Chapter Sixteen: White Underpants & A Frenzied Dancing Orgy

A stage with drapes of velvet hanging either side.
An old piano with keys missing shoved up against a dusty, beige wall.
Hanging over this stage, a pink headboard with a head-shaped indentation. To the other side of the stage, Sky Sports is playing from a TV set down in the corner. Two bald men shout out the sports results. Sitting down on a moth-eaten chair, I run my fingers under the seat and feel the little bumps of hardened chewing gum. I’m alone aside from the tinny voices of the two presenters - Manchester United 2, Bolton 1. Then a spotlight shines bright onto centre stage exposing a green rug with what looks like a kidney bean shape in the middle. Then the sound of smashing piano keys with both fists. The ‘actors’ appear one after another in quick succession. Each dressed in nothing but a set of baggy white underpants - each holding a placard aloft. Some sort of demonstration but what are they demonstrating against? Then as each body dances onto the stage, the bodies and the faces grow horribly familiar. The first one twists and grunts; half-man, half – monkey, front or back no discernable difference, this is the graceful Yeti-Bear, hair flowing behind like a shiny, Pantene commercial. He leaps in the air, then crouches low, some terrible avant-garde dance unfolding before my eyes. Then the next one stumbles in but then rushes off again, the sound of a mobile ringing in the distance. The piano grows louder and with each smash, my teeth are chattering and I can hear the chant rising up from underneath the stage, there must be a choir down there singing up between the floorboards. ‘FEEL HOW HARD I AM!’ they chant in unison, ‘FEEL IT!’

Then I see that it’s Tiny at the piano who is thumping the keys; thumping with both hands so furious at his misfortune, so blighted, so terribly struck down and disabled. As he moves away from the piano, the keys keep on playing, echoing the same nightmarish pattern. But then he moves with more confidence- he channels all his anger and starts the same leaping high and crouching low that the Yeti began. Soon his feet are red raw as he kicks his legs in the air, over and over. The pouch at the front of his pants looks as if it’s smiling, mocking his misfortune. The two Sky Sports presenters are no longer commenting on the match; instead they watch the action unfold, their earpieces hanging out the sides of their baldy, heads like someone has pulled out their electricity supply.

Next Hucknall appears from nowhere, he must have come down from the ceiling, lowered on a piece of invisible wire and he brings the placard down on Hairy’s head. ‘FEEL HOW HARD I AM!’ he shouts so loud that a bit of plaster falls down from the ceiling. But Hairy doesn’t react, he simply swoops both arms in a circle and rocks his head from side to side as if he is drowning in hair. It is strangely bewitching. Hucknall isn’t phased- he has hair enough of his own and he links arms with Hairy. As I watch transfixed, each nodule of dried gum stuck to my fingers, the same man as before scurries onto the stage and rummages between the floor boards, hunting for something. THe choir are now chanting ‘FEEL IT! FEEL IT!’ and I nod my head involuntarily. Then the music grows softer, more pleasant, no longer the cross fists against the piano, and the man snatches his mobile from the back of his pants and matches begin to fall from the sky and he’s trying to retrieve each match rather than looking up or engaging with the world around him. In that moment, it strikes me that this man will always be absent and committed to something trivial. Next Hucknall’s arm becomes dislodged and he practically falls over but then at the last moment, he leaps into the air and bashes the headboard with both hands like a basketball player charging a ball into the net. ‘YOU WANT BABIES!’ he shouts like a warrior cry.

Tiny Penis is crying tears of anger and frustration and he grabs at an abandoned music stand that is leaning up against the piano and he tries to force the music stand, the whole thing down the front of his pants but it’s a useless cause and the sadness brings a tear to my eye especially now the music is so much more melancholy. I lean in closer; fingers still fixed underneath the seat and that’s when I see the shape on the rug in more detail. The men’s feet are still dancing up and down so I only get snatches - a button nose here and a tiny curled thumb. The men clamber on top of one another- creating a tower. Eight arms, eight legs and three and a half penis’s quiver. Then the music suddenly stops and the curtain swings down across the front of the stage. The show is over.

Behind the curtain comes the sound of heavy breathing, and then of skin slapping against skin, each man clambering down from the pyramid of zero fertility. But of course it isn’t their fault- it’s mine because I’ve been completely naïve. I disentangle my fingers from the warmed up gum and pull myself up onto the stage. The men have gone. I can now see the yellow bean- except it isn’t a bean at all. Curled up in the centre of the rug is a three-dimensional, living, sniffling baby with purple veins that plot a course to each tiny organ. The skin so transparent even the heart is visible and the pulse at the side of the head trembles as fast as a mouse’s heartbeat. And this baby has inherited all of the features of all of the dancing men, even the ones where nothing actually happened. It has a rash of fine, red hairs all over it’s body like Hucknall and Hairy and as it roars, it is clear it has all the frustration of Tiny Penis and when tears burst out the corner of its eyes, it is it’s mother and then it calms as I hold it to my chest and it seems to settle and the red hair is so soft, like a baby rabbit. I take the rug and fold it across my chest to keep the baby warm. Then it opens its eyes properly and there is still a solitary tear stuck to its long lashes (lashes like George) and as its eyes open slowly, adjusting to the darkness of the theatre, I see they are Medium’s eyes. And they are my Father’s. And I lie down with this baby, this baby that will never exist in the real world when I’m awake and as it slumbers in my arms, I weep.

‘What about the name Woody?’
‘Is he going to be a woodpecker when he grows up?’ I said staring at the TV screen.
We were watching a home makeover programme and the presenter was having a go at a worried -looking couple who’d already watched the roof of their home blow off because they’d cut corners and used cardboard instead of proper tiles.
‘No, like Woody Allen,’ Carla said.
‘You don’t even like Woody Allen.’
Medium Brown liked Woody Allen. No point thinking about that now. My baby had been snuffed out before it was even created.
‘I like the sound of Woody. It’s good isn’t it?’
Carla licked the end of her pencil and balanced her notebook on her enormous stomach. Her belly button was turned inside out like a marshmallow sticking out of her abdomen. She looked okay - she was fat yes but that was understandable. There were only three months to go and at least she didn’t smell of sick anymore. Except soon of course she would be smelling of sick again so in fact the whole process was remarkably cyclical.
‘I don’t know why you’re running these names past me. You’re just going to choose the one you like anyway. What about George? Have you asked him what he wants?’
Carla looked at me in amazement like the thought had never crossed her mind. I pitied my poor brother who was going to spend his twenties being completely ignored by women (which come to think of it was probably how many boys spent their twenties unless they were very handsome). I rubbed my eyes and turned the TV over. Every night my mind played tricks on me; every night I saw a different baby hybrid - different combinations of Tiny, Hucknall, Medium and Hairy. And one night I’d dreamt that Carla was carrying my baby, that somehow our eggs had glued together through some invisible synergy and instead of George being the father (which would be disgusting)- it was one of the baggy underpants brigade.

It’s fine to tell yourself that you’re going to be mature about everything, that you’re going to get on with the mess of life until your heart grinds to a stop but that doesn’t work if your subconscious plays terrible films in your head when you go to bed at night.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Carla said as I switched the TV off and pushed myself deeper into the sofa.
Was I really thirty five? Was I really a thirty five year old woman who spent all her time at her Mum’s awaiting the arrival of her baby brother’s child? It didn’t matter how many times I lived with the news, how hard I tried to shut it out; sometimes the truth just came back and slapped me in the face like a giant, wet hand round the chops. I looked up and Carla was towering over me. The bottom of her Marilyn Manson shirt was struggling to contain the basketball fighting to get out. I squinted up at her. I was shivering underneath her gigantic shadow.
‘George wanted to ask you but he keeps putting it off so I’m just going to come out and say it.’

Do you want my baby?
Do you want to keep it so I can go and live in Bolivia and become a drugs baron and get arrested and then die in some terrible shoot out with the FBI?
Do you want to bring it up as your own because your brother and I are becoming Hari Krishnas and we want to dance outside Top Shop on Saturday afternoons?

Carla stretched her arms above her head and her marshmellow popped out. When it’s your own body it’s one thing but when you’re looking at your boss – someone who you’ve felt nothing but resentment towards for so long and they’re literally bursting out of their seams, well it just makes your stomach turn over. She sat down on the arm of the chair and for a moment I thought she was going to flatten me- the whole pregnancy had just been an elaborate ruse to get really big and heavy and then kill me in one fell swoop. But instead she placed her hand on my arm.
‘We want you to be our baby’s Godmother,’ she said, her eyes shining like they’d never shined before.
‘What?’
‘George and I have been talking about it and we really think you’d be perfect and I thought you’d probably love to have a baby of your own but perhaps that’s not going to happen for a while or perhaps not at all so why not become a godmother?’
Carla had managed to flatten me without actually rolling on top. She’d offered me something but only so she could remind me that that something would never be mine.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
Carla pulled her hand away.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean –no. I don’t believe in godparents. I don’t believe in God. Neither does George. And you’re a Marilyn Manson fan and you definitely don’t believe in God. Besides I’m going to be an Aunt so why would I want to be a Godmother?’
Carla’s face fell. Something about the baby juices running through her veins had turned her all softie, all religious and made her optimistic about the after life. I was actually looking forward to her getting back to normal again and hearing her flat, unresponsive voice and her expression like someone had just run over her foot and driven away without apologising.
‘Well then, I’m off,’ I said jumping out of the chair, ‘Got a shift at the store and then I’ll probably go and drink some alcohol.’
This was the pattern of my life. Work and alcohol. It was a good reliable day-to-day routine that kept me numb and pain-free most of the time. I had a feeling that I’d put a bit of a downer on things. I felt a bit bad. But then not that bad really. And perhaps it would give Carla a reality check so she stopped acting like she was an extra in a Disney movie. The sooner she became grouchy, pessimistic old Carla the better.

When I got back that night I stank of cigarettes and my tongue felt like it had been marinated in red wine. My teeth were stained red. My eyes were red. For some reason I’d come back to Mum’s rather than going back to my own flat but that was another pattern I’d developed. I no longer enjoyed being on my own. Too much time left with my thoughts and I started to spiral downwards. At least if I was at Mums I could clamber into bed with her and get some comfort pretending I was twelve again and not a middle-aged failure.
‘Have you seen George?’ Mum asked as I poured myself a pint of water and glugged it down. I could already feel a headache developing, building up from behind my eyes where my brain was drowning in carcinogens. I shook my head.
‘He hasn’t been answering his mobile again,’ Mum said.
‘What do you mean- again?’
Mum leant over the tap and poured water into the kettle.
‘Well you know like the last time, like the time he went missing.’
As soon as she said the word ‘missing’ I knew it was true. They say some families are telepathic and I’d always felt Mum had a bit of that but I’d never experienced it myself. But in that moment I knew he wasn’t coming home. Or at least he wasn’t coming home that night. The only problem was I didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. So it was only half-baked telepathy really. Pretty useless.
‘What about Carla? Has she heard anything?’ I said drinking more water.
Meanwhile whilst half my brain was thinking about George and trying to use my pathetic attempt at telepathy, the other half was shouting; ‘You think water can undo all that shit? I’m going to hurt you. Three fucking glasses of wine! And what about those cigarettes. You disgust me- you pig!’
I set the glass of water down on the table and sank into a chair. Mum was staring into the fridge like the tub of hummus was going to fess up and tell her the secret of George’s whereabouts.
‘No she’s sleeping,’ Mum said flatly, then she turned, leaving the fridge door open so a jolt of cold air hit me in the face, ‘Actually, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
She pushed the door shut with her foot and stared. She could see all the mean, ugly thoughts lurking inside.
‘Carla told me you refused to be the baby’s godmother.’
‘But I’m going to be an Aunt,’ I said, ‘Why do I have to be a godmother? You can’t be an aunt and a Godmother! It’s crazy. The poor kid won’t know what’s going on. It’s like finding out the person you thought was your Aunt is actually your Mum.’
‘Fine if you don’t want to do it but you could be a bit nicer about it. It was sweet for them to ask you. Carla said you were really mean.’
So this was life from now on. Carla had well and truly got her feet under the family table. My own mother was now siding with her. I pictured a future with Carla, Mum and George snuggled up all cosy on the sofa, little Woody or whatever asleep in a Moses basket next to the fire and I’d be down here in the cold kitchen with the fridge door hanging open, the bitter old Aunt - watching myself eat ratatouille. I got up and slowly started making my way up the stairs, the space behind my eyes was expanding with pain, setting hard like plaster of Paris. There was no point trying to communicate telepathically with George - the scorching heat of dehydrated cells would prevent the signals getting in.
‘What should I do?’ Mum shouted up the stairs as I pulled myself up, holding onto the banister like an old lady in her eighties.
‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled.
‘Should I call the police?’
I stopped and turned round.
‘It’s only one night. He’s probably gone over to stay at a friends like before.’
‘But we don’t know if he was actually staying with friends that time. He never told us, remember?’
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. The pain grew worse with each step. Soon my head would hit the pillow and the performance would commence. The same piano thumping, sometimes the actors got into different positions but the ending always the same.
‘He’ll be fine,’ I said under my breath.
But the tiny shred of telepathy that existed between the two of us fought to get through. I had the feeling that George was possibly not fine. I had a feeling that I’d been so absorbed in my own soap opera that I’d failed to look out for my baby brother. Despite the fact that I’d made a promise last time he’d disappeared that I’d take care of him; find him a job, make sure he found his way in life - in fact I’d done nothing of the sort. Okay I’d found him a job but look what trouble that had got him into? No wonder George had legged it. Why do we keep making the same mistakes? Why is everyone incapable of thinking of anyone except themselves? And I don’t mean pretending to be interested in other people; I mean ACTUALLY BEING INTERESTED rather than mired in your own problems, preoccupations and neurosis. And why can we only see this truth when we’re pissed out of our tiny minds?

That night, I looked forward to my nightmares. At least they’d drown out the rising tide of guilt and shame. Once George came back from his bong - binge or wherever he’d gone, I wouldn’t let anything get between us. Not even a baby.

You’re too late, my brain said, he’s gone.
And you had twelve cigarettes not ten.

Then my dreams took me back to the theatre again.