Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

Then one day she told me she was pregnant and things would have to change. For some reason she was happy and I’d like to say I was but, honestly, I just thought Oh shit! How could I want a child with the state I was in, never mind the childhood I’d had? But she wanted me to be happy so I pretended I was. Swore I’d get clean. Swore I’d get a proper job — don’t know what either of us thought that might be but that was what she wanted to hear so that was what I said. If I hadn’t been continually wasted I would have been terrified. I mean, I had no idea what a father should be. Mine — shagging everything in sight? Hers — breathing fire down my neck about having to marry her now? — to which I agreed and never got round to. Or maybe my stepfather, never walking through the wrong door? Then to top it off, there was her, my mother. What if? What if that was me? And the fucking horror of that thought I could not manage at all. So after a few weeks clinging to sobriety by my fingernails I let it go again. The drinking got worse. And everything else. Fucking nosebleeds every night. Going to the clap clinic all the time. Then my Big Break arrived, unexpectedly, and about two years too late.

Juv lead in a film. Big Hollywood thing. To be shot out at Elstree. She was thrilled because I cheered the fuck up and it meant plenty of cash. Promise of work. Future blossoming like the may. But by then it freaked me out more than anything else — the thought of having to succeed, knowing how badly she wanted me to, to justify all I’d put her through. And I couldn’t. Couldn’t work out what I was supposed to do. And couldn’t sleep. Or relax. Weighed nothing at all. Of course there were also plenty of people happy to sort me out on set. Whatever I wanted to take. Whoever I wanted to fuck. It was so easy. I closed my eyes and just dived into everything. Bottle of vodka by lunch. Coke after that. Speed. Uppers. Anything to get me up on my feet and running around, behaving like I was still capable which — it must’ve been clear — I wasn’t. I remember one of the older actors taking me aside, advising me to sort myself out, even giving me some doctor friend’s number. I swore I’d call then went out and swallowed everything I could get my hands on. But no one sacked me or said You’re fucking up so I just kept running and running until it all came running back.

How do you mean?

Literally, I was running across the soundstage floor and I couldn’t get my breath. The doctor took one look then called an ambulance. When it arrived I was able to walk to it — fingers tingling but nothing bad. We were almost at the hospital, they said, when my mouth turned blue and I collapsed and died. And, if I hadn’t been there, I would’ve stayed that way too. I don’t remember any of that, or for ages afterwards. Only black and void for days. Then lights. Noises. Shaking awake. Her, crying, beside the bed. Some doctor saying You’ve had a cardiac arrest, you’re lucky to be alive. I remember saying But I’m only twenty-two. And he said I know, it’s because of what you’ve been at.

I was in hospital for a while — I’d been in a coma a week — and there’s nothing like being checked for brain damage to make you realise you’ve had a lucky escape. The worst part though was dealing with her. It was terrible. All she did was cry and the way she looked at me I I think I’d almost prefer to have died than face that look. The complete disappointment. The being so crushed. Knowing I’d done that to her. Four months pregnant and it was it was I was so ashamed. I don’t know what else to say. I can’t really think about it even now anyway anyway

A few weeks later she told me my mother was dead. She’d hunted down a home address. The stepfather told her. I said I didn’t care but what I really thought was Now I’m done for. My head was so fucked up. I didn’t know how to deal with it and started convincing myself not to sleep, in case she’d come for me. That I could never sleep again and I’d lie at night picking skin off my leg in an effort to stay awake. In the end they caught me — blood all over the sheets. But soon as they bandaged me up I started somewhere else.

How did she die? Supposedly cancer, he says But I thought then, and still do, that she starved herself to death. It would have been so like her — martyrdom as revenge. Not that it matters either way. He lights a cigarette and I don’t know if I should agree. Instead I prod into an easier silence And what happened with the film?

I got fired. No surprises there. After leaving hospital all I was fit for was the sofa. She kept crying What will we do? We’re going to have a baby in June. I listened patiently and said lots of useful things about borrowing cash until I was back on my feet and within a week I was shooting up.

Jesus! I say. I know, he agrees You alright hearing this? When I nod, he goes on Well, I went to see this mate. Just to get out, you understand. She could trust me, I said and it didn’t matter that I could hardly walk because five minutes on his couch he was tying me off. And it was new to me, the needle. I’d smoked it a few times in the past but mostly stayed away. Not so particular now though! The anxiety was killing me. I told myself once would calm me down, that I’d go home after, change my life then and no one would ever know. My mate agreed. Of course he did — he was already going in between his toes.

Some friend! I say. Yeah but it was what I wanted, he shrugs Whenever you fancy going into the dark someone will always turn out the light but it wasn’t long before she cottoned on to it — aided by the disappearance of Grandma’s wedding ring. She didn’t make a scene that last time, just said she’d had enough. That the baby deserved a better father than a junkie like me and I didn’t argue because I fucking agreed. The next morning hers came to collect her things and made the most of his chance to call me Worthless Scum, to my face while I floundered about clutching one of her shoes begging her not to leave. Amazingly, she still did.

So I moved into my mate’s Holloway squat and I was relieved. I was rid of the last thing that held me to life. The well of self-pity opened its arms and I was ready to be done. Stopped going for check-ups and any pretence of taking any care of myself. Sometimes I’d lie on the floor with my hand on my chest waiting to feel my heart go wrong. Willing it to. I still don’t know why it didn’t, with all that junk riding round in my veins. Then one day while I was — doubtless — pondering the mysteries of life, my mate appeared with his girlfriend, saying Alright Little Boy Blue? When I said What? That’s what you’re called, she laughed For the colour your lips go when you’re on the nod like you’re OD’ing, but you’re not are you? It’s just your heart is fucked! And the way she said it gave me such a fright. I could see exactly what I must look like and I understood why that was. I think it was the first time I had or, at least, believed it was true. That I’d already died, could again, more easily than anyone else in the room. That I’d died and it wasn’t a game. The two of them laughing but I felt like someone was pulling off the top of my head. Sunlight went in for the first time in years and the big surprise was realising I wasn’t ready to be done. So what the fuck am I doing here? I thought and walked out of the room.

On the street I remembered a doctor saying walking could help with staying clean so I began to but not anywhere or to anyone. Which was fine for a while but meant when things started going wrong there was no one around to notice. Like seeing my younger self in flashes, actually on the street. That boy, looking beat to shit. After a couple of hours God began to explain. Remember this? Yourself? No? Can’t see? Prise back those hoardings. Or empty those bins. Or wander around talking loudly about Sheffield. Or kick in that car window. Now escape. Then go drink tea in some greasy spoon while suspecting you’re not quite right. In the end I went three nights without sleep going increasingly off my head. The comfort though, of that voice. To not just be me by myself walking barefoot through Archway, raving away at the boy I’d been. It was almost alright I had once been him but then God pushed at being him again and not even being completely deranged could persuade me of the wisdom of that. But God insisted so I tried to understand. By that stage I really wasn’t very well at all. Starving from the puking but I climbed onto the roof of a derelict house — somewhere on St John’s Way I think — and stood there trying to know what I should do. Up there. Close to God, I’d be sure, very sure, of whatever he said next. But I was also getting tired. Soaked. I started to think What the fuck has this all been for? This fucking awful life? Why didn’t you let me die in peace on the floor? Or die in the ambulance? Or so many deserving times before? What is it anyway you’ve bothered to save? All these bits that can never be remade. Can you ever make a dead person visible again? Force all the pieces back to one? Do I even care? I asked God. I begged him to say but God went very silent then. And after so much noise, I couldn’t manage that so I decided on an Act of Faith. Divinely un-ignorable. Great. More than enough to make God respond. So — with a flair for the dramatic — I waited for dawn, then walked down the slates. Took a long look out on the city that had saved me before. The trees and cars parked up on the kerb and lamps switching off all down the road. I said to God Here we go. And then stepped off the roof.