The Identity Knot - Seventeen

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Reader discretion: Contains descriptions some may find offensive.

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Seventeen

I came to in a corridor. My whole body ached, and there was dried blood on my nose. Shoes reposed on the periphery, but I daren’t look at them yet. I remembered Djimon and the coat—which seemed to have vanished, leaving me with only dead dad’s jacket once more—and, nothing else. I put my hand to my head, grimacing as I did. God! What had happened? I got to my aching and tender feet: those damned blisters! How had I ended up here, and where was “here” anyway? The second time I’d awoken in a strange place with no idea as to how I’d gotten there. I became aware of voices: a hubbub, somewhere off to my far right. I groaned, shaking my head from side to side, running both hands through my thinning hair. Images flashed before me: a girl. A line of people. A death. And then I knew where I was. I was inside. Inside the Department of Recruitment and Conflict. Although I still had no recollection as to exactly how I’d gotten in. I realised my limbs weren’t as numb as before, that it was warmer in here. So this was the place?

‘A poplin shirt,’ I mumbled to myself, pulling open my laces, easing one shoe off, then the other, before taking my socks off and pushing them into the shoes. ‘A “mouthful of roots”, mos maiorum. Oh blessed relief . . . I thank you. I thank you. I thank you,’ I continued muttering to myself, the cool air and cushy fibres of the carpet briefly alleviating the horrors of injury and physical turpitude which had so cursed me of late. Tying my laces together I hung the shoes around my neck, then crept back down to the floor and curled up in a ball. Seconds later, I was asleep once again.

I awoke the second time with a clearer mind and more able body, even my blisters seemed less of an affliction to my delicate soul. The queue continued on, the people not paying me any attention, coming from a turning a short way down on my left, passing me, continuing up the corridor, then stretching off into the distance. Getting up, I stretched, yawned, deciding to keep my shoes around my neck, socks tucked inside. The carpet was thick, and pleasurable to walk on, I would put them back on later. What I wanted was the actual head of the beast. The end of the line. And all I had to do was follow the queue. It would take me where I needed to go. If only I could get some paracetamol, my head was killing me. My dead man’s clothes hung off me like I was a skeleton, and my neck creaked every time I moved it. I walked slowly, passing giant grainy photographs of the Recruitment and Conflict building being constructed; to my bewildered mind, the whole thing looked like a vast gutted leviathan—a cosmic traveller, disembowelled, eviscerated, decimated—tamed by pitiful human enterprise. Following the line proved more difficult than I’d first anticipated, as it seemed to double back on itself, go upstairs to one side of the building and then back down to the other side. It never ended. I just followed people propping open doors, sitting on stairs, shuffling bags along, and looking at their phones. There was no head. It was all body.

‘Excuse me? Can you tell me where the Appeals office is? Excuse me? Can you . . . can anyone tell me where the office for Appeals is?’ but no one could. They all pressed into themselves, staring at the floor, avoiding my gaze. ‘Can anyone—’

Ahead of me was a crossroads. To my left stretched an empty corridor, one lined with photographs, a pristine taupe carpet, even a couple of closed doors, whilst to my right . . .

‘Hey, shut the fuck up!’

‘Huh?’ I turned, to find the queue slowly moving forward two steps. ‘Who said that?’ but no one responded. I was left to my own devices, following the people down another passage and through another set of fire doors. Someone coughed. Halfway down the next hall, the people suddenly all disappeared. Was this it? Had the time come? Pushing my body further than it wanted to go, I quickly limped to the door and peered through: it was just another staircase. I shoved past several people, ignoring their pitiful remonstrations, madly dashing up to the next floor . . . only to see another corridor, with the same line of people once more stretching off into the distance.

‘Hey, does anyone know where I go for Appeals?’ a heavily bearded man to my immediate right shrugged. He was wearing a check shirt. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, but he refused to respond any further. “There’s nothing more brainless than the general public . . .” Zola had written, in his book The Masterpiece, although . . . I couldn’t remember actually reading it. Maybe it had been a quote from Camping Globe? I thought it appropriate now though, to see all these woeful humans before me, their heads bowed, their faces glum.

‘You,’ I picked the least degenerate character I could see in my immediate vicinity. ‘How much further?’ the man was wearing a light blue suit, and was bald down the middle of his head, with salt and pepper patches above his ears.

‘Is that a trick question?’

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘How do you know where I’m going?’

‘I’m going where you’re going.’

‘But . . . how do you know that?’ the man spluttered.

‘Because we’re in the same queue!’

‘But this queue goes all over the building.’

‘Okay. How much further is the Appeals office?’

‘Which Appeals office? There’s about six different ones for six types of appeal. In fact, there could be even more.’

‘Are you trying to be fucking funny with me?’

‘I’m not. And I would appreciate it if you would desist from conversation with me.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, and why do you have my suitcase?’ I’d suddenly spied the man’s case, next to his feet.

‘I have answered your question, and that is not your case!’

‘I think you’ll find, it is.’

‘I think you’ll find. It is not! Now, run along, and leave me alone. I’m stressed enough as it is.’

‘Why are you stressed?’

‘Because I won the lottery last night, and ever since then I’ve been in this abominable queue, with my guts rotting from stress, and exhalations of no small note emitting from every orifice. I’m tired, I’m hungry and I want you to leave me alone. Please!’

‘I will not.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want your suitcase.’

‘Well . . . sir. You cannot have it.’

‘But . . . I want it.’

‘You cannot . . . have it!’ the man was puffing, his shoulders thrust forwards, his lip curling.

‘I’ll pay you.’

‘I do not want money, thank you kindly.’

‘Well, what else do you want?’

‘What do you have, that I could possibly want?’

‘Your place in the queue.’

‘How could you, have my place? I am in my place, and you . . . you are in yours.’

‘We’ll swap.’

‘But that doesn’t answer my question . . .’

‘Do you want to swap, or not?’

‘No. I do not! Go away and leave me alone.’

‘Even if it meant you’d get to where you’re going quicker?’

‘If I left the line, I’d get in trouble. The line is here for a reason, and I stand for that reason. The queue is for order. And . . .’

‘And what?’ I balanced on one foot, moving my head from side to side, my shoes bumping against me.

‘Will you please stop doing that!’

‘Give me your suitcase.’

‘If I give it to you, will you go away?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then . . . why on earth should I give it to you, if not to facilitate your swift and immediate exodus?’

‘Because I’ll go away.’

‘But you just said . . .’

‘Give me the suitcase.’

The man thrust the suitcase at me. ‘Take it! They probably won’t let me bring it anyway . . . or, if they do . . . I’d prefer to give it to you and make you disappear, like a fucking magician with a fucking rabbit in a hat!’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much! I’ll put my things in it right away! I’ve just got to get them. Let me see . . . firstly,’ I put the suitcase on the ground, then sat in front of it crossed-legged, removing the possessions from the case one by one and laying them carefully out on the floor. ‘There’s Fernand Léger’s Jacket . . . oh, and then there’s The Nomenklatura Half-boots! We can’t forget them! And then The Decent Double-Breasted Suit, followed by The Winter Hat, The Driving Gloves, The Finnish Crêpe Socks, the Officer’s Belt, and lastly, The Poplin shirt. Now, it’s all here!’ I smiled, contented, while the line shuffled on, impassive to my childlike delight. Eventually, I got up, testing the case in each hand. ‘Definitely best in the left . . . or, maybe the right. What do you think?’ I looked up, expecting to see the man, but he’d already gone, only strangers remained. He hadn’t even fetched the contents of the case, maybe afraid to even leave the queue for a second.

Further down, I found a door, and that door led me where I needed to go.

The open plan office area for the Application of Appeals to the Lottery (A.A.L.) was, as expected, a surreal experience: firstly, in size and in scope, it was a grand room. A bowed ceiling curved graciously above my head, curvilinear lines arcing in all directions. There were seemingly hundreds of desks, with little men and women on each side, all in wonderfully animated discussion; no doubt, one side were begging for their lives, whilst the other peered at their screens and shook their poor darling heads: ‘I’m afraid there’s really nothing I can do.’ Phones rang, people typed incessantly on keyboards, leaned into monitors—whole lives etched into their electronic VDUs—cubicles dotted hither and thither broke up the space of the room, compartmentalising it. The head of the snake I’d been following for several hours now, appeared at several doors around one wall of the room, before splintering off in all directions, leaving by the double doors across the way, with “Departures” written above it, like they were going on holiday. I’d received several looks from STAFF already, but no one had said anything yet. No one from the queue even so much as glanced at me. I was happy though, with the case in my hand, my oversized suit, bare feet, and shoes that were too small around my neck.

‘I need to find you,’ I murmured, scanning the room. ‘You’re here somewhere . . . you bureaucrat you. I’ll find you, and waggle my shoes in your face, or else dance like a monkey, or a bull . . . on your desk . . . the power of life and death in this very room . . . with all their computers . . . and buttons sated with microorganisms, their eyes weak and watery from staring at screens all day, their arses flabby from immobility and poor diet . . . oh yes, they choose who goes and who stays, but not this fellow . . .! Not this fellow . . . oh, you can look! Yes . . . you can look . . . as I pass by, barefooted, like some vagabond from a back alley without mind, or clear wit . . . yet I have wit enough to see you . . . all of you . . . sitting there while millions sally forth and are never seen again . . . and your jobs are secure! Of course you get your pensions and health checks, don’t you? You’re safe and snug, and fuck those others that don’t, because as long as you’re happy . . .’

*

RL Mia came back one Thursday, when Mia Two and I were sitting drinking coffee at the kitchen table. All I heard was the front door opening and closing, and then someone moving around in one of the other rooms. Mia Two called out, but no one answered and so we went to investigate, ending up in the bathroom, only to find a semi-naked woman in the process of stripping off her clothes (wig and all). Mia. But, she’d even taken that from me, changing her name by deed poll to something unworthy of her stature. Mia Two was excited and in good spirits, I was floored. What did I have now? Not even a name.

Later, RL Mia told us that Graham had discovered her prosthetic penis and been quite upset, throwing her out of his house there and then, whereby she’d decided to get rid of Michael Glambon forever, starting afresh as a polymorph. She said all these words, but I heard nothing, because I had nothing. Mia had been a unique entity, it was Mia I’d married, Mia I’d fallen in love with, and now I had a person who was only the memory of a person. The two girls couldn’t understand my mood, and so I went to my room and drank some red wine, smoking countless cigarettes, as I listened to them laughing and talking, knowing I’d lost them both. I couldn’t even bring myself to say her new name, it was an aberration. I decided to stick to calling her RL Mia, whilst the other girl was now Not Mia. As names went they didn’t roll off the tongue, but I no longer cared. All my patience, all my love and commitment, and this was what I got. She didn’t even have the guts to get rid of me, to break up the relationship. Break up. Sounded ridiculous, like I was still at school. I resolved to leave within the week, it was no longer the same flat, I didn’t feel comfortable there, I didn’t feel welcome. At all.

During the night, RL Mia came to me, whispering into my ear. She asked what was wrong, why I’d been so upset with her. And I couldn’t respond, mostly because I didn’t know where to begin. Where did I begin? With the lists, or the case notes? I was upset with everything, with her, with myself. With the world. But, mostly with myself. I knew I was weak, I knew she could have me back, or that I’d never even gone. I knew it all, and we played some semblance of a game where I pretended I was leaving and she pretended to beg me to change my mind, I pretended to think about it, and said I’d sleep on it. I thought she might come into my bed then, but she didn’t. She told me, she’d never leave me. And then she left, and I was alone once more.

Mia’s obsession with herself and her self-image was exhausting on every level. I’d been allowed to be a spectator, but only at a remote location. Mia was the star and she let me know at every opportunity: she wanted to be anything other than a woman called Mia, but she also needed someone to see how far she’d come. It was one thing being able to fool people, but eventually that became too easy, and unmasking herself and watching their ‘stupid, bemused faces’ was no good either. Mia needed me to justify her. I’d seen all the transformations, from cocoon to butterfly, to Glambon. No one knew how far she’d come except me, and she knew that. Whatever her motives, I was there to watch from the sidelines and witness her glory, nothing else.

In the morning the three of us sat around the kitchen table, and there was a semblance of harmony. No one spoke of recriminations, the radio played the latest tunes, the sun bled through the dusty windows. Reality seemed far away. Both girls talked a lot, while I drank strong coffee. I went to work with a heavy heart, knowing they would be together all day, talking about me, not talking about me. I thought about the name change and what it meant, if anything, wandering aimlessly between the photocopier and my desk, pretending I was sick to anyone that asked. For the rest of the afternoon I locked myself in a toilet cubicle with my head in my hands wondering what had gone so wrong. All I’d wanted was someone to love, a partner, and what had I got? I knew RL Mia had come back for a reason, some crackpot scheme she wanted me to help her with, as per my remit as submissive. But I felt absolutely exhausted.

In the end, she didn’t ask me to do anything, as both of them were out when I got back, which was a blessed relief. I thought about packing up my things, leaving and never saying goodbye, but the thought of a flat of my own seemed empty, and a bit boring. I made a sandwich, eating it in my room, whilst reading, then showered, thinking about Mia. Thinking about both of them. As the evening drew on, my mind began to race with all the possible scenarios the two women could have gotten themselves into, none of them were particularly pleasant. I wanted to be in a relationship. That much I was sure of. I just didn’t know what kind of relationship I wanted. Mia was difficult. . . . Or, was I the difficult one? Was I too needy? Too neurotic? Deciding I needed to shut my brain down for a bit I drank some Scotch, which gave me a headache. I went to bed, taking the remainder of my drink with me, although I left it, untouched, on the floor by my bed. I was awoken by loud music and voices sometime during the night. I’d locked my bedroom door so as not to be disturbed, but after peeping out, I went, bleary-eyed, to the kitchen to see what was going on.

Mia had brought guests. Two men and a woman. According to Not Mia, they were performance artists! These people were going to help RL Mia find herself again, apparently. Deciding that I could find my own self quite easily, I went back to my bedroom. Some of us still had jobs to go to in the morning.

This stage marked the beginning of the end for our little group and would prove the most tiresome. Even so, I played my part well, right up until the end. But before my freedom and exoneration, RL Mia emerged from another Gravidity. This one entirely different from the last. And it began by us all dressing up as cheese plants. That was what these people Mia had found, these artists, counselled. We got the outfits from the internet, with giant pots that we could stand in. The suits were green leotards, with nylon leaves sewn into the arms, legs and torso, so that we looked like children’s television presenters, or something like that. RL Mia arranged that we were to be at a party of a friend of hers, and she told us that we were not to react to anything any of the guests did to us. This was paramount. She told us that if we did anything other than stare straight ahead she would kick us out of the flat there and then. Strangely, both Not Mia and I entered the challenge with the same fervour as that of RL Mia. The party was moderately civilised and I must say, we all did very well, despite food and alcohol being sprayed over us in equal measure; both women were somewhat mauled—I had my genitals cupped several times—but we survived with our pride mostly intact.

During this frenetic period I started to have memory problems. Nothing specific, just random hiccups like everyone did: I’d go into a room and forget why, I’d miss appointments, occasionally names, things like that. The girls thought it was funny, saying I was getting old, and no one really worried, or paid it any attention. I think RL Mia was hypermanic at this point, she hardly slept, she talked a lot, dressing in all manner of crazy outfits and prosthetics Not Mia and I found scary and hilarious in equal measure. It seemed nothing was beyond her chameleonic abilities. I found myself asking random strangers in the street if they were Mia simply because she could have been anywhere: watching me, following me. But she no longer responded to that name, and wouldn’t have answered if she was.

Different people kept coming to the flat whom we’d never seen before and RL Mia expected us to host, while she drove hundreds of miles to get something she thought she needed for one of her costumes. She took us to private parties dressed as unicorns with rainbow butt plugs streaming from our behinds, or esoteric orgies in partially-built houses in the woods where we were the main attraction, either as flora, household pets, furniture, or some other oddity. The girls’ life exhausted me, psychologically and physically. RL Mia would encase me in wood for hours, for no discernible reason. Along with the two girls I played a human chair, a human footstool, a table, a chest of drawers. Even part of a human bed. And everywhere people welcomed us in to their homes, where they had ebon dungeons arrayed with every toy under the sun.

To cope with RL Mia’s increasingly erratic nature, and this abrupt change in my otherwise prosaic lifestyle I upped my alcohol intake, so that I was drunk nearly every day. And as my alcohol consumption rose, so did my memory lapses, whole days disappearing into a bottle, or can, or whatever I could get my hands on. I hated myself, my life, and everything around me. I had vague, drunken images of being angry, but when I woke, everything always seemed the same. Day after day. Work and then play, over and over. Until one morning I emerged from a particularly vicious booze-fuelled frenzy to find myself alone; both girls gone. There was no note, no explanation, and no sign of their clothes or belongings. It seemed I was no longer part of the plan. It was then I realised I could toss the fake wallet Frewd had manipulated and be whoever I wanted to be. I no longer had to think about Mia, any Mia. And then the war started, and the draft, and lots of other bad things. I stayed in numerous Bed and Breakfasts. But I didn’t mind, it was quieter. Everything was quieter post Mia.

Someone I’d loved, hadn’t loved me. Someone I’d loved had been unstable, choosing to be anyone but a girl named Mia. Someone I’d loved had decided to be polymorphic (whatever that meant). Someone I’d loved, had used me for their own purposes. That person was now gone, and it was for the best. It was all for the best.

And yet . . .

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