Wednesday, 12 January 1994
When he arrived at the broken blue gate that vaguely defined the frontier between the grimy pavement and the metre-wide front patio of the shabby rented house he now called home, one wall of blackened red brick exposed to the narrow lane which cut the terrace in half, Ben already knew there would be no one home. The Yale night latch was always cumbersome, but this evening threatened to sheer his key in two unless he spoke to it nicely. ‘Pretty please,’ he said, shaking his key back and forth.
Inside, his bag dropped to the floor by the door, he sauntered along the pokey hall, into the chaotic dining room devoid of furniture and through to the squalid kitchen shoehorned into the tight crumbling extension at the rear. He had long taken to ignoring the pale brown walls stained with patches of black mould, the wallpaper peeling at every seam. Everything about the house, from its flaky cream-painted facade discoloured black and grey by the diesel rain to its rotting window frames told a tale about a landlord who did not care. It seemed to mirror his life, he thought, picking up the week-old note left on the kitchen table, still relating those perennially useless instructions: ‘Warm up something from freezer. Don’t wait up.’
He had established yesterday that there was nothing left in the freezer, except for a three-year-old ice pop, bright blue, but he delved inside anyway, just in case the absent one had thought to venture home via Iceland to restock it. When his investigation proved fruitless, Ben searched through the cupboards yet again, repeating yesterday’s quest for sustenance. That search had unearthed a tin of baked beans and a green sprouting potato. This evening, a tin of butter beans, once mistaken for new potatoes at the checkout, and a can of peach halves; a main course and pudding, he tried to persuade himself, poking around in the fridge for some sort of sauce that would pass as seasoning. There was a small pot of garlic sauce in the tray in the door, dispatched with a doner kebab two weeks ago, but there was no way that would pass as a curry. In any case, it had turned blue and smelt like old socks.
Perhaps he would give butter bean curry a miss, he told himself, glancing back at the electric cooker, its white enamel surrounds stained by an assortment of spills, baked hard into a congealed carbonised dust, left to fester since mid-October. One day he would clean the kitchen, he promised himself, but not this evening; heading back through the house, he ambled up the stairs to his bedroom instead. Up there, dreaming of a Snickers bar for tea, he changed into a comfortable grey tracksuit and began turning his room over in search of loose change or something he might barter with the little kid next-door. No, but it was all futile. It was time to face the music.
Was there any beauty in this town, he wondered, as he cycled past the small shops that edged the avenue, with their rundown flats set above them behind red brick walls and filthy windows? Strangers called his town a dump; sometimes he found himself agreeing with them. But after rainfall, when the last of the rush hour’s smog had been washed down the drains, Ben thought it had its own quaint charm. It was peaceful, even. Peddling fast, he crossed the oncoming lane, confounding the driver of a Nissan Micra, and took the next turning, hoping to take a shortcut though the park, past the old Bengali mosque, and on to the back of his friend’s three-storey townhouse.
Emerging from a dank passageway after his dawdling ride across the meadow, past the stagnant pond streaked with oil and duck feathers, he tried to hide his bike under the sprawling firethorn bush standing guard of the dustbins in the concreted-over front garden. When that failed, the spiny branches pricking him and pushing him away, he leaned it against the beige-brown brickwork under their front window instead. Now he stood motionless, sheltered from the cold wind, beneath that elegant mock-gothic arch, cut from sandstone blackened by pollution, his feet set on fragmented black and white chequered tiles. The sweet scent of chilli drifting beneath his nose, he rang the bell, then hammered his fist on the obscured pane in the door and clapped the letterbox a few times for good measure. There were raised voices on the other side of the door, maybe even arguments: two brothers fighting on the stairs, swearing profusely.
Not long afterwards, he found himself sitting alone in their tall, cold front room, fingering through the Christmas edition of the TV Times, pretending not to hear the commotion upstairs.
‘Alright, mate,’ began Siddique’s middle brother, Bittu, as he wandered in five minutes later, looking for something.
‘Did I come at a bad time?’ asked Ben.
‘How did you guess?’ he replied.
‘I can go. Come back another time.’
‘Nah, mate, me mam insists you sit there and listen to the whole damn thing,’ he laughed cockily, ‘Anyway, she’s already warming up some food for you. Don’t break me mam’s heart.’
‘You sure?’
‘Ah, she’s missed you,’ he quipped, ‘You’re like the albino son she never asked for. Always giving her an excuse to curry a cauliflower.’
Finding what he was looking for, Bittu traipsed back out of the room again, smirking at his brother’s obese friend, shutting the door firmly behind him. Exhausting his tatty magazine, Ben drifted across the room momentarily. For a second, he contemplated talking to the caged Myna, but fearing its insults, he wandered back over to the big red sofa instead and sank back into it. At least the long wait gave him time to rehearse his apology, he thought, muttering excuses, unconvincing even to himself, over and over within.
‘Alright, mate,’ began Bittu again, banging through the door with a mug of mango juice in one hand and a plate of buttered white bread in the other. ‘I’ll be back in a minute with the rest,’ he said, setting them down in front of him on a small table made of woven cane, ‘Me mam’s serving up.’
‘And what about your brother?’
‘Not sure,’ he said, ‘I’ll find out.’
Answering a modest rap on the living room door, Bittu disappeared into the kitchen. Just then it dawned on Ben that even after all these years he had never seen his friend’s mother, or really heard her voice at all. But that did not stop her feeding him well whenever he dropped in, sending him trays laden with turmeric-stained margarine tubs, each filled to the brim with a delicious serving of chicken, lamb, lentils or rice, and a stack of naan breads, and a jug of yoghurt mixed with water. Today would be no different, as Bittu reappeared with a large wooden tray in hand, a tea towel slung over his right arm, pretending to be a waiter. ‘Here you go, mate,’ he said, planting it in front of him, ‘Bon Appetit.’
As his friend’s brother withdrew, prancing away, Ben hurriedly took a taste from every dish, scooping up a portion with a piece of naan like a besieged refugee. Years ago, he had found the oily chilli difficult to consume but had long since developed a penchant for the hot pastes dispensed so lovingly by the invisible one.
‘That was really good, Mrs Begum,’ he murmured to himself, as he finished off the last of the chicken, wiping the dish clean with his final piece of bread. ‘Thank you,’ he called out, hoping she would hear him through two sets of doors and a wall. He knew it was hopeless, but he tried again: ‘That was delicious,’ he hollered, suddenly amused.
As he sat there alone, his feet resting on that worn Afghan rug, surveying the room he had spent so much time in over the years, Ben began to ponder their friendship. He remembered all the good times: watching stupid films on Zee TV he had no hope of understanding, to which he laughed along with anyway. Playing Super Nintendo on Saturday afternoons. Watching Bay Watch and Gladiators secretly, the living room door jammed shut with a chair, lest a grouch walk in at just the wrong moment to declare Jet or Caroline Holden reprobate. Yes, he thought, those were the days. Those days waiting for mango season, when Siddique would race home with an imported box of yellow fruit tucked under his arm, to be sliced up and polished off in an afternoon. Those days when they dreamed of forming a band, although none of them had any musical talent. They used to be so daft back then, so easily amused; they were better days.
‘So,’ began Siddique all of a sudden, thrusting the door open and surprising him, ‘he returns grovelling. I knew you would. I’m just surprised it took this long.’
His hasty entry startled Ben, waking him from his semi-slumber traversing the arteries of time. Briefly, he tried to get up to greet him, but only sank even further into the big old sofa.
‘Are you alright, bro?’ smiled Ben, offering peace.
‘Yeah, I’m great actually,’ he replied, quite aloofly, ‘but, you know, I’m surprised to see you sitting here in my house, making yourself at home, as if you never said all those horrible things to me.’
‘I came to say sorry,’ murmured Ben.
‘It was insulting.’
‘Yeah, I know, sorry bro. I said things I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for saying you look like Oswald Cobblepot from Batman Returns. If there’s anyone who should take that title, it’s me. And sorry for calling it love in the chip shop.’
Siddique pushed the door back into its frame, shutting it to his family. ‘And?’ he asked.
‘And sorry for being rude about Becky.’
‘Her name’s Beth.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure?’
‘You know what I mean. But anyway, sorry for…’
‘For being an arrogant cunt. For being such a snob. For being a self-righteous prick. Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. What was it you said again? That I had horrible taste? Ah what was it? Oh, that’s it: why do I always go after the ugly blondes?’
‘You know I was only joking man,’ scoffed Ben, recalling that peculiar fervour that had caused a torrent of derision to cascade off his tongue. ‘You know me,’ he added, ‘large-eyed brunettes, all the way.’
Siddique spat out an irked guffaw, staring at his old friend contemptuously. ‘I don’t actually,’ he replied, rebuking him, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about at all. Because this is what you said to me, more or less word for word: why do I always have these love affairs every two months, which always seem to feature a lanky, pimple-faced girl whose only redeeming feature is a passion for Italian men. And then you said…’
‘I remember what I said. I’m sorry.’
‘You said…’
‘Yeah, I know. I said that you seem to believe that if you continue to grow your hair long and tie it back in a ponytail, they would be utterly convinced that you’re a romantic Italian heartthrob.’
‘And…’
‘And I said something about your silk shirts. Which wasn’t very flattering. And yes, I made some snide comment about that thing on your chin, which I know you plan to sculpt into some sort of macho emblem eventually, if only it would just grow a bit faster. Which was wrong of me, of course. I was…’
‘The cunt you always are. So, um, no, apology not accepted. Why would I want to be friends with some prat who thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us?’
‘Come on Sid, it was just a joke,’ appealed his friend, ‘We’ve always had this banter. You do worse than that to me. I thought you’d see the funny side.’
‘It’s funny when it’s funny, but you were deadly serious. You just hate to see me happy, because it threatens you. Because maybe it would force you to sort your own crap out.’
‘I was just being realistic,’ sighed Ben, imploring him to listen. ‘We both knew that if your family found out, the shit was going to hit the fan. Wasn’t I right? If they see it through, you’ll be miserable, she’ll be miserable, and we’ll all be miserable for you. So why bother? There has to be something better out there, waiting for chip-buttie-man. You just have to be patient. Like I am.’
Another snigger hissed from the corner of Siddique’s mouth. ‘Patient like the loneliest guy in the north?’ he tittered, ‘Nah, I think I’ll give that a miss. Because you’re wrong. Totally wrong. Me and Beth are soulmates.’
‘Then that’s great then, isn’t it? Ignore me.’
‘Don’t worry, we will.’
Turning away from his erstwhile companion, Siddique shuffled across the room towards the window and peered out through a gap in the net curtains. When nothing of any interest caught his eye, his gaze settled on the caged black Myna on the sideboard instead.
‘Look,’ said Ben quietly, ‘I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry for being such an idiot. I had worries of my own. I was tired, and I always turn into a sarcastic git when I’m tired. Things aren’t going great for me these days either. I wanted to talk to you about my stuff, but your crap blew up at the same time. I listened to you, but you weren’t listening to me. I told you I needed to talk, but I might as well’ve been talking to myself. You didn’t even bother to ask if I was okay.’
‘You’re always okay,’ replied Siddique indifferently, stroking the bird’s beak. It seemed to Ben that his friend preferred his talking bird to him, for he accommodated its chatter more patiently.
‘Sometimes I could do with some moral support,’ said Ben, watching as his friend began feeding sunflower seeds through the bars of the cage.
‘Sometimes I could do with a break,’ he replied, ‘I’m your mate, Ben, not your bloody therapist. You tire me out. You do my head in. You get on my nerves.’
Ben sank still deeper into the chair, the stuffing in the cushions displaced. ‘I’ve been ill,’ he complained, rubbing his brow, ‘I’ve had trouble with my dad. And my mum.’
‘We all have parents to deal with. You’re not the only one.’
‘You’ve got nice parents.’
Cracking a peanut shell in two, he flung it into the cage. ‘And how would you bloody know?’ he cried, looking back at his companion with an edgy glare, ‘All you ever talk about is yourself and your bloody problems. How the hell would you know what my parents are like?’
‘Bloody hell, bloody hell,’ squawked the Myna, ‘how the bloody hell?’
‘Your mum is always nice to me,’ muttered Ben, ‘she always prepares me food.’
‘Yeah, well you’re lucky then, aren’t you? You’re a guest, so of course you get treated like royalty. In her culture, you honour your guests. But as for me? All my life, all I ever hear is respect your mum, be good to your mum, obey your mum, listen to your mum. You don’t know what it’s like to live with this religion rubbish. All they ever bang on about is how I should be a good little boy and be dutiful to my mum. I’m tired of it. This is the twentieth century. I want a life.’
‘You mean you want a shag,’ sneered Ben.
Siddique gaped at him, thumping down onto the leather-bound stool by the blocked-up fireplace. ‘Don’t joke about it, Ben,’ he moaned, ‘you don’t know what it’s like.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘It seems not. You don’t chase after anyone. You don’t fight for what you want. You give up before you’ve even started. Well, I’m not like you: I do fight for what I want and I’m not giving up.’
‘Is that how you see me?’
‘I see you as you are. You’re just stupid, Ben. You screwed up your own life. Nobody had to do it for you. You know what I’m talking about. I’m not even going to spell it out to you. Because you know. You know. And that’s the real reason you’re so upset about me seeing Jenny.’
‘What, it’s Jenny now? I can’t keep track.’
‘I mean Beth, you tit. But fine, Jenny, Liz, whoever. Whoever I’m with, you’re never happy, because it just reminds you what you did to that poor girl. You screwed up, Ben. Just face it.’
‘You’re right. I don’t deny it. I never have.’
Siddique stared at his friend coarsely, studying the creases in his face. ‘I’ve known you how many years, Ben? I’ve seen it all. The lot. Yeah, sure, we were best mates once. Years ago. But to be honest I lost all respect for you when I saw the way you treated her. You screwed everything up. It was you. She liked you. She thought you two were an item. And what did you do? You screwed it up.’
Ben sat forward, agitated, and tried to lift himself out of the hollow, which seemed to suck him down like upholstered quicksand. ‘Yeah, by telling my friends things they just took and twisted. Yeah, I regret that alright. I regret telling you things you all took the wrong way. Like you always do. Because it’s always a great big joke to you. You have no idea the trouble your words cause. All that talk destroyed it for us. You never wanted to acknowledge what happened. You never want to hear it. And nothing changes, even after everything. I can’t be bothered to tell you the truth anymore.’
Siddique blew laughter through his lips. ‘Tell me the truth? It’s the other way around, mate. It doesn’t matter how much you insist; the truth will always catch up with you. Because she thought it was more than that. For crying out loud, Ben, why wouldn’t she? You went everywhere together, you walked home with each other, she laughed at all your crappy jokes in class. And after all this time, you have to tell everyone that you were just mates, because that’s how you are, Ben. You never think anyone could possibly like you, until it’s too late and you’ve blown it. Will we ever find out why you went cold on her, why you suddenly started treating her like dirt? One of life’s great mysteries, I suppose.’
‘A mystery? I thought everyone knew. And you call me blind.’
‘Blind and deaf and dumb, Ben; that’s what I call you.’ He glared at his companion. ‘And that bloody letter. What did you think would happen?’
Ben’s eyes fell. The geometric pattern on the once red rug on the floor before him seemed to occupy him. It was now more brown, the patterns almost yellow, reminding him more of lobsters than the stylised vases he supposed them to be.
‘Yes, I deserved her anger. Have I ever denied that? But what could I do, what choice did I have? I didn’t ask for all the things that happened.’
‘Nor did we, Ben. You turned your back on your friends before they turned their backs on you. Didn’t you notice that you were once the life and soul of the party? Didn’t you notice how Anjana used fall about laughing whenever you cracked your unfunny jokes? Didn’t you notice how she used to praise you? How could you have been so blind?’
Ben collapsed back onto the sofa, holding fast to the frayed armrest in an effort to keep himself afloat. ‘Why don’t you ask yourself that question?’ he barked, ‘I was never blind. She was my soulmate. I dreamed I’d marry her, one day. We were meant to be together. I was saving myself for her. But you never wanted to hear what happened. You never wanted to listen. You brushed it off, told me it was nothing. You told me to just get over it, but how could I just get over it?’
‘You were too bloody absorbed in your self-loathing to listen to anything I had to say.’ He nodded his head assuredly, passing seeds to that bird again. ‘You’re not unique, you know? This whole town’s filled with losers like you and me. Crackheads and drunks, abusive dads, and fights over nothing at all. We’re all in the same boat, but the rest of us are just getting on with it, trying to make the best of what we have. But you? Your self-loathing is too much. I can’t bear it, Ben, and I can’t help you anymore. I can’t help you sort out all your conflicts, which seem to grow larger every day. I can’t keep playing big brother. You’re sixteen now. Be a man. Change something. Pull yourself out of this rut. Nobody else can do it for you. You need to change. And, for God’s sake, just stop screwing everything up.’
At last, Ben managed to pull himself out from his sinkhole in the sagging cushion, bouncing to his feet. For a second, he looked across at his friend angrily, grasping for insults to throw back at him. But when no words sprang to mind, he charged to the door instead, pulling it open ferociously in complete disregard of his usual respect for the private sanctuaries of their house.
‘Yeah, Ben, just run away,’ cried his friend, following after him along the hall, ‘Run away like you always do. Just keep on running.’
‘I came here to make peace,’ mumbled Ben, pulling the handle towards him.
‘Yeah, like a hundred times before,’ replied Siddique, catching hold of the edge of the door, ‘Peace until the next time you blow up in our faces, and we’re back where we started. You expect us to live your life for you. You expect us to sort everything out for you. You expect me to play big brother to you every single time you screw things up. Well I can’t, Ben. I can’t help you anymore. You’re a lost cause. I give up.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ yelled the boy, tugging the door from his friend until he released it. ‘Yeah, of course,’ he said, slamming it shut behind him.
