‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I— Shit, Loris, I’m sorry…’
Loris can’t hear him, and the girl isn’t listening. She’s drawing away, and so is the bus Charles would have collided with hadn’t he crashed into her.
He staggers back against the green door, hypnotised by the route indicator at the rear of the bus. One six eight. This bus goes to the office, it doesn’t go home. Charles needs to go home. He just needs to walk home, one step at a time.
Doucement.
With convulsing hands, he puts on his coat and rolls his jumper into a ball to cling on to.
One hundred and sixty-eight. Times three, five hundred and four.
Respire.
He shouts into the fabric and eases his way into the pedestrian traffic.
Times three, a thousand five hundred and twelve.
Charles makes it home past the billion, with no guarantee that his calculations are correct, but determined to continue until the mental effort knocks him unconscious. It would count as brain damage. He could chalk the memories of the past hour up to it and convince himself that none of it happened.
It would be fair. Half of his life feels like a collaborative work of fiction. Why would the moments he needs to erase remain vivid facts?
‘Charles?’ Alice is padding down the stairs, curlers in her hair. ‘Are youalright?’
She won’t believe he’s alright. He feels like he’s been hit by the bus and certainly looks like it.
‘I had a… road crossing scare. It set me on edge a bit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tyres screeched, so I froze and didn’t look the other way. But the driver slammed on the brakes and nothing happened.’
It’s one hundred and sixty-eight levels of twisted to play this card, and Charles might go to hell for it. But hell after life is a work of fiction too. The real hell is the look of his mother, switching between sheer worry, repressed heartache and intense disapproval – her coping mechanism, in order to repress deeper. She always finds something disgraceful to zero in on, such as the undone collar of Loris’ cheap polo shirt.
A blaze crawls up Charles’ spine. He’s wearing Loris’ polo shirt.
‘I’m good now, I’m home, I’m…’ He’s not supposed to be home. ‘Elsy’s friend, Divya, she really wanted to see the play, so I gave her my ticket.’
Alice’s worry, heartache and disapproval turn into excitement. ‘You did? Brilliant! We will finally toast your admittance letter during the lighting party.’
‘Brilliant, yes…’ Charles draws blood from his thumb. ‘I’ll go get ready.’
‘You do that, darling. I will see to it that more champagne is put on ice.’
She pets his hair and kisses his cheek. Whatever pointless feat she’s impressed by, Charles grasps this lifebelt thrown into his pool of self-loathing.
He pushes himself over the first two steps and climbs up as casually as his legs allow him to, because Alice is watching. There’s only so much edginess he can get away with before it reaches his father’s ears.The last thing he needs today is a reminder from Milton that PTSDs and panic attacks are myths created to excuse weakness of mind.
On the landing, Charles brings his punctured thumb to his mouth, hoping the metallic taste of his blood will spoil Loris’ intoxicating breath. How can someone’s breath linger for so long? And why on Earth did he taste it? What kind of episode was he going through to naturally shove his tongue down Loris’ throat?
He didn’t want to kiss him.
It’s Loris. He’s not attracted to Loris.
He’s—
Charles comes to an abrupt halt in front of theSofiaroom.
Near him, I am eager to face my lies and find my truths.
