Wide Open. Nicola Barker

the truth. If I saw him I would not photograph him. It would be so rude, don’t you think? I’ve never told Louis I feel this way. He’d scoff. I mean that’s why he’s here, after all. He has more to lose than I do. He’s been publicly and uniformly ridiculed and slandered, so that’s fair enough.

      But if I saw the oranpendic I would not photograph him. I would kneel and I would hold out my hand. I would not stare. I’d look off sideways, like a friendly cat. That’s what I’d do. I’d adopt a submissive posture.

      Oh God Ronny I wish you were here. I’m sorry you lost your hair. I am. Did I ever say that before? I can’t remember. Do you miss me? My own hair is long now. I tie it back. Otherwise it catches on twigs and on branches. It’s stupid and impractical but I’m growing it as a tribute. I’m growing it for you.

      You feel very close at this moment. Is that stupid? Are you near me? Are you out there, hiding in the jungle, watching, waiting but I just can’t see you? Is it me who’s dense or is it the forest? Is it me?

      Shut your eyes Ronny, and imagine me here. Close your eyes. Close them. Do you see me? My hair is longer. My nails are dirty. Do you see me? I am kneeling. I am holding out my hand.

      Take it.

      M.

      Ronny continued to stare at his shoes. White shoes. Then he stirred himself and picked up his bottle of weedkiller. He had walked five miles that day. He’d sprayed every crack in every bit of pavement. No weeds would come after he’d been. There would be no green after he’d been. No lush diversity in the pavement’s monotony. He’d seen to that.

      It was hot inside his helmet. But Ronny walked and he sprayed. Like a tomcat, scenting all those docile miles with the stink of poison. He didn’t think of the poison though, only of Monica. His own breath soaked his face. The forests were hot and airless. Like this, he supposed. He was close to her. She was right. He was very close. And she was certainly a rare bird.

      5

      He drove home later than he’d anticipated and hit the rush hour. In his keenness to evade it he’d skipped changing, so wore his white skin-suit, in full, but without the helmet. From the neck downwards he resembled an alien. Or an astronaut. He even wore his plastic gloves, which generated a curious friction on the steering wheel as he turned corners.

      Pulling up to a roundabout in Lee Green, Ronny noticed something exceptional. A man was standing on the island in the centre of the roundabout. He was tall with a beard, his arm was extended, his left arm, and in his hand he held something that shone in the glare of many headlights. Something gold.

      The traffic was heavy. Ronny waited his turn to join the flow. He stared at the man. Someone flashed their lights behind him. He took his chance. He pulled into the traffic. He did one circuit. He did two. On the third circuit he indicated left and slid into a parking space outside the World of Leather showroom. He sat for a while and gazed at the showroom through his windscreen. Then he climbed out of his car and walked back over to the road. He stopped at the kerb, put his hands to his lips and yelled.

      ‘RONNY!’

      The other Ronny gave no indication of having heard him so he whistled and called again.

      ‘RONNY!’

      The other Ronny turned, cocked his head to one side but did not move. Ronny waited for a gap in the traffic and then jogged over. The other Ronny continued to hold out the glittering object. It was a watch.

      Ronny raised his voice over the honk of the traffic. ‘What are you doing here?’

      The other Ronny showed him the watch.

      ‘I’m holding out this watch.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I’m offering myself. I’m offering my time. To this island.’

      After a pause he added, ‘I like that suit. You look like the Michelin Man.’

      ‘It’s protective clothing.’

      Ronny stared at the watch. It seemed familiar. The other Ronny caught him looking.

      ‘Recognize it?’

      Ronny swallowed, suddenly unnerved. ‘Should I?’

      ‘I don’t know. It’s just that I think it might be yours.’

      Ronny took a step backwards. ‘I don’t own a watch.’

      ‘Yes you do. You’re wearing one.’

      Ronny blinked. ‘I mean I don’t own that watch.’

      ‘It has an inscription on the back …’

      The other Ronny turned the watch over. Engraved in the gold were the words: ‘To Big Ron, with love, your Elaine.’

      Ronny began shaking. His suit quivered and it made a strange synthetic sound, a noise like a gust of wind hitting the canvas jib of a small sailing boat, a sound like the beat of a swan’s wings in flight. It was clearly audible but the other Ronny seemed not to notice.

      ‘I wish I could whistle like you do,’ the other Ronny said, ‘but I can’t whistle at all. I never learned.’

      ‘Whistle?’ Ronny scowled, and then recollected. ‘Oh …’ As a kind of strangled appendix he added, ‘In fact it’s my father’s watch,’ and then, with startling synchronicity, his nose began running.

      He rubbed at it with the back of his glove, but the glove was plastic and soaked up nothing. Instead it smeared moisture across his cheek for the chill evening air to tip-toe over.

      The other Ronny continued to inspect the watch. ‘It looks expensive. Will he be wanting it back?’

      ‘No.’ Ronny shook his head and then sniffed violently. The other Ronny glanced up. ‘Is something wrong?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      He focused in on Ronny’s face. His gaze was like the pure sweep of a bowling green; it was flat and it was plain and it went on and on. Ronny was alarmed. He began blinking rapidly. A nervous tic.

      The other Ronny looked crestfallen. ‘I’ve brought back some bad feelings. I’m sorry.’

      He curled his hand around the watch so that Ronny was no longer obliged to look at it. Ronny said nothing but he kept on blinking. If he stopped blinking he’d start crying and that wouldn’t do. He’d never cried.

      But he remembered the watch. Very clearly. And mixed in with the memory was the scratch of rough hessian and the pungent taint of cider vinegar. Something acrid.

      ‘Is he dead?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Big Ron.’

      ‘Yes.’ Ronny nodded.

      ‘The way you spoke earlier made it sound like he was still living.’

      ‘He is living,’ Ronny struggled. ‘I mean, in my head.’

      Again he put his gloved hand to his face.

      ‘Actually,’ the other Ronny intervened, ‘you have a rash. On your cheek. You should stop touching it.’

      Ronny took his hand from his cheek and swore softly. ‘My gloves might have chemicals on them.’

      ‘You should’ve taken them off then.’

      ‘They’re attached to the suit. I was in a hurry to return the car. It isn’t mine.’

      The other Ronny craned his neck to peer over at the car.

      ‘Green Volvo,’ he mused, unhelpfully.

      ‘Yes.’ Ronny spun around and jogged to the edge of the island. His nose was still running. His eye began stinging. He’d been clumsy. He hated himself for it.

      The other Ronny watched impassively as he jinked