess! I banged the top of the washing machine with my hand sending a grubby plate crashing to the floor.
‘Are you upset?’ Stephen asked somewhat obviously I thought.
‘Hand me the washing liquid,’ I demanded.
He rummaged under the sink and produced the bottle. I was surprised that he knew where it was but then remembered that he’d had to wash the sheets a couple of nights before after one of the girls had been sick on them.
‘I like you,’ he repeated like a robot.
‘I hate the smell of Lynx. Can you stop spraying it all over the place?’ I said aggressively.
I pressed ‘go’ and the machine shuddered into action.
‘And what do you mean ‘I like you’. What do you want me to do in return?’ I said twisting around.
‘No I mean…,’ he paused, ‘I thought it was what you wanted to hear.’
He looked at the floor.
‘You think I’m some sort of sex pest? An old Joan Collins that lusts after teen flesh?’
From Stephen’s face I could tell that he’d never heard of Joan Collins. It was so tiring being with these teenagers, having to explain every reference. The Wombles one minute, Joan Collins the next.
‘I don’t fancy you,’ I said flatly, ‘There I’ve said it.’
I picked up the half- empty beer can and drained the contents.
‘Why not?’ he asked puffing up his chest slightly.
‘You’re like what…fifteen?’ I said taking a rough estimate, now was the perfect opportunity after all.
‘Actually I’m sixteen,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Liar,’ I replied.
I’d noticed over the past few days that he was a terrible liar. Not like Danny who mixed blatant lies with half- truths with no problem. Whenever Stephen lied the side of his mouth crept up and twitched ever so slightly.
‘Tell me the truth,’ I insisted.
He sat down on the kitchen chair and reached for one of my cigarettes.
‘Alright I’m fifteen,’ he said his body immediately relaxing and his mouth back in it rightful place again.
‘Well we’ve cleared that all up then,’ I said taking the bread out of the breadbin, it was covered in a soft green mould like a freshly seeded lawn.
‘Why don’t you fancy me?’ Stephen asked taking a drag from his cigarette.
‘I don’t know,’ I said abandoning the bread to the bin, ‘ Was this what you toasted? This green stuff?’
‘Sophie fancies me,’ he continued.
‘Yes she probably does, she’s only fifteen so that’s about right.’
‘I think maybe Danny’s sister fancies me.’
‘Well I don’t,’ I said opening up a fresh tube of Pringles.
Always a fresh tube of Pringles. Nothing planned all day and a fresh tube of Pringles and then Playstation. Did I really need anything more?
‘Would you fancy me if you weren’t old?’ Stephen asked.
I started to say something and then remembered that yes I was old. And it was better for both of us if he just kept that in mind. I pushed four Pringles in my mouth. Then put the kettle on. It was time for a cup of tea; my alcohol levels were nicely balanced.
Everything was falling into place. Stephen was fifteen. I was old. I didn’t fancy him. I wasn’t a paedophile.

That night I awoke to find myself holding hands with Stephen. I was in an awkward position with my back away from him and my wrist sort of twisted back on itself. I squeezed his hand and briefly, almost imperceptibly he squeezed back. I listened to him breathing; his breaths were fast and whispery. I stroked the outside of his hand with one finger. He squeezed my hand again.
I quickly felt myself fall back to sleep.
We were safe.
Back to being two baby birds in a giant nest.