The Boy in the Grey Tracksuit
Awake
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the boy screamed, spitting blood onto the cobbled road under the railway bridge.
Frank awoke with a jump, small beads of perspiration running from his forehead, the duvet clinging uncomfortably to his wet, slick body. The hard, well dealt smack he had landed on the attacker in his dream still resounded in his head as he shook himself awake and struggled to link all the pieces of the nightmare together. But already they were disappearing in a thick ocean of fog; that part of his brain which stored all useless and meaningless information.
He sat up, thin legs dangling over the bed, and scratched the two-day stubble which was almost a fully-grown beard and wondered how to start the day. Cigarette, coffee and toilet? Toilet, coffee and cigarette? Coffee, toilet then cigarette?
A few moments later he stood in the cold bathroom, his feet chilling uncomfortably on the tiled floor, an arc of golden urine splashing into the pan, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. The stream became a drizzle and when it eventually dwindled to a few drops, he held the cigarette between bitten, chapped lips and shook himself dry.
He peered at himself in the mirrored cabinet before opening it. He was a mess. Dark circles clung under his eyes and he noticed, not for the first time, that his facial stubble was more grey than black.
He couldn’t bear to look at the mess he had become for much longer and slid the cabinet door open. He picked out bottle after bottle of medication, spilling a few loose serotonin-boosting capsules into the cracked and yellowed sink, looking for the one box of pills which had become part of his morning ritual. When he found the powerful painkillers in the back of the crowd, he plucked it out, split one from the pack and chewed on it sourly. It was the quickest way he knew to dispel that groggy, unbearable, morning feeling.
Over his third cup of coffee and fifth cigarette, he pondered on the meaning of his life, or rather, what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Frank’s entire existence was one exciting rollercoaster of waking, smoking, getting high on caffeine, bitching online, eating – sometimes – and sleeping. Maybe today would be the day he would do something different. He needed groceries and maybe some new socks if the toes sticking out of the ones he was wearing were anything to go by. He leaned down and sniffed them. How long had he been wearing those things?
He tried shaving but gave up after his throat promised to bleed all over the bathroom. The blade was so old and well used that it had rusted and even split in a few places. He couldn’t remember when he had last bought a pack of blades.
That was something else for the shopping list.
He spent half an hour mechanically and obsessively going through the contents of his fridge and the small cupboard above the kitchen work surface, scribbling down items he deemed necessities. He tried everything he could to block from his mind the chore he would have to do shortly; it wasn’t the shopping which disheartened him, it was the fact that he would be going outside, out into the open where he felt most vulnerable. Where people made him nervous by their very being and crowds brought on attacks of hyperventilation and a worryingly quickened heart rate. He had been lucky recently. He hadn’t had the embarrassment of collapsing in a doorway and pulling out the brown paper bag from his pocket he carried with him religiously on his sojourns into the open. It had been weeks since anyone had come up to him and held his shoulder as they feigned concern at his strange attempts to dispel the panic which gripped him in a petrifying embrace. That was what made it worse. Alone, he could pretend that no one noticed him as he fought to control his breathing with the bag. But when strangers came up to him and asked if they could help, his embarrassment shone from a face almost scarlet in colour.
He dressed in casual jeans, a white vest and chequered shirt which hung loosely on his emaciated frame. At one time the shirt had been a little tight over his midriff, but those days had long gone and he now had to pull his belt tightly to prevent his over-sized jeans from slipping down.
He peered at himself in the full-length mirror in the hallway and tilted his head as he tried to see himself as others might see him. He looked semi normal, if a little scruffy and gaunt, but other than that he thought he would pass for just another indistinct figure in the street. It was time to make his move.
Locking the door to his tenement flat, checking three times to make sure the bolts were secure, he took the steps down to the main doorway slowly, bracing himself for the final exit into the tree lined avenue which had been his home for almost a year. His fingers paused on the handle of the communal door as he purposefully steadied his breathing and when he finally opened it and stepped out onto the pavement, the initial fear evaporated as he took a few moments to breathe in the air of the outside world. It was a far cry from the stale stench of microwave food and cigarette smoke from inside his small abode.
The day was dreary and dull, overcast with a blanket of cloud that was a singularly grey shade. It was dry, but the humidity of a long summer still hung in the air like a claustrophobic duvet.
He walked with his head down, staring fixedly at the uneven paving slabs, counting his steps as he always did, knowing that he was exactly four hundred and twenty seven even strides between his front door and the turning which took him into the bustling terror of the High Street. To anyone who might have taken notice, he might have seemed for the entire world someone confident and determined, but were they to know the real man who took those carefully timed steps, they would realise that there was a reason that he deprived himself of eye contact with another; it was the deep-rooted fear of being judged and ridiculed, left to wonder why he was so very dissimilar to everyone else but at the same time no different.
It had started with the acrimonious divorce from a woman who had once made his life so complete, but at the same time left it so empty; empty of everything apart from great sex and the chance to share a home, a life, with another. It had been a short-lived burst of connection with someone else which had made his late twenties seem bearable and whole. At last he had something with which to converse with his work-mates, even though the secret truth of the matter was that his marriage was a farce and one that would not last the test of time. But for a while it was adequate. He could banter with his colleagues about rows over what they watched on television, who did the washing-up, who cleaned the bathroom on a Sunday afternoon, or what position they had found most exciting the night before. It connected his life to something akin to normality at home, and had therefore spilled into his working life. At last he had fitted in.
But there was always something which he fought hard to conceal, even from his wife of only two years; his recurring depression, which was something he never divulged even to the one person who had ever gotten close to him. The abuse, mental and physical, real and imagined, was something he had never told another soul, and he intended to keep it that way.
He was halfway down the High Street before he realised it and when he did, it hit him with a force that nearly withdrew any ounce of common sense that was left in his distressed mind. He slowed down and stared around at where he was; nearing the church which was now a nightclub and only a few yards from the supermarket he bought his groceries from. He breathed deeply, almost tasting the smells that were so prevalent in this part of town; exhaust fumes, stale sweat, babies nappies, cheap perfume and over-powering cologne. The closer he got to the supermarket though, the more the smells of the city centre were overpowered by the scents of freshly baked bread and slow roasted chicken.
The semi familiar face of an old man, perhaps in his sixties - though indefinable in age due to the fact that he had probably spent the past decade or so out in the open as a homeless vagrant - stared up at him as though he recognised Frank as a friend, a downtrodden peer. The old man held out a hand and asked for some loose change.
Frank walked on, thanking his lucky stars he was not in that position – yet – at the same time adamant in his purpose that he would never be taken in by another lost soul.
He entered the supermarket, picked up a shopping basket and whipped out his list from the back-pocket of his jeans, scanning the list for items in the order of their placement around the store. He wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. He was by no means claustrophobic, but the close proximity of other people in places such as this made him want to vomit.
He grabbed his necessities and decided that as his disability allowance had gone into his bank account only that week, he would treat himself to a rare extravagance; a rotisserie chicken from the deli counter. The boy serving him smiled as he approached and Frank felt a sense of unease at being recognised by a stranger.
“How you doing, mate?” the boy asked, and Frank stared at the multitude of roasted meats in the glass cabinet, unable to meet the friendly eyes of the counter-assistant.
“Fine,” Frank muttered, finding it impossible to cope with the simple pleasantries of verbal communication. He pointed through the glass of the cabinet and muttered, “Garlic chicken, please. Whole.”
The assistant took a set of metal thongs from the counter and reached in, plucking out the roasted carcass and depositing it into a foil bag. “You never change, do you, Frank? You must be addicted to these things.”
Frank cringed and slowly, with his neck creaking and every muscle in his spine straining with the effort raised his head to stare at the assistant. How did this boy know him? As far as he was aware he had never been to this counter before, and had certainly never sampled the fine, freshly cooked meats on display; his benefit didn’t extend to treating his taste buds to over-expensive delicacies.
The assistant weighed the wrapped chicken and slapped a price sticker on the back of it when it spat out of the machine. “You okay, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Frank grabbed the package when it was handed to him and hurried away, confused and disorientated for a brief moment. He plucked a newspaper from the stand as the cashier ran up his goods and plopped it into his basket. He couldn’t wait to be out of this place with its tantalising smells and hurrying, impatient customers vying for their places in the congested queues.
He raced up the High Street, back the way he had come, twice the speed of his normal, brisk pace, head low and a shopping bag swinging wildly from each hand. He reached the turning into his own street and now that there was hardly a soul to notice him he broke into a quick jog, his breathing becoming heavy and his chest tightening disturbingly. He almost tripped a few times in his ensuing panic but managed to keep himself upright as the black, Victorian door to his building came into view.
Unwilling to pause to fumble for his keys, he slammed a finger on the service button, used solely by the postman these days, which automatically opened the mechanical lock. He just wanted to be inside, away from the noise of traffic and horns and far-away chatter. The door closed behind him and he breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he waited for the panic to subside in the grimy, dull, littered hallway of the building. The years of nicotine addiction caused his lungs to rasp in huge, whooping noises as he fought to calm himself.
***
Inside the comforting sanctuary of his flat he tossed the shopping bags onto the work surface in the kitchen, fixed himself a strong coffee and sat at the small dining table puffing deeply on a cheap brand cigarette. His hand trembled as he raised it to take each puff, but steadied again as he laid it to rest between exhalations.
‘Why did it always have to happen?’ he thought, cursing himself for the millionth time in his life, berating his own self consciousness for daring to assume that everyone was staring at him, laughing at him. Judging him? Surely that was the highest form of arrogance, to assume that he was the only one worthy of notice and ridicule? Yet there was the contradiction of that arrogance and the low self-esteem which haunted him daily, and the nights when he couldn’t sleep.
Frank stubbed out the cigarette in the full ashtray and noticed the light blinking on the answering machine in the hall. He scratched his stubble and paused for a moment. It was rare, as rare as a flying pig that anyone ever called him, and the flashing red light sent up a warning flag in his mind. Did he want to listen to this message? Was it worth the way it would make him feel for the rest of the day? Did he need, or could he afford, double-glazing?
He depressed the button and a hiss was followed by a familiar, authoritative voice.
“Hello, Mr Chalmers, it’s Doctor Cox. I notice you’ve missed your appointment again and was wondering if everything was okay? This is the second appointment you’ve missed this week and I’m a little anxious that you haven’t been in touch. I’ll make another for, let’s say, Monday the twelfth of September at nine forty-five? Please let reception know if this is convenient for you. Hope to see you then. Bye!”
That was it, short and sweet with a slight hint of genuine concern to the voice. Frank listened to the message once more before deleting it, his forehead creased into deep lines and his eyes thoughtful. His appointment wasn’t until Thursday, which was two days away. He pulled open the drawer below the telephone table and pulled out a diary. He flicked through the well-leafed pages and found what he was looking for. There is was, Thursday 8th of September, four o’clock, appointment with Doctor Cox. It was only Tuesday. There was no mention of a previously missed appointment. The files at the surgery must have gotten mixed up, that was all. He would telephone them this afternoon to rectify the mistake.
But something nagged at him, a whispering in the back of his mind, justifying all doubts that he really had missed two appointments, and more than that, had lost a lot more than his early-learned grip on time keeping. His head was muddled, which was understandable given the strength of the various medications he was on, but surely he couldn’t have misplaced two or three days of his life?
The nagging doubts grew louder, more persuasive, and he went back into the kitchen and rummaged through the shopping bags for the newspaper he had bought. He unfolded it and held it up, scanning the top of the front page for the date.
Friday 9th September it read, and Frank collapsed into the chair at the kitchen table and almost cried out in surprise. The proof was there, in black and white, undeniable, screaming out at him that there was something very wrong with his situation. He felt like weeping. He felt like screaming.
He felt like banging his head against the table top until all rationale, what little he had, fled and left him an unconscious heap on the floor.
Instead, he rushed into the bathroom and slid open the cabinet door. He tossed pill boxes and bottles out into the sink, rummaging for the valium he kept for special occasions, when his head could no longer cope with the turmoil that rolled and crashed like tidal waves, threatening to spill him over the edge into an abyss he had visited once too often. He found the packet and stared at it incredulously: the small compartments which had held at least half a dozen of the little yellow pills were empty.
“What’s happening to me?” Frank screamed into the empty space of the bathroom, and slumped against the wall in dejected bewilderment.
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