Disconnected Read online

  Then I felt mean. I knew I was freaking everyone out, making them worry about me. That wasn’t part of my plan. That afternoon I’d promised Mrs Dawes I’d try an essay, so I pulled in my school bag from the hall where I’d dumped it and put all my books and notes and files on the breakfast bar. That alone made me feel better. Just creating the appearance of work restored normality.

  There was a lot to do before I actually started work. I had to find where I’d written the title of the essay. Then I had to find the place in the play. Then some blank paper. Then a biro or pencil from the bottom of my bag that hadn’t run out of ink or had a broken lead. I felt like a kid again. I used to love sitting at my desk in my bedroom with my anglepoise lamp and my set of fifty Derwent colouring pencils and my Barbie pencil case and furry animals lined up watching me work, being a good girl, knowing Mum and Dad were downstairs, approving of me.

  Still the atmosphere wasn’t right. It was too quiet to work. I wondered about putting on the kitchen radio but the DJs annoyed me. I just wanted to listen to pure music. So on the spur of the moment I grabbed my books and pen and went into the lounge, put my things on the coffee table, and put on one of Dad’s CDs of opera arias. Don’t look like that, Dave. Opera isn’t only for snobs and saddos. If you let it, it can really get to you – all that raw emotion. But I only ever listened to opera when I was alone.

  So I tried to settle down again and felt OK. I was about to work. I wrote the title of the essay on a sheet of paper in order to concentrate fully.

  Taz came into my mind then, a boy I met a couple of weeks previous, at a party. The other day I’d mentioned him to Brad, whose party it had been. He’d said he’d never seen him before in his life. Sometimes when I was on the bus going through town I looked for Taz, but I was out of luck. I knew if I was brave enough I could talk Lucy into going to The Pit with me, but that might be hard now she was unofficially going out with Brad. Unless Brad wanted to come along too. Sorry – I’ve lost the thread. I was explaining about the essay. It was supposed to be on the audience’s response to Iago.

  I went into HMV to look for some stuff by Transponder – the group Taz liked – but there was nothing. I was too shy to ask, just in case I’d heard him wrong. Maybe they were just a small band starting out. Hip-hop, probably. You can tell a lot about a person from the kind of music they like. I bet you like Oasis and Robbie Williams. So do I sometimes, but that night, like I said, I was listening to opera. Tosca, actually. Dead sophisticated, me. And so that was when the thought came into my mind, though it was more of a joke. What I need to complete the picture is a G & T. Yes – opera, Shakespeare and a G & T.

  The essay was easy, really. Iago is the villain, sure, but the way he lets us in on his plans makes us part of them, and we admire his cleverness. And his language. Mrs Dawes always likes us to go on about language. It’s how it’s said as much as what is said. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  There seemed to be little point in writing the essay seeing as though I could answer the question.

  I thought I would try a gin and tonic after all.

  I knew this wasn’t like me. Up until that evening I thought people who drank regularly were rather sad. It seemed like a weakness – it was one of the things I despised my parents for. I’d noticed the way they both came back from work all tense and snappy, then as they worked their way through a bottle of wine they’d unwind, chat a while, crack some jokes and then act stupid and not realise it. So I decided never to drink.

  But that night I thought, what the hell? I deserve a drink, all the hassle I’ve been getting.

  Took a tumbler from the kitchen, opened the bottle of Gordon’s, glugged it out and retched at the oily smell. Filled it to the brim with Slimline tonic, wrinkled my nose in disgust and knocked it back. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, why people made such a big deal about drink. I took the tumbler back to the coffee table where my books were and tried to start the essay with my pad of A4 paper on my lap.

  We first see Iago in Act One, scene one, on the stage with Roderigo, in the middle of a conversation which establishes the main action in the play so far – no, not so far, as it hadn’t begun yet – … the main action in the play, which is that Roderigo has given him – Iago – money and promises … I knocked back some more gin. I could feel it now making my legs go heavy but at the same time my head felt light, as if something had lifted, as if I’d woken up. I wrote on furiously. And he’s worried that he’s been double-crossing him so Iago expounds (good word, that! Mrs D will love it!) his feelings for Othello. The audience can see right from the start of the play that Iago is jealous of Othello and also of Cassio, who has just been appointed … More gin. It made my pen flow. I realised that all that had been wrong with me was that I had been worrying too much. Taking it all too seriously. Writing English essays was as easy as falling off a log backwards. Backwards? Was it backwards? It amazed me how well I knew the play. Even if I was telling the story and not answering the question it should be obvious that I was answering the question in a way. As long as I wrote something, it was better than nothing.

  Jealousy is an interesting emotion. Was I jealous of Lucy? I don’t mean because I fancied Brad – give me a break! – but because she had someone. Or was I jealous of Melissa? A harder question to answer. I thought I simply couldn’t stand her, but the truth might be that I was jealous. I didn’t like her but I wanted to be like her. Or maybe I was jealous that she didn’t choose to hang around with me. So I resented her. I decided I was pretty mean, deep down. But then, so were most people. I thought I didn’t know one truly decent person. Everyone has an agenda. No one does anything unless it benefits them.

  That struck me as being very wise and very true. I looked down at the paper and saw I’d written three quarters of a side. A bit messy, but I did have the pad perched on my knee. My gin was finished now so I thought I’d have some more. The novelty of what I was doing was cheering me up.

  How much to pour in the glass? Might as well be generous. Emptied the tonic into it. Took a gulp right there by the drinks table. I really didn’t know what I had been worrying about. Anything was possible. My whole life was ahead of me. I waltzed over to the CD player in time to the music, and turned up the volume. This was cool. I went back to the essay, only I didn’t feel like getting on with it at that moment. I knew I could finish it now. Tomorrow. I would finish it tomorrow. I would wake up early in the morning and write and write.

  The only thing that was wrong now was that I was on my own. I felt good, better than I had for ages. I wanted to be somewhere, at a party, in a club, messing with my mates. This was a waste of good feelings, sitting here alone. I wondered about ringing Lucy, but the thought of her wittering on about Brad didn’t turn me on. Then all of a sudden the opera struck me as being stupid, so I ran upstairs and got Green Day and put that on instead. You can’t stand still to Green Day. So I started to dance – it made me thirsty – I drank some more. Out of my head, I thought, I’m out of my head. That was exactly where I wanted to be. Instead I was the music, at last I was connecting.

  The funny thing when you get pissed is that a bit of your mind stays sober. It’s like a little watchful gnome that gives you important information – mind the vase of flowers, watch the time. And though it wasn’t late I knew Mum could be in at any moment depending on the severity of the emergency, and that I didn’t want her to see me like this. The little gnome calculated that she might notice that some of the gin had vanished, and that I could probably get away with telling her I’d had some, provided I didn’t seem too affected by it. From time to time she and Dad had positively tried to make me drink.

  So I turned down the music and tidied up, though the whole thing struck me as terribly funny, Green Day and Shakespeare and me nicking Mum’s gin and being drunk like this and I was so relieved that I could feel good again.

  Luck was on my side. I was already undressed and ready for bed when I heard Mum come in. I dived into bed still feeling giggly. In a moment
or two she was knocking on my bedroom door. I said she could come in. She looked at me enquiringly so I told her I’d been working on my Othello essay and I saw her face lighten. I said I was tired and that I would finish it in the morning.

  “You look happier, Catherine,” she said.

  I agreed, smiling at her. She smiled back, and went out.

  Cool, I thought, and reached for my Walkman by the side of the bed. I put on the headphones and started listening to some hits album. When I shut my eyes I felt as if I was spinning out of sync to the music. Scary but nice.

  And that was it. So like you can see, the first time I drank to get drunk it didn’t hit me as a big revelation or anything. It wasn’t like it changed my life. It was just that it made me happy. It brought me back to the world. And I knew I wouldn’t get dependent on it like my parents; for me, booze would be a way of having fun. That’s all. Just fun. I suppose it’s the same with you. You look the sort of person who’d go down the boozer with his mates. Or maybe have a can or two of lager in front of the telly. So you can’t blame me, can you?

  To Taz (2)

  The next time we met was on the steps of the old Rialto.

  On Wednesdays I had a free afternoon. Free afternoons were a sixth form privilege and one which I was in danger of losing. They’d had this meeting about me in school and my mum had said that maybe they should make me stay in school and work. But the Head of Sixth and Mrs Dawes had said that might make matters worse. That’s what my dad told me.

  He’d sat me down a couple of evenings ago like we were at some sort of business meeting. I just want to take a cool look at the facts, he’d said. We’ll keep emotions out of it. You need to know that your mother and I are puzzled. Puzzled and angry. Puzzled and angry and upset too. The facts are that we’re paying for your education, you’re wasting the best years of your life. Christ! We’ve done everything we can for you! And this is the return you make! His temples throbbed in rhythm to his words and made him look ridiculous. I wanted to laugh.

  Forget about him. Luckily – very luckily – I still had my free afternoon. I didn’t want to go home so I wandered into town to get an Easter egg for Lucy. The newsagents were full of them, Cadbury’s and Nestlé and mountains of Creme Eggs and Creme Egg Easter eggs, and chocolate button Easter eggs, Smarties eggs, Easter bunnies, chocolate rabbits, masses of choice, so much choice I just couldn’t choose. In the end I went for Galaxy.

  Chocolate’s not a big thing with me; I can take it or leave it. But the girls at school are silly about chocolate and make a big fuss about not eating it, or eating it, and some of the Christians have given it up for Lent. But then they’ll have loads of Easter eggs once it’s Easter. I reckon it’s the way some people give their lives meaning. They deprive themselves of quite boring things so that when they can have them they seem exciting. But they’re not, in actual fact. A bar of chocolate. Cocoa powder and loads of chemicals. Big deal.

  So I got the egg and looked at the magazines in the newsagent’s, then went to browse in Our Price. Nothing much there. Outside, a breezy day, blue sky, white clouds scudding about, bits of sunshine. I was in a blank mood, a state of absolute neutrality, not one thing or another. Just didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to think of the prospect of the school holiday.

  I thought I’d go to TK Maxx and look at the clothes. I had to pass by the old Rialto. Once it was a dance hall, they said, then it was a bingo hall – I think I remember that. Then the bingo hall shut down and someone tried to turn it into a club, but there was scandal about the bouncers and drugs. So it was boarded up again. But the problem was, it was a Grade II listed building so they couldn’t knock it down. And in the afternoons the moshers hung out on the steps.

  As I passed them I gave them a glance, and you were there.

  My heart started thudding. I walked on, turned the corner, and stopped. I knew I should have gone over and talked to you. I mean, I knew you and everything. But over a month had gone by since Brad’s party, and I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. And it was embarrassing, really, because I’d been thinking about you a lot – I wouldn’t say I had a crush on you, exactly – but you’d kind of grown in my mind. But I was pretty sure you hadn’t given me another thought. I was worried that if I talked to you I’d probably be dead self-conscious and give myself away.

  Then I did that really stupid thing that girls do – and boys, probably. I decided to walk back and pass the steps again – slowly, hoping you’d notice me and make the first move.

  So I turned, slung my bag with Lucy’s Galaxy egg in it over my shoulder and passed the steps again. You were sitting down, your elbows on your knees, not talking to anyone. I looked at you and our eyes met. I could see you were trying to place me. I ventured a little smile. You frowned for a moment then your face lit in recognition. I walked up to you.

  “It’s Taz, isn’t it?” That gave you time to remember me.

  “Cat?”

  I was so relieved.

  “Yeah,” I said. “From that party you crashed.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Bunked off school early.” That was a bit of a lie but it sounded right.

  “You still at school?”

  “Sixth form,” I said.

  By now your mates had noticed me and were looking in my direction. I felt awkward. I’d seen the moshers hanging round town lots of times but I’d never paid them much attention. I suppose if I was absolutely honest I looked down on them. I wasn’t into heavy metal and thought all their rebellion was a pose – they all dressed exactly alike, for starters. Only now I was so close to them I saw they were individuals, like you. I remember Steve and his grey baggy pants, Mac’s braided hair – they were both there that day – and Bex in that enormous parka that swamped her. They looked pale and tired, but close-up, not much different from me. Steve’s hair was dyed a bright red round the edges. Mac had combats with chains on the side.

  “Cat,” you said to them, by way of introducing me.

  They all said hi, quite friendly, not curious. I felt really straight and boring in the tailored trousers I had to wear for school and the grey coat my mother had got me from a department store.

  “How’ve you been?” you asked me.

  “Fine,” I said. My parents thought I had problems, and so did school, but I didn’t.

  We chatted a while and I re-familiarised myself with you. You wore torn jeans, a baggy sweater two sizes too big and a blue streak in your hair that was spiked up. Your clothes were hard but your face was soft – I think that was because of your eyes. They had depth. I forget what we said to each other but there was still that weird feeling that we knew each other well. I just prayed we could keep the conversation going as long as possible. I didn’t want to lose you again.

  Then your mates got up and said they were going on to someone or other’s place. You looked at them, then at me.

  “Fancy a coffee?” you asked.

  “Yeah, OK.”

  So we wandered off together. I was happy to go wherever you wanted and to my surprise we ended up in the covered market. It was a smelly old place because they had the fish and meat markets at one end. The stench was rank. You went over to a little snack bar where they sold burgers and suchlike as well as hot drinks. I said a black coffee would be fine. You said you were hungry and you ordered yourself a ham sandwich.

  That got me curious. Once we’d sat down at a little Formica table with little pots of salt and pepper and a plastic sauce bottle, I decided to ask you.

  “I thought you didn’t eat pig meat.”

  “I do,” you said, and grinned. I was pleased I hadn’t offended you.

  “Aren’t you religious, then?”

  “It’s all stupid.”

  I was pleased to hear you say that. It was what I’d been secretly thinking. All the people I knew at school who professed Christianity were some of the most judgmental, smug, hypocritical people I’d ever met. And God is only another version of Father Christm
as, to me, at any rate. But I guessed it would be slightly different for you. I knew Asians were more into their religion. And that it was more of a family thing.

  “Do your parents give you grief about eating pork?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not a proper Muslim, am I?” You seemed jumpy and cracked your knuckles. “My Mum was a Muslim, but she married my Dad who wasn’t. So that was it as far as her family was concerned. She was a non-person.”

  I’d heard of that kind of thing happening and I was appalled. I tried to encourage you to tell me more but the coffee arrived.

  “So were you brought up as any religion?”

  “My mum tries to teach me stuff about Islam but she’s wasting her breath. I’m just not into it.”

  I asked you what you were into. You told me you played bass guitar and were looking to be in a band. That you were at college and doing Media Studies and Art and Photography. That you wanted to do an art foundation course somewhere next year. That you worked some evenings in a petrol forecourt helping a mate of your dad’s. That you were fed up with this crummy country and one day you were going to live in the States, New York, probably, or Chicago. It must have sounded like I was interviewing you or something.

  Then you asked me about me. I didn’t tell you much because I thought anything I’d say would put you off. Little Miss Boring, that was me. Still at school, living at home. And I reckoned you didn’t want me pouring out my heart about how everyone was hassling me. I was perfectly happy sitting with you in the snack bar being Cat, drinking foul black coffee with its bitter aftertaste.