Chapter 1: Withnail
Notes:
This whole fic will contain words which are nowadays are considered homophobic slurs, but were contemporary to the times. The first chapter shows Withnail trying to commit suicide, and all chapters proceeding contain the use of drugs and alcoholism… (see before notes for a more detailed disclaimer).
But you’ve watched the film. You were expecting that already XD
Also, I can’t wait for you to meet my girl Ian. I love her so much!!
Chapter Text
WITHNAIL’S SUICIDE:
Blame Bruce Robinson.
Not me. It is he who described this end for Withnail. I’m just telling it how it is. There are things we should ignore from Bruce Robinson, though – including any suggestion that Marwood and Withnail are friends but nothing more. But we’re not going as far as Paul McGann either (bless his allying arse) and going to say that their story is about marriage.
The truth is that for Withnail, Marwood is everything. Withnail has dreamt many a time about fucking that arse. But Marwood? He rarely wears his glasses. Even if he did more often, it wouldn’t make much difference. Withnail even fantasised to his uncle of all people about Marwood being in love with him, and Marwood still didn’t see Withnail’s a poof.
Alas, Withnail is just that peculiar friend – one Marwood has now left behind.
And that departure set Withnail off, monologuing Hamlet, passing over his lips his internalised, homosexual depression. His fascination with man met the air – the most beautiful of the paragon of animals, and in his opinion, of the sexes.
Withnail monologued and then went home in silence. ‘Home…’ Hah… A home is a place with your people inside it. What is it without Marwood? Not one of those. Instead, Withnail was making his way back to a barren wasteland, one littered with glass. He was holding some more in his hand, which he planned to chuck into the mass grave of it – an empty bottle of Fifty-three Margaux that Marwood declined drinking from. That might’ve been a fortunate thing; lips around the same bottle, to Withnail, would be a bad goodbye kiss.
But now, I’ll stop throwing you through the tenses. We’ll follow the present, what’s happening to Withnail right now, as according to that bastard Bruce Robinson. Withnail is inside the flat, slumped in the armchair. The bottle he was going to discard still dangles from his hand. Just a few droplets left. There’s also a gun on the coffee table, and it’s staring at him. It’s that gun from the cottage, from the holiday he feared was a mistake, but ended up being everything.
“Is this a dagger which I see before me?” He whispers, “The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.”
Another monologue. Seems fitting. Withnail takes the last swig of wine from his bottle and lunges for the gun. He seizes it, lays it on his lap and strokes it.
“I have thee, and yet… no. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the buggered brain?”
It has taken a while to get here, his liver having built up a disconcerting amount of resistance, but Withnail is now the right kind of drunk to question reality. His soul is outside his skin and pulling it by strings. He’s not there, but he’s witnessing it, whatever the fuck he’s doing, is saying, is thinking.
He holds the gun up to his eyes. Like to all drunk men, the universe reduces to two, overlapping circles – the pictures in his vision. He can’t imagine anything beyond it. In this instance, the universe is the gun, underlining a blurred picture frame in the background. When it comes into focus, Withnail sees his photoed self egregiously posed, but more importantly, he sees Marwood.
“Thou marshall'st me the way that I am going,” Withnail tells Marwood, “and such an instrument I am to use.”
He gestures to the gun. A small pause. Sickly laughter.
“Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, or else worth all the rest; I see thee still. Eyes curtained or opened. I see thee still, oh Marwood, oh Marwood!”
As the last word falls, it spikes Withnail’s stomach. Even Marwood’s name can hurt. The cunt shall wear sackcloth and ashes, if Withnail ever gets hands on him.
Withnail won’t. Never. Not the ‘real thing.’
THE 'REAL THING’:
Up in Manchester.
On that thought, he puts the gun on the floor and staggers over to the photo. He holds out his hand to Marwood but hesitates. A full bottle of wine is beside it, which he uncorks and raises in a toasting gesture to the photo.
“Each word thou hast spoken hath weeded from my heart a root of ancient envy. If Jupiter should from yond cloud speak divine things, and say: ‘tis true, I’ld not believe them more than thee, mine fucker, Marwood.”
The liquid fills Withnail’s mouth and he realises it’s not sweet enough – not as sweet as the face staring back at him, the head Lennon’s glasses haloes… Christ, he could lick him! Withnail doesn’t, but he scoops up the picture frame, his thumb stroking over what he’s never had, what he can never have, other than in the form of this fucking ink.
It doesn’t stop him from wishing for it.
“Let me twine mine arms about that body,” he says, “where against my bastard tongue a hundred times hath broke and scarr'd the moon with splinters.”
Withnail takes the photoed ‘Withwood’ and wine back to his seat. As he flops back down, he grabs the gun again, pulls it apart and checks that there’s ammo.
“Here I clip the anvil of my sword,” he gestures to the gun, still staring at Marwood, “and do contest, as hotly and as nobly with thy love, as ever in ambitious strength, I did contend against thy valour.”
There is one bullet left. Withnail tops up the gun with wine.
“Why, you are Mars himself!” He clicks the compartment back into place, “My heart dances, entranced, more than when men first see their bride in a dress. You've beaten me a dozen times, and I have boozed and dreamed of encounters between us: we've wrestled in my sleep, unbuckled our helmets, grasped at each other's throats… Every time, I wake with nothing.”
As he croaks it, his eyes feel hot. They bubble over, and Withnail can’t see anything. Marwood’s image escapes, abandons him for a second time.
Withnail’s hands wobble the gun to his lips. The nozzle has the coldness of death. It pre-empts it.
He pulls the trigger. Almost. The doorbell interrupts him. Who is that? The landlord? Danny?
All blood drains from him, leaving numb pins and needles; he considers, for the slightest second, that Marwood might’ve returned. The feeling leaves Withnail when he remembers Marwood has a key. He wouldn’t ring the doorbell. He wouldn’t ring it twice, either – because there it goes again.
I’ll tell you who it is. It’s Marwood’s dad. He’s arrived to collect the car. All Withnail hears is the bell in King Duncan’s castle, inviting Macbeth to do the deed.
Withnail laughs like a maniac, tears rolling down his face.
“I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Marwood; for it is a knell that summons me to heaven or to hell.”
Withnail guzzles down the wine, as quickly as he can – numb the pain, make it fast. A great tsunami of Shiraz followed by a single bullet.
Bang.
Chapter 2: Marwood
Notes:
I'm so excited for you to meet Ian! She might be one of my favourite character creations!
Chapter Text
THE PRICE OF HAVING EYES:
Seeing Withnail dead.
Well, he appeared dead at first. When Marwood’s dad forced his way through the door. The price of Marwood having glasses is seeing the echoes of that. Those images now sit in his dad’s eyes, and have done since Marwood arrived.
Neither of them can sit. Neither of them can keep still or keep their eyes away from the door. Nurses keep on rushing in and out. It must be ER through there. It must be where they took Withnail initially. Where would he be now? After so many hours? If he is dead, surely Marwood would’ve been told straight away. So, maybe they took Withnail to theatre? Yes, that would make sense. Removing the bullet from the brain…
On the train journey back, Marwood went through every scenario of how the doctors could save Withnail. It was a long trip. Murderous. Would’ve been more so if Marwood were coming from Manchester. Fortunately, he was waiting for his transfer in Stafford when he heard. He’d realised he’d left one of his favourite books behind, and gone into the nearest booth to telephone Withnail – ask him to post it onwards or something. It was Marwood’s dad who picked up. The line could barely do it: carry his breath, the horrifying news that an ambulance was on the way.
But we won’t talk of the train journey for long. That’s been and passed. We’re now in the hospital. Every time a nurse cries for help, Marwood’s soul shreds a little further. And then there’s his dad: Arthur, or as Mum used to call him, ‘Bear’ Marwood. It makes a bloody fucking difference having him in the room. It’s because Bear looks very much like Marwood right now, if only for one, key detail… It’s not the moustache. It’s not the eye wrinkles that come with being sixty. It’s his cheeks. They’re smeared with blood. Not any old blood, either. Marwood’s best friend covers the side of Bear’s face, clings to his collar, has even managed to claw its way under the button holes and greet his chest.
Marwood turns his head from it. Tries to avoid looking as much as possible. It feels wrong. Is wrong. Withnail must be nowhere but in his own body. Not even Heaven can steal him away…
It’s so wrong for Marwood to see this that it has him on the verge of screaming at Bear. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad! Go and wash yourself!’ Marwood holds it back because he has to. His dad is a wired, red-eyed mess. ‘On the verge of collapse,’ might be his dictionary entry.
“Dad, go home,” Marwood eventually does say, “Get some rest.”
Bear looks beyond reticent. There’s the fact that he’s scared for his son. There’s also the fear that if Bear goes home alone, the silence might finish him. Despite both these things, Bear forces himself to say:
“Alright. Just… call when there’s news.”
“I will,” Marwood croaks. The sound makes Bear frown deeper. He moves toward Marwood and pulls him in for a hug. Father and son: clutching each other so tightly, for such an immeasurable amount of time. An irony scent, which must be Withnail, pervades the air, spreads from one shoulder to another.
Marwood is holding back tears as his father walks across the room and out into the wind. As soon as he’s gone, Marwood slumps into a seat. His feet are heavy now.
It occurs to Marwood, as he sits for an even longer time, that he hasn’t been in a hospital as an adult. He was last in one at nine years old. He’d come to visit his mother for the last time. Her name was Edith… ‘Edie…’
She’d died as he’d arrived.
Even before Bear took him into the room, Marwood had already formed a picture in his mind of what Edie would look like. She was already a skeleton. Even after Marwood saw her, flesh all intact, and hair, just wearing the sleeping face of death, she was still a skeleton. She’s remained a skeleton all his life – which is to mean she is the frame he was built around, the very centre of him.
Bear is no better. Even Sixteen years later, he wears Edie’s death like a mask. Two people have never been so in love. It’s sickening. And just another reason why Bear had to go home. Sixteen years ago is about to happen again, and Marwood won’t stand for his dad going through it.
Time seems to pass around him, a blur of people walking in and out of frame whilst Marwood sits like a pained statue. Then time slows down and focuses on a woman walking up to a desk. Marwood is not looking too closely at this point. All he notices is that this woman is young (maybe a few years younger than him), too tall for most men’s liking, and rather androgynous with her style of clothing. By this last one, I mean she is wearing white Gogo boots, flared trousers (cut from tartan), a matching, sleeveless tunic top, and a white blouse beneath it.
But as I said, not too many observations for now. What interests Marwood is her behaviour. The nurse at reception seems to have inherited a pair of broken glasses, probably from a patient in ER. The nurse goes to put these glasses in the bin, and it’s this action that has the woman running forward.
“Excuse me, Nurse!” She almost falls on the counter. “Are you throwing those out?”
“And what if I am?” The nurse asks.
“Can I have them?”
The nurse narrows her eyes.
“Why do you need them?”
“What does it matter to you? You’re throwing them out,” the woman says.
“You don’t know their prescription.”
“Don’t need to. Can I just have them? Look, I’ll trade you.”
The young woman gets out a packet of cigarettes – Benson & Hedges, with the fancy gold casing that puts Marwood’s Gauloises to shame. The nurse doesn’t seem impressed. She goes back to binning the glasses. The woman grabs her.
“Please,” she says, “I’m blind without them.”
“Clearly, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” The woman looks away from the nurse. “What colour is your hair? It’s all black and white to me.”
“Get out.”
“No! Please! I have to be here! My brother is dying!”
“Course he is,” the nurse tuts.
“He is!” The woman licks her lips. “Forget the sodding specs, then. Just don’t kick me out. I have to be here for him. He doesn’t have anyone else.”
The nurse takes one long look at the woman, up and down, humming, trying to find an iota of truth. She must find it – maybe more truth than she expected. Her face seems to soften.
“Alright. Take a seat.”
The woman exhales and retreats. She sits a few chairs from Marwood, right in the corner of his eye. He tries not to stare at her, but he is aware of the peculiar conversation she was just having. Now she’s sitting closer, he’s also aware of her looks.
If I can leave the Sixties for a second, and adopt some more modern lingo… the woman has the beauty of a Tim Burton movie. Doll-eyed makeup is a trend, but even without that, her eyes are impossibly large. Gorgeously unsettling beneath her dark brown fringe. Her face is delicately feminine, but has a sort of cadaverousness to it. She’s dead like that, but also looks more alive than anyone Marwood’s ever met – so much energy in her pupils, as they bluely bounce about the room…
The woman looks up at Marwood at the same time Marwood is looking. That stare… He swallows and touches his face; he’s checking to see if he has glasses on, and that’s why she’s staring. Does she want to nick them? The woman must read Marwood’s thoughts because she chuckles. Marwood realises right there and then that she doesn’t know how to properly smile. Instead, she does this endearing nose-scrunch thing. He also notices a small gap between her two front teeth. Reminds him of that model: Jean Shrimpton. It also makes her seem like a rabbit.
Marwood forces himself to look away from the woman again, but his insides are now feeling quite warm. It’s a strange sensation to have with everything else going on in his mind – the images of brains brutishly bleeding out, of Withnail’s scarf wrapped around a headstone… Emotions are mixing as badly as alcohols.
He doesn’t have to suffer for long, though. A doctor walks into the room, searching for someone. His eyes land on the woman.
“Miss Withnail, if you care to come this way.”
The woman gets up.
“Woah, woah, woah, woah!” Marwood also jumps up, “Wait, wait, wait! Withnail?! Miss Withnail?!”
“Step aside, Mr Marwood.” The nurse at the desk warns.
“I’m not stepping aside,” Marwood says, “I want to know what happened to my friend! We live with each other for Christ’s Sake! … Lived.”
‘TIM BURTON’ EYES:
Staring at him.
“Marwood,” Miss Withnail mutters, “Peter Marwood?”
“That’s me. Yes!” Marwood smiles thankfully, “Who are you, then?
“I’m his sister.”
“Oh,” Marwood pauses, “His what?”
“I won’t say it again, Mr Marwood.” The nurse interrupts.
“Oh fuck off.” The nurse glares at him. “No, sorry. Don’t fuck off,” he backtracks, “unless you want to. There’s an old boy ‘round there. He seemed up for it.”
“Mr Marwood, excuse me for interrupting your little aggro, but our nurse is right, you must sit down,” the Doctor says, “I can only disclose details to immediate family, I’m sorry.”
He starts leading Miss Withnail away. Marwood is left there, flooded with feelings. Heart murdering ribs. And maybe, just maybe, Miss Withnail can hear it happening? She stops in her tracks, looks back at Marwood, examines his face for a few moments, and then leans into the doctor’s ear. She whispers something… Fuck knows what… Something enticing, though, because the doctor’s face lights up.
“Oh, alright. Mr Marwood, come this way.”
Marwood stares at Miss Withnail again, as if her nose-scrunching, pleased face could reveal what she just said to the doctor. No answers, though. Marwood just has to follow – before the doctor changes his mind again.
Marwood moves across the reception. The nurse shoots him a scary glare as he passes. He speeds up his walking.
Time shift, set change, new scene. They’re inside the doctor’s office now. The man stands by some X-rays, which might not mean much to the average viewer, but to the medical eye show a rather clean and rather promising bullet puncture. Miss Withnail sits on the visitor’s side of the desk to view them. Marwood stands on the doctor’s side, nose almost pressed into the X-rays.
“That’s him alright,” Miss Withnail nods at her brother’s brain, “Always one for the impossible.”
“Not impossible. It’s very rare, but not unheard of. I’ve seen… maybe nine per cent of these patients sustained?” The doctor explains, “In fact, Miss Withnail, the only place guaranteed to kill your brother would be if he shot himself through the brain stem region. There is even the odd case where the bullet enters the brain, and goes out through the skull with no signs of brain damage at all.”
Marwood almost traces the wound with his fingers, but then thinks better of it. Marwood’s not homosexual, after all. He’s just lived with this bastard. For too many years.
“It depends on whether the bullet cavitates through the tissue or punches straight through,” the Doctor continues, “Your brother was swallowing a lot of fluids at the time of entry of the bullet. That seems to have directed its course, kept it somewhat cleaner. I’d be wrong to give you hope and say he will experience no side effects, but he has been very lucky.”
Marwood keeps staring at the X-ray, trying to unravel the horrors of it, make out the shapes. It becomes more and more disturbing the more you dissect it. As Marwood does, he senses Miss Withnail getting out of her chair. He sees her shadow grow a bit, as if inching forward. Then, it grows no more. She decides better than to join him.
The doctor’s eyes move between them.
“Feel free to stay here a few,” he decides to say, “Now Mr Withnail is stable, we will move him to another ward. One more suitable for visitors. I will come and collect you when it's fine to visit.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Marwood turns and nods.
The doctor smirks – not at Marwood but at Miss Withnail.
“The pleasure is all mine.”’
As he leaves, Miss Withnail pulls a face that, on the surface, seems sweet, but Marwood can tell is secretly sour. He thinks back to Miss Withnail in the reception area, and what she might’ve leaned in to whisper.
“Whatever you promised him…” He starts.
“A pair of glasses,” she says.
Marwood laughs.
“The doctor can have mine. Withnail will live.”
It hits him, then. An anvil raining from the sky. Realisation strikes Marwood so badly that he has to close his eyes.
Withnail will live… Withnail will live. There’s the risk that not all of him will be there, but he’ll open his eyes again.
Marwood’s almost tempted to keep his closed – to avoid the terror of it all, having to see and work out what parts have survived…
Silence comes along. Not nice enough to spare Marwood. It bullies him for a minute or so before the footsteps. Marwood opens his eyes and finds Miss Withnail in front of him. She’s reaching into her pocket, pulling out her cigarettes, and handing one to him.
Marwood takes it, puts it in his mouth, and searches for his lighter. Miss Withnail saves him time. She takes her own lighter to his mouth. So up close, they are. It’s a bit too familiar for strangers. And Marwood thinks to himself: she really does look like Jean Shrimpton. Ripped right off a front cover, she is.
“The fucking bastard,” Marwood mutters as she pulls back, “How can he do this to me?”
Miss Withnail lights herself one.
“You ought to deck him when he’s better.”
“Oh, I will. Believe me.”
Marwood takes a long drag. She does the same. After a few puffs, he subtly wipes the sweat on his hand onto his trousers and holds it out to her.
“Nice to meet you, by the way.”
“And you, Mr Marwood.” She shakes his hand. A nose-scrunch. “Peter.”
Marwood grins and half-nose-scrunches himself.
“I’m sorry, Miss Withnail, but I didn’t catch your first name.”
“Ian,” she says.
“Say that again?”
“Ian Withnail. It’s Lillian, really, but no one’s ever called me that. Brother-Dearest made sure his school friends were giving me a boy’s nickname; I mean, his is poncy.”
“Why, what was his nickname?”
“Oh, no. Not his nickname. His name, name,” Ian is already laughing, “It’s Vivian.”
“Vivian?”
Another nose-scrunch.
“Knew he wouldn’t’ve told you.”
“Vivian Withnail?!”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ian giggles.
“Fit for a fucking drama queen.” Marwood croaks. He tries to run his fingers through the hair at his neck, forgetting it’s not there anymore. He had to cut it short for the role. To quote Danny: ‘lose some of his aerials.’ So, Marwood doesn’t touch his hair. He just lets Ian’s words soak in.
“Withnail has a sister, and he never told me.”
“I’d be worried if he did,” Ian states.
“Why?”
“I’m an embarrassment. Fucking a Doctor for his friend.”
Marwood full-on cackles this time. It booms out of him. So that’s what she whispered, was it?! He can already imagine Withnail’s face when he wakes up, when he finds out his little sister tarted herself for Marwood – just so he could view a few x-rays. As far as Marwood knows, it might’ve been pointless, and Withnail won’t even want him there. He might call Marwood a traitorous piece of micro-scrotumed scum, since he decided to fuck off to Manchester.
What a decision, eh? What a bizarre, but daring woman… Marwood is starting to imagine why Withnail might’ve kept having a sister secret, if she’s naturally like this. It is all rather pot-kettle, though, if Withnail is like that.
“Do you want a coffee?” Marwood suddenly blurts. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even remember thinking of it.
“A cup of Rosy will go down a treat.”
She tries to get out her purse. Marwood stops her.
“No, I’ll get it. I insist. Least I could do, if you’re going to…” He tries to find a nice word for it. He fails. “Are you really going to?”
“I shaved this morning. No point wasting it.” She says, “And, alright. Thank you. You can pay just this once.”
‘Just this once,’ she states, as if there will be other instances. Perhaps there will be because Withnail won’t get miraculously better, will he? How long will he be kept here? How many months until he fully recovers – if he will ever recover?
Marwood thinks of that as he turns to the doorway. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know if he can do it: even look at Withnail in that state, never mind look after him. That thought makes him pause in the doorframe and turn back.
Then a long silence, in which it feels as if many months and many thoughts form within.
“If the doctor comes back…” Marwood swallows.
“I won’t go to Viv without you, don’t worry,” Ian reads his mind, “We can do all these things together.”
Marwood sighs in relief.
“See you back in here, then?”
Ian only nods in reply – halfway through another drag. They smile awkwardly at each other, and Marwood leaves, heading quickly in the direction he believes is the way to the high street, before realising it is the opposite way, and pivoting…
Understandable, really, after everything that’s just happened… Today, Marwood entered a room after Ian. And lost his way back.
Chapter 3: Marwood & Ian
Notes:
This one’s gonna make you a bit sad probably. At least Withnail’s awake???
Chapter Text
You should assume time has passed. I won’t say how much – for that will ruin a shock moment later, but you may know one thing: it’s not the same day.
You might’ve worked that out on your own from the cards on the table, next to the hospital bed. One of the cards has a carrot on the front. I’ll give you one guess who that’s from… You might’ve also worked it out from Ian walking into the room, and the fact that she doesn’t wear the same outfit. She’s less Mod and more Hippie today, wearing a bell-sleeved crop top, flared jeans, and a bohemian chain belt. Imagine the colours you want, just don’t ever imagine a Sixties dress on her. She finds them too boxy in shape. Hides all her curves, which she’d rather show off to the world. And Marwood doesn’t know it yet, but his subconscious is thankful she does.
As Ian enters, though, Marwood doesn’t look around. He stays looking at Withnail – purple-lipped, pale, head bloodily bandaged. Marwood’s been sitting in this chair watching him all day, looking for any signs of change. He hasn’t noticed it in Withnail, but in the reflection of the window, he’s seen it happen to himself. The shadows of exhaustion on his face are more prevalent. Two fingers' worth of a headache also presses through his brow bone. He should put his glasses on before his eyes start jumping for them.
Ian sits herself on Withnail’s bed, on the opposite side to Marwood. There’s something in her bag. Her hand keeps twitching to get it out, but then she looks at Marwood and stops herself again.
Thoughts. So many of them. Marwood carefully considers all the reasons why Withnail would do this – and why right now? If he’d considered it earlier, Marwood could’ve been there to talk him out of it. It’s scarily easy to answer why Withnail would want to. Marwood doesn’t even have to imagine wearing different shoes. The Fifties had cradled both them, and then passed them on to the Sixties – which had been less caring, let them slip through its fingers and out of time. Sometimes they’re not anywhere, not an imprint on any decade… and that’s not Danny’s drugs talking. That’s Marwood realising if he litters a cigarette, someone else sweeps it away. The world cleans up the traces he’s left. It does not want him. This decade doesn’t want him. And Withnail’s the same. Only, he tried to do something about it – make a mess, a bloody imprint, one the world can’t cover up.
Ian’s getting restless. She finally gets out what’s in the bag: a bottle of red.
“From our friend,” she states.
“Friend?” Marwood blinks, “Ohhh, the doctor.”
Ian pulls out two wine glasses.
“Apparently,” she nose-scrunches, “I have a lot to offer.”
“Sell while you can. You’re not for all markets,” a voice mutters. Ian gasps and drops a wine glass. Marwood’s head shoots to Withnail. His eyelids. They’re half-open.
“The bastard’s awake!” Marwood grins.
Withnail squints at his sister.
“Ian? Is that really you? After all this time?”
“It’s me!” She squeezes his hand, “Well, the hospital called. I was your first point of contact.”
“Were you really?”
“Who else would it be? Our parents?”
“No, of course not,” he smiles, “But out of interest, how would I change it to them?”Withnail turns to Marwood. “I want to kill myself in peace.”
Withnail doesn't know he's talking to Marwood. Not at first. He’s all sleepy, narrowed eyes as he mumbles at a stranger. But when his eyes start to focus, when Marwood starts to take shape, that's when Withnail’s eyes widen.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You almost died. Of course I’m here!”Marwood laughs.
Seven words too much. That’s how it seems. A montage of emotions rains from his eyes.
“I was never meant to see you again,” he trembles, “That was supposed to be the end. That’s why…” He lets out a sigh. “That’s why.”
Marwood’s heart was full. Now things drop from it. What’s Withnail on about? ‘That’s why?’ Is he trying to explain why he killed himself? Why those two words?
All these questions adds heat to the head. Then, Marwood can hear the blame, the ‘because of you’ behind Withnail’s ‘that’s why.’ It yanks the rest out of him and his heart’s left untenanted – dead, would be a word.
‘Dead,’ just like Withnail would’ve been. ‘Dead’ because of Marwood, apparently…
And Withnail was decent enough to tell him.
'DECENT':
Hah.
Haha ha.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
“I’m here because I was halfway to Manchester and I got a call from my dad to say he’d gone to collect the car early, and he’d found you snorkelling in a sea of blood, and a few beats from death.” Marwood starts shakily, “And let me tell you, Vivian Withnail, you are a few beats from death; all it’s going to take is this fucking fist through your –”
“Peter,” Ian touches his arm.
Withnail looks at it, looks at them both.
“First name terms?”
“You don’t get to say anything right now. Not a word,” Marwood spits, “Because of you, I’m here, and they had to give my job to the understudy.”
“Bollocks. How long was I out?” Withnail demands, “Couldn’t’ve been three hours.”
“Two weeks, nearly,” Ian says.
Withnail’s eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” Marwood hisses, “You were never meant to see me again. That’s why. Is that what you just said? Hmm? Couldn’t live without a sidekick? Some sad fuck polishing your ego every half-second of the day? You couldn’t put up with one of us finding happiness. Not unless it was you first. Suicide out of jealousy. Was that it? And now you have as little decency as to tell me it was me who killed you? How could you make me feel that awful? What is fucking wrong with you?”
Withnail sits there, face speaking words out loud, questioning whether to affirm or deny. Then, he chooses deep inhalation, and an almost imperceptible smile – the same face he had at the cottage when Marwood had woken him, after narrowly avoiding that buggery, and was yelling at him for telling Monty he’s queer.
A face hiding hurt is how I would describe it. A quiet confession to homosexuality – one Marwood’s too blind to notice.
“Yes, alright. Sorry,” Withnail yawns.
“Sorry?” Marwood might tear out his hair, “Sorry?”
He laughs so hard it seems he might cry. Ian grips tighter as if fearing it. But Marwood can hardly feel her anymore. His skin’s wrapped too tightly around him. He needs to break out, not just stand here, buzzing in a skin-cage.
“Do what you want with yourself,” he tells Withnail, and he flings his arm from Ian’s grip. Out of the ward, he storms. That’s it. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but in this stinking room with that shit magnet occupying it…
‘BROTHER’:
A term Ian doesn’t want to exist, right now.
It would be a lot easier if it didn’t, if she weren’t related to this fucker. And yes, before you begin to question it, I have jumped into Ian’s head for a bit. ‘Peter’ may have left the room, but there’s a lot to still uncover inside it.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Le Pin?” Vivian asks, looking at Ian’s bottle.
“Yes,” she swallows, “It is.”
She tries not to look startled by it; they both love their booze, but there’s something so eerie about Viv asking for it now, and about the nonchalant expression on his face – so underwhelmed by Peter storming out, as if he expected it, or expected worse.
A minute or so passes like this, Viv trying to get his sister to read his mind, before he sighs and says:
“Stupid bint. Pass it over.”
She should say no. She should punish him, but her head is still processing how to react to this. Whilst she’s thinking, she ends up just walking to him and handing it over. Viv unscrews it and downs a quarter before coughing, rasping and rubbing his chest. This is when ideas hit her.
“Burns?”
Withnail nods. A smile creeps over her.
“Then, it’s gone,” she says.
“What’s gone?” He asks.
“Your ability to drink.”
Oh, he doesn’t like that. If Ian is reading his face correctly, there can’t be much worse than that…
“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Vivian gulps.
Ian restrains her smile and shrugs at him. Viv explodes into coughs.
“Fuck that! How to desecrate a life… There’s no purpose beyond the bottle!”
“Good I was joking, then?”
Viv’s eyes sharpen.
“What would compel you to do that?”
“You shouldn’t have said those things to Peter.”
“Who, on God’s pissy plain, is Peter?”
Ian almost laughs. It’s just like her brother, being that petty. This brain injury hasn’t knocked an ounce of it out of him. But as Ian’s mind lingers on thinking about the brain injury, it brings other little details to her eyes. She notices this near-invisible crease between Viv’s brows, one that would suggest genuine confusion.
“Don’t wind me up now,” Ian licks her lips, waiting forever for him to smirk again. He doesn’t, “Viv, you know who Peter is. Peter Marwood.”
“Marwood?! Marwood’s here?”
Viv jumps from lying to sitting, almost falling out of bed in the process. Ian’s mouth falls open, but only that silent kind of language comes out of her. Her brother interprets it with frenzied eyes. Excitement slips away – more and more of it, the longer he takes to digest.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Shitting hell! My head! Feels like it’s being bummed by a bull’s horn.”
He tries to say more, but he can’t. It’s just him touching his bandage, his burden.
“Bastard brain,” Vivian mutters, “Am I stuck like this?”
“Dunno,” Ian swallows, “They said it’ll be hard to know what works and doesn’t until you woke up.”
“I need booze.”
He downs some more, not spluttering as much, but still wincing. Ian takes that as her sign to leave him. She can’t take much more, not by herself… She needs someone else by her side.
‘Someone’:
A synonym of ‘Peter.’
So, we’ll jump back into his head again. It’ll be more fun, since he’s yet to know the full extent of the melodrama. Where is Marwood right now, then? Just outside, really. Leaning against a wall in the corridor, smoking. Beneath the clouds of it: an angry, and therefore even hotter than usual, face.
“Give Viv a chance,” she slumps beside him, “He’s not right in mind.”
“When has he ever been?” Marwood smokes.
“Well, more so now.” She takes the cigarette from his hand and takes a drag, “As soon as you left, he forgot you were here.”
Marwood doesn’t hear it for a second. All he can take in is her lips, around his cigarette… What was it she just said, then?
Oh.
Maybe seeing alarm in his eyes, Ian slots the cig back in his mouth.
“You can’t trust anything he says, so you can’t let what he said affect you.”
Marwood can’t hear her again. This time, it’s because his mind’s going: Withnail forgot me. What caused that? Brain damage? What kind? Is it permanent? Forever?
“Sorry,” Ian frowns, “I don’t want to order you around. It’s just he’s my brother, I know him better than anyone, and you need the brass tacks. He’s an insensitive fucker but not this much of one. He wouldn’t choose to be brown bread over a friend, and he wouldn’t tell that friend he did.”
“Maybe you don’t know him. Maybe he’s changed.” Marwood rationalises, “How long has it been for you? If I’ve known him for seven years and I’ve never come across you?
Ian looks offended by this suggestion, but she tries to hide it, turning her face to the door.
“There’s something we’re missing. When we find it out, we’ve got to hide it.”
“Why?”
“Shock therapy.”
Marwood’s body braces.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Well, it’ll be off to the nuthouse, at the very least.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she says grimly.
And for the first time, Marwood hates those giant eyes of hers. It’s impossible to ignore how haunted they are. He can see so clearly how much she believes in this – so much, sick stabs at his throat.
“How? How do you know?”
“Bins bandit,” she points towards reception – at the nurse that only two weeks ago was putting the ‘bins’ (Cockney Rhyming Slang definition) in a ‘bin,’ (Standard English).
“She told you he’d go there?” Marwood asks.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“She told a desk,” Ian says. Marwood just stares. “In the doctor’s office. I was hiding under it.” More confusion, “When you lose things, you search for them, Peter.”
“What did you lose, then?”
“My knickers.”
Marwood thinks it best to ignore this.
“He can’t go to an asylum,” he says instead.
“I know that. We’d have to run away instead, but we shouldn’t think of it right now. We just need to concentrate on making Viv better, and not think about things he says that we don’t know are true.”
Marwood considers it. It makes sense. It must make sense because Marwood can’t live with it being true. He can’t have made Withnail want death.
Feeling slightly unsteady, Marwood pushes off the wall.
“Alright.”
“Going back in?” Ian asks.
“Mmm. But I’m not saying a word to him.”
So, wordlessly, Marwood enters the ward – Ian bustling in right after. She has her Benson & Hedges box out, an unlit one waggling in her mouth, which she’s struggling to try to light. Then, she doesn’t bother; she notices what’s happening.
Let’s do a film camera thing. Let’s imagine I’m the director and I’m going to take you across the room to it. We start on Ian. Silenced. The camera zooms out so that Marwood comes into frame as well, standing in front of her, and staring slightly open-mouthed at something that is still out of frame. The camera zooms out more to show part of Withnail’s head in the corner of the lens, hanging over and jerking.
Then the camera’s on his face. He’s crying. No, he’s sobbing his heart out. Like a child. A terrified one.
Marwood’s paralysed.
Ian moves swiftly past, shoving her cigarette and lighter in his hands as she does. She climbs onto Withnail’s bed and hugs him like how siblings might cling to each other as children – during midnight hours, or storms, after nightmares or witnessing the monster under their beds… Certainly, Withnail melts at her touch. Their movements convey familiarity. Comfort.
It’s weird. Startling. It's very hard to imagine that Withnail was once a small child. It's even harder to imagine Withnail as vulnerable and able to care. Just witnessing it has Marwood’s pulse in his throat.
Then, Ian makes eye contact with Marwood. A silent conversation is exchanged: there’s something wrong. Definitely. Withnail is beyond unwell.
Chapter 4: Withnail
Notes:
This chapter really explores the consequences of brain injuries, so please be mindful of that. I’m adding it to the main tags right now, but epilepsy and amnesia emerge as themes from that.
Also a big, colourful range of homophobic slurs because we know how Withnail likes to refer to himself as them.
Chapter Text
In the last chapter, I became the camerawoman. This time? A neuroscientist. Five hours of arduous training on Google search engines and trying to dodge Co-pilot. I could write a PHD thesis using Reddit forums, but instead, I am here, about to tell you exactly what is wrong with Vivian Withnail and how it can be fixed.
Short answer? There is no way. Long answer? I suggest that you pour yourself a large glass of wine first.
When the bullet entered Withnail’s brain, it missed many of the key areas. It didn’t hit the brain stem, which has kept him alive. It didn’t hit any of his lobes or the cerebellum, either, meaning his long-term and procedural memories remain largely intact – Withnail remembers how to ride a bike, and all the embarrassments of his childhood. What the bullet did was affect the Amygdala and Hippocampus. The former is responsible for emotions, which would explain Withnail’s outburst in the last chapter – sobbing as we could never imagine him to. If memories are not laced with emotions, we also risk losing them; they are not deemed vivid enough to be long-lasting. This would explain why Withnail could forget Marwood was there – the angst he should’ve felt during their argument not quite colouring his memory of it, as it tried to form.
What does damage to the Hippocampus cause? Well, it’s another one crucial for new memories. Damage here would mean fewer memories get transferred for long-term storage. It means that quite often, Withnail will only be able to hold on to mundane information about thirty seconds before forgetting it altogether.
And Withnail proves the science. The days go by, and his amnesia becomes more and more obvious. It takes Ian and Marwood far longer to notice it than Withnail does because they’re not in his head. They can’t feel it – that after-baked, forever high feeling. They can’t see the world as he does – completely still, but as if he’s still suspicious of gyrations, of things moving in the corner of his eyes that are never there when he turns his head. It’s all just tauntingly solid again. And this is constant. Worse at some points of the day than others, yes – like towards the end of the day, when he’s been tired out by his stress, he can barely remember the nurses' names, even when they’re right in front of him, plumping his pillows.
Oftentimes, his brain will trick him into thinking he’s better. The world will sharpen, and a grainy sound will overlay all he hears, like you’re just about tuned into a radio station, and you’ve turned it to high volume. At times like that, Withnail will try to explore the hospital – only for a doctor, Ian or Marwood to have to come to his rescue with a wheelchair because he suddenly got disoriented and dizzy.
Withnail had a nap for a solid two hours after his Trigram test, which was where they made him look at three random letters (e.g. XQT, LMR, YPD) and then made him count backwards in threes a bunch of times and asked him to try and recall what the letters were. It got harder and harder each time, for they would make him count backwards for a longer amount of time, therefore trying to make him remember the letters for longer. He could just about cope up to eighteen seconds, but anything over that and POOF! Gone.
There was also that storytelling test. It was even harder. Withnail’s neurologist flashed him different cards with pictures on them – somewhere between fifteen and twenty cards. He had to try to make up a story using the pictures, but as soon as he spoke about one setting and one character, he would forget what he’d said about them. It seemed any ounce of Withnail's creativity had flown out with the bullet. Realising that bombed his brain. Instant panic. It made him jumble his words, seemingly forget how to construct a simple sentence. The neuroscientist couldn’t finish the test, and instead got Withnail back into bed with a sedative.
Sedatives are Withnail’s best friend. Mandrax is the best. It’s fed to him every night to help with the insomnia. The other drug he relies on is Imipramine. This one is meant to be an antidepressant, but a tablet a day has been enough to reduce some of his forgetfulness. It’s more of a fake friend to him than Mandrax has been because the side effects seem to outweigh the benefits. Imipramine has given him a black tongue. He has to wear sunglasses inside because his eyes feel sensitive to light. And worst of all, the libido. Oh, it’s fucking unbearable!
THE ‘LIBIDO’ PROBLEM:
Half Marwood’s fault.
Withnail’s body is made of raw edges, and the minute Marwood walks into the room, Withnail mentally strips him. Sometimes the bastard’s nearby and Withnail has to scream at him until he fucks off – because just looking into that pretty prince-like face of his has Withnail’s genitals throbbing in physical pain. Then other times, when Marwood’s not even around, Withnail’s mind will attach to the next thing he can find. He was even staring at a woman’s tits the other day… That was scary… Made him wonder if he didn’t know himself, and he secretly swung both ways. But no, it was the medication talking. A nancy as ever. Phew. Thank goodness…
You’ve been so patient with my ramblings, up until now. There have been over nine hundred words of it. On that note, I will reward you by moving on and showing you the current scenery:
THE ‘SCENERY’:
INT. THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE. HOSPITAL. DAY.
They’re all sat inside it – Withnail, his sister and Marwood. A day or so ago, Withnail had an operation. He can’t remember what for, but if we listen closely, the Doctor will tell us…
That Doctor keeps making lustful eyes at Ian, much to Withnail’s alarm. Most disgustingly, Ian’s shyly smiling back. Withnail recalls her saying she fucked someone in the hospital. He even vaguely recalls making a joke about it, as he woke up. But this Doctor looks to be pushing fifty. Surely, Ian hadn’t meant him?
“The procedure from our end of things went well,” the Doctor states, still eyeing her up.
“Remind me what you did,” Withnail says.
“Removed the severely damaged parts of the amygdala and hippocampus.”
“To stop the epilepsy,” Ian adds.
“Reduce the effects,” the Doctor corrects her, “And, Mr Withnail, you’ve had no seizures since, have you?”
Ah, yes, one of the horrors not mentioned. Sorry I haven’t. I didn’t want to bombard you with all of Withnail’s woes at once. At least I’ve saved the worst one for last – eased you into it…
A few days after waking up is when it first happened. Withnail was asking Ian what happened to her boyfriend, well must be ex-boyfriend now – a Cockney bloke her idiolect had been influenced by. As they were talking, the room seemed to retract from Withnail, the bed moving right from under him. Everything was suddenly fleeing – it was that strong a feeling of terror that came over him. Unprompted. No cause. Just full-on fright and thin breathing that plagued him for ten seconds, maybe.
Right arm tingled, jaw locked, cheeks twitched, and then, the thrashing. Half the time it’s happened since, he’s passed out. It was just as well; when he did witness it, his soul fell half-out of him. Not even a finger was his to control.
The worst part was the sores. For three days after, every muscle screamed. And just when he started to heal, another seizure came. Snapped him to pieces again.
“That Brazilian Doctor did it,” Ian interrupts Withnail’s thoughts. “Uncle Monty paid for you to have him. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely,” Withnail sighs.
“Well, let’s waste no more time,” the Doctor says, “I have my notes from your latest Apperception Test here. Do you feel like your mood’s improved, since we did that last one?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“When you say improved, do you mean back to normal?” Ian asks.
“Well, yes,” the Doctor replies.
“Oh, he’s perfect then.”
“Mmm. A grumpy git as he’s always been,” Marwood mutters.
“I wouldn’t say that’s normal,” the Doctor says.
“It is for him.”
“And then he tried ending his life.” The Doctor licks his lips, “As I said, Mr Withnail, I have the Thematic Apperception notes here, and your storytelling was far less jumbled than before. You showed you’re able to produce something rather formulaic and with concision… but… the events you made up were still rather disturbed – suggesting the damage done to your amygdala is more extensive than I first thought. It’s very clear to me that we still have some work to do. I would fully recommend a residential at one of our partner trusts. We have been making significant progress in ECT research. Electroconvulsive stimulation will strengthen your amygdala and hippocampus.”
Withnail knows it’s English coming out of that mouth, but as his brain tries to hold onto those words, they slip away. Marwood leans in. Through gritted teeth, he utters:
“He means shock therapy.”
“Bedlam?” Withnail realises.
And his heart meets his knees.
“That’s kind of you, Doctor,” he forces a smile, “but I’m happy to say, I’m already a new man. I’ve even been thinking: I should join the Conservative Party.
“Oh really?” The Doctor asks.
“Yes,” Withnail says, “I hear they give you champagne.”
“Mr Withnail, I must warn you that in the absence of an intelligent response, it is my duty, as a medical professional, to assume that you lack mental capacity, and to provide the treatments I believe you will benefit most from.”
“How dare you! When I’m MP, it’ll be bastards like you in those places.”
The Doctor raises a brow.
“Will it really?”
“And for the procedures, it’ll be off with that toupee.”
If only you could see the Doctor; a frown slaps his face. And the air about him turns cold – would be even colder without that wig.
The Doctor picks up a pen. The way he readies it is almost violent. Then, he takes to the page.
“Patient is showing signs of delusion,” he narrates out loud, “linked with electrical errors that can be found in the anterior cingulate cortex.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Withnail sneers.
“My hair is natural.”
“It’s definitely natural. Isn’t it, Withnail?” Marwood hisses through his teeth.
Withnail doesn’t humour Marwood. Don’t get him wrong; everything’s a threat, especially watching this Doctor scribble, but what felt like dread before his brain injury he now has no control over. His mind won’t rationally decide what to feel and aggression just floods out of him.
“No, please don’t write that!” Marwood begs, “I’m sorry he’s been rude, but that’s just him!”
“Mr Withnail is sick and he must be healed.” The Doctor blots his pen and turns to Ian. “How do you think, Miss Withnail?”
Ian just stares for a moment.
“You smell different with pants on,” she says.
That poor, poor Doctor… there are beads of betrayal in his eyes, but then the beads drop out, and all that remains is anger. He considers something in his head. It must be to do with his plans for Withnail – or perhaps, plans no longer? I say this because after a moment’s consideration, he scrunches up his writing and puts it in the bin.
“Is Viv dismissed?” Ian asks.
“He may leave tomorrow,” the Doctor grumbles.
“Tonight,” Ian then dares to suggest, which sends a sharp look her way. The Doctor’s eyes? More like the anti-Christ’s.
“Very well,” he says.
Giving one last icy look at the Doctor, they all get up. A moment’s exchange of glances, and then they leave the office.
Speedily, I should note.
I should also note how Withnail’s feeling: his stomach’s swapped for a Magma chamber, and thoughts of that Doctor and Ian fucking have it ready for eruption. Of all the people she could’ve tarted herself to? Why that old fart? That’s never been her type before now. It’s always been the young, gentle boys – the ones that are always slightly effeminate and that Withnail can imagine would thank him, would find it revolutionary, if he shoved his cock in them.
But no, the daft cow’s picked Grandpa. How many minds has he electrocuted in his time? And what circumstances give him cause to do it? Everyone’s aware of the dangers, we’ve all heard the rumours – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest spelling it out first. Doctors mostly do it to queers – that thought has fire splashing back at Withnail, burning his throat and his mouth. He won’t vomit it up. He mustn’t. Just in case Marwood’s caught on, and come to the same conclusion…
The conclusion? It’s nothing to do with brain injuries. The Doctor might’ve taken one look at Withnail, up and far down, and realised what he is.
AN ARSE BANDIT:
One in need of conversion.
“Ian, that was brilliant,” Marwood grins at her on their way out.
“Was it?” Ian scrunches her nose, “Well, you’re welcome.”
“Don’t think too much of it, Marwood,” Withnail warns, “It was a complete accident. Always is with her.”
“You’re so ungrateful,” Marwood glares.
“I’m not.”
He really isn’t. If anything, he should be far more incensed than he is – and he’s saying that whilst tendons are testing their punch. In fact, he’s so focused on fury, his new infantile brain can’t handle anything else, not even walking. At his next step, he stumbles. Marwood and Ian catch him.
“Just a little dizzy spell,” Withnail grumbles. Realising Ian’s on his arm, he shakes her off.
“Right, where’s the wheelchair?” Marwood asks.
“It was here,” Ian gestures at the wall, “Right here. I’m sure of it.”
“The bastards took it. They’re trying to keep me here,” Withnail whispers.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Marwood spits.
“They are. They want me. More than toilet traders.”
Marwood looks confused by that. Understandably.
“Can you help Viv by yourself?” Ian turns to him to ask.
“Of course,” he says, “I have many times.”
“Most unwillingly,” Withnail mutters.
“Alright, if you get him back to bed, I’ll hunt down a wheelchair,” Ian says.
“I want to go now,” Withnail hisses.
“Alright, alright! Stop panicking!” Marwood barks, and tugs him in the direction of the ward.
As soon as they’re inside, Marwood stops helping Withnail. He practically shoves him onto the bed. Withnail opens his mouth in protest, but then he sees Marwood’s face. His jaw saws back and forth, giving him that rarely masculine look that always turns Withnail’s stomach. Highly arousing… but what’s the matter with him? Withnail has his cause for rage. What’s Marwood’s?
No time to worry now; they’re on a mission. Marwood’s already shoving anything he can find in Ian’s handbag. He sweeps the cards off the table, finds a whiskey bottle hidden under Withnail’s bed and stuffs that in too.
Withnail gathers all his meds and stuffs them in his pockets. As he does, he thinks about how he’ll cope at home. He’ll still need regular hospital check-ups, prescriptions re-assessed and prescribed, but not from that fucker. Which Doctor, then? Maybe that Brazilian fellow? Maybe if Monty’s feeling extremely generous, he’ll offer to keep paying for private treatment. They could pay for the Brazilian man’s services and dump Grandad for good.
That’s the hospital sorted, then. But how about homelife? Withnail can’t live by himself, can he? Marwood or Ian will have to stay with him, until he knows for sure he is free from seizures. Would they have to sleep in the same room as him? He doesn’t want that. Ian sausage rolls all night. As children, her rustling made Withnail want to rub his brain against a cheese grater. Marwood’s just as bad because he doesn’t wear pyjamas. An assured way to give Withnail a boner.
Here’s an idea: a baby monitor. Yes. He’ll have one in his room and one in Marwood’s, and maybe it’ll pick up on the sounds of him convulsing? And if it doesn’t, he could have a fail-safe. Tie a piece of string to the corner of his mattress, and the other end to a bell, so if the mattress starts shaking, it will tug on the string and make the bell ring.
Splendid. That’s sorted. Just in time as well, because in comes Ian…
“I’ve got a trolley,” she states.
“Where did you find a trolley?” Marwood asks.
“Trolley accident.”
Ian drags it into the room. It’s not the biggest Withnail’s seen, but it’s enough for the rump, as long as his legs dangle out. Guaranteed to make him look like a tosser.
Marwood inspects it, and he must be thinking the same; a smile sits on his lips.
“And the hospital just gave it to you?” He asks.
Ian shrugs.
“Turns out you can get anything if you trade your virginity.”
“Only, you didn’t. Because you can’t,” Withnail says.
Ian sticks out her tongue.
“Ignore him,” Marwood huffs, “get the legs.”
“Put them up, shall I? Ian’s the expert at that,” Withnail mutters.
“Shut up.”
Marwood’s leering again. It occurs to Withnail, as they’re awkwardly shoving him in the trolley, that Ian's the reason Marwood has a monk on. More specifically, it’s because of how Withnail’s treating her. He doesn’t see anything wrong with it, personally. It’s only a little bit of bullying – just what siblings do. For having such poor taste in men, she actually deserves far worse than this. But Marwood wouldn’t understand that because it's only ever been him and his dad, for most of his life anyway. He won’t remember how real families work.
Withnail’s in the trolley and it’s Marwood behind the bar, pushing it along. Ian moves slightly ahead of them, creeping up to each corner and peering around it to make sure the coast is clear.
They move silently like this for two more corners before Ian turns her head to them.
“Sorry, Peter. I can’t ignore this,” she whispers, and then looks straight at Withnail, “Why are you grumpy?”
“I’m not,” Withnail says, “But you didn’t trade your virginity for this.”
“I was having a laugh. Can’t I?”
“Not fucking grandads, you can’t,” Withnail huffs.
“He’s not that old,” Ian argues.
“No hair?”
“Means he’s no groomer.”
A long silence. Withnail and Marwood exchange glances.
“Sorry?” Marwood blurts.
“Yeah, a groomer, I’ll never date one again.” Ian nods to herself, “Overcharging on dry cuts…”
Marwood’s mouth opens.
“Don’t entertain it,” Withnail stops him, “Don’t say anything.”
“But that’s not what a groo –”
“Don’t you dare, Marwood. Shut the bloody fuck up!”
Marwood’s brows furrow. He’s still considering it. Then, Ian spins around and starts walking. She doesn’t look properly.
“Ian, stop!” Marwood pulls her back by the waist. Split-seconds later, a nurse walks by. They all press against the wall.
“What did I tell you?” Withnail hisses as soon as the nurse goes, “Where’s her brilliance now, Marwood?”
“Leave her alone.”
“Sorry,” Ian says.
“No, don’t. Not to him.”
“Oh, don’t worry; it’ll be a prank coming his way. I’m saying it to you.”
“Okay, don’t do that either. You share some interesting ideas, but you’ve done some fantastic things too… today in particular.”
“Sorry withdrawn, then,” Ian nods.
“Good,” Marwood says. He licks his lips as if thinking of more to say, but then his thoughts must be drawn downwards – to where his hands currently are. They’re still on Ian’s waist, which he jumps to let go of.
Christ on a cock… How frightfully red he’s gone. Withnail’s seen less crimson in cabernets… What is the meaning of it? Not love, surely! Marwood can’t fancy his sister… The world is committing a crime if it allows that!
It’s a fear that has his heart hastening, particularly as Marwood turns to Withnail, with a sour face, and states:
“I wouldn’t wish the asylum on anyone. But I stand where I was; you’re a fucking cunt for what you said when you woke up, and how you’re treating us now. Other things are coming for you, but I won’t be there to stop them. This is the last time.”
“And then back to Manchester?” Withnail assumes, “Good riddance, I’ll say.”
Withnail would rather have Marwood two hundred miles away than have him here, suffering with Straight Man Syndrome. Withnail shouldn’t be surprised, really; they're all plagued by Ian. There’s not a single man with immunity.
It’s just fortunate Ian’s in a ‘bald bloke’ stage. I mean, look. She’s not even spending a second on Marwood, just flicking her eyes up and down the last corridor, trying to work out when the coast will be clear.
“Car park’s on the other side of that door,” she soon tells them.
They’re not listening. Their silence consumes her voice – all at once, a giant snake’s worth. They’re too focused on being foes and somehow glaring whole sentences. Marwood’s eyes spit some odious ones, but most unfortunately for Withnail, he still seems fuckable.
“Quick, let’s go,” Ian tugs on the trolley.
“Gladly,” Marwood snaps out of it.
They make their escape.
Chapter 5: Marwood & Withnail
Notes:
I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It’s just so nice to build Ian’s relationship with each of the boys, and reveal a few more details about her.
Chapter Text
In the words of Baudelaire, you have to be drunk. It’s the only way. You can’t feel time breaking your back and bending you to Earth, so you have to be continually wasted. What on, then? Wine, poetry or virtue, but be drunk.
Be drunk on this story, if you have to.
That’s what Marwood is. He’s boozing on moments from the last chapter. It’s slow and heavy, and it feels like his rationalising is going nowhere. Even so, he stares out of the flat window and thinks. The street below hollers back with its drunk voices. He pinches the skin on his chin and turns away.
Standing in the doorframe at the other end of the room, completely unnoticed until now, is Ian. She examines Marwood’s face tentatively, spending a particularly long time looking at his jaw. She must notice the argument with Withnail there, still clasped between his teeth; she doesn’t move closer.
“He’s asleep,” she states. Marwood doesn’t reply. She swallows thickly, “One of us has to be in there.”
“Are you suggesting me?” He asks.
“I’m saying goodnight.”
“Night.”
A little too terse, he says it. He can feel her eyes moving with his head, back to the window again. Only this time, he’s feeling so insular, he doesn’t notice her crossing the room to join him. Sometimes the back of your eyes is staring into the front of your eyes, but to other people, it looks like you’re staring out into the distance. This is one of those moments. Marwood couldn’t throw himself out of his body if he tried.
“Viv’s really made you go spare,” Ian makes him jump by saying in his ear, “Unless there’s something else –”
“About your car…” Marwood changes the subject.
As if excited, Ian scrunches her nose.
“It’s a Mustang Boss,” she says, “Latest model.”
“I can tell,” Marwood mutters, looking at where it’s parked out the window. January ‘69 plate, not even a year old, and as red as caramelised apples, daring… the sort of car you could imagine in a chase scene, and must be nearing three grand in value.
“Where did you get the money for it?” Marwood asks, on that thought.
“Father, of course.”
“How?” Marwood blurts, “Withnail gets nothing from him.”
“Neither do I, but I was owed an apology,” Ian licks her lips, “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just getting to know you,” Marwood shrugs, “Or find out anything about who you are because you still haven’t said anything.”
Ian chuckles; Marwood must sound petty to her. But he just has so many questions… The main one these past weeks has always been ‘Where was she?’ Withnail’s hostility towards her earlier has only fuelled further analysis. Marwood can’t exactly call himself an expert on sibling rivalry, but he’s an expert on arguing with Withnail, and what Marwood had witnessed between him and Ian was not how arguments run. Withnail is an annoying cunt in all arguments; there’s no change there, but what should happen – what always happens – is that the opponent becomes so incensed by Withnail, they give as good as they get. In that regard, arguments with Withnail are always equal, are always fair – everyone is so outlandish, they forget who they are for a few moments…
But not with Ian. She let Withnail argue with her, but she gave nothing back. So eerily calm that it needs to be investigated.
Does she think she deserves it? Is that why? No. She said to Withnail she’d get her revenge later. But maybe that’s an excuse? Maybe she did something? Or maybe she just feels like she should take anything Withnail throws her way because she’s not been here? Maybe it’s both?
But even that doesn’t make sense to Marwood; the way she hugged her brother, the way she comforted him as he cried… there’s some warmth there, clearly…
The whole room seems to age – it takes that much time for Marwood and Ian to speak again.
“Why should I say anything about me?” Ian starts, “You’ll be back in Manchester soon.”
“That’s true,” Marwood mutters.
“Except you have no job to go to,” Ian says, “What’s the plan, then? Get up there and just… find something else?”
“Got better plans as well as cars, have we?”
“Give you one of her doors, shall I? You can slam it all night long.”
“Oh, very funny,” Marwood shakes his head.
Ian snorts.
“It’s fine, Peter,” she pats his folded arms, “I’ll let you push in her clutch.”
Marwood huffs a sigh, and this is too much for her. His disappointment: enough for silent laughter to throw her body about. She bangs her elbow on the window frame and yelps.
“Are you done?” Marwood rubs her elbow for her.
“I’m done,” Ian wipes a tear from her eye, “But not by your car.”
A giggle slips out of him now. No! Why! That was the ugliest, monkey-like giggle that could have escaped from him! Ian bursts into full-on cackles again, just through hearing it, which then sets Marwood off, and it goes full circle.
By the time they recover, a whole new era’s emerged. This one is still, strangely quiet in contrast… It’s just them heaving breaths, and Ian’s eyes holding Marwood, as she rubs her sore ribs.
“You’re impossible,” Marwood then pants.
“I learned from the best,” Ian states, and she turns her head to nod towards the hallway, at the end of which stands Withnail’s room. “Which is why you have to stay – at least until we get things straight.”
“Not even Withnail will be able to stay. They’re kicking him out.”
“Since when?”
“Since this letter.”
Marwood climbs over the arm of the sofa to grab it, half-crumpled on the coffee table. He tries to keep his eyes off the giant red stain on the carpet – now, and until the end of his life, assured to turn his stomach, at even a millisecond’s glance.
He just about manages. He grabs the paper and passes it over. Ian glances at it once over with her eyes and then reads it aloud.
“Dear Mr. P. Marwood and Mr. V. Withnail. This letter is to formally notify you that your tenancy agreement for the property is being terminated. This termination is based on violation of lease terms, specifically clause 63, regarding the maximum number of occupants, which, since you signed the lease terms, has remained as three.” Ian looks up at Marwood, “Who else was here, then?”
“Withnail’s dealer – Danny. And his partner, Presuming Ed. They just moved themselves in whilst we were on holiday. The landlord must’ve seen them.”
“You are hereby required to vacate the premises no later than 2 December (1969), which is two months from the date of this notice.” Ian continues reading, “Based on local laws, these eviction terms are those of a Section 8 notice. Details regarding the move-out procedure are outlined in your copy of the signed tenancy agreement. Please contact me if you have any questions. Sincerely, Precious Dicks?” Ian chokes into coughs.
“He’s a man too,” Marwood says.
“Wonderful,” she continues coughing and scans the letter again, “Well, we’re fine. He can’t kick us out.”
“Yes, he can. He’s kicking you out next month.”
“For breaking a contract that wasn’t even broken; you didn’t let them move in, did you? In fact, we could get Dicks nicked. Because he didn’t look after the property. This Danny and Ed broke in, and he didn’t even investigate it. As far as we’re concerned, he’s allowed in squatters.”
“Which he could get fined for…”
“Exactly,” Ian smirks, “If we were to tell on him – or threaten to if he doesn’t withdraw his eviction notice…”
“I’d say you were a genius, if he couldn’t find another reason to get rid of you. Payments, maybe? You can’t rely on Withnail to keep up with them.”
“That’s alright. I have a job.”
“You do?” Marwood straightens. It doesn’t seem possible, unless her employers are the most generous leave-givers on Earth – because she spent the whole two weeks at the hospital…
Unless… unless she was working… at the hospital… and her job is something that makes her rather… self-employed?
Oh, oh God. Marwood could slap himself for letting his mind go there. How sexist could he be? Imagining that all confident women must be sex workers? No, actually, how sexist is he for making a big deal out of it? If Ian’s a sex worker, let her be a sex worker. A woman has to put food on the table, the same as men, and he hears there’s good money in it.
The car.
She says her father funded it, but was it clients? Oh, oh, Christ! Ian drove them home! They’ve been sitting in that car! What if she’s been seeing clients in her car and there was spunk on the seats, and Marwood was sitting in it?
Marwood feels itchy now. That’s the thought of being sat where Ian has sex – might have sex. Surely, she’s had some sort of sex in her car because everyone has. Not just sex workers…
If she’s a sex worker, she’s well practised – no! … What is wrong with him?!
Most tauntingly, Ian doesn’t offer an alternative thought. She just does her annoying little nose-scrunch.
“According to this,” Ian shakes the letter, “you’re allowed three people. That’s three incomes, including your credits. Plus, any new disability allowances Viv might qualify for. We’ll have to look into it.”
“You’ll have to look into it. I’m not staying, I’ve told you that,” Marwood says.
“You won’t be angry with him for long. He’s a rotter sometimes, but there’s also no one quite like my brother, and you know it.”
Her voice is so soft and serious now that it’s hardly human. Where is she from? Not a world where her brother bullies her.
“Please, Peter,” she continues in the same voice, “Let’s get down to brass tacks: with finances or not, it’s likely I can’t do this on my own. And if I can’t do it, I’ll lose him again. I can’t lose him.”
Her voice drops away at the ‘can’t lose him,’ and because of it, Marwood’s mind can’t help but rewrite her face. Just for a second, it becomes a line in his notebook, one he might trace with his fingers, after writing.
And this is why he can’t understand it – how Withnail treats her. And more than that, Marwood can’t see how anyone could want to keep her away.
She says she wants Marwood here. That’s a nice way to extend the hand of friendship…Could he call her a friend, whilst she remains a stranger?
No, he couldn’t. And that brings on his conclusion.
“Fine,” he says, “I’ll stay on one condition.”
“I’m listening,” Ian murmurs.
“You tell me who you are.”
Ian just stands there, licking her lips.
“That’s a long story,” she decides.
“Tell me one thing, for now,” Marwood says, “What about the glasses? What did you need those for?”
Must be one of the better questions. Ian’s expression flips, and a large grin escapes.
“It’s for my job,” she states, “and no, Peter, I’m not a sex worker.”
“Oh, thank fuck for that!”
I present you a different tone, now. I present to you a mellow next morning, with Withnail turning over, light flooding through the cracks in his lids, and making him stir. There’s a second, as Withnail sits up, where he wonders if he’s miraculously cured, but one more second's wait kills that hope. His new best friend, brain fog, swings at him like a giant dumbbell, one foul swoop.
Withnail groans, massages his head and then searches the room for Ian. She sits on the vanity stall, doing her makeup.
“Cup of rosy’s beside me,” she catches Withnail’s eye in the mirror, “it might be cold, though. I made it about five.”
Withnail would have guessed four. That’s his thought as he shuffles out of bed and up to the vanity. Up close, Ian looks like an off-brand version of herself – eyes droopy, and the lip stain she’s chosen, the red of drugged eyes. Even so, she sits there humming Moon River. Withnail doesn’t quite know what to say to it.
“Your hair,” he ends up blurting.
“Do you like it?” Ian grins, “I thought I’d try something a bit different.”
“It looks like crap taxidermy.”
“And there’s a right stink flowing from Hamstead Heath,” Ian tries to waft him away.
“Do you think so?” Withnail breathes in her face, “Should I brush them?”
Ian’s answer is falling melodramatically from the vanity chair, right onto the floor, coughing and spluttering.
“Tell Peter to call an ambulance!”
“He’s still here?”
“Of course, I convinced him to stay,” Ian gets up.
Withnail straightens – well, not straightens. I should say he gets rather more bent. He’d said to himself yesterday that he’d rather Marwood be in Manchester, than be in his sister, but he regrets that statement. All night, he dreamt of Marwood leaving again. It was somehow more painful than the first time – probably because this time around, Marwood would be leaving mid-argument, and that would have the flavours of him never, ever returning.
So, it’s that kind of relief filling Withnail’s head that has him holding back a smile, as he asks:
“How the fuck did you manage that?”
Fuck, oh, ‘fuck.’ If only Withnail hadn’t said that word with so much welly; it’s given him an idea that Ian only then fuels by grinning – and that has Withnail stumbling over his own words. Okay, so erase all his previous ones…Yes, he would rather Marwood stay, but there is no scenario on Earth where what Withnail is imagining, between Marwood and his sister (a meeting in the mouth) could be tolerable.
Withnail’s still full of splutters, so it’s Ian who speaks next.
“The cat got your tongue?”
“Did your cat get tongue?” Withnail demands, “Tell me no or I might lose all sanity.”
“Tongue from who?” A moment of blinking and then she realises, “Peter? … AH HA HA HA!”
“What’s so funny? Marwood is not one of your shag sacks.”
“I never said he was,” Ian sobers, “He’s not, Viv.”
And believe it or not, Withnail trusts her. She might use her giant ‘Corpse Bride’ eyes (excuse the use of 2010s lingo) to distract people from it, but behind the stare is usually the truth. Nothing is hiding there, this time.
“I barely know the bloke,” she adds.
“Unlike that Doctor.”
“That was once. I was doing a favour.”
“How?” Withnail goes quiet, “Oh, God. Don’t tell me. You’re his gestational carrier.”
“Well, when you first got into the hospital, everything was up in the air and uncertain, so the doctors could only tell immediate family what was wrong with you. But, Peter was in the waiting room – and he was in a lot of distress because he’d seen his dad covered in all your blood, obviously – and they weren’t going to tell him anything. They were going to tell me, but they were just going to leave him waiting there. So, to let Peter come along, I just had to improvise and make a deal with the doctor, and, well, the first thing that came to my head was: grant him a look at my knockers.”
“He’s not your new fellow, then?”
“No.”
“Thank fuck,” Withnail mops his head with his nightshirt, “I wondered if you might marry him. It'd have been a living nightmare.”
At that, Ian smiles painfully.
“What’s wrong with you now?” Withnail asks.
“Nothing.”
That’s what Ian says, but then she moves herself away. She folds herself down on Withnail’s bed, pretending to stare out the window above his bedpost. Withnail feels he has no choice but to follow over there.
“Brainless bitch, I can tell when you’re lying,” he flops down beside her. Ian just gives him a side eye, which makes him huff, but then he realises that her lip isn’t curling down – like it does when she’s being pathetic, and pretending to be unhappy. Instead, she’s gone grey.
There’s only one thing that could cause that: mentioning the ‘Taboo Word.’ But Withnail doesn’t even recall saying it.
“Did I mention nightmares?’” He asks.
“You did.”
The memory hits like an anvil.
“Oh fuck! Yes! In jest, as well!” He chews his thumbnail, “Dastardly done.”
Ian eyelids draw down like curtains, to completely shut, and it’s like the eyes behind them are waiting for something – a cremation on the quiet.
It drags Withnail’s heart down to see. And his hand feels somehow as heavy, reaching out to smooth down her hair.
“A dream itself is but a shadow,” he says.
“Better not be Shakespeare,” Ian mutters.
Withnail chuckles.
“It will be for the wench that still dreams of our father as god – one that composed your beauties, and whom he sees as a form in wax, by him imprinted, and sees it as within his power to leave or disfigure.”
It’s a specific quote, that one. Theseus in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Only, through knowing the content too well, Withnail has managed to change it slightly.
It used to be him affected by their father’s ruthlessness. Him who thought of his father like a god. And Ian… she’s been making the same mistake since the womb: stepping out into the world after Withnail. Following him through life, but always 5 years behind schedule. In another 5, she could be in this bed, bandaged-up head.
“I was thinking of moving back there,” Ian suddenly says, with Withnail still stroking her hair, “He did buy me the car. And dealing with him, it’s got to be like any other fear. You face it, and if you face it long enough, your fear goes.”
“Oh, you stupid woman,” Withnail ruffles her head, “If you’re so set on desensitising, at least do it with drugs. I shall call Danny this morning.”
After getting ready, of course. On that note, Withnail gets up from the bed.
“Where’re you going?” Ian asks.
Withnail points at his teeth.
“You remembered, then?” She grins, and he looks at her like a slug from the toilet cistern – a slug probably has more brains than she does. What is she on about? Something, apparently, because she’s laughing at him as he turns to leave…
And then she isn’t.
“Viv?”
On a sigh, Withnail trudges back to the door.
“I’m getting you downers. What more could you want?”
“You didn’t tell Peter about me,” she says, leading to an awkward pause, “He even asked where I’d been all these years, like I haven’t been by your side.”
Oh… She’s hurt. Hurt but also not surprised. She probably made a joke about it to Marwood – something like, ‘I’d be scared if he did mention me, then we’d know for sure he was fucked.’ Withnail supposes it wouldn’t surprise her. He doesn’t half go on about how gormless she is… in front of everyone… It’s made up about half their Earthly interactions, and so, it was bound to get in her head sometime that Withnail’s embarrassed by her.
Not that it’s true. Fine, it was true yesterday. But in usual circumstances, Ian’s not fucking his doctor. Usually, Ian is travelling about London – sometimes at Monty’s, sometimes Aunt Geraldine’s, or at any new boyfriend’s – but wherever she goes, she puts a bottle of merlot on the table, Withnail’s name invisibly written on it.
It’s not a question of where she was. It’s a question of why Withnail didn’t take up the invite more often. Once a month, maybe once every two, is what he limited it to. It was only that often that Withnail could get away from Marwood unnoticed.
“I suppose I should state my reasons,” Withnail says on that thought, “It’s because if I’d let him meet you, he’d find out about me.
“Find out what about you?” Ian frowns, “Be serious for a second.”
“I am.”
He’s so serious, his heart jitters in his chest. And because that can’t keep still, neither can the rest of him. He stands there, under the heavy weight of Ian’s gaze, trying to shift away from it.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it, Ian. The things I say to you are not for the ears of others,” he says when she offers nothing.
“Can’t think what you mean, but I wouldn’t’ve relayed anything.”
“Not intentionally, no. But it’s not just about what’s said. It’s how I’d have to behave. I am a trained actor who is only ever off-stage in your company.”
Ian’s brows draw together.
“You know what I am. You can’t tell me you don’t,” Withnail says, but she still stares blankly, “I’ve hinted to it enough over the years, and your mind can’t be that vapid.”
But clearly, it is, because Ian still says nothing. Instead, this awkward moment arises where they’re just shoving their stares into each other’s hands, trying to get rid of them.
“Viv,” Ian then breathes, “Just tell me –”
“Another time, maybe,” Withnail turns away, “I’ll spell it out in phonetics for you.”
He can’t speak now because he’s locked inside himself. Only two years ago, he would’ve been locked in – in prison for what he was born as.
Maybe it’s fortunate Ian’s stupid? Withnail’s stupid too, just as much… He’d dared imagine that since July '67, he’s been in a new world, one where everyone can confess queerness in confidence. It’s more likely with Ian as a sister, that girl could forgive Withnail for murdering someone, but he’d be in deep trouble if news of his queerness spread further.
To tell a secret in this world, you must trust one person, which means, trust all others.
So, maybe Withnail won’t tell her again. Once was frightening enough, even if it wasn’t explicitly. At least he did it… And even if she hasn’t taken in all of the message, Ian still knows more of the real him than anyone else does.
Withnail thinks of these things as he’s loading his toothbrush. His movements are very mechanical, don’t require much from his eyes – his eyes are blind to everything until he spits, and out drizzles bright red. At this point, Withnail freezes. He looks down into the sink and then up into the mirror, and pulls the expression of a bear. Across all his teeth: the thickest layer of red he’s seen. A dentist's spine would snap at first sight of it. It’s like his teeth are bleeding to their death!
“AHHHH!” Withnail screams, “Please God, no, you fucking BASTARDDDD! I’ll take anything over dentures!”
Withnail is caught mid-scream, as he notices something hiding at the back of the shelf – a small bottle, which, on closer inspection, seems to belong in the kitchen.
Half a second later, Marwood and Ian race into the room.
“What?” Marwood pants, “What is it?”
Withnail shoves Marwood his foamy red toothbrush.
“Which one of you fuckers put food colouring on this?!”
Marwood looks at Ian, who looks straight at Withnail, dead in the eye, and shrugs.
“I said I’d get my revenge.”
Chapter 6: Marwood
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING!!
This chapter very briefly discusses the SA scenes with Monty from the film. The Marwood chapters of this story will deal with this topic because I thought it was important to highlight the emotional impact of that on his life. So yeah, just please bear that in mind and also refresh your memory of this fics tags – because I have updated them and adjusted slightly.
There is also a sexist joke in this one, since they are thinking in 60s. So please bear that in mind.
Enjoy!
Gray x
Chapter Text
A QUOTE FROM MARWOOD’S NOTEBOOK:
The rarest of all human qualities is consistency, but Lillian Withnail has found a way: be consistently not consistent. A wildfire blazing amongst a spitting sky. An antithesis of herself.
Following on from that quote? A long list of observations Marwood’s made – something he’s always done for people. As you probably know, he has a full-blown notebook titled ‘Withnail & I.’ In Marwood’s teen years, there was also that story he made up about his neighbour Thomas, and a little before that, about a girl in his class called Diane, whom he had a rather obvious crush on. Sometimes, his lists were as random as for an old lady in a café.
To use the words of his father, Marwood has an ‘obsession with people,’ and his father would tell him off for it as a kid. The exception was the list about his mother. How could Bear tell his nine-year-old off for grieving? For the thought eating into Marwood’s bones being that he’d forget what his mother was like? Marwood needed a list to document her sound and soft scent, so that when he touched the paper, her memory would jump out and embrace him again.
Only, he didn’t need a list; he forgot nothing.
LILLIAN (IAN) WITHNAIL, THE LIST:
- Ian, Lillian, DON’T CALL HER LILY!! Flinches. Goes pale ∴ bad memories?
- Rich car + separate purse in bag just for vouchers
- Anything not bought with vouchers –> trade for fag.
- Will not discuss the war. Will leave the room.
- Dressed as Marlene Diedritch in ‘Morocco’ + asked to take pictures of her in the *laundrette* –>
What for?Reason below. - Pictures were for ‘work’ (not a euphemism for prostitution).
- Never sleeps.
- No more than one drink an evening. But more drugs than meals.
- Lots of Fags. B&H.
- Cinema = most nights? Goes with travellers –> Silent film escapades.
- Hat on the bathroom door ∴ no need to lock it, WON’T lock it.
- Won’t use lifts either –> cleithrophobe?
As I said: not the whole list. Some mere speculations, rather than anything Ian’s revealed. She didn’t fail to keep her promise of telling Marwood things, not really… She’s just been too busy to talk.
Her first busy moment? Moving rooms. A few days into their return, Withnail mentioned that they should get baby monitors, so no one had to sleep in his room anymore. The only problem with this is Ian had no bedroom to go to. Marwood decided to gift her his room because he thought it was important the only woman of the maisonette had her own space. He just planned to sleep on the sofa – it was comfy enough, and he is one of those people who can sleep anywhere. Ian, however, was having none of it. She went out and traded ‘something’ of hers for a sofa-bed Marwood could sleep on. The frame was in bits, so she spent that evening putting it all together – her task only. The boys weren’t allowed to touch a single screw.
After that, it wasn’t just waves of different tasks coming Ian’s way, it was whole tsunamis. She seemed fixated on the idea that, being Withnail’s sister, his memory is her responsibility. There was one incident where they had a power outage because Withnail had been going around the flat turning different lamps on, the television and the radio, and had forgotten to turn everything off again. Under the light of candles, Ian decided to spend the night writing post-it note reminders to stick on places like the doors, by the shoe rack, the toilet and his toothbrush. She scheduled a list of all the things that Withnail needed to do that week, never asking for Marwood’s help, and only moving to the side when he forced his way into the planning.
‘You asked for me to stay, so you should use my services.’ He said. He also told her that she shouldn’t do so much for Withnail; he’s thirty years old, and he can make his lists. Marwood would like to add that Withnail’s not very nice to her, but he’s starting to doubt that’s the case. Yes, Withnail was nasty about the whole doctor situation, but since Ian has explained that properly, he has mellowed…
No, not even mellowed. Completely changed. In aura, in face… Not to sound like a poof or anything, but Marwood’s always felt rather unsettled by Withnail’s smiles – by the ones that have genuine warmth. He is meant to look like a bug-eyed, tomb-stone-faced bastard, but Withnail’s smile is one of those rarities that can be completely transformative for a complexion. When he smiles, he almost looks handsome. A woman might find that smile arresting. And in Marwood’s opinion, Withnail can’t look like that. It’s not right. The world would be in even more danger than it already is if Withnail were handsome.
But that’s exactly what he is around his sister. Yes, they bicker. Yes, they shove each other on the way out of the room. Yes, they hide each other’s stuff. Yes, they call each other stupid and fuckers and bitches and cunts. They also grin and whisper things in each other’s ears and share laughter. Marwood often imagines they’re reflecting on their youth, but sometimes Withnail chuckles whilst looking at him. And Ian also looks at Marwood.
What is he saying to her? A lot of things, probably. Marwood and Withnail both use Ian as their channel of communication. Messages go to her, and she relays them to the other so they don’t have to talk directly. It’s because they haven’t ‘made up.’ Not officially. Right now, all Marwood wants to be is a secondary carer, not Withnail’s friend. Withnail, meanwhile, has seemed to have forgotten anything ever happened. He probably has, but Marwood can’t help but think the worst – that Withnail is choosing to ignore the fact he needs to apologise. Ian might not expect it from him, but Marwood does, and so he will continue to be Withnail’s carer, in silence, until he gets one…
Right, okay.
So Marwood does talk to Withnail again. It happens the morning he wakes up to a clean kitchen.
THE CLEAN KITCHEN:
Not Withnail’s doing.
Marwood doesn’t assume it either. His first thought is that he believes in fairies. His second thought is to throw open all the kitchen cupboards and see if the dirty plates have been stuffed in there instead. But, nope. Everything’s been washed. The sink is shining. Counter-tops are free from crap.
The man closes the cupboards. He makes his way to his old room to find Ian. She’s not in there, so he tries Withnail’s room. This time, he’s in better luck. Ian is sitting on the edge of Withnail’s bed, talking in low whispers to her brother. In her hand is Withnail’s face cloth. She dabs his forehead with it as he whispers something – lips stained with such a vibrant frown that Marwood hesitates for a second. Only, Ian turns her head and sees him hovering in the hallway.
Marwood approaches. As he does, his tongue betrays him and his promise of silent treatment. He looks at Withnail and asks:
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Can’t talk…” Withnail rasps, “So sick... Mouth… Giving birth…”
“He has a sore throat,” Ian confirms, dabbing his head again, “and as I said, Brother-Dearest, you should take contraceptives.”
Marwood and Withnail side-eye each other.
“Don’t ask,” Withnail begs.
“Why’s that, Ian?” Marwood blurts.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
“Precautionary, of course,” Ian says, “Can’t give germs consent, can we?
It’s such a hard silence that passes – almost too much for Withnail’s fucked up throat to swallow. His arm shoots across the bed and he grabs Marwood’s wrist.
“Tell Ian I need barriers between me and her,” he whispers, “at all times.”
“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”
“Too sick to talk.” Withnail rolls over.
Ian shakes her head but then smiles. Marwood leans his body against the door frame as he turns to her.
“I came to ask you. Where did we get a kitchen from?”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I just tackled it,” she says.
“The whole thing?” Marwood stares.
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“It didn’t take long; I just decided to throw almost everything out. Some of the crockery’s alright after a deep scrub, but I’ll buy you some new pots and pans.”
“No, that’s alright, thank you…” Marwood runs his hands through his bed hair and licks his lips, “Christ, Ian. It’s spotless.”
“Should’ve seen her face as a teenager. Gangrenous,” Withnail mutters.
“You still look like someone’s toe painting,” Ian replies.
Marwood silently laughs.
“Well, clearly, Withnail, you’re not so sick that you can’t insult anymore, so I bet you can use your legs as well.” Marwood leans out of the doorframe to grab his coat, which hangs on the peg just outside. He fishes out ten pence from his pocket and chucks it at Withnail. “We need bread.”
“Ooh, actually, if I give you some extra, can you go down the frog a bit more? Get beef and spaghetti?” Ian nudges her brother.
“I saw some spaghetti tins. You’ve put them in the bottom left cupboard,” Marwood says.
“Oh, no, Peter,” Ian stares meekly down at her purse, as she takes out a pound and two shillings, “I meant proper spaghetti. From the Italian shop.”
“The delicatessens,” Withnail grins, “Marwood’s not civilised, Ian. Fresh food from the dinner service is exotic.”
“Don’t be fooled. He only learnt how to peel potatoes last month,” Marwood mutters.
“I don’t doubt it.” Ian stands up and yanks the covers off Withnail. “Come on, then. I need those ingredients before tonight. We’re going to act like actual human beings and eat as a three at the table.”
“We have a dinner table?” Withnail gets up, “Where’s that, then?”
“Go!” Ian shoves him towards the door.
“What if I forget what I’ve gone out for?” He asks.
“Write the shopping list on one hand and our address on the other,” Marwood suggests, “Then if you get confused and lost, someone will return you. Like a dog.”
Withnail flips Marwood the bird, but then he snatches a pen off his dresser and starts scribbling down the shopping list. He must look at his reflection in the mirror about five times whilst writing, and it still doesn’t occur to him he’s in his pyjamas. No one bothers to remind him. Instead, they let him wander right out in his nightshirt.
It occurs to Marwood, as he and Ian are giggling over what they’ve made the poor, sick bastard do, that Marwood’s never seen Ian in a nightdress. He’d like to see her in one – no, that sounds questionable.What Marwood means is that he’d like to see her get some sleep – instead of having all these sudden ideas, like cleaning the kitchen in the middle of the night, which are slowly killing the colour from her eyes and the bags below them.
She needs a nap. She needs to let Marwood scribble ‘never sleeps’ off his notebook list. The problem is, Marwood can’t force her to sleep. The closest thing he can do is to force her to relax a bit and get rest that way. No chores, just a day where Ian sits on the sofa doing nothing – and this day would be a good one for it; it’s not even a night out with the travellers.
He should cook for her.
You’re about to shoot down that idea and scream at your Ao3 page, ‘BUT MARWOOD CAN’T COOK!’ Before you do, I need you to hear his side of the story. The last time he cooked, he was almost groped by Montague Withnail. A bi-product of that memory is that any time cooking is mentioned, Marwood’s belly is bruised and bleeding back into his mouth. In those hours where he’s reminded of the bedroom moment, he does empty his stomach.
An end to it – that’s all he wants. Step-by-step. Replacing his connotations of cooking with doing something nice for Ian might be the first one… Then, at a later date, he can tackle the horrors of the bedroom buggery.
Perhaps some of Marwood’s desperation shows in his face when he proposes the idea of cooking to Ian. She examines him for a short while, but then accepts.
Marwood is already in the kitchen when Withnail comes home, reading Ian’s magazine cut-out of the Bolognese recipe. Withnail shoves the shopping bags on the side. His pyjamas are muddy. His jaw pulses. Marwood stifles a laugh and turns to fill up the kettle. Withnail inspects the room and his jaw slowly softens.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Marwood says.
“I suppose it does,” Withnail murmurs.
Marwood can’t help but grin now. His face is screaming a gleeful: ‘Hah! You just complimented your sister’s work!’
“Well, because Ian’s done a lot for you up to now, and you’ve been an ungrateful bastard, we’re going to cook lunch,” Marwood states, “Give her a rest from staring at these walls.”
“Walls are good for women. Anything to remind them where they stand.”
“I’ll make you cook on your own,” Marwood warns.
“Alright, alright,” Withnail sighs and picks up the recipe to read. “Well,” he swallows, “our Darling Ian’s in for a frightful feast.”
“Why?”
“It says mincemeat here,” Withnail taps, “I went and bought sirloin.”
“Oh. You. Idiot.”
“It’s her fault. She just said beef. Look, I’ll just have to cut it –”
“No, I’ll do it, since I’m the uncivilised one. You boil the pasta you’re such an expert on.”
Marwood pushes Withnail aside and turfs through the shopping bag – vigorous shake, pasta flung across the kitchen, and Withnail has to catch it. For a moment, Marwood thinks he won’t. For a moment, it looks like it’ll go in the rubbish bin. When it doesn’t, Marwood has to massage a breath back in. Half stays stuck in his throat – why is he being like this? Ian probably won’t mind if it goes wrong…
But what if she does?
Marwood grabs the whiskey from the living room. He slams it on the kitchen counter, pours himself a shot and downs it. Withnail watches him in the corner of the eye, not saying anything – just in with the pasta… That’ll be done cooking before the meat. Marwood should speed up.
He slides the glass to the side and grabs the potato masher.
“What in the devil’s name?!” Withnail starts.
But Marwood’s already mashing.
“Marwood!” Withnail’s eyes grow, “If we have to do this for Ian, she deserves to have it done properly! I won’t have perfectly good meat experience this sacrilege – MARWOOD!”
“You’ve already made this cock-up! I can hardly make it worse!” Marwood hisses and turns to inspect Withnail’s pan, “Get on with it, Withnail! It’s boiling! Four turns of the timer, she said. And stir frequently!”
“How frequently?” Withnail asks.
“How the fuck should I know?” Marwood tears at his hair, “Do it every half an egg-timer.”
Withnail grabs the whiskey bottle and takes a swig right out of it. He then grabs a wooden spoon. He also snaps a bit of dried pasta off and chews on it. He pulls a face.
“Oh. It’s horrible. Ghastly. It’s all stale.”
“Give it here!”
Marwood shoves Withnail to the meat side. The bastard just hovers there – doesn’t even pick up the potato masher. He just watches as Marwood throws open all the cupboards above him.
“What are you doing now?”
“Finding some fucking flavouring of some kind!” Marwood shouts, “Disguise the fucking taste!”
Every extremity twitches. He just wanted to do one nice thing to repay Ian, to make her feel good, rested, like she can step back sometimes and let Marwood take care of it. He can’t fail her now.
“Ah ha!”
Marwood finds an OXO cube.
“Chicken stock?” Withnail hisses, “You can’t put chicken stock –!”
“Just watch me,” Marwood spits.
He crumbles the flavouring into the boiling water, turning it all brown. Withnail’s mouth plummets. Marwood ignores him, snatches the whiskey from the counter again and pours another shot. He necks it down double-speed.
“Useless,” Withnail shakes his head, “Useless as tits on a bull!”
SPAGHETTI:
Starts with a sibilant sound. So does ‘stress.’
And the aftermath of Withwood cooking spaghetti is them shuffling out of the kitchen area, covered in tomato puree. Withnail places a bowl on the coffee table in front of Ian. He says nothing to her. He just glares back at Marwood and flumps down on the sofa with his portion – not that he’s planning to take a bite from it. He made that quite clear to Marwood before they emerged. Instead, he watches Ian twist it onto her fork.
Marwood also watches. As he does, he notices his throat is dry from all the breaths that have been sawing through him.
Ian takes a bite and her eyes bulge.
“Oh God. It’s that awful?” Marwood sighs.
“I thought you said you couldn’t cook?” Ian chews.
“I can’t.”
“You can,” she gathers more on her fork, “try it.”
So, Marwood and Withnail taste it.
“Fucking hell,” Withnail covers his mouth.
“It worked,” Marwood laughs, “It shouldn’t have worked.”
“You’re a fucking genius. Congratulations.” Withnail shovels his food bitterly.
“Yes, you are,” Ian smiles. She puts her bowl on the table again, gets up and goes to Marwood. Then, she leans down and kisses his cheek, “Thank you.”
Oh. Alright… Well, that’s nice of her… Marwood doesn’t know what to think more than that. And completely unbeknownst to him, he wears the Cheshire cat’s mouth as he watches Ian move over to Withnail. Withnail is staring hard at Marwood, and continues to stare hard – doesn’t even blink – as his sister bends down to him.
“And thank you, Brother-Dearest,” She kisses his cheek too, “I don’t know how much you did, but –
Withnail stands up. Rockets. Eyes gaze across at Marwood, but they’re not telling at that distance. Marwood gets up too, and it’s just the three of them standing there. Separate islands.
A few beats, and Withnail storms out of the flat.
…
What was that?
“I shouldn’t have done it,” Ian says, seconds later, “he’s got the wrong idea.”
“Done what?” Marwood asks.
It’s a genuine question; Marwood’s that stupid, that blind to his reactions and feelings – and clearly, others’ feelings.
Ian just blinks at Marwood, and a blink can be anything.
“Withnail’s not angry with you,” he then states, “He’s angry with me. Because he’s a child. And all I let him do was turn on the stove.”
That’s all it can be: Withnail on fire out of jealousy because Marwood can cook.
On that thought, Marwood decides he will finish his delicious food and not worry for another second about the knobhead. Ian sits down to do the same, but they eat in silence now. Ian only looks at Marwood when she has to – which is when she takes his dish out to wash up.
Marwood knows he should get up and help dry for her, but he can’t. He’s too incensed to move. It’s seized every muscle… Well, every muscle but those that are in his hands, which move to pour a shot of whiskey.
Ian keeps poking her head around the door. Marwood wishes she’d just leave the washing, come and have a silent drink. By some weird, drunken bodily request, he wants her in the same room. He needs her to be angry with him.
Only, Ian’s not exactly supportive of his anger when she comes back in. Ian’s just not like he’d imagine a woman to be at all – all molly-coddling. Instead, she sits on the arm of his chair, eyes his pathetic shape and sighs.
“If I tell you something, would we have a bull?”
“No,” Marwood grumbles, “I don’t have the energy for another.”
Ian tries to find her words. Rain wanders down the window. Pausing for a few moments to observe her, before scuttling away.
“You are… an alcoholic,” she says.
“That’s nonsense,” Marwood calmly states, “You would know if I were an alcoholic because I’d be seeing four vases instead of two.”
“There’s only one.”
“Oh.”
An awkward silence arrives, which Ian ends by touching his arm.
“I’m joking. There are two. But you should cut down. Yes, you’d still argue with Viv without it, but it can’t help.”
And when I say Marwood stays calm, it’s not because he forces himself to. Rather, Ian’s perfume has a relaxing scent. And her touch is so gentle, he immediately loosens.
“Say that to Withnail,” he says, “All that medication… He’ll get weird side effects, eventually.” He looks Ian up and down. “And you’re not exactly perfect either. What did Danny bring you the other day?
“It’s good for you, if you think about it. Drugs stop you from drinking lots. You can’t absorb alcohol that well. It just sits in your stomach and makes you feel sick – and you get no kick from the drugs if you’re drinking either, so you stop doing it.”
Marwood snorts.
“I’ve never heard so much bollocks –”
“No, it’s true. Honest. You should try it.”
“I can’t handle it. Handle anything. If I take one drag from a spliff, it feels like I’m having a heart attack. But this,” he shakes his bottle of whiskey, “I can do all day.”
“Alright, then,” Ian gets up, “You do you.”
To start with, Marwood can’t work out the tone of it. It seems high. It seems over-the-top chirpy. And then Marwood’s sure. Her head turns, her scent leaves, and his stomach sinks, and that’s how he knows.
“Does it bother you?” Marwood blurts. Ian pauses and turns around. “This,” he gestures to the whiskey, “Does it bother you?
Ian juggles the words.
“If I said… a little?”
“I’d stop,” Marwood swallows, “I’d try to.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends now, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
That’s the simple answer. The longer answer is that he doesn’t know why. Marwood’s learning things slowly, but she’s still a stranger. He knows nothing about her beyond being completely, utterly weird – like not from this planet weird – and that she has inhuman patience. She can take Withnail like a breeze. She can spend all night in Hell’s kitchen cleaning it, when Withnail has found it hard in the past to wash a couple of cups.
She’s a stranger, but somehow Marwood knows she’s worth doing these things for – cooking a nice meal, kicking a drinking habit.
Jean Shrimpton’s face is in sparkling light, a filter of hope. Ian’s eyes move back and forth like she’s looking for something within her brain – which Marwood might not understand, but I can tell you what she’s looking for: a way to repay him. A way to give him something he wants.
He wants to know her, so she knows the exact thing…
“I get nightmares. That’s why I take things,” she confesses, “They’re all downers, what Danny gives me. Helps me escape seeing someone. The man in my nightmares… well, a few veras or pints doesn’t get him silly. Instead, it’s like Jekyll and Hyde. He does awful things.”
Marwood’s chest locks. No breath. No room in the inn.
Ian smiles kindly at him.
“Peter, you’re soft,” she says, “You’re safe to be around, at the moment. That’s why I can’t ask you to stop – you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just being bossy and I’m… I’m asking you to take care of yourself. Because we’re friends now.”
And then she stands there, hanging her head, eyes low but hands on hips – such a confidently unnerved position. Marwood knows he should say something. Maybe that he’s scared of someone too? Actually, no, he can’t say that. Not when it’s her uncle, the person who (as far as she’s concerned) is just decent, and had paid for Withnail’s treatments.
Ian looks gently at Marwood one last time, and then she moves to leave again. And that’s when Marwood gets up. It’s sort of mechanical, with no conscious thought to it, but he touches her shoulder. She stops again. As she turns, he holds out his glasses.
“I have a spare pair,” he murmurs.
“Are you sure?” She asks.
“I’m curious what you’ll do with them.”
A long pause. Then, Ian nods, bolsters her breath and takes the glasses.
“I’ll show you. What have you got in your toolkit?”
Marwood wastes no time in grabbing it. Ian has a rummage inside and pulls out some safety goggles, gloves, a pen, sandpaper, a ruler, pliers, rubbing alcohol and a paint brush. She then disappears into her room and comes back with some black rings of plastic, a glass cutter, black paint and some weird metal tool Marwood’s never seen before. It reminds him of a Mathematical compass with its sharp, pointy legs, but instead of narrowing into a triangle at the top, the legs remain at a straight angle and it joins to make a rectangle.
Ian uses her weird compass tool first. She twists it around the circumference of Marwood’s glasses and pulls out a lens. Then, it’s the glass cutter that gets used. She uses a pen first to draw a line right through the middle of the lens. Then she goes over the line with the glass cutter and pulls the two semi-circles of glass apart with the pliers. What next? Sandpapering that straight edge – only on one of the halves, though. Ian discards the other. On the half she’s kept, she uses the rubbing alcohol to get the pen mark off. She’s not too thorough, though. There’s no need to be when she’s about to paint the straight edge black, which she explains to Marwood is to ‘reduce glare,’ whatever that means.
Almost there, I promise. For the final steps, Ian grabs one of the plastic rings, which Marwood realises fits his glasses lens perfectly. Ian pops it inside, and now she has a glasses lens again, but with only half the glass inside.
“And this is…?” Marwood asks.
“Hold this for me,” Ian passes him her half-lens. She runs back into her room again to grab her handbag. It’s with the biggest skip to her step that she re-enters the living room again, dives into her bag and pulls out a film camera. It’s one of those fancy, professional hand-held ones. The ones that have the stick you hold coming out of the bottom, and make you fear, for a solid second, that they have a gun on them.
Ian attaches her lens to the camera.
“Oh, that’s smashing!” She grins.
“What exactly is it?”
“It’s called a split diopter. It allows half of your camera lens to see further away and be in focus on what’s happening in the background whilst the other half focuses on the things up close.” She squints into the camera and fiddles with the settings, “But you, Mr Marwood… seem to have a stronger prescription than I thought… You have awful eyesight, actually. The split between the two lenses is a little bit more noticeable than I thought it would be, so I’ll have to align that split with something to mask it – like that straight edge on the doorway. Or I’ll have to hide it amongst a shadow.”
“Is there a reason you’re just… casually carrying around a movie-grade camera? Marwood dares ask.
“This isn’t movie-grade. That’ll be my big one in the boot. And it’s not casual. It’s work.”
“Work?” Marwood’s head jerks, “You’re… a camerawoman?
“Yes. Well, director.”
“Shut up.”
“I am! Really!” Ian laughs, “Alright, I’m not exactly nearing famous, but I’m an associate of the LFS all the same. They get my short films shown at festivals, and that’s where I met the rest of my crew – you know, the blokes I go to the cinema with each week? They pick me up in our filming trailer? I rarely make much income from short films, though. Sometimes festivals have competitions with prize money but… it’s the blockbusters where you’ve got to be. So, the sands have come from camera operating for different things. I’ve done some of the recent Carry On films.”
“Prove it.”
“Alright.”
Ian’s hand enters her bag again and she pulls out an envelope. Tucked inside them are photos she’s had developed. She sorts through them and shoves one photo his way.
“There you go. Me, Sid James and Gerald Thomas on the set of Carry on Camping.”
“Incredible,” Marwood mutters.
“Not really. I wasn’t even main camera operator for that one. That was James Bawden. They’re meant to be starting to film for a new one this month – Carry on up the Jungle, it’s going to be called, and James was going to take a step back on that one and let me do most of it.”
“Was?”
“Well, I can’t now. Can I? What about Viv?”
Marwood goes quiet. Not much he can suggest for that, is there? Other than caring for Withnail on his own for a bit, which Ian would never let him do.
“I brought this gear to produce another short film,” Ian continues, “because I can do that at the same time as being here. It’ll be another ‘wow’ project for the portfolio as well, if I’m shooting it all on my own, without my crew, and making my own equipment.” She taps the split diopter as an example.
Marwood gets out his Gauloises. He shoves one in his mouth and offers Ian the packet. For once in her life, she declines – something Marwood is sure she’ll regret in a few moments. So, he tucks one behind her ear.
“I’m an actor. I could be in one of your films,” he suggests whilst lighting his fag, “Please. My agent’s got the arse with me after missing the Manchester production. Don’t think any more work will be shoved my way.”
“Agents are only overvalued business cards, anyway,” Ian muses, “So, consider yourself hired. I’ll come up with a storyline tomorrow.”
Marwood can’t believe it. A yes? That quickly? When she hasn’t even seen him act before? She could think he’s crap, when she sees him. Or maybe not. It’s such a splintered movement of the eyes, as she turns to examine Marwood, a sort of shy certainty, a: ‘yes, he’ll be good’ in her smile.
Marwood smiles back. And then, there’s a whole herd of smiles in the room. All the furniture is soaking in sudden sun, shining after the passing of the rain. All is happy. All the room is ready to witness it: the beginning of a great project.
“Good,” Marwood says, “Tomorrow, here I come.”
Chapter 7: Ian
Notes:
This chapter is not happy. At all.
TWs // Domestic abuse, child abuse, war PTSD, violence towards animals.
Chapter Text
Ian anticipated the world’s ruin. That’s what Vivian says. He says that back in December 1945, even though the war was over, she was born crying. She didn’t stop for another five hours, by which point, she had got over entering this hellish world and vowed to Vivian, in baby babble, that she would never cry again.
She didn’t (almost).
Ian never cried whilst her brother, five years her senior, cried at everything. In that sense, you could say that Ian was favoured by their father. I say the words ‘favoured’ very loosely, because the Withnail family was not one of warmth. There was no point in Ian and Viv’s lives where either parent felt warmth for them – that's what Viv would say. Ian, meanwhile, has always tried to see the best in people. As her father’s ‘favoured’ child, she spent her youth seeing past all his faults. Since then, she has been completely obliterated by him – is terrified by even the inhalation of his breath. But even now, she can’t argue with the fact that her father loved her once.
IAN’S FATHER:
Fucked up by war.
He’d fought in both of them. Born in 1902, at the age of Sixteen, he joined the army underage and fought in the Second Battle of the Somme. It seemed, to start with, that being from a well-known family brought benefits. With no prior experience, he was granted the title of ‘Second Lieutenant.’ It was just three days in the trenches before he was promoted to ‘First Lieutenant’ – which, I must tell you, had nothing to do with talent; it was due to the death of the prior title-holder.
By the end of the war, Ian’s father had a strong hold of the ropes and had been promoted once more to ‘Captain.’ Having such a prestigious title to his name, he, of course, felt obliged to stay in the military, and spent the years between the Great War and World War Two training up troops in army service. It was during this time that he became known as ‘General Withnail’ – a name he took with him in 1940 over to North Africa, leading Operation Torch, securing Morocco and Algeria, and then staying nearby for the successive years to make sure Tunisia wouldn’t fall into the Nazi hands.
Coincidentally, during that first year of the war, Vivian was born, having been conceived just a matter of months before that announcement. His father being on another continent suited Viv well; it meant he never met the man until he was approaching five. He’d only known their mother, which meant that he was allowed to grow up soft and sweet – none of this manly nonsense, until his father came home and worked hard to reshape him. It was going to be a hard task, so on VE day his father made sure that his mother would conceive another child – a ‘failsafe’ son just in case Vivian couldn’t be mended. Only, eight months later, Ian was born prematurely. As a girl.
I bet you can imagine how that went down.
Painfully. But I’ll surprise you by saying Ian’s father warmed significantly to the idea. It helped that Ian never cried again after that initial time. She had what her father would call a ‘manly’ spirit, whilst also having what any young girl needs – an obedient nature and a pretty face (for some rich suitor, someday, to steal).
In the early years, both Ian and Vivian’s childhoods were… somewhat normal. They had a governess of normal standards in charge of their education. They would see their mother about the house, but only see their father in the evenings at the dining table. As they were eating, he’d tell them all a War General can tell his children: his most disturbing, grotesque stories from the trenches, which always made Vivian cry. And, whilst Ian would force fascination upon her face, to make her father pleased, she would often crawl into Vivian’s bed at night, complaining she’d had another nightmare.
THEIR ‘NORMAL’ CHILDHOOD:
Still not normal.
How could it be normal when their father was lost? He’d left half his body on the trench floor and came back wondering where it all was. As the years went by, his half-working body just became more dysfunctional. Post-traumatic stress blazed in silent moments. His hyper-aggression was the jacket obscuring all other layers of the self.
He kept seeing his children smiling and playing together and getting along – in the way no siblings should, in the way he and Montague could never. Jealousy and depression knotted together to become blame. He blamed his children, mostly Vivian, for his unhappiness; they had never seen this hellish world as it really is.
So, their education changed. It happened to Viv first, since he’d reached secondary age. He was sent off to Harrow, the same boarding school all boys born into the family had gone to, for generations. He was gone for so many months of the year, Ian found herself hardly recognising him every time he came back. Taller and taller he got, more hollow and mature in the face. And to match his complexion, his soul had retreated into itself. He started drinking alcohol. Too much of it. And he hardly exchanged a word with Ian whenever he’d return. Though, he didn’t have much time to because their father kept taking him pigeon-shooting every day, so he could learn how to use a gun. By this point, Father was convinced that another war was coming with the USSR. He’d already seen two in his lifetime. So, Vivian had to man up and learn.
There were often times when Vivian came home from pigeon-shooting, and he couldn’t walk properly. That meant he’d done some shit shooting. That meant he’d got whacked in the arse for it.
Ian, meanwhile, was never beaten. And perhaps that’s why Vivian ignored her existence for a bit. She always got off lightly because it wasn’t a woman’s job to go into the trenches. Instead, Ian was home-educated and learned things like code-breaking and soldering together radio circuits. She was still young and stupid enough to love unconditionally, so she would wear herself out trying to become extremely good at these things. She convinced herself that her father’s orders were her hobby, and he presented small signs of affection for it.
It wasn’t built to last into her adulthood, but it was real fatherly love in the moment, and that damaged her. It meant she could never shift herself from the tech obsession, even after she left home. She tried to defy him by putting it to creative uses, but being a film director was still projecting what he’d created. She was still her father’s doll. His little ‘Lily’ as he’d call her.
How did it change, you might ask? Her first bleed. It was very late coming; she was already sixteen years old, and it seemed to bring all the hormonal, demonic thoughts she’d been missing, all at once. No longer was Ian just the innocent, obedient child. She’d grown out of that skin. It was her parents’ favourite one, and so, they wouldn’t let her get another. They expected her to keep wearing it, but along with her breasts, her personality kept growing until it stretched and shredded.
She’d think of men.
She’d think of women.
She’d ask for one of the maids to keep coming to her room for trivial things, just so Ian could stare at her arse.
And the nights… oh… they nabbed all Ian’s gentleness. She’d lie there, rocking herself, feeling herself and pretending one night it was the maid with the nice arse, and the next, it was the gardener’s son, who often winked at her through the window. Ian, in her fantasies, had the mind of a rabid dog, wanting to lick, suck and chew on those collar bones.
One night, Ian’s governess walked in on her. If ‘appalled’ had a stronger synonym, it still wouldn’t be enough to describe the colours of her thoughts. The simplest one would be ‘ladies don’t do things like that.’ They’re not there to feel. They’re there to ask for things from. For a husband to demand his wife to bed him, and for her to obey. And here was Ian, taking charge, caring for her cunt and her freedom from society’s most practised thought.
From then on, though, Ian took better care of keeping it hidden. She considered calling up Vivian, who had already left home, and telling him about her most frightful thoughts – so that she could hear someone agree with her that she is just human, a human experiencing hormones, and not a slut. She never did because of her governess’ reaction. She finally understood that you couldn’t share these things with anyone.
It then came back to Ian how insular Vivian was at her age, spending some periods not even looking people in the eye. Now she had another idea for why: the range of thoughts about women that were freely roaming his head. Maybe, during those years, he was being driven to insanity himself – especially since he’d spend all year at a boy’s school and his only interactions with women would be when he was at home with all these maids about him. And how could he talk to his sister about these adult things? When she was only eight years old, when he first went to Harrow? And still only thirteen when he’d left?
Not talking about it made it harder for Ian to ignore. One particularly lust-filled day, the gardener’s boy made the mistake of winking at her again. Her legs ran to the door before she could think. She followed him across to the other side of the field, and they snogged against the oak tree. Purity seemed to have escaped them, and she was feeling everything underneath his shirt, whilst his tongue was exploring the landscape of her neck. At the same moment, Ian’s father came home. The gardener’s boy was dismissed at once, as was his father, and this was Ian’s father at his most graceful. The ugliest parts were what Ian was subject to at home.
IAN’S PUNISHMENT:
Now her ‘nightmare.’
He was drunk. Ian knows that much. She could smell the booze on his shirt as he shoved her into a cupboard and locked it. Her breath felt as boxed-up as her body as she threw herself against the door. Again and again. The space taunted her through cinching, walls groping at her hips in the same way the poor gardener’s boy had been doing a mere hour earlier – at least, it might have been an hour. Ian passed out a few times from hyperventilating too much. It made time flow in small ponds. Closed off. Constant drowning.
That wasn’t even the worst of it.
After what must’ve been hours in the cupboard, Ian’s father dragged her into his office. The curtains were drawn. The door was locked again – this time with him also inside – and Ian was tied to a chair like a prisoner of war. He interrogated her, roared his name for her, ‘Lily,’ with such abhorrence… He cracked her mind open like a walnut and made her confess things that she didn’t even think were true. She just said things so he would stop. She repeated back to him that she was a whore, agreed that she had slept with the gardener's boy, instead of it just being a thorough kiss, and she agreed with him that she had done it before.
Father threatened to keep her there. Locked in that room. Forever.
Or at least for a couple of months, so he could make sure she wasn’t with child. And if she were, she’d be kept there until the brat was born.
Ian did something she hadn’t done since she was born. The tears tsunamied and they didn’t stop even when her father stormed out. They didn’t stop as she made sense of her situation, found a way to phone Vivian. She was sobbing like a littler version of Vivian would as she knocked the receiver off the stand with her nose. She then used her nose, very carefully, to rotate the disc around and leaned her cheek on the table to speak to him.
Viv got there in half an hour. He would’ve been quicker if he had worked out the route inside the house beforehand. But, he still managed to sneak around to the back of the house with the master key and unlock the patio doors.
She went home with him. Back then, in the years following leaving Harrow, that meant to Uncle Monty’s.
And she never looked back.
There was one time that their father turned up at the house, demanding to see Ian so he could apologise for what happened. The most menacing thing about that was that he was crying. An emotion neither Ian nor Vivian thought him capable of. He begged her to come home. He offered her the world and more, but it was empty words – particularly because living with Vivian again meant Ian had learned some things. She’d learned about an incident that had innocence leaping completely out of her throat, being lost forever:
THE INCIDENT:
Their father. His hands. At Vivian’s throat.
When Vivian had come home from graduating from Harrow, he had found the gumption to challenge their father – just once. Never again. Vivian had almost choked to death. Their father hadn’t let go until he’d passed out, and on awaking, Viv had decided to leave home – not even considering for one second that he’d need to take Ian with him; she was his ‘Lily.’
Uncle Monty might’ve been a ponce, and the complete opposite of a military man, but he had enough temper to be one. He was also double their father’s size, so their father had no choice but to go home without Ian. He didn’t have the courage to come back, either. In fact, Ian didn’t see him again until the beginning of 1969, when he left a car on Monty’s driveway as a ‘peace-giving’ present.
It didn’t work. Not the car part, anyway. What snagged at her throat was seeing her father walking down the frog. His face… so bony. He was thinner than his children have ever been, at this point. A weary child… Ian hated how it turned over her stomach. The rational part of her mind told her she could never forgive him for what he did, but her heart…
You’ve heard her say this to Viv before, but she wondered if returning could get rid of the nightmares. If she was around her father in this wretched state… Hardly menacing anymore, was he? Exposure therapy might’ve fixed her…
Anyway, back to when Ian first left. For an entire year following the ‘incident’, Ian and Viv lived in semi-peace at their uncle’s. Then one evening, when Monty had a horrific hangover, he asked Vivian to read some Shakespeare out loud to him, so he could just lie there with his eyes closed. It was like this that they discovered Vivian’s talent for acting. He confessed he’d done a few plays at Harrow, which had Monty, at once, offering to pay for Vivian to go to drama school.
And you know Vivian’s story from there.
Ian stayed with Uncle Monty for another year before she was sucked into the world of relationships. Her first was a Cockney man, Jack. Aged just eighteen, she lived with him above his pub. It lasted eleven months, in which time, Ian tried to strip herself of her family heritage completely, took her father’s tongue from her mouth and replaced it with Jack’s words, and half his accent. He was an amiable man, and he’d taught Ian what life could be like beyond her parent’s posh doors, but Jack wanted everything done quickly and simply. He wanted ‘marriage.’ He decided within a matter of months that he could live with Ian for the rest of his life, whereas she just saw him as a flatmate she fucked often. A ‘dear friend.’
The same thing happened with all Ian’s relationships. Whether man or woman, it didn’t matter. The word ‘love’ never came to mind, whilst her partners fed off that word, as well as breathing ‘destiny’ into every sighing kiss.
Eventually, Ian gave up on love. She focused on her budding career in the film industry and tried living with her aunt. That was just as intolerable as being at home, so she went back to living with Uncle Monty. This time was different to the first. Thanks to Vivian’s frequent visits and influence, Monty became sucked into a drunkard’s life, and this had him behaving rather violently at times – never towards Ian, but towards his cat, which was just as distressing. As far as Ian could work out, Monty never hit the poor thing, but he would throw vases in its vicinity to try and scare it off.
One morning in September (1969), it was too much. Monty had been drinking most of the morning. It was out of excitement, apparently; Vivian had told him he was coming to visit with his ‘partner.’ Ian didn’t even know that Viv had a girlfriend. He never mentioned anything beyond his flatmate ‘Peter Marwood,’ who was a constant ‘inconvenience’ to him. Anyway, Ian was just as eager to meet Vivian’s girlfriend until about an hour before their arrival. At this point, Monty was so drunk that he threatened to bind his cat up with rope and throw it in a cupboard.
He didn’t think, of course. It didn’t occur to him that there were two threats his brother had followed through with, years ago. Yes, it was years, now, but fear hadn’t aged. It had remained young and muscular inside Ian. It could hurl her heart at the wall, or, at the very least, shake Ian up so much that she’d have to leave. Not permanently, just for the night, she rushed out of the door and went back to her Aunt’s house.
If you are smart, you would have worked out which night that was. You would’ve realised Ian walked out on an opportunity of meeting the infamous Peter Marwood, not Vivian’s ‘partner,’ but a pretty face he was about to use to swindle Monty into something.
That’s as far as the story goes. You can imagine the rest: Monty relaying to Ian when she returned the next day all she missed. He, of course, failed to mention that Vivian’s glamorous partner was a man. He did mention, after coming back from a few days' holidaying, that he’d been in touch with Vivian and it was all a lie. He wasn’t in a relationship. He had ‘humiliated’ Monty.
Another detail not mentioned: Monty had been on holiday with none other than Viv and Peter.
So, going into the next chapter, I want you to remember these facts: Ian has no idea what happened at Crow’s Crag. She has no idea they all went there together. She has no idea that Montague Withnail is as villainous as her father and has subjected a soul to sexual violence.
Think you can remember that? On top of all the other horrors? Good. I should say sorry for making you witness them, for not leaving the past in the past and telling you what happened after the disastrous spaghetti incident, but I won’t.
Ian didn’t get to skip this chapter.
Chapter 8: Ian
Notes:
Similar tags to last time because we're still on Ian's POV.
This chapter also has drug usage in.
Enjoy!
Gray xP.S. I had such a shit show of a day, so publishing this and hearing your reactions will have to be my therapy XD
Chapter Text
Nightmares:
When you are the most awake.
That’s how Ian feels. She dreams as she walks through life, but as her head hits the pillow, the amusing character her mind has created drops away. When her eyes are closed, that’s when she wakes up. When she remembers who she really is.
A suppressed scream within skin.
And the thing is, her skin is thick. The scream can’t get out as a scream. Instead, it’s a panic attack. A dry-eyed one, since, as you learnt in the last chapter, Ian has only cried twice in her lifetime.
And now, I invite you to watch one. It’s happening right where we left off. Spaghetti squirms in Ian’s stomach. On her bed, she tosses back and forth. Sweat slides in cracks. As her eyes snap open, she’s sealed in her shriek.
Breath. She needs breath. Breath, now. Where is it? Where is the air? She’s in a vacuum. Her father’s fingers close in on her eyes, threatening to turn the room dark on her. Darker than the closet.
But the bedroom door opens.
“It’s alright, Ian,” someone grabs her, “You’re alright now. It’s me. It’s Vivian.”
Vivian.
The name Vivian means ‘alive.’ I know, that’s ironic. He may have no interest in life, but he’s putting the breath back into Ian. He’s hugging her, stroking her hair, mouthing over and over again against her head that she’s alright. And Ian knows she will be alright. Because of him. Because he saved her that day. He’s kept her alive.
Ian’s panting slows. She could speak now, if she tried hard enough, but her eyes feel itchy from where all that air has been blasted into them, and she’s been unable to cry it back out. She doesn’t touch her eyes, though. She keeps clinging to Viv. It’s only her head that moves: back slightly, to take in his face.
His hair is still damp. Rain-stained. And he still has his coat on. Did he just get back? It’s taken that many hours for him to cool off? But if he’s that angry with everyone, why is his frown at Ian so gentle? He’s showing just as much care for Ian’s nightmares as he usually does.
“I thought you were mad at me,” she whispers on that thought.
Viv frowns deeply as he strokes her hair again.
“I was mad at Marwood,” Viv says, “He liked it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Did you not see his face? More rouge than a –”
“He was embarrassed a girl kissed him,” Ian swallows, “So what? Embarrassed doesn’t equate to him… er…”
“Wanting you? Well, he’ll consider it now,” Viv mumbles, “He doesn’t know our customs. Acquaintances don’t French kiss out of harmless gratitude, in his world. They bring Party Seven, and let the other hammer it open. In his mind, you were coming onto him, and now he has to try and fathom what you meant and how he felt about it.”
At least Viv’s understood one thing: she didn’t mean it like that. It’s just how people of their class are brought up. Cheek kisses mean nothing but friendliness. Only… Peter’s face. Ian leaned away, and there was sort of this brightness to him – something she could hardly drop from her head as she moved into the kitchen to do the washing up. Then she was thinking about her reaction to his reaction. She mustn’t have expressed anything externally or Viv would be mad with her right now, but she had leaned back, soaked in Peter’s face, and there was this sudden pinch at the centre of her chest – like her body was asking her heart if it was awake, if it was seeing this properly, if it was taking note.
Before you jump to conclusions, I want you to remember that Ian hasn’t lied to her brother. Viv had asked her that time if Peter was one of her shag sacks, and she’d said no. Whether Ian would like to shag Peter is an entirely different question, to which she would answer: of course she would. I mean, who wouldn’t? Have you not seen him? Of course, Ian can’t just fuck him. Her brother would be furious if she fucked Peter without there being, you know, a more spiritual connection… the ‘l’ word, and all that. In fact, the reason Vivian is exercising such caution is probably to protect Peter from being hurt. Viv is probably thinking of all those other blokes Ian’s dated, and how they developed feelings, and she left them for it.
IAN’S AROMANTICISM:
Her villain arc.
Though it’s the 1960s, and Ian has no idea aromanticism is a thing. I could go as far as to specify that she is demiromantic, but there is yet to be any evidence in her narrative that she can grow to truly love someone… (yet). As far as Ian’s concerned, she’ll never be capable of love. She was once swallowed by a closet. It consumed all that, all those beautiful emotions that should belong to the human spirit. Then, it spat her body back out. The ‘waste.’ The bare bones for her father to finish off.
She’s not capable of love, which is exactly why Viv would be worried (if Peter fucked her). But in Ian’s head, that’s exactly why Vivian shouldn’t worry. Ian’s fed up of being broken, of being the villain and hurting friends she really didn’t want to hurt. She’s vowed to herself she’d never properly get with someone ever again – not unless, by some miracle, she found the part of herself that she lost. She found actual love.
Maybe she should tell Viv this? Or maybe she should question him? Find out if her suspicions are correct…
“Why does it make you so aggro?”
“If Marwood concludes that he desires you, our household will become, at once, unorthodox,” Viv states, “I would have to tolerate the sounds of my housemate and sister fucking, as they filter through from the next room. I will be a third-person witness to any disputes you may or may not have. And God forbid me if you were ever expecting a stork visit. I, your poor bastard of a brother, having to live with a teething toddler shitting himself every hour in my maisonette, since I can hardly live by myself in my condition. If you were to settle down with any other soul, there would be the slightest chance that I could get away from your domestics, since I’d still be living here with Marwood and you’d be somewhere else.”
“First of all, do I look like the sort of person who wants to be a mother?” Ian interrupts, “Secondly, I’ve told you Peter’s just a friend.”
“I know.” One hand rubs his face, “I think,” he sighs, “I think half my vexations stem from the medication. Or lack of it, I might say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve failed to take it for a few days.”
“Oh, Viv! That’s the one thing you do need to remember –”
“It was on purpose.” Ian pulls away from him. He gulps. “I get the most mortifying of side effects.”
“Side effects? You haven’t told me this. Like what?”
Viv shakes his head.
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. All I can say is… I’m constantly irritable. I’m not myself. And it feels like I don’t fit my skin.”
“Peter was saying earlier that alcohol won’t help. It’ll just make the side-effects worse.”
“I shan’t give up booze.”
“Peter said he’s cutting down.”
“Congratulations to him.”
Viv looks away from Ian for a second. He looks at the mirror on the wall, but it seems he’s staring further, staring beyond himself.
“Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye,” he recites, “that’s all we shall know for truth before we decide to die.”
Inside Ian’s body, a smaller Vivian throws open a window. It lets a winter’s wind in.
Eyes turn back to her. Silence fills them both, which Ian doesn’t break beyond a quiet rustle of the sheets, as she leans forward to hold her brother again.
“I shall go to bed in a minute and finish off the poison we were drinking earlier.” Vivian kisses the top of her head and gives her a final squeeze, “Goodnight, Sister.”
“No – you’re not going yet.”
“Oh, you’re so fucking obstinate,” Viv rests his chin back on her, huffing.
“Sorry, it’s just…”
She stops herself; she can’t say what she’s really thinking, that she sees him in the wrong order. That here is the ghost, the man that has died, but his death will come after. She thought he was getting better until just now, when he recited that depressing piece of poetry…
She has to help him. That’s all she’s been trying to do since he came out of the hospital, but it's not enough. His life here, in this apartment, is mundane. It’s dreary. He needs to find something to do. He needs to find a purpose beyond the bottle.
On that thought, Ian states:
“I’m doing another short film.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Viv asks, “As if you’re… seeking permission?
“Peter’s going to be in it.”
Viv’s grip tightens.
“You’ll let Marwood into your films,” he starts cooly, “when I’m not permitted to even stand adjacent to your sets.”
“You’re in this film too, if you’d like to be.”
“Of course I want to. What made you change your mind?”
Ian swallows a lump in her throat.
“Almost losing you.”
“Oh, you stupid bitch…” Viv’s voice breaks, “And there’s me thinking it’s a late birthday present.”
He realised, then? He knows he’s turned thirty? Ian didn’t know if he would, since he was still in a coma in the hospital on his birthday, and the days following waking up must’ve all bled into one perplexing mess for him. Ian and Peter had decided very quickly, whilst he was asleep, not to bring up the fact he’d turned thirty. That would be rubbing it in his face further that he’d survived, and that he’d lived to see another decade – the complete opposite of his wants.
To be quite frank, they thought that fact would drive him so deeply into depression, even despite his medication, that he’d try to kill himself again. In an instant.
It could still happen.
“I’m letting you into my film on one condition,” Ian says on that thought, “You promise me you’ll never do it again.”
“I can’t promise you.”
“Why?”
“Misery should acquaint a man with strange bedfellows. What sadness lengthens my hours? Not having that.”
There’s a tremble to Viv’s hold now. Ian can’t tell who’s comforting whom. She can’t tell anything. Not even what words just came out of his mouth.
“Come on, My Girl,” he shakes her, “Decode it.”
“I’m trying. You know I hate Shakespeare.” She licks her lips, “You’re miserable because you want a shag? You’re lonely. You want love.” Vivian straightens, “A woman to teach you how to feel again.”
Viv’s smile wanes, but it’s still there. He forces it to stay… which puts a boulder in Ian’s chest.
“I’ll help you find a girl to love,” she says, “Just don’t leave me. Please.”
“Alright,” Viv squeezes her, “I won’t kill myself again if you swear an oath to me.”
“Anything.”
“If you ever feel you’re falling for Marwood, the minute you are, you tell me.”
Love? Why is Viv talking about love?
It doesn’t seem possible – that this is what he’s been speculating… He knows what Ian’s like. Unless… unless he doesn’t? Maybe he doesn’t realise that Ian’s broken? Maybe he thinks she chooses not to love?
She has to tell him.
“Viv, I’m not sure that’s possible… I’ve never fallen for anyone.”
“Ever?” Viv stares.
Ian shakes her head, and he says nothing to start with. His eyes are like ellipses, with the way they dot about her face.
“Then,” he clears his throat, “perhaps I’m only half-broken. And you, Darling Ian, a tragedy that’s escaped my attention.”
That’s a line that plays over and over in Ian’s head when her brother leaves to go to his room, to sleep. She types the ‘tragedy that’s escaped attention’ part into her typewriter; she might as well start drafting the film script, since she’ll hardly get back to sleep herself…
Ian stares at the line, waiting for something else to pop up. Her mind is dry. Her fingers are still trembling on her lap. Something to take off the edge, that’s what she needs. Not one of the pills Danny’s brought her, either. She needs pictures put in her mind, so she opens the bottom drawer and reaches for the syrette.
Morphine. That’s what it is. It’s only on very rare occasions that Ian will use these, so it doesn’t become an addiction. Ian reckons people would still call that an addiction, but from her experience (which means from her observing Jack), it takes at least a couple of months of shooting something every day for a habit to form. On the whole, she tries not to do more than pills because that’s all that her brother does. She’s not sure even Danny does syringes.
Ian pushes the pin through the needle, punctures the seal and shoots. The relaxation ripples through the back of her legs, then neck, parting every muscle from every bone, so it seems like her body’s just oozing. She’s a jellyfish in a warm sea. Some say that they experience a moment of sharp terror when they take Morphine. Not Ian. Instead, the hallucinations pass by her eyes like TV programmes that her mind is switching between. She notes down all that she sees on her typewriter.
By the time morning arrives, Ian has a story. She’s come up with better, but it’s still of a higher standard than her story would’ve been if she had written cleanly.
As soon as she hears Peter putting on the kettle, she emerges from her room and flashes him her typewriting. Peter smiles at them, but then slightly frowns when he looks up and into her eyes. He must see the residue of the drugs in them, or perhaps has seen how darkly rimmed they are – dark enough that her make-up hardly covers it. It compels him to want to make her breakfast – just porridge, but still consisting of some particularly bizarre tactics. Peter realises that they don’t have enough milk for it, so he tries to cook the dried oats in just water and then folds in some yoghurt towards the end. And guess what? It’s still delicious.
They eat rather quietly. Peter reads this morning’s newspaper. Ian goes over her notes. Eventually, he shoves his newspaper to the side and asks her to explain the story to him, from the beginning.
“Well, I don’t have everything yet, but I want to do a horror crossed with a period piece, of some kind, where it’s a woman’s wedding day. It’ll start with her arguing with her hubby, who cheated on her, but he’s eerily calm about the whole thing. It’s like he has no emotions about what he did. It’s just her shouting at him and him not looking sorry for what he’s done, but somehow sorry for her.” Ian says, “Then, I don’t know what will happen in between – something dramatic, but after that dramatic thing, we get the woman waking up in her bed again, and she goes downstairs and has the same barney. We realise that she’s in a time loop and that the hubby seemed calm because he’s had the same conversation a million times.”
Ian checks to see if Peter’s following still. He stares so intensely, yet pleasurably, at her… Her pulse perks up.
“I want there to be an ending plot twist where we find out the woman wasn’t in a time loop,” Ian continues, “The woman actually snuffed it. She died on her wedding day at her own hubby’s hands, and she’s been existing as a reoccurring ghostly echo, having the same bull she had when she was alive with this spiritual medium who lives in this haunted cottage now.”
“Woah, woah, woah… Spiritual medium? So, the man she argues with is not even her husband? And what are his reasons for pretending? To avoid her getting stressed and confused?” Peter asks.
“Exactly. And he’s been trying to work out a way to get her to move on, so he’s actually nice and not a cheating bastard.”
“I like it,” Peter massages his jaw, “Did you say it’s set in a cottage?”
“Yes. My Uncle Monty has one.”
Peter’s face fills with something. An indiscernible thing.
“I’ve been to Crow’s Crag,” he says, “You don’t want to film there.”
“Why?”
Peter licks his lips.
“It’s gone to the dogs.”
“Even better. We won’t have to do much work wrecking it for the horror scenes.”
Peter says nothing. His beautiful eyes exile her image, turning down to look at her typewriting.
“I just think you should pick somewhere grand. Or at least habitable. This medium bloke’s going to live there, after all,” he taps the paper, “And if it’s too eerie, the audience might guess she’s a ghost.”
“Hmm. That’s true. But where else could we go for free that’s still…?” Ian hears shuffling and so turns her head. Her brother comes into the room. “Viv, what makes a good building?”
“One I can easily jump off.”
He comes over and reads Ian’s notes.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You film at the cottage.” Viv looks up at Peter, “Unless Marwood’s opposed to the idea?”
Peter’s stare is dense.
“Tell me, Withnail,” he says, “Tell me why I’d be opposed.”
Viv doesn’t. Silence floods in and its waters are thick.
“Am I missing something?” Ian asks, “Did something happen the last time you went?”
“Apparently.” “No.”
They say it in unison. Viv the first comment, Peter, the second – the one denying it. How strange.
Viv’s brows draw together, trying to discern something from Peter’s expression. Nothing’s let known, and the secrecy claws at Ian’s stomach. She regrets ever suggesting Crow’s Crag, even though it would be the perfect filming spot, and where else could they go?
Fucking hell, she can’t bring herself to make this decision… It’s so fortunate, then, that Peter decides for her.
“Alright, so we’re filming at Crow’s Crag.” He says, “Ian, you said you wanted this to be a period piece. What era?”
“Anything but the war,” Viv states.
“Who said you’re involved?” Peter asks.
“I did,” Ian confesses and Peter’s eyes widen. Vivian grins at him.
“Try and say no to her,” he taunts, “Come on, make my day.”
“I don’t need to because you’re about to apologise for that scene you made yesterday,” Peter crosses his arms, “So, what I didn’t let you cook? You hardly had to storm out because of it!”
A choke. A splutter. A deranged cackle. Vivian goes through each phase in turn, practically falls to the floor because, like Ian yesterday, he simply cannot believe Peter thinks this is what Viv was angry about.
It must be some relief to Viv, though, to know that Peter has seen the whole situation innocently. He notices Peter’s confused face, and he smirks.
“It appears I forgot to take medication,” He wipes a tear from his eye, “Both today and yesterday. That’s why I behaved like a fractious child.”
“Yes, and the word?” Peter asks.
“Sssorry.”
Peter notices the twinkle in Viv’s eye and shakes his head.
“It’s not medication,” he decides, “You’re drunk.”
“How dare you! I’m as high as a kite. I had to make up for all the Imipramine I’ve missed.”
Vivian slumps down on the sofa next to him. Peter chooses to ignore his presence and scans some more of Ian’s writing.
“You might not want to do the war, but you can’t set it earlier than the 1910s,” he says.
“Why?” Ian asks.
“The style of the cottage. Post-Victorian. You could have the story be now, but the wife died in about… 1912?”
“Ooh, devastating year. Icebergs sinking ships… Poor Noah.”
“Noah?” Vivian turns to Ian.
“Mmm,” She nods, “Well, he was the captain, wasn’t he? And he put everyone on the lifeboats in twos.”
Car fumes seem to exhale for them, engines roaring up the road. A few beats like this, and then Withnail slaps his hands on his head. Laughing hysterically again, high, like a hyena. Though maybe he is also crying.
“You stupid little,” he shakes his head, “I was going to call you a tart, but where’s the filling?”
“Steady on, Withnail,” Peter warns.
“Do you know what? I’ve just come up with your character,” She glares at her brother, “I’ll make you my stunt double.”
Viv stops laughing.
“And how the fuck will that work?”
“Easy. We’re the same build. Just give you a bit more curve at the hips with padding…”
“I’m six foot two. You’re the same height as him,” he nods at Peter, who, in turn, bites the inside of his cheeks.
“I think,” Peter starts, “I think I’m slightly taller than…”
“Your feet dangle more than your member.”
Peter ignores him and stands up. He touches Ian’s elbow to get her to stand up as well, so they can measure. Much to Ian’s pleasure, even without her having heels on, they are nose-to-nose.
“You are mere millimetres taller than her,” Vivian grins.
“Five foot nine, then. I’m just under,” Ian nods, “If I wear my gogo boots under the dress, that’ll make me nearly six feet. And then the rest is all camera angles and a bit of padding for your bust, Viv.”
“Tits?!” He splutters, “You’d give me tits?!”
“Please give him tits,” Peter says.
“Give me my own character!” Viv hollers, “Or make Marwood your stunt double! I’m the real talent!”
“Oh well, thanks for your compliments, Withnail,” Peter grumbles, “And to that, I will reply that Ian needs to check you can still learn lines first, anyway. Your disability –”
“Don’t call it that.”
“That’s what it is. You’re disabled, Withnail. And you can’t ignore it forever.”
A mood change. Vivian sinks down by six feet. Peter’s eyes bulge, the words ‘I didn’t mean to be that harsh’ written across both retinas.
“Withnail, I –”
“No longer mourn for me when I am dead.” Vivian blurts, “Then you shall hear the surely sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled from this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.” A disturbed pause. “Is that good enough for you? But of course, it’s not. I knew all that before I tried blowing my brains out. It was already in my long-term memory, and it’s the short that’s fucked –”
“Don’t quote lines about killing yourself,” Peter utters, “I can’t handle it.”
And neither can Ian. Her stomach’s solid. Vivian knows it from her, but it’s Peter saying it, and for some reason, that makes his eyes terrorised enclaves.
“Sorry,” Viv whispers, with genuineness Peter mustn’t recognise. He wouldn’t. It only comes out in Ian’s presence. A quality childhood taught him to suppress.
“Learning lines won’t be an issue,” Ian tells him kindly, “I can just film a separate shot for each one, and relay to you what you need to say right before you perform it.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Vivian politely nods.
Peter observes him for a few more moments. His eyes go soft, and Peter’s face seems to bring breath into Viv’s mouth – bring an idea.
“The finest period pieces reflect the times, but also the contemporary. Both eras might be in stark contrast to one another, but at some points, they need to bleed into the same frame.”
“That’s sense, Withnail,” Peter smiles sweetly.
“Then, make it bleed in other ways. Ian, I know you love making people feel uneasy, so make my character the scar. Place me, the revolutionary, in the film so that even a modern audience feels uncomfortable with what I represent.”
“What makes people feel uncomfortable nowadays?” Peter asks.
Ian Withnail. She immediately thinks. In other words, people who swing both ways. She can’t answer Peter’s question immediately, though, or he or Viv might find it suspicious how easily it came to her. So, she leaves it a minute or so.
“Queers.”
The men exchange looks.
“It’s been legal for two years, now,” Ian starts explaining, “Perhaps it’s time to show it? Like properly? We owe it to Monty that in his lifetime, he sees a piece of cinema he can relate to.”
“You want me. To play. A Nancy?” Viv coughs.
Ian notices her jaw tightening and immediately slackens it. Did they see? No… But what was that tone for?! His uncle is gay! So is his dealer!
If that’s how he feels about queerness, what if he found out about Ian? No. She must shake off that thought. It feels like a screwdriver to the stomach.
“What if: the medium is queer too?” She looks at Peter, “Maybe you’re the farmer, Viv, and you’re both a couple. Then, that would add another layer of unpredictability because everyone would be expecting a romance between the wife and the medium, since he’s working so hard to help her, and instead, we’re hit with a nice realisation that the medium’s already happy. His kindness towards the woman is pure, and not because he’s eventually expecting something from her.”
“You want us to play a pair of poofs? In love with each other?”
“You can fuck right off,” Peter shakes his head.
“I won’t make you snog each other,” Ian says.
“Oh, that’s alright then, isn’t it, Lovie?” Peter nods at Viv.
“I would love nothing more, Marwood, than if you leaned into me right now and talked dirty,” he replies.
“It would be my pleasure.”
Peter puts his lips to Viv’s ear.
“C O M P O S T.”
“Beautiful, Darling. Such substance. We must fuck at once.”
“Alright, I’ve got the message,” Ian huffs, “I’ll think hard of what else you could be, Viv. We might have to decide when we’re there.”
“Where?” Viv asks.
“Crow’s Crag, remember? That’s where you suggested we should film. And I think we’ll head off there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The men echo.
“Mmm.” Ian gets up from the sofa. She doesn’t care for their opinions anymore; they’re a pair of dickheads. Fairy-phobic ones.
“I’m going to be in my room packing my belongings,” she says calmly, “You two might also want to think about it.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Viv frowns, “Are you upset I’m piss-taking Monty? Not exactly your best friend, is he?”
“No, I guess not.” Ian shrugs. Monty’s not even her friend. He’s an alcoholic and he’s scared her a few times with it. But, at the same time, he did give her and Viv a home. He kept them safe, even if the same can’t be said for poor Jasper the cat – and that’s exactly why Ian feels like she owes Monty something: this film. This little something for their community.
Grrr! Ian could clout Vivian for pointing it out: her ‘mixed feelings.’ As soon as he mentions it, Peter seems to analyse her. He tries to delve into her soul a little too deeply…
“Oh, you’re lucky I like you, Ian,” he suddenly says, “I’ll play a ponce. Half the world thinks I am one, anyway. But I’m not being in love with Withnail. That’s my issue. I don’t have a problem with queers, I have a problem with him.”
Ian looks for a sign of truth in Peter’s face, only to find his smile is full of it. He’ll do it. Well, that’s kind of him… very kind… and he says he doesn’t have a problem with gays… with Ian’s kind… with Ian… Very easy to believe him… Nothing to those sweet blue eyes that’s capable of deception…
He said she’s lucky he likes her.
No misinterpretations, here. She knows he means it in a friendly way, just like her cheek kiss. Even so, as she goes to enter through her bedroom door, she finds herself hefting a full heart.
A thought drifts into her mind. It’s a scenario. She imagines they’re at the cottage, and Peter’s nervous about whatever it is about the cottage that DOES make him nervous, so she kisses his forehead kindly… She tells him not to worry… In return, he peels her hands away from his face and gently guides them down past her hips, where his hands linger – like they did in the hospital corridor.
The thought makes her sexual organs swell, which is the normal part of the fantasy. The unusual part is Peter leaning in, as he just did jokingly to her brother. His breath pins to the skin of her neck. His lips brush her ear as he says, “You’re lucky I love you.”
…
Sorry, Brother. Ian thinks to herself. Perhaps you were right to worry.
Chapter 9: Withnail
Notes:
This chapter is atrocious.
'Atrocious' can be defined as incredibly lewd.
It also means I'm talking about Monty.
Chapter Text
Ian and Marwood decide to take both cars, just in case one of them feels like they need to escape Withnail’s company. They can leave and he won’t be stranded in Penrith…
It also means Ian can take more shit with her. Women, eh? Always taking an item with them for every thought they’re lacking. Withnail’s sister is a rather exhausting case, since she’s a film director, on top of being a woman, which means she takes every film-related thing she has, on top of the three crates full of makeup, hair products, and clothes… There’s also that fucking shopping trolley, which she insists on tying to the top of Marwood’s motor, just like you would a bicycle.
Bicycles! Better not mention bicycles! She’ll track down one of those next!
Anyway, let’s get on the road. Withnail’s in Marwood’s car because last time, Ian scolded him for eating a custard cream on her cushy seats. On Marwood’s, he can not only eat, but also booze as much as he likes. And Marwood’s partaking in it – a few swigs here and there on the promise Withnail won’t tell Ian. Not enough to get Marwood excessively drunk, whereas Withnail gets completely pissed. He passes the time by playing his favourite game: honk the horn at scrubbers. And when the alcohol really sinks in, his throat becomes roped up in Marwood’s handsomeness – far more symmetrical than usual. Very hard to detain feelings for…
THE ‘HOMOSEXUAL’ REMEDY:
Close his eyes.
So, for half of the journey, Withnail just sleeps. For the other half, he stares into the wing mirror, watching Ian’s car driving behind them. She’s an annoyingly good driver, whereas even when sober (which is rare, to be honest), Marwood’s swerving all over the place… To think there was a time when she was in danger. When she was confined to the boundaries of her own house, never stepping out, and not learning what the real world is like. Withnail does sometimes worry that their father restricted her education a bit too much, that he made her bird-brained on purpose, and just stimulated her genius through the war stuff, which he knew was safe, which couldn’t make her a New Woman.
It’s alright; she got herself out of it. Not only that, she’s blossoming into a star – and the right kind of one. The kind that wants to show a new perspective on the world, show queers like Withnail who have been all but invisible up until now.
He’s proud of her. He’s ready to tell her what he is. No more code or confusing Shakespeare. As soon as Marwood’s out somewhere and she’s on her own… Withnail will tell her.
Skreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
BANG!
Do you like my car crash noises? Sorry, I didn’t know how else to do it. Maybe I should just focus on what Withnail feels? His body is thrown towards the bonnet. Almost through the windshield. Bang! Bang! Bang! Withnail’s stomach slaps his shoes. He slams his hand down on the dashboard, braces, and somehow doesn’t go through the glass. Neither does Marwood. They just sit there, slightly dazed, car now a rocking ship.
“What the BLOODY FUCK was THAT about?!” Withnail then shouts.
Marwood shakes his pale head.
“MARWOOD!” Withnail shoves him, “Stop being a Jessie!”
“I hit something. Someone,” Marwood rambles, “That was a someone. I’ve hit someone!”
“Where? I don’t see!” Withnail rolls down his window and throws his head out. There’s a pair of women’s heels, “Oh, yes, I do see.”
“And here comes Ian to look!” Marwood nods at the rear mirror, “That’s it, then. We’re murderers. We’re going down for life!”
“Can you do that again? But to me?”
“Stop it!” Marwood slaps his arm, “Stop messing around! We’re going to jail, Withnail!”
“Alright, calm down! She threw herself into the road. We’ve done her a fucking favour.”
“Right, get out.”
“Why?”
“You fucking bastard. We can’t just assume she’s dead! You need to check!” Marwood leans across and throws open the door, “Go on. Go!”
Withnail gets out. As soon as he stands, he stumbles – the crash shaking his brain injury into action. The world before him is a little wavy.
“Throw yourself into the road, go flying, dead in an instant,” he mutters to himself, getting down to inspect the woman. “You’re jammy bitch, do you know that?” He puts a hand down to check her pulse. “Oh, no. You don’t. You’re plastic.”
She’s a doll. A depiction. Thank fuck for that.
They’re called mannequins so that their name shows what they are: an extension of man. And this mannequin shows death. It occurs to Withnail, as he looks down, that he’s been put in Marwood’s father’s head. He must’ve craned his neck in the same way, looking at Withnail’s shot body. This is the closest Withnail will ever get to seeing that – his soul’s passing in the shape of plastic…
It’s no help that the mannequin is female. The living room carpet still seems to grow around her, blood stains and all, and it sends terror treading his spine.
Wait, terror? But he wants to die, doesn’t he? He’d just been telling this mannequin that she was lucky! But, no. Just for a second, there’s something eerie about this. For the briefest of moments, Withnail feels he can keep his promise to Ian about not killing himself. Maybe he feels it because of Ian’s support yesterday, for the queer cause? Maybe Marwood steals the desire to die from him, just like he’s stolen all Withnail’s other desires?
As I said, the feeling’s brief. As soon as Withnail turns his head, he’ll want to die again.
On that thought, he heads back to the car.
“It’s not a body,” he declares.
Marwood slaps a hand to his sweaty forehead. Ribs rattle with laughter.
“What is it we’ve hit, then?” He wheezes, “An animal?”
Withnail doesn’t have to answer because at that second, Ian trudges past their car. She takes one look at the doll, shoots a grin back at the boys, and starts picking it up.
“Oh, Christ. She’s adopted it.” Marwood mutters.
“A mannequin!” Ian drags it over, “This is perfect! We can use her as my stunt double!”
“No, no, no. Ian. We’re not having that,” he coughs.
“Why not?”
“Have a look around you. Do you see any shops? There’s only one use for a plastic human-sized doll out here, in the countryside, where there are old codgers who are desperate for company.”
“A sex doll. Fancy that,” Ian muses.
“Put it down, then,” Marwood orders, “And wash your hands in that river.”
“No, I can’t, actually. I need her to function.”
“Ian –”
“I might forget where my tits are. She’ll be my reference.”
“There are enough men happy to teach you where those are – I imagine,” he’s almost too quick to add the ‘imagine’ part, “There’s doctors, at least,” he says, “So, put the doll down.”
If there’s anything Ian finds amusing, it’s a man trying to tell her what to do. She hasn’t permitted such things since the incident, since their father showed what a monster ‘man’ is.
So Ian doesn’t put the mannequin down. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she drags the mannequin's hand down Marwood’s shirt sleeve, tries to make the doll look seduced.
“You know, Peter… I’m not entirely sure I believe she is a sex doll. Maybe you should do some… investigating?”
“No. I’m not looking.”
Ian unbuttons the doll's lacey top and shows them its tits.
“Got some nice Geometry going on,” she smirks, “What do you think, Brother?”
“I think you sound like a lesbian,” Withnail says, “But I do think your doll needs a name.”
“Oh, don’t you start,” Marwood sighs.
“What about Skye?” Withnail asks.
“Aww, that’s nice,” Ian smiles.
“Isn’t it just? It’s since the world’s never seen tits that high.”
“What do you think, Peter? Fancy seeing a pair of knockers like that? Or is it this end you’re more into?” Ian rotates the mannequin around to squeeze its arse.
“There’s something deeply wrong with you,” Marwood states, “With both of you.”
“If you touch its nipple, Ian will put her down,” Withnail says.
“And not in the back of your car,” Ian adds.
“No.”
“Oh, go on, Peter. Be a sport!”
She does that look at him – the pretty one, the one straight men can’t resist. Sure enough, Marwood huffs and hesitantly reaches out the window. He approaches the mannequin’s tit with just one finger, just intending a quick poke. But as his finger makes contact, Withnail grabs his wrist and shoves his hand around the whole thing. Full-cup-sized palm. Groping a piece of plastic.
Withnail rubs Marwood’s hand back and forth a few times, sighs in taunting satisfaction, and lets go.
“There we go. All done. Wasn’t hard, was it?”
“No. I’d have a different opinion if so.” Marwood wipes his hand on his trousers, “A deal’s a deal, though, Ian. Put it down.”
“Mind grabbing the legs for me?” She asks Withnail.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on!” Marwood interrupts, “Where are you going with it now?
“The deal was I wouldn’t put it down in your car. It’s going in the back of mine.”
Withnail hears that as ‘more chance to taunt Marwood in the future,’ and so he’s more than happy to help. It’s rather attractive how crude Marwood finds these things, and how conservative they make him…
Withnail’s thinking of this all through failing to get the mannequin in the car. When Ian’s just about given up, he trudges back over to Marwood.
“I’m not helping,” Marwood says at once.
“We won’t be able to leave until you do,” Withnail says, “She won’t go without it.”
For a second, he doesn’t think it will work. If it were Withnail wanting something, it wouldn’t. But Marwood rolls himself out of the car for Ian’s sake, and has his go at shoving it in.
The Imipramine misbehaves. Withnail sees Marwood groping Skye and it gives him the horn. Her thin plastic legs make his hands look massive and veinous. Peak masculinity – even though Withnail knows, deep down, even Ian could beat Marwood in arm wrestles.
Marwood struggles on his own for a few minutes, trying to shove Skye into Ian’s car from all different angles. Then he tries to disassemble her, twist her torso off her legs, which has his hand riding up between her thighs for support.
Withnail needs support. Please. Can this wind suck him off?
Marwood gets into the back of the car, trying to pull Skye in instead. Eventually, he pokes his head out the window, looking at Withnail, but pointing at Skye.
“Come in here.”
“I won’t fit her, but enjoy!” Withnail blurts.
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. You meant in the car. Thought you’d found a hole.”
“Get in this seat. You can pull while I push.”
Withnail does as instructed. They struggle for a further five minutes, trying to find the right angle to rotate the pieces to. Eventually, they manage it.
Marwood trudges over to Ian to tell her.
“Right, we’re in, but it’s tight.”
“Every man’s dream.”
Ian grins, but it quickly fades; Marwood looks sick.
“Alright?” She asks and he shakes his head. It’s all he can manage for a few moments. His mouth: sealed so shut, you can almost hear his heart leaping into another cage.
“What if I had hit someone?” He then says.
“You didn’t,” Ian squeezes his hand, “That’s all that matters.”
Marwood nods, though he seems unconvinced. You can see the weight that’s been added to his steps as he tries to drag himself back to his old banger. He goes to open the door, and Withnail stops him.
“I’ll drive from here.”
“No. That’s kind of you, Withnail, but not without a licence,” Marwood mutters.
“Don’t be a bitch about it,” Withnail says, “Give me the keys.”
The power of a look… No wonder it’s my most-described feature. The endless well of emotions I can pull through the eyes…
There’s only been a few breaths in History where Marwood’s been grateful for Withnail, opposed to loathing him. But this seems like one of those moments. Marwood’s eyes feel like a kiss. His breath, another kiss. And Withnail’s skin is at once sore and sensitive to it.
This is why Withnail wants to stick around: delusion. The notion that someday, a straight man could love him back.
So, Withnail drives. The last three quarters of an hour. Then, Crow’s Crag comes into view. It’s weird approaching it in daylight, the sunset not due for another hour… That's what happens if you have Ian throwing back your duvets at early morning hours, and chasing you about the residence to get ready.
It’s November. Autumn’s dying. Winter’s winning. The place is stained with that feeling – Frosty makeup, a moss palette, steely sky. But October’s ghouls have stuck around. It seems Marwood can sense them as he steps out of the car and looks up at the house. One must be Monty-shaped.
THE ‘INCIDENT’:
Withnail just got a bit carried away.
He told Monty he and Marwood were together and thought that would be all there was to it. He didn’t imagine for a second Monty would try to woo Marwood – ‘woo’ being a very open term because Withnail has no idea where Monty’s approaches could have fallen on the scale. He knows Marwood likes to be dramatic, so it’s likely Monty leaned in to kiss him or something, mistaking Marwood’s smile for appeal, instead of panic. But looking at Marwood now… seeing how he shivers as he enters the cottage, and how his pupils float in his eyes like black islands, completely isolated… What if it was more?
No. Monty wouldn’t.
Would he?
As soon as Ian enters the house, she races excitedly up the stairs to inspect the bedrooms – her bedrooms. ‘My cottage is your cottage,’ Monty always used to say her. She even has her own key to the place, unlike Withnail… But anyway, Monty used to say that. Just like he’d say his home was their home.
Uncle Monty:
Saviour and sodomite.
To imagine him as anything less would make Withnail ungrateful. He’d thought he’d scooped up his sister’s corpse, the day he broke into their father’s house. He’d thought her bright soul had died, but Monty had sifted through the wrecks that day and found something keeping afloat. He gave her a camera. Her first camera. Her buoy. Yes, Monty’s drinking got on Ian’s nerves, but there was no denying he gave her a second chance at life – and a better one, not as someone’s trophy wife, as their father would’ve arranged, but as a creator, an artiste…
And it was the same for Withnail… even if he doesn’t have a key to Crow’s Crag…
So, no. Withnail hasn’t considered his Uncle to be villainous, in any sort of fashion, up until now. But the effort Marwood goes to whilst moving around the cottage – to not touch anything… It throws those words up in Withnail’s mind again, Marwood’s angry words… How did they go?
Imagination? I’ve just finished fighting a naked man.
What’s all this tactical necessity and calculated risk? This is me naked in a corner.
Marwood said fighting a naked man… In a corner… Not a kiss, then.
The ball in Withnail’s throat: a pincushion. Each recollection, another stab to it.
Withnail smiled at Marwood.
Marwood was yelling at him, about having been raped, or nearly raped – fuck, what was it?! – and Withnail smiled because all he could focus on was the ‘love me’ and ‘rejected me’ falling out of that gorgeously furious mouth.
No, no, no… It can’t have been rape. Nor assault of any kind. After reading the note Monty left, Marwood had called him a ‘poor bastard.’ If Marwood was assaulted, he’d have wished for Monty to die – just like Withnail wished his father would die the moment he started choking him. Withnail is still waiting for his father to die, whereas Marwood is forcing himself to walk the lower floor’s rooms.
This must be what happened: Marwood was in a ‘corner’ because he felt obliged, out of that insane politeness of his, to permit Monty to take off all his clothes and approach him. And then, at the very last second, it hit Marwood that he couldn’t do it.
Yes, that’s it… Marwood narrowly avoided a ‘buggery’ because Monty innocently misinterpreted.
So, why is Marwood’s breath bulleting about the room? Why is he rubbing his chest, trying to subtly reign it in, and glaring whenever he meets Withnail’s gaze like there’s no going back for them – any gratefulness he felt at the car evaporated, never to return…
No more time for thinking; Ian enters the room. Both men jump and notice what she’s holding up: a stained sheet.
“Does anyone recognise this sperm?”
“Eugh! No doubt Monty’s been here. Frolicking about with some Frenchman,” Withnail turns his nose from it, looking at Marwood, “You can sleep in that bedroom. New sheets, evidently.”
“Which one is that?” Marwood mumbles.
“The one I had last time. And you can have the smaller one, Ian. I fancy this suite.”
“What if you have a seizure?” Ian asks.
“What of it?”
“You’ll hit your head on the arm of this,” she gestures, “No, you need a proper bed. I’ll have the couch. You have the smaller room.”
Withnail nods. His eyes are drawn to Marwood again, whose nostrils give skinnier breaths than before, though he is still leering. He seems to silently ask what Withnail’s doing – like he’s being suspiciously martyr-like for having the sofa, so that Marwood doesn’t have to have the same room as last time, that room he may or may not have been assaulted in.
Marwood says nothing about it, though. He stands there for a few moments, inhales, and then finds the courage to follow Ian upstairs.
Withnail listens to his footsteps and their uncertain movements across the ceiling. When it gets too much, he tries to distract himself with the silly ‘sex’ doll, putting her all back together, seating her by the dining table. From a ponce’s perspective, Skye is anatomically fascinating. She is the closest that Withnail will ever get to seeing what a woman looks like, whereas he only has to look at himself in the mirror to imagine what any future sexual partners could look like… not that he’ll live long enough to get fucked.
But yes, fascinating… Withnail can almost imagine the appeal if he tries hard enough. Even as a piece of plastic, Withnail can tell a woman is so much softer than a man, far less angular. Much more to squidge, if a straight man likes squidging – like the hips. No, don’t think of the hips; out will fire that image he hates, of Marwood’s hands on his sister's hips. That frightful hospital day… How hideous…
Withnail does up the mannequin's clothes. Once all her bits are covered, he’s hit with a realisation he doesn’t like much – that when she has clothes on, you can almost pretend that she’s a male model. She is the right height for it. She could be representative of the shorter, softer, more effeminate type of man. Of Marwood.
Withnail’s hands trace the anatomy more intimately. This is Marwood, in his hold. If Withnail closes his eyes and drowns out any comments about his patheticness, he can live it for a while. He can be transported to a world where his love has substance.
THE PROBLEM WITH DOLLS:
They don’t reciprocate.
Neither did the real Marwood. To whatever it is Monty put him through. Withnail might be fondling this doll in the same way Monty did Marwood. That thought is sobering and surreal. Withnail not only rips away from Skye, but also scrubs his hands at the kitchen sink. Out, damned spot of a sexual nature! Will these hands ne’er be clean from the deed? From what he put Marwood through? Luring him into this cottage-shaped trap?
Withnail scrubs until his hands are raw. It is then, and only then, that he permits himself to leave the sink. He hears footsteps coming back down the stairs. He goes to meet whoever it is at the bottom.
Marwood… fuck.
“Ian wants to know if we’re eating out,” he says, “The pub does grub, now. Direct business with the poacher.”
“No more potato-digging. Splendid,” Withnail fakes a smile, “Well, you can go on ahead. I have someone to telephone.”
“Who’s that, then?”
“No one important. My agent.”
Marwood sucks on his cheeks.
“Alright, then,” he goes half up the stairs again, “Ian?!”
“Yeah?!”
“We’re going without him!”
“Alright! Two minutes!”
If it’s just two minutes she makes them wait, it’s the longest two minutes of Withnail’s life. A woman’s two minutes, where he’s forced to look at Marwood, at his haunted face, and try not to be sick.
This call could cut another cord in the family. Why? Withnail’s calling Monty. He needs to know the truth – and he almost gets it early; the wait for Ian is so long that Marwood starts weighing up words. He even baits Withnail with a string of breath – just for the woman to come hopping down the stairs, at that same moment…
She’s changed outfits. She’s wearing a dress.
You might remember me saying a few chapters ago that you can’t imagine Ian in a Sixties dress. That isn’t allowed with how boxy and unflattering they are on her (in her humble opinion). Well, the same rule applies now. Instead, you can imagine her wearing something more dated. It’s wide-skirted and Fifties ‘swing.’ It accentuates the waistline, but is highly inappropriate for the November weather; it’s sleeveless and tied on by two ribbons, connecting around the back of the neck.
It's nice, but too nice for Withnail’s liking. Marwood’s lips seem wetter than they were before. He has to keep rubbing them together as she grabs her fur coat and throws it over the top.
“It’s possible that my call will overrun,” Withnail decides, “Don’t bother waiting for me. Order and eat as you wish.”
“If you don’t appear, do you want us to bring something back?” Ian asks.
“No,” Withnail answers bluntly, “I had enough booze in the car to ruin any appetite. I shall just breakfast well.”
Perhaps sensing something in him, Ian’s smile is brief. She kisses his cheek on the way out, her way to comfort.
Marwood looks at the floor. His eyes only gravitate upwards when he’s already halfway down the garden path. They follow the fingers of moonlight tickling his face, and it combs through every beautiful, but tragic curl on his head.
His hair’s growing back.
Everything in Withnail’s chest balls up. It’s a messy blend of heartbeats and breaths, not being able to distinguish one from the other, as he trudges down to the red telephone box and dials Monty’s number.
Only three rings…
“Monty, it’s Vivian…” Withnail pants, “Yes, yes, fine, I’m healing, thank you for paying, but – No, let me speak for a few moments first, Uncle. I need to ask you something important. And you can’t lie about it. If you lie, I shall know, and then there will be no way I can ever forgive you – not that I think I can, right now. Not if it’s what I suspect…
“Well, it’s about Peter Marwood.”
Chapter 10: Marwood
Notes:
I dunno why this didn’t end up as exciting for me as I thought it was going to be. Perhaps I’m just absolutely exhausted and it’s because I just want to sleep? XD
But yeah, there’s something missing from this one… I’ve been trying to deep it for a few days and I can’t work out what it is so I’m just going to post it anyway :(
TWs // Monty SA scene recap
Chapter Text
The dress knows how to treat her right.
That’s Marwood’s dominating thought as they walk towards the pub. Ian looks impurely innocent; the fabric might be white with dainty pink blossoms, but it knows exactly what parts of her body to kiss. It has Marwood’s eyes essaying to his mind all the ways to touch a woman – before his brain shakes off the thoughts. This is Ian, whom he just considers to be a friend. A dress shouldn’t change that. It’s also not right for him to behave like a man in this place. Not when another took hold of their manliness here and hit Marwood violently with it. Fear now bleeds from multiple wounds.
Ian looks wounded. She keeps turning her head back to the cottage, her thoughts so absorbed by her brother that she mustn’t know she looks beautiful. Marwood’s father used to say that a woman knowing she looks beautiful is dangerous to a man, because she’ll do anything to retain it, which leads to her posing in minaciously more gorgeous ways. Maybe his father was a misogynist for that. Maybe Marwood is just as bad for thinking the opposite, for thinking Ian couldn’t get any more beautiful than right now, in her distracted state…
“We should go back,” Ian suddenly says.
“No,” He tugs her onwards, “Withnail needs to learn to be independent.”
“He can do that another day, surely? Did you see how down he was? He might do something stupid.” Ian frowns.
“He’ll be fine,” Marwood says, “He’s just feeling guilty.”
“About what?”
She must think he won’t answer; she stops in front of him. Waiting. No way past for him – which is fine because instead, Marwood’s eyes enjoy buzzing like bees from flower to flower on her dress, getting lost amongst the nectar of one.
“Nothing important,” he tells her, “You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you. I wish these never went out of fashion.” Ian smiles hesitantly.
“I suspect you’re making a new fashion. Everywhere I go, more and more women are wearing trousers like the ones you wear.”
“Oh, yes. And as soon as 1970 hits, I think flared jeans will be for all. Not just a hippie thing.”
She pauses, waiting for either Marwood to agree with her, say something else or continue walking. The problem is, he’s lost his eyes. They’re either buried in the dress or they’re inside of her.
What is wrong with him today?!
Marwood manages to find his eyes and yank them away. Ian’s frown deepens.
“Do you hate me for what I did?”
“Did?” He blinks.
“Asking you to come here. I can tell it’s bothering you.”
“Sometimes, I wonder if Withnail’s right. About you being stupid.”
“So, you don’t hate me?”
“No. I don’t hate you,” Marwood licks his lips, “I worry about you.”
Ian laughs. She trudges down a bank and makes Marwood follow her towards this wooden bridge overtop of a trickling river. He didn’t even know it was here. He wishes he did; it’s like that Monet painting in miniature, with the sun stripteasing on top to reveal that nakedness we call night.
Ian reaches to get her cigarette. The breeze, although still soft, makes it hard to light it. Marwood cups his hands around hers to shield the flame. Her face leans into his hands to light it.
“I mean it. I worry,” He now leans against the bridge railing, “You’re getting better at talking about yourself, but it’s not about the important things. Those nightmares you say you’re getting. It’s not healthy keeping it all in, using drugs instead of talking about them.”
“I could say the same about you,” Ian smokes, “And the bevvies. You say you don’t hate me, but when I forced you to come here, and you’re walking around like it's haunted, I have no choice but to hate myself.”
“You didn’t force me. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” he swallows, “It’s just a few rooms I can’t stand.”
“The room I’m in.”
“Yes, well,” he runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I was assaulted in there.”
Ian stiffens. At once, it’s like the day detonates. Sun gone. Moon lurking. Marwood bracing.
Why did he tell her? Just mere minutes ago, he was steering the conversation away from this. Well, the part involving Withnail, perhaps the hardest part to tell his loving sister. Looking into Ian’s warm eyes makes Marwood want to tell her the rest. But, it also feels to him like he has his silence, her silence and all the world’s gathered inside of him, all at once.
“By who?” She, of course, whispers.
“No one,” Marwood rushes, “Someone that broke in. A man.”
He goes to say more but can’t.
“It’s alright,” Ian touches his arm, “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, I want to,” Marwood blurts, “If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
On a shaky breath, he trains his eyes from Ian to the cottage. His tongue loosens on seeing it. It’s ironically easier. That place behaves like inspiration, drawing every detail to the surface.
“I could hear the bastard outside, so I pretended to be asleep. But he came in,” Marwood starts, “He sat on the edge of my bed and tried to tell me all these things, that he adored me. He tried to spin my head, tried to make me think that this was what I wanted from him, but all I wanted was to get out. So… I ran for the door.” Marwood pauses to find breath. “He chased after me. Slammed it shut.” He continues, “And it was just me, against the wall, and his boozy breath was the only thing barricading me from his body. That and the blanket I had around me, trying to stop his eyes from wandering, but it didn’t stop him. Neither did my begging. He accused me of humiliating him. And he told me –”
The sentence seizures. Ian grabs Marwood’s hand, and it steadies him.
“He told me that he meant to have me, even if it must be burglary,” he continues, “That’s when he ripped my blanket away. I tried running to the other side of the room, but he was already taking off his dressing gown. I said anything I could. Any lie I could fit into my teeth to try and convince him that it was a bad idea – pushing him away by the face, but he was a stronger fighter, double my size.”
Ian’s face: the epitome of pain. To save himself from that image, Marwood closes his eyes.
“I can’t remember what words stopped him. Something did,” he says, “And as soon as he left, I was seeing red. I think my mind was trying to protect me, by making sure all I was feeling was anger. At everything. It wasn’t traumatic until I left Withnail’s room, after having shouted at him about the whole thing, and I tried to get back into my bed and I couldn’t.”
“Viv knew what happened. And he didn’t tell me.” Ian realises, “He let me bring you here.”
Perhaps Marwood should say no? Or yes? What would save her feelings more? Neither. Silence. Silence, bar the start of light rain: bits of the sky flaking off, from where it has been battered by his story.
Sick slides up Marwood’s throat. He swallows it back and Ian offers him her fag. He takes a drag in an instant. His hands feel clumsy, so he smokes whilst it’s still in hers. His lips slightly graze her fingers. He tries to focus on that feeling – not because of anything perverted; they’re friends… but because Ian’s a healing thought. Anything, anyone, even thoughts of Withnail is a medicine for his mind after wrecking it like that…
“I’ve told you mine. And I’m not demanding you tell me yours back. That’s not fair. But I’ve told you mine in the hope that some day soon you’ll consider telling me yours,” he rambles, “Because I saw you yesterday morning. I saw it in your eyes, all those nights without sleep, replacing it with whatever you’re taking.”
“Morphine,” Ian massages her forehead, “Sorry.”
“I’m not judging. I’m concerned. There’s a difference. Not that I have a right to be; I was drinking today. Drink driving.”
“I know. I could smell it.”
“And you’re not angry? That mannequin could’ve been someone. I would’ve killed them.”
“I can’t be angry with you. I’ve tried to be, but I’m not capable of it,” Ian sighs with painful elegance, and takes another drag, “I want to tell you about my past, Peter. Believe me, I do. It’s just hard because I’ve never told anyone. And if I tell you… God, I don’t know how much I can tell you. It’s Viv’s story as well, and even if he’s a right fucker – and having known what happened to you, he let me bring you here – I won’t invade his privacy.”
“Then, you’re too good to the bastard. Keeping it in is going to kill you someday.” Ian tries to turn away. He grabs her, “I care about you.”
“Please don’t say that…”
“I do. I care about you, Lillian Withnail. You’re my friend.”
Ian laughs again, but with a lot more pain leaking into it.
“Then, why are you holding my waist?”
Oh. He didn’t realise.
Second time that’s happened… But this time, it’s accompanied by a villainous feeling. Cutting into his flesh, between each rib, the fingers of Monty Withnail, and he’s transferring that onto her – that unwanted touching.
So, he slowly lets go. It’s only when Ian brings her hand to his face that he realises she never told him to stop touching her – she only asked him why he was, as if she didn’t mind. As if she almost wanted it. Marwood’s thinking about that as she strokes her thumb down his cheek. It catches on the stubbled terrain, leaving Marwood’s cheek warm from friction.
“We can’t be friends, Peter,” she smiles sadly, “Not anymore; I brought you here. To a place where you’ve suffered something as terrible as that –”
“Yes, yes. Because I agreed to come. I wanted to come –”
“How? How could you possibly want to come to a place like this?”
“Because you wanted to come.” He blurts, before he hears his own words, the chime, the banging of his heartbeat, the realisation. “Because… you… want...”
“That’s even worse, Peter. In knowing that, how am I meant to live with mys–?”
Marwood kisses her.
THE LOGIC:
Ian wants it.
And this is the only scenario in the universe, post-Monty, that could lead to Marwood kissing someone in this way – as in, without their direct permission first. It’s also his body telling him to ‘make sure’ of his own feelings, but he doesn’t think that to himself, or he does and he’s deaf to every blaring thought up there.
Anyway, Marwood’s mouth missiles at her. His hands clasp her face, deepening it – even though it must last only a second. Too long to consider a peck. Too short to give Ian the chance to realise what’s happened or respond.
Marwood draws back. There’s Tim Burton’s version of Jean Shrimpton. All your characters’ wide eyes would seem normal-sized in comparison. And her pupils! They’ve dilated to contain voids. Marwood studies those eyes. Where his stomach should be, a drop ride. It occurs to him that he’s just destroyed everything – their entire friendship. And for what? Just to give her something he thought she wanted? Even though, if she stares at him with this much shock in her system, it’s not reciprocated.
Oh, Christ.
Reciprocated.
So that’s the answer, then? But that means Marwood…?
As if he wasn’t sure already, he notices the ghost of her soft lips on his, and his desire hardens. She continues staring at him. He might collapse on her for it; his knees weaken that much. He rubs at his chest, hoping it’ll help him chase for another breath, but it runs from him. It’s not just Ian, then. The air has no interest in his lungs.
“Christ,” he says out loud this time, “I’m so sorry. I thought that’s what you –”
“No, no. It was. Don’t be sorry,” Ian leaps to say.
“Withnail will kill me.”
“Don’t worry about it too much. He’s been dreadful to you.”
“Yes,” Marwood licks his lips, “He has…”
He hears the ‘it was’ a few seconds later. Something so pivotal that it takes skimming over a few more lines like we have for it to properly sink in. And then, it’s hard not to turn focus to it: his body that close to hers. She is so trusting of that distance – not even taking a fraction of a step away after what happened.
Slowly, but surely, Marwood leans in again. This kiss? No lighter than a leaf landing in a puddle. Testing the waters after the last rainfall. She accepts his coaxing with a nip of his lower lip and then her mouth widens, allows a fuller kiss, one that has one person’s hips arcing into the other’s, that has Marwood’s hands slowly losing their support on Ian’s head because she’s taken on that duty, cupping her hands about his neck. His hand rides down – down until she will tell him to stop. Her call. As far as she wants, but she permits his hands to travel down her collar bones, down her sides and hips and round to the lower back, the arse, the back of the thighs. His fingertips touch the inner parts, and her muscles shiver.
Every touch of a finger: revealing the charge of static in their skins. They both spark at the same time and rip away. Nose is still against nose. A seesaw of breaths, he exhaling as she inhales. Vice-versa. Fuelling each other for the next round.
Marwood drags his mouth down her. Neck and then collarbone. Her skin: both sour and sweet. Like opal fruits. He can’t resist it. It takes all his effort to heave his lips away from her, where he’s rewarded with her soft and gorgeous face. Her mouth slightly parted, Marwood sees the small, endearing gap in her teeth. He’s felt that, and he thanks her for it by pushing his tongue back into her.
This time, he’ll find what’s hidden at the back. All her strange secrets. The quirks that delight. But, he finds nothing. He does not know where she starts and where he ends. Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t know. They’ve pressed into the same person, meaning they no longer belong to their worries.
Healed, you might say.
Healed but on Withnail’s hit list.
Chapter 11: Withnail
Notes:
Very romantic last chapter. This chapter? A little more messy.
Chapter Text
It will be bad today. As soon as Withnail opens his eyes, he can feel his brain is bound in cling film. He can’t remember what happened last night. He remembers the phone call vividly, but the rest has been blanked out, as if by a bottle. Only, they have just gotten here, and there has been no booze brought into the house yet. Withnail’s brain injury is its own booze.
He tries to sit up. As he does, the room wobbles in place. Same mechanics as in the hospital ward. Mandrax. That would be superb right now. He’d knock himself out and come rising when his vision’s normal again. Can he get Mandrax on a prescription? Or would he have to be back in the ward, under intensive surveillance?
What does it matter? That’s not an option; Monty won’t pay for Withnail’s care anymore. He’d rather die than let his uncle dote on him further. That sadistic abominable wretch of a man…
An image of Marwood slips into Withnail’s mind, of him pressed into a corner. Eyes like empty screams – wide mouths. Withnail imagines it and he feels the bed start to swallow him.
Time to get up. To run away from it. Perhaps the horrific thoughts will remain stuck to his sheets if he gets up now?
So, Withnail throws back the covers. As he does, he notices his nails look a darker colour than usual. His first thought is that’s the Imipramine buggering up his body again. His second is a realisation there’s an added weight to his nails, like the colour is something pressing down on him.
WITHNAIL’S NAILS:
Painted red. The words, ‘weasel face’, are being spelt out in black, letter by letter.
His toenails match. He looks like a right ponce. In fact, his eyes screw with the letters, and for a second, it says, ‘I know what you are.’
With a hurried heart, Withnail tries shaking the design off. Nothing. No getting rid of it. How brainless of him. His jaw drops, ready to release a sound in reaction, but then a gas lamp is lit in the corner of his eyes. It reveals Ian, sitting in the chair in the corner of his room – where, undoubtedly, she’s been sitting for some hours, waiting for this moment.
“First-class for hilarity,” he says, “Where’s the acetone?”
“You shan’t be getting any,” Ian states. Unsettlingly calm of her. The calm that has Withnail looking for a storm above his head…
“Peter told me,” she then says.
“About?” Withnail swallows. She glares at him.
“No, don’t you dare pretend. He’s been cacking it since we got here.”
“Alright, well, I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Nobody ever means these things, but that’s not the point, Viv. The point is, in knowing what happened, you still let me bring him here.”
Yes. He did. And her sense has misery mounting in his mind – his head that’s already too heavy this morning to carry. What can he say, really? Other than Monty’s kindness had kidnapped all sense from him? The hero of their fucked-up childhoods couldn’t be a villain in his head, and it made him overlook things. So many of them…
But Withnail won’t cave like that. He won’t admit his own weaknesses. Ian already has too many in her possession, already knows a gentler version of him than anyone else. He’s feeling too vulnerable today to risk giving anything else up – not to family, which, until last night, he still had a small but dying bit of hope he could trust. Instead, Withnail steadies his breath and says:
“No, he brought himself here. Perhaps I’m remembering wrong, but I’m sure I gave him a choice. I think I said something akin to: We should use the cottage, unless you have an objection.”
“Yes, you did,” Ian frowns, “Well, he wasn’t going to say anything, was he? It’s you men and your male pride. He was embarrassed.”
“What do you want me to do, then, Ian? It happened. What is past is prologue, and there’s no going back.”
“How sorry you sound,” she mutters.
“All things without remedy should be without regard.”
It comes quickly to him. A defensive arrow shooting out from his soul. It hits Ian square in the chest. Disappointment bleeds from her eyes.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” she says, “I just want you to know how I feel.”
“And how do you feel, Darling Ian?”
“Ashamed,” she licks her lips, “I’m ashamed I shared an ovary with you.”
At once, there’s a littler Ian curled up in his throat.
“Then, I do desire we be better strangers,” Withnail croaks.
“Alright,” she says, “That’s one less rosy to make this morning.”
She slowly gets up, perhaps trying to give themselves both time to take it back. Withnail would in an instant, as long as she took it back first. His was a shallow attempt to combat her words, after all. Not in any sense felt. In fact, his beloved sister abandoning him would be his last death.
She starts to leave the room, heads down the stairs, and the words of an apology are thrown up into Withnail’s mouth, but he holds them in. Turns out, Withnail is just self-sabotaging like this.
And now, Monty’s hands have hold of his lungs.
Ian knows. Her whole world also fractured in an evening because Peter Marwood, that wank-stain, was too stupid to keep secrets.
MARWOOD:
The reason Withnail knows love exists.
Because all love leads to ruin.
This was Marwood’s idea of revenge, since Withnail’s to blame for the assault. But Marwood could’ve just targeted Withnail. He didn’t have to bring his sister into it. He didn’t have to cause her to suffer as well. What has she ever done for the world but good? A pearl battered by every rock reality’s thrown at her, and yet she’s remained shining. Whereas Withnail came out of it a jagged beast.
No. There was no reason for Marwood to hurt Ian like that. She’s done everything for him as well as Withnail. And this realisation, it screws a nut of anger into his chest. It’s enough fuel to help Withnail stand up and stride across the landing into Marwood’s room.
Withnail’s crush looks like an angel in sleep, which makes another wave of violent hatred hit. Marwood doesn’t stir immediately, not from the sounds of Withnail’s footsteps, but as soon as Withnail’s shadow falls on top of him, his eyes snap open. Marwood almost screams, but Withnail smothers his mouth with a hand.
“Marwood, you cunt!” He spits, “You should be thankful that I can’t feel my fingers under all this polish, otherwise I’d rip into your face like a… fine plate of lobster!”
“Calling me tasty, Withnail?” Marwood shoves the hand away, “Should I worry about what you want from me?”
“I’d rather raw dog a rodent.”
“Oh, really? Well, I wonder what Ian would say.”
Her name in his mouth. It’s worse than if he snogged her. Withnail tries to inhale. Instead of breath, he’s greeted with tight binding.
“How do you mean?” He demands.
“Nothing.” Marwood smiles – a cruel smile, coiling around Withnail. “Only,” he continues, “I’ve realised that she’s rather beautiful.”
Withnail pins Marwood to the bed.
“You shall stay away from her,” he growls, “I will not allow you to continue ruining her life!”
“Ruining her life? I haven’t done anything!”
“You told her about Monty! He was the only family she had left! He practically raised her, was the only one she could trust, and you’ve taken that from her!”
“No. I told her what happened, but not that it was him,” Marwood shakes his head, “Christ, Withnail! I’m not that foolish! I could tell from how much she adores you how much she must love Monty!”
“We tolerate each other.”
“Not from where I’m sitting,” Marwood insists.
“Well, then, you’re judging us from yesterday. Things have changed since then. You’ve changed them.”
Silence slams him. Slams Marwood. And those eyes Withnail was imagining horrors happening to earlier, they’re so tauntingly beautiful still, even though Withnail should hate them, and even though they stare like empty husks. Hollow, but the blue of them kisses his throat.
Withnail combats it with violence. He shoves Marwood further into the pillow, as far away from him as possible.
“You must be telling the truth about Monty,” he snarls, “Or you shall rue the day!”
“I am. I promise,” Marwood says… softly?
“Why are you talking like that?” Withnail snaps.
“Like what?”
“All sorrowful. Like you’ve done something and you’re feeling sorry for me.”
“No, I’m –”
“Be done with it and act angry. It’s putting my teeth on edge.”
Another long pause. Every second, ripping the concept of eternity from him.
“I’m grateful you took the other bedroom,” Marwood then whispers.
“Did I? I don’t remember.” He really doesn’t for a second. It's the cling film feeling. Stuck to his cortex. But he releases his hold of Marwood and looks around this room. Identifies it as the one he had last time, “Oh, yes. I suppose I did.”
“What happened started by the sofa, but it all ended in there,” Marwood explains.
“Monty told me. I had no phone call with my agent yesterday.”
Marwood looks at him in surprise. It dries Withnail’s mouth out.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t know,” he continues.
“Didn’t know?” Marwood squints, “I came and I woke you, and I told you right then I’d just narrowly avoided a buggery –”
“Yes, buggery. Sodomy. How was I supposed to know you meant violation?”
“He had me in the corner! And, opposed to popular belief, I’m not homosexual!”
“I didn’t know he was forceful,” Withnail insists, “I wouldn’t’ve laughed at you, if I did.”
“No, but you still told him we were a couple, knowing that would have some appeal to him.”
A horrendous second: where Marwood’s pain crosses the air between them, prodding Withnail in the chest.
“Not appeal,” he struggles, “I didn’t mean for you to woo him, I meant for you, for us, to appear as people he can relate to. In my head, Monty was a noble man. Damaged but benevolent. I thought if he could relate to you, he might adopt you, the same way he adopted me and Ian. He’d hand over that key with the pride of a second father.”
“Second father? He’s an intoxicated madman!”
“And didn’t I tell you just now that he virtually adopted us? He was our father. We even lived with him. He paid for our education; he’s the reason I’m an actor and Ian a director. He was everything our real parents couldn’t be – who, as it transpired, were nothing to us but inducements for nightmares.”
“You mean, Ian’s dreams?” Marwood’s eyes widen, “They’re about your father?”
Oh.
Withnail should be murdered for saying that. How heinous of him. What a betrayal to his sister’s secrecy, her privacy…
“I haven’t spoken a word,” his voice weakens, “Understood?”
“Yes… of course.”
Marwood looks down at the lies in his lap – lies he’s probably been telling himself. Maybe that Ian dreams of a past lover? It’s a much easier thought to have because it protects Marwood's idea of childhood. It means he can convince himself that there was a time when Ian was happy, instead of coming to realise what he must be now, which there has never been a time, in all these siblings’ lives, when the word ‘happiness’ crossed their minds.
This continuous silence seems to slide across Marwood’s skin. He hugs himself, rubbing the goosebumps it leaves away with his thumbs.
“I’ve told Monty what I think of him, but I shall have to remain civil,” Withnail eventually says, “Fill my mouth with as many smiles as I can muster. For Ian’s sake.”
“That’s sense.” Never raising his eyes, Marwood gets out of bed, “I’ll tell her it’s not your fault. That I made you keep quiet.”
“She won’t believe you.”
“I’ll try anyway.”
He doesn’t even look at Withnail as he crosses the room. He can’t bring himself to. Perhaps it’s occurred to him what a wretch Withnail must be too, since Ian’s childhood would’ve been his? What do you do with that sort of information?
You put walls between you. Marwood goes a step further and uses walls, a ceiling and a staircase. He moves fast, grabbing clothes on the way, so as not to frighten Ian with nakedness.
Withnail will soon follow. He will just give himself a few moments to catch his breath. That frightful conversation... it’s unscrewed his knees, and he will collapse as soon as he stands up, unless he gives himself time.
IN THE CORNER OF HIS EYE:
The notebook.
You might find it hard to believe Withnail’s never looked in it before. What if I told you he was too fearful? That he knew Marwood thought he was a bastard, but couldn’t bear knowing just how much of a bastard he is? It would be like looking in a mirror for the first time and finding a troll staring back at you.
It’s all changed now. Marwood couldn’t think any worse of Withnail. As well as being a bastard, Withnail’s now known as weak. A baby once rattled by his daddy.
So, Withnail opens the notebook. He doesn’t bother going back. He wants to know what Marwood thinks of him now, and so he opens to the latest page. Only… it’s not words about Withnail that greet him. It’s words about Ian.
They say that when love's well-timed, there is no fault. In Ian’s presence, I (for one) feel my worst qualities sink into soft captivity. And yet, I cannot use the word love, not whilst only one kiss is mine. Still, a kiss my mind keeps close.
Withnail doesn’t know HOW recently these words were written; Marwood doesn’t date his pages. Withnail knows what it’s about, though. That cheek kiss at home. It must be. After all that denial, and Ian trying to convince him that Marwood wasn’t thinking like that…
Withnail laughs. Withnail laughs so much he can feel sick rising. But he doesn’t feel angry this time. Numbness takes hold of him. Things have happened that make him think – no, know – that he has to accept it. It might just go this way. If Marwood ‘loves’ his sister, let him. Withnail should accept it because at least that’s a positive feeling to drown out the terror Marwood’s been subjected to. Subjected to thanks to Withnail. It’s not like Ian loves Marwood back, anyway.
Withnail puts back the book and rises. His legs are still wobbly. The room gyrates and he can’t tell if it’s his brain injury talking or the situation. Somehow, he makes it downstairs to the living room. He finds Ian sitting on the arm of Marwood’s chair, both talking in low voices. They stop when he enters. Ian even stands up.
“Are we still strangers, or are you coming to film?” She asks.
“Film,” Withnail decides, giving a brief glance at Marwood, “Did he…?”
“Yes,” Ian licks her lips gravely, “And I don’t want to have another bull about it, so let’s just brush it aside for the morning and do some good acting.”
“If I do my very best, will you give me the acetone?”
“I didn’t bring any.”
No warmth. Still raw from it all, then? At least Ian is talking to him. He’d die if she didn’t, and at least she’s letting him do things. He feared they might treat him like a complete vegetable, given how she’s babied him so far with his disabilities. But the men are allowed to display equal effort in carrying equipment from the boot of the cars across the fields.
Ian decides to do the scene which is a conversation between the medium and his lover, discussing what they should do about the ghost bride. Withnail opens his mouth to object; he said before that he won’t play Marwood’s lover. But, before Withnail can protest, Ian points out that they’re not doing anything remotely romantic in the scene, and she’s not going to put either of them on camera. She sets up her tripod so that the camera is pointed at the grass, at their shadows, and she says it’s only their shadows that the audience will be able to see the entire time.
“That way, Brother-Dearest, you don’t have to have your face linked with it, which I believe was your main problem. Also, if the characters are faceless to whoever’s watching, they can imagine who they like. They can put themselves in those shoes, if they’re queers.”
“Symbolism. The anonymity of the times,” Marwood nods.
“Peter’s getting it,” she smiles at him, “And you did agree to do this, Viv.”
“I did what? Sorry?”
Marwood grabs Withnail’s arm and moves him into shot.
“Come on then, Lovie,” he says, “Stand here.”
“Was this you?” Withnail hisses, “You were meant to be liaising over the Monty business!”
“I was, but she wasn’t having it,” Marwood shrugs, “This was the only way.”
Inside Withnail: homosexual panic.
“What happens if she wants us to…” he swallows a lump, “do things, eventually?”
“Then, we do it,” Marwood says easily enough, “It’s our job. We’re actors.”
“No, I’m the actor. You’re the reason therapists exist!”
“Look, it’ll be gradual. Ian doesn’t want me to kiss you. Not right away, anyway, and not if I think it’ll bring up bad memories.”
“Not right now… not right now… Utter a single fucking word more and I’m castrated!”
Perhaps too transparent of Withnail, but fear overloads his senses. What if he does have to do something sexy someday, and he gets a boner from it? No – he doesn’t have to think about it because he will not do it! He’ll refuse! He’ll do this stupid silhouette scene so Ian won’t get madder at him, and there’s a chance someday she might forgive him, and that will be the end of it. It has to be…
Withnail takes a deep breath and holds it in. The walk behind the camera is like entering water. He’ll have to breathe eventually, but not until it’s time for his line. If he lets go now, his chest will start chugging some suspiciously heavy breaths.
Only, his breaths will get heavier if he’s holding them in… Stupid tosser! Breathe already! Start breathing! Now!
Marwood briefly turns to Ian, and Withnail takes his chances. He gasps like he’s never encountered air before. Bloody arse bandit behaviour! Never has he wished more than now that he fancied women! Yes, that would have made his experiences at Harrow a lot less fun. An all-boys school was the closest to heaven he could ever get, but being straight would be a mercy right now… with Marwood rolling his neck and shoulders… exposing some rather… fine angles and edges… which Withnail could chew on like a rabid dog.
The scene is short, hallelujah! But Ian wants to do it again, fuck’s sake! Perhaps she can see how torturous Withnail is finding it? She makes them repeat it until the day is almost gone. With half a smile on her lips, she then peels away from her camera. She suggests they do another scene – thankfully, an atmospheric shot of the setting, since it’s starting to get dark.
Ian asks the boys to get the shopping trolley off the car, and she attaches the camera to the front of it. With Marwood’s help, she climbs into the trolley. She sits cross-legged behind the camera and turns to him to say:
“Right, we’re going to do a Dolly Zoom. When I say go, Peter, please push me as fast as you can towards the front door. In as straight a line as you can manage. Viv, you’re going to be behind the door, and when we get to you, I want you to slam it shut in our faces – for a haunted house effect, so make sure your hand isn’t seen.”
Ian counts down and they shoot the Dolly Zoom. She’s almost as insufferable as she was during the first scene, making them do it five times over until satisfied. It takes even longer to shoot since they have to give Marwood time in-between takes to catch his breath. The fourth attempt in particular seems to take almost everything out of him. Guilt has Ian gnawing on her lip, and she drags him over to the tree for a proper rest. He settles himself in the space, draws out a fag to smoke and then his notebook.
This is where cruel thoughts should compound in Withnail. Instead, his body shrinks, and it’s a rather small voice in his head that wonders if Marwood is writing about Ian again. Marwood does keep looking over at her as she’s hopping about, trying to get all the equipment into place. A smile coats his lips, which stabs Withnail’s stomach.
They film their final take. As soon as Withnail swings open the door again, Ian throws him a thumbs-up.
“Well done, boys,” she climbs out of the trolley, “Fancy a pig’s ear?”
“Don’t you want me to hold off on booze? After yesterday?” Marwood heaves.
“As I’ve said before, everything in moderation,” Ian says, “And it might do your liver more damage than good if you become teetotal at once. I’ll pay for you to have a couple.”
“Oh? You’re paying? That’s good. You see, you’ve really tired me out.”
“I’m good at that. Or so the legends say.”
“Stop it,” Marwood grins.
“Sorry,” Ian smirks back, “I forgot you prefer cars.”
“Oh, and not that old chestnut either!”
“Tell me, Peter… what’s the difference between my car and a tampon?”
“I don’t want to know –”
“A tampon comes with its own tow rope.”
Ian laughs so hard that she falls into him. Head on his shoulder sort of thing, and Marwood looks far too comfortable with it. The words from his notebook practically pour from his eyes.
There’s something upsettingly soft about Ian’s look, too. Maybe she always has that look about her, but Withnail having his trust broken by one relative last night, one of the last remaining, has left him with little faith. He knows with one part of his heart that Ian would never lie to him, not about never having known love. But the other part wonders if she’s in denial, or if she’s realised something since their conversation, something that’s rapidly grown. A tumour in the heart. A sexual sickness Marwood’s given her through these little touches – his touch of her elbow now as he leans in to whisper something.
Whatever he whispers, Ian giggles at it.
“Come on, Viv,” she then turns lightly to him, “I’m not paying for you, you Bastard. Not after today, and not when you shouldn’t be taking it, anyway. But you’re not staying behind today either. Come and empty your wallet with us.”
“Well, I shall have to comb my hair first,” Withnail blurts, “Back in a jiffy.”
At first, he’s not sure where his feet take him, but it’s not upstairs to his room and it’s not a bathroom. It’s not anywhere his comb might be, but instead towards the sofa. The sofa Marwood’s assault started on, and that Ian now sleeps on – a thought that sends a shudder down his spine… Christ.
At once, Withnail rips his eyes away from the sofa and starts searching the cabinets surrounding it. Ian’s using some of them.
Where would a girl keep a diary? Does Ian keep a diary? Something he can search through, like Marwood’s, to give his mind some rest? It occurs to Withnail that she’s his sister, and he hardly knows anything about her – just like he clearly knew nothing about Monty. Withnail opens up all her drawers and finds things he didn’t even know she had – including the bottom drawer, which, when he opens it, he finds syringes within.
Withnail’s heart stops. A second, a breath, and then it restarts. Though, his heart remains on a funeral march.
He picks the syringes up, cradling them like a dead baby. Ian was born dead, that’s what these drugs tell him. They tell him he’s worrying about Ian falling in love with Marwood when he should be worrying that she hasn’t. Worrying about what she told him the other day about never loving anyone, about being that broken.
Withnail puts them back in the drawer. He grants Ian, and whatever diary she may or may not have, privacy. With a wave of guilt, he heads back outside, ready to join his tormentors at the pub.
Chapter 12: Ian
Notes:
Thank you so much to Ocean_Grey for helping me work on the motives of each of the characters for each chapter. It was really hard getting them from A to B but we got there in the end…
Content warning for you: this is where we enter dance around the perimeter of the ‘explicit’ tag XD
Chapter Text
“What do you want, Ian?” Peter asks as soon as they enter the pub.
“Just a small rum and Coke,” she says.
“Alright, grab those seats.”
He gestures to the only free booth left, just about hidden from sight in the far corner. The pub is a sea of scarves. Peter was telling her on the way down that it might be busy; Penrith’s nearest football team is Carlisle, who had a match against Charlton earlier that afternoon. It’s clear, as soon as Ian sits down, that all these Carlisle supporters are drinking to cut their losses.
Ian waits for her brother to sit down opposite her. He shakes his head and points at the dartboard. There’s a Carlisle fan looking around for an extra player.
As far as Ian knows, her brother can’t even play darts, but playing a sport with a stranger is always more favourable than sitting in public with your sister, particularly when you’re meant to be on unfavourable terms with one another. So, Vivian swiftly walks up to the darts player and raps the man on the shoulder. At first, all confident. Then, the man scowls at him, and Vivian shrinks into himself like a tortoise. With a terrified grin and what must be one of his smart-arse remarks, he swings around and retreats.
It looks like he might come back to the table. Only, at the last second, a woman comes to Vivian’s rescue and drags him over to her all-female pool table.
She looks like a sex worker. So do her friends, which makes Ian smile to herself because she knows how horrified Vivian would be if he found out. Misogynistic fucker… Of course, some of Ian's best friends have been sex workers. So has one of her partners: Bernice Williams. Jamaican immigrant. She’d come over to England as a toddler with her mother, who shortly died after, meaning Bernice was brought up in an orphanage. As soon as she hit sixteen, pimps were approaching her. She was young, and your optimism for life doesn’t come to much when you’ve been in an orphanage your whole life, so she went for it.
Ian didn’t meet her as a customer. Rather, Ian arrived at the strip club because her directing career hadn’t taken off properly. She was desperate for work. Bernice seemed like a cow to start with because she intervened and told her boss not to hire Ian. She thought Ian wasn’t the right material. Apparently, Ian was too tall for most men’s liking, and her eyes were intimidating – things she’d been thinking about herself her whole life, but had never been told to her face, and it hurt hearing it come from a woman’s mouth in particular.
In the end, though, Ian found out Bernice was doing her a favour.
“You were too beautiful to let men break you,” she said into Ian’s ears one night, as they were making love. And indeed, Bernice had a way of making Ian feel just that. More than anyone else she’s ever had sex with. If Ian HAD come close to loving someone before Peter, it would have been that woman.
So, no, prossies are not bad. Not in the slightest. And looking over at this pool table now, they seem to be taking care of Vivian just fine, all laughing, all cheering his piss-poor cue stick usage…
Photo worthy.
Fortunately, a director is never far from a camera. Ian keeps what must be the world’s tiniest Box Brownie in her bra, which she promptly fishes out. She doesn’t notice Peter looming above her. Not until her hand’s half down there, at which point he coughs in urgency.
“I’m getting out this,” Ian shows her camera, “to take a picture of that,” she points at Viv.
“Right. Any reason you keep it there?” Peter asks.
“To see who’s a perv and looks. You failed the test.”
“I didn’t look.”
“You did.”
“Only a little,” Peter winks. As he scoots into the booth, though, Ian notices a blush creeping over his face. The colour of cringing at your own words… Cute.
Ian takes her change from Peter and he slides her rum and Coke towards her. On Peter's side: two bitters.
“One’s his, before you ask,” Peter nods at Viv, “Bastard… Feel I need to mentally prepare before I go over… Have you brought your fags? I think I left mine on the dresser.”
Ian gets out her B&Hs and hands one over. Peter lights and smokes it quietly whilst Ian starts sipping her drink. It’s more boozy than she thought. Tastes like the barman put two shots in it instead of one. Oh well, that will go to her head quickly; she’s a terrible drinker. The fact that she hasn’t eaten either, she’ll be completely wasted if she has another after this.
Will she still drink it, though? Yes, because this silence has snagged on her stomach. So has how close Peter’s body is. His breath: not just audible; it reminds her that he’s real. He’s human. But it feels like what happened yesterday was something that only someone from her dreams could do.
“Wish me luck in delivering to Withnail,” Peter suddenly says. He gets up, picking up Viv’s bitter in his hand. He must realise he needs his in the other – for comfort reasons, perhaps – for he slots his lit cigarette in Ian’s mouth and says, “Hold this for me.”
Ian’s abs feel tight. Even something as simple as breathing: now exercise.
She keeps his fag in her mouth. Too much exertion to remove it. Peter turns his head back to shyly smirk at her before he approaches Vivian. She snaps a picture of them both. Viv already looks drunk over girls and grins at Peter, raises the glass and gives a loud “chin-chin.” Though after Ian snaps the shot, and looks at her brother with her own eyes, she realises that grin may be of a cruel nature. Just to confirm it, Peter flips him the bird on the way back to the table.
He flops back down next to Ian, takes the cigarette back out of her mouth, and slips it back into his own. One of her own tricks. Is he mocking her? This is something that she does with her friends, but Peter has adopted it and given his own perverse spin.
She’s overthinking this. Peter’s innocent and sweet enough. Harmless…Though the seconds teasingly stroke her skin. It’s such a long drag he takes, like he can’t bear for it to leave his mouth again. Or maybe it’s a normal amount of time, but Ian’s obsession with Peter elongates it?
An image flashes into her mind of him tucking the camera back down into her cleavage. A thought that dries out her mouth. She shakes it off violently. She has to. She can’t be thinking of Peter like that after all he’s gone through, or she’d be no better than the man who assaulted him.
“I’m still thinking about it,” Peter says, as if to read her thoughts.
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” Ian swallows, “It sounded… dreadful.”
“No, no, no. Not that,” Peter jumps, “Well, also that, but… I’m thinking about what happened next… You’re a very good kisser, Miss Withnail.”
The Earth stumbles on its axis. Where does she stand on it, right now? How does she stand?
Not very well. Not even sentences come to her. Just swollen words as she says:
“Not too bad yourself.”
He smiles at that. It feels like a sin. Ian steadies her tongue because she can’t tell Peter just how good he was; that would be embarrassing. In the past, kissing has always just been to her a necessary stage she has to get through. She’d fantasise about doing it with someone she wanted to have sex with, but when it finally came to doing it, it was just a wet, rubbery thing in your mouth – a salivary sensation that at times made her gag. She’d keep doing it with them, though. She’d do it for the sex after, and for the roaming of their hands during the kiss, the aching sensation of someone rubbing her nipples or stimulating her clit. The parts she could very much do herself, and had done herself in her bedroom as a teenager.
But Peter kissing her… How her body buzzed! At such a high frequency! Her focus on the sensations themselves was muted. It wasn’t saliva mixing. It was some sweet essence. Sounds cheesy for Ian to say, but perhaps the liquid of their souls? There was no gagging because their tongues were melting on contact.
How love can disguise the disgustingness of the human body. Can make subtle the science and stretch the sound of the soul… It was what she’s been missing. Her whole life.
PETER’S EYES:
Shuttering. Developing her picture.
“Possibly a stupid question to ask now of all times,” he says, “but are you taken?”
“Do you think I’d trade sex for trolleys if I wasn’t?”
“Never assume anything when it comes to Lillian Withnail, that’s what I’m beginning to learn,” he puts his chin in his hands, studying her. “Why are you single, then? How?”
Heat finds Ian’s cheeks.
“How are you? Have you seen your face?
“I’ve seen my face,” Peter turns to look at Vivian, “Have you seen the company I keep?”
“Try being related to him.”
“Good point. But there must’ve been men, surely? Where were they left? What did they do wrong?”
“Nothing.”
A thought disturbs the flow. One of Peter’s. He plays cautiously with it in his mouth.
“Someone did wrong.”
Yes, her father. Ian tries not to shiver as the closet’s darkness touches her. She swallows a different darkness instead: her drink. One large gulp.
“Not my formers.” She then says raggedly, “They were good people. I just didn’t feel anything, that’s all. It was just me having my leg over.”
“Were they decent, at least?”
“Sometimes,” her mind laughs at that thought and at the alcohol swirling in her, “There was this one partner, Jack… he was such a laugh, but his was awful. Two pints had his flopping.”
“Oh dear. Well, I don’t have that problem.”
“I bet you don’t. Instead, your body can’t function without it. Wino.”
“Smackhead.”
Peter looks over the rim of his glass at her. He takes a sip of his beer, and his eyes glow artfully in its reflection. They get lost in each other’s amusement. So much so, Ian’s taken out of time. When she comes back, there are no strings of memory to examine. She has no idea where she’s been left.
“Why are we discussing this again?”
“As I said,” Peter starts slowly, “I’m still thinking about it.”
“A kiss.”
“Yes, but if that’s your kissing, I’m wondering what else you can do.”
He leans in to mutter it. His cologne caresses her nostrils. So heady… If she wasn’t getting drunk before, this pushes her over the edge. Her vision chisels down to his pretty jaw.
“Are you suggesting something, Peter?”
“Might be.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“In my head, it is. Is it in yours?”
Ian hesitates. Peter takes another sip, one that seems harder for him to swallow. He winces as he does, wipes his mouth on his sleeve and says:
“Ian, you can say no.”
“Yes, but… I don’t want to say no.”
Her reticence: Viv’s fault. If she turns her head to him now, he’s having a right old jolly with those girls, but what if he gets into trouble later on? What if he gets a bad patch of brain fog and forgets what he’s doing? Drinks a bit too much because he’s lost count of how many he’s had?
No. She’s meant to be mad at him. Pandering to his illness, which is his responsibility to handle, will not give the right message. Peter’s told her that enough times now, and for all she knows, her brother might go home with one of those girls. Free of charge. She and Peter might have the house to themselves – a thought that dives belly-deep.
And so, teeming with drunk tenderness, Viv floats away from her. Her mind munches on Peter, on the fact that he’s asking her for this politely, he’s making very sure she’s sure, even though this is probably something he needs. Desperately. Who knows? Ian just imagines that if she were assaulted, she’d have to get that person out of her mind through someone else, someone that she trusts. And perhaps that’s what Peter’s asking her for?
In a way, then. Ian has to do this. This is her duty, because it’s her fault he’s here.
DUTY:
Something tauntingly close in feeling to a reward.
Peter downs the last of his beer. He stubs out his cigarette and grabs her hand.
“Ready?”
“Hold on,” Ian says as she stands up with him, “What happened to setting the mood?”
“If you think I’m setting a mood when your brother’s just over there –”
“No, good point.”
She only has half her legs. They hang on with a light tingle as they swim their way back through the football crowds. Peter pulls Ian out of the door and it swings swiftly shut on them. His eyes are, at once, on the glass, looking at Viv one more time.
“By the way, I told him this morning," Peter breathes, “and I’m about to follow through!”
“With what? What did you tell him?”
“That you’re gorgeous.”
His words bounce on her. She pinches the skin of her palms as she asks:
“Did you tell him we kissed?”
“No,” he laughs at the idea, “He was angry enough without me telling him, but who cares now? Really? Who cares?”
“Are you sure you don’t care?”
“All my care right now is on taking off that bra.”
“How romantically said,” Ian raises a brow. He kisses it, a quick nip before his nose nestles by her nose.
Their mouths melt together. And there it is: that feeling like voltage in her veins – reacting to every touch, every time their teeth click together, every finger up her jumper. His hands splay against her back. They possess as much of her as possible in the moment, and she arcs at how cold they are. November’s breath has bit into them. Now bites into her. How salacious it feels… How… delicious.
Peter’s lips part from Ian’s, but his fingers stay on her back. They trail the spine now, as if even longing for her bones.
“I take it back,” Ian says headily, “That was rather nice.”
“Rather?!”
He kisses her again. More grime this time. Nipping of lips, tongues and ears. His hands creep up Ian’s stomach, and she bumps into the wall behind them. They press together. Hip to hip. Her cunt keeps rubbing his thigh – friction that leaves it scorching, a gorgeous ache, as if fires could be damp.
Ian rips off Peter’s jacket, jumper and shirt. She lobs the last across the field, where it lands in the bull’s water trough – not that they’re looking. Ian braille-reads his chest. A dainty necklace sits in a strong triangle of muscle. Cute… It looks religious… Peter’s religious? In some sense, maybe. Not the normal; he mouths her name against her neck like a prayer.
They move. To a more private place, but still the pub’s perimeter. Just a swing around the corner, really. Ian’s pushed onto a window ledge – one of those Georgian windows that got bricked up, so no need to worry. No one sees her legs part, enveloping Peter inside.
“Alright, I admit it. I feel it,” she pants, “Christ, Peter… Who’s taught you to touch like that?”
No answer. Ian stares at his silent body, sweating. Moonlight licks lean muscle – and I stress the lean part. Peter’s no hunk, not even for his height. There’s something so soft, so scarcely masculine about him… Though that also makes him a real man. And he has manly confidence, she’ll give him that. The rate at which he pulls off her jumper, and unbuttons the blouse from collar to cleavage!
His hands slide up her thighs, disappear under her skirt. Ready to stimulate her. Not touch-down yet, though. Just squeezing the very top of her thigh. He drags his lips in a line down her chin, neck, collar bone, and down her exposed breasts. Down to the bra line. Down to where some blouse buttons still scream to be undone.
Hot. How to make things hotter? Add embarrassment. Add the poacher entering the scene…
They don’t see him to start with. It’s him freezing and snapping a large twig that does it. Peter yanks his hands out of Ian’s skirt, and she almost falls.
The poacher barely looks at Peter, even though he’s the one fully topless. He eyes the way Ian’s sat and her half-opened blouse and breasts.
“Scrubber,” the poacher spits and starts walking again.
And Peter… Oh, what a hero. All he timidly attempts to shout back is:
“She’s not a scrubber! Don’t worry! I made the same mistake at first! Turns out she’s my girl!”
Ian turns Peter’s chin to her.
“I’m not your girl.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to be?” He tries to lean in and kiss her again. Ian pinches his lips shut.
“Got to try out the goods before you purchase.” She kicks off the wall and grabs his hand. “This way, you sexist shit.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to our drum. You can wait that long, can’t you? It’s not like you’re hard yet.”
She bats his crotch as a joke, but the truth greets her there. She swallows.
“Well, you’re not Jack.”
“I told you!” He starts pulling her to the cottage.
“Ah, but you see,” Ian grins, “Jack was six-five, so when he could –”
“Surely, it’s the ratio that matters.” He unlocks the door, “Height to length. I might not be tall, but that doesn’t mean –”
Ian yanks him through. He almost falls on top of her, but recovers. She unzips his trousers.
“Come on, then show me,” She inspects his dick and then shakes her head, smiling, “You’re such a liar.”
“Small motors last longer.”
“No, they really don’t –”
Peter slams the door shut and pins her to it. He kisses her hard and rips off the blouse. Bra’s left fending for itself, shielding her tits from his advances. He teases her cleavage with a suck. A breath blasts from her, carrying the solid structure to her world with it.
What remains? A woozy, uncertain picture of Peter sinking to his knees. She doesn’t trust it until it's felt. His tongue dips into her belly button. And it drags down until he hits the skirt. Then at her feet, in a stance of worship, he grabs hold of her legs and kisses his way up the inner thighs. Just when she thinks he might kiss the lips of her crotch, he drags himself back out, teeth lightly scraping the skin he's just moistened.
“Ready to shut up, yet?” He husks.
“Yeah, alright,” Ian squeaks.
“Good girl.”
Her squeak turns into mousy laughter. Peter frowns up at her.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Sorry. Sorryyyy. I just didn’t expect you to say anything like that. Ever. I mean, you wouldn’t even touch Skye.”
Peter jumps up. He rolls up his sleeves and marches over to where the mannequin stands. A man on a mission. Ready to prove his point. And, oh. He does. Staring at Ian the whole time, his face attractively miffed, he flicks Skye the mannequin on the back. PING! The bra falls right off.
Ian slaps hands to mouth.
“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Peter says roughly.
“No. I’m sorry for doubting you.”
“Good girl.”
“Ho… Seriously, you’re a sexist shit.”
She might’ve laughed again, but Peter pushes his tongue back in. Consumes it. Devours her every thought. His hands find her arse. His fingers drift too far under, too near her front. The sensitive ache pulls a whimper from her.
Peter pulls her up the stairs, racing too fast. He slips on the landing.
“Careful,” she yanks him back up, “I was impressed. Don’t ruin it now.”
No chance: he makes the move. The one for her moist knickers. They fall at her ankles, but hands don’t appear. They stay on the skin of her hips and crotch. He feels her wetness and he pauses, smiling smugly.
“Do you want to say that again, Lillian?” His thumb teasingly skims her bush, “You know, it really feels like I could ruin it.”
His hand comes down further – and that bastard’s thumb! It curls under the lip of her cunt. Just a quick touch on the way past, but enough to draw a gasp.
Time for revenge. Ian mimics him. Like he did, she sinks very innocently to her knees. Peter’s eyes go wide, expectant. But she won’t suck him off. Oh no… Instead, she takes the zipper of his trousers between her teeth and slowly zips them back up.
“I think I just ruined it. But are you impressed?” She purrs.
“I might have a heart attack.”
She doesn’t doubt it. He’s shaking. His hands even slip like butter trying to open his bedroom door.
THE NEXT SCENE:
Not available for viewing.
Some of you will hate me for it (I hate myself). Some of you will be sighing in relief because you are here for Withwood content only, and all Ian Withnail is to you is a writing device, eliciting as much pain as possible early on so that Withwood's endgame comes as a delicious slow-burn. And then some of you might’ve just read the above extract and thought: “Oh, bugger. I didn’t want to like that, but that was delicious.”
Delicious for the do-ers too. Wink, wink. And so, we rejoin them the next morning, nakedly entwined in Peter’s bed. Ian’s nipples still feel sore from how Peter was rubbing them after their shagging session. It was that blissful sort of ache in that spot. The area of breast tissue that somehow feels connected by nerves to her crotch and had her throbbing and getting wet again. Peter fucked her with his fingers, then. How kind of him… And after that, they collapsed where they ended. Practically fell asleep tangled in the same position. Right now, Ian wakes up to find his curly head between her breasts. And his hand still lingers in the space between her thighs.
Ian licks her lips. She can taste the salt of their mingling sweat, tasteful reality. This is real. This is REAL…
She can’t help but play with his hair in her fingers, which makes him stir. He tries not to show her he has at first, and surprises her by sucking her nipple.
“Problems, oh, problems,” He sighs, “I need to take a slash.”
“Go, then,” Ian grins.
“I’m too comfy.”
“Piss on me and you’ll never know comfy again.”
“Alright, alright.”
He kisses her breast one last time. A teasing graze to get her to gasp again. As if she didn’t do that enough last night… He then rolls out of bed, and he’s gone.
ABSENCE:
A loss of distraction.
Ian realises the moment the door closes that she didn’t have a nightmare last night. She didn’t have to even use drugs to keep them away. She was high on Peter Marwood.
That blissful feeling then mixes with dread. Vivian jumps into her mind. She’d got so caught up in Peter that she let her worries for his safety slip away. Did he get home alright? Is he in the next room sleeping? Oh, FUCK. He might be in the next room.
Ian’s pulse jumps into her neck. It sounds like what she imagines they would’ve sounded like last night, if Viv was on the other side of that door. How could she do this to him? Having sex with Peter, it almost feels like… having an affair. Though that would mean her brother’s like Peter’s wife, which is definitely not the case. Rather, Peter’s the housemate she’d promise her brother she’d tell the truth to, if she ever developed feelings.
Too late for that now.
Or is it? Right, she can’t tell Viv that she’s shagged Peter, but she can start to make things straight. She COULD tell him how she feels and pretend nothing has happened yet.
Right. That’s what she’ll do.
She rushes to put her skirt on, her bra, nicks the closest looking of Peter’s jumpers to one she was wearing last night, and heads out. Vivian’s bedroom door is open, and his bed is untouched. Didn’t sleep there, then? Is he still out? Downstairs on the sofa? Or making breakfast? Rushing down the stairs tells her it’s not any of those options. Instead, she finds her brother sitting at the dining room table with a bottle of wine.
He’s got the fencing sword in front of him.
Ian’s heart stutters. She thinks of the gun that almost took him. Almost left her alone in the world. But then, that image bleeds away. Thankfully, Vivian’s not even looking at it. Not for one second. His eyes are glued to this morning’s newspaper, and on a pile of cards he’s shuffling for no reason at the same time as reading.
He must notice her there, for he stops shuffling. The cards come stiffly down on the table, but he still pretends to read the newspaper.
“I have something to tell you,” Ian whispers.
“Take this,” Vivian drunkenly points the fencing sword at her. She finally sees what’s hanging off the end of them, and her stomach hits her feet. It’s her knickers. Peter had taken them off her at the top of the stairs last night. Viv must’ve walked past them to get to his room… When did he get home? Did he hear them at it?!
“Ian,” he interrupts her thoughts, “take the sword as well.”
“Why?”
“Because if you’re about to tell me you’re pregnant, I’ll need you to stab me with it.”
There it is. He knows. And there goes Ian’s plan to just talk ‘feelings’…
Heart rocking in her chest, she opens her mouth, and all she can think to say is:
“I hope not.”
Viv looks nervously at her.
“Well, it only happened last night,” Ian then blurts, “so how am I meant to know that quickly?”
“Marwood,” he mutters, “You slept with… Marwood.”
“Look, I owed it to him. He needed it. Needed any sort of distraction from anyone, I guess, considering all he’s gone through. All I put him through. And we shared a kiss two nights ago, and it’s just been on our minds constantly. And it led to missteps.”
“Missteps?”
“Yes!”
A long pause.
“I don’t understand. He fell inside you?”
“You know what I mean!” Ian tears at her hair, “A mistake!”
“That fucker would be.”
“No, he wasn’t. I… I don’t mean that either! I just mean that… Well, it’s a difficult situation! He’s your flatmate! And you’ve said you won’t tolerate it between us!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did, Viv. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately meaning?” He blinks.
Ian becomes her brother for a second. The words, ‘I want to die,’ curl under her tongue. Her cheeks are burning up. Surely that should substitute for a sentence? But, no. Vivian waits for the real thing. He waits for her to wring her sweaty hands out and say:
“Peter was … really good.”
Vivian snorts. He drunkenly swings back on his chair and almost falls off.
“The best I’ve had,” Ian then adds.
“Now, that is a lie,” Vivian sobers.
“Fucked your arse, has he?”
“I’d rather a pinecone.”
“Then, you wouldn’t know, Viv –”
“And I’d rather not know.”
“And you couldn’t. Because it’s not about how it actually was, or skill. It’s how I felt about him, Viv. I really, really like him. And the fact that he possibly feels the same… strawberry’s beating. That’s all I can say.”
Another long pause. This time, Vivian's stare sinks right into her ribs. She rubs them absentmindedly as she blurts:
“I’m so sorry. I failed you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He asks.
“Viv. I can tell you’re hurting. I know you.”
“No, I don’t think you do know me.” He softens, in that second. Eyes shining like nacre, “You deserve to be happy for once, Ian,” He says sadly, “If this is it, then… I won’t care. Well, I’ll try not to care.”
“Really?”
“You brainless bitch. Yes, really,” The words fall from him so smoothly, and his lip trembles, “You can do what you want,” he continues, “Just don’t be loud about it. And before you think anything else stupid, no, I’m not going to stab myself just because you two are all loved-up. Not to start with, at least. Not unless you’re nose-rubbing in public.”
“I love you,” Ian says, without a thought.
“Mmm.”
He tries to return to his newspaper. Ian storms up to him and snatches it, rolls it up, and bonks him on the head.
“Say it back, you bastard.”
“Whatever. Fine. I love you too, Sis,” he mutters.
His eyes are an assortment of colours now. Shades of disturbance, finding this whole thing between Ian and his flatmate deeply wrong, deeply troubling, but there are also those other colours… the ones that he’s passing off as the whole truth:
His caring side.
The colours his eyes cried out when he carried her from that house that day – the ones that brought with them a breath, his first and only prayer.
Ian remembers it well. He’d said it at the bedside that night, inside Monty’s house. He squeezed her hand that whole night like she was in danger of evaporating if he dared let go. And the prayer on his lips: If there are gods out there, I’ll do anything.
The ‘I’ll do anything.’ That’s it. That’s what’s in Vivian’s eyes now as she kisses him on the cheek, thanking him for it.
“Eugh, your breath pens,” Ian jerks back, “Stop drinking and brush your teeth.”
“When you give me the acetone,” he wiggles his fingernails.
“Alright, fine. I hid it on the top shelf in the wine cellar.”
“Ah, see, I knew you’d bring some. Just like I knew you’d whore yourself to my housemate eventually. Whilst I have been fated by Venus herself to a life of eternal lonesomeness.”
“Shut up.”
Vivian smiles evilly. But it's a smile.
Chapter 13: Withnail
Chapter Text
The course of true love never did run smooth. Least of all for queers. It feels like homosexuals are already born into their own hell, destined to fall in love with every man they can’t have. Withnail’s Hell took this one step further and gave his man to his sister. Seven years of meandering moods, slipping in hints, and small touches resulted in nothing.
Withnail supposes he can’t really blame Marwood for being straight, but there’s not wanting someone’s willy up your arse and there’s falling in love with the female version of your housemate, of all the good parts of their shared genes. How haunting, that second thought… Perhaps Withnail shouldn’t compare himself to Ian; even with a strong resemblance, she’s a far prettier version of their parents’ genes than him. Even in a world where Marwood was gay, there’s no guarantee he would find Withnail attractive. It’s just that there’s just a little bit more of one, and all those voices dig like nails into Withnail’s brain – the voices of those strangers who ask if he and Ian are twins.
MARIAN:
Defined as Marwood + Ian.
You have my dear friend Benji to thank for that – and you can’t begin to imagine how pleased with him I was. A ship name for my own invented couple? That was like his first proposal. His second was a love poem he wrote whilst I was in the shower, but anyway… enough about your narrator… Marian.
We shall pretend the name came to Withnail, not Benji. It reminds Withnail of Maid Marian in Robin Hood, a name that sounds tauntingly pure, is meant to represent virtue and chastity, which is in direct contrast to what this version of ‘Marian’ is all about. They have sex more often than Withnail has meals. That’s probably why he doesn’t have many meals. It's rather off-putting to realise they’re heading upstairs or outside to the cars. Even if they show the courtesy to do it out of earshot, Withnail gets nipped by imagined noises. His brain takes visual bullets – Marwood’s nakedness, which, after seven years as housemates, he’s already far too familiar with. All his mind has to colour in is Ian. His sister. Naked and doing it in his mind. An intrusive thought in the deepest state of decay.
His dinner belongs in the bin after that. And the nausea… only a bottle of red knows how to dissipate it. Though a less moderate serving mixed with medication just brings it all back as a psychedelic daydream. He vomits all night and then wakes up to another day of not remembering. Sometimes, not remembering what happened that day is a good thing. There are some things he can remember that he wishes he had forgotten, including the first time Marian kissed in front of him.
It was that same morning Ian told him, just hours after their first sex session. Marian ventured down to the pub to find their missing jumpers and jackets. Marwood’s shirt was a complete lost cause, which they saw floating in the water trough. Marwood tried to rescue it, but forgot the jumper he was holding was red, and the bull chased him back out again. Withnail can still see the image of it at the fence, as they scampered back up the hill towards the house. They slammed the door shut, bolted it, pressed their backs to it, and then they stood there, heaving large breaths and sweating, until Ian said:
“Someone needs to get that bull a female bull.”
“Do you mean a cow?” Marwood asked.
“Cows and bulls are the same thing?”
Marwood’s lips cradled a small smile. A child born from their amusements. Ian shook her head in warning, and that’s what had him burst into laughter. He kissed her on the nose and explained:
“A bull is male and a cow is female.”
Withnail’s soul is still there, at the kiss on the nose. There was no warm-up to seeing it. Marwood just kissed Ian in front of him as if it was completely normal, as if they’d been together a century and not one evening.
THE TAUNTING THING:
It looked normal. It looked right.
Withnail has, of course, seen them kiss many times since, and it’s so smoothly done. When Withnail kisses, it always comes with an awkward bumping moment or clinking of teeth, trying to get the right angle, but it’s like Marian’s faces were made to fit together. Enzyme to substrate, breaking down each other’s souls. There’s also no denying that Marwood’s good for Ian. They’re both better and happier people in each other’s presence. They inhale each other.
Even if it’s initially been painful to say, they deserve each other. Ian most of all.
At the same time, Withnail’s in deeper pain because he’s seeing everything Marwood could’ve been to him, if only he had tits and a fanny. He sees how perfectly romantic Marwood is. He sees Marwood overwhelmed by his own infatuations, and has READ it – how could Withnail not pick up that diary again? Seen for himself how Marwood’s words about Ian have progressed? Bloomed into obsession?
SOME WORDS:
My love is the language of Neruda. How I understand his poetry now. His poetry is in my bed. I want to eat her skin like a whole almond. I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in her lovely body, the fleeting shade of her lashes. When I die, I want her hands on my eyes to feel the smoothness that changed me, and her voice in my ear to remind me what woke me up to life.
Marwood’s confession tied a cruel corset. Withnail’s soul severed under the pressure. And there’s no doubt, as the days went on, more and more of Marwood’s obsession leaked off the page and into his fingers. Under the table, which Withnail wasn’t meant to notice: a foot teasing the back of Ian’s calf, a subtle hand on her thigh, and a circling thumb.
That was the early days. Now, Marwood can hardly hold himself back. It’s like his obsession is turning him into a second Ian. Another tart. Withnail wonders why… Well, it’s because Marwood’s not following him anymore. He’s found his own purpose, and it makes Withnail get a better sense that he’s been holding Marwood behind all this time. Withnail shaped him into a failure, and Marwood tried to go to Manchester to escape it, but Withnail even took that opportunity from him by trying to commit suicide.
Not anymore. Marwood’s not permitting Withnail to hold him back ever again. In fact, perhaps he’s turning himself into Ian on purpose? Trying to wind Withnail up for being a nightmarish housemate, a bad influence, and thus holding Marwood back from things like relationships all these years?
Withnail misses silence. Silence belonged to a world with hope, with the chance of reciprocation. Marian’s love is loud enough to drown out the voice in his mind.
Withnail told Ian he won’t kill himself over this. It’s because he can’t. How can a dead man reach beyond the knife that’s got him?
So…
We’re already over a thousand words of Withnail pining. Maybe it’s time to drift onto another subject? Albeit loosely.
December drops by. That was quick. Snow’s in the radio forecast, which means Ian urgently needs to discuss with the boys what outside scenes they should get done. During the snowy days, they can then get the majority of the interior scenes shot.
“I think we should do this red herring moment where it looks like, now that the bride knows the medium’s not her hubbie, that we’re building to a romantic ending,” Ian tells them, “Only, then we find out in another scene he’s not interested because we see him kissing Viv’s character instead.”
“Kissing?” Withnail’s gulps, “But, you told me we wouldn’t have to.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Viv.”
“No,” his voice frays, “We have the same lips, so pretend to be me for a scene. Put on your heels and do a shot of him kissing you.”
“Same lips?” Marwood interrupts, “In what sense?”
“The same shape. The same smile,” Withnail says, “Our mother’s lips, if I must be precise.”
Withnail elbows his sister. On command, she smiles. Withnail bends his knees and gets to her level for a side-to-side comparison. They must look scarily alike; Marwood’s eyes are blue fish flailing.
“Oh, babe,” Ian starts giggling, “You look disturbed.”
“If I asked you never to smile again, would you do it?”
Marwood’s voice is thin to the point that it sounds serious. Ian’s laughter dies. Long silence. Then a smirk sneaks onto Marwood’s lips again.
“Ian, I’m joking.”
Ian laughs in relief. She steps up to him and slides her hands around his neck.
“As long as you are. Because you’ll have to kiss these lips in front of the camera.”
“Gladly,” his fingers find her hips, “They’re very pretty. Withnail’s lucky to share them.”
That phrase puts something in Withnail’s stomach – like a dead body in water, turning. A quick raid of Marwood’s eyes and then he turns away. He can’t hear them kissing, but he knows their loving gazes are just as torturous to view. He also knows that when Marwood grabs Ian’s hips, he’s terrible at keeping them there. They always venture down to highly inappropriate places. He’s more obsessed with Ian’s bum than your average arse bandit. A little tap or cheeky squeeze as he walks by…
But anyway, Withnail’s lucky to have Ian’s eyes. And what did Ian say again? Marwood will kiss her in the scene. Withnail has escaped it, then? Let’s just hope there’s no more dodges he has to make. It feels like he’s been here forever. He has. Fourteen days since they started fucking. The longest holiday of his life.
“How much longer are we here for?” Withnail blurts on that thought.
Ian pulls her forehead from Marwood’s.
“Mmm…? Well, there’s only one of me,” she says, “If I had Richard to set up the lighting and Nancy to help operate the camera, we could’ve gotten two to four scenes done in a day. But we’ve only been getting one or two done. So maybe a minute or two of usable footage, instead of three-ish minutes? The film’s going to be about fifteen to twenty minutes long in total, so even in the worst-case scenario, I think we’ll be done just before Christmas.”
“I shan’t beg your pardon?”
“But in saying that,” Marwood starts, “do you not think this plot’s gotten a bit too complicated to be a short film?”
“I can make it work, trust me,” Ian says, “Unless you’d rather a full-length feature. Means we’ll be here for months.”
“I’m in no hurry to go home,” Marwood smiles.
“You bastard. You’re meant to be traumatised,” Withnail says.
“Yes, but, you see, there’s this great remedy for that,” Marwood leers, “It goes like this.”
He pulls Ian’s chin down, turning her mouth into this wide cavern his tongue slithers into. Withnail’s own mouth gapes in horror.
“What do you say, Lovie?” Marwood slides his tongue in and out of her mouth, imitating fucking, “Bit of that, later on?”
“Christ on a cock,” Withnail says. And he wishes in his head love were blind.
“That is the filthiest thing ever done. In History,” Ian adds.
“Not a fan, then?” Marwood grins.
“No,” Ian laughs, “I think you should both apologise to each other, actually. Viv, you’re being a spiteful fucker, bringing his trauma up. And Peter, there are many ways to wind him up. Don’t drag me into it. Viv’s been trying his hardest to accept us.”
“Alright, alright.”
Marwood turns to Withnail. All the latter can focus on is how Marwood continues touching Ian. They’re both facing Withnail, so it seems subconscious, but Marwood’s hands have drifted to Ian’s front. He holds her to himself, but more tauntingly, his thumb circles over where her belly button must be.
“My most humble apologies, Withnail,” Marwood’s voice burns into him, “and… thank you. We appreciate your efforts.”
“She does,” Withnail argues, “You’ve been trying to debase me. Make me squirm in whatever way –”
“Make you squirm? It’s not like we do anything around you,” Marwood says whilst still touching her, “Alright, there was that kiss just now, but –”
“I’m forced out of my own holiday home most nights, getting plastered at the pub, so I don’t have to hear the sound of my own sister moaning. It’s degrading.”
“I know,” Marwood swallows, “And we appreciate it.”
“You do not! All you do is –”
Marwood approaches and hugs Withnail. It pulls a shocked breath from him, like surfacing from icy water, as he pulls back from Marwood’s arms.
His eyes… they’re like stones skimming across the sea in Withnail’s. It knots Withnail’s heart; these are the eyes that seek out Ian in every waking moment. They’re the eyes that skim across the pages of that notebook and help carve out poetic paragraphs.
Love. That’s what Marwood has for Ian. Fourteen days only. And it’s already that dreadful.
“Thank you, Withnail,” Marwood mutters and backs away.
“I’m not apologising back,” Withnail whispers.
“You need to take it back if you don’t want to get sacked,” Ian says.
Withnail can still feel Marwood’s fingers on his back. It tingles. It raises hair. And his thoughts fray beyond comprehension. What does he say? What do they want from him, again? Oh, yes. That’s right…
“Sorry,” Withnail mouths.
“What was that?” Marwood cups his ear.
“Sorry.”
“No, I still didn’t –”
“Sorry!”
Marwood grins at him, as if for the first time, he admires Withnail for something. That’s the last straw.
Withnail stumbles out of the room. That was definitely a look of admiration. Why? Why taunt Withnail with the look of friendship now?
It’s painful that their souls have been spending these past seven years at a far distance, at other ends of the open field, but the minute they’ve got close, Withnail’s found an invisible barrier in the shape of love. And real love, Withnail is reminded as he sneaks Marwood’s notebook into his pocket to read down by the telephone box.
Withnail stumbles down to it now. He swings open the door, slumps against the glass, and he reads.
MARWOOD’S LATEST ENTRY:
And her name. Lillian. Lily. Meaning ‘pledged to God,’ meaning she’s a transaction with my faith. She lets me hold that name in my mouth – and only me. It’s mine to bear the weight of and breathe its meaning back into her ear at night. My tongue extracts it well. The rest of my body, locking up the nightmares that once plagued her.
Withnail withdraws. Lily? Ian lets Marwood call her Lily now?
Withnail has to consider what seems impossible: that Ian opened up to Marwood about what happened that day. She doesn’t even talk to Withnail about it properly. She listed the details to him the day it happened because Withnail demanded it of her, and before you say ‘that’s mean,’ he needed to understand once and for all what sort of man his father was. It felt so personal when Withnail was a kid. It felt like he was doing something wrong in existing, when what their father did to Ian revealed they were just unlucky victims. But anyway, Ian told him then and never spoke of it properly again. Withnail wasn’t even allowed to say the word ‘nightmares,’ but here’s Marwood adopting their father’s term of endearment.
It’s weird. It’s perverse. And it’s confirmation to Withnail that Ian’s using Marwood in the same way she thought he was using her that first night. She’s using this relationship to rub away the hurt. Marwood is a drug.
But a drug that loves her and she trusts. A drug she feels safe enough with to let him hold that nickname in his mouth…
“VIVIAN!” A voice suddenly shouts – Ian’s. Withnail whips his head around the door of the telephone box and spots her jogging towards him.
“What do you want?”
“We’re going down the road to Carlisle!” She puffs, “Come and grab some warm clothes!”
The next thing Withnail knows, they’re out on the open road in Ian’s car. Marwood, of course, sits in the front with her – how else would he be able to rest a hand on her thighs? Withnail is banished into the back, like their small child they’re trying very hard to act innocently in front of. It must be a hard task because Ian’s driving in her character’s wedding dress. Last time she put it on, she and Marwood had appeared from the house, and there was another dress under it. It was one made of liquid. She was wearing a dress of his kisses and probably the ghosts of his moans.
What are they filming today? Ian’s death scene. Skye’s in the back with Withnail, so they can chuck her into the scene at the last moment and bloodily and brutally murder her. They’re driving to the woods to film. Then they’re going to continue on to Carlisle and stay there overnight because Ian wants to visit a film studio in the morning and use a ‘moviola’ – a piece of machinery that helps you when cutting and glueing film tape together. Withnail doesn’t know why she wants to do it now and not when she has all the footage, but Withnail’s got to the point where he’s so fed up with her directing methods, he will humour anything.
They park up and get out of the car. It’s almost pitch black now. Thin strips of cloud, like ribs, rack across the sky. Withnail can hardly take his eyes off them as Ian runs through how the scene will go.
Marwood is going to chase her through the trees. He’ll have on him a small camera that Ian’s attached to an umbrella – an umbrella, I might add, that isn’t even hers. It was one of those nonsensical trading deals of hers. This time, she cheated the receiver with an illegitimate prize. What did Ian offer for the umbrella? A stray cat. She picked up a stray cat she found sat just down the road and offered it to this lady, saying that she and Marwood had been breeding them, if she would please consider trading it for her fine umbrella.
Marwood was sad; he wanted the cat. It was black with a little tear in its ear. Ian started to regret it too, until now, when she finds the umbrella gets the camera at the perfect angle to film her shakily from above. The only issue now is her acting; it doesn’t come very naturally to her, and she doesn’t believe that she will be able to act scared. Marwood will have to find a way to make her feel it. He asks Withnail how to, whilst Ian sets up.
“How can I get her to scream?”
“About four inches more,” Withnail mutters.
“Serious answers. I’m freezing to the bones here. We need to get this take quickly,” Marwood folds his arms. “What are women usually scared of? Spiders?”
“Not Ian. She used to dissect them with Mother’s sewing pins.”
“I wish that surprised me.”
The only thing that would scare Ian would be trapping her in a small space. Marwood can hardly do that. Not in an open space like the woods, and not with what egregious emotions would surface. Has Marwood thought of it, though? If he calls Ian ‘Lily’ in private, has she opened up about the cupboard incident? There’s still a small possibility she hasn’t.
With no sure way of how to scare Ian, it takes as long as Marwood expects. An hour passes. And then another. Since Ian can only wear her wedding dress, Marwood wears her Afghan coat over the top of his leather jacket during takes and immediately throws it around her shoulders once she comes off camera. The ‘final’ take only happens because Marwood gets ‘cross’ with her. She comes off camera with blue lips, a running nose and a sudden spout of chesty coughs. Marwood throws his leather jacket around her, her coat on top and rubs his hands vigorously up and down her arms.
MARWOOD’S ‘CROSS’ VOICE:
Sexy.
They’re rather softly spoken words, but also rough and rubbing against her ear. He says she’s ‘impossible.’ He says that was their last take, even if he has to get Withnail to hold her back as he dismantles her film gear.
Such passion parachuting from him… Ian can only resign and move on to shooting the parts with Skye. Together, Withnail and Marwood dismantle her whilst Ian gets into the back of her car and changes into warmer clothes. She folds the wedding dress up neatly, puts it on the back seat, and they put a spare wedding dress on Skye’s dismembered body. It has to be spare so they can shred it up and cover it in tomato sauce.
Ian gets a few shots of this before they decide to pack up and drive on to Carlisle. The car seats are too new to get covered in sauce, so Ian stuffs Skye's body parts into a travelling trunk in the boot. Withnail doesn’t think much of the fact that the trunk doesn’t close properly, of the fact it’s covered in ketchup, or the fact that one hand pokes out of the back of the trunk. He doesn’t think much of the fact that the trunk is so large, the boot doesn’t close properly on it, so part of the trunk, and a mannequin’s ‘bloodied’ hand pokes out of the crack. It is visible to anyone driving behind them.
I think this will hardly surprise you. Eventually, there’s a police van. It pulls over Ian’s car, knocks on her window, and signals for her to roll it down. She does. The policeman side-eyes the half-open boot. He spots the bloodstained, human-sized box inside.
“What’s the chest?”
“34E,” Ian says.
The policeman remains straight-faced. Ian swallows.
“Alright, maybe they’re Ds.”
The policeman’s still waiting. Marwood leans over Ian to make eye contact with him.
“They’re Bs,” he says.
“How do you know?” Ian asks.
“Hand to tit ratio,” Marwood cups his fingers. The policeman now glares at Marwood, and he smiles nervously, “Anyway, good evening, officer. What may we do for you?”
“There’s a body in your boot.”
“Oh, no. That’s just our sex doll,” Withnail says, “We’ve been fooling around with it on camera.”
”You what?”
“Not that sort of foolery. We ran it over for a film,” Marwood coughs.
The policeman’s eyes lunge at Ian. He must’ve decided in an instant that this is her fault. A woman is driving. That’s already scandalous to him, a disaster waiting to happen. How is he to know Ian’s the safest driver of the lot?
“It’s a mannequin, officer,” Ian echoes her brother, “Why don’t you open up the boot? Then you’d see.”
The policeman hesitates, but Ian smiles softly.
“I have back-up on the way,” he says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“We wouldn’t imagine it. Go on, have a look.”
The officer tentatively approaches the boot. He lifts the lid, stares inside for a good five seconds and then trudges back.
“It’s a mannequin, agreed?” Ian asks.
“Agreed.”
“Then, we’re free to g –”
The policeman holds up a bag of powder.
Oh.
Marwood shoots a shocked look at Ian. She doesn’t dare turn her eyes to him. She gulps and says:
“We ought to arrest you, officer. Finder’s keeper’s and all that.”
“Out of the car, Miss.”
Ian turns to Marwood.
“I’m really sorry,” she whispers, “I might have to cheat on you.”
“Fine,” Marwood says tersely. It has a tone of ‘we’ll talk about this later.’ Withnail can’t quite work out his problem; this is Ian, of course, she has drugs in the car. Though he supposes that she’s been making out that she’s cut back significantly. All the more hypocritical on Marwood’s behalf, though. By day, he makes out he’s drinking less. By night, he’s sneaking out of Ian’s bed and shaking Withnail awake. He’s asking him where the last Margaux bottle went.
Ian slips out of the car, and the policeman cuffs her.
“Would you consider buying me dinner? Before the old flowery dells?” Ian purrs.
“A lot of women try to wheedle their way out of these things. You’re not special, Miss,” the policeman mutters.
“No. But if you search my trouser pockets, I do have something quite special and quite relevant.”
The policeman hesitantly pats down her pockets and finds something. He pulls out a Monopoly 'Get Out of Jail Free' card.
Ian flutters her eyelashes at him. He snorts.
“I’m even more amusing when you get to know me,” Ian says.
“Fine effort,” the policeman coughs, “But your husband’s sat in the car.”
“I’m no cows and kisses.”
“Yet,” Marwood frowns, “And she’s not taken until we get to that wedding. Unfortunately, officer, you’re interrupting us on the way to the church.”
“A bit late in the evening to get married,” the policeman states.
“It’s all very secret,” Withnail starts, “It has to be; our parents are aristocrats, our father an army general, and Marwood here is uncivilised.”
“As if this one isn’t,” the policeman nods at Ian, “You’re forgetting one detail… Mr Marwood, was it? You have a mannequin covered in sauce in your boot, and you said you were out filming.”
“Yes, but now we’re on our way to our wedding. Show him the dress, Withnail.”
Withnail grabs it off the seat beside him and passes it out of the window. The policeman unravels and inspects it.
“Rather old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“It was my grandmother’s dress,” Ian says quickly, “She lent it to me, since she’s the only one kind enough to accept Peter into the family.”
“Where are you getting married?”
“Rose Castle in Carlisle.”
“Full names?”
“Lillian Margaret Withnail.”
“Peter Marwood,” Marwood adds more sombrely.
“To be married this evening, yes?” The policeman says, “I’m going to radio through to the station. They shall call Rose Castle and find out if you’re telling the truth. If you are, I shall consider this case to be closed.”
“You’ll let us go?” Ian sits up.
“Well… I don’t fancy ruining a wedding night, even if there are highly illegal substances on your person.”
The policeman makes Ian get back into the car, still handcuffed. He then goes off to radio. They watch him trudge over and try to strain their fearful thoughts into sentences. Ian’s the first to turn her head.
“I’m sorry,” she says to Marwood.
Withnail can see him through the rear-view mirror. His eyes are dull. He lets out a long sigh. Then, he briefly looks at Withnail in the mirror. It’s like that helps him decide to kiss Ian’s cheek.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says into her face, “It can’t be helped now.”
“What do we do?” Withnail asks.
“Wait,” Ian says.
“And then what? We have no reservation.”
“Gene works on reception at Rose Castle. As soon as he hears my name, I’m hoping he’ll cover for me.”
“Who’s Gene?” Marwood asks.
“An ex,” she says.
“And you’re definitely on good terms?”
“Yes. He broke up with me after trying tearoom trade,” she bites back a smile at that thought, “I hope he and his fella are happy.”
Something pinches Withnail’s chest. The thumb and finger of a thought: that he knows that Gene Abney had been tearoom trading a lot longer than he’d told Ian…
He belonged to Withnail first.
They met at Harrow as roommates. As best friends. By the age of sixteen, they were regularly shagging. Abney, you could say, was Withnail’s first love. And they were obsessed with each other – not as much as Marian appear to be, but with enough intensity for all the other schoolboys to know about them. The sexual tension had a stench, even during something as odious as Latin lessons.
Withnail and Abney only ever stopped fucking because in their last month at Harrow, Abney decided he couldn’t keep up with lying to the world. He couldn’t live as a gay man knowing he’d get imprisoned if any of their school friends let slip. A sucker for the rules, Gene Abney was.
He switched to girls. Withnail tried to get back at him by shagging every other queer in Harrow – including Lesley Taylor, who had bullied Abney and Withnail horrifically in their first two years at school (turns out because he was into them). But Abney persisted, and about seven years after leaving Harrow, and much to Withnail’s anger, he started dating Ian.
“Shh! He’s coming back!” His sister says at that moment, pointing at the policeman trudging over. His mouth looks drawn out with a ruler as he stands by her window again.
“Your hands, Miss,” he says.
Ian presents them. The policeman uncuffs her.
“Happiness for the future.”
“Thank you, officer, God bless you!” Ian kisses his hand. His cheeks turn a violent shade of red. He tries to distract them from it by wafting the Monopoly card.
“I hope you have more of these.”
“Oh, I have about five more in that glove drawer,” Ian points, “Fairwell, officer! Thank you again!”
“Bye for now.”
Before he can change his mind, Ian starts the car and pulls off – hard on the acceleration, almost breaking the speed limit. Outside the window: the treeline breaking. They emerge from the forest and out into a town… Carlise, here they come.
Withnail stares out the window. The sky is broken black. White cracks through the surface. Never before have stars seemed like imperfections. But this car is full of them: a druggie, an alcoholic and a queer. None of them makes eye contact, but they all burst out laughing in unison…
How lucky they were tonight! Now, they will survive into tomorrow – even if it is by the skin of their teeth!
Pages Navigation
ocean_grey on Chapter 1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 07:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 07:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Jul 2025 05:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Jul 2025 05:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Jul 2025 10:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 2 Mon 21 Jul 2025 04:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Jul 2025 10:42PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 20 Jul 2025 10:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 2 Mon 21 Jul 2025 05:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 3 Thu 24 Jul 2025 10:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 3 Thu 24 Jul 2025 11:05PM UTC
Last Edited Thu 24 Jul 2025 11:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 3 Fri 25 Jul 2025 11:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 3 Sat 26 Jul 2025 07:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 3 Sun 27 Jul 2025 06:10PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 27 Jul 2025 07:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 3 Sun 27 Jul 2025 07:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 3 Sun 27 Jul 2025 09:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 3 Sun 27 Jul 2025 10:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 4 Sun 27 Jul 2025 07:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 4 Sun 27 Jul 2025 09:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 4 Tue 29 Jul 2025 07:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 4 Wed 30 Jul 2025 10:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 4 Wed 06 Aug 2025 10:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 4 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 5 Fri 01 Aug 2025 08:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 5 Fri 01 Aug 2025 09:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 5 Fri 01 Aug 2025 10:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 5 Fri 01 Aug 2025 10:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 5 Sun 17 Aug 2025 10:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 5 Mon 18 Aug 2025 08:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 6 Thu 07 Aug 2025 06:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 6 Thu 07 Aug 2025 08:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 6 Sun 17 Aug 2025 10:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 6 Mon 18 Aug 2025 08:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
ocean_grey on Chapter 7 Sun 10 Aug 2025 08:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 7 Mon 11 Aug 2025 07:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 7 Sun 10 Aug 2025 08:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 7 Mon 11 Aug 2025 07:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 7 Mon 18 Aug 2025 11:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 7 Tue 19 Aug 2025 06:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 8 Fri 15 Aug 2025 10:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 8 Fri 15 Aug 2025 06:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
MyArmsAreTooLong on Chapter 8 Tue 19 Aug 2025 11:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 8 Wed 20 Aug 2025 07:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
maria_writes on Chapter 9 Mon 18 Aug 2025 07:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
By_Gray on Chapter 9 Mon 18 Aug 2025 10:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation