Nicola Barker - Love Your Enemies

John said, ‘No, I’m fine!’ as emphatically as he could, putting out one of his hands in the gesture a traffic warden might use to stop oncoming traffic: palm flat, arm outstretched. Steve handed the taxi driver the paper that he’d written the address on and said, ‘Are you sure that you’ve got the money to pay for this taxi?’

John nodded very determinedly although his eyes were closed, and patted at his jacket where his inside pocket was located with a floppy hand. He said, ‘I’m fine,’ and waved sloppily. Steve slammed the door shut and thanked the taxi driver. He also added by way of explanation, ‘Don’t worry, he’s not drunk, he’s a diabetic.’ The taxi driver nodded and answered cheerily, ‘I don’t mind what he is so long as he doesn’t smoke or vomit.’ He then performed a three-point turn and sped away.

Melissa and Steve stood together on the pavement watching the taxi disappearing into the traffic at the top of the road. Steve said, ‘God, I really feel bad about this. We’ve been so fucking insensitive and awful. Maybe it’s our fault.’

Melissa had entirely forgotten that she was angry with him. She wiped the corners of her mouth furtively with her first finger and thumb to ensure that her red lipstick hadn’t bled or smudged in all the excitement. Then she stared at him with her deep brown eyes and said, ‘What do you mean? I said I’d get him some material and I will.’ Steve snorted, ‘It’s not the bloody material that’s the issue here, Melissa, it’s the way we both behaved. We must’ve seemed really rude. We obviously confused and distressed him. We upset him and I think that’s why he got ill.’

Melissa looked bemused. She said, ‘What are you talking about, Steve? We were only having a bit of fun. He wanted some material and I phoned for him, which is more than most people would’ve done.’

Steve felt helpless and furious. He looked into Melissa’s eyes and frowned. ‘I can’t work out if you’re just stupid or if you’re simply insensitive. I think the scales are weighed quite heavily in both directions.’

She smiled humourlessly, ‘That’s an appropriate image. I’m a Gemini.’

Steve turned his back on her and re-entered the shop. Eventually Melissa followed him in. He had made himself a cup of tea and was talking on the phone. After a few seconds he hung up and said, ‘I was getting that guy’s phone number while I still have his address in mind.’ He had written John’s address and phone number down on a till receipt in tiny writing. Melissa frowned. ‘What are you doing that for?’ Steve shrugged, ‘So I can phone him when I’ve got some information on the material. Anyway, I think that it’d be nice to know that he was OK.’

Melissa slammed her hand down hard on the top of the till and said, ‘I didn’t mean “what are you doing that for?”, I meant “what are you doing that for?” He’s my customer, I’ll deal with him over the phone.’ Steve laughed nastily. He said, ‘It’s a bit late to be getting all possessive, don’t you think? You’ve already said outside that you don’t give a shit; well I do.’

Melissa’s face was angry and blotchy. ‘I said no such thing! Of course I’m concerned. I said I’d get him the material and I will.’

Steve grabbed his tracksuit jacket which was slung over the back of the chair. He put it on and half-zipped it up. As he walked to the door he said, ‘I’m going out for a walk and to get some lunch. Can you manage alone while I’m out?’

Melissa had picked up the till receipt and was studying it. ‘Of course I can. I think I’ll try and phone again while you’re gone.’

He didn’t bother responding.

John remembered very little about getting home. When he awoke he felt as though he had been asleep for several hours, but when he looked at his watch it was only twenty past two. His lunch break had formally ended about an hour earlier. He was stretched out on his living-room sofa, cushioned by numerous pieces of paper. Under his shoulder were a couple of pencils and a ruler. He chucked them on to the floor with one hand and arranged himself more comfortably. His body felt stiff and tight. He shut his eyes for a while and rested. Inside he felt bad about not returning to work. Usually he was extremely responsible and reliable. He debated the possibility of returning into town but then decided that in his present condition it might be more sensible for him to phone in and explain his relapse.

Slowly he sat up and swung his legs on to the floor. He still felt weak. His hands were clenched into tight white-knuckled balls, and he endeavoured to clench them harder, as though these fists would generate power and momentum. He reached groggily for the telephone which he had put on the floor next to the sofa the previous day when he’d been rearranging things. He picked it up and phoned work. It only took a second. He spoke to one of the receptionists. The hand that he’d used to dial was still closed, except for the finger which he’d used to press the buttons. As he made his excuses he studied this hand. Although it remained slightly numb he was still capable of feeling the sharp sensation of a ball of paper crumpled up inside the fleshy palm of his fist. He opened up his hand and inspected it. It was the page of a book, a torn out leaf. On one side he saw his address. On the other side, written in a large messy scrawl, were the words THIS GUY IS SOME KIND OF MEDIA SALESMAN. I BET HE SELLS CRAP ON THE PHONE. HE’S GOT THAT SORT OF SMOOTH VOICE. EAT SHIT ARSEHOLE. John pondered the meaning of this for a few seconds after he’d put the telephone receiver back down. Gradually Melissa’s face — a blurred cartoon characterization of it with blood-red lips and hair dripping in oil, slicked back like Dracula’s — returned to his memory. He remembered her writing something down on the front page of a book. It confused him though. He lay back down on his side and re-read it. It was clear to him that what she had written was a description of himself, but he failed to understand her motivation. All that seemed feasible was that the two of them had had a bet on or were playing a game. He relaxed his head and looked sideways at the ceiling. He thought, ‘It doesn’t really matter why she wrote those things, the terrible thing is that she did write them. In a matter of minutes, in the shortest of exchanges, she managed to discover with perfect accuracy the details of my life. I must be as transparent as an amoeba under a microscope, a walking, talking, living, breathing telesales man; nothing more. I may feel inside that I am more significant than that, that I amount to more, but I don’t.’

He thought of what she had written again. THIS GUY IS A NOBODY, HE SELLS CRAP ON THE TELEPHONE, HE HAS A SMOOTH VOICE. HE IS A PHONY. THE WORLD WILL TURN WITHOUT HIM. ‘God!’ he thought, ‘I’m so dispensable. I’m so insignificant.’

The telephone started ringing. He sat up and reached out for it, grasped it in his hands and jerked it violently away from its connection in the wall. Its slim plug slipped out of its socket. It stopped ringing. In the new silence he threw the telephone at the wall several times and was struck with wonderment at its hardiness. He resolved that during the remainder of his life the telephone would be an anathema. That chapter was closed.

When Steve returned from his lunch hour Melissa was serving a couple of customers. After they had gone he said, ‘Did you get through?’ Melissa shook her head. ‘It was a bit odd. It appeared to ring for a short while and then the tone switched to disconnected. I phoned the operator and she said that the number was temporarily unobtainable.’

Steve sighed. ‘Maybe try again later. I suppose you gave it your best shot.’

Melissa smiled. ‘Can I gather that we are now friends again? You don’t seem as uptight with me as earlier.’