by Emmy Ellis
Halfway down the stairs, he winced as the baby’s wails grew louder. “Answer me, you cock fuck!” she screamed.
Cock fuck?
At the bottom of the stairs, Gerry turned and grabbed his jacket off the newel post. He shrugged it on then checked his keys and wallet were in the pocket. A quick glance at Julia showed she was nearly on the bottom step and he had seconds to make his escape.
“I’m going,” he shouted, opening the door.
“Going? Going where? At least have the decency to tell me who she is, you bastard!”
Outside on the doorstep, he breathed in the cold night air and closed his eyes briefly. He’d come back when she’d had time to calm down. He just had to get away for a bit, that was all. In case he went ballistic like that other time she’d really bugged him. He’d hurt her then. Had given her a bit of a slap. He’d promised never to do that again.
Gerry didn’t want to turn and see her face. He didn’t need to. It would be red, her cheeks wet, her eyes round, and her eyebrows raised. Instead, he slammed the door then walked down the path and out onto the pavement. Julia’s screeching followed him. It sounded as if she’d gone into the kitchen to take it out on the pots and pans, the chinaware. The boy’s wailing had increased in volume too. Jesus, what was he even doing with a pair of whiners like them anyway?
He took a right, and another, and ended up at the lane. If he could just walk down there and stand at the bottom so he could check out their bedroom window and see what his sexy woman would see…
He strolled down the lane. Stared at his window. He gauged that the top half of his chest could be seen from here, so if anyone had been eyeing him they wouldn’t have seen much. But knowing Julia, she’d think he’d been tossing off at someone outside, giving them a show. She’d possibly have a chat with that new woman, get some advice. What was her name? Mo. Yeah, his wife would go round to Mo’s for one of their long coffee sessions. He knew all about those too. Julia had tried to make out she was stuck indoors all day, but the snooping fucker, the old bloke with the cane, had told him otherwise.
“Here, did you know… Your wife gets along well with the new resident, doesn’t she?” he’d said. “Spends quite a bit of time round there by all accounts. Hours on end, I’d say.”
Hours on end. That would explain why the housework was rarely done. Too much time nattering, not enough on cleaning. Gerry shook his head. Things really had gone to the dogs. Happiness had been splashed down the shitter and flushed away. All he had left to look forward to were more kids, more mess, more wailing, and more accusations.
Sod that.
He turned and entered the woodland. A nice walk through there would do him the world of good. He could have a proper think, sort through his problems and try to find solutions that would benefit them all. His temper had to go, for one, and getting his relationship with Julia back on track was something that needed sorting. They couldn’t go on this way. And if she’d believe that he wasn’t seeing anyone and agreed they had issues to address, he might even get his end away.
That’d be nice.
Chapter Three
Gerry walked deep into the woods. They stretched ahead, right into town, and that was a good couple of miles. He could get lost if he didn’t know his way, but he’d been born and bred here and these woods had been a childhood haunt. He thought he knew every nook and cranny, but as he ventured onwards he saw he no longer did. The passing of years had changed things a bit. A wider tree trunk here, a hand-shaped span of branches much longer there, and a whole lot of new, alien green shit in between, but if he stuck to the central path he’d be all right.
Traffic from the main road sounded distant, muted somewhat by the thick branch canopies and that eerie tranquillity you get in such places. Except it wasn’t eerie to Gerry, not tonight. It comforted, brought a sense of being cocooned, tucked away from the rest of humanity and all his bloody problems. First World problems at that. Yeah, he’d seen the adverts for starving kids, the elderly going cold in winter, and those ones where the homeless stared into the camera holding their cardboard signs, but it wasn’t enough to make him properly stop and think. They were just an annoying set of images that filled a gap in his TV programmes. He knew crap like that happened, but he wasn’t experiencing it, and although it sounded harsh, he didn’t have the time to give much of a shit. Charity started at home in his book, and while he had a moaning, sex-denying wife, a brat who didn’t stop screeching, bills to pay, swollen bollocks to tend to and all the other stuff that made up his life, he couldn’t find time or sympathy for those worse off.
When did you turn into such a cunt, Gerry?
Probably somewhere between now and his last shag.
He shrugged.
A bird shrieked—fucking magpies—reminding him of the acoustics he put up with at home. He shuddered, trying to push the whole sorry mess out of his mind so he could invite one thought at a time back in and deal with them better. Hands in his jacket pockets, he hunched his shoulders in an attempt to warm his ears. Stupid to have come out without a hat or scarf, but he’d hardly been in a position to think straight, had he?
He puffed out a laugh. An affair. Julia thought he was having an affair. Who with? Someone in one of the houses he delivered to? Not bloody likely. And anyway, he couldn’t linger at drop-off points. He had a schedule to keep. But Julia would have scenarios running through her head now, he’d bet, of him carrying a parcel to some tart’s door and going inside. Him fucking the woman’s brains out and promising to leave Julia for her. Him spouting the usual gibberish that his wife didn’t understand him.
That last bit would be true.
The path broadened, giving way to a rough circle where people had picnics in the summer and sunbathed knowing perverts might be lurking in the bushes. The ends of opposing tree branches almost met overhead, their gnarly limbs reaching out, giving that final growth stretch so they could create a verdant ceiling when spring came back. Another year or so and the sky would be completely blocked out. Gerry had brought Julia here once, in their initial days. He’d fucked her against a tree, and she’d had bark scratches on her arse for a week.
He smiled sadly.
Where had it all gone wrong?
Another bird let out a noise that sounded like an owl hooting, and Gerry jumped. He got the feeling the bird had been spooked, probably by him trampling through and disturbing the peace. He stared around the circle, squinting to see if anyone else was about. Pale moonlight sifted through the gap in the trees above, a slice of light that made a long, jagged rectangle on the grass. He chuckled, asking himself who else would be mental enough to walk through here at night.
“Hello, Gerry.”
The quiet, soft voice had him shouting out, some unintelligible word or other, and spinning around to face where it had come from. His heart rate kicked up as he stared, wide eyed, at the person who had spoken.
“Hello.” He let out a shaky laugh. “You gave me a bit of a fright there. I was miles away.”
The shaft of moonlight accentuated the person’s face, bringing cheekbones, chin, and forehead into stark relief. A lit head hanging in the darkness, that’s what it was, disembodied, something that would be well at home in someone’s nightmares. Gerry attempted a smile, but his face felt frozen, numbed by shock.
“Sorry,” the person said. “Didn’t mean to put you on edge. It’s nice to see someone else out here at night. I come here often lately. You know, to think, get my head straight.”
Gerry hadn’t thought the person would have needed to do that. They’d always seemed so together, so with it, that any problem could be solved inside a second. Full of good advice, that one, and so laid back they’d fall over if they weren’t careful.
“I know what you mean.” Gerry stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets to hide the shameful fact they were shaking. “Something about this place, isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes, there’s something about it all right.”
Gerry frowne
d. An odd touch of unease crept into his bones and sent his legs weak. He told himself off for being so silly, jumping the way he had when he’d known who had spoken. He reckoned he’d got jittery because he hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. He wondered whether his frown had been spotted, but the moonlight was behind him and he probably looked like a shadow.
“I was just going to find a spot to sit down,” Gerry said. “There used to be a log over there, great big one it was, long enough to hold ten of us kids sitting in a row.”
He turned to signal to his rear. Blinding slithers of pain shot into the side of his head, and he staggered, raising his hand to cover the site. What, was he going to have a stroke now or something? It wouldn’t surprise him, given the levels his blood pressure must be at these days. A nauseating sensation rose in his windpipe, as though food, had Julia actually cooked any, was about to come erupting out. He retched, clutching his head harder, pressing his palm to his scalp to try to relieve the throbbing pressure there.
A distant voice came—
GERRY? ARE YOU OKAY?
—and he couldn’t be certain, but it had sounded as though the person found their question amusing. That couldn’t be right, he must have been hearing things. He went to nod—yes, yes, he was okay, although he bloody well wasn’t—but couldn’t manage the gesture.
“The log you mentioned is over here, Gerry. I’ll take you to it.”
With his vision wrecked, Gerry allowed himself to be led, stumbling over what he imagined were roots poking out of the ground. He was held by the elbow and steered along for what seemed ages until being brought to a stop on flatter, spongy ground.
“Here we are. Sit yourself there, Gerry.”
He was pushed down by pressure on his shoulders, grateful for the feel of steady seating beneath his arse. Shaking, he struggled to see straight—to see at all—and failed. He was woozy, and he felt the same as he had once when he’d suffered with a bad case of flu. As though drugs were raging through his system and were fighting a losing battle. All he wanted to do was sleep. He dropped his forehead into his hands, digging his elbows into his thighs for balance.
“I don’t feel right.” He swallowed bile.
“I shouldn’t imagine you do.”
“I think I’ve had a stroke.”
“Yes, you’ve had a stroke—a stroke to the side of your nut, although I’d call it more of a whack.”
What? “Is that what they’re called these days?” He sounded stupid. The discomfited man in him wanted to correct himself, to say something to cover up his absurd comment, but his mouth didn’t fancy working.
“A whack’s always been called a whack as far as I know. I think you need to have a lie down.”
Gerry was pulled sideways. He wanted to fight the motion, to continue sitting, but whatever was dragging him proved too strong. He gave in, too weak to do otherwise, and went with it. He thudded onto his side, registering the cold ground on his cheek contrasting with the fiery heat on the other side of his head.
“Hurts,” he mumbled, unsure whether he’d even said anything.
“Yes, I’m sure it does.”
His side was getting wet, dampness seeping through his clothes and onto his skin. Into his skin. He must have been sinking—his body was heavy and gravity was pulling him into what felt like a pit.
“What’s happening to me?”
He was flung onto his back. A weight pressed onto his belly, reminding him of when Julia sat on him. Suddenly he longed to see her, to open his eyes and find her there, staring down at him wearing nothing but a smile. He thought he could detect the slight whiff of her perfume but dismissed it. People who had strokes smelled odd things, didn’t they?
“See, it’s like this, Gerry. You’ve had a bash with a baseball bat that has spikes on it. Those spikes have a little medicine on them that’s giving you that drunk feeling you’ve undoubtedly got.”
Bat? Spikes?
He must be having his leg pulled. Who would have hit him like that? Not this person. They were too kind. Too nice. It must have been someone else, that’s why he’d been led over here, so they could get away.
“Has the arsehole who hit me gone?” His voice was coming out slow. “I …I need to go home. To Julia.”
“You don’t really want to do that, do you? I mean, it’s hardly a love match anymore, is it? The whole street can hear you having a go at her. At your child. What was it recently? That your baby should be quiet before you smacked it against the wall? Sound familiar?”
A memory floated into Gerry’s head, indistinct at first but growing as he recalled the night the boy had screamed incessantly and all Gerry had wanted was for him to shut the hell up and go to sleep.
“That was… That was…a figure of speech.”
“Ah, you need to watch those. They get you in shit. Same as the shit you’re in now.”
What did that mean?
“I heard your row tonight. Julia thinks you’ve gone off to see someone else, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Which is true in a sense because you’re with someone now.”
“Not having…affair.”
“Are you sure about that, Gerry, because you’re naked in your window often enough. Do you know how much that gets on people’s nerves? The way you flaunt yourself like that? And you can’t tell me you haven’t seen me watching. Not that I’m watching in that way, you understand.”
His head was lifted, and something wet was settled around the back of his neck. Material? It was then tied like a scarf, and the chill from the dampness sent him into a bout of shivering. His teeth chattered.
“I bet you leave wet towels on the bed, don’t you, Gerry. Can you feel how wet this one is? Of course, it isn’t a whole towel. I wouldn’t be able to do what I need to if that were the case. But it’s a strip of one. I bet it doesn’t feel pleasant there, does it?”
“No,” he mumbled.
“So now you know how Julia feels sleeping under a damp quilt, or, if she hasn’t had a chance to make the bed—having babies is a very tiring time, you know—sleeping on a damp bottom sheet where you’ve slung your towel down. I could see you doing it, knew that’s what you were up to. And you got up to something else, didn’t you. Holding your dick”—the towel was pulled tight, the knot depressing his Adam’s apple—“and hoping someone saw your perverted self.”
Gerry tried to shake his head, but it wasn’t working. He still couldn’t see so closed his eyes. Individual pains, about ten of them, jabbed into his head—the ghost feeling of the spikes on that bat?
He needed to be sick.
“I can’t…breathe properly.” Gerry sensed blackout drawing near. He wanted to move his hands up to the towel and wrench it free, but they were pinned to his sides.
“That’s the idea… What gets me is your lack of observational skills. The way you’re so intent focusing on yourself, you don’t see the obvious. Didn’t you notice, when I spoke to you earlier, that I was wearing a onesie made out of black bin liners? Didn’t you find that odd?”
The image of the person wearing bin liners undulated in Gerry’s mind. He must have registered it back then if he could recall it now. So why hadn’t it stood out as weird? Was he that wrapped up in himself? For a fleeting moment he was lucid, and yes, he found a onesie worn outside—made out of a black bag or not—odd. Found all of this odd. He tried to push himself up, to shove the person off him, but his body was leaden. Lethargy took hold of him again, and he had no energy to do anything but remain where he was.
“Julia will have such a nice life without you.”
The towel was pulled tighter. Gerry heaved. Wanted to thrash his head from side to side but found it locked in place.
“And your son. He has a name, you know. I’ve heard you refer to him as kid or fucker or boy. But he’s called Ben. At least he’s young enough not to remember you. At least he’ll grow up without psychological issues once you’re gone.”
Gone?
&
nbsp; The towel pressure increased. Gerry’s face seemed to bulge. His tongue slipped between his lips, heavy as it rested on his chin. His eyes bugged. Something in his throat snapped.
It was then Gerry knew the true meaning of the word gone.
Chapter Four
Nora Pritchard, a mother of two Xbox-crazy teenagers, browsed the shelves she’d just finished filling. Her stint at the local Tesco Express was almost over. Just another hour or so to go and she could fuck off home. She planned to keep an eye on the reduced-price microwave dinners. Her boys hadn’t wanted food when she’d left for work. Maybe they’d be hungry when she got home. A nice korma or shepherd’s pie would go down nicely, she reckoned.
This life…shit, it wasn’t what she’d envisaged for herself as a youngster. Mind you, it was better now than it had been. Being a single mum wasn’t a hardship—not when she’d endured an abusive marriage. Her husband had been a total prick towards the end, far from the man she’d married. Then again, now she looked back on it, the signs had been there, she just hadn’t seen them.
Would her boys turn out like him?
She shuddered and could only hope the way she’d brought them up would mean they’d be gentlemen. Treat their women fairly, their kids too. She was surprised Luke and Adam weren’t fucked up in the head after…well, after what they’d been through in their younger years.
She sighed, her thoughts going to what they did with their lives at present—what they’d be doing in the future. Those Xboxes had been a Godsend when she’d first bought them. Kept the lads occupied, out of her hair while she sorted through the mess in her mind. But now? They were addicted to them, that much was obvious. If they didn’t have school and college to go to, Luke and Adam would play games twenty-four-seven if sleep wasn’t a bodily requirement. A workmate told her to make a stand, to turn the bloody router off at a certain time of night so the online shenanigans didn’t take place, but she knew her boys would still play well into the early hours.