Swallowed By The Cracks e-Pub

by Lee Thomas, Gary McMahon, S. G. Browne, Michael Marshall Smith

  I got up and walked across the office, ignoring the rest of my co-workers who were staring at their screens as if hypnotised. Leaving Mick at his computer, tapping at the keys like an inquisitive monkey, I went out onto the landing and headed for the disabled toilet – I never used the able-bodied one; when I shit I like to shit alone, without anyone else hovering around to sniff my arse.

  I kicked open the door and went inside, locking the door behind me. I took a piss instead, closing my eyes and listening to the sound. Then, after a short pause, I reached out and flushed the toilet.

  Turning to wash my hands in the undersized basin, I looked at my reflection in the small, square mirror attached to the wall. I didn't recognise the face that stared back at me; it was blotchy, bloated, loaded with too many full nights and empty promises. I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue. It was an odd yellow colour, like the leaf of some kind of exotic plant.

  "Blah!" I said. Then I said it again.

  The room was tiny, the walls pressing in, closing me down. I shut my mouth and tried not to scream, the sound of my teeth snapping together far too loud in the enclosed space.

  Outside, on the landing, I ran into my boss coming up the stairs. He was returning from a meeting in Bradford, and was adjusting his tie as he gained the landing. "Hi, Simon," he said, frowning. He was a big chap in cheap shoes but with an expensive haircut

  "Hello, Brendan. Good meeting?"

  "Listen, I was going to come and see you later, before lunch. Do you have a few minutes? There's something we need to go over in my office." It was not an invitation; I was expected to say yes and follow him.

  "No problem, Brendan."

  We walked silently through the door and into Brendan's inner office. He closed the door behind me, smiling.

  I sat down without being asked and stared at the pictures on the walls. Photographs of his bland wife and their ugly kids; a bad watercolour landscape depicting some seaside scene I didn't recognise; a framed University degree in something I could never quite maintain the interest to read.

  Brendan squeezed his large frame behind his long desk. The wheels on his chair squeaked as he shuffled forward. He clasped his hands on the desktop, his fingers wrestling on an ink blotter covered in doodles of little men and women and what looked like big dogs.

  "I've been meaning to have a word with you for some time."

  "Yes?" I stared him right in the eye; I knew he respected the direct approach – or at least he pretended to after reading it in some shallow management pamphlet.

  "It's about... well, it's about your recent work."

  Something over his shoulder caught my eye and I shifted my gaze to look out through the window.

  "Your focus isn't what it should be."

  From where I was sitting, I could see the Farm Foods car park on the opposite side of the road. At that time of day there were not many vehicles parked there, but the shop was open for business.

  "I mean, you don't seem to be concentrating. Your work is suffering. Tell me, are you still interested in what you do?"

  A man stood at the centre of a parking bay near the side entrance – a spot where nobody ever parked, even when the store was busy. I'd always found it odd that a perfectly good parking space was never filled, but the one time I had tried to park there I was unable to use it. The spot had an atmosphere, a raw and shifting sense of... what, dread? Horror? It was difficult to tell, but the small rectangular patch of cracked concrete felt unwelcoming in a way that it was impossible to deny. I'm sure it's the same when the interiors of certain buildings are said to be intimidating, or accident-heavy stretches of modern motorways hold a cold, anxious atmosphere which makes drivers put their foot down on the accelerator...

  The man was not moving. The rain fell upon his head and shoulders like shredded strips of polythene thrown from above. His arms hung loose at his sides and his hands were closed into fists, the fingers curled tightly into his palms. His mouth gaped, as if he were silently singing; a single long note held way beyond its breaking point. I imagined that I could almost hear it.

  "Simon? Are you even listening, Simon?"

  For as long as I stared, the man remained motionless. His long black overcoat didn't even flap in the wind.

  "Simon!"

  I turned my head sharply towards Brendan, blinking, feeling like I'd woken from a short nap. He was glaring at me, red stains blooming at the centre of his cheeks. "Sorry. Sorry, Brendan. What were you saying?"

  "For God's sake, Simon." He stood up too quickly and knocked a mug filled with pencils onto the floor. Neither of us bothered to pick them up. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Your lack of focus, the way your mind is never on what you're doing."

  I tried to care but couldn't summon the energy. Glancing back towards the big office window, I noted that the man had moved on. There was now a small white van parked in the space next to the one he'd vacated.

  "Do you like your job, Simon? I mean, times are hard, we're in a recession, and redundancies might be on the horizon. You aren't doing yourself any favours here." He sat back down, mellowing. "I know things have been rough for you lately – God knows, we all liked Polly. You had a good thing going there..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

  "Can I go now?" I blinked at him, seeing through his shabby pretence. He was a sad man playing at being a manager. People like him didn't care; they simply acted like they did while they sharpened the knives they'd use to stab you in the back.

  "Yes, Simon." He sighed, rather theatrically I thought. "Yes, you can leave." Then he picked up some random papers and shuffled them, as if punctuating the end of our meeting.

  I got up and left the room, not bothering to close the door behind me. I heard Brendan sigh again as he crossed the room to slam it.

  I messed about until home time, killing the final few hours of the working day by answering emails, browsing the internet for cheap flights, reading badly written film and book reviews on badly designed websites. At 5:15 p.m. I tugged on my coat and headed for the stairs.

  "G'night," said Mick, speaking to my back. I ignored him and went straight to my car, which was parked across two spaces in the private car park reserved for company directors. The dark surface was stained even darker in patches by the rain. My hair was wet and my scalp began to itch.

  The short drive home was miserable and rather taxing. It seemed that all the bad drivers in Yorkshire where on the road at the same time. Which meant, of course, that everyone who owned a car was out there: Yorkshire people drive like old people fuck.

  I parked outside my rented flat and entered the building, shaking off the rain. The stairwell echoed hollowly as I ran up the building's core to the top floor. My door stuck when I tried to open it, so I fixed it by repeatedly kicking the thin steel strip along the bottom and swearing at it.

  The flat smelled musty, as if no one actually lived there. The floor was littered with days-old newspapers, takeaway cartons and empty beer bottles. I went straight to the fridge, shrugging off my coat and slipping off my shoes. Grabbing a bottle of Molsten, I continued through into my bedroom to change out of my work clothes.

  I put on a pair of faded jeans and a black shirt that hid my beer belly. On my feet I wore some running shoes that were so old the right one had a hole worn into the area above my big toe. I examined myself in the mirror and turned quickly away. I looked worn-out, wasted; my lifestyle was draining me of any good looks I might once have possessed.

  I took a second beer from the fridge, half-drained it in one swallow, and then poured myself a vodka from the bottle I kept in the freezer. I knew I was drinking too much, but I didn't really care enough to stop. It was something to get me through, a crutch to lean on now that my human support had gone away. God, that sounded like the lyric to some antiquated blues son
g.

  I rang a taxi and drank another glass of vodka while I waited for it to arrive. I would be in town early, so decided to stop in at the North Bar – a cosy little place where they sold a good selection of foreign beers.

  If Polly was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear, alcohol would anesthetise whatever part of me was cut away.

  2

  It was still early so the bar was almost empty. There was a new jukebox in one corner and someone had pumped in enough money to play a Nirvana album all the way through. I liked the band, so felt immediately at home.

  I ordered a draft Budvar from a bored-looking barmaid. She had green strips dyed into her shoulder-length blonde hair and a gold stud was stuck to one snotty nostril like a pimple. She sniffed as she served me the drink, sneezed into her fist.

  "I hope you wash your hands before you offer me any nuts."

  She gazed at me, more bored than ever. "Fuck off, old man."

  That put me firmly in my place. I smiled, raised my glass, and fled towards the back of the room.

  "Well done, Valentino." A female voice rose from a table pushed against the wall. I glanced over and saw the red tip of a cigarette poised above a wide, easy grin. She had short dark hair, green eyes and a snake tattoo running down the left side of her throat. Her black leather jacket was torn at one elbow and her hands were unnaturally large, the fingers bony and big-knuckled.

  "I always did have a way with the ladies." I sipped my drink. She got up and walked across to my table. Her bare legs were short for her body; they hung chunkily beneath a short pleated skirt. If she bent over, I bet myself that I would get a flash of her knickers.

  "Mind if I join you?" She sat down without even waiting for an answer.

  "Only if you're in the mood for my scintillating banter and witty comebacks."

  She smiled; this time it was slightly guarded. Using the nail of her right index finger, she flicked cigarette ash onto the damp tabletop. I stared at it and watched as it dissolved into the spilled beer.

  "My name's Diane," she said, holding out one of those workmen's hands. I stared hard at it before giving it a shake.

  "I'm Simon. Come here often?" I took another swallow of cold beer.

  Laughing, Diane scratched her ear and blinked those wonderful gemstone eyes. The more I looked at this woman the more attractive she became. Despite her weird hands and short, stumpy legs, she possessed a lazy sexuality that I found oddly appealing.

  "I was supposed to be meeting a friend – he comes here quite a bit. The bastard hasn't turned up, though, and his mobile seems to be turned off." Her smile didn't waver as she told me this, so I guessed that she wasn't too hurt by the snub.

  "It's rough when a date stands you up. Maybe you should've promised him something at the end of the evening…"

  She shook her head. A nose ring winked in the light from a ceiling-mounted fixture; it was like a tiny eye, keeping watch to make sure I made no sudden moves. "Oh, I never put out on a first date. Unless it's for money."

  I laughed, almost spilling my beer. "You're a one, aren't you?"

  "Depends what one is." She narrowed her eyes and, and in that moment I knew that we'd made a connection, however tenuous; then I mentally kicked myself for such bad timing. I looked at the clock on the wall above the bar. 6:30. In an hour, I had to meet Polly.

  "Listen," I said, shuffling the bar stool along the wooden floor so that our thighs were touching under the low table. "I'm meeting my ex-girlfriend. I don't know how you're fixed, but I'm not expecting it to take long – she's going to give me some sort of bad news, so I'll need a good drink afterwards. How about meeting me back here at, say, eight o'clock?"

  She stared into my eyes, those strange green emeralds widening to draw me in deeper than I was prepared to go. "I don't usually arrange to meet up with strange men."

  "I'm not strange, just a little odd and needy."

  She laughed again. "Okay. I have a few calls to make, and I'm picking up some weed from another friend at eight, but I can be back here for eight-thirty. But if you stand me up, I'll find you and I'll kill you." The smile disappeared and I felt like I'd suddenly missed the joke. Then it was back, slow and sly. The snake undulated across the skin of her throat as she swallowed her drink.

  Thirty minutes later I was walking towards The Porcupine, the taste of Diane still in my mouth. She'd leaned over and kissed me as I got up to leave, a teaser for later that evening. I'd enjoyed the way her tongue had pushed into my mouth even before our lips made contact; it was dirty, expressive, and just a little bit scary. She tasted of smoke and white wine, and underneath those was another more unusual flavour that I couldn't nail down.

  It was dark and the traffic was busy. Someone ran in front of a bus on the Headrow, prompting what sounded like a hundred car horns to blare in unison. A woman carrying too many shopping bags pushed past me on the footpath and I stumbled into the gutter. I twisted my ankle, but it didn't hurt a bit; the alcohol in my system acted as protection against such everyday injuries.

  I stood and waited to cross the road. Cars and buses streamed past me, a continuous line of blurred, washed-out colour. I looked for a gap to dodge through but none appeared. The traffic lights refused to turn green and I was starting to get jumpy.

  A single-decker bus trundled towards the junction just down from where I was standing at the kerb. Its lights were out, signalling that the vehicle was off duty, but a single figure sat curled on the back seat, its right upper arm pressed against the window. The figure was dark, hunched, and seemed to be staring right at me. I couldn't be sure because the interior of the bus was so dim, but it looked like the figure had its mouth open wide in a dark and silent scream.

  More horns blared; a mournful siren approached rapidly from the top end of the Headrow, causing the traffic to pull in towards the central reservation. When I looked back at the bus it was empty; the back seat was unoccupied. A police car sped past, the siren still going.

  Polly was sitting at a table in the window as I approached The Porcupine. I stood there under a set of defective traffic lights, watching her as she examined a drinks menu. Her nimble hands held the menu delicately, as if it were a precious volume. She was biting her upper lip, as she always did when she was engrossed in a task. Her long ash-blonde hair was swept back from her face, held in a loose ponytail by a thick red elastic band. She looked lovely there in the window: a glowing display in the tidy shop-front of a perfect life.

  I was unable to move, so I waited until the sense of awe and grief passed. Polly glanced up when a waitress approached her table, pointed to an item on the menu, and then said something through a smile. The waitress, tired-looking but with a nice smile of her own, nodded her head and laughed.

  I waited until Polly had her drink, then I moved towards the door, rain on my shoulders and pain in my heart.

  She saw me as I crossed the room, half-standing to raise a hand into the air. I waved back, smiling tentatively. I didn't know why she'd summoned me here, and needed to remain cautious.

  "Hi," she said, pressing her hands against the table top as I lowered myself into a chair.

  "That looks nice." I indicated the drink before her – a dark-coloured cocktail with lime and sugar around the rim of the glass. "Mojito. It's Latin-American. Rum and coke." She took a sip. The smile was still there, but now it was muted.

  I hailed a different waitress and ordered a double whisky. I was already half cut and intended to see it through to the end. We sat in an uneasy silence until my drink was brought to the table; then I saluted Polly with my glass and downed half of the generous measure of liquor.

  "You look like you needed that." Lights shone above her head and towards the back of the room. They doused her in a hazy glow, painting her hair with a dull lustre. U2 was playing on the sound system,
an old song from their early militant days.

  "Do I? Need it, I mean. Do I need a drink for what you going to tell me?" I stared her down, refusing to budge. She'd already hurt me enough for two lifetimes, and I didn't intend to spend the rest of this one in thrall to her presence.

  "I see you're all business this evening, Simon. I was hoping we could be civilised."

  U2 was replaced by The Clash: London Calling. Whoever was in charge of the sounds had good taste.

  "I'm sorry." I wasn't quite sure if that was true, but I said it anyway, thinking that if I was lucky I might just end up believing it. "I always seem to be on guard whenever we meet." There was so much that I wanted to say, there were so many questions that I needed to ask... but I could voice none of them. Every time I tried, the words got stuck in my throat. It was as if we were facing each other across an empty field littered with buried landmines, and any false step would set off a chain reaction of psychic detonations.

  "I've done a lot of thinking since we split. There's been a lot to sort out, to consider." She grasped her glass but didn't raise it to her red lips; she parted them, her dark red tongue slipping out to moisten the area. "Danny is old enough that he can make sense of the hurt we do to each other. He's unhappy. It's affecting him at school. He's started bullying another kid, and when I ask him why he can't seem to put the reason into words."

  So our son had inherited our inability to communicate, and was taking it out on those around him. "Shit. That's bad." Still, even now, I could not say what needed saying; could not form the words we both wanted to hear. I didn't even know what they were.

  "So I've made a decision – one you won't like." She paused. Took a drink. Expecting me to react. Instead I just sat and waited. "I'm moving back down south, to live with my mum for a while. She has that big house and no one to put in it. Danny and I can live in one half; she can live in the other, like a granny annexe."