How to have a shit relat.., p.29
How to Have a SHIT Relationship, page 29
Was it a mistake to go there? He couldn’t see any shift in their synergy. It had been so long, yet it could’ve been yesterday.
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“What was it like talking to my dad?”
“Waste of bloody time.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“Liam, what do you think. Yer man’s an utter waste of space.”
“Go on then, I’ll have a cup of tea. Shall I make it?”
The air was hardening like a sea of cement.
“No, I’ll make a pot.”
She went into the kitchen. Liam took out his mobile phone which was dead. It was better that way, better than constantly checking for messages from Maya. Not that it made much difference—there she was running wildly in his head, bubbling with laughter, her scent freeing up the air, the funny way her profanity banged on his ear like a jazzy harp, her directness forging solid foundations. All of it a safety that was now out of reach.
The phone charger wasn’t in his bag. Looking around the room, not much had changed—maybe more newspapers, a deeper beige in the nicotine-stained walls. The TV chattered inanely.
He pictured himself driving one of those machines with a wrecking ball, smashing through the walls, destroying this whole bit of his life. There was no one to turn to. Maya would know what to do, she’d just say it straight: do this or do that.
The odd imperceptible mutterings of his mother talking to herself drifted from the kitchen, reminiscent of his teenage years. Adolescent hormones re-spawned, rushing through the body as he listened. As a child, he’d ask her who she was talking to. She’d deny she’d been talking at all, except on one occasion, she’d said she was having conversations with God as he was the only one who could truly hear her. This had always stuck in his memory, seeing his mother gifted with having direct contact with the divine and ending as seeing her as needing help.
She placed the tea-laden tray on the table and sat down again.
“So how long am I blessed with your company?” Her annoyance was not over, nor would it be for quite some time. What he’d done was unforgivable, they both knew this.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t thought about it much. I just decided on the spur of the moment.”
“So, how come you cut off from all your friends too? No one had any idea where you might be.”
“Everyone I knew was into getting wasted, I didn’t like those people anymore. Half of them became smackheads.”
“So, where’ve you been?”
“In a caravan in Surrey. I’ve got work there as a gardener.”
“Well, that’s good news that you have a job.”
She poured the tea, her hand trembling from the meds.
“I am really sorry, Mum, I should’ve called, I know. It wasn’t like I didn’t think about it.”
“Oh, well now, Liam. So long as you thought about it, eh!” she retorted with bitter sarcasm.
She rolled another cigarette, licking the paper carefully, and lit it from her previous one before stubbing it out in the ashtray. As the night wore on, Liam got to hear about the neighbours in the flats where she lived: the one below who played her music too loud; the couple above who she could hear at it, every night; Dennis, the old man who’d just had a hip operation, with the lovely Jack Russell.
Liam discovered the phone had been disconnected for not paying the bills. A pile of letters threatened to cut her benefits too. Despite being diagnosed as mentally ill with paranoia personality disorder, social anxiety, audio hallucinations and infrequent psychotic episodes, she was still considered eligible for work. Next to the ashtray on the table, a letter from the crisis team enquired about her well-being. She told Liam she hadn’t responded, afraid of getting sectioned, yet they were the ones who could get the disability allowance back in order. From what Liam remembered, the crisis team were decent people. Like real human beings. They’d come in, normally just one person, stick the kettle on and check with him how things were and then ask if they could chat with his mum a while. Sectioning was unlikely, but cutting off the remaining utilities would happen without a doubt. Big businesses couldn’t care less about poverty, they just wanted the money.
“I forgot to bring a charger for my mobile, have you got one?” asked Liam.
“There’s one down there.”
Siobhan pointed to a vacuum cleaner tangled up in a knot of various cords, its telescopic tube pointing to the ceiling, on the end, an eye with luscious eyelashes posing as a brush. A conceptual piece straight out of the Tate Modern. The plaque might read, The Intricate World of Mrs Mahoney’s Fractured Brain. Liam reached beyond the simulated innards, careful not to electrocute himself on the cluster bomb of synapses. Her mobile was like his, a cheap burner, with the right sized adaptor. He painstakingly untangled the cables, freeing the charger.
Liam eventually escaped into his old bedroom, now a junk room with barely room to move. After removing various bits and pieces piled up on top of his bed—an unopened, boxed plastic Christmas tree, an ironing board, bags of clothing—he laid some sheets and blankets, climbed in and plugged in his mobile, charging it up, hoping Maya had messaged him.
The phone immediately lit up with a cacophony of consecutive beeps telling him there were a ton of messages and voicemails.
The first text was from Maya and read, Liam, please tell me you’re okay. Call me now! URGENT!!!
The next message also from Maya read, Please, please call me Liam, I beg you!
There was a message from Daniel: Liam. Are you okay? Your caravan has burnt down and we’re all worried that you were inside. Please call us.
Liam read this again, his heart racing, blood draining from his face, dizzy and lightheaded, gawping at the phone with utter disbelief. He listened to his voice messages, the first one from Daniel:
Some lunatic is on his way to your caravan, you need to be aware as he looks rather insane. It’s Maya’s ex-boyfriend. I think I ought to call the police or maybe Maya... Anyway, call me when you get this message.
The next message was from Maya, crying, asking him to call her. In the background, he could hear men shouting and sirens. Pretty much all the other messages were from Maya, crying, wondering if he was alive.
Liam listened to all the messages until he got to the last one which was cut short due to his voicemail being full. It was from Maya:
Liam, where are you? Please say you’re okay. You should have come to London with me, then I’d know you’re alive. You have to be alive. I want you to know I... Maya had run out of space to finish the message.
Liam was in a state of shock. It had been bad enough losing Maya without an ex-jealous-lover coming along, intent on murder. If not for visiting his mum, he’d be a charred corpse in a body bag right now. A consolation maybe, but life, even when saved from the clutches of death, still needed somewhere to live. And somewhere wasn’t just anywhere. Each nail, every lick of paint, all the planed pieces of timber had been thought out, chosen carefully. Components that over time had sprouted roots, winding their way into the rich, humus earth below, mooring the caravan into the woodland glade, bobbing lightly on a calm sea of nature.
He wasn’t cut out for travelling, nor for the paper chain lifestyle of town life: he was a mossy, rolling stone. The caravan, a perfect carapace, freedom to spin the wheels, gamble a ramble, the life of the rover, but Liam preferred to stay put, firmly anchored to one place—it was the choice that liberated him.
Now it was gone, a pile of ashes. With it being a sixties caravan, the structure and insides were mainly wooden, cinders would be all that remained. Into the bargain, the harrowing truth of no insurance. Not even a bank account. The gardening was all cash in hand, his bank, an old biscuit tin under the bed in which around four thousand pounds was hidden, all gone, as well as chainsaws, solar panels, leisure batteries, tools, the personal stuff with sentimental value, old photos, stuff he’d made.
All that remained was the pushrod used to cycle to the station to get the train up north and his van, which was due for the scrap yard.
A feeble rat-a-tat-tat roused him from his anguish. Looking up from his mobile, smudging the evidence from the corner of his eye with his finger, his mother’s face peeped around the door.
“Are you okay, you look upset?”
He wanted to tell her everything but couldn’t.
He briefly told her about the caravan and Troy without going into detail, playing it down, concealing the sunken weight in his chest, needing to protect her, as had always been the way. Even at school when bullied, he’d never told his mum: her emotional state rested on a hair trigger and Liam had enough to deal with without psychotic episodes. He’d done enough damage by disappearing. He said everything was insured, though inside, he wondered where he was going to stay. He could stay at his mum’s, but a few days was as much as he could handle.
“My God, Liam, you’re lucky to be alive. You could be dead. To think if you hadn’t come here! God is certainly looking out for you.”
Oh, the paradox, thought Liam.
Should he be grateful for being alive despite losing everything?
In his mind, circling, sharklike, was a killer Why me? Waiting for an opportune moment to sink its teeth into his ankles, born under an inauspicious star, nothing good came his way; if it did, it was briskly snatched away by a tyrant God, taunting, You deserve nothing good in your life.
“Good ol’ God, eh? Always got an eye out for me.” Liam had to see the humour in such irony, to escape a darker, self-pitying place he couldn’t afford to go to right now. “I need to make a phone call, is that ok?”
“Of course you can, love.”
His mum, softened by his news, left the room. Maya answered straight away.
“Liam?”
“Hi.”
Liam held the phone away from his ear as Maya screamed with joy.
“Fuck! Liam, you’re alive!”
“Yup! Nowhere to live and everything burnt to the ground along with every penny I had, but I’m alive?”
“You’re alive! That is so fucking amazing!” The joy and relief in Maya’s voice was sonic balm to his writhing soul.
“I can’t get over it. We were all at the police station a few hours ago, and everyone thought you were dead. I knew you weren’t, I had a gut feeling.”
“How bad is the damage?”
“Seriously bad, it’s all gone. I’m so sorry, Liam. My dad will pay for everything as we’re totally to blame.”
“Who’s to blame?”
“Well, me really, for not recognising what an utter nutcase Troy was, and my mum is for telling him where you lived. Where are you? God I am so, so happy! You’re alive! That’s just the best thing ever. Where are you?”
“I’m at my Mother’s. I got here a few hours ago.”
Liam explained what had happened.
“That’s so cool you’ve gone to see your mum. She must be so happy. How long are you there for? When can I see you?”
There was a long pause.
“Liam? Hello?”
“I’m not sure what to say. I still feel the same. I can’t cope with you seeing other guys, Maya. I respect that this is where you are, but for me...”
“Liam, my message said I want to be with just you. I want to give it a go. I think we’re a good fit.”
That must have been the last message that was cut short.
“Hmmm, is that when you thought I was dead?”
Maya laughed. “No, no, no! I spoke to my guru who helped me get a clearer picture. I want to give it a go. Me and you. I decided this before the fire, honestly. What do you think?”
A whirlwind was tossing everything around in his head: did Maya just say she wanted to have a monogamous relationship with him? The weird thing was, rather than a sense of joy, a tremor of panic crossed his belly. Wanting commitment was easier when it wasn’t on offer.
“But what about the distance? I live in Falindon and you’re in London.”
“True, but it’s not that far, and we could just give it a try and see how it goes. You’ve got to admit we’re a fucking amazing fit, why end it now!”
Her exuberance was a dimmer switch brightening his loins to a soft glow. Maybe the universe was telling him it was time to move forward. Maybe God was looking down on him after all.
“Wow, I’m lost for words. I must admit, I’m feeling a bit scared.”
“Of what?”
“It becoming real, the two of us, a couple—am I allowed to say that, will we be official?”
“What does that mean, being a couple? We don’t have to put ourselves into a box. Let’s call it something else, like awake togetherness or conscious beings or how about intimate creatures in search of enlightened connection?”
“Bit long-winded.”
“True, how about sexual humans in transformation—because that’s what it’s all about.”
“How’d ya mean?”
“Sex and relationships, it’s all about transformation. That’s what I want in a relationship, transformation, spiritual growth, and sex is the alchemical cauldron.”
“Right, but it’s still a bit long-winded though. What’s the anagram?”
“You mean the acronym? Sexual Humans in Transformation. Oh, shit!”
“What?” Liam spurted into laughter. “SHIT, we’re now in a SHIT relationship.”
“Hmmm, not sure that’s going to work.”
“Well, it suits you.”
“Cheeky git, how do you mean?”
“You love swearing,” said Liam with a little hesitance.
“Fuck off you twat, I do not.”
They both laughed.
“Shit’s not too bad, you get good shit and bad shit. Good shit is like compost, it makes relationships thrive, and bad shit is toxic to a relationship,” said Maya.
“Right on, sister!” said Liam, and with that they agreed that they were now in a SHIT relationship. Good shit, of course!
THIRTY-FIVE
Liam
Venturing into the sunless living room the next morning, Liam was instantly assaulted by the pervading stench of cigarettes. His mum, with her signature roll-up, sat staring into space, complexion the colour of an old, grey filing cabinet that resided in the spare room. Still in her dressing gown, legs akimbo, knickers for all to see like a little girl, unashamed or unaware, somewhere else.
“Morning,” he said, eyeing her, trying to discern her mental state the way he always had.
She didn’t answer.
“How yer doing?”
“Surviving.”
He hated that term; right then he hated her, the heavy energy that oozed from her draining him. It was like ingesting one of her antipsychotics.
“Right. I’m going to try and sort out your benefits.”
“You do that, love,” Siobhan said, removing a tiny bit of tobacco from her lip and wiping it on her dressing gown.
Narrow shards of light catching the smoke sneaked through cracks between the newspaper-taped windows, infiltrating the room like marble lasers.
Liam started by calling the crisis team who were friendly enough but suggested he phone social services who informed him that it was the welfare benefits office he needed who, in turn, didn’t appear to comprehend such words as paranoia, social anxiety, medication, agoraphobia, dissociation, mental illness, psychotic episodes, or overwhelming fear of everything and in desperate need of help, and concluded he should phone her GP who informed him that it was definitely social services he needed to speak with. And around it went until five hours later it was agreed that someone from the crisis team would visit to assess the situation and bring the appropriate forms to be filled out. A clear case of systemic madness. No wonder she was struggling; in fact, it raised the question, was there such a diagnosis as lost in a bureaucratic hell syndrome? Which of course, even though you’d have a fractured skull from banging your head against a brick wall, would still mean you’re eligible for work.
The rest of the day he spent cleaning the flat, brushing away silky spider threads wagging like horse tails on the walls, wiping away layers of archaic dust from every surface. He’d read that dust mainly consisted of dead skin cells, a fact that once known couldn’t be eradicated, some possibly his own from prior to leaving home, maybe even his father’s judging by its dense layer.
Cleaning was a befitting distraction as the prospect of his cindered home raged at the back of his mind. He tore newspaper from the windows, opening them, allowing in something other than the smell of cigarettes. Hung across her brow, a crinkled banner, declaring her fear of intrusion. He promised there were no cameras attempting to sneak in to spy on her, that a meds review was essential, reassuring her she wouldn’t end up in hospital. Eyes suspicious, her mouth jerked into a thin, crooked smile.
By late afternoon, the atmosphere was penetrating his bones, his mum straddling two worlds; he needed to re-enter collective reality, to stand in its remnant stability. Her fidgeting, chain smoking, talking about the neighbours in a way suggesting she knew them more than was probably the case were all distorting his perception. She didn’t ask about the caravan, probably for the best, nor did she ask about Maya. Liam had to accept that other people were minor parts in his mother’s drama, the script penned, the set designed by an unknown force in her fractured brain.
He cycled into town, buying flowers and chocolates, something he did only for girlfriends and his mum. His off-the-cuff plan was to stay there for a few days with a play-it-by-ear approach, heading back south as soon as the psyche team had visited and the meds were in order. Next on his list was seeing Auntie Maureen and Uncle Mick, knowing he’d be dealing with more fallout from not contacting them either.
Why had he gone underground and hidden from the very same people who’d given him so much? When he got back to his mum’s in the evening, he gave her the flowers and chocolates before setting about cooking them both a meal.
