True Things About Me

Deborah Kay Davies, Deborah Kay Davies

• Publisher: Canongate Books
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN:
  9781847678300
• eBook ISBN:
  9781847679130
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

NOW A MAJOR MOTION FILM CALLED TRUE THINGS

From their first encounter, late one night in an underground car park, the narrator of True Things About Me is intoxicated by a stranger who seems to overwhelm her quiet life. But beneath the surface something takes hold that will drive her to extremes of pleasure - and finally, on a cold and eerie night to face up to her fate.

I get tied up once in a while

I WAS SUMMONED to the head of human resources’ office. He wasn’t someone any of us knew very well. It was the first I’d heard of him. I had been hoping, when I gave it a thought, that no one had noticed my slightly spasmodic work attendance over the past months. Obviously I had been wrong; these people notice every sad little thing. The room was in a part of the building I had never seen before. I walked slowly up this weird corridor, reading all the names on the doors until I found the right one. It occurred to me that he could just be an actor, someone they employed for the day to do interviews with rubbish employees. I knocked and entered. He looked the part anyway. Sit down, he said, and went on shuffling through a file. He read it for so long I thought it must be about me.

I checked everything out. No photos on display, just one of those stupid pens jammed in a holder stuck to the desk like a thrown dart. Yep, it all looked like a stage set. There were shelves and shelves of ring binders full of Health and Safety information. God, I thought, the poor bloke must be so bored, but then I remembered the day job idea. It was a way of earning some dosh. Finally, because I felt he was overdoing the file-reading sequence, I was forced to ask him if he found the story of my life interesting. He looked up slowly. The story of your life is of no concern to us, he said. Believe me. And this, he held up the file, is not about you. What we are concerned about is your productivity, or lack of it.

He talked a lot – blah, blah, blah – and I sat there blinking. Honestly I could actually hear myself blink. His shoes looked like enormous wholemeal pasties. His socks had little pink pigs on them. And then I realised he was expecting me to say something. So I said I was sorry, that I had been involved in some big family problems. I told him if he read the records properly he would find that I had an excellent attendance record up till now. Well, that’s not strictly true, is it? he asked, and smiled mostly with his lower lip. Excellent is not the word we would use if we were being accurate, is it? So I babbled on about everything being resolved. I told him I was now back on track. We all hope so, he said, without emphasis. Because as I said at the beginning of this conversation, this is your first official warning. Then there was more blahhing as I backed out of the office. Thank you very much, I said as I closed the door. Maybe it had been a real interview, I thought.

In the loo Alison told me I should be careful. You don’t seem to understand, she said, after I’d explained my idea about the actor/head of department/stage set thing. You may lose your job. Then what? Dunno, I said, but chill. I told her she worried too much. Everything will work out, I said. It always does. Actually, babe, she said, sometimes it doesn’t. Has some alien entity sucked your tiny brain out of your earhole while you slumbered? She seemed really down. Are you angry with me, Alison? I asked. Have I said something to piss you off? You poor, clueless thing, she said, of course not. All I’m saying is, for starters, stop missing work. Just promise me that at least.

Suddenly I felt scared. I felt myself shrivelling. Now don’t cry, you silly noodle. She sounded brisk, like a teacher handing out one’s pitiful maths test results. Just sort yourself out. She gave me a tissue, then took it from me and wiped my face. Honestly what planet are you on? Planet-I-don’t-think-I’ve-got-a-hope, I said. Well, come back to earth, she said, and gave me a hug. You really are a full-time job at the moment. Am I? I said.

It was lunchtime so we went to a café in town. I couldn’t find my purse so Alison bought me a bowl of soup and a roll. Now, she said, spooning hers into her mouth, I want to see you eat all that up. You are getting too skinny. I told her I couldn’t seem to do stuff any more. Yes, you can, she said, breaking my roll in half and smearing butter on it, you just have to concentrate. And eat. Alison didn’t seem her usual self to me. I sense you are being a little unfeeling, I told her. I’m struggling, you know. Yeah, well, life is hard, ducks. We all struggle. This is tough love, she said, dunking her bread. El Tougho Luvvo, baby. That’s what I think you need. Everybody does.

I stood up, but kept my voice low. Since when did you have all the answers about what I need? I said. Everybody? Who’s everybody? I could hear my voice getting louder. You and Tom and the children-from-hell? Those clueless, moustached, pot-bellied, female drones in work? I shouted. God, I thought, bloody Alison. I watched her as she sat there, hoovering soggy blobs of bread into her mouth. I s’pose the baby told you what I need as well? I asked her. Then I wished I hadn’t mentioned him. He was entitled to his opinion.

Whatever, she said, waving her hand languidly, still smugly munching. Alison, I told her, you don’t know shit. I felt good saying it. Then I walked away. She called after me; there’s really no need to explain to me about the baby’s injuries, or apologise. I’m sure you didn’t mean to, as usual. Oh and thanks for the candlestick and the little cushion thing though; très, très chic. I came back to the table. Obviously gifts are wasted on you, I said. But then I had to tell her how sorry I felt about the darling baby. She didn’t say it was all right though, just went on slurping her disgusting soup.

I drifted through town thinking how ungrateful Alison was, how she didn’t understand me and my situation. Probably because my life was so strange and exciting, and hers was so, well, bland and uneventful. But at the same time I knew I didn’t understand either, that recently I’d felt like a punctured balloon darting about at a party I wasn’t even invited to, making a slightly embarrassing sound. So really, how could Alison have the answers? I couldn’t blame her for losing interest in me. I was boring myself into a coma. It was all so tiring. I knew I had to go back to work, but I held my phone and waited. I was just about to send an abject apology to her when miraculously he sent me a text; just an address and the word NOW after it.

I ran to my car and drove. I felt ultra-alive as I dodged the traffic. Then I was at the entrance to an expensive-looking block of flats. He buzzed me, and I stood in the carpeted lift, silently flying upwards. He was waiting, and I ran into his lovely arms like a girl in a drippy, romantic novel. I started telling him about Alison and the meeting, but he kissed me. Forget that dreary bitch, he said, and the fucking personnel wanker. Both losers. Come in. The flat was elegant, with huge windows. Outside clean-cut seagulls hovered and banked. It’s fabulous, I said. Is it yours? I remembered the grotty house with the smashed window. You and your little, tiny, picky questions, he answered, and playfully tapped my nose. What would you like to drink?

I chose Baileys. I wanted something sweet and comforting. I sniffed the creamy liquid. Come on, drink up, he said, wandering around, his bare feet leaving indentations in the thick carpet. OK, so, first, it’s way too light in here, he said, and he went to a control panel and fiddled. The curtains closed. I was sorry the seagulls had gone. Now we can relax and get drunk he told me. Do you agree? I said yes, I did.

The Baileys was warm, I could feel it spreading through my bloodstream, travelling along each limb, making my legs heavy and fuzzed up. Unkinking everything. One lamp glowed on a small glass table. He sat back on the huge suede sofa. Take off those disgusting tights, he said, relax. I propped myself up on the cushions and he took my feet in his lap. He looked all creamy and gold in the lamplight. You have beautiful feet, he said, and kissed them. He massaged the arches and I lay back and closed my eyes. Keep drinking, he said. The aching, frozen area between my shoulder blades melted. Instead it felt as if something warm and heavy were tumbling down my spine.

After a while he told me to take off my clothes. He told me to stand in front of him and do it. My clothes all slipped off. He gestured for me to give them to him. He held my knickers and buried his face in them. You’d better have a shower, he said. He was drinking whisky. I drank again from the heavy glass he’d refilled for me. I was entirely in his hands. You can do whatever you want to me, I told him. I know, he said, and led me to the bathroom. He helped me into the shower and turned it on. He adjusted the temperature of the water. Now wash yourself properly, and don’t forget your hair.

I splashed all sorts of gorgeous things over myself from the row of bottles on a glass shelf in the shower area. The hot water, the alcohol, the perfume in the shower mist, being with him, sent me somewhere. As I turned off the water I heard music coming from the lounge. I was drying myself when he came into the bathroom. He peed in the sink, and then told me to get back in the shower. You can wash me now, he said. I poured something from one of the bottles over his shoulders and began to soap his chest and belly. He had a scar, still slightly red, that looked almost like a flower just below his ribs on the left side. A slight altercation, he said. When I touched it he pushed my hand away. The crown of my head came up to the level of his nipples. I sucked them until they stood out. He kept his eyes closed and sipped from his whisky glass. It was so wonderful. And my cock, he said, and smiled.

We dried each other and chose perfumes to put on. He led me into another room off the bathroom and sat me in front of a mirrored dressing table. Then he dried my hair, brushing until it clicked with static. His body was wet and evenly coloured, almost unreal. I’m good at doing this, he said, and wound my hair into a thick coil. He used it like a rope to pull my head backwards. I could feel my neck being stretched taut. Try to swallow, he said. You can’t, can you? I watched his reflection in the mirror. He laughed softly and held his erect penis, moving his hand up and down the shaft. He let my hair go and squeezed my breast until I screamed. That feels fucking great to me, he whispered. Tell me how you feel. Shall I do it again? He stood behind and held my breasts. Then he twisted them in his fists. I could feel his penis between my shoulder blades. Tell me when to stop. But I didn’t. You bitch, he said. Are you coming already?

I loved watching us in the mirror. We looked like people in a film. Now I want you to wear this, he said, and tied a silky mask over my eyes. Is that OK? I felt peaceful with my eyes covered. He led me back into the lounge and helped me to sit on what felt like a dining chair. He positioned my arms and legs. I’m using your tights to tie you, he said. I could hear him ripping them. I felt him wrapping the flimsy fabric round each ankle, and winding it round the chair legs. He pushed my knees apart. Are you comfortable? Try and move. Now I’m going to tie your hands behind your back. Have another drink. He held the glass to my lips, and as I drank some dripped onto my raw breasts. I told him my arms hurt, but he didn’t answer. Are you going to fuck me now? I asked. Questions again, he said and slapped me short and hard on the side of my face. I won’t be long.

I waited. Jazz was playing, music I didn’t understand. I felt absolutely alone, and aware of everything around me, my body weak and slack. But somewhere inside my ribs, or pelvis, I was intensely clasped and trembling, almost in pain. Then he was back, and his mood had changed, I could sense immediately. His hands were shaking, his breathing quick and shallow. I told him I needed the bathroom. He pulled my hair as he took the mask away. I felt as if it had melded to my face, and he was peeling my skin off. I kept my eyes shut.

Have you taken something? I asked. Not fucking now, he said. Christ, you’re not going to fucking chat, are you? And pushed my balled-up knickers into my mouth. I stayed perfectly still as he began to do things to me. Tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes. I could hear him grunting. He hurt me, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t look at him at all.

Then I felt him untying me. He was breathing quickly. He made me lie on the floor with a cushion under my hips, and took the little wet bundle out of my mouth. He stood above me, and I forced myself to look at him. His body was shiny with sweat, his ribs standing out, stomach slack. His jaw seemed wrong. In the corners of his mouth were little spots of foam. Only the whites of his eyes were visible, and I was sure he couldn’t see me. I said his name but he didn’t hear me. He was holding a shiny black dildo in his hand. I could see his erection had disappeared, and he was trying to activate it again, muttering to himself. He kneeled down between my legs. Scream now, and I’ll kill you, he said. I swear to God I will.

There was a hammering sound. Someone banging at the door, but it felt part of what I was feeling. I couldn’t tell. He leaped upright as the lights snapped on. There were two men in the room. I lay on the floor with the thing he’d used still inside me. One of the men lunged and punched him, but he hardly swayed. The three of them stood poised, looking at each other. The other man said, I told you not to come here any more, you bastard. He stood between them, naked, then he put his arm round the man who’d punched him and pulled him near. He was laughing and dancing on the spot. Don’t ever do that again, he whispered into his hair. The two men seemed wary of him. Then one of them nudged me with his foot. What’s this, you naughty boy? he asked. Nothing, he answered. Then they started laughing loudly, and went into the kitchen. I heard one of them telling him to get his clothes on. It sounded as if they were starting to cook something. After a while he shouted to me. Get up, he said. Your taxi will be here in five.

I don’t talk to the animals

THE TAXI DROVE away. Then I walked up my garden path. The house was just the same. For a while I couldn’t get my key in the lock. I stood outside and checked I was in the right street; perhaps this was not my place. But then the key turned. I let the door swing open. There was a message on the answerphone. That was the first thing I saw; my ridiculous answerphone on the hall table. On-off, on-off, on-off. I watched the red light blinking like a third, faltering eye. Although I knew, it took me a while to work out what the tiny light meant. Red was for danger, surely. Or pain. I didn’t have the strength to listen anyway, so I drifted past and stood in the kitchen.

I thought how sweet the kitchen looked. The things I’d bought. It made me laugh. I felt as if all my bones were broken into gravel; my whole skeleton crushed to pieces of shale. How was I standing upright? It wasn’t possible. And yet I was. The amazing broken, unbreakable girl! If I’d had the energy to jump up and down I’d have probably sounded like a box of dried peas. Here were my nice things I’d gone out and chosen. It was tragic really. I picked up my kettle and remembered how, after I’d got it, I kept on filling it with water and switching it on. Just to hear that cute whistle. Like the sound a nana’s kettle would make in the kitchen of a plump, biscuit-baking nana. My reflection in its shiny surface showed me with a huge, pendulous nose and minuscule squinty eyes. Ravishing.

Something terrible has happened to me, I whispered, standing in the kitchen. It was like a film set. Obviously the kitchen of a nice woman. I could see her darling children arriving home from school waving their A-grade test papers. Hungry for homespun, vitaminy meals. And then her muscly husband. Maybe he’d bend her over the sink and push his huge schlong up under her pinny. Shove, shove, shove, and kerpow! Her glossy hair would swing softly. All the time she’d be stirring something delicious on the stove, maybe even feeding the hamster. But stop, I thought. Who cares about that stupid woman? I have experienced something very bad and serious. Surely something horrible and wrong. Or maybe it was wonderful. I couldn’t tell yet.

Then I began to sense a soft, pink balloon of pure happiness grow in my chest, so I sat down and laughed until it drifted up into my head. This balloon, it was like a barometer, and I knew it showed me things. So I concentrated on the way it moved to fill each hollow and shelf inside my skull, and while that happened I watched the evening lower itself into the garden. Through the kitchen window I could see my wrought-iron table and chairs quietly standing on the patio. A slim, grey cat I’d never seen before leaped up onto the table and surveyed the garden, then turned to look at the house. I wondered if it saw me. I hated that cat sitting on my table, its smug face, but there was nothing I could do about it. Beyond the cat I could make out, at the end of the lawn, my cream roses like miniature lamps amongst the tangled, darkening hedgerow.

On the horizon the hills waited for the evening to reach them. I knew my house was closing in around me, like a slowly shutting, plush-filled shell. And I would be the skinless creature curled up inside. I could be safe in here. Then I felt a cold breeze flowing in from the hall. I ran to the front door, it was yawning open. How had I left it unclosed? How could I have done that? It was a thing I never did.

On the front step the grey cat sat upright staring at me. Shoo! Get lost! I shouted, but it didn’t move. Its eyes were the colour of pale green grapes. The cat and the sky over the houses were exactly the same colour. Maybe the cat was the evening, come to bless me, help me rest, I thought. No, that couldn’t be right; I had always been afraid of cats. So I pushed it with my foot, not hard, just firmly, but it still sat on, gazing. I slammed the door and locked it. Then I bent down and peeped through the letter box. The cat was walking away up the garden path, its tail twitching. As I crouched, watching, I felt bereft; I’d denied a harmless animal shelter. Didn’t that mean I was a really cold person? Now I wished I’d asked it in. Given the poor creature some milk maybe. It would have been lovely to listen to it purring, coiled round my legs on the sofa.

I lay down and covered myself with a blanket that was usually draped over the back of the sofa for decoration. I turned on the TV and switched channels. It was incredible, on every programme they seemed to be talking about me. Some aspect of my stupid life was being examined. The pictur...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Also by Deborah Kay Davies
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• I go underground
• I don’t value my possessions
• I get reflective
• I talk to the animals
• I am abandoned by my mother
• I serve unusual nibbles
• I advise on sartorial issues
• I make people materialise
• I misuse bread
• I always deliver
• I keep in touch
• I entertain at home
• I am not always available
• I have titanic dreams
• I get lots of fresh air
• I believe that size matters
• I eat colour coordinated snacks
• I agree to things blindly
• I feel sick of visitors
• I show too much
• I am a one-trick pony
• I gather at the river
• I do some double-talking
• I indulge in retail therapy
• I get tied up once in a while
• I don’t talk to the animals
• My timing is dead on
• I pour cold water on events
• I provide bed and breakfast
• I’m at home to Mr Truthful
• I have red letter days
• I don’t like parties
• I go to the pictures
• I plan my menus
• I cook up a storm
• I’m on the outside
• I have a houseful
• I get blue
• I go head over heels
• I bleed publicly
• I can’t stop myself
• I dig without due care
• I feel empty sometimes
• I dream, baby
• I innovate with soft furnishings
• Acknowledgements