“I like the job I’ve got,” I answered in a calm tone, as I struck a red slash through an entire paragraph. My aching arms prevented me working at my normal speed, as did Eric, who insisted I took a break every hour and brought me tea and crumpets on the sofa, much to Cartwright’s disapproval.
“Exam marking is hardly sufficient to keep you in groceries for the week, let alone bills and rent, and…”
“I gave you enough cash to cover this week, didn’t I? If you’d rather I went somewhere else, just say the word and I’ll pack my bags. You can finish this pile of essays on your tod.”
Depression was a bugger of a chronic illness. As if shatteringly low mood and feelings of worthlessness weren’t enough, it also brought out the worst of my character traits, namely irritability and a nasty tongue.
“We don’t want your money, Matt. We’d have you here permanently, you know that. Eric mopes like someone’s snatched his favourite toy away when you do your disappearing thing.”
Another regrettable character trait also reared its ugly head when my depression ramped up. Unexpectedly bursting into tears. It was usually a later symptom and kicked in around now, a few weeks after things reached fever pitch. Eric would always crush me to his non-existent bosom and tell me it was a good sign, that I was on the mend, that I was starting to feel again, that the numb nothingness under the grey smog was coming to an end. I was yet to be convinced.
Sure enough, like my fairy godmother, he materialised from the kitchen, throwing Cartwright a disapproving glare as my eyes filled with tears.
“Shush, sweetie. You don’t need to do anything unless you feel up to it. Helping with the essays is job enough at the moment. And anyway, ignore this horrid man, because Uncle Eric is taking you on your holibobs.”
Nothing screamed psychiatric patient as loudly as beingtakenon a trip to the seaside. They might as well have swaddled me in a straitjacket. I’d have found it laughable if meandering along the pier between two elderly minders wasn’t so tragic. Yet even a cynic like me couldn’t deny that filling my lungs with the fresh, salty breeze and watching small kids build sandcastles accelerated my return to baseline. It wasn’t on a par with my dreams of swimming with turtles in Hawaii, but, for the first time in a while, I’d showered without Eric’s gentle encouragement and dressed in clean clothes.
Cartwright and Eric often brought me down to the south coast after my downers. Sometimes, I wondered that if it wasn’t for me, they’d have moved to the seaside permanently. Bundled up for my constitutional was the highlight of my day, not only an escape from the demons in my head but from heaps of essay-marking too, which followed Cartwright everywhere.
“We’ll get that pile on the kitchen table done by teatime,” he observed, nodding to himself with satisfaction. We sat on a bench facing the sea, me wedged between the two of them. Like a pair of matching bookends, Cartwright and Eric polished off a Mr Whippy each as I idled with a bag of chips. Even when my mood improved, my appetite always dragged behind.
“The last one I marked this morning was a shocker.” I tossed a chip to a fat seagull. Fifteen of his squawking mates immediately joined him. “The guy knew fuck all about Stalin’s response to the Spanish Civil War. His references were non-existent. I could have written it ten times better myself.”
As lightbulb moments went, it wasn’t on a par with comprehending why apples fell from trees or understanding why water slopped over the sides when you plonked down in the bath. But for a bloke who only six weeks earlier couldn’t think beyond finding a very sharp implement with which to end his life, it wasn’t too bad.
“That’s what I’m going to do,” I said carefully, launching another chip at the seagulls. A noisy battle ensued as they squabbled over it. “I’m going to advertise. On the Internet. I’ll write university essays and A-level essays. For cash.”
“Students won’t buy essays.” Eric shook his head disapprovingly. “It’s cheating.”
Cartwright, with forty years of teaching under his belt, let out an amused huff at Eric’s naivety. I frowned, trying to block out their chatter, my drugged brain chasing the idea more sluggishly than I’d have liked. A week ago, I would have left it at that and given up, let the idea float away, too fatigued to pursue it. Instead, I churned it over, squinting out towards the choppy ocean and the ominous grey clouds hanging over it.
Along the shoreline, some distance away, a man dressed in a suit tramped through the sand, also lost in his thoughts. Maybe he was experiencing a eureka moment too. He was too far away to see properly, but from the hunch of his shoulders, it was more likely he’d just lost his job, or split from his wife or something equally miserable. I must have been on the mend if I could come up with money-making ideasandsummon the emotional bandwidth to empathise with a total stranger. Perhaps the Victorians had been onto something when they flocked to the beaches to paddle in the waters.
“There’s no reason to limit myself to the UK either,” I continued, fleshing out my idea. “I could write history essays for students in America too. Or Australia.”
“Can you do that on the Internet?”
Eric’s voice was full of wonder. A boxy old Dell computer squatted on their dining room table. Cartwright could frequently be found glued to it; Eric skirted it as if it radiated plutonium. I shrugged. “Yeah. It’s the World Wide Web? You advertise all over. I bet there are people out there doing this already.”
“You’re kidding me.” Eric sounded appalled. “Listen, sweetie. It’s cheating. You’ll go to prison if you get caught.”
Cartwright and I exchanged a look before Cartwright leaned across and patted his dear lover’s knee. “I’m not entirely sure the justice system works like that, my love.”
Sitting back, he tilted his face up towards the watery sun, a slow smile spreading across his wrinkly features. He gave me a nudge and I almost caught myself smiling back. “There’s nothing illegal about writing essays, Leeson. Nothing at all. What people choose to do with them is entirely their business.”
FUCK FOREVER
(BABYSHAMBLES)
ALEX 2005
When I finished puking, and finally hauled myself upright again, Gerard was long gone, thank God. But his whereabouts were an irrelevance. I’d encouraged his overtures and that was enough. The fact I hadn’t followed through didn’t matter; I’d flirted back. Eagerly. I’d wanted the warm hand on my thigh to slide up to my cock. I’d wanted to cheat on my wife.
Whether cheating was with a man, or a woman was of no consequence.
The certainty I couldn’t continue my charade of a happy marriage hit me with a sudden burst of clarity, at some time around 4 a.m. In the dim gloom of a sterile hotel room, I took my frustration out on the lumpy pillow, smacking it with my fist before launching it at the dreary painting on the opposite wall with a sob of despair. Samantha deserved the truth. I did not love her. Not enough, anyhow, and I suspected her love for me had waned considerably, too. The stress of failing to conceive had exposed irreparable cracks in our marriage. We needed to separate so she could find a good solid guy, worthy of fathering her baby. I was not that man. The sooner we split, so she could move onto someone else, the better.
Typically, I aced the bloody job interview, having been in two minds whether to turn up at all. After nodding off at around six in the morning, I’d not given myself a whole amount of time to make a sensible decision. Between attempting to rid my mouth of the sensation that a skunk had crawled into it, then forcing down two cups of bitter coffee blended with powdered milk, my exhausted, alcohol-soaked brain cells concluded that moving to a job at the far end of the country would enable Samantha to have the fresh start she needed. I would let fate decide, because, as I studied my puffy grey complexion in the shaving mirror, I also concluded the chances of them selecting me as their suitable candidate would be incredibly slim.