Polly is a writer from London.
Email: pollygrieverussell@gmail.com
Dogs Bollocks
‘Did you notice the size of that dog’s balls? Massive.’ Chris paused, ‘compared to the size of the thing. It’s unsettling.’
A French bulldog trotted past, snorting and panting like it was drowning in air. Its suffering so apparent and hard to ignore. Clara had noticed, but recently she’d been pretending not to notice anything that Chris did. It was a small protest. If she made out that his way of thinking was entirely unlike hers, maybe he would ask her what she was thinking about when she stared pensively at nothing. Recently Chris had been spending more time online and he bristled with discontent. His empty days filled with endless Twitter threads.
Clara had been attempting to push their minds apart while their bodies were forced together in mandated isolation. Chris jumped between vaccine passports and electronic tagging to pointing out that there seemed to be more cigarettes on the street than usual, which surprised him, as vaping was huge now. On yesterday’s walk he declared that recycling was a scam. He was adamant that separating different types of rubbish only served to stroke our egos, before it was all shipped off to the same landfill. She used to blindly agree with his stoner hypotheses. Before, she’d have indulged him, asked him where he thought all those tiny fish that ate dead skin off people’s feet were now. Remember those fish? Well, this is them now insert picture of great white shark, feel old? Now, every time he opened his mouth Clara felt blood rush to her cheeks.
The lack of outdoor space at their second-floor conversion flat meant they’d started referring to it as the slammer. Brockwell Park had become a welcome escape. Their approved day release. It was full of people who weren’t adhering to the government guidelines. Groups of teenagers sat on the grass smoking, while others jogged past, grimacing and shooting them disapproving looks.
They’d spent the last two months using their work clothes to mop up a leak. The estate agents had been patching it up since the days they could resort to using the gym showers. The landlord still refused to agree to a rent reduction, even though Chris had been furloughed and was dodging redundancy like their morning breath well into the afternoons. There was also no escaping the neighbours. They’d bang on the door the second the shower started running to complain that water was seeping through their ceiling again. So, they washed less often and stopped answering the door and so far, the system had been working.
Chris was a line chef. Manning the grill station at a local Asian fusion restaurant. Ironic, considering the only meal he’d cooked since they’d been isolating was instant chicken-flavour noodles. He used to create elaborate tasting menus when they invited her friends over. Convincing them he’d had the lotus root shipped directly from Thailand, before revealing he’d found it at the local trade market. He soaked up the compliments like bread dipped in oil. Chris liked to make anything that served as an excuse to use the blow torch, singeing bacon until it crackled and shrivelled. Clara felt gratified when her colleague Lizzie admitted her boyfriend couldn’t fry an egg. You must eat like a queen she’d said.
‘You’re quiet.’
It was a statement, rather than a question, and his eyes drifted towards the scent of a joint being smoked by a group behind them. His eyes were inching from the patchy grass to the flash of blue lacy knickers under the skirt of a girl sitting behind him.
‘This is way closer than two meters…’
‘Huh?’
He pretended not to hear her and diverted his eyes to the parakeets circling the treetops. Clara didn’t have the energy to repeat herself. She’d given up asking him more than once to transfer his share of the rent. Three months had gone by where she shouldered the load. He fixed on the fact that they were owed a reduction, while mould continued to creep up the walls. Since the start of the pandemic, she hadn’t even had the energy or ability to envision a future. Everything was drenched in treacle. Days were long and short and sticky and thick. Minuscule and mundane tasks felt impossible. She’d been carrying out her PA duties from a clunky old Dell laptop at their kitchen table. Faking bad connection during video calls when Chris entered in his pants to open the near-empty fridge for the fourth time. It wasn’t exactly her calling, but it paid the bills. Working from home, she avoided sending emails. Blaming a lack of responses when her boss asked when she was able to schedule a meeting with the investors.
‘Hey, do you have any papers?’
Chris directed this at a boy wearing a wool hat with the sides folded up, while fumbling in his pockets for some tobacco. The boy threw him a packet of papers, the bare bones of the outer cardboard picked apart to use as roach. He rolled with the swift ease that came from the familiar ritual.
‘Sorry mate, you got a light too?’
The girl with the blue knickers dug one out of her denim skirt, tucking the corners of her peroxide fringe behind her ear.
‘What do you think of all this then?’
He posed the question to the group, settling into the years he had on their youth as if it made him an authority on modern philosophy. He loved engaging strangers in conversation, especially if they happened to be younger than him. As if smoking weed and questioning the system meant he was different to other adults. That he had something figured out. Clara used to think it was endearing. The way he condemned the status quo, her keyboard warrior Robin Hood.
‘Manufactured biological warfare.’
It came from a kid with a bowl cut straight from the backstreet boys.
‘Is that so… Nick Carter. You might be on to something there.’
Blue knickers pulled some hand sanitiser from her bag and passed it round like a bottle of vodka at a school leaver’s party.
‘Do you think it’s a bit too convenient that they’re telling us to stay in while they erect these 5G transmitters on our doorsteps though?’ He said, winking at Clara.
Clara felt the blood rise to her cheeks. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he flicked the lighter a few times at the spliff end that drooped down in resignation. He loved to play the contrarian. Testing the waters with antagonistic theories, seeing how far he could push people. Shuffling round with his legs crossed he ruffled his hair. It was a habit he’d had since he and Clara met in their early twenties, now mainly to hide the thinning top. He’d kept his hair long, a limp fringe sweeping sideways in homage to his indie band days. Which aged him. After several long drags, he squinted like he was about to say something revolutionary and insignificant in the same breath. He offered it round; Nick Carter leant across and accepted, stifling a cough.
‘Better watch out for that in these times, people will assume you’ve got the Rona.’
Chris’ phone rang, the light pushed through the pocket of his jeans. He hopped away towards a clump of trees as he pulled up his jeans just enough to keep the logo trim of his pants on show. The joint found its way back to Clara, and she held it until the ember went out. Chris’ shoulders were slumped. He lifted a hand to his head and left it there, before allowing it to fall back to his side. As he walked back to the circle, his face looked sullen until he realised that the chatter had quietened.
‘All right chaps, stay safe. Peace out.’ He said, pulling his cheeks up into a smile.
When Prisha called the following week, she didn’t tell her that Chris had been made redundant. Clara told her about the delicious tacos he’d made the night before and defended him when she joked that Chef must have been getting kitchen withdrawal symptoms. There was a conker-shaped mass in Clara’s throat. Knowing her overdrawn account couldn’t withstand another full month’s rent. Her mum said, once you’ve got a man you’ve got to keep him happy. Or he’ll leave.
The slammer had an open plan living room kitchen. In the evenings they used the sofa cushions and blankets to create a den, and projected anime directly onto the ceiling. When they first got together, Clara’s knowledge of anime had simply been a pretence, having read in a magazine that relationships with shared interests had a higher survival rate. At first the cartoon facial expressions hadn’t been clear to her; it could be hard to distinguish embarrassment from anger, especially if she hadn’t been following the subtitles. But over time, she’d started to enjoy it. One expression that amused her was when a character pulled down one eyelid exposing the red underside and stuck out their tongue in a taunt.
‘That expression, akanbe, comes from “akanbéh” in the Edo era,’ Chris said. ‘Traditionally it was just the eye bit and meant hatred, frustration or a strong NO, but now it’s a more childish sarcastic expression.’ He relished these moments where he could explain something. When he knew something that she didn’t.
‘If only we could win a pub quiz with all this useless knowledge you’ve got.’
Being confined to a one-bedroom flat, without the respite of outside life, had felt like living inside a terrarium. The air was rancid and thick. The start and end of each day could only be defined by a hangover headache. From the rough carpet, the marks on the off-white walls and the cracking skirting boards were becoming more apparent. Maybe Clara had been too busy to notice before. Chris curled into her like a lap dog, kissing her neck. The habitual afternoon wine had pacified her, and she rubbed her hand up and down his thigh.
‘You’re like Kotaro Kashima, because you look sleepy, and you’re not saying much,’ he said, nibbling on her ear playfully. ‘I hope our kid is that cute. As cute as you.’
In the early days Clara felt that by being chosen, she had won. Back then he was a singer in a band that was often featured on local radio. He’d given her a shout-out in an interview on Valentine’s Day, asking if she’d be his girlfriend. It was a rhetorical question. He hadn’t got her a gift, a card or even expected a response but at the time it felt more romantic, because he told her every song was about her. Clara liked the fact he wanted to announce to the world that he wanted her. He was laid-back, made her laugh and showed her affection. Surely that would always be enough. He’d put his arm round her at parties and people would say they were made for each other. In their established dynamic, Chris was a professional receiver. His idea of a date was suggesting that they go to the pub for a roast, where he’d spend the afternoon glued to the rugby. He always expected her to go halves. They were modern after all, not like his parents. Can you imagine? He’d say incredulously.
When they returned from routine day release, there was a box on the doormat outside the main entrance. The cardboard was peppered with American customs stamps.
‘Couldn’t even take a bloody package in for me, no?’
Clara hushed him, worried the neighbours would hear from inside. While she foraged through the kitchen cupboards Chris carefully removed the tape from the box. Inside was an anime figurine, labelled Super Sonico Pisces. Her legs were inverted, with thigh-high white socks and large doe eyes. She had pink hair, and a fringe with a sailor style hat in the shape of a shark. She hugged a pink dolphin to her chest that pressed one bulbous breast up higher than the other. Two tiny stars attached by a thin string covered her nipples. Her mini skirt was permanently caught in a gust of imaginary wind that exposed her bum.
Chris kept his manga and figurines in pristine unopened condition. When they first met, Clara had watched several videos about different series and regurgitated ideas to him, as if they were her own. Chris enjoyed countering her recycled observations. He loved to generally disagree with everyone else. Which made festive periods and long group dinners a battleground. But Clara always laughed loudly at his jokes, and pretended to come when he did. Whenever the seeds of resentment grew, she’d remind herself how lucky she was. She had someone. The thing that people spent years searching for. It was impossible to be lonely when you made it your life’s work to cater to someone’s every physical and emotional need. She had found her purpose. Maybe Chris was her calling.
‘Why does it look like a child, but has boobs the size of its head?’ Clara grimaced.
‘Jealous?’ Chris laughed.
His shirt had popped open to reveal his belly button. The hairs were sparse, some grey. Clara usually saw his belly button at eye level, looking up as he moaned and whispered words of encouragement. As he got harder, the grip on the back of her head would get tighter. With her jaw at full extension, less able to control how much she could pull back to catch her breath, she convinced herself this was true passion. Discomfort in exchange for pleasure, bracing for the thick mouthful that tasted like sour fruit. Still wearing the light sheen of satiation, he’d make jokes about giving her a pearl necklace. He was the only person she’d had sex with, something he relished in like it was earned or won. Sat hunched at the table; his belly button looked pathetic. A downturned smile with flecks of a patchy beard.
Clara spent the following Saturday scrubbing the bathroom tiles. Pre-lockdown she’d made excuses for him. His twelve-hour shifts, getting home late, long days on his feet. Chris stood in the doorway eating an ice-lolly.
‘I guess the one good thing about this leak is the limescale doesn’t build up as quickly?’ he said, as a florescent green droplet splashed on the freshly mopped floor.
Blood rushed to her cheeks again. Clara scooped up the cardboard toilet roll carcasses and took them to the recycling bin. She pulled out the box that Chris received, muttering to herself that the least he could have done was broken it down. Even if it was destined for landfill. Inside was a paper invoice slip: $533.80 inc. VAT. Heat rose from inside her and settled in her chest, pressing against her skin like it was trying to escape. Clara joined him on the sofa cushion, spattered with sticky droplets from his ice-lolly. Her cheeks flushed, as confrontation tickled her tongue. She hated to upset the delicate balance of their relationship, where she asked for nothing and gave everything in return.
‘It’s a lot of money…’ she said, careful to keep her tone mild.
‘Uh-huh.’
Clara couldn’t catch his eyes; they were glued to his phone. His thumb dragged lazily down the side of the screen.
‘For some stupid porn doll. Chris, you haven’t even got a job right now.’
‘Oh, that’s what this is about. I’ll survive, I’ve got my sugar Mamma,’he said, winking at her. Clara let out a huff from her nose.
‘If you’ve got something to say, just say it,’ he taunted. Chris pulled one eyelid down to expose the red underside and stuck out his tongue.
He looked amused and disinterested. She wanted to shake him. His passive baiting was remarkable. He never lost his temper. Still sprawled horizontal on the sofa, a beetle wriggling on its shell. The things she had once been drawn to morphed into things that made her squirm. His easy-going nature, and humour became feigned incompetence and an inability to take anything seriously. Everything unsaid bubbled up her throat, but she couldn’t catch her breath.
The next day Clara woke to the sound of the door slamming. Chris’ side of the bed was still warm. She cleaned her teeth and changed her top, dialling in to her work call with her unicorn pyjama bottoms still on. When she heard the door again, she felt the tightness pinch at her neck. They had gone to bed in silence. Chris sidled in and kissed her on the cheek, giving her boss a sheepish wave when he realised she was on camera. He unloaded a bag of shopping, and pulled out a bunch of white chrysanthemums and pink rosebuds. Clara shuffled out of the room balancing her laptop in front of her face. His whistling cut through the fizz of the stove. She wasn’t paying attention to the call, making sure to nod and fake taking notes every so often. Chris emerged with a stack of fluffy pancakes topped with berries and maple syrup. They devoured the heap in silence. Clara sat mute and frozen like one of his lewd figurines.
‘How did I get so lucky?’ said Chris, removing her unicorn pyjamas as he pulled her onto his lap.
They passed the days in purgatory. Him sending tweets, her sending outlook invitations. He would periodically send her links to videos with monotone voiceovers discussing genetic engineering and vaccine theory. She bristled every time he moved. He displayed no urgency, seemed content to let her struggle to maintain the delicate balance of everything. The flat, the job, the groceries. After hanging up on the estate agents, threatening to call the environmental health agency, citizens advice and seek legal advice…again, she was deflated. Chris lay flicking some dead skin he’d picked from his finger onto the carpet. Acid tickled Clara’s throat.
While he was sleeping Clara scrolled through his search history on the laptop. Partly hoping to find something so awful it would justify the rotting in her mouth. Most of the tabs were pages on a site called Toonz.
https://www.Toonz.com/homepage
https://www.Toonz.com/investor-hub
https://www.Toonz.com/leaderboard
Clicking through she saw a headshot of Chris on the leader board. He had a garish smile. Judging by the familiar background, it must have been taken in the living room on the inbuilt laptop camera. He was placed at one hundred and seventy. Small icons dotted the rest of the leader board, with flags indicating the country they were in. In amongst them, Chris’s face stopped looking familiar. He could have been anyone. Omar in Algeria, Luka in Croatia, Liam in the US, Eliska, Inés. Hamza, David, Mateo, Elif, Helena, Mía, Himari, Malachi, Susan, Nora. The list was endless. The images next to the names were of varying quality; a close-up of Aleksander from Russia, youthful with sharp features; a distant grainy shot of Deborah from Australia, whose features were barely visible. They didn’t seem real. Clara clicked through to the about section. The entire screen was engulfed with high quality clips of gigs in arenas and expensive looking cars cruising ocean roads. The videos were drenched in aesthetic lighting. Clara followed the navigation to find out more.
Become an independent associate
Invest in music rights distribution deals and find financial freedom.
Limited capacity, JOIN NOW
The join now button was flashing erratically. Under the info section was a convoluted explanation. The site claimed to be a music distribution platform where members could preview and purchase music and then sell the rights to companies for commercial usage. Members earned sales points from each rights deal they made. Under join now were monthly membership tiers, with the lowest option starting at $300 a month. Clicking onto the icon of Chris’ face and through to his account, the silver tier was highlighted green. $650 a month. She opened a currency converter on a new tab. He was spending half of their rent on the monthly subscription alone. In small print underneath CASH OUT NOW it indicated that users needed a minimum of 1000 sales points before they could cash out, and additional fees applied to exchange the points for real money. Chris was always looking for shortcuts. Deciding he knew what he was doing before reading the instructions. Then jamming the wrong fitting into the MDF and warping the flat pack. Clara clicked back through to the history and saw he’d also been on a chat board called Toonz scam???? and online banking multiple times. She looked over at his sleeping body, half exposed from under the duvet. His thick pink calves covered in hair and scars from old scrapes. He looked familiar there. Asleep he was peaceful and untroubled. Without the usual frown of contempt, poised to rebuff all opinions.
Clara pulled a chair and retrieved a box from the top of the wardrobe. Inside were Chris’s unopened, mint condition comics and action figures. They were the only things he cleaned and maintained, using glasses cleaning cloths to gently remove any dust build up. Chris did this with such tenderness, while sneering at people that jet washed their driveway. Clara laid out the figurines. The street fighter Bishoujo Chun Li was standing on the toe of one foot, her calf muscle protruding. Her legs wouldn’t look out of place on the body of a racehorse. Her dress was frozen in motion. Her impossibly round breasts defied gravity, balanced on her tiny muscular PVC body. Clara searched for the model, typing in her name as if she was searching for someone whose photo Chris had liked on social media. There were similar models going for $400+ on eBay. Clara clicked on an unboxing video. A man in a facemask called her the queen of fighting games. You know her, you love her. She looks younger every time a new street fighter game is released. Wouldn’t we all like to know her skincare and workout regime? Behind him were rows of figurines on shelves. He explained that he had taken this model out from the archives and wiped his finger through a layer of dust on the outside of the box.
After dragging the box to the living room, Clara foraged around in the storage cupboard for her craft box. At the start of lockdown, she had been making mosaic picture frames and sending them to friends and family, with snapshots from a time that felt so alien. The only person she had seen in person for months was Chris. The endless zoom quizzes and virtual watch parties had died out. A universal fatigue had washed over everyone. They were trapped in their boxes behind a polythene film.
Rage crept out of her, dislodging itself from her neck. Quiet and methodical. Opening the packaging was intoxicating. Clara used both hands, ripping through the Japanese font and artwork. Poison had tiny denim shorts and red patent heels. She was reaching for the interchangeable whip and handcuffs with her outstretched arm. Her cropped vest exposed her chiselled PVC abs and the strap of the top was slipping down, threatening to expose her inflated make-believe mammaries. Even though the vest looked supple, the folds in the plastic were stiff and immovable. She pulled Poison’s head in the opposite direction from her body, splitting her body and mind in two. She kept going, until severed limbs, heads and bodies surrounded her. With packaging strewn all over the floor she set to work building a fort. She stacked pillows on top of the stained sofa cushion. Draped a blanket over some chairs to become a roof. Pulling her glue gun from her craft box she plugged it in and settled inside the fort. Like a cat preparing to bring its owner an unwanted gift she tore the comics into tiny pieces. She began sticking them onto Chun Li’s skin, then Poison’s. Covering their bodies in fragments of conversation and characters from universes and that weren’t theirs. She fed their collaged pieces through fishing wire and strung them into bunting under the roof of the fort.
In the bedroom Chris was breathing heavily, mouth slightly open. She leant over and whispered in his ear.
‘Come in the living room.’
He murmured and groaned in protest, laughing as she pulled him across the landing. The fort was illuminated under a string of fairy lights. Clara’s quiet rage pulled Chris down to his knees. Stuck across Super Sonic’s dismembered breasts was a strip of manga with a character pulling down one eyelid to expose the red underside and sticking out their tongue. She held Chris’ gaze, tugged down her eyelid and stuck out her tongue.