Carnivore: The most controversial debut literary thriller of 2017. Jonathan Lyon
subject. ‘And now it’s being rented out by parasites like your boyfriend. Landlords should be outlawed and hunted down for sport and shot.’
She sashayed to a song that only she could hear, swigging from the bottle.
‘Aren’t you going to say that your boyfriend shouldn’t be hunted down for sport and shot?’ I asked. ‘You’re not defending him as vigorously as you were earlier.’
‘Oh leave it out, Leander. Can’t you just enjoy the view? Life is about to happen to us!’ But she said her catchphrase with no conviction.
‘There’ll be a revolution soon,’ I said.
‘And who’s going to control the houses?’
‘A computer.’
‘And then?’ she asked, still sashaying. ‘Are you going to be the emperor?’
I closed my eyes until I saw myself in a courtyard somewhere near the Earth’s meridian – cool under silk canopies, as a harem of men had their necks slit open by a harem of women. The men kissed me as they bled out, willingly giving themselves to my rejuvenation – and then the women, with their last screams, praised me as I set fire to their tents. My palace was overrun by beasts – boars and stags and wolves and crocodiles – in a havoc more beautiful than the havoc of the stars.
‘The earth has no way out other than to become invisible,’ I said, ‘in us who with a part of our natures partake of the invisible.’
‘The fuck does that mean? You doing a quote?’
‘Yeah, Rilke said that. He was a poet.’
‘Course he was. Fucking useless answer to “How are we going have houses?” You can’t put the earth inside you and start eating the invisible.’
‘I felt like saying it,’ I said. ‘And you seem pretty happy to be making me eat the invisible. Did you really not get any food with my money?’
‘Babe, the money ran out.’
‘First you say you didn’t have time to make food, and now you’re saying you didn’t have the money. Which is it?’
‘What’s this – a police interview? There weren’t neither. I said the wrong thing. Whatever, I been trying my best…’
‘You didn’t try anything.’
‘What the fuck do you know? I tried everything… I didn’t know everything. I never realised that…’ She stopped and looked out of the window.
My pain removed me from the room for a moment – and I imagined myself as an emperor again – again with a palace of beasts and slain lovers – and I wondered what would happen if one of my lovers survived, an accidental immortal, and came back to worship me with a whip, as I’d been worshiped earlier today. This immortal would promise me love, perhaps – a love like a warren of underground caves, in which stalactites had been broken off and arranged in rings by some inhuman tribe for the worship of some inhuman god – like me or my lover. But if our love could only end in death – how would we, as immortals, die? By becoming each other, of course – by seeking a desire that exceeds music, and so forces us out of the dance.
‘What happened?’ I asked, returning to the present. ‘You went to see Gibbon and…’
‘Stop calling him that!’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got you some bread,’ she laughed, amused again, and twirled towards the kitchen.
There, she retrieved a plastic-wrapped loaf of sliced bread. ‘You can make a toast sandwich!’ she said. ‘A slice of toast between two slices of bread. Dinner for champions! I used to eat it in the war.’
I laughed too, delighted by her erratic mood, its bleak imagery, and how casually she had betrayed my trust.
The walls of the apartment were painted two shades of cream, as though the painters had run out of one shade a third of the way along the wall and continued with another a few shades warmer – and as I stared at the line where the colours changed, my brain bent the contrast into a flavour – close to soy sauce – and I was hungry.
‘I might actually do that,’ I said.
I took the loaf from her hands, impatiently tore off its plastic, and slotted a slice into the toaster. There were no plates in the cupboard, so I placed the outer slices on the counter. I checked the fridge for butter, but it wasn’t switched on.
‘You’re avoiding all my questions,’ I said. ‘Did you get any heroin?’
‘Not yet, not yet, I’ve not managed to accomplish everything, I’m sorry,’ she giggled, drinking again from her bottle.
The diameter of her pupils belied her denials – she must have been high all afternoon.
‘You don’t look sorry.’
‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it baby, I promised you – and I don’t break my promises. Just sometimes I delay them. Kimber asked us to meet down the Rockway later. He wants to meet you. He’ll have some for us then, for sure.’
‘I’m going to a gallery tonight,’ I said.
‘Why? Is Francis going to be there? Ah are you going to a gallery with Francis? What happened with him – oh sweetheart I forgot to ask. How’d it all go? I’m sorry I was so caught up in my hectic business-orientated lifestyle,’ she cackled in self-derision. ‘I forgot your love woes. Did you say sorry to him? Did he forgive you?’
‘Stop changing the subject. Where’s my money? What’s wrong with Kimber? Why aren’t you rhapsodising about him like you were earlier? What happened?’
‘He was just busy. He was stressed. He weren’t as happy about everything as I thought he’d be.’
‘Everything?’
She sighed against the table, finally retiring her jovial façade. She held up her head and shook it – and drank again, swallowing emphatically as if to swallow words she didn’t want to say and tears she didn’t want to show.
‘I think he’s jealous of you,’ she said eventually.
‘So? I paid the deposit. Does he want to get rid of me?’
‘No, no, of course,’ she slurred. ‘I know you did, he knows you did. You’re my number one, sweetie, I can’t leave you, course I won’t, I promised to be your mother.’
The toast popped up. I placed it between the two untoasted slices and gazed awhile in satisfaction at this assault on the history of cuisine, contemplating the distance between the first makers of bread and me – and then bit into it. Though dry, the bread was sweet, and the toast between it a satisfying contrast. This sad meta-sandwich would suffice as a meal for now.
‘This is pretty good,’ I smiled, spilling crumbs.
She didn’t smile back. Instead, my display of positivity seemed to push her further into despondency.
‘What if I made a mistake, Leander? What if I done this wrong?’
‘You haven’t,’ I mumbled between chews, moving towards her in reassurance. ‘We couldn’t have continued in a hostel – you were right, you were looking out for me. Your impulsive uprooting was necessary. And you didn’t uproot us from much. A homeless hostel is never going to be a home. We can make this a home. I’m grateful.’
‘No,’ she began crying. ‘Don’t try to be nice to me, I can’t take it, I need you to sulk – I need to be the one reassuring you. When you try it, it sounds so fake. This was a mistake weren’t it? I’m a mistake. I’m bad for you.’
‘Is this about the money?’ I asked. ‘I don’t care, I made it in an hour. I can make it again. And I’ve still got some.’
‘It’s not just your money.