Sottopassaggio

by Nick Alexander

  Suddenly aware of the screaming engine, I change into second. “Sorry,” I say.

  A little way up the road, I pull into a bus stop. I put the handbrake on and look around the car, speechless.

  With the exception of her cheeks, Jenny is white as a sheet; her face glistens with tears.

  “Christ!” I say. Is everyone OK?” I ask.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenny gasps.

  I look at Tom. “And you, Tom?” I say. “Are you OK?”

  Tom shakes his head then laughs. “Jees!” he says. “I think so.”

  I exhale heavily and raise a hand to my mouth. Tom places his left hand on the dashboard. It glistens with blood, thick and dark.

  “Tom! Your hand!” I say.

  Tom frowns at me, and then slowly lifts his hand and stares at it uncomprehendingly, slowly turning it from side to side.

  He raises his hand again and touches the side of his head. When he brings it back into view it is darker still. The blood is dripping off it onto his lap.

  “Shit!” he says. “He got me. That arsehole got me!”

  I lean over and grasp his chin, turning his head towards me. The blood is flowing fast and free, a widening river, glistening black and sliding down his neck forming an obscene stain reaching from his collar to his shoulder.

  “I’ll be OK,” Tom says. “Drive on.”

  I shake my head. “Tom, it’s…” I swallow hard. “It’s bad,” I say.

  Tom frowns at me then glances down at his shoulder. When he turns back to me he looks visibly paler, tinged with green.

  “Mark?” he says, his voice wobbling. “I need you to… I don’t feel quite… I think I’m going to...” His head slumps.

  “Tom!” Jenny cries.

  Only his seatbelt is holding him upright. My mouth drops. I stare at him.

  “Tom,” I say touching his leg and leaning over. “Tom?”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jenny says.

  I shake my head.

  “What’s wrong with Tom?” Jenny asks again.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Think,” I say.

  Jenny grabs Tom’s shoulder and shakes him. “Tom?” she weeps.

  “We need a hospital,” I say.

  Jenny shakes Tom’s shoulder again.

  “JENNY!” I scream. “LEAVE HIM. Just tell me where the fucking hospital is.”

  Jenny stares blankly at me, and then, as if someone has clicked a switch, as if she has suddenly changed modes, she leans down between the two seats, and peers out through the windscreen, getting her bearings.

  “Do a u-turn,” she says quietly, almost mechanically. “Go down to the lights and turn right. It’s at the end of the road.”

  What Friends Are For

  I sip hot chocolate from the vending machine and nervously watch the door. It has crossed my mind that there is probably no more likely place to bump into Nick than the local casualty ward, and the idea of facing him alone terrifies me.

  My left ear is swollen and painful where Nick boxed me, and my right ear hurts too with a different kind of throbbing sting. I apparently bashed it when I fell against the Mini.

  “At least I’ll be symmetrical,” I think.

  Jenny is the first to reappear, advancing along the corridor like a fragile old lady. As she reaches me I stand and open my arms.

  “Jenny,” I say.

  We hug perfunctorily, and she stands back and smiles weakly.

  “Nothing broken,” she says. “Just bruises.”

  “And the baby?” I ask.

  Jenny nods. “The baby’s fine. Apparently she’s a tough little critter.”

  “She?” I repeat. It’s the first time Jenny has mentioned the baby’s sex.

  Jenny nods. “I forgot to tell the nurse not to tell me…” she shrugs. “So now we know.”

  I hug her again. “I’m so glad,” I say.

  “Tom’s fine too,” Jenny adds.

  I push her away and look at her face. Against my will, tears slide from my eyes.

  “Oh!” I gasp. “I was so worried,” I say. “I haven’t had any news at all.”

  Jenny smiles and bites her lip. “I saw him on the way out. Insulting the nurse.”

  I frown. “Really?”

  Jenny nods. “They’re stitching his head. Apparently it hurts like fuck.”

  I laugh tearfully. “Poor Tom.”

  Jenny nods. Her eyes are shining too.

  “He was amazing!” I say.

  Jenny nods, soberly. “Yeah,” she says, “he was. Truly amazing.”

  At the sound of the sliding doors we turn to see a policeman enter. Jenny frowns, first at him, then at me.

  I shrug. “The nurse said she would have to notify the police,” I say.

  Jenny crosses her eyes and sighs. “Shit,” she says.

  “You better think about whether you want to press charges,” I say.

  Jenny shakes her head. “I so don’t want to go there,” she says. “But I guess it’s not only for me to decide.”

  It’s 6pm by the time we leave the police station.

  Jenny and Tom have negotiated a compromise. They have made an official complaint in the Daybook, without actually pressing charges. It means that Nick doesn’t need to find out, yet a record of the event exists, just in case.

  Jenny requests, then demands that I take her to her mother’s house. She even tries shouting into my ear from the rear seat, but I ignore her and head towards home.

  Eventually it is Tom who silences her. “Jenny, do you have any idea how much that hurts my head?” he says. “Now shut it.”

  Jenny glares at me in the rear-view mirror.

  By the time we hit the M25 Jenny has slumped out of sight on the rear seat, and Tom’s head is starting to loll

  I feel utterly shattered myself; it’s hard to raise the level of concentration required to drive Tom’s car down the correct side of the road to Brighton, but, well, someone has to do it.

  I lower the volume, and turn on the CD player.

  Tom awakens just long enough to hit the CD changer button.

  Van Morrison fades away to be replaced by Everything But The Girl. The album is Idlewild, my favourite.

  I smile at Tom, but he has already closed his eyes.

  I fidget in my seat and settle in for the drive.

  As we turn onto the M23 the light is fading. I fiddle and find the headlights. The clocks on the dashboard produce a warm orange glow.

  I glance behind to check on Jenny and smile at the sight of her asleep with her mouth open.

  It’s a cold greeny-grey colour outside, but we’re all safe and sound and heading home. I’m taking my friends home.

  I glance over at Tom. His poor bandaged head is rolling from side to side as I drive.

  A wave of love for my two sleeping passengers washes over me, making me scrunch up my eyes against the pressure of tears.

  As the road bends left, Tom’s leg falls against mine.

  I glance down at it, making out the shape of his leg beneath the muddy suit material. “Poor Tom in his expensive suit,” I think.

  His hand sits on top, smooth and white, sprouting from a bloodstained cuff. I glance up at his face to check he’s asleep, and lay my hand on top of his.

  I’m not sure if he’s truly asleep or not, but he sighs and spreads his fingers, and my own fingers fall into the gaps.

  I swallow hard.

  Back at Owen’s, I pull Jenny from the rear of the car and Tom moves to the driving seat.

  Jenny yawns, then walks around and crouches beside Tom to hug him.

  “Thanks Tom,” she says, patting his back. “And, I’m really sorry.”

  Tom shakes his head gently. “I won’t say it was a pleasure, but well, that’s what friends are for,” he says.

  I peer in over Jenny’s shoulder at him.

  “Are you sure you’re gonna be OK?” I say. “I really think you should stay here, or at least let me drive you home.”
/>
  Tom shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed,” he says.

  “You won’t faint again?” I ask.

  Jenny releases Tom and stands. He shakes his head.

  “No, I’ll be fine, really,” he says. “It’s less than a mile.”

  Jenny steps back and I shrug and slam the door.

  “Maybe see you tomorrow?” I ask.

  Tom nods, and starts the engine.

  “Oh, Tom,” Jenny says. “Don’t forget your wallet. It’s on the back seat.”

  Tom nods and then frowns and shakes his head. He slips a hand beneath him and wriggles, pulling a wallet from his pocket. He waves it at Jenny.

  Jenny frowns, then crouches beside him. “Hang on,” she says, reaching in through the window to the seat behind.

  She pulls a second wallet from the rear of the car.

  “That’s mine!” I say.

  Jenny shrugs. “It was on the floor in the back,” she says.

  I exhale sharply and take it in my hands. I stare at the wallet and shake my head.

  “No shit,” I say.

  Perspective Lines

  I sleep badly, waking every time the pillow touches my right ear.

  Feeling grumpy and irritable, I finally drag myself from the bed just before twelve. Jenny is in the lounge watching TV.

  “Hi,” I say, heading through to the kitchen. “Tea?”

  Jenny nods, and pulls Owen’s dressing gown tighter across her chest. I realise sleepily that she has no spare clothes.

  I hand Jenny her tea and sit opposite, folding my legs beneath me on the big armchair.

  “Jesus! Look at your ear!” Jenny says. “It’s blue.”

  I shrug. “The same blue as your cheek, I imagine,” I say.

  Jenny raises a hand and covers her cheek tenderly.

  “I suppose we have to take you shopping,” I say.

  Jenny frowns at me. “Shopping,” she laughs. “With this face?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Clothes, toothbrush, that kind of stuff?”

  Jenny shrugs. “I thought I’d laze around watching TV and wash and dry the stuff from yesterday,” she says.

  I sip my tea. “Well, I suppose… There’s a tumble dryer. But you can’t do that indefinitely,” I say. “Sooner or later you’ll need…”

  “But I can’t stay here indefinitely anyway,” Jenny says. “I don’t have anything with me, I don’t even have my purse, my money…” She shrugs and shakes her head.

  “Well, you can stay here for now,” I say. “And you can’t go back, that’s clear at least.”

  Jenny shakes her head slowly. “He’s not as bad as you think,” she says quietly.

  I grimace at her. “What do you mean he’s not as bad as I think?” I say

  “I just mean that yesterday was, well, extreme,” Jenny says.

  I nod. “Yep,” I say. “Extreme does it.”

  “But he’s not like that usually,” she says.

  I stare at her. For a moment I am speechless. I sip my tea.

  “So what you mean is,” I say. “That when he’s not slapping you, or pulling your hair, or kicking you in the ribs, or punching your friends, or pulling an iron…”

  “I knew you’d be like this,” Jenny interrupts. “I just so knew you’d…”

  “Well it’s not unexpected is it?” I say. “My ear hurts, your cheek is blue, and Tom is at home with stitches in his head.”

  “That’s why I wanted to go to Mum’s,” Jenny continues. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  I glare at her; then I turn and stare at the silent image on the TV screen for a moment. “So your mother understands that your husband slaps you around?” I say flatly. “And that’s good.”

  Jenny glares at me and starts to stand.

  “Don’t walk away!” I spit. “If it’s defendable, then defend. If it’s understandable, then explain!”

  “But you don’t even want to understand,” Jenny says, looking me in the eye. “You just want to argue.”

  I sigh and sit back in my chair. “Sorry,” I say with a little shake of my head. “I don’t, you know. Go on; explain. I’m all ears.”

  “It’s just that you saw the worst side of Nick yesterday,” Jenny says.

  I restrain a snort, and keep my teeth firmly clenched.

  “He’s not a bad person, that’s all I mean,” Jenny says.

  I shake my head. “I... I’m sorry,” I say. “But I don’t get it. I mean how does he have to behave to be a bad person? Would he have to kill someone?”

  Jenny rolls her eyes at me.

  “It’s not that far-fetched Jenny,” I cry. “He went for Tom with an iron bar!”

  Jenny sighs and nods. “You did provoke him,” she says.

  “Verbally,” I say. “But… Hang on. Does your mother actually know then?”

  Jenny nods and shrugs. “She knows we argue.”

  “Does she know he hits you?”

  “Slaps,” Jenny corrects.

  I feel my face start to redden again.

  “OK,” I say, “Does she know he slaps you?”

  Jenny shrugs. “She’s old enough to know that relationships go through bad patches,” she says.

  “Bad patches,” I repeat in a whisper.

  “She and dad went through plenty of rough times. But you have to take the good with the bad.”

  “But he didn’t hit her, did he,” I point out. “Your father didn’t actually slap your mother around.”

  Jenny stares at me expressionlessly, one eyebrow almost imperceptibly raised.

  “Well did he?” I ask.

  Jenny blinks slowly.

  “Your father used to hit your mother?”

  “They fought sometimes,” she says with a shrug.

  “And sometimes he hit her, when they fought?”

  Jenny shrugs.

  “Great!” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Jesus!”

  “It’s not that unusual!” Jenny says. “For god’s sake Mark, people fight and people lash out. It’s human nature. Stop being so… So righteous.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not normal though Jenny,” I say. “I mean, I can see why you think that it might be, but it’s not.”

  Jenny laughs. “It may not be in gay society,” she says, “but let me tell you…”

  “John never hit you,” I say. “Did he?”

  Jenny shakes her head. “John catches flies in a cup and puts them out the window,” Jenny says. “Of course he didn’t.”

  “And Giles. Did Giles ever hit you?”

  Jenny tips her head sideways and bites her top lip.

  “Jesus Jenny!” I say. “Why do you stay with these people? I mean if anyone ever hit me, like even once, well, I’d be gone so quick...”

  Jenny stares at the ceiling. “You’re not listening Mark and you’re not trying to understand. If you leave people every time you have a fight…”

  “If people hit you, yes!” I say. “If people are physically violent to you,” I say.

  “But they are,” Jenny cries. “It’s reality.”

  “It’s your reality,” I say. “No one’s ever hit me, well, except for Nick.”

  Jenny tips her chin at me. “What about your parents?” she says.

  I swallow. I half shrug. “My mother slapped me from time to time,” I say.

  “And your father?”

  I shake my head.

  “OK, so your mother slapped you. And you considered it normal?”

  I shake my head. “Jesus Jenny. No! Why do you think I don’t get on with the woman?”

  “Well so did mine,” Jenny says. “And so did my father. And it’s not abnormal,” she adds.

  “It was a different era,” I say, “But that doesn’t mean it was right.”

  “You can’t just cut everyone out of your life because they…”

  “Because they hit you?” I say incredulously. “Yes! You can. And you have to,” I say. “To survive.�
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  Jenny stares at me. Her eyes are glistening as the tears well up.

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she says with a little shake of her head.

  She stands and wipes the tears angrily on the back of her hand as she crosses the room.

  “I’m getting showered,” she says.

  As she walks past, I reach out to grab her arm.

  “Jenny,” I plead, but she pulls away and continues into the hall.

  I sit and stare at the female presenter on the TV screen, and shake my head. Then I sigh and shake it again.

  For the first time I understand how sarcastic, ballsy Jenny can be where she is. Suddenly I see the perspective lines of her life disappearing into the past like a pair of train tracks bringing her to this very point.

  “Shit!” I think. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  Limits

  Tom stares at me wide-eyed, then turns and takes his change from the cashier. As he follows me to the big sofa in the window, he says, “But that’s madness!”

  We squat opposite ends of the sofa, half turning our bodies so that we face each other.

  “I know,” I say with a doleful sigh. “But she’s in this sort of… I don’t know. Victim mode?”

  Tom nods. “I used to work with a woman called Kerry. Every guy she ever dated used her as a punching ball. You ended up wondering if it wasn’t in some way her fault.”

  I grimace to show that I’m uncomfortable with the logic.

  Tom shrugs. “She chose those men, she stayed with them…”

  “Well, yeah. That’s the thing with Jenny,” I say. “She thinks it’s normal. She says her ex Giles used to slap her as well. Even her parents slapped each other, apparently.”

  Tom shakes his head. “Stupid bitch,” he says. “I tell you, if she goes back to that arsehole, I’ll take an iron bar to her head.”

  I shrug. “I expect she’d consider that quite acceptable.”

  Tom shakes his head. “Silly cow,” he says.

  I grimace. “I know what you mean Tom,” I say. “But in a way, well, it’s not her fault if she’s ended up here is it?”

  Tom shrugs and sips at his cappuccino. “If someone slapped me, I’d be gone.”

  I shake my head. “You’d nut him I expect,” I say with a grin.

  Tom grimaces and raises a hand to his forehead. “You know my forehead still hurts?”