Mattress

Mattress

After the first rush of the rollercoaster, after the first sudden loop
the cart flipped over to follow the track, rolling 180? as it curved
down into a steep descent, the ground switching sides in a second, the
track like a xylophone, blood rushing to their heads, her eyes soft and
lunar as she held his hand as if for life. Buzzing. The two of them
neon with the rush. The exhilaration. Wrapped up in the moment
together. The music. The flashing lights. All the fairground screaming.
His girl beaming back at him with those soft almond eyes, holding onto
his arm, not wanting to let go. Never wanting to let go.
That's when he vowed to never forget the moment. Their first together.
That's when he made the decision, among the lights, among the neon.
When he rushed her to the parlour at the end of the pier, falling into
the chair to have the moment etched upon him forever. The two of them
like a fireworks display as she held onto his hand, watching the needle
nick his arm with the first drop of colour.

Fast forward to the moment now elastic, stretched out for seven years
until the day he staggered back into the same parlour, sweating cheap
white cider, days of smoke in his face. Ready meals and take-outs on
his breath, down his shirt. Days neglecting to wash. "You see this,"
pulling up his shirt to reveal the tattoo, the two of them inked in
there together, he and her, front carriage on the track at the start of
the climb, "Get rid of it. Make it something else", he demanded, red
merlot eyes barbed with tears.
His short, fat friend stood up against the pane as if banished,
uninvited, banging on the window, "C'mon, don't do this. You're not
thinking straight." An old double mattress left up against the glass,
dampening in the rain.

Forty-six minutes later, the patch already seeping blood Tattoo pushed
on through the crowds, through the rain. The hair now lank to his face.
His clothes now soaking. His body aching as he strained to lift the
mattress that little bit higher; stop it dragging the pavement, stop it
mopping the ground like a sponge.
He pushed on as if driven. A simple wire-frame. Like a stick figure
hunched over, blown around like newspaper yet carrying on, struggling
through the wall of rush-hour people who just wanted to get home, get
dry. The patch seeping blood into his shirt. The fairground ride from
years before no longer looping over his shoulder and down to circle the
heart. The two of them no longer inked in there together, he and her,
front carriage on the track at the start of the climb.
Their first date together.
The image no longer etched into his skin, no longer a reminder of that
first moment when the rush was up and the heart was pumping, when the
blood just had to flow. When he spun. When he crackled. When his girl
beamed back at him with those soft almond eyes, holding onto his arm,
never wanting to let go.
He picked up the pace even though the soft-fruit muscles that hung from
his arms were vibrating like television fuzz with the effort.
Straining.
Aching now but growing as he dragged the double mattress up over his
head to stop it trailing the pavement, stop it mopping the ground like
a sponge. 17:38. The light fading fast as he pushed on against the
flow, pierced by the spokes of cheap umbrellas when people just wanted
to get home, get dry and he had no defence. No shield or armour against
another tear slipping out into the rain. A little saltwater for their
old mattress as he carried on against the flow.

Three steps behind splashed his little fat friend trying to keep up the
pace alongside. Sweating. Panting. A soft rubber ball splashing around
in the wet as Tattoo pushed on through the rain. Through the flow of
people as if pushing through branches and he was short, the little
sidekick, his hairline waving the white flag in surrender over a shoe
polish moustache that slid across his lip, "Why are you doing this to
her? What's it gonna prove?" Trying to lever some way in, anything to
stop this.
"We always came to your place. Always supported you", the response
finally came.
- "I know you did. They were good times but--"
"--We were always there. Always fooling around at the back. Always
helping you out."
- "You did. Yes. But the club closed down two years ago. Everybody
moved on. Did other things. You can't keep--"
"--I introduced you to her. Three, four times a week we'd be there. You
even had that picture up, the two of us laughing together. The one
where I'm talking to you but she, she can't stop looking at me. Really
smiling. She was so fucking happy then."
- "Yeah, I remember but that was two years ago. Where've you been?
Every time I see you, you're wasted. Arguing with everyone. Pissing
people off. She can't live like that anymore."
"Why did you have to fuck her?"
And for a moment he stopped. Tattoo's sidekick stopped dead and with a
deep ceramic sigh he doubled over, halving himself in the street as if
reaching down to give up.
Give in.
Catch a breath as his lost friend carried on against the flow, carving
out a stretch between them that shouted. That screamed. And deafened by
the distance the little guy had no option but to carry on. Those
regretful rubber legs kicking, pushing against the tide of people, his
face a frown of intent as he clawed back the gap on that bobbing,
weaving mattress up ahead.
- "Don't do this to her. Give her some time. Some space."
- And he knew he wasn't helping but just couldn't stop. He wanted to
fix things. Make it all better somehow, this fist between two friends,
this swelling anger.
- "She just needs some time by herself. Get her head straight."
No reply. Just a rock of silence between them as Tattoo pushed on
ahead.
- "I didn't mean it to happen. I'm not proud of what I did."
"But you're not fucking sorry either . . Are you", came the response,
the mattress suddenly stopping, Tattoo's eyes like violin stabs at his
short, fat friend.
- "OK, we fucked each other. It was fucking great. Best ever. All
fucking night. She screamed like a bitch . . Are you happy now? Is that
what you wanted to hear?"
And for a moment they stopped. For a brief mirrored moment they stood
there in the rain, the space between them spreading out like weeds and
vines, inches stretched out to miles.
The tattooed man stood rooted as he held the mattress up, his eyes
locked and staring with violin stabs. His memory like a projector
re-spooling the scene, re-playing the moment when he caught them, his
little fat friend and her. When his heart became just machinery, just a
pump for blood and the realisation formed eyes, a face, a voice in
which to speak telling him how to defend. How to protect himself. To
carry this mattress back.
- "We'd both had a few drinks and you were never around anymore, always
off getting wasted somewhere else and she'd had enough. She'd just had
enough", the little guy's point-of-view left fighting for a shot at the
screen.
"So that gives you the right does it?"
- "You were the one that hit her. Not me. You were the one who pissed
on her doorstep."
Tattoo scratching a sneer, turning his back to carry on. Lugging that
damp now useless mattress along and up the street. His short, fat
friend seeping sympathy, riddled with remorse yet driven to keep up as
the mattress turned a corner. The little guy's friend picking up the
pace. Tightening his grip. The weight now heavier through soaking yet
lifting it that little bit higher, his once soft-fruit muscles now
drawing up blood, sucking in air, using every reserve to steal the
strength needed and carry this mattress on through the rain. Through
the flow of people and like a pinball he bounced off each and every
one, racking up a score, his head playing a fanfare of bells and
electronic whistles to drown out the feeling, to drown out the
thoughts. The hurt he was feeling and the need to do this now. Rub the
lamp, let the genie out, make a wish to be back in that carriage with
her and start again from the moment they hit the first loop. The chance
to live it all again, the chance to get it right.
- "She told me you'd split up. She told me she threw you out."
The regret now burning holes through him but he pushed on. No shield or
armour to protect himself against another tear for their mattress,
another for their bed. But the rain drove him forward and the sound it
made, like applause, encouragement to push on. To do this. To continue
and he tried to run now, sensing the finishing line. The chequered flag
almost near and waving, his legs carrying him on. Gripping the
mattress. Arms like wire. Fingers like fuses ready to trip. Aching now
yet unwilling to give in as he lifted that mattress higher, gripped it
that much tighter as he turned the corner. Almost there. His little fat
friend rasping to stay close, stay near as they both aimed for the same
single door ahead. A single red door much like any other.
Now a target.
Now a goal and he had to. He aimed for it and fired, propelling himself
straight, an arrow shot to the centre, to the heart. Pounding now as he
tried to run, his round rubber friend gulping air just short of the
bends as he watched his tattooed friend steal ahead to reach the red
door first and still holding that mattress like a child saved from a
fire he turned back to face his friend, "Open the door."
- "I don't have my keys on me."
"Then ring the fucking bell!"
- "She doesn't want to see you. Please, don't put her through
this."
But the tattoo wasn't listening, blank to the response, "Open the
fucking door."
And with head now hung like a wounded bird, he did. As if ageing in
breaths he pressed on the buzzer, turning back to his lost friend,
"She'll hate you for doing this."
But as the door opened and he saw her in those boots, in that skirt, he
simply let the mattress go and it slumped like a corpse to the floor.
His voice cracking as he finally plucked out the words, "Its all yours
now", his friend now mute by the door, looking up to her. Looking up to
the woman who stepped out over the mattress to see as he pulled back
his shirt to show the tattoo, the two of them inked in there now
distorted, the tracks now a vine of thorns, tiny rivers of blood
seeping out. She stood still and silent, watching him turn and her
eyes, once wooden to him now welled up with rain. Her heart from that
carriage years ago torn now like paper, crushed into a ball as the two
of them stood staring, watching him turn. Hyena guilt laughing as he
simply seeped away.