Warren Fitzgerald - The Go-Away Bird

My hand shook as I turned the key – it’s nothing though, just the fact that it’s bloody freezing tonight. It’s March, what do you expect? The heavy door slammed behind me and the windows all shook as if to try and get the argument going again, but I weren’t rising. I was going to be sorted in a minute.

I whacked on the TV. I already knew what was on BBC1 thanks to my neighbours down below, so I started flicking almost before the tube was warmed up. I landed on Channel 4 News first. There was talk of Nirvana’s lead singer again, put himself in a coma this time, it seems, after a cocktail of champagne and Rohypnol. Jesus, look at Courtney Love, what a state! Although I blamed the likes of Kurt Cobain for the lack of interest the music industry has in really fine singers today, I couldn’t tear myself away from the news, any news about celebs in the music biz. If it was good news I’d search between the newscaster’s words like someone reading their horoscope, vainly trying to find a comparison that signalled imminent success for me. If it was bad news, and it usually was, I’d just use it to feel better about the state of my life. So I dived in the kitchen and grabbed a pot of houmous and a bag of Doritos, the black-handled knife and the Red Leicester from the fridge, holding the crisp packet between finger and thumb, out in front of me like a dead rat so it didn’t make a racket and block out any of the sound from the TV. I was back on the sofa in a flash. I had a bit too much momentum in the rush, forgot to sit down gently and so a cloud of dust puffed up around me from the frayed green armrests. I could taste it. I’m such a scumbag! But where would you start? The sofa’s beyond saving. I’ll chuck it out and get a new one…when I get the time…and the money.

They’ve finished with Kurt and Courtney already, back to Iran…The time! As if you haven’t got the time, Ashley Bolt! You teach about six hours a week, drop off and pick up a few things here and there, do the odd gig – once in a blue moon – and you reckon you haven’t got the time. Ah, houmous and Doritos! Better than sex, eh? Haven’t got the money then…you can’t argue with that. I don’t earn enough to waste on sofas, furniture. It’s just things; things don’t matter. That’s what Kurt, even Kurt Cobain, would say. But then he can say that, can’t he? – he can afford to. Better than sex! Finish the cheese, quick! Like, when was the last time you got your end away to know about that? Iran, Iraq – how could you live like that? That would be the time with the bondage girl, who pulled a cat-o’-nine tails from her bag and told you to whip her from behind. Harder, she said. You can’t do it hard enough, she said. Bloody right, I couldn’t! Me and Jim had a laugh about that one. But then I bet she did too – probably thought I was a right letdown. I wonder whether it would make any difference if I lived in Cathedral Apartments…’Course it would. People would come back. More students. I wanted to make a proper dinner, something hot. Now I’ve had all this cheese and crisps. You knew you would. Don’t kid yourself, you dick! Now the knife’s here. Must phone Dad. Why should I? Why does she do that, that Rachel? They know I teach singers. Do you reckon they do it on purpose, those two, play it loud to undermine me? I’d probably get complaints myself in Cathedral Apartments. Got crumbs down the side of the sofa. Like it matters! But it should. Perhaps I should change the way I teach, add some of this House stuff. Stick to your guns, boy, that’s your trouble. Kurt Courtney Rohypnol Good for a comedown after a night on the pills Date rape Cheese Clean off the knife It’s clean Ah

Ah

Ah.

Peace.

The more it hurt the more I cut. The knife with the black handle had a short, sharp blade. I slid it backwards and forwards on the inside of my forearm, pressing harder each time. And the chaos all went. Everything just stopped. Except the to-ing and fro-ing of the shiny blade. All was peace and quiet in my head. Nothing existed outside either. I couldn’t hear the TV. I drew in the smoothest, longest breath. I rushed. An endorphin rush, if you know what I mean. Sex, orgasm – you’re on the right lines. The buzz off a pukka E – maybe. Scratch an itch, an itch that you couldn’t get to for ages because the time wasn’t right, or the place. Yeah, any itch, on your inside leg, your back, your bum, anywhere. It wasn’t appropriate in public, that paralysing relief you know is coming when you scratch the itch; it’s going to make you look weird in front of others. But the longer you leave it, the more frustrating it gets, and the greater the relief when you finally get on your own…

So what if that itch is deeper? Deeper than your skin, I mean. What if that itch isn’t an itch at all? What if it’s a place, a person, something they said, something they didn’t say, a thought, a dream, a nightmare, all of these things and more, crashing into the little space inside you?

The relief. The stillness. And then the blood popped out of the space between the blade and a flap of my skin and slid so fast, like a red and silent bolt of lightning looking for earth, down my forearm to my elbow. The first sound was the tapping, fast tapping of the blood dripping onto my khaki combats, making a dark purple stain. The sight of the blood on my arm had already made me stop pressing with the knife. But it was still held in place, the edges of the wound were hanging on to the blade, they were lips kissing it, thanking it for the feeling. The only feeling that made sense sometimes. The little alarm of dripping blood brought me back to reality.

Fuck, my combats’ll be ruined!

And so the next part of the ritual began. I jumped into the empty bath and dropped my trousers, turned on the taps and tried to soak them before the blood stained, at the same time running my arm under the cold one. I reached over and opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out my brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide – magic stuff this; every home should have one. Did you know hydrogen peroxide breaks down really quickly when exposed to light? That’s why it’s in a little brown bottle: the brown filters out the sun’s rays. It’s a great antibacterial thing – you can use it as mouth-wash, clean kitchen surfaces…even highlight your hair! I held my arm over the sink, whilst my feet kneaded my trousers in the bath, and poured a little over the cut. It fizzed and bubbled, all pink. Stung a bit too, but that’s a small rush after the main event. I poured again and again until the fizzing was white – it stops the bleeding and cleans the wound simultaneously, you see? Grabbed a bit of gauze from the cabinet and stuck it over the cut with tape, nearly slipped in the bath, my feet tangled in my combats – Christ, I had no intention of killing myself!

I wandered in my boxers back into the living room, switched off the TV – it was threatening to invade the little bit of peace I’d just created for myself, pull me back into chaos again too quickly. I sat back in the sofa, saw the bloody knife on the table and had to get up again, take it to the kitchen and give it a quick wash before I could sit and enjoy my peace properly. I tell you, I love this flat…no, there is something about it, honestly. Sat there, slouched on the sofa, I stroked the rough armrest as if it was a balding cat, and all I could see out the window was sky. Sky and the tips of the big tree across the road, the only one round here; its naked branches looked swollen in silhouette with budding leaves. The thin red clouds against pale blue could’ve been the sky outside a plane window or something, as I’m on my way somewhere warm, with fresh air and a beautiful landscape, shitting myself about this new life I’m going to, but knowing I’m alive – for the first time in ages having something worth shitting myself about. Then, as if to remind me that that wasn’t the case, a black dot of a plane weaved through a couple of clouds, flashing its lights smugly, and those thin red clouds were suddenly scar-shaped and sore-looking.