Dialogues

    It only takes about fifteen minutes between sitting back down at my desk and feeling like I need to go out for another fag - I just can’t concentrate for any longer than that. The guy sitting across the table from me must think I’m an absolute fiend for them. Either that or he’s assumed that I have a serious medical illness which requires getting up and walking around at regular intervals, explaining away the persistent fag in my hand as a coping mechanism for the embarrassment I harbour around my life-altering condition. If that’s the case then I thank him for his understanding… it’s not, though. 

    For the past three weeks I’m supposed to have been writing my dissertation. I have been trying, don’t get me wrong, but it hasn’t been going quite as smoothly as I had planned. When I initially set myself the task of writing 10,000 words of pure English Language analysis in this three week period, I hadn’t really taken into account all of the other things that go into writing a pretty substantial piece of academic work: reading, note-taking, planning, writing, thinking. If I were to hazard a guess, I reckon I’ve probably read more from the back of my Rizla packet than I have on the subject of “changes in regional dialects throughout the twentieth century” during my thirteen five-hour-stints in the library. I’m absolutely fucked if I ever planned on getting this thing on time. That is not going to happen. And if I wanted to get a decent grade then I should probably get on with building myself a time machine, because that ship sailed all the way back in February. What was I doing back in February that could have possibly been more important than preparing for the most important piece of work in my degree? Oh yeah, coke. Well I’m here now, historical Osc, and I’ve changed my mind: I actually do want a good grade. 

    It’s so fucking hard, though. Every time I sit down to read, my legs start bouncing underneath the desk and my skin gets tight, I feel like I’m coming off smack or something. I know it’s just procrastination. I know that my mind is just trying to sabotage my progress; my ‘monkey mind,’ as Mingyur Rinpoche would call it. Still, it’s getting in the way. I’ve tried to slow down my breathing and slip into a meditative state - so that I can be “at one” with the task at hand - but that’s done fuck all to help. I’m just becoming too mindful of the fact that I’m being mindful and then I want to go for another fag. 

    I’m gagging to skin up now. Maybe diving into English Accents and Dialects: An Introduction to Social and Regional Varieties of English in the British Isles, Volume 1 by Arthur Hughes can wait? I keep trying to take tokes from the button of my pen - at some point I’m going to end up inhaling a shit-load of ink and choking on the floor of the library foyer. It’s probably for the best if I go for one, save the rest of the punters from having to perform a resuscitation on this sunny Tuesday morning. I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s day.   

    Do I really need one though? I don’t know. No? Maybe? No? Yes.  

    

 

  。。。

 

Before I know it I’ve rolled one and I’m stood by the automatic entrance doors, sparking up against the not-too-strong-but-strong-enough-to-be-a-fucking-nuisance-when-lighting-a-fag wind. It’s busy out here today, must be the sun. Everyone who doesn’t usually smoke decides that they actually do on days like this, especially when they’re stuck inside the box that is the campus library eight until late. I remember, when I was younger, thinking smoking was a stupid thing that only people over the age of forty did; I remember thinking that it would go out of fashion before too long because people my age were brought up being taught now stupid it is, so we wouldn’t ever dream of having a toke. But here we are, I’m 21 years old and almost all of my year group are addicts. Me included. Even after all of the drugs and booze has calmed down, I can’t kick this cunt of a habit. It’s just a twitch now: I’ve got tobacco-tourettes.  

Breathing in.

- Mills... Mills? The voice comes from behind me. It’s Lucy. Fuck. 

- Oh, hey Lucy. Fancy seeing you here. You alright? 

Fag out, prematurely.

- I’d say the same to you, ha. I’m just here trying to get my diss together. Stressful times.

- Ha. Tell me about it… I think we’ve all had the same idea. 

- Yeah. 

I haven’t seen Lucy since Vi left a month ago. After everything kicked off she went quiet, blanked both me and Jonny completely. We’d both assumed she didn’t want anything to do with us and had kind of accepted that we’d lost a mate. Why the fuck is she talking to me? I’m surprised to see that she’s taken up smoking, the Lucy I know would never go near a fag. I never really knew her very well, though. It was more her and Vi and the rest of us. Maybe she’s suddenly realised that we have more in common than Vi and wants to start again. Maybe she just wants to use my lighter. What the actual fuck?

Part of me is relieved that she came over to start a conversation. I’ve been wanting to speak to her since it all happened but I can’t pick up the phone to text her, I know she wouldn’t reply. After the first few weeks of her not responding I gave up. I don’t even know what it is I’ve been wanting to say, it’s just the need to talk to someone about it all - Jonny’s no fucking use. 

The bigger part of me is shitting myself, though. I have no idea why she decided to vanish, and I have even less of an idea as to why she’s talking to me now. If it had been me who spotted her first, then I’d be halfway back to my desk. What is she planning: Strangulation? A loving hug? Looking at me in that way that only girls can interpret with any level of accuracy, she’s somewhere between a smirk and a life-altering death-stare. Does she hate me? There’s nothing I can say, it all seems to have turned into smoke in my mouth. All of those texts I drafted - all of that backspacing - they’ve left me dumb. I just look at her with an attempted smile which I know full well screams “please don’t castrate me.”

- How have things been? How’re Jonny and the other guys? Her voice gives her away, she is nervous, not furious. She smiles. I grin. 

Sigh.

- Yeah, it’s been… different, quieter. 

- I can imagine. 

Her voice sounds so familiar, so maternal. It sounds like Vi’s. Or perhaps I’m imagining that - I’m probably imagining. Stunned, I stand in silence for a moment and try to gather my thoughts. There’s so much I think I want to say - need to say - but this meeting has taken me so much by surprise that I can’t think of where to begin. I’m racking my brain for something to speak about; I’ve been waiting a month for this conversation to happen and now is my chance. I’m stumped, though. Now it’s finally here, all I can seem to do is pull the expression of someone in the deepest reaches of a K-hole: mouth open, glazed eyes, dribbling… well, not dribbling. I’m trying to remember the context in which I last saw Lucy - who was still here? what had happened? - but it is all so hazy now. Things are so different… 

- Did you hear about Ed? I ask tentatively. I have no clue whether or not the Ed stuff happened last week or last year, I’m just stabbing in the dark. Whatever it is that lives inside my head seems to have suddenly passed out and I can’t tell if I’m talking any sense. Ed is probably the best reference point, though: his life-changing plot twist feels like it must be the most recent out of all of ours.

- No? What happened? Bringing a plain-white Clipper to meet the end of her fag, she looks to me with a “I can sense a funny story coming” kind of look and prepares to giggle. She didn’t want my lighter. 

- He dropped out.

- Oh, shit… Her poised cheeks quickly lose any tension. - I had no idea… Why? What happened? 

- His Dad died really suddenly two weeks ago and I think he just couldn’t cope with it all, y’know with the uni workload getting to what it was and stuff.

- Fuck. That’s terrible. Any shade of pink has now drained from Lucy’s face and has been replaced by the colour of a hospital floor. 

- Yeah, poor guy. 

- H-How did he die?

- It was a tumour he’d had for ages that suddenly turned bad. Apparently it was really out of the blue.

- Fucking hell. Lucy’s eyes move away from mine and focus firmly on the paving slab in front of her. I think the combination of the fag and the news has started to make her feel a little bit sick, she always used to feel sick when she’d had a smoke. 

- Yeah, it happened so quickly.

- So has he moved back to Maghull now then?

- Yeah he’s gone to be with his mum, that’s him done with uni I think. 

- Shit… I-I can’t believe it… 

- Mhm.

- I didn’t know … That’s so shit of me. 

All of a sudden Lucy starts walking towards the edge of tears. It seems like a strange reaction from someone who was    never exactly Ed’s bum-buddy, but she’s always been the first one when it comes to crying so I’m not too surprised. (Every time we’d go out it would be her and Vi in the girls’ loo having a heart to heart and coming back with smeared makeup.) Bringing a hand towards her mouth, she’s starting to blub. Fucking hell, you would think she was Ed’s long lost sister from the way she’s reacting. Not in front of the library, please. She could be trying to start The Conversation. Maybe this isn’t about Ed. I put my hand on her shoulder.

- It’s okay, Lucy. He kept it pretty quiet from everyone. We only found out after he’d died.

- It’s not that, it’s just… She looks like she’s trying to vomit up some feelings. - It’s just, I… Her face is wet. Maybe she is trying to start The Conversation. Please, let it be her and not me. - It’s just, Vi and… Fuck, she’s said it. She’s gone there. Yes. 

I can feel my own waterworks starting to rumble so I suggest we go and sit on the steps behind the library. She nods and I guide her by the sleeve. Once parked, I feel the side of her head lean into my armpit as she begins to convulse. Her voice is muffled by the fabric of my fleece, but I can feel it vibrating into my lungs like a stitch..

- I’m gasp so gasp sorry gasp Mills…  

- It’s okay, Lucy. It’s okay. My arm finds its own way around her shoulder and pulls her closer. The step is cold on my bum and I can taste the salt from my tears as I try to be the strong one. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close to each other before; Lucy and I know one another from across the table at The Newie, or at the front door when I open it on Vi’s behalf, not intimately. We never even used to hug when we said goodbye. But here we are - weeping on the library steps in the middle of the afternoon - and it feels like we’re a couple who have just lost a child. Nobody else in the world could possibly understand.

- I’m sorry I disappeared, Mills. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t deal with it. I saw you texting and calling and I wanted to call you back and talk… I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to bring it all up. I’m sorry, Mi- 

- Shush, shush. It’s okay, Lucy. 

- Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry. None of it made any sense. I couldn’t understand what was going on… 

- I don’t hate you, Lucy.

- I just thought, maybe it was best if I disappeared or something. I was never really that close with you guys and I didn’t know what to believe. Vi was so upset and I couldn’t leave her, even if I wasn’t sure about what she was saying about Mo and I-I- 

- Lucy, I understand. I feel the sa- 

- I didn’t want to make it any worse. I just wanted it to all go away. Uni shouldn’t have ended like this.

- I know it shouldn’t have. 

I’m holding her like a pillow now, as if she is me. Both of our spines are pulsating with a month’s load of confusion, anger and fear. I feel that I can do is be. I’m not ‘the strong one’ anymore and I know that nothing I say will mean anything in this moment. It’s what we haven’t said that means the most, it’s what can’t be said. Lucy feels lost in all of this. I understand. 

- I know why you wanted to disappear, Lucy. My voice is coming out in a nonsensical melody, cracking with truth that has been pent up for weeks. - I understand. I wish I could too.

My words sound dull against the concrete steps and silence consumes us for a minute. It seems like the sun has disappeared in the time that we have been talking, but I realise that it’s the shadow from the Clark Wing of the library. As the tension in our spines begins to become undone with my admission, we realise that neither of us is alone. This is relief. Our bodies give up shaking and instead become fragile; we could be folded like toilet paper. Sniffling timidly into my now damp fleece, Lucy looks up to me. Her cheeks are scarlett and both of her eyes are inflamed. A stream of snot glistens from her upper lip and, wiping it away, her breathing slows further… 

- You do? 

Sniff. 

- Yeah. I want it all to stop.

Exhale.

- Yeah? 

Sniff.

- I just wanted to talk to you about it. 

Sigh.

- Me too. I just…