Jon McGregor - If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

Okay then he says, and he shuffles a little closer to the edge, okay. The young man behind him says alright then sir, just relax and let yourself fall forward. And keep your eyes open he says, you don’t want to miss anything.

And the man with the carefully trimmed moustache and the thinning hair nods, looking straight ahead, leaning forward, dropping away from the platform, soundlessly falling like an empty bottle, like the first weighted raindrop of a storm, turning and accelerating towards the ground.

He should be here by now.

I look out of the window, I look at the clock, I look out of the window again and he is none of the people in the street.

My mother says I was in town today I went into a clothes shop, I bought one of those babygro whatsits, a white one, ever so small it was she says.

It took me a while to choose she says, there’s an awful lot of variety these days, there were three or four I couldn’t decide between she says.

I press the phone against my ear, I want to hear her better.

She says it’s a kind of fleece-type material, it looks ever so snug, it’s got a hood with a pair of teddybear ears on it, I thought you might like it.

I say I don’t know mum, it sounds like it might be a bit small for me, and she doesn’t laugh, she pauses and she says yes well I just thought you might appreciate it.

I say no sorry oh I do appreciate it mum, sorry, I say it sounds lovely mum, thank you.

Her voice lightens, she says I got it in white because you don’t know yet, do you?

He should be here by now.

He said seven o’clock, about, and it’s nearly eight and he’s not here, it’s raining and he’s not got his car and it’s getting dark.

She says so when will you find out, is it soon, it should be, they can do all sorts of things now can’t they?

She says not like when I had you.

I tell her I’ve got an appointment soon, I hear a noise in the carpark at the back and I say hold on a minute, excuse me.

I open the door and look, but it’s not him, he’s not there.

I pick up the phone again and she says what sort of appointment, a scan I say, they’re going to check everything’s okay, they’re going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.

As I say the words, I picture a boy or a girl inside of me, half the size of my thumb, I picture each of its limbs, its fingers, the faint imprint of freshly forming fingernails, each nail smaller than a pinprick, I picture myself a year, two years, three years from now, a child on my lap, saying hold still, carefully trimming those same fingernails.

She says oh a boy would be nice I’ve always wanted a boy.

He should be here by now.

He doesn’t seem like someone who’d be late, not normally, not unless there was a problem.

Maybe he’s got lost, in the dark, in the rain.

Maybe he’s trying to phone and he can’t get through.

I say mum, look, sorry, I should go, I’m expecting someone, they might be trying to call.

She says oh, okay, oh, who are you expecting?

It’s no one I say, it’s a friend, and I say it’s someone I know from work because I don’t want to try and explain.

She says, oh, okay, I’d better let you go then, and she sounds disappointed but somehow she also sounds relieved.

I say thanks for phoning mum, I appreciate it, I really, and she’s already putting the phone down.

I look out of the window, I open the door, I check the time.

I think of all the things that can happen to a person when they’re trying to reach you.

Cars skidding in wet conditions.

Men falling out of pub doorways with tempers raised.

Boys with needle-thin arms asking for money, a flash of silver in their hands.

I think of him being lost in this weather, the rain heaving down out of the dark sky, I think of him soaked through and shivering, blinking anxiously, looking for streetnames, road-signs, familiar buildings.

I put a towel on the radiator to warm up, I put the kettle on to boil, I look out into the thick veil of rain and I wait for him.

And I wonder how this has happened, already, why I can be so worried for someone I’ve so recently met.

And I know why it is, and I don’t want it to be like that.

The kettle boils, clicks off, quietens.

I hear a siren from a few streets away and my heart clenches inside me, I rush to look outside but there’s nothing to see.

I feel like flinging open the window and calling his name.

I realise that if something were to happen to him now, if that siren was chasing to the place where he is lying in the rain, that no one would tell me.

That they would find his parents, and let them know, and ask them to come quickly, find his brother, wherever he is, and tell him, and ask him to get on the next available flight.

But that they wouldn’t find me and tell me, there is no reason why they would, and I would never know and this all seems wrong.

I put the kettle on again, I turn the towel over so that both sides are warm, I open the door and look into the night.

I see him running across the carpark, his hand held over his head like a tiny umbrella, his face looking up at me.

He runs up the steps, he says sorry I’m late, sorry, I got lost, and he stands in the doorway.

I say are you alright you’re soaked, I say come in come in, come here, and I take hold of the sleeve of his coat and pull him towards me and I close the door.

His arms, his whole body is shaking, water quivering and falling from his clothes like rain from a shaken washing line.

His teeth, when he talks, his teeth rattle like polished bones in a box, he says I got lost I tried I couldn’t it was I got lost and I say shush don’t worry it’s okay it’s okay.

I say you’re soaked, you should, I’ll get you something to wear, I’ll get you a towel, and I fetch a V-necked jumper from my room, the towel from the radiator.

I hand him the towel and I stand in front of him, holding out the jumper like a shop assistant.

He starts to dry his hair, I say no take your top off first, get something dry on first, and he says oh right, okay, and he hands me the towel and I stand and look at him.

We are both breathing as though we’ve been running in a rainstorm.

He takes his coat off, he pulls his top off, it gets stuck around his head and he wriggles for a moment, blinded, arms held up, and I look at his smooth wet chest, his nipples, his bare shoulders, the thin drift of hair below his belly-button.

He gets the top over his head, he drops it to the floor, I drop the jumper and I push the towel towards him.

I push the towel up against his chest, and I feel a sudden warmth, I say you need to get dry.

I spread my hands out, holding the towel up against him, holding one hand still, moving the other in a slow arc, my little finger tracing a line around the curve of his shoulder, down the side of his chest.

My thumb, like a compass point, pressed onto his nipple.

But I am not touching him, not really, I am not touching his skin.

It’s as though the towel is a pair of gloves that makes what I’m doing okay, innocent.

I look at him, his eyes are closed, tightly closed, his bottom lip is taut and colourless.

I carry on, I sweep the towel down across his stomach, around his waist, up each side of his chest.

I bring the towel up, slowly, softly, draping it from shoulder to shoulder, my hands holding it in place, my fingers curling across the ridges of his collarbones.

And even through the damp cloth of the towel I can feel his heart, beating quickly against the heel of my right hand.

I look up at him, at his closed face.

I say is that better, I say it quietly and I move closer to him as I say it.

He opens his eyes, he opens his mouth to speak, and as he opens his mouth there is a half-kiss of sound, a sound I recognise.