The Way Out (11 page)

‘Perhaps we should try to scare another one,' she says.

‘What for?' I ask, looking at the other horses, bristling with trapped energy. ‘Why would you want to do that?'

‘So they, y'know, go…?'

Sometimes it's hard to tell when Kaz is joking. But for once we don't have to stop and explain, or apologise. We're both crying with laughter, holding onto each other's arms, when Ashley arrives carrying a rolled-up cardigan.

‘Guess what Barry says to me?' she demands, but doesn't stop for an answer.

Me and Kaz straighten our faces.

‘He says
Talk about special treatment. You get to have your own day. Blokes don't get anything like that. We don't get Gentleman's Day
. Can you believe that? Poor you, I says, all you get is every other day.'

‘What did you get then?' Kaz interrupts, plucking at the edge of the cardigan to reveal the red top of a vodka bottle.

Ashley steps away, pulling the wool back over the bottle and giving it a pat, cradling it like a baby.

An hour later, Ashley sits cross-legged on the tartan rug, one strap hanging off her shoulder, talking about her Barry and how he's great with the twins but the house will be a bombsite when she gets back. When she starts talking in circles, Kaz takes over about her dad's cancer and how her brother's no help at all since their mum's gone and she has to drag the kids backwards and forwards to the hospital. She talks fast, eyes wide, lips wet with vodka and coke. I think she'd like to stop talking because now she's rounded the last turn and we can all see what's waiting on the finish line. She stops abruptly and stares off across the track
then knocks back the rest of her drink before clambering to her feet and swaying off to find the Ladies. I start talking about Sean and Tom and how I'm thinking of going back to work, which surprises me. I hadn't realised I was seriously considering it. None of us are used to talking without constant interruption from children. Combined with the drink, it's like running too fast downhill.

The horses thunder past, throwing up crescent-shaped clods of turf high into the air, the jockeys hunched on their backs in bright colours like parasitic beetles. The ground shakes, like drums from underground working their way up.

Kaz arrives back, waving a race programme. ‘Right! We need to pick which horse to bet on. I think we should go for Liberty Trail, but I like the sound of Blue Tomato too.'

I pour more drinks and Ashley blows her nose.

‘So, twenty quid each way?' Kaz pauses but gets no answer. ‘I've no idea what that means either so don't look at me like that.'

I watch the horses as they loop back round for another circuit. I think I can see that mare from the paddock. She's out in front and my heart starts beating faster as I watch her straining ahead, a hurtling mass of muscle and sweat. She's tearing through the air, ripping it apart. It's like she's trying to tear a hole in front of her and escape through it, to some other place where something else, something more is waiting, a place where maybe she can stop running. It's always that bit further ahead. The promise of that.

Like Arseholes

MEGAN

The receptionist smiles and hands me a white address label with my name in capitals written across it in blue biro. ‘If you could just wear this?'

No surname, although they've got my full name printed on the sign-in sheet. It's one of the ways they try to make everyone feel at ease. Doesn't work.

‘If you could wait over there?' She nods towards a small group already installed in the far corner of the lobby, perched on sofas around a low table. ‘Help yourself to coffee and biscuits. Someone will be down to collect you all soon.'

I join the three others, take my coat off and stick my label to my blouse. I scan the other labels. I'm rubbish with names but the faces look familiar, especially the old guy. Bristly salt-and-pepper hair, face red with broken blood vessels, silver-framed glasses digging into the soft fruit of his nose. Clean though. Polished black shoes and ironed jeans. Reformed alky? Name label says
ALLEN
. I've definitely seen him at one of these things before but can't quite place him. No biggy.

FRANCES

I remember Megan. Saw her few months back if I'm not mistaken. Had a thing about bananas. She's sitting quietly at the moment, but that won't last. She's right mouthy when she gets going, that one. Not that I blame her. It does make the time go faster when it's a lively group. Sometimes folk get all contentious
just to keep themselves awake. I've been guilty of that myself, if not on the same scale.

Mixed genders this time. That can damp things right down, with the women just clamming up and letting the men talk. Depends. The older man looks like he'd hold forth given half a chance but that young one hasn't looked up from his phone since we've been sitting here. Hunched over, his big thumb stroking the thing up and down, only stopping to scratch his chin every now and then. Is that supposed to be some kind of trendy facial hair or is he just plain lazy, I wonder?

JAMIE

Shit. One bar? Fucking kidding me. Crap battery life. Defo changing my contract soon as I can. Can't get out of this one easy though. Fucking lock you in, eh? Thing is, there's always a better deal to be had somewhere else.

MEGAN

When you've been doing these things a few years, you start to recognise faces, although no one ever knows who anyone is, really. Everyone bends the truth to fit whatever the researchers are looking for. We all do it. My age has been known to vary by five to ten years either way. I've been a homeowner and a renter, had children and stayed child-free, been married, single, cohabiting, separated, divorced, had at least a dozen different jobs, and sometimes none. I've owned and not owned cars, smartphones, compost bins, timeshares, stocks and shares. Name a popular product or service and there's a good chance I've taken a particular stance towards it. I have loved it, hated it and been completely indifferent towards it.

Don't think I've seen the young guy before. Maybe the middle-aged woman with the hair and the inch-thick orange
slap on her face. Nobody is talking yet. We're still in the small smiles and nods zone.

I reach for a custard cream just as the woman opposite does the same.

FRANCES

To be honest, I've come to expect better. ‘Bit sparse, this,' I say, gesturing towards the single plate of not-chocolate biscuits. ‘I like when they have sandwiches and sausage rolls and those mini pork pies, that sort of thing. Saves me cooking dinner.' I bite into my custard cream. ‘Doesn't do to pass up free food.' I smile at Megan. There's a girl who clearly doesn't pass up much in the way of edibles, free or otherwise.

She nods, her eyes widen. ‘Pakora!' she says, spraying crumbs down her front. ‘I was at this one once, had all this Indian food. Bajis and samosas and all that. Brilliant. I was stuffed.'

A shame the way young women let themselves go these days. She could be quite pretty as well. Lovely eyes. But the way her stomach pushes out over her waistband like that? Oh dear.

I look around at the group. Jamie is wearing a suit so has obviously come straight from a job, and not a manual one. I like a well turned out professional man, but his suit is in need of dry cleaning, his shirt off-white.

There's an unspoken agreement amongst the regulars that we don't talk about our real lives. So there's no real point in the normal kind of exchanges about families and jobs. The lack of proper information leads to speculation. At least it does for me.

The chat as we wait to be rounded up is usually about what other groups people have done, which was the easiest money, which had the best free food. And that's the way this is going. Megan's pakora outburst having broken the proverbial.

JAMIE

I put the phone on silent and join the chat. We can talk like this because we're out of ear-shot of the receptionist, not that she probably gives a fuck, and the organisers, whoever they are, haven't shown up yet. No idea what this one is for. We hardly ever know exactly what it is we're going to be having opinions about till we get started.

The one lie that you have to stick to in these groups, as far as the researchers are concerned, is the one about not having done anything similar before, or at least not for six months or a year. I had three groups last month and played the new boy in each one. We all do it.

‘Best one I've had was the beer,' I say. ‘Just sat on our arses drinking beer and saying whether we liked it or not. I mean, Christ, I'd do that for free. Easiest forty quid I've ever made. Thank you very much!'

ALLEN

While he talks, the youngster mimes drinking a pint, accepting money, tucking it into an inside pocket which he then pats in a satisfied way. Does he think we're all idiots or does he have some kind of miming disorder? Funny how you can go right off people, just like that.

Young folk these days have no conversational skills, they're only interested in performing. And even then, they're not interested in anyone's honest opinions. They just want to know that they're showing themselves in a way that others feel obliged to admire. There's no truth in anyone anymore. Nobody asks questions or cares to hear the answers.

MEGAN

Bloody typical. The guys always get the ones about drink. Like
women aren't supposed to enjoy beer and whisky. Ha! Like the best we can hope for is that maybe someday Babycham or Lambrini might want to do a focus group on how to relaunch their fizzy pish. Gets my goat. The all-female groups are always about bloody supermarket shopping. Which bakery items would appeal to the housewife doing the weekly family shop? What kind of 3 for 1 deals would really get us splashing the housekeeping money? Have to bite my tongue in those ones, so hard sometimes it bleeds. Especially when I'm supposed to be a stay-at-home mother of three. What sort of fresh fruit do we expect to see available at smaller stores?

I remember Frances now. Her and her bloody bananas. Like they were the stuff of life. Got really heated about it. That and the ham. I mean, I just go to the shop and get whatever, not that interested. Some of these sad cows are actually driving between different supermarkets to get the best price on beans, or going out their way to go to a different one cos their husbands only like a steak pie out of that particular shop. Fucksake. Get a fucking life.

FRANCES

‘Money for old rope really, isn't it?' I say. ‘Just having opinions about stuff.'

Folk nod and smile but no one says anything. It's silent but for the sound of Megan chewing on what must be her third custard cream.

ALLEN

‘Why are opinions like arseholes?'

It's a good question because it gives people a wee shake out of boredom, makes them pay attention and also makes them think. Not enough thinking these days.

MEGAN

Oh God. It's the arsehole guy. Now I remember him. This is his routine. He'll probably try and deliver the answer in his John Wayne voice.

I don't reckon Allen particularly needs the money. The intense way he talks, it's like these groups are his only real chance to be listened to, for his opinions to matter to someone. I bet in his real life he's one of those lonely old blokes who loiter at bars, forcing their conversation on anyone who stands still long enough. Probably, given that nose, over the course of his fifty-sixty years, he's pissed off everyone he's ever known. Could be he's got a family that doesn't want to know anymore and folk he used to call friends that are either already dead or are careful to avoid him in some other way.

ALLEN

‘Everybody's got one,' I say, giving them my best Clint, ‘and everyone thinks everyone else's stinks.'

All I get back are some half-hearted hahas from around the table. Honestly, you have to shove a rocket under folk these days to get a reaction. Although it does look like I've got to Frances.

I ignore her and carry on. Maybe I'll get some decent chat going. I lean forward. ‘Everyone starts life as an arsehole. Did you know that?' They all look at me blankly. None of them has a clue. ‘When a fertilized egg first starts to divide and cells multiply, they form a group, then a chain, then that chain curls round on itself into a circle but doesn't quite meet at the ends. It leaves a gap.' I demonstrate the circle and the gap with my index fingers, coming close but not meeting. People can always grasp a visual better than words. ‘That gap will eventually become the anus.'

JAMIE

At anus, the fake red-head splutters coffee and clatters her cup and saucer down on the table. She's gone bright red in the face and she's coughing that hard her eyes are watering. Bit of an over-reaction. After all, he's right enough, we have all got one, even her.

The old guy pushes his glasses back up his nose, the pads sliding back into the dents on either side. ‘First things first eh?' he says, ignoring Frances' wee choking fit. ‘And the first thing is making sure there's an exit. A way out. Growth produces waste as a by-product and there has to be a way out for it or else the environment becomes toxic.'

I lean back in my seat. Toxic environment? No kidding. The old guy's breath is rank.

MEGAN

While we've all been preoccupied, wishing the arsehole guy would shut up or drop dead, a new member has arrived to join our group, taking up the last seat. The overstuffed brown upholstery gives a little pfft as she sits down.

The first thing I notice about her is her mouth. It's like she's not got one at all. Some trick of the light makes it look as if the skin below her nose continues smoothly down and wraps around her jawbone without so much as a wrinkle in between. I blink hard and look again. The illusion clears. She does have a mouth, of sorts. No more than an inch and a half across. It looks unfinished, as if it was added as an afterthought then abandoned before it was properly done.

She keeps her eyes down and crosses her ankles. Obviously new to this game. She's not going to be much use. Wouldn't say boo to a goose.