by Paul Hoffman
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I’d wait till you see if it keeps time.’
He turned to the instruments and packed them away in their tiny pockets. Anne finished winding and corrected the time. She looked at him again as she fastened it on her wrist, and cried out in alarm. A thin trickle of blood rolled slowly from his left ear.
‘Steven! Your ear. It’s bleeding.’
His head shot up and an expression she had never seen before passed across his face and was gone. He groaned.
‘Damn,’ he said softly as he looked at his finger tainted by a slight smear of red. ‘I’ll just . . .’ He gestured in the direction of the bathroom, pushed back his chair and left the room quickly. She watched him go, thinking about the look on his face as she had called out to him. It had come and gone in an instant: a look of unstinting terror.
When the change in Anne came it was sudden and incomprehensible. He could not sleep because of the ache in his back and had got up to sit in the orthopaedic chair he now used exclusively because it supported the small of his back. He was reading to take his mind off the pain when she appeared in the doorway wearing the drab cotton nightdress she always wore now. Surprisingly she had not left to spend nights in her own flat, or even taken to sleeping in his spare bedroom. The chasm between them in the bed was unbridgeable.
She looked at him from the doorway for some time and he was unnerved by her expression; it had an intensity he couldn’t place. She walked over to him at last and, to his astonishment, kissed him. What struck him within a second of her doing this extraordinary thing was that her mouth not only felt different in the way it searched his own but also that it tasted different.
She pulled him down onto the floor and held the thick cotton nightdress around her waist, climbed on top of him and began pressing herself down heavily and painfully. It was the first time in weeks that he had seen her pubic hair and it seemed a newly deep black against the white of her skin, so white now that the veins on her stomach were as blue as those of a pregnant woman. She grew frenzied, seeming at once acutely conscious of him and distant, lost somewhere so intense that he felt a stab of envy at seeing her so overtaken. Then, as her breathing quickened to a seamless pitch, she carried on one of the upward pulls and stood up in one movement, almost staggering as she did so. Her hand went between her legs as she bent to his groin and forced his penis into her mouth. She moved with careless speed and it hurt as her teeth grazed up and down its length. Then she bit him. Grabbing her, he tried to prise her away but she started to come and he could not move her. Then she was free, twisting and turning as she seemed to explode in heavy sobs. She did not stop but kept on weeping until he thought she would break in two. She cried like nothing he had ever heard before, enormous draining sobs, like someone in the grip of a dreadful physical grief.
Two hours later he was lying in bed listening to the sound of her breathing as she slept. He was depressed: the gulf between them was no different, and he could not understand why her mouth had tasted different. It was the taste of a woman you had known for years but had never kissed. Perhaps the terrible contradictions of her new life had worked her up into a kind of convulsion; sex was an escape from the incomprehensible.
As Anne emerged from sleep she was conscious of a thud. It was not loud and she sank back again. There was another noise, the sound of something clumsily shifted, and this time she opened her eyes fully. Steven, naked from the waist up, leant against the wall crouching and with both hands pushed against it as if resisting its imminent collapse. She raised her head to watch him, a flutter of unease in her stomach. He started to move, not realising that she was awake, feeling his way along the wall like a man in the dark in an unfamiliar room.
‘Steven?’
He stopped and stood upright but said nothing, his head held oddly as if listening for a sound whose source was unclear.
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t see,’ he said quietly.
She was out of bed and by his side, her heart racing. ‘It’s all right,’ he reassured her, smiling at the depth of her alarm. ‘I haven’t gone blind. It’s some kind of eye infection. My eyelids are stuck together.’
She led him by the hand to the kitchen. As she sat him down, she asked why he was smiling.
‘Why do you think?’
‘I’m going to get some water.’
She took cold, boiled water from the kettle, poured it into a dish and put it in the microwave to warm. She watched him, admiring the patient look on his strong face, thinner now with every passing day. He needed her to wash his face but she had never felt more strongly the need to let him hold her. It was not maternal, not pity, but something that caught her hard in the chest.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, his head to one side, listening.
‘Looking at you.’
‘Why?’
‘A cat can look at a king.’
The microwave bell rang.
She put the bowl of warm water in front of him. She fetched cotton wool from the bathroom, dipped a piece in the water and said, ‘Tell me if it’s too hot.’
‘It’s too hot,’ he said, as she placed the first wet pad against his right eye.
‘Don’t be such a baby.’
Tearing off a new piece each time, she soaked the cotton wool and held it to each eye. The boiled warm water began to roll down his cheeks in streams.
‘ “Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean”,’ she intoned sadly. He put his hand out, feeling for the edge of the table as if to place himself a little outside her power by holding on to something solid.
‘You’re a cruel woman.’
‘No, I’m not. Don’t try to open your eyes yet. The skin is delicate – you could tear it.’
She continued, dabbing, discarding, wetting, until all the white chalky residue around his eyes had been washed away. Becoming involved in the delicate washing she had slipped further towards him without realising.
‘Try now.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
She remained seated next to him, tore off a large strip from the roll of cotton wool and started to dry his eyes, cheeks and chest. Gently touching the broad muscles on his chest after a long time was such a pleasure that she forgot the sense of distance, forgot that she was punishing him for what he was, for what he had made her agree to. Even the unpleasant release of the night before, which had stayed with her as she crept into bed, afraid and exhausted, seemed like a bad dream that had unaccountably receded. Feeling the change in her touch, his left hand went to her face. She pulled back, but not by much. He moved to kiss her where his hand had been and again she pulled away but not enough to stop his lips brushing her skin. He stood up and with his arms around her waist, lifted her onto the table. His arms enclosed her but her hands rested, palms flat, against his chest. He pulled himself towards her, and she responded by pushing him away, looking into his eyes, searching. Slowly she allowed the strength of his pull to balance hers, held him for a moment and then, with her face full of the terrible daring of what she was doing, she let him in.
Later, exhausted, he went to bed but the pain in his head and the stiffness in his back kept him from sleeping. She came to lie down on the bed next to him to keep him company, but still he could not settle and, indeed, seemed more restless because of her presence. Eventually his tiredness began to dominate and she could see his eyes begin to close, but he kept waking himself up.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said softly. ‘Why don’t you sleep?’
He did not reply and got up and walked over to the side-table and popped a couple of Kapake from a foil packet. He poured himself a glass of water and swallowed the pills. Suddenly the glass fell from his hand. He almost caught it, but it slipped from his grasp. It was the first time she had seen him do anything clumsy. The glass was thick and did not shatter on the highly polished wooden floor. He picked it up and put it back on the table. He went over to the nearly full-length mirror on t
he wall and looked at himself appraisingly, noting the badly healed wound on his arm and the erratic marks of the stitches. ‘Look like a sieve,’ he said. ‘Feel like one, too.’
‘Are you afraid?’
He turned to her and was touched by the sadness, the depth of affection, and the fear, both for him and herself. He went to the bed and lay down next to her.
‘When I was a boy, I fell out of a tree but I managed to grab a branch, just, to stop myself. I hung there. I couldn’t get back up, knew that if I fell I would be badly hurt. I hung there till my head began to burst and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. But I was too afraid to let go. It was a long fall onto hard ground. For twenty minutes . . . half an hour I held on. I can feel it now, the blood pumping in my ears and the pain in my arms. And it was so very quiet. Then I fell.’ He stopped again for a moment. ‘My shin-bone snapped and stuck out of my skin like a stick. But I can’t remember the pain of the break at all. What I do remember is trying to hold on and the wonderful feeling – wonderful – of letting go.’
He seemed more relaxed now and she could see his eyelids starting to grow heavy. Almost immediately he was asleep, his breathing getting slower until it stopped. The gentlest of touches from Anne started it again. And then in a moment he was awake and crying out in terror.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, frightened by the dread that filled his voice. He looked around the room as if trying to fix himself back in the world. There was a cornered look about him.
‘Dreams?’ she said. He nodded. She watched him, wishing she had not asked and hoping he would not tell her what they were. But he said nothing more and went to take a shower.
When he came back she had fallen asleep. His stomach hurt and he went into the living room, walking around for several hours before the pains stopped. When he went back into the bedroom, she had pulled off the bedclothes and was lying on her stomach. Her legs were parted and he looked at the way her buttocks fell naturally towards her labia, just visible and shadowed by the black of her pubic hair. He touched her thigh with the back of his hand. She felt cold. He pulled the covers over her and left the room again.
He went for a walk, a loop that two hours later brought him back through Gower Street. He had been considering what had caused Anne to stay with him. In the almost infinite weighing up that went into the making of most of the big decisions – to marry, have a baby, leave, return – there was often a gradual accumulation of factors; some clear, some not. Perhaps it was old-fashioned to think that the thing that tipped the balance one way or the other was decisive of itself, that without it the decision might have been different. With Anne, he thought he had an idea of why she had been able to stay. The blow with the scissors: she had meant to kill and knew it. Having drawn blood, making a wound that only slowly healed, honour of a kind was satisfied. He now felt he understood the terrible anarchy of the attraction between a man and a woman. It was not just arbitrary: love is a democracy where even the deranged and the criminal have votes. Respect and kindness, passion and fidelity, and wanting the other’s good had only as much weight in this federation as the way he drew his hand across his hair, or the curve of his throat, or the smell of his skin when he was lying in her arms.
There was also the rare bond of knowing everything that could be known about someone you desired. Or that he had killed before and would have done so now but that his love for her constrained even his deepest appetite, was stronger even than the drive to live. His death was the price for her being able to stay; he was sure that without it her pride in being loved so deeply would have sickened her.
While he was in Gower Street he went into McGiver’s. The young man in a brown overall was ringing up a sale for a man who corresponded exactly to everyone’s idea of what a builder should look like: a cap, donkey jacket, purple nylon vest, baggy jeans and muddy black unyielding wellingtons.
‘What’s the damage, then?’ said the builder jovially.
‘£147.38.’
‘How much for cash?’
‘£147.38,’ came the flatly identical reply.
The builder ogled Steven. ‘This one’s a comedian,’ he said, without rancour. He took out his wallet and counted out the money exactly from a thick wad and some loose change. The money paid and receipt in his wallet, he lifted up a complicated, heavy-looking construction lying against the counter in one large hairy hand, said ‘Cheers, squire,’ and, winking at Grlscz, told him that whatever he wanted it was bound to be cheaper at B&Q. Whistling, he pulled open the door and headed for a Transit van illegally parked on double yellow lines with two wheels up on the pavement. Grlscz watched him load up and drive away. He heard the builder shout a leering compliment at an irritated-looking woman in her early twenties wearing a short skirt, and then he was gone.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the assistant, in an attempt to get his attention.
Grlscz looked back at him and walked over to a selection of different gauges of plastic sheeting in a roll. He gestured at the thinnest. ‘I’d like about two metres.’
He was hungry all the time now, his stomach rumbled frequently and sometimes painfully: the white lines of starvation on his fingernails had thickened. Despite this, he was reluctant to kill her immediately or even soon. He had grown used to the pleasure of not having to watch his step in every way. He felt like a prisoner shortly to be released from jail, allowing the locked door and prison food to sharpen his taste for a fresh egg and his own set of keys.
Still, it was better not to push his luck and he decided she would be killed next week. She seemed particularly happy at the moment and her high spirits lifted his tiredness and the mild headaches that had become almost continuous because of his insistent need to eat.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked him suddenly.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You seem very happy.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘How long do we have?’
This caught him off guard.
‘I don’t know.’ It was the first time he had lied to her for a long time. It felt strange; unpleasant. ‘I have to go to Rainham on Saturday. I’ll be away all day. I’ve had a lot of time off recently. I couldn’t really refuse.’
She was indignant. ‘You’ve been ill. You shouldn’t have to make up for the time you’ve been away. Why don’t you just leave?’
He could see she instantly regretted this. But there was more at stake than her fumbling reference to the fact that he was dying, wouldn’t need a job and therefore didn’t have to be evasive with his employers. Getting this wrong might make her suspicious. Fortunately the insight that had taken him so long to learn – always tell the truth – was easy enough to follow here.
‘Clavell wants me to do a presentation to his partners about the stress research. It’s all set up. All it needs is their go-ahead to spend the money.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t need to be there to run it. I’d rather it didn’t go to waste. It’s worth doing.’
She nodded. It was easy for her to understand this.
‘Anyway,’ she said, smiling, ‘it’s probably just as well you’re not going to be here next Saturday.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve invited Martin to come over.’
He was offended that she hadn’t asked him first. He realised how odd his reaction was, even ridiculous. Was this a dare, he wondered.
He grimaced, mocking. ‘You’re right, Kent has never seemed so attractive.’
‘Karen’s left him.’
‘Ah,’ he replied.
‘You don’t have to pretend it bothers you.’
‘I’m not pretending. It doesn’t bother me.’
She laughed then changed the subject.
On Saturday he left the flat a good half-hour before Martin Beck was supposed to come. As he was searching for his keys in the hall she came out to say goodbye. ‘What time do you think you’ll be back?’ she said.
‘Late. Clavell said it would be the
last item on the agenda probably, but that I could try and do some discreet lobbying at lunch.’
‘I thought I might take Martin to Oxford later – there’s an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art I’ve been wanting to see.’
He nodded but she seemed keen to explain.
‘It might take his mind off his troubles and I’m not sure if I can spend the whole day talking about Karen to be honest. So don’t worry if there’s no one here when you get back.’ Then she leant over and kissed him.
He was not in fact due at the meeting with Clavell until four that afternoon. It was now ten thirty and he intended to drive to the hut on the coast to check that everything was in order and that it was still deserted.
It was. The last time he had been here the weather had been grey and damp but today, despite the late snap of cold, the sun was shining brightly. It was so intense that it made driving uncomfortable, the sun blinding him for almost the entire journey and always managing to be at a point in the sky where it was not quite obscured by the car’s visor.
When he arrived at the beach, there was no one to be seen. Indeed, he had never seen anyone there in the six years he had rented the place. Given that he had been in many isolated places, for one reason or another, he was surprised by this. You hardly had to wait twenty minutes anywhere else in England, no matter how secluded, before someone wandered past, nodding at you with fellow feeling or grumpy because isolation was why they, too, had made the effort. He spent half an hour checking that nothing had been disturbed, even by the most careful intruder, then left. The sun seemed even brighter and it was only now he had finished his business that he looked around the beach. It was an awful place. Everything on the beach – bird bones, seaweed, even bits of rope – looked as if it had once belonged to something alive, but now disassembled by the waves, sheared by the wind and leached by the sun so that every trace of its former life had vanished. For the first time, the exactness of the word struck him: these were remains.
He was about forty-five minutes from the meeting in Rainham when his mobile rang.