PIERS’ PROBLEM

Marcus Cheetham

AS USUAL, IT’S THE ITCHING THAT WAKES ME. I feel tired. How many times did I get up during the night? Two? Three? Five?

You should call in sick, Piers, I say to myself.

I shake my head. John will want a discussion with me if I’m off anymore.

I sit on the edge of the bed, take off my T-shirt and look down. I sigh. As always, I’m surprised by the amount of flesh down there.

My sides and belly bulge. My bellybutton, which once sat perched on the surface of my stomach like a small hill, is now buried at the end of a passageway.

You’ve got to get yourself in shape, Piers. Celery sticks from now on. No more pizza and beer.

I breathe in. Are you ready?

I insert my index finger into the hole leading to my bellybutton. It’s a fleshy tunnel down there. A corridor of blubber.

My finger slips further in. I grit my teeth. I move my finger around and, for a moment, I almost think that the passageway is empty. I almost think that the itchiness is a phantom sensation. Somehow, I’m cured. But no, it’s not to be.

Fibrous material brushes against my fingertip. That’s it. It’s there. Like it always is.

I curl my nail around the substance and ease it outward. Easy, Piers. Easy. Small movements. Nothing too quick. I don’t want bits to detach. I don’t want it rupturing into a thousand fragments.

There’s a soft pop as it clears the opening. I grasp it between two fingers and hold it in front of me. This one is a big bastard. A massive son of a bitch.

I turn it around in my hands. It’s grey and damp and semi-solid. The size of a golf ball. The closest thing I can compare it to is a wad of fibre from a tumble dryer. A ball of lint, mixed with hairs, dust, scraps of paper and cotton thread. But it’s denser than that. And damper. It’s the dampness that freaks me out.

And there’s something else about it, too. This may sound odd, but there’s something about it that’s almost otherworldly. It’s like nothing else. It has an aura. It absorbs the light in my bedroom. It emits dark energy. It’s almost as if… it’s alive.

I once told Liz I thought the fluff was from outer space and she looked at me in that way of hers.

“Sometimes I worry about you,” she said. “You’re not right, Piers.”

I laugh out loud, remembering the look on her face. I place the fluff on the bedside table. Now it looks like a cat’s coughed-up fur ball. Or a dead mouse. Or someone’s ratty old grey sock.

You may think this is strange, but I used to save these furballs. I measured them and weighed them and placed them in jars. But Liz put a stop to that. It was a bit weird, even for her. She said it freaked her out when she opened the kitchen cupboard.

“What if anyone comes around?” She said. “What will they think?”

I smile and shake my head. That was probably the only time in her life she worried about what other people think.

I eat breakfast, get dressed and walk to the bus stop.

* 

When the bus comes, I traipse to the back and settle in my favourite seat. I open my magazine. There’s an article by an American property developer. He was a loser, he says, but turned his life around. He has a three-point plan: Act like a winner. Think like a winner. Be a winner.

Liz criticises me for reading stuff like this. “They’re just trying to sell their stupid books, Piers. You’re just so…”

Just so what? Not a winner. Not unless a call centre grunt can be considered a winner. But I’m trying. I’m trying to act like one. One day I’ll be one. Like John.

I look out of the window. Because it’s a dull day outside, and because the light inside is bright, my reflection appears on the glass. My skin is white, my hair is blond, and my eyes are grey. Liz says that some ghosts have more colour than I do.

I sigh. My Nordic features were fine when I was slim. I was quite the looker. But now… Now I’m just a big pale blob.

*

The bus draws to a halt at the business park. I walk to the company building and almost bump into Liz. We work in the same place, you see. That’s how we met. But now it’s awkward.

Liz nods at me. I nod back. I struggle to remember why we split up. It was me, I think. I said something. I said something hurtful. Or was it her saying something hurtful to me?

She walks ahead of me. Even under her jacket, I can see what a great figure she has. What’s more, she’s wearing a smart grey skirt, opaque black tights and heels.

Does she have an interview? Is she dressing up for another man? Who could it be?

I grit my teeth. It’s John. She always liked him.

Much as I like the guy, much as I admire him, the thought of John with Liz isn’t a good one. I want to burst into his office and wrap my hands around his throat.

Are you still in love with Liz? I ask myself.

No, I say. I’m not. I’m glad she’s gone. I still fancy her, though. I’m still a man.

I step between the manicured conifers toward the entrance.

Let me tell you about Liz. She’s a very attractive woman who can be kind and loving and thoughtful. But she’s also… well, a bit manic. One minute its veganism and the rights of animals, the next minute it’s how the world is run by a white male conspiracy. Sometimes she thinks I’m part of it. Because I’m male, I suppose. Me. Call Centre Grunt Piers.

And then there are the tattoos. A new one every week. That’s why her tights are black.

She has a great sense of humour though. She has me doubled up sometimes.

There’s this thing that she does when I’m not expecting it. When my attention is elsewhere. Without warning, she suddenly jabs her long fingernail into my navel.

“Look what I’ve found,” she’ll say. “A baby. You’ve given birth, Piers. A little monster. You’re a mummy!”

She calls it spontaneous midwifery. It makes me want to laugh just thinking about it.

But lately… Before she left… Well. There’s been a bit too much of the grey stuff in recent weeks. She doesn’t like to touch my bellybutton anymore.

Liz disappears into the entrance and I follow her. Halfway up the stairs, she calls to me. “Don’t forget, Piers.”

“Don’t forget what?”

“I knew you’d fucking forget. The man. The motivational speaker is here today. Remember?”

“Oh. OK. Thanks.”

I frown. My usual routine is to clear out the fluff in the restroom, grab a coffee, sit at my desk, and have a few minutes of peace before the first phone call. But today, there’s a motivational speaker from Newcastle. I glance at my watch. I need to hurry.

I find a seat in the big conference room. The whole company is squeezed in here. All thirty-five of us.

I wonder if I’ll be OK. My journey was about an hour. The talk will be an hour. That’s two hours. Two hours is a bit too long. But there’s nothing I can do now. Someone has closed the door.

I see Liz sitting in the corner. In addition to her grey skirt and black tights, she’s wearing a white blouse with frills on the front. Her black hair cascades over her shoulders framing the milky skin of her neck and face. She looks amazing.

Then I see John sitting next to her. Could it be? 

Think about it, Piers, I say. John is the most conventional person you could ever meet. Would he be happy with an animal rights crusading anarcho-feminist?

And there’s his dating history to consider. His previous girlfriend was prim and proper. She wore tartan dresses. And John likes to control things. It goes with the territory. But Liz doesn’t like to be controlled.

The motivational speaker stands up, introduces himself and begins.

The man is ex-military. He explains that it was hard leaving the Special Forces. For a while, he says, it was touch and go. But then he realised that he could earn a living helping others.

I observe the guy. He’s got small hard Action Man eyes and a scar on his cheek. He’s probably killed people with his bare hands. He doesn’t look like the type to help others.

Mr Action Man punches his hand. “Problems,” he says, “are opportunities. What are they?”

We all mutter something.

“What are they?”

“Opportunities!”

“In the Special Forces, when something went wrong,” he continues, “it wasn’t a problem. What was it?”

“An opportunity!”

He punches his hand again.

“Now, I want a volunteer to talk about a problem they have and why it’s an opportunity.”

I keep my eyes down. I like reading about this kind of thing. I like reading about turning your life around and becoming a winner and becoming the real you. All the stuff that Liz despises. But I don’t want to stand up and talk about it. I have a habit of blurting out the wrong thing. I might tell everyone about… You know.  

“How about you?” He says. 

I can see his moveable Action Man eyes squinting in my direction. “What does your name tag say? Piers?”

I sink into my chair.

“Why don’t you tell us about a problem you have, Piers, and why it’s an opportunity?”

“Me?” I look up. “Thanks, but… I’d rather…”

“You can do this, Piers.”

“It’s just that… Sorry, I can’t think of anything.”

“Yes, you can, I knew people like you in Afghanistan. It’s written on your face. Let’s have a big hand for Piers!”

 *

Everybody claps. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Liz clapping too. She’s clapping, but she’s also frowning. She knows what I’m like. She knows about my habit of saying inappropriate things. She’s worried I might blurt out something stupid. I’m worried too.

I stand up and walk to the front of the room.

The fluff presses against my bellybutton as I walk. It must have got worse while I was sitting down. It’s pushing outwards against my shirt. I’m worried that it will start to spill out.

Mr Action Man shakes my hand. “Have you thought of a problem, Piers?” He asks.

There’s this weird bellybutton fluff-thing that affects me, I think. That’s a problem. Should I talk about that? I bite my lip.

What about my relationship with Liz? What about the incident?

About two weeks ago, we’d had a few drinks and were making love on the bed. I was on top, and she was lying on her back. Normally, I’m the one on the bottom, but that day she fancied a change. Missionary work today, Piers, she said.

She had that glint in her eye. When she gets that glint in her eye, I know I’m in for a treat.

But after a while she became distracted. “There’s something wrong,” she said. “Something isn’t right. I can feel something.”

“There’s something in the fucking bed!” She yelled.

“Of course, there…”

She pushed me over and started screaming.

“It’s a rat. A fucking rat! Get that fucking thing out of here!”

Then I saw it.

My God, it was a rat. I picked up a book and was about to whack it on the head when I realised what it was. I sat on the bed and slumped.

“It’s not a rat, Liz,” I said.

She looked at me. Then she looked at the rat. I looked at it too. It was a long, grey, slick-looking, rodent-like blob. But there were no eyes. There was no tail. It didn’t even have a head.

“Oh My God,” she said. “It’s…”

I nodded. “It must have got caught between us. Our bodies must have rolled it into shape. Like rolling a cigar.”

“A cigar? You’re comparing that thing to a cigar?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Liz. I just…”

I look at Mr Action Man. Should I tell the room about that? I have to physically stop myself from laughing.

“OK,” I say. “I’ve thought of something.”

I glance around the room before speaking. There’s Liz in the corner. And there’s Mike, this bald musclebound guy in his 60s, who can barely walk due to his bad back, who still works out every day, even though it makes his back worse.

And Carol, this big black girl in a wheelchair with no legs, who always looks sad, probably because she doesn’t have any legs.

And there on the side are Mr and Mrs Brown. This old spindly couple who are supposed to be retired but who lost all their money on a property in Cyprus and now answer the telephone all day to make ends meet.

And sitting right in front of me is Amy, a tiny Finnish woman, who has brittle bones and needs help opening the door, and has a special chair, but is the best performer on the phone.

I’m in good company. We’re all misfits.

“It’s about my mum,” I say.

“Good. Go on, Piers,” says Mr Action Man. “We’re here for you.”

“It was pretty bad after she died. I was just a teenager.

“There weren’t any photographs. All she left behind was her ring. Silver, with an emerald stone. My dad gave it to me after the funeral.”

I take a long deep breath. “My mum believed in me. She thought I would be someone one day.”

I suddenly realise this is why I like to read about winners. It’s as if I’ve betrayed her somehow. Because I’m not one.

“I promised myself something. I promised I would protect her ring for the rest of my life.”

I glance at Mr Action Man. He’s nodding at me. He looks like he wants to bang his fist into his hand. Then I glance at the others. The room is quiet.

“So, what do you think I did?” I ask.

No one answers.

“I lost it. I’m such an idiot. I think about it all the time. I can’t forgive myself.”

There’s an exhalation of breath from my colleagues. I’m glad I talked about this and not the fluff. You’re a winner, Piers. Keep acting like a winner. Keep thinking like one.

I’m about to go back to my seat when Mr Action Man asks me what the opportunity is.

I bite my lip.

“Let’s help him out,” he says. “What does everybody think? What’s Piers’ opportunity?”

Carol raises her arm. “It’s symbolic. He needs to accept the loss of the ring and his grief will go too.”

“Thanks, Carol. Very perceptive. Anyone else?”

Mr Brown raises his thin, trembling hand. “It’s a reminder that we’re all human. He needs to embrace his imperfection and he’ll be happier. Look at me and my wife. We recently found out how imperfect we are. And yet, we’re happy.”

I frown. I never thought of the Browns as happy.

Amy raises her tiny hand. “He needs to wipe out all the noise in his life. All the obfuscation. He needs to see things for what they are. That’s what I’ve done.”

This gets me thinking… Wipe out all the noise… All the obfuscation.

Mr Action Man nods. He scans the room for another contribution.

To my astonishment, Liz raises her hand.

I swallow. This is alarming. What’s she going to say?

“It was just a ring,” she says. “It’s not going to bring his fucking mum back, is it?”

Mr Action Man’s moveable eyes widen.

“It’s the people in his life now that matter. He needs to stop being a self-centred prick.”

My heart stops.

Everyone in the room looks at Liz, then at me.

I can see them thinking. What’s a hot woman like that doing with a fat slob like him?

Self-centred prick. Did she really say that?

Mr Action Man covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shake. At length, he manages to speak again. “So, Piers,” he says. “We’ve had a range of suggestions. Do these help you see your problem as an opportunity?”

“Thanks,” I say. “They do. But now… I’m dying for the toilet. I’ve got to...”

*

I leave the room and run for the restroom. Once inside a cubicle, I undo my shirt and the fluff tumbles out. It’s horrendous. I’ve rarely seen so much of it. An eruption of tumble dryer detritus. And damp. Horribly damp.

I flush it down the toilet, but it blocks the pipe and bubbles to the surface. I have to put my hand into the u-bend to remove the blockage.

I walk out of the building and catch the bus. Once inside, I send an email on my phone telling John I’m sick.

My reflection is in the window again. He nods hello.

I think about my life. When did things take a turn for the worse?

At the age of nineteen, there was an incident. Not as bad as the rat in the bed, or my mum’s death, or losing the ring, but bad nevertheless.

I was with Carly. Carly was my first long-term girlfriend and, for a short period, the love of my life.

One day, we were making love, doggy style, in her bedroom, when I noticed something in her anus.

I looked closer. What was it?

A whitish piece of…

A petal?

A fleck of soap?

I was about to prod it with my finger when realised what it was.

A scrap of toilet paper.

It was ghastly. Repulsive. I had to close my eyes to continue.

Afterwards, as we lay in bed together, Carly turned to look at me. We’d normally gaze lovingly at each other after intercourse. But to my surprise, I couldn’t meet her eyes. All I could think about was that toilet paper stuck in her arse.

It got me thinking. If I reacted like this to a bit of paper in a woman’s anus, how, I reasoned, would Carly, or any woman, react to a load of damp fluff in my bellybutton? Not well.

I told Carly I didn’t want to see her anymore.

My reflection looks at me. His mouth opens in surprise. Wasn’t that a bit…? I thought she was the love of your life?

I was immature, I mutter.

Very immature, Piers, he says. And selfish.

Selfish?

Very selfish.

I leave the bus and walk to my apartment. I think about what Amy said. He needs to wipe out all the noise in his life.

Once inside, I step into the bathroom and take off my shirt.

There’s a large mirror in the bathroom. When Liz and I were first going out, we had sex in front of this mirror. I wasn’t fat then, and Liz has always had a good body, so we were like two athletes going at it.

But now, a pale, fat man looks back at me.

From a distance, you’d think that I was hairless too. But in fact, my stomach and chest are quite fibrous. Masculine golden strands sprout out of my skin.

Then I notice something. There’s something about the way the hairs lie on my stomach. The hairs above my bellybutton point down and the hairs below point up. Like teeth in a trap.

I suddenly realise… Could it be?

I lather shaving foam on my chest and stomach and steer a razor through the lather.

When it’s done. I wipe away the remaining flecks of foam and inspect my handiwork. I’m as hairless as a baby. It makes me look… I’m almost feminine.

I observe myself from the sides. I put my hand on my hip. Give me a dress, a wig, a bit of makeup and…

No Piers, I tell myself. Don’t start that again.

I decide to spend the remainder of the evening without a shirt. I even vow to stand upright so there are no creases of flesh to trap anything. While I wait, I read my book on ‘How to be like Steve Jobs’.

After fifteen minutes, I poke around down there and find… Nothing. Could it be? No. Fifteen minutes isn’t long enough. Keep calm, Piers. Don’t get too excited.

My mobile phone rings. It’s John.

*

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello, Piers.”

My heart flutters. He’s going to fire me. All because I’ve had too much sick leave. He warned me. He warned me, but I didn’t listen. I’m bringing the company down. I’ve always been a dead weight.

“It’s about today, Piers.”

I stop breathing.

“I had a chat with Liz…”

This is worse. They’re going out with each other. John has called me to break the news.

“She didn’t go into detail, but she said you’ve had some personal problems lately. Maybe I can help?”

“Sorry?”

“Is there anything I can do? I don’t want to lose you. You’re a good worker.”

I open my mouth and close it again.

“And dare I say it, a friend.”

I sit down on the toilet. A friend. If John was here now, in the bathroom with me now, I’d wrap my arms around him.

I’m about to let to tell him everything—about the fluff, and Liz, and how I still miss my mum—when I remember what I was doing when the phone rang.

“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for asking. But I’m turning my problem into an opportunity.”

“What? Oh yes.” He laughs. “It was a bit cheesy today, wasn’t it? What did you think?”

“Oh, a bit cheesy.”

“Hopefully, there were some useful bits, though.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Your speech about your mum’s ring was very moving.”

“Thanks.”

I suddenly realise why John is John and I’m me. Why John is the boss and I’m just a grunt. He thinks about other people. I only think about myself. Even when I’m thinking about Liz, I’m really thinking about me.

We hang up.

*

How long has it been now? I check the clock. Fifty minutes. I breathe in. This is it, Piers. If it’s empty now, after fifty minutes, then you’re cured. It will just be a matter of shaving your stomach for the rest of your life.

I stick my index finger into the mouth of the cavern. It feels strange without any hair. It feels smooth and baby-like.

Nothing so far.

My finger slips further in. Still nothing. Normally, I would have felt something by now.

But no. What’s that?

I feel something. Something fibrous. 

I squeeze it out and look at it. It’s the same damp tumble dryer detritus. The same dead mouse carcass. The same blob of alien sock fluff. It stares back at me. How can it be? Where does it come from?

I go to bed.

*

I dream I’m in a large room. Liz is there. John. My mum. And finally, my dad. They all stare at me with sad eyes.

It may sound bad, but I find myself wondering why my dad is in my dream. I don’t normally think about him.

He’s not a bad guy. I lived with him after I dropped out of university, while I did all those stupid jobs. A receptionist in a trucking firm. A bad fit. A male model. Not good-looking enough, and already getting a bit fat. And finally, eureka, a customer success representative in a call centre, where I strangely, miraculously, did quite well.

Whenever I see my dad, he either talks about the refugee crisis, or the government’s educational policies, or the rising tide of intolerance in political discourse, or something like that. I try to stimulate an interest in my latest book on being a winner, but we’re on different planets.

I find myself wishing that he’d died and my mum lived. It’s bad, I know. But I can’t help myself.

*

I wake up and go to work.

It’s a difficult day. Every hour, on the dot, I’m in the loo scraping fluff from my belly. I use all my allotted break time and more.

I see John looking at me. Is he pissed off about my timekeeping?

And Liz. She looks at me too. But when she sees me looking back, she turns away.

Today, she’s wearing form-fitting leggings, black heels and a tight knitted top that plunges at the front. She makes me feel weak inside. But now I don’t think her smart clothes are for John’s benefit. It’s for somebody else. But who?

At lunchtime, I go to the small windowless room we use as a breakout area. A few of my colleagues are in there already, including Liz. I consider sidling up to her and starting a conversation. But she sits down next to Mike, the musclebound guy with a bad back, who, despite his dodgy vertebrae could twirl me around like a toy and not even break sweat.

They talk to each other. Mike glares in my direction and shakes his head. I’m worried that he’ll come over, accuse me of being a self-centred prick, and pummel me like a slab of jelly. After which, he’ll carry Liz in his arms and make her his queen, or his princess, or something.

But Liz wouldn’t like being anyone’s queen, or princess, or anything like that. She doesn’t like to be controlled. She prefers to do the controlling. And he’s too old for her. He’s not my rival. It’s someone else.

I hear a light tapping on the door.

I open it. It’s Amy, the tiny brittle-boned woman. She can’t reach the door handle.

“Thank you, Piers,” she says in her squeaky voice.

She sits down next to me, removes triangles of perfectly manicured sandwiches from aluminium foil and begins to eat.

“How are you, Amy?” I say.

She shrugs. “Every day is a struggle, Piers.”

I begin to say something, then change my mind.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she says. “How are you going to turn your problem into an opportunity?”

I blow air through my teeth. “Well… I tried to clear out all the noise last night. All the obfuscation. But it didn’t work.”

“So, now what?”

I scratch my head. “I need more information, I suppose. I need to understand what’s going on.”

She smiles at me and places the aluminium foil in her bag. “There’s no time like the present, Piers.”

*

I go back to my desk and think. After a while, Carol, the black woman without any legs, asks me if I’m OK.

I look at her.

“You’ve been rocking backwards and forwards,” she says.

“Oh. Sure. Yes. I’m…”

I need to do something. I need to do something now!

I remember there used to be a supplier for salons in our building. When they went out of business, their remaining stock was put in a storeroom and forgotten about.

Early in our relationship, Liz and I discovered it. The room is full of mirrors. Magnifying ones for examining blocked pores and floor-to-ceiling ones for trying on outfits.

As I mentioned, Liz and I have form when it comes to large mirrors. I’ll leave it to you to imagine what we did.

I suddenly miss Liz more than ever.

“Piers?”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ve got something on my… Can you cover for me for a bit?”

Without waiting for a reply, I leave my desk, go to the ground floor and enter the storeroom. Fortunately, it’s never locked.

I close the door behind me and turn the light on. The light bounces from mirror to mirror. The place is amazing. It’s like a room in a funfair.

I sit down in front of a large mirror. There’s also one to my side and one behind me. I take off my shirt.

A pale fat man looks at me.

The man’s belly concertinas up in front of him. It’s bad enough from the front, but from the side… Oh, God. I didn’t realise... I’m like a big white whale.

Is this why Liz left me? Because I’m fat.

I think back to when I was slim and toned and handsome. What happened? How did I get from there to here? When the fluff is sorted, I’ll start jogging. I’ll get myself in shape. I’ll never be a winner like this. Was Steve Jobs fat? Is the CEO of Twitter fat? Is John fat? No.

I pick up one of the magnifying mirrors, place it on the floor and angle it towards my belly.

I’ve never seen my belly in such detail before. My white hairless skin resembles the surface of a featureless moon. In the centre, the flesh curves inwards towards a craterous sinkhole. I imagine Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin approaching in a small lunar module.

Are you ready, Piers?

I glance at my reflection in the front large mirror. Then to the side. Despite my belly drooping over my trousers, I look strong and resolute.

Think like a winner, Piers. Act like one. Be one.

I return my attention to the magnifying mirror. I position my fingers on the edges of the crater and pull the skin back.

The tunnel opens. The flesh is soft and pliable. I hold it in place and roll more. The tunnel opens further.

I’m not sure what I expect to find. Stalactites and stalagmites. Cave paintings and bat colonies. But all I see is skin. Slightly reddish and stretched. With a dark hole in the centre.

I pull back further. It’s extraordinary how much skin there is.

Then the skin becomes tighter. It’s an increasing challenge to simultaneously hold onto the rolls of flesh and pull out more.

And there’s something else. It’s almost as if… No. That would be crazy.

It’s almost as if my bellybutton is resisting me. Fighting back.

I lose my grip and the flesh flops back into place.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I run my hand over my face. My skin is sweaty. It can’t be done.

I glance at my watch. How long have I been here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Carol will be cursing me. John is probably asking where I am.

Then a voice speaks to me: “Piers,” it says.

I look up.

“You look like shit,” says Liz. “What the fuck is going on?”

*

Fortunately, Liz is used to me. It’s good that she knows about the fluff. Otherwise, how on earth would I explain what I’m up to? Sitting in a storeroom, with my shirt off, surrounded by mirrors.

But I don’t need to explain. After a short pause to look at me, look at the mirrors, and look at me again, Liz understands everything.

Liz kneels in front of me. Her brown eyes fix mine. Why did we split up? It was me. I told her that she was holding me back. If not for her, I’d be like John. Running my own company. I’d be a winner.

I can’t believe I was such an idiot.

But now we’re together again with a common mission. To say that I love her, to say that I’m in awe of her, to say that she’s a goddess at whose feet I would happily worship, is to understate my feelings at this moment.

Then I think of something. Has she been dressing up for me? To get my attention?

She grabs the skin around my bellybutton and pulls. I hold it in place while she pulls more.

My bellybutton canal opens. Both she and I check the magnifying mirror. There’s nothing but skin. Pinky white with a dark centre. She pulls further.

I feel something. A tremor. A tensing up inside my belly.

She feels it too. She looks at me. Her eyes widen.

Another tremor.

Liz stops pulling for a moment. There’s a look on her face I haven’t seen before. What is it? Concern. Nervousness. Fear.

I’m afraid too.

Liz tightens her mouth and returns her attention to the job in hand. My fleshy tunnel is now almost completely stretched out. There’s just a small indentation where my bellybutton crouches in the darkness. She just needs to…

My stomach muscles spasm. Liz’s fingers dart back and I almost lose hold of the wads of flesh. But I don’t. I hold on.

A clump of fluff emerges from the crater. Liz spears it with her nail and drops it on the floor.

Then another clump. Liz performs the same operation.

Then another clump. And another. It’s almost as if my bellybutton crater has become a chimney, out of which a cascade of damp grey cotton wool balls emerge.

Liz moves her fingers like a concert pianist, jabbing the clumps and flicking them away. But there’s more and more. She’s so busy fending off these fur balls that she’s unable to pull the skin further back.

I can see what’s happening. I want to help her. But I’m preoccupied with holding the wads of flesh. If I lose my grip, then we’re back to where we started.

“For fuck’s sake.” Liz splutters. “There’s tons of this stuff. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to stop it.”

“Me?”

Liz looks at me. Her long creamy face is framed by her long black hair. Not for the first time, I wonder what she sees in me. When I was younger, yes. When we first met. But now?

“It’s part of you. It is you. You need to do something.”

I’m at a loss.

Then I think about what Amy said. Wipe out all the noise. All the obfuscation.

I focus on my bellybutton. What do I feel? A tickly, gushy sensation.

That’s to be expected. What else? What else do I feel?

I frown. There is something.

“There’s something hard in there,” I say. “Deep inside.”

“What is it? Concentrate, Piers.”

“I think it’s...”

My stomach muscles convulse.

“Ow!” Shouts Liz. “My finger.”

The fluff billows. It becomes horrendous. It’s like a cross between teddy bear stuffing and Niagara Falls. It buffets into Liz’s face and catches in her long dark hair.

She turns her face to the side and spits. Her tight-fitting woollen sweater is covered in the stuff.

But Liz is undeterred. She turns back towards me and narrows her eyes. She raises her long slim index finger. It stands like a lighthouse in a storm of fluff.

“It’s time,” she says. “Spontaneous midwifery!”

She jabs her finger downwards.

Her fingernail makes contact with my soft bellybutton.

“Ouch! Steady on.”

Then it moves to the sides, exploring the skin around it. Searching for something.

My stomach muscles contract again, but it’s too late. I feel something. A chink of nail against something hard. Something is in there and Liz has found it.

Her finger scratches frantically. Pulling, prodding, and tearing at the object.

My stomach muscles scream. The fluff pours out of me. But the game is up. Liz has won.

The object slips out of its hollow. Liz hooks it with her fingernail and drags it out.

The production of fluff immediately ceases.

My stomach muscles relax.

Suddenly, it’s quiet and still.

I can hear myself breathing. I can hear my heartbeat. I can hear distant voices in the building.

“What is it, Liz? What is it? Let me see.”

“This has to be a fucking joke,” she says.

She raises her hand. On her index finger is a ring. Silver, with an emerald stone.