Forty Days and Forty Nights

Life is odd. My mother used to say that. I always think, when I read
those interviews where they ask what the best advice anyone's ever
given you is, that that would be my reply. It's the only thing I can
remember that seems like advice. That life is odd.

Life was odd for me a few months ago, when I was attacked. Walking
late, about two am, only from the bus stop to my halls of residence. I
know they tell you to always walk in twos at least, but I didn't have
anyone to be two with. I was pissed - I'd been to the Old Orleans
cocktail bar, to get drunk on margaritas and long island teas, and
watch all the groups of people on their best weekend behaviour. The
usual way I spend my Friday nights. It's quite fun; you should try it
sometime.

So I was staggering along the concrete walkway, stopping from time to
time to look over the edge, and wonder how many seconds it would take
for me to hit the road below. I had to hold on tightly to the wall, in
case I did it before I realised what I was doing. That's always scared
me, what can happen in just one second. A life changing decision, a new
life, a murder. I was thinking about this again as I turned onto the
separate walkway that runs along norfolk terrace. I've often thought,
as I've walked along there, that at any minute a man would rise out of
the shadows that occupy each corner of the ziggurats, and do something
terrible. This time, one did. He appeared in front of me, a night time
giant rising from sleep. Dark dull eyes and a face without a smile. He
put his hands on my chest. On my breasts. I thought of the men who sit
alone in the corner of the cocktail bar, Mike, Dave, John. Not pulling
out a notebook from time to time and taking notes about people's
psychological states, as I do, but staring blankly at a fixed point. I
was suddenly dumb, and couldn't move. I hadn't been trying to summon
from the depths of my subconscious magazine advice on how to deal with
potential rapists, but I remembered something. 'An effective was of
disarming an attacker is to do something unexpected.'

I babbled at him, wanting to appear unstable, deranged.
"Plobba bangle took! Tooky chickacaky monto!!"
I tried to sound outraged, as if what he was doing was ridiculous or
implausible. Amazingly, it worked. His mouth gaped stupidly, and he
took a large step back, his hands still outstretched like a zombie. I
grabbed the opportunity and ran, brushing past him, straining to hear
noises of pursuit but hearing nothing. I didn't stop until I was in at
my room, where I locked the door with shaking hands, lit a cigarette,
and poured a pint of cinzano and lemonade. Later, I was able to
reassure myself that it had all been a figment of my imagination,
twisting my fears into a false reality, the chemicals from the booze
gone wrong, somehow. I took to carrying my heavy wooden-handled
umbrella everywhere though, in case it rained.

It was odd though. That I got away unharmed. From whatever it was. I
mean, I could have gone over then.

This week hasn't been so bad. I had an idea for what to do about the
bad days. When it's raining and windy, or I wake up from a nightmare.
Or crying, with a soggy pillow. I got the idea from my Wicca books,
about charging things with positive energy, and making your own
rituals. I waited for a really lovely spring day, and with the sun
shining I went walking in the woods by the lake. I found a mottled
stick, in the shape of a capital Y, like a divining rod. I picked up a
handful of small pebbles from beside a jetty, and whilst rummaging in
the sticks and undergrowth for something interesting, I found a tiny
smooth squirrel's skull. I put these on the roof outside my window for
a whole day, to soak up the energy from the sun and the moon, then
placed them on my desk on a square silk scarf. When I'm feeling down,
or if it's a bad day, I touch these things, pick them up and roll them
over the skin on my hands, and I feel better. The antidepressants
probably help, but they're chemicals. This is magic.

When I came here, I was excited by the prospect of love, and a proper,
adult relationship. My expectations weren't too high really, as I'd
just come out of an entirely maddening relationship with a thirty-two
year old unemployed artist, whose lack of maturity had severely
unimpressed me. However, I was looking forward to the intellectual
stimulation of a relationship at university. I found no one. Sure,
there was the odd grope in a nightclub, and a couple of boring and
stagnant one-night-stands with guys named Quentin, or something
similar, but I was sorely disappointed, so I resigned myself to being a
young old maid. I still had fun - I had several varied groups of
friends whom I got drunk with regularly, excepting of course on my
strictly reserved Friday nights, for myself only.

And then, on one normal Saturday night at our favourite club, drunk on
martini and bottles of Reef, I saw a beautiful boy. I'd seen many
beautiful people there before, but had shrunk back from saying hi, or
even looking at them again. There was something about this beautiful
boy though, shuffling around by himself near me and Mike while his
mates lounged at the side of the dancefloor. I thought he might be
giving me the eye, but it was dark, and I was drunk, so I kept dancing,
occasionally glancing his way. He was fairly short, with blonde hair to
his chin, and baggy jeans. He looked a bit like Kurt Cobain, but with
none of the rock star - just a scruffy blonde nobody. I watched him
slyly as he moved to his friends, and they wandered off. Oh well.

But then later, after getting our coats and about to leave, I saw him
again. I toyed with the idea of going over, then thought 'fuck it'. I
shoved my coat at Mike, told him I'd be back in a minute, and stumbled
over.
"Hey. I just wanted to tell you&;#8230;I think you're really
beautiful."
He coughed, looked at me properly, question marks in his face.
"I&;#8230;what?"
"I wanted to let you know, I think you're really beautiful."
"Wow. That's&;#8230;I&;#8230;I mean, that's the nicest thing
anyone's ever said to me. I'm Adam."
We shook hands. His were pale, cool, dry. I wanted to keep them.

After two weeks of skirting round each other, hanging out and drinking
coffee every day, we went out and got really drunk in the same club,
where he told me I was his woman and kissed me for the first time. We
spent three months happy together, lying on each other on my floor and
giggling at radio comedy, making jewellery for each other, writing
awful poems to one another and leaving them in our pigeonholes. But
then he disappeared. Really. I wasn't worried at first, thinking he was
hatching some spectacular plan and would surprise me, turning up with
something amazing that made his absence worthwhile. Then, when I hadn't
seen him for three days, I had four phonecalls in one day from his
mates, urgently worried. He couldn't be found and wasn't answering his
mobile. After a couple of days of trying to ring, I desperately went to
the office to try the admin. staff. All they would tell me with their
pursed, sympathetic mouths, was that he had gone. I knew that.

None of us had his home address or number, unimportant in term time.
All we knew was that he was from Portsmouth. I thought about going down
there - I had an auntie there who I knew would put me up - but when I
told John, Adam's closest friend, the look on his face told me not to.
And what would I have done? Walked the streets of Portsmouth, sat on a
bench in the town, concentrating on picking his face out of the crowd?
I just couldn't believe he would go. So I read the poems he wrote for
me over and over, stung them onto my eyes through the blur of tears. I
made a love spell every day. Seven PM, red candles and pink ribbon. My
bed was littered with scraps of paper with his name on that had escaped
from under my pillow. I pressed my lips on them as I slept, and didn't
care.

Every day was a bad day then as far as I was concerned. Finally one of
my housemates took me to my doctor, who asked a few questions and
suggested counselling. After two sessions with Lynda Barham, whose soft
voice grated my skin and reduced me to bouts of angry weeping, I was
put on antidepressants, which, as you know, I'm still on.

I wake up, horribly aware what day it is. A grotesque anniversary is
what Lynda would have called it - "now dear, you need to forget these
days, with their negative associations." Well, fuck you, Lynda old
love, today I'm mourning.
I glance at my clock, shaped like an alien's head, with grotesque
wrinkled detail. I bought that shopping with him. My head aches
dreadfully, like my grey matter is a bubbling acid fizz. I throw back
my duvet and lie there for a while, thinking of Adam's face. A boy's -
man's - face, yet gently feminine. Pointed chin and nettle-green eyes.
I light a cigarette and imagine the smoke gathering in the corner of my
room. I wouldn't notice, and then suddenly he'd step out of the smoke.
I check quickly, but all there is is a lazy grey haze of smoke,
drifting over my bed and beginning to dissipate towards the
window.

I sigh, a long and slow expulsion of breath. I have to consciously
make myself breathe in again. This will never do. I swing my legs round
off the bed, forcing the rest of my body to follow and sit up. I reach
for the bottle of cinzano that I placed next to my bed last night, in
preparation for today's agony. I fill up the pint glass, leave the R
Whites bottle untouched in the corner. Today I will drink it
straight.

Clutching my drink tightly, I move over to my desk, stepping over the
pile of dirty clothes that are waiting for me to wash them. I fill the
bowl of my oil burner almost to brim, with oil fragranced with lilies,
so it will last a long time. With the scent of death in the air, I will
sit. I'm not sure yet how I will pass the day. I turn on my laptop,
click on word, and write a poem, straight off. It is clumsy and
melodramatic, and like the poems I used to write when I was ten, with
letters down the side. They spell 'where are you'.

The smell of the lilies clogs my throat, making me cough, and taste
perfumed smoke mixed with phlegm on my tongue. I stare closely at the
pool of oil, eyes narrowed against the smoke, holding my breath. The
smoke curls itself around the surface of the oil, then frees itself in
one pull away, leaving room for more. Can't you do that?

On an impulse, I drain my cinzano in one go, then refill the glass,
taking a cautious sip. My stomach contracts momentarily, but I am fine.
I will drink this while I get dressed, then take a fresh bottle, and
get a bus to campus, where I can sit on a jetty by the lake. I pull out
a black shirt and cord trousers from the dirty clothes. I will be hot,
absorbing the sun, but I must wear black. I pull my clothes on
sluggishly, pausing to spray the armpits of the shirt with bodyspray.
More lilies. In case.

I inspect myself in the mirror above my sink. My dark eye make-up from
the day before has smudged itself below my eyes, two dark blots. I
smear more on top.
"I don't care." I say to myself, pronouncing the words slowly and
deliberately. I grab my fresh bottle and a new twenty deck from the
carton, and leave.

The bus is jolting, and hurting my back. Two children are a couple of
rows in front of me, staring. I widen my eyes and make soft jungle
noises at them. They hurriedly turn and sit properly in their seats,
whispering to each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a
dreadlocked guy, with a pierced nose and lip, just looking at me and
shaking his head very slowly. I make the same face and noises at him,
then press the stop button. I will walk the rest.

The sun hurts my eyes. I am lying on the grass near the lake, where
there are no splinters. Jetties and splinters and Adam. Oh, I think I
am crying. My face feels cold and slippery, so maybe I have always been
crying. Never stopped?
I could borrow a knife from the nearest halls. Then he'd have to atone
forever, because there would be loss of life and it would be his fault.
Would he even care? I could carve myself up as an offering to him.
Write his name in deep cuts all over myself before cutting along my
throat, a final smile.

I have been lying here for days. Forty days and forty nights. I know
that is significant, not sure why. My arms are numb, moulded to my
head. I will have a deformed hood of bone if I stand up, and only two
limbs. I am laughing.
"Are you alright, love?"
The face looks concerned, but I know it is lying. It is the face of the
man who touched me, leaning over me and blocking the twilight sun from
my face. I twist round quickly, sitting up with the empty bottle in my
hand. I hit his head with it, and he is on the floor. I am looking over
him, still on the floor with bits of broken glass, and I realise what I
have done. It is Adam. I am kneeling on him, and kissing his face, when
someone grabs my ponytail and yanks it back. They are holding my arms,
my shield, the wrong way, and pulling me away. Somebody is shouting "my
wife, my wife" - is it me? - and I am limp and tired. Grass is in my
nose, and I picture him with that broken face.