I cast my eye over his prone body looking for tell-tale injuries – perhaps the track of a bikewheel on his face – when I noticed there was something wrong with his left arm.
It was swollen and bloody. So bloody that it nearly obscured the word ‘ASSS’ inscribed in gothic lettering on his skin.
‘What’s wrong with his arm?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Joey said defensively.
And suddenly I knew.
‘He’s had a tattoo done,’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that why he’s fainted?’
What a girl, I thought with contempt.
Gaz’s eyes fluttered open. ‘That fucker was a butcher,’ he croaked. ‘He tortured me.’
I looked again – ‘ASSS’.
‘What were you getting done?’ I asked.
‘Only a tattoo of the best band in the known universe.’
‘But ASSS?’ Brigit asked, confused. A band called ASSS?’
‘No,’ Joey said testily, rolling his eyes at Brigit’s alleged stupidity. ‘They’re called Assassin.’
‘But where’s the rest of the word?’ I asked, baffled. ‘It seems to me you’re missing an A, an S, an I and an N. And how you’re going to fit in an A between those two Ss, I don’t know.’
‘The tattoo-man couldn’t spell,’ Joey said shortly.
‘Gaz couldn’t take any more pain, man,’ Shake said at the same time. ‘He was begging like a dawg for the tattoo-man to stop…’ Shake’s voice trailed away when he noticed Joey frowning violently at him.
‘He’s going back to get it finished,’ Joey said grimly. ‘He’s only home for a rest.’
‘I’m not going back!’ Gaz proceeded to throw a fit on the floor. ‘Don’t make me, don’t make me, it was fucking agony, man. I’m telling you, I held out for as long as I could, man, but, man, the pain, man, I’M NOT GOING BACK…’ He looked deranged with fear.
‘But, listen, man,’ Joey said in a low, don’t-embarrass-yourself-in-front-of-the-girls voice. ‘What about the rest of the name? You’re going to look like a wanker if you don’t get it finished.’
‘I’ll chop my arm off,’ Gaz offered wildly. ‘Then no one will know.’
‘Shut up, man,’ Joey threatened. ‘We’ll get you good and tanked up and then we’ll go back.’
‘NO!’ Gaz shrieked.
‘Yeah, listen, man,’ Shake soothed. ‘Bottle of JD, we’ll have you flying, man, feeling no pain.’
‘NO!’
‘Man, do you remember the first time I ever met you,’ Joey looked hard at Gaz who was still lying on the broad of his back on the floor. ‘First of July 1985, Zeppelin Records ? You told me you’d lay down your wife for the Axeman. What’s up with you? What’s wrong with you, man, that you won’t go through a small amount of pain for the world’s greatest band? After all they’ve done for you? I’m disappointed in you, man, you know?’
Gaz looked wretched. ‘I can’t do it. I’m sorry, man, to let you down like this, man, but I can’t do it.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Joey angrily sprang to his feet and aimed a kick at the sofa. He ran his hands through his hair, paused, then kicked the sofa again. Abruptly, he began rooting around in a drawer.
Me, Luke, Brigit, Shake and Gaz – especially Gaz –watched him anxiously. There was no telling what Joey might do, he was very upset.
Joey found what he was looking for. Something black and shiny. It was too small to be a gun, so it must be a knife.
I wondered if he was proposing to hold Gaz down and carry on from where the tattooist had left off.
From the look on everyone else’s faces I wasn’t the only one who was wondering that.
Joey approached with menace.
‘Give me your arm,’ he ordered Gaz.
‘No, listen, man, there’s no need for this…’ Gaz protested.
‘Give me your fucking arm. No mate of mine is going to be a laughing stock.’
Gaz began to scrabble to his feet. ‘Get the knife off him,’ he beseeched Luke.
‘Give me the knife, man,’ Luke stepped in front of the approaching Joey. I almost melted with lust at Luke’s mastery.
‘What knife?’ Joey demanded.
‘That knife.’ Luke nodded at Joey’s hand.
‘It’s not a knife,’ Joey protested.
‘Well, what is it so?’
‘It’s a MARKER, a magic MARKER,’ he shouted. ‘If he won’t get the tattoo finished, I’m going to draw the rest of it on him.’
Relief rushed through the room. In fact we were all so delighted that Joey wasn’t going to kill Gaz that we spent a good while practising writing A, I, S and N in gothic letters with him.
Next, Shake tentatively suggested a game of Scrabble. Shake loved Scrabble. And to look at him you’d think he was more likely to get his kicks throwing tellys out of hotel-room windows.
‘One game,’ I said obligingly. And then we’re going out. It’s Saturday night, you saddo.’
‘Thanks,’ Shake said gleefully. We broke out the beers and Shake, Luke, Joey, Brigit and I gathered round the board on the floor.
Gaz watched Ren and Stimpy. It was for the best, really. He’d done nothing but cause arguments the last time, insisting things like ‘noize’, ‘chix’, ‘zitz’ and ‘Gaz’ were words.
With noise and chatter, the game started. I was totally focused on it because I quite enjoyed Scrabble myself. But when I happened to glance up, Luke’s eyes were on me, dark and meaningful. Something in his expression made me shy. I looked away, but my concentration was destroyed, and the only thing I could cobble together from my letters was ‘hat’. While Brigit got ‘joyful’ and Shake got ‘hijack’.
I found I was irresistibly drawn back to look at Luke. This time he held my gaze and smiled. It began slowly and spread out into a great, big warm beam. So admiring, so loving was it, I felt as if I had my own personal sun.
Shake intercepted the smile. ‘What?’ he asked anxiously, looking from me to Luke and back again. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got “quincunx” again?’
50
Summer in New York moved into fall, a much more humane season. The killer heat abated, the air became crisp and the leaves on the trees turned every colour of red and gold. I continued to see Luke every weekend and most of the week too. While I still lived in fear of certain people’s scorn, it was getting harder and harder to deny to both myself and others that he was my boyfriend. After all, wasn’t he with me the historic day I bought my new fall coat, a chocolate-coloured, Diana Rigg-type, belted raincoat? Didn’t I hold his hand in the street? (Although I let it drop when we went into Donna Karan.) And on the way home, didn’t he insist on stopping in front of every shop, pointing things out in the windows and declaring ‘Hey, Rachel, babe, that’d look blinding on you’?
I kept having to drag him away, while saying sternly, ‘No, Luke. That’s way too short. Even for me.’
But he continually protested, while trying to pull me into the shop, ‘No such thing as too short, babe, not with your legs.’
In October Brigit met another little Hispanic, this time a Puerto Rican called José, who proved as elusive as Carlos ever had. Her new job ensured she didn’t have as much spare time as she used to. But what little she had, she spent hanging around waiting for Josie (as Luke and I called him) to ring. Plus ça change…
‘Why can’t I ever meet someone nice?’ she demanded tearfully of me one evening. ‘Why can’t me and Josie be like you and Luke? José, I mean. What’s wrong with you and Costello, that you can’t call Josie by his right name?
‘José, I mean!’ she shouted in exasperation.
I was delighted that Brigit was miserable. It meant that while she was pissed-off with Josie she’d forget to be pissed-off with me. It made a welcome change.
‘What do you mean, “Me and Luke”?’ I asked.
‘You know.’ She flailed around with her hands. ‘In love.’
‘Ah, hardly,’ I protested, filled with warmth at the suggestion that L
uke was in love with me. But I wasn’t sure whether he was or not, although he was very generous with the ‘I love you’s. The trouble was he told everyone he loved them, even Benny the bagel man. Whenever I did something nice for him he said ‘Thanks, babe, I love you.’ And it didn’t have to be a big something nice, something as small as making him a toasted cheese sandwich would do. If other people were there he’d stick out his arm, point at me and say ‘I love this woman.’ In fact, he sometimes did that when it was just the two of us.
Brigit watched my confused face. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re not in love with Luke Costello?’ she demanded. ‘Are you still holding out on him?’
‘I like him,’ I defended myself. ‘I fancy him. Isn’t that enough for you?’
It was true. I did like him, I did fancy him. I just couldn’t help thinking there was supposed to be more.
‘What do you want? Some kind of celestial messenger to come along with a bugle and tell you you’ve fallen in love with him?’ she demanded viciously.
‘Easy, Brigit,’ I said anxiously. ‘Just because Josie’s late ringing you, there’s no need to humble me for not feeling the right way about Luke.’
‘If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then the chances are it’s a duck,’ Brigit said darkly.
I looked blankly at her. Why was she calling Josie a duck?
‘I mean,’ she sighed, ‘you like Luke, you fancy him, you keep buying new bras, you can’t stay away from him. You come home here every evening and say “We’re forcing ourselves to take a night off from each other tonight,” then at five to nine you ring him, if he hasn’t rung you first. Next thing you’ve put a toothbrush and a clean pair of knickers into your bag and you’re off round to his place, like a hare out of a trap. Don’t try telling me you’re not in love with him.’
She paused. ‘You haven’t been taking your toothbrush lately, you scuzzy article. Don’t you clean your teeth anymore?’
‘I do.’ I blushed.
‘Aha!’ she exclaimed. ‘AHA! All becomes clear. You’ve got a new toothbrush that lives in Luke’s. A special luurve toothbrush.’
I shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Maybe.’
‘I bet.’ Brigit shrewedly watched my reactions. ‘I bet you’ve got a lovely new deodorant and a lovely new jar of face-cream over there too.
‘I KNEW IT!’ she bellowed triumphantly, when I couldn’t deny it.
‘Cotton wool?’ she asked. ‘Make-up remover?’
I shook my head.
‘Not yet at the stage where you take off your make-up when you’re with him,’ she sighed. ‘Ah, love’s young dream.’
‘You’ve cooked for him,’ she continued. ‘He’s taken you away for a weekend, he rings you every day at work, you smile your head off each time you open the door to him, you haven’t had a hair on either of your shins since last June. He’s so thoughtful and romantic. DON’T try telling me you’re not in love.’
‘But…’ I tried to protest.
‘You’re too contrary,’ she complained. ‘If he treated you like shite and broke it off with you, then you’d decide you were mad about him.’
I watched Brigit biting her nails and pacing up and down and tried to get a handle on how I felt about Luke.
I couldn’t deny that most of the time with him it was wonderful. I fancied him violently. He was sexy and macho, sweet and handsome. Sometimes we spent entire days in bed. Not just having sex. But talking. I loved being with him because he was so funny, such a great entertainer. And he made me feel as if I was too. He asked me questions and got me to relate anecdotes and laughed at all the funny bits.
Brigit was right when she’d said he was thoughtful and romantic. For my birthday in August he took me to Puerto Rico for the weekend. (Brigit tried to stowaway in my holdall and when she couldn’t fit she begged me to kidnap a youth for her. ‘All I ask,’ she’d pleaded, ‘is that he’s over the age of consent.’)
And Luke did ring me every day at work. I now depended on him calling so I could take a break from messing up the reservations at the Barbados Motel to whinge to a sympathetic ear. ‘Tell that Eric dude he’d better watch it, babe,’ Luke threatened daily. ‘If he upsets my woman he has me to answer to.’
And it was wonderful to stagger home to him from a hard day, to find that he’d made Shake and Joey go out for the evening and had cooked me dinner. It didn’t matter that the plates had been stolen from Pizza Hut, the napkins were McDonald’s serviettes and the food was either takeaway or microwaved and the wine was actually beer. He had the important romantic things – candles, condoms and a whole chocolate cheesecake, all for me.
The phone rang, jolting me out of my Luke-induced reverie. Brigit threw herself bodily across the room and dove on the phone. It was Josie.
As she chattered extra-animatedly to him, I suddenly realized the main problem with Luke and me. It wasn’t the most obvious thing, that I was ashamed of his terrible clothes. It was that we had different priorities. He had a surprisingly wide range of interests. Too wide, if you asked me. He often made me do things I didn’t want to do, like go to the cinema, or the theatre. Whereas my main hobby was having fun in fashionable, glamorous places. I wanted to party a lot harder than he ever did. Of course, he enjoyed going out and getting jarred, but my favourite way of letting off a bit of steam was doing coke. And Luke had a real down on drugs. He had constant fights with Joey, because Joey insisted on keeping a stash of coke in the apartment. Which I loved. It was nice to know there was some handy if I was ever stuck.
Brigit got off the phone. ‘That was Josie,’ she beamed. ‘His sister is in some play-type of installation thing in TriBeCa. I need you to come.’
‘When?’ I asked.
‘Tonight.’
I hesitated. Brigit misread it.
‘I’ll pay,’ she shrieked. ‘I’ll pay. But you’ve got to come. Please. I can’t go on my own.’
‘Luke’d probably like to come too,’ I said casually. ‘You know how he enjoys plays.’
‘You sly hoor.’ Brigit Lenehan was no eejit. ‘Aren’t you and him supposed to be taking a night off from each other?’
‘We’d discussed it,’ I said reasonably. ‘But now that this unforeseen event has cropped up…’
‘You’re pathetic!’ she declared. ‘You can’t even go one night without seeing him.’
‘Not at all.’ I said, my calm voice belying the delight I felt at the thought of seeing him. I hadn’t known how I’d survive until the following evening. ‘He’d be very sorry to miss a play. Especially when he knows the brother of one of the cast.’
The phone rang and Brigit devoured it.
‘Hello,’ she said eagerly. ‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want? Well, tell me what you want to say to her and I’ll pass it on.’
She turned to me. ‘It’s Luke,’ she said. ‘He says to tell you he can’t live without you, and can he come over.’
51
Lunch-time at the Cloisters. My parents were due in about half an hour as my Involved Significant Others. There was an awful lot of activity in the dining-room, which didn’t succeed in distracting me from my stomach-churning anxiety.
We had a new inmate. A man. But of the tubby, brown-jumper-wearing variety. Barely a man at all, in other words. Not that it mattered, because I was, after all, promised to Chris. Even if Chris didn’t know it yet.
The new brown jumper’s name was Digger and the first thing he said to me was ‘Are you famous?’
‘No,’ I assured him.
‘No, I didn’t think you were,’ he said. ‘But I thought I’d better check anyway.
‘I’ll give them two more days,’ he added with menace, ‘and if they haven’t got anyone good in by then, I’m going to ask for a refund.’
I thought back. I’d wondered if there was a pop-star wing and, instead of labelling him a thick eejit, I smiled kindly.
‘She’s famous.’ I indicated Misty. But Digger wasn’t impressed
with someone who’d written a book.
What he had in mind was a sports personality. Preferably a premier division football player.
Don had come to the end of his eight weeks and we were giving him a card and a bit of a send-off.
Frederick, who was leaving the following day, presented him with the card, then made a little speech.
‘You annoyed the life out of me, with all your fussing and foostering…’
Lots of laughter greeted that.
‘… but I was awful fond of you anyway. And everyone here wishes you all the best out there. And remember, stay with the feelings.’
More laughter. Followed by demands for a speech from Don.
He stood up, plump and short, blushing and smiling, smoothing his tank-top over his round stomach. Taking a deep breath, he launched into ‘When I first came here I thought ye were all mad, I didn’t want to be in with a crowd of alcoholics. I thought there was nothing wrong with me.’
I was surprised by the amount of knowing smiles and nods that were exchanged when he said that.
‘I hated my poor mother for putting me in here. But I learnt the hard way how selfish I’ve been, and how I’ve been wasting my life. So, the best of luck to ye. Hang on, it gets better. And I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not going to drink. And do you know why? Because I don’t want to end up back here with you crowd of gobshites!’
‘Have a pint waiting for me in Flynns,’ roared Mike. Everyone laughed, including me. Then there were lots of tearful hugs.
Some of them even for Don.
Suddenly the time came for group, and we reluctantly left him sitting alone in the empty dining-room, waiting for his lift. He looked longingly at us. And we moved away, already separate.
I won’t let this session get to me, I vowed defiantly, as I marched down the corridor. Less than four more days and I’m out of here.
Mum and Dad were already sitting in the Abbot’s Quarter, dressed as if they were going to a wedding. It wasn’t every day they came to a rehabilitation centre to dissect the life of their middle child.