chapter eight

 
   A myriad of dense, confused,murky dreams; floating in and out, colours gradually changing from vivid lurid shades, into blacks and greys. She was murmuring and incoherent, not yet fully awake:

   "The rain has stopped, the wind is blowing in draughts, the cold and wet damp floor, the ache and the throbbing in my head, the pain, the damage, the pain..."

   She blinked and stared down through partially closed encrusted eyes at her muddy, vomit-strewn boots. Her neck was aching intensely from the unnatural position she was in, but she couldn’t move her head from her knees without shooting wracks of pain down her back.

   Evidently she had thrown up whilst sleeping, and probably several times; but her squatting position and raised head had probably saved her life. It was early morning, but too early yet for the cold, grey light to make much of an impression on the dank dark corridor. For a few moments upon awaking, she was totally unaware of why she was at where she was at, or of how she had got here.

   Through sore tired eyes she was staring down at the dark shapes of her boots in front of her face, but she still had no coherence. It was only when she managed to lift her head back and she pushed her aching, tender shoulders against the wall that the events of the last few hours began to unravel in her mind. They unfolded, then enveloped and hit her.

   The vague noise in the background was the constant stream of cars and traffic. Shooting by, stopping, starting, crawling along. Early workers away to their destinations; vacantly and blankly swallowing hasty cups of coffee, toast and butter still on their lips. Unceasing and repetitively going through the motions of the big city, adding to the noise, contributing to its mood. Each hurrying pedestrian, each eager motorist, all adding to the sum of the city’s parts. But this contributed mood, the growing flurry of noise and movement, all failed to make an impression on the crouched inhabitant sheltering in the damp corridor of the boarded tenement block, standing off one of the many side roads of the London Road of Glasgow.

   Here in Lyndsey’s vicinity, unwanted memories were floating back with terrible speed to the surface, and her increasing lucidity meant that their frequency was increasing. And so with a shuddering heart, with bruised sore shoulders, with a shooting pulsing head, with a dry aching, scraped-out mouth, with a cramped and sickeningly empty stomach, and with once again streaming tears, the events of the night before partially played out through her clearing head.

   More hours passed. She had fallen back into an erratic slumber; when she ungraciously awake again, she was more aware now and coherent, of the growing city noises around her and of the maturing day. Aware suddenly of her decayed and dilapidated appearance and of her vulnerable and prone position, she managed to stand upright using the wall behind her as a support. Forward she then lurched, forward into the outside world like a newly born deer.

   There was a chill in the air, but it was dry again now. She felt stiff all over and sore, stinking, unkempt and undignified, and so very cold, cold, cold. Walking slowly and uncertainly down the path, she felt very self-conscious and still a little inebriated. But what to do – where to go? She couldn’t just sidle comfortably back to the squat to sleep off her hangover, nor could she roam the streets looking and smelling the way she did. And she desperately wanted to see and speak to no one – no humanity at all.

   So Lyndsey found herself back on the Glasgow Green again; her face and hair wetted and cold, but feeling much cleaner and of better appearance after a brief wash in a public toilet. Her torn skirt and tights were also dampened and clinging, making her feel colder, but again she felt a little more presentable and a little less self-conscious.

   And so over the grass and the paths, behind the hedgerows and the trees, she wandered freely away from the city and other people. She roamed, sat, smoked, cried and ran over and over again, the events and mis-happenings of the night before. But the only memories she could muster were unceasingly bleak and cruel. Presently, sitting down quietly in her own private world, she brought her head down tight onto her chest. Down deep within herself she willed herself away, up and away from where she was wantonly and wretchedly sat berating herself. And soon she began to feel herself float skywards, upwards, inwards, away…

   But how can it be so white? So smooth and so quiet?   Serene, peaceful and virginal, yet only a birds flight away from the chaos and noise of Glasgow. The first snows of the winter have reached the Campsie hills, and as I lay in that doorway, unconscious throughout the night, the drizzle that was falling over the town’s streets was falling silently and thickly as snow over the town’s hills.

   And I may be stranded down here in a park with imposed thoughts and circumstances pushing me and waiting to confront me; but just now in this moment I will be in that coldness, sitting in the dense absolute silence, and I will hear the stream’s trickle quieten as the ice takes hold. And I will feel the snow cover me. Cloak and enfold me. Engulf and smother me. Clothe and hide me. Away, away from the world. 

The day went slowly by and into afternoon. As she emptied her cigarette packet into her lungs, she could feel the thoughts lessen in her head and the confusion diminish as she became more ambient and calm. Fittingly the day had been a grey one, though dry, but the daylight into mid-afternoon was already showing signs of diminishing; and so sighing quietly to herself, she began to gather her things together from the bench at which she was sat. She stood, made herself as ready as she could for the ordeal of returning to the squat to face the others, and maybe to see or speak to…

   She winced and closed her eyes for a brief moment. Again she tried to reach out to a more peaceful imagined place, but now its focus was dimmed and fuzzy, and away just out of reach. Choking back her hundredth tear, she wished for the thousandth time that day to be someone else, sat in some other place, thinking different thoughts.

 

   Home. ‘Home?’

   Hardly anything like home. Not anymore.

   The door to the squat was still attached to the frame, but only by one hinge. Litter, bottles and discarded cans were strewn over the floor of the corridor outside and the hallway inside. The flat – never very warm, was so, so cold and empty of people and noises. Lyndsey didn’t investigate all the rooms, but the kitchen and bathroom were barren and wasted – not destroyed, but great effort would be needed just to return it to its previous grimy state. And so with more trepidation and fear than she had ever before felt, she pushed at the door handle and entered their – or rather Tom’s room.

   Empty. No one present. And more litter and damage; she gave an angry yelp as she bounded over to where her gear and pack now lay – obviously it had been interfered with, but all the contents she could remember seemed to be present, but there were footprints and burn marks all over her mat and pack. And Tom’s gear? Again upturned and strewn to the side of the room. No sign that he had been back, but his sleeping bag wasn’t present; though what this could mean or point to she couldn’t and didn’t want to think on.

   Quietly in the kitchen she made herself a cup of coffee and sat again on the sideboard gazing at the damaged furniture and thinking of her next move. Late afternoon, quickly fading light and she was unsure of what to do or of where she was at mentally. Finishing her cup she returned to the room where she had spent her first night and laid her stuff down, preparing her bed for the night. Such little time had passed since that first night, but already she was seeing herself differently, and right now she wasn’t at all happy with what she saw. Wrapping herself up tightly and assuming the foetal position, she felt warmer, safer and partially excluded and outside of the world around her in which she didn’t want to participate; a world in which she was having grave problems merely existing in.

   Dozing in and out of dreams she heard noises later from other parts of the squat, but she was left undisturbed. Later still she had got up and was about to make herself a drink in the kitchen, but standing outside in the hallway she had heard the murmur of voices from within. Shaking gently and impulsively, she returned to her room.

   ‘No – not tonight. Not yet. Not again…’

   She didn’t want communication and definitely no confrontations or explanations. Away she stayed from the others, wrapped in her blankets and sleeping bag, head and face hidden under covers. And eventually away she floated in a disturbed state of light slumber and dreams and a troubled fragile peace.

   Nothing like a clearer, well-slept head to make you feel more composed, and also a more settled stomach that can accept food instead of rejecting it. Lyndsey sat in the kitchen early the next day toasting and eating her way hungrily through the sliced loaf she had just purchased. She sat swinging her legs, staring vapidly into space; she was feeling much fitter, better fed, wide awake, well rested, and so utterly, desperately, wantonly, completely miserable.

   In front of her, unannounced by any sound of approaching feet, the door opened, and quietly and suddenly hesitantly, Jon walked into the kitchen.

   "Hello." He spoke calmly and with gravity.

   She looked into his soft eyes with a fearful face and with sudden waves of defensiveness lapping at her. Jon was dressed neatly and casually and with neatly styled hair. He made his way over to the kettle near her.

   "Hi…" Lyndsey spoke quietly and quickly. She held his look with hers for a brief moment, but then she stared back down into her cup, completely unable to meet his eyes anymore.

   "Are you feeling better?" He stopped in front of her, hands by his side, nervous and unsure of where of where to put them.

   "I'm…fine. Just fine." She spoke quietly again and dipped her head further trying to master and control the growing well of beckoning tears.

   "I'm so sorry of what happened Lyndsey, guess the party got out of control and…"

   He tailed off seeing the tears now beginning to roll and fall from her eyes. He turned to fill the kettle; his concern and sympathy were genuine, but he also felt very nervous and embarrassed as he was confronted with a display of the scale of her misery. He was ready and willing to help her and talk to her, but he wasn’t confident of his ability to deal with the hurt he could see and imagine here. Also he didn’t trust himself too far with Lyndsey – he had felt himself off balance when he had held her that one time before, when again she had been distressed after her scene with Helen. And also, rather callously but realistically he was mindful of the clock ticking around to his start time at work.

   Lyndsey coughed and choked back some of her tears as she tried to speak. "You mean some people – some stupid, fucking obsessed people got out of control…got out of…"
 
   She lost her voice in real and much deeper sobs, and she began to shake violently. Jon came back over quickly to catch her swaying body before she fell onto the floor from the sideboard.

   "Okay, okay – calm, calm." He spoke down into her hair as she clung into his chest, her shaking body.

   "Oh what a total fuckin’ disaster…what a stupid bitch. Oh how stupid…how could I have been so…" She was now becoming more hysterical and wracked with misery, as for the first time she began to flood it outwards. And the sympathetic and nervous Jon was having to take it all. He stood there feeling her collapsing herself into and against him, and he felt too his emotions and feelings surge, but he was lost for words and actions. He stood quietly holding her and listening to her sobbing out her hysteria.

   "I can’t think of… Oh I don’t know what he will…Oh just what the fuck do I do now?" She was becoming more and more rambling and disconsolate as her distress prevented her from thinking through her articulation or from speaking coherently. Jon inwardly groaned at his position and predicament; he reached down, and controlling himself, he lifted her chin to look into her face.

   "Cry…Cry now and get rid of it. But then collect yourself and find and speak to Tom. Somewhere neutral and public where you aren’t going to lose yourself to tears again."

   Lyndsey closed her eyes and looked down again. He paused, then spoke again.

   "You had – we all had a strange, loud night. And shit happened – but it happened and unfortunately it’s done, so you have to deal with it and confront it. You can’t hide out in the kitchen."

   He stopped, he didn’t know what else to say or do. He, along with her and many of the others, was feeling a little the worse for wear still that morning, and many had taken or said or done something they regretted now. But it was the next day, time was moving on and everyone had to deal with whatever they had on their minds, and they had to move on too.
 
   Admittedly, few others were feeling as low as Lyndsey, but there had been other arguments and scenes that night, but Jon could see that Lyndsey couldn’t see that. In her head, the evening had been dominated by her loss of control and temper, and now everyone was thinking and talking about her and Tom. So Jon couldn’t think of what next to say. The scene he had only partly seen and heard more of later, was sad and upsetting to him, but not wholly surprising. Almost predictable and expected really, and if anyone had been closely viewing Lyndsey’s and Tom’s recently differing moods and attitudes, they would have said the recent scene was imminent and unavoidable.
   But how could he say this to the girl who was crying out for being the loser right now; that what had taken place had been anxiously anticipated by most of those around her? He couldn’t – the words weren’t there and he didn’t want to add to her hysteria and misery, and again he could see the hands of the clock moving further and further around.

   "Lyndsey – you'll have to speak to him sometime. Get him alone, get yourself collected and be ready to help yourself." He softly broke from his hold around her and he smiled friendly and concernedly at her miserable face willing her to repeat his actions.

   But she merely turned her face downwards and stood prone and leaning, arms down by her side against the sideboard. Awkwardly he walked away to get on with his day. He had tried to will her to positivity and to take stock and deal with herself, but he shuddered as he tried to imagine what must be running through her head right now. But as intense and emotional as he often was himself, he really didn’t want to trawl through the throes of misery at this time of the morning; and he couldn’t bear to see her so upset at her feelings for someone else, whilst he could do nothing apparently, to make her smile or think of anything else, certainly not of him.

   "You want what I haven’t got. And can’t give…"

   "…Won’t give, you mean – don’t want to give…"

   Lyndsey looked down despondently into the still, flat liquid in her glass, as she placed what she believed to be his thoughts at the end of his sentence. Tom stared down at her lowered eyes, wincing and not enjoying the situation he was in. Around them the half empty pub got on with its own affairs, ignoring the couple quietly and intensely talking on the corner.

   Lyndsey traced her finger against the condensation caused by the melting ice on the outside of her glass, deeply and slowly she spoke: " I always thought you were happy with me; I never knew I was annoying you, or that I was in your way, or that you felt so little…"
 
   She was down, and was well in the business of making herself feel wretched and low again. Tom sighed and looked around him as she continued, embarrassed and silently wishing himself a long, long way away from the table he had reluctantly sat at after Lyndsey had single-mindedly sat out and waited to see and speak to him. But how could he communicate what he thought?

   "Lyndsey, we’re just…Look – what you see and want isn’t what I want." He paused again, stumbling and struggling for words.

   How could he tell her that the more she had pushed herself forward - the more he had wanted to pull away. That the more recent instants when he had looked into her laughing eyes to explore his interest in her, he had seen so much devotion and affection riding in them, but this had only made him recoil. The more of herself that she had shared, the grief and introspection that she had revealed and confided had interested him, but had also left him feeling colder and more aloof toward her. Almost he scorned her for laying herself open to him so quickly and so comprehensively, and certainly he couldn’t and wouldn’t speak to her and seek her protection and guidance as she had to him.
Inevitably her age and inexperience had shown through, and far too quickly this perky, funny, deep and enigmatic woman had shown herself to be a frightened, running, clinging girl. And the more time he spent with her, the more that he perceived of her struck and irritated him; even in bed with her, during their more intimate exchanges and clutches he felt himself to be less of a partner, and more of a father-figure. In his eyes, in elementary terms and labels, they simply weren’t equal.

   Lyndsey looked up at this sudden silence, she looked into his eyes but failed to find his gaze. "So, what do you want?"

   "God… I don’t know. But I don’t want to be sat here now, navel gazing, overturning past conversations and exploring misery…"

   He was rather blunt and short, but he really didn’t want to start down a long road of arguings, reasonings and justifications. Tom had been away from the squat for a couple of days and had been feeling almost jaunty – certainly lighter and much freer than he had of late. Then on entering the kitchen he had found her sitting it out, waiting for his return.

   "Can you…won’t you…speak to me please…"
 
   Tears ready he could see, but he had reluctantly agreed – pity again taking over, over-riding his own reason and wishes. And it – the conversation so far had been so, so predictable.

   "I'm sorry…didn’t mean to…was stupid and drunk…forgive me and try again..?"

   He had listened. Patiently, grimly, quietly and now glumly. But now was no time to slip back and accede. Events had turned out more vividly and unpleasantly certainly than he had wished, but…

   Lyndsey increased the pitch of her voice as she stretched out a hand impulsively towards him. "How can you say these things..? How can you be suddenly so cold and disinterested after what we’ve done together?"

   "What?" He looked back at her hoping she wasn’t talking about he thought she was. But she was…

   "When you were above me… Whispering my name, kissing me so deeply, making me cry when I come…"

   "Oh Lyndsey  - stop!" He was embarrassed now and losing control with himself. He then took a deep breath and decided to hurt her.

   "It was just sex – nothing more. Why not just try to enjoy it for that instead of making it out to be something more…" He trailed off, not happy with himself and aware of her suddenly shocked, unbelieving and reeling face.

   But Lyndsey composed herself first before speaking again quietly. " I loved you more than I've ever loved anyone… It isn’t just yours to simply give back or ignore."

   He wearily faced her again. "This isn’t love – its possession."

   "But I'm only giving you what I thought you wanted – giving you what I would have you give me." She was wide-eyed and pleading now; as she continued to speak she put out her other hand to close them over his closed fist. "I only want to be with you and to make you as happy as me."

   Tom shook his head and pushed her hands away. "You’re losing perspective Lyndsey – you’re losing yourself and any reason."

   "What d’ya mean?"

   "You’re not happy –you don’t seem to want to be. I know you’ve left some troubles behind you in your past, but you aren’t looking out for yourself at all. And you can’t flee from misery – you can’t just leave it all behind you. Pain and worry aren’t emotions you can merely disregard, they stay with you, travel with you – and now you’re importing them into your present situations."

   He stopped, he was against his own will straying down introspection avenue, and he could hear himself talking like a therapist about issues and emotions he knew little about.

   "I was happy – with you." Lyndsey was doggedly staying ‘on message’.

   "But I’ve got… I am…" Tom was floundering now, totally lost for words and expressions. He drank and drained his glass, and made ready to leave. "Look what you want – what you are looking for is fine. But I can’t give it to you – we’re looking for two different things."

   "Don’t you want me to love you..?" She was desperate and quiet now as she could see the end of the exchange looming, and there was no relief or positive signs in sight.

   "No." He spoke quietly with his eyes down, while she visibly wilted at the finality and endness of his word. "I don’t want you to feel what I don’t. I also don’t want to upset you, but I can’t suddenly make you feel good or happy."

   "But you did…" She reached out once more and grasped his hand, all desperate love and tears again.

   "I don’t want this. I'm so sorry if you think I've led you on, or if you thought things were different but… I don’t want this."

   Tom spoke flatly and calmly, then he pushed her hand away for the last time and left before she could question and plead with him further.

   She remained and stayed for quite a while longer at the table. Alone and on her own in every sense that she could think of, and again the tears ran down over her smudged, streaked cheeks onto the table and into her untouched drink. As she sat the thoughts tumbled through her head again and she sat immersed in her misery and angst. So much she still had to ask and understand. What did she have now? Where was she going to go? How had she done it wrong? How does playing it honestly, whole-heartedly and without any cynicism cause the other person to turn away? To make them recoil? 

   Just how or why do you fucking lose when you love someone... truthfully, honestly and so, so from the heart?

   And she was so, so lost now. Awash and adrift in confusement, and far too much thinking and internal pondering and probings.

   Head full of words, mind playing through arguments, conversations and scenarios, mouth empty and chewing nervously on her lip, feet pounding and carrying her away. To see her walking feverishly along the Broomielaw, one wouldn’t think of a young woman moving toward her destination; one would see an encumbered girl laden with thoughts and fleeing. Lyndsey fled away down past the shops and the offices lining the street as she sought sanctuary to continue her introspection.

   She really didn’t need any more thinking time, but she found it easy to convince herself that she did.

   Another cold and clear day, noisy but clean. And down in here – down amongst her hat and her large jacket, she was protected, secluded and anonymous – she could be anyone. But surely everyone would be able to see that she was the walking wounded – it was so apparent and obvious from her viewpoint, and the point still eluded her that that was the only viewpoint she could think of and see. And these days she was living, thinking, breathing and existing that point of view. The veneer of confidence that she had attempted to exude had, in fact, all along been wafer thin and ice brittle.

   The speed with which she had cast aside her mantle of self-reliance and security had shocked and embarrassed her. The rush and eagerness with which she had discarded all that she was defiantly proud about – the noisiness with which she silently portrayed her own differences to them, the sureness and self-knowledge that she had observed in all the weaknesses and failings in crassly attempting to build and maintain friendships and relationships with others. She had, she had been sure, read the signs, analysed them and could see and plot the inevitable trajectory from laughter to tears in all the sticky fumblings and indignified fallings-out of all the boy-girl relationships of the ordinaries. She had known. She had been so sure that she had known.

   But if she was still her old self, standing on the Victoria Bridge in Manchester watching her new self scurrying along the dusty street, what would she see and be thinking now? Maybe, probably – no, definitely she would be seeing and feeling more misplaced disgust and false superiority. Registering deep antipathy toward her present so-called self. Just what did she really know? Just what?

   The grey cold waters of the Clyde were almost mirror flat; the occasional wavelets were caused by the falling yellow leaves that rippled the reflections of the modern shapes of the executive flats opposite. Lyndsey was sat amidst the hard, unthawed frost on one of the benches in the small green area bordering the Clyde side path. For now she was absolved and away from the world, even the occasional passer-by made no impression on her; ignoring them and they her, she and they were merely part of the scenery of the narrow gardens until one guy suddenly stopped directly in front of her.

   "Got a light?"

   The guy was wrapped up too and she could barely see his face beneath his pulled down tight hat and his high collar.

   "Mmm." She murmured half-heartedly, as she was unwillingly pulled out of her reverie. Half raising herself so she could access her pocket, she pushed her hand into the fold to seek out her lighter and so she pushed back her sleeve.

   The next moment she knew, she was up against the firm back of the bench as the quick strong hand of the man pushed her and held her back. His other hand gripped her exposed wrist and had ripped away her watch, cutting her hand as he did so. She yelped out frightened with her heart suddenly pounding fiercely, jolted back as she was now into the real, rough, uncaring world. He put his face close to hers so he could hiss and she could almost taste his foul cheap-alcohol breath.

   "Fuckin’ turn around while I go through your pockets…"

   She was terrified now, but the walkway seemed so quiet suddenly; the traffic was so near, so loud, but almost aloof and far far away for all the help she could expect from any of the speeding, passing motorists.

   She turned around quiclky watching his movements, again she was violently pushed forward so that both her hands were against the back of the bench, and her feet about twelve inches apart. Then both his hands, one in each pocket, roughly feeling about for any contents.

   Suddenly she felt his right hand thrust to rip the material of the pocket inside as he strained to reach his hand further than the cloth would go; then suddenly and sickeningly his groin suddenly against her backside, rubbing and violating obscenely.

   Lyndsey cracked; she pushed backwards violently and whipped back her elbow to smash against his jaw. He staggered back swearing and bleeding, his hand over his mouth. His eyes poisonous, lit and pouring with hatred and venom. But she didn’t wait; she was away hysterically running, heart thumping in her mouth, all legs and feet. She had never before been so terrified, shocked and frightened.

   The first time she dared to slow down and turn to look back, she was racing past the Casino on toward Oswald Street, ignoring the blaring horns of the cars on the Broomielaw. Her assailant of course was nowhere in sight, but still she ran, up toward the crowds of Argyle Street.

   In her fit and terror, she imagined him everywhere – as any passer-by, any loiterer, anybody she passed. She found the St Enoch Centre and burst through the doors still running. Breathless, hair aflight and perspiration streaming, she found herself in the public toilets again. And into the same locked cubicle where she had recently fled and hid from Jill and Susan. A familiar bolt-hole lately; if she could have, she would have laughed at the horrible sickening coincidence, but instead she fell onto her knees with her stomach heaving and she vomited heavily into the pan.