To Dare

by Jemma Wayne

  Afterwards, she would wonder why she hadn’t thought of calling up to George. Afterwards, she would wonder a lot of things. But in that moment, all that occurred to her to do was either to shut the curtains and shield herself from the boy’s strange probing eyes, or to open the door and ask him in.

  He lowered himself into a chair at the great oak table where moments before she had been sitting. He appeared to be waiting for something and so, without being asked, Veronica brought him a mug of hot chocolate and a sandwich. The sounds of slow chewing nibbled at their ears.

  “What’s happened, Dominic?” she ventured finally, nodding towards his hand.

  At first he shrugged in habit, but then, perhaps realising the obligations attached to his sitting there in her kitchen, he mumbled, “Nothing. Cut my finger on a knife.”

  “What were you doing with a knife?”

  For a moment, Dominic only stared at her, but when finally he did answer, his voice came out far bolder than before. “I was cutting a potato, wasn’t I?”

  “Oh.”

  Indignant, Dominic seemed a little taller to Veronica. She began to study him afresh, but as she was doing so, there was a roar of voices from next door, from his flat, and as quickly as he’d grown, Dominic sunk smaller.

  “Does your mum know you’re hurt?” Veronica persisted. “Did you do it at home?”

  Dominic slunk further into his seat. Again came the shrug.

  “Dominic, is everything alright?”

  This time, the boy’s beady eyes fixed firmly on the table, scanning the papers still littered across it.

  “Dominic,” Veronica urged, after another protracted silence.

  Nothing.

  “Dominic—”

  “I used to do colouring on a table like this,” he said suddenly. “At my grandparents’ flat. When I was little. Gram always made a roast dinner, and there was gravy in a little china boat. We never had a boat like that. Gramp let me pour his. He was a teacher, too, like you, but at a university.”

  Veronica accepted this outpouring carefully. She smiled, told him how lovely it all sounded, admired his grandfather’s position. Then, “Don’t you see them anymore?” she asked slowly.

  “Nah. They fell out with my mum. And Terry said I’m not allowed.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. But you know they are your grandparents so you probably could—”

  “No I can’t,” interrupted Dominic, with what Veronica suspected was a slight tone of condescension. He placed his injured hand gently on top of her sheets of marking.

  The reminder of schoolwork made Veronica wonder fleetingly what the time was, but not wanting to fluster Dominic, she resisted the desire to look at her watch. There was a peculiar detachment to the boy’s demeanour. Quite plainly he was there by choice, sitting at her table, eating her food; but he seemed also not there, not quite present. Briefly, she contemplated what George would think if he stumbled downstairs upon them – spawn of the thorn in their tranquillity, sitting at their table. But she pressed on.

  “Let me look at it,” she said.

  Standing up, she moved authoritatively to the medical box they kept in the kitchen cupboard and then over to him, where she held out her hand and, to her surprise, he placed his own within it. Unwrapping the towel, Veronica noticed again how small this boy was, how skinny and light, a fact that seemed cloaked by the bulky mass of shadow that emanated from him. When she reached his hand, she could have been holding a small bundle of twigs, easily shattered. She looked closely at his injured finger. The cut was deep, the skin either side still separate, but the blood had begun at last to congeal. It clearly had not been washed but the towel was thick with an unfathomable amount of blood and she was afraid of water starting it off again, so instead she applied a hefty blob of antiseptic, then placed a gauze over the wound and wrapped it carefully. Still the boy said nothing, but he turned his finger over as if to admire her work, and Veronica felt a sudden surge of gladness, usefulness. “Careful next time,” she smiled. “Cutting potatoes.”

  At this, Dominic half-smiled back at her. He lifted his eyes and again she was struck by the intensity of them, the darkness that hid within. She found herself wondering what he had wanted, coming to her home so late at night. Perhaps he was in danger – should she be calling somebody? Social services? The police? Or perhaps he’d needed somebody to confide in. Or maybe he just needed somebody to bandage his hand. Clearly he needed something.

  Fixing.

  There was a sudden surge in Veronica’s chest.

  “Are you alright, Dominic?” she asked again, pointedly this time, an unbidden image of saintliness trickling its way into her mind.

  But his smile dissolved. “Thanks for this,” he said, holding up his hand and standing to leave.

  “Are you going home?” she queried. “It sounds like there’s quite a gathering tonight. Is Mum there?”

  “Yeh,” he nodded.

  “You can stay here for a while, if you like,” she urged.

  But he was already at the door, already not listening, already somewhere else. “Yeh.”

  And then he was gone, out into the night, hovering for a full minute on his own doorstep before pushing open the door to a roar of trance music and other adult things.

  “Did I hear the door go?” George spoke sleepily, removing one of his earplugs as in socked feet Veronica crept into the bedroom. “Not that you can really hear anything with this racket going on.”

  “It was just me trying to lock up. The latch is playing up still.” For some reason, Veronica had decided not to tell George about Dominic, and his queries irritated her. She turned away.

  George half sat up against his pillow, cradling his earplugs in his hand. “We need to do something,” he said.

  “I’ll call the builders tomorrow.”

  “Not about that, about this.” Veronica looked at him and he nodded towards the wall that adjoined the neighbours’ flat. Dominic’s return had clearly done nothing to quiet the din or bring the gathering there to a close. “We can’t go on ignoring it,” George said. “It’s our lives, our wellbeing. We’ve put everything into this house, into making it a family home, and we’re blighted constantly by an ignoramus who doesn’t work, doesn’t give a thought to anyone but himself, screams at his family, must be on drugs otherwise I don’t know how he raves till God knows what hour in the morning, and ruins our lives. He’s not going to just stop. We need to do something.”

  Veronica’s first thought was to point out that actually, it wasn’t only the neighbours ruining their lives, it wasn’t solely their fault that this wasn’t the ‘family home’ they’d dreamed of; but she held the musing back, wondering why such barbed bullets shot from her so frequently. She set about undressing. And now came her second thought: George had actually acknowledged a flaw in their existence. Even if he was talking only about the neighbours and ignoring the bigger, baby-shaped blemish, until now, such an admission had been beyond him. His bravery touched her, and, “The boy was here,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “The boy from next door. Dominic. He was here just now. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Are you crazy? You let some strange kid into our home in the middle of the night? Are you alright? What did he want?”

  “He was injured. And he’s not strange. Actually, that’s not true, he’s very strange, but he’s not a stranger. I’ve spoken to him a bunch of times.”

  George sat up properly now, resting against cream waffle, and switched on the light. “What do you mean he was injured?”

  “He’d slashed his hand. He said it was from cutting a potato, but who knows. There certainly wasn’t an adult looking after him. Nobody had helped him with the cut. He’s only eleven you know.”

  George looked towards the adjoining wall. “Do you think Idiot Man did it to him?”

  “God, I hope not. I’ve no idea. But he’s gone back there now. And—” she paused to let the noise from next door make her point. �
�Well, they’re still raving.”

  “I think we should do something,” George said again.

  “About the boy?”

  “The boy, the baby, the woman, the noise.”

  “Maybe the woman’s part of it,” mused Veronica. “I thought, after that first night, that she might be the one in trouble, but why doesn’t she comfort the baby? Why isn’t she looking after her son? Or maybe she is in trouble and that’s why she can’t look after them.”

  Female shrieks resonated on cue through the bedroom wall. “It doesn’t sound like she’s in much trouble,” said George. “But now we know the boy’s been hurt, I think we have a duty to do something. Maybe that’s the reason we’re next to them, the reason for all of this.”

  Veronica smiled fondly at his attempts to rationalise the universe. “I agree. I keep thinking about that too, but you know, once you make that concern a formal thing, you set a whole process in motion. There’ll be social workers and potential intervention, and what if it ends up splitting the family, and we’re wrong?”

  “What if we’re not wrong?”

  Veronica sat on the bed next to George, her stomach tightening. “That would be bad,” she said. “If we did nothing.” There were other times in her life when she’d done nothing, too. Her father’s friend from Oman sprang again, uncalled into her mind. So did her English teacher. And a boy from the sixth form. And– “I don’t know. I don’t know what we should do.” She looked to George.

  “The thing is,” he said. “Even without that question, even if things are okay for the boy, and in the family, we can’t live our lives like this, we can’t live scared, we can’t just let them do this to us.”

  “I agree,” said Veronica again. “It’s better to be doing something.” She said this pointedly, and for a moment both of them were cut short by a joint awareness of other things un-acted upon, unsaid. But they pushed it together aside.

  “Let’s go round.” George took her hand and pulled her gently to the side of the bed.

  “What? Now?”

  “Yes. Let’s go together. Let’s be calm and pleasant, but let’s let them know that this isn’t okay. And that we’re not frightened of them.”

  “Um, I am a little bit frightened of them,” laughed Veronica nervously, confessing.

  Like George, it was rare for her to acknowledge any vulnerability. Like George, she hadn’t for the past year been able to do it. Even in the midst of their conversation, the epiphany of this caught Veronica’s breath a little. For months she’d been waiting for her husband to notice her tears, her darkness, to acknowledge it, her failure, their failure; but she had seen his darkness just as plainly as her own, and had also said nothing.

  “I am scared,” she dared again.

  The simple statement of this was transforming. George’s face altered in a way she hadn’t seen for a long time. Softening. He looked at her with a fresh attentiveness.

  “That kills me,” he said. “I hate that you feel that way in our home. I wish you didn’t. But, it’s all the more reason to confront them, I think. Come on, let’s do it together. I won’t let anything happen.”

  He was squeezing her hand as he said this and she felt that old surge of faith, and hope, and solidity.

  “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, but I’m taking the panic button.” It had come as part of their shiny new alarm system, no extra charge. When the security company had offered it, she’d thought it reminiscent of heist movies, or futuristic novels, but apparently for such houses these days, it was standard.

  George shook his head, amused. “You’re not going to need the panic button.”

  “I hope not,” she smiled, pulling on some tracksuit bottoms, but she slipped it off her bedside table and into her pocket nonetheless.

  They stood on the doorstep. They had already rung twice and George had just pressed the bell again. The night had turned cold and Veronica was pleased she had a jumper, an extra layer of padding between herself and the elements. Her legs itched beneath the cotton, but she kept hold of George’s arm.

  “How do you think he stands it?” she whispered, gesturing to the downstairs neighbour’s flat.

  “There’s a floor between his bedroom and their living room,” George replied. “We get the worst of it.”

  “Still,” she shrugged.

  The door opened. Bleary eyed, just inside the threshold, Terry leaned against the frame, his chest emblazoned red with an Arsenal strip, his feet bare. “You’re not pizza,” he laughed loudly, a slight spray of spit winging its way towards them.

  “No,” said George. “Definitely not pizza.”

  “Fuck off then,” laughed Terry.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What are you disturbing my party for, if you’re not pizza?”

  “Us disturbing your party?” fumed George, quietly.

  Veronica flashed him a restraining look. “Actually, you’re disturbing us,” she intervened. “We live next door and–”

  “I know who you are,” slurred Terry.

  “Yes, well then, you should know that you disturb us quite often, actually.”

  “Pipe down love,” Terry laughed again. “It’s my house isn’t it? I can do what I like in here.”

  “Actually, you can’t,” said George, stepping onto the higher step, a little closer to Terry who immediately straightened himself from his leaning stance. “There are laws about noise. And it’s late. You’re breaking the law.”

  Terry sniffed a few times and rubbed his hand against his nose. His hair was thick with grease, his eyes bloodshot. “Call the coppers then.” He raised his chin at them, seemingly amused, and reached for the door, making to close it, but George put his hand in the way. This surprised Terry. Veronica saw the shock dart across his face and into his frame, but there was no contest in strength and the door fell open. Terry took a clumsy step backwards, rescuing himself with an Oscarworthy pretence of purpose.

  “Maybe we will call the police,” interjected Veronica, thinking of Dominic, boldness flashing. But George squeezed her hand.

  “We’re here, talking to you,” said George calmly, firmly. “Because we’re trying not to involve the police. Or other authorities. But as I’m sure you’re aware, our bedroom borders your living room. We can hear everything. It’s not reasonable to be so loud, so late. We have jobs to get up for.”

  “Well I wouldn’t want you to be too knackered for your fancy jobs, would I?” jeered Terry, his voice taking on the mocking tones of a teenager. He peered past George towards Veronica. “Getting a bit tired are you love? Looks like you could do with some beauty sleep.”

  “I’d stop right there if I were you,” said George, his frame somehow broadening without moving.

  “Actually,” said Veronica. “I could do with some sleep. I could do with it being quiet enough to–”

  But Terry ignored her, his eyes locked on George. “Look, if you’re not pizza and you’re not the cops, trot back off to your prissy little house and fuck your prissy little woman and leave me alone,” Terry spat.

  This time Veronica squeezed George’s hand. “George.”

  But George was already letting go, moving closer to Terry, squaring up to him. He placed himself inches away from Terry’s face. “Do you want to come outside and say that to me again?” he asked slowly, softly.

  “Fuck off,” said Terry.

  “Come on,” George practically whispered. “You’re the big man, we hear you being the big man. Yes, you know what I’m talking about. Why not come on outside, let’s chat, big man to big man.”

  Their eyes remained locked – Terry’s raw and angry, George’s black with resolve. For what seemed like an interminable moment, Terry tried to hold George’s stare, as though the world was watching, as though his entire manhood rested on it, but finally he lowered his eyes. As he did so, his whole body shrank, the skinniness of his arms and his pallid complexion slipping into the space where a moment before there had been belligerence and venom. For an i
nstant, Veronica even felt sorry for him. She knew that George would never actually hit Terry, but Terry didn’t know that. Clearly he had weighed things up, considered George, considered himself, and found himself inferior.

  “Keep it down then,” said George, after allowing Terry’s submission to register fully, to imprint itself upon him. He continued to stand close to the cowed man. “Or next time we will be calling the police.”

  Eyes still lowered, Terry said nothing as George stepped backwards onto the pavement. He said nothing as George turned towards Veronica and took her hand. On the stairs behind him there was a creaking, and Veronica saw Simone appear. Eyes almost as blurry as Terry’s, she held one hand against the wall to balance herself. “Everything alright, Tel?” she asked, slurring considerably. But still he said nothing.

  Until, as George and Veronica were navigating around the railing onto their own step, suddenly he leaned out of his doorway, and like a beaten animal made one last, defiant cry. “I’ll have you begging! I’ll have you on your knees and broken! Fucking toff wanker!”

  And then he slammed the door, and George laughed, and Veronica felt her stomach contract with terror.

  Simone

  Even from the bedroom, the stench of alcohol is stale and sticky. Next to her, Terry lays naked, one skinny arm draped over the side of the mattress as if pointing down to oblivion. There is a nightstand next to their bed, and on it is an empty plastic packet smeared very slightly with the remnants of white powder, like stratus clouds. Simone has been staring at that packet for a good few minutes, recalling her GCSE Geography trip to the sand dunes in Studland Bay. They were taught there about longshore drift, and spits, and different types of cloud: cumulonimbus, cumulus, stratus… The powder is definitely stratus. She got an A* for that project.