by S. E. Lynes
Will he find them?
Has he already found them?
Was that smashing sound minutes ago him playing with her, warning her, huffing and puffing before he blows her house down?
She digs in the knife and pulls back another ragged sheet. Working her nails under the surface, she picks at ever smaller scraps before plunging in again and again. Ted was and is a bastard. He ruined her life, ruined it, and there he sits in her house, the house she decorated herself, letting it all go to waste. She jabs and stabs, scraping the paper until it covers her feet. She bashes the blade’s end against stubborn patches of glue, grits her teeth until she wins, goes in for a second, a third lunge, prising off long pieces, which she holds up before letting them fall.
After fifteen minutes, she is sweating, down to her vest and knickers, her jogging bottoms in a tripe-like heap on the floor amongst the scraps. The wall too is half stripped. She wipes her face with the back of her arm. Crumbs of wallpaper stick to her forehead. Half the room is the skin beige of bare plaster, crusted with scabs of white paper; the other half still shines with sickly pale blue gloss.
It looks worse than when she began.
This is what she does: makes a mess of things – story of her life.
A low knocking sound comes from downstairs. She checks her watch. It’s almost three. It won’t be her door, not at this hour. She stands totally still and holds her breath. Again she listens, listens.
Three more knocks, a little louder this time.
She inches along the landing in the dark. She should wake Graham. No. He’s seen enough.
She reaches the dark mouth of the stairs. She thought the worst had already happened, but there is worse to come, much worse.
On trembling legs, she goes down the stairs one at a time. The hallway is black. She reaches for the light switch but stops herself. It’s better if he doesn’t know she’s here, behind this door, inches away.
The knock comes again. She purses her lips to stop herself panting but can’t prevent the air from escaping in bursts, as if she were blowing out a thousand candles one by one. She has to open the door soon. If she doesn’t, he’ll start banging and shouting. He’ll wake the kids.
The knife slips in her grip. She should call the police. But no, there’s no phone. The doorway is a silent mouth. Cold comes through her feet, tracks up her legs. She is shivering from head to toe. The knife is still in her hand. A mewing sound, like a small trapped animal, escapes her. She puts her hand over her lips and tries to get her breathing under control.
The knock comes again, louder – the bang of a fist.
She does not have the guts to open the door. She cannot open it. She stares at the black space of it, shaking, useless.
Ted will not stop until he kills her. She knows it, knows it deep in her guts. The kids will find her cold where she’s fallen. Oh God, they will find her. How did she think, how did she dream it was possible to go back to this man? This, this is how it felt, how it always felt. Dread. Unending dread that scrubs her insides raw. She will never get away from him. She’s been a fool to think she can.
She reaches out for the catch.
Eighteen
Carol
‘Hello? Hello? Carol?’
A man’s voice, calling through the letter box. She lets go of the catch, holds the knife in both hands. Finding something, some small reserve within herself, she squats and lifts the cardboard flap by no more than an inch. Sees green, blue and black checks. Tartan. Blue eyes replace the tartan, eyes the colour of Wedgwood.
She falls back, hits the floor with a yelp.
‘Carol?’ Jim stage-whispers through the letter box. ‘Carol? Where’d you go? Are you hiding?’
She pulls herself up, puts her hands over her face, presses herself into the corner by the door.
‘Oh God.’ Her legs shake. ‘Oh God.’
‘Carol? Are you OK? Sorry it’s so late but I’ve come straight from the rig. Just let me in, eh? I’m freezing my cohones off out here.’
‘I can’t … I just … just …’
‘Carol?’
She pulls her face from the wall and exhales. Her legs are shaking so much she fears they might collapse under her. After a moment, she closes her hand over the catch and pulls open the door. Outside, the street light casts its soft yellow glow onto his face: ruddy, chubbier than she remembers. His cheeks push up against his eyes as he grins, blinking at her. She is glad to be in the dark.
‘Do I feel a numpty in this kilt? It’s a wonder I didn’t get my head kicked in.’ He shields his eyes, squints at the butter knife. ‘You planning to stab me? I can do that by myself.’ He gestures to his leg. Under the thick wool sock, the handle of the dagger sticks out from its leather pouch.
‘I’m armed,’ she says, waving the knife. ‘Watch it. I might butter you to death.’
He chuckles. He comes into the house with a blast of freezing air, filling the doorway as he passes through it.
She wipes her cheeks with her arm, circling round him as he passes. Her teeth have been clenched so hard her gums ache. The front door is at her back.
‘I don’t …’ she begins. ‘How did you know … You didn’t reply. I thought … I didn’t know if you’d remember me.’
‘What? Of course I do. They … look, they send the post out. That’s why I told Tommy to give you my work address. In case you asked for it, like. I was gonna write, but I was due to get off a few days ago, then there was fog, you know? So that was me stuck between a rock and a hard place. Ach, I had all these plans, right enough. I was going to come down on the train, grab a hotel, then surprise you today. I should have called our Tommy, so I should. In the end, I bagged a lift as soon as we got off, got the guys to stop off at mine so’s I could grab the kilt. I thought, you know, you’d … you know … ’cos I was wearing it when we …’ He looks at her, downcast and sheepish and shy. ‘I was trying to be romantic, like. I’m sorry. It was inappropriate. I wasn’t—’
‘It’s all right,’ she says.
They are still in the hall. It is cold, and dark, and she is standing here shivering in her underwear. Her heart still hammers in her chest, her breath is still coming short, though the fear has gone; it went the moment she saw him. He is not Ted. Not Ted, thank God.
‘Kitchen’s straight ahead,’ she says, though she doesn’t move. ‘I’m sorry it’s so cold.’
He puts his bag down at the foot of the stairs and raises both hands above his head. He turns to lead the way, and like that they walk towards the kitchen: an intruder held at knifepoint by a madwoman. In the kitchen, she pulls the cord for the strip light. It blinks white, plink-plink-plinks until the light stays on. Jim stops at the table, Carol a little way behind, putting the L of the counter between them. They are both screwing up their eyes against the sudden brightness. She must cover herself, she thinks, eyeing her cardie draped over the back of one of the chairs. She needs to get to it and put it on without making a fuss. She puts down the knife, fills the kettle and forces herself to look back at him. Jim MacKay. A stranger who feels like part of her own body.
‘I bet I look a right arse in this get-up.’ He pulls at the kilt.
She laughs a little. ‘It’s me stood here with half the bathroom wall in my hair. I was stripping wallpaper, like you do at three in the morning.’
‘That what it is? Thought you had a bad case of dandruff.’
She laughs again, too much, like an idiot. She fusses about, getting cups, milk, opening cupboards, putting the rest of the biscuits on a little plate.
‘It’s freezing in here.’ She turns the heating dial to ON. ‘Can you chuck us that cardie?’
‘Oh, aye, right.’ He throws the cardigan to her and she pulls it around herself, relieved to be warmer and to be halfway decent.
The kettle chatters against the side of the mugs as she pours the hot water. ‘You’ve still got your coat on,’ she says as she takes the tea over. ‘Looks like you’re waiting for a train.’
<
br /> Beyond the table’s edge, the colours of his kilt are bright under the strip light, just as they were in the hospital that night – over a year, a lifetime ago. It seems like a miracle, like something not real – that he is here in her kitchen, splashing whisky from his hip flask first into her tea, then his, without asking, as if it were their own secret and practised ritual. Yes, she thinks. Whisky. She might, after all, need a drop of something. She sits down, folds her arms.
‘Here’s to you.’ He chinks his mug against hers.
A gale blows around inside her. She fights to stop herself from touching his face, to check he isn’t a ghost or a dream. He peers at her over the rim of his mug and takes a sip. His eyes and the sense of him, how it feels to be near to him, she remembers.
‘You look lovely.’ It’s out of her mouth before she can stop herself.
He stares down at his hands, apparently fascinated by his own thumbnails. ‘I know it’s been a long time, Carol. But that was not my average Saturday night. With you, I mean.’ He glances up at her and she turns away. ‘And I’m guessing … if you bothered to write to me after all this time, it wasn’t yours either, was it?’
Her face throbs; she bites down so hard she fears her tooth might pierce her bottom lip. ‘No.’
‘So you’ve thought about me?’
Unable to answer, she nods.
‘I’m here now, so.’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean, Tommy told me you’d moved. That you were getting on your feet, like. I just thought things might be a bit tough, you know?’
Tough. It’s all been tough. The first days in the refuge, social workers, benefit forms, new schools for the kids, second-hand uniforms from the charity, women who barely became friends before they moved on, more women, bruised as dropped peaches, coming in where others left, Graham’s terrible unending silence, the call from the headmistress to say he’d been in another fight, more social workers, more forms, the need to get them housed before Graham turned eighteen, days, long days, watching old detective series on daytime television, the loneliness, the shared kitchen, the battle within herself: go back, don’t go back. Go back. Ted in the street, the disgrace. Yes, it’s all been tough. It still is.
She pushes at her hair, looks up at the ceiling and tries to tip her tears back into her eyes. Jim has this way of knowing her. When she does manage to look at him, she sees him taking in the dirty walls, the manky worktop, the Artex ceiling, all of it. She knows that expression. It is the same one he wore when he pulled her clothes from her. There is too much to do here, too much to fix.
‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ he says.
She laughs in surprise. ‘I had a whatsit, you know, an internal designer.’
‘Interior designer.’
‘Aye, that’s it.’
They smile at each other. The tea is hot. They take little sips. After a moment, he puts his mug back on the table and reaches for her hand, his upturned, expecting hers. She keeps hold of her mug.
‘The kids are upstairs,’ she says.
‘I didn’t think you’d leave them behind.’ He gets up from his chair and drags it around the table, sits down opposite her, near her. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘What about?’ She laughs without knowing why, perhaps at the idea that she could stop worrying, even for a moment. ‘You know my eldest is seventeen, don’t you? Our Graham. He turned seventeen in the shelter. And our Nicky turns twelve next month.’
‘I know.’
He’s in front of her, but she can’t get the thought of him, from before, out of her head – the hotel room, so far away from everything she knew or had known, him taking off her blouse, his mouth on hers. It seems impossible now that she could ever have done such a thing, impossible to imagine doing anything like it again, finishing what they began that night.
‘I mean, it’s not like we could go to a hotel or anything,’ she says. ‘And our Graham’s changed. He’s … quiet, you know. More than quiet. Sleeps more than he should, and he’s left school. Sleeps all the time. Didn’t do so well in his exams, which is understandable.’ She puts her tea on the table. As she lets go of the mug, he takes her hand and holds it. Another moment and he pulls it to his mouth and kisses her knuckles, keeps them pressed to his lips.
‘You’ve scuffed your hands,’ he says. ‘I don’t need a hotel.’
‘They’re asleep. The kids.’
‘I imagine so.’ He lets her hand fall with his onto the table and pushes his fingers through hers, making one big, complicated knot.
His stare becomes too much. She watches their hands instead, locked together.
‘I’m just saying they’re in the house, like,’ she says. ‘The kids, you know. That’s all. Though our Graham’s not a kid.’
Jim moves his head back slowly before nodding it forward again.
‘A-ha. I get it. You think I’m going to pounce on you? You think that’s what I’ve come for?’
‘No, I …’ Her cheeks burn. ‘I don’t know. No. I don’t know.’
He moves his chair closer, until their knees touch. She thinks of her legs, bare beneath the cardie, her vest and knickers, her stomach, her ribs and heart. There’s no movement from upstairs. If one of the kids were to wake, she would hear footsteps. She’d have time to move away from him. But even so.
Jim strokes her wrist, the soft inside of her arm, her shoulder. She closes her eyes. He reaches up and squeezes her neck softly. ‘I’m just here, that’s all.’
She opens her eyes, leans in and kisses him, listening out all the while. He pushes his forehead against hers and sighs. They stay like that, heads pressed together, in the silence.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ he says after a moment.
‘To see you – nice.’
‘Stupid. Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want my coat?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
She runs her hand up his thigh and takes hold of him. He is already hard, silky in her hand.
Without moving his forehead from hers, he pulls the bobble from her ponytail and strokes her hair. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
She leans back a little from him, so she can watch his face. ‘I can’t take you upstairs.’
His breathing changes; his eyes are closed. ‘But what about you?’
‘What about me?’ She keeps a rhythm, keeps her eyes on the door. They are both fully dressed. Well, he is. And she can move away at the slightest sound.
He stays her hand. He moves his chair so that it meet hers, lifts her legs over his. He presses his forehead back to hers and holds both her hands.
They kiss, their hands tightening, until he lets go and reaches between her legs.
‘No,’ she says, pushing him away.
‘But what about you?’
It takes her a moment to understand what he means, what it says about him, about how he sees her, himself. Them.
She pulls her cardigan around her. The kids are so near, separated by sleep alone from the shock of seeing their mother with someone in this way. ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘How much did Tommy tell you?’
Jim shakes his head, just a fraction. ‘Bits and pieces. Nothing really. And I saw … you know.’
She makes herself meet his eye. They stare at each other until, embarrassed, she breaks his gaze.
‘I was married to him for a long time,’ she says. ‘He did things. He—’
‘It’s OK. You don’t have to tell me.’
She shakes her head. ‘He never thought about me in … you know, in that way. I mean, what I might have wanted. I just don’t think it crossed his mind. He just … did what he had to do, like.’
‘Carol, he abused you.’
‘He thumped me about, you mean.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I mean, yes, but the other. If he … took advantage. It’s supposed to be about two people.’
>
She laughs. But it isn’t funny, what Jim has said.
‘Ted was always the star of the show,’ she says. ‘He had a very strong sense of humour. Once, he locked me in the porch. The kids were in bed and he told me there was a letter for me. He kicked me from behind and locked the door and he didn’t let me out until, well, until about four in the morning. I was freezing. I only had my nightie on. He thought it was hilarious, like. And I couldn’t shout for help, obviously. You shout for help when there’s no one there, don’t you? Not when there’s someone right there on the other side of the door.’
‘Ah, Christ.’ Jim rubs at his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have said owt.’
Jim goes very still. His lips press together. She recognises the look and feels her shoulders rise. He brings the flat of his palm down on the table with a loud bang. She jumps, despite having braced herself.
‘Jim, love,’ she whispers. ‘You’ll wake the kids.’
He pushes back his chair. Both his hands are fists now. His colour has changed; his neck and face are red. He’s so big. He could kill her, kill anyone. She feels the fury coming off him, feels herself shrink, an old familiar pain in her chest. He brings his fists up to his temples and turns away from her. She can hear him breathing, heavily, as if he’s recovering from a race.
‘Jim?’
With a noise like a growl, he throws out his arm. She closes her eyes, her shoulders high against the violence, against the crunch. Then silence. When she opens her eyes, he is crouching by the back door, cradling his head. The knuckles on his right hand are bleeding. There is a hole the size of a fist in the wall.
‘The world is nuts,’ he whispers while she wonders what the hell to think, what to do, whether she should tell him to go or what. ‘There’s women out there who take all they can get, who want you for your money, for what you can buy them, and then they cheat on you the moment your back’s turned.’ He looks at her; his mouth is odd, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to cry. ‘And then there’s you,’ he says. He shuffles over to her on his knees and takes both her hands. ‘This shouldn’t have happened. This should never have happened.’ He lowers his head into her lap. ‘I’m so sorry about your wall. I’ll repair it tomorrow. Ach, Christ, it shouldn’t have happened to you, my darlin’. Not to you.’