Behind

by Nicole Trope

  Beth looked at the image and then she shrugged her little shoulders. ‘I didn’t tear that. I didn’t even see it until now.’

  ‘But Beth…’

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Rachel whispered behind him. He turned, startled to see her standing in the doorway, her hair damp at the ends.

  ‘I found it in my… I mean, I think it fell out of my briefcase. I thought Beth…’ He stopped speaking. Rachel’s face was pale, her body rigid and still.

  ‘Rach, are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She reached out and grabbed the picture away from him and then she turned and ran back upstairs.

  He went after her to talk about it but she pushed past him as he entered the bedroom. ‘I need to get to my mother,’ she said and she virtually flew down the stairs and out the door.

  It was stupid to bring the picture up with Beth but it feels like that was just another mistake to add to a long list of mistakes he’s made in the last six months. He shouldn’t have ignored the signs that the company was in trouble but he kept hoping that things would come right. He shouldn’t have bought a house unless he was absolutely sure of his job, and he shouldn’t be snapping at his grieving wife.

  He picks up the knife he’s using and slices open another box.

  He’s been surprised by the number of websites there are for jobseekers. He was optimistic about that at first until he realised that it must mean there are also a lot of people searching for jobs. He doesn’t know how he’s going to compete against younger people, all willing to earn less and all equipped with more up-to-date knowledge.

  ‘At least I’m getting things sorted,’ he says aloud to himself as he opens up another box of books. He wonders how long the bank will give them before they force them to sell the house or they simply take it away. He knows that if they sell, it’s unlikely they will ever get back into the market again. He and Rachel will have to rent for the rest of their lives.

  He takes the next book out. It’s about sex, given to Rachel by one of her friends as a joke on her hen night. He looks at the cover with its lurid picture of a couple in bed. He and Rachel haven’t been intimate for weeks. It feels like they’re losing touch, like they’re drifting away from each other, each of them wrapped in a bubble of their own problems.

  They don’t really talk to each other at all. Her mother’s illness colours everything right now but he wonders if there is something else as well. Did the scare she had change the way she feels about their home and about him because he was the one who pushed for the house? Was she telling him the truth about there being no one in their home?

  But why would she lie to him? It’s possible that she resents being stuck out here without the security of neighbours and friends. The empty spaces where houses will one day stand can feel threatening in their openness. He finds himself checking the locks on the doors at night more than once before he goes to bed. He can imagine that she is finding the house a scary place to be. The missing money also hangs between them. He’s seen no evidence of any shopping she might have done but he doesn’t feel like he can confront her on that, not with everything else going on.

  He places the book on the shelf and then pulls it off again. He decides to take it upstairs, to shove it in one of the drawers. Beth’s reading skills are getting better every day and he can see a time when she will want to read the books they have collected over the years. He wouldn’t want her to find such a thing. He picks up his phone from the floor and slips it into his pocket, not wanting to be away from it for a minute.

  Climbing the stairs to their bedroom, he goes to the built-in wardrobe, opening the bottom drawer on Rachel’s side and pushing aside the collection of gym clothes to shove the book underneath. As he is moving them aside, he feels some paper and, without thinking, pulls at it. It’s an envelope, thickly stuffed with cash. He knows without having to count it that this is the $700 Rachel has taken from the account over the last two weeks.

  He sits back on his haunches, staring at the plain-coloured envelope that contains his wife’s betrayal.

  Is she planning to run? Is that what she’s doing? Will she keep pulling money out of the account until there is nothing left? Will she leave him when her mother is gone? He won’t let her take Beth from him. There is no way he will let that happen.

  He stands up, his hand gripping the envelope, and then he curses and shoves it back into the drawer. He won’t tell her he’s found it. Rage heats up his body, and he stamps downstairs and heads straight for the whisky, which after only a few days is nearly finished. Whisky and beer make it easier to get through everything. They just do. He pours the rest of the bottle into a glass, enjoying the anticipation as the amber liquid gurgles. He picks up the glass and tips it one way and then another, watching the colour lighten as it catches the sun, and then he glugs it down. How has this happened? Only a few weeks ago he had a good job and a happy marriage and now he feels like he has nothing. He goes to the fridge for a beer and then he slumps in front of the television, the sound up loud on a basketball game, placing his silent phone on his lap. He cannot be bothered to carry on unpacking.

  What is he worrying for? Why does he care if he gets a new job at all? If his wife is going to leave him, then nothing is worth doing anymore. He thinks about not seeing his little girl every day, about not getting to lie next to her at night and read her a story as she drifts off to sleep. His rage fades with each sip as the whisky makes its way into his bloodstream followed by the beer; and then all he’s left with is an unutterable sadness.

  Something has happened to his life. Something has broken and he doesn’t know what it is. Around him, in the silent house, in the eerily quiet neighbourhood, he can feel that things are hidden from him, that there are secrets being kept. But he cannot figure out how to make his wife reveal herself and tell him the truth. He cannot figure out how to get a job and get his life back on track. He sighs and stands up, clicking off the television.

  ‘Unpack the boxes,’ he mutters to himself, because that’s the one thing he can do.

  23

  Little Bird

  It’s nearly the end of the summer holidays. I went to Maisie’s house to play yesterday and she was so, so sad about having to go back to school but I don’t mind. Maisie went on a holiday with her family to the beach and she and her mum went to see lots and lots of movies but me and Mummy had to stay home all the time because her head was sore a lot. She said it was her head but she keeps holding onto her side so I think it’s maybe not her head.

  Mummy and Mrs Jackson from next door are in the kitchen having coffee and I am sitting outside the door listening with my big ears. That’s what Kevin says I have, ‘big ears’. I looked in the mirror and I don’t think they’re big, just normal ears. ‘He’s just teasing you,’ says Mummy. ‘Just ignore him.’

  I try to ignore Kevin but it’s not always easy. Sometimes he comes to find me just to be mean to me. Yesterday he went into my room and pulled all the books off my bookshelf. I didn’t know he’d done it until I went upstairs to put the book I was reading back in its special place on the shelf and found out. I had to pick up all the books quickly, quickly, quickly because I heard Daddy’s car in the driveway and Daddy hates it when they aren’t neatly on the shelf. My hands were shaking, shaking but I managed to get it done in time. I didn’t tell Mummy what Kevin had done and I didn’t say anything to him. I’m scared that he will do something else to get me into trouble with Daddy if I say anything. I think he wants to get me into trouble. I think he wants Daddy to give me a sore head like he does to Mummy.

  I know Mummy doesn’t like me to sit outside the kitchen door and listen but I’m bored, bored, bored. I have played with my dollies and read my book and watched some television and tidied up and I want to go out. Mummy said she would fill my paddling pool for me but I told her I was too big for the paddling pool but that’s not the truth. I’m scared to go in there now in case Kevin comes home and tries to push me under the water again.


  I made sure my room was sparkling clean after I played with my dollies, and now I don’t want to mess it up again because it’s the late afternoon and Daddy comes home in the evening when the sun is still in the sky because it’s summer. Mummy says he comes home at six o’clock. She is teaching me to tell the time on the big clock in the kitchen. The clock in the kitchen is harder to read because it has hands and not just numbers like the one by my bed, but I’m learning. I know when it’s six o’clock but I don’t like six o’clock. Mummy also doesn’t like six o’clock. When it’s five o’clock she has to make sure that the whole house is sparkling clean and that she is wearing a pretty dress because Daddy says, ‘I like to see my darling wife looking her best.’ Mummy says she likes to look her best too but sometimes I don’t believe her. Sometimes I think Mummy would like to be able to wear her comfy clothes all the time and have her hair in a ponytail like I do.

  Mrs Jackson doesn’t wear her hair in a ponytail; she wears her hair in a messy bun and bits of it are always falling out. She wears ‘this old thing’ all the time so she’s always comfy. She comes over for coffee sometimes. Only when Mummy’s head isn’t sore. She is older than Mummy and she has three children but they’ve all grown up now and act ‘like they raised themselves’. Mrs Jackson gets cross because her children, whose names are Ashley, Emma and Mitchel, don’t call her on the phone. Mrs Jackson has a big round tummy and today she is wearing black leggings and a pink and purple top with shiny bits on it.

  Mummy said, ‘Don’t you look sparkly, Peg,’ and Mrs Jackson laughed and said, ‘Oh, this old thing!’ Daddy says Mrs Jackson is ‘a disgusting woman who’s lost control of herself’. Mummy doesn’t say anything when he says that but she looks sad because she likes Mrs Jackson.

  I put my big ear against the door of the kitchen and I can hear Mummy laughing. I like to hear her laugh.

  Mrs Jackson says, ‘So I told her not to worry about some stupid man. I keep telling her that but she’s still obsessed with getting married and I thought girls weren’t worried about that anymore, not in this generation.’

  ‘She really shouldn’t worry about it. She’s only twenty-five and someone will be along soon enough. She’s so pretty and so smart.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know, and I do keep telling her that sometimes marriage is the worst thing that can happen to someone. I mean, Barry and I are happy but not everyone is, and it seems these days that there are more and more unhappy marriages.’

  Mummy doesn’t say anything and I press my ear harder up against the door in case she is whispering but all I can hear is the sound of her teaspoon stirring her cup of coffee.

  ‘You know, love,’ Mrs Jackson says very softly, like she knows I’m listening, ‘if you ever need anything, any help or anything like that, you know you only have to come to me. I promise we’ll help you any way we can, whatever you need, really. Money or a place to stay – anything. You know that, don’t you?’

  Mummy still doesn’t say anything and then I hear her sniff. ‘Thanks, Peg. I know, you’ve told me often enough. I just… have to figure this out for myself, I think.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Mrs Jackson.

  I wonder what it would be like to live in Mrs Jackson’s house. I went there once with Mummy to drop off a plate after Mrs Jackson made us some Christmas cookies. They were nice – not as nice as the ones that Mummy makes but they had green and red icing and I licked off the icing before I ate the biscuit and my tongue turned a funny colour which made Mummy smile. I’m not sure I would like to live in Mrs Jackson’s house because it is not very sparkling clean and it smells like dog because she has two dogs but they are old and they don’t want to play with me because they just like to sleep. Mrs Jackson doesn’t put all her dishes away in the cupboard and she doesn’t clean everything so all the counters in her kitchen are covered in plates and other stuff. When me and Mummy were there to give back the plate, Mr Jackson came home and said, ‘Hello, neighbours, how are you both doing on this fine day?’ I smiled but I didn’t say anything because Mr Jackson is kind of scary-looking and he has a long grey beard. I was sitting on a kitchen chair next to Mummy and I watched Mr Jackson to see what he was going to do about the big mess in the kitchen. I waited to see if he was going to tell Mrs Jackson she was ‘an ungrateful pig’ because that’s what Daddy said to Mummy one night when he touched the top of the fridge and it was sticky. I thought Mr Jackson would say a lot of mean things to Mrs Jackson because there was sooo much mess.

  But he didn’t do anything, he just made himself a sandwich and went to eat it in front of the television. I don’t think Mrs Jackson ever gets a sore head. Maybe if Mummy and me lived at Mrs Jackson’s house she wouldn’t have a sore head so much and we could go out to the beach and the zoo and the movies.

  I hear Mrs Jackson push her chair back and I know that means she’s stood up because it is time to go because it is nearly six o’clock and time for Daddy to come home and for everyone and everything to be sparkling clean. I stand up and go upstairs to have my shower so I am ready for when Daddy comes home.

  When I am done, I sit on my bed and wait because Daddy says he needs time to have a drink and relax before I come and say hello to him. I hear him come home and go into the kitchen and he says, ‘And what did you do with your little day today?’ to Mummy.

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ she says and I know she won’t tell him about Mrs Jackson coming over for coffee because that is one of our little secrets because Daddy doesn’t like Mrs Jackson because she is ‘nosey’. But I like Mrs Jackson.

  ‘Where’s Kevin?’ Daddy asks Mummy.

  ‘He’s at James’s house, remember? I told him to be home by six but he—’

  ‘He doesn’t listen to you, I know… and why would he, my darling? Why would he listen to someone like you?’ Daddy laughs but Mummy doesn’t laugh with him so I don’t think she finds it funny.

  ‘I told him to be home at seven so he’ll be here then.’

  ‘But you asked me to tell him to be home at six, that’s what you…’

  Mummy stops speaking and she and Daddy are very, very quiet. I sit still on my bed and I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I wait and I wait and finally Daddy calls me. ‘Where’s my Little Bird?’ he says and I jump off my bed and say, ‘Tweet, tweet,’ and I run downstairs to give him a hello hug. I sit in the kitchen with him while he has his drink and Mummy finishes getting dinner ready. I tell him all about how I played with my dollies and tidied up and he reads some of the newspaper and listens to me.

  At seven o’clock exactly Kevin comes in and Daddy looks at his watch. ‘Right on time,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Kevin and we all sit down to eat. We don’t talk or laugh like the families on television do. We all look at our plates, and when Kevin and I are finished we wait for Daddy to say we can leave the table. Mummy doesn’t eat much. Her eyes are red and she looks sad so maybe she isn’t hungry. Sometimes I don’t feel hungry at dinner either, especially if Mummy is sad. I wonder if she would be sad if we lived at Mrs Jackson’s house? I think maybe, maybe she wouldn’t be.

  24

  Kevin

  ‘Today I would like to talk about your first incident, your first act of violence,’ says Dr Sharma. It’s Saturday so Dr Sharma is in jeans and a sweatshirt as though the casual clothes mean she’s not wasting her Saturday here with the lunatics of the world.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be today?’

  ‘No, I mean, I have…’ She stops talking, aware that she almost, almost, told me something about her life. That’s a big no-no in here. You never know who’s going to turn up on your doorstep.

  I know that outside the sun is shining but the air is crisp and cool. This morning at breakfast I looked out into the gardens and saw how bright it was but I only know what it feels like from listening to the nurses talk. Being allowed out into the gardens is a privilege. I have yet to earn any privileges.

  In here it is always the same temperature, no ma
tter the season or the time of day. I am wearing tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, which is how we all dress if we’re not shuffling around in pyjamas. The passing of time is not obvious, especially since the lights stay on in the corridors all night. Between the drugs and the light and the temperature, I’m sure some people are confused as to whether they’ve been here three days or three months. I know how long I’ve been here because I am counting down from my twenty-one days. Twelve days to go. Dr Sharma is still unconvinced I’m insane.

  ‘So, the first time you were violent,’ she says again.

  I think about it and I decide not to mention anything she wouldn’t have on file. Instead I tell her something she already knows because it’s right there on her computer. I tell her about the first officially recorded time.

  ‘It was at school. I was fifteen.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees.

  ‘If you know, why do I have to talk about it again?’

  ‘I want to hear about it from your perspective.’

  ‘I was talking to a friend in class and a teacher told me to stop.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees and she sits forward, legs slightly open, as though this is really exciting. She is wearing too much perfume today, something sweet and cloying. And she’s wearing more make-up than she usually does.

  ‘And,’ she says and I hear an edge of frustration in her voice.

  ‘She told me to stop talking, so I hit her.’

  I can still remember the feel of my hand against her cheekbone, hear the sound of skin hitting skin, and most importantly, I can still feel the surge of power that ran through me when I realised what I’d done.

  ‘Why? I understand you didn’t want to be told what to do but why did you react the way you did?’

  I shrug my shoulders. I have no intention of explaining that Miss Blakewell was a small pale woman who seemed scared of the bigger boys at school. I was the biggest there at fifteen. Big and filled with muscle from sport. I played everything. I wasn’t brilliant at any one sport, but when I played rugby I just charged ahead, knocking everyone over. I enjoyed rugby the most. They like you to be aggressive. They celebrate your violence. The other stuff I played because it kept me out of the house and my father was happy for me to take part in as much sport as I wanted. If I was out of the house, I wasn’t making a mess.