The Bones of You

by Gary McMahon

  It would be good to train again, after such a long absence. Training would help me find the peace that I knew was still lodged somewhere deep within me.

  Or so I hoped.

  I stood and walked through to the kitchen, opened the side door and looked out at the garden. The house was your basic model English detached, with a side rather than a rear entrance. Some of them had driveways on which to park a car, but this one didn’t—just an extension of the back garden. Like the abandoned house next door, my new garden was in desperate need of attention. It would give me something else to occupy my mind, to fill the time when I wasn’t with my daughter.

  I experienced the urge to light up a cigarette and was grateful that I didn’t have any on me. It had been four months now since I’d last had a smoke. I felt much better for it, both physically and mentally, but still went through moments like this when all I wanted was to feel the smoke filling my lungs.

  “Get a grip,” I said through clenched teeth. “This, too, shall pass.” It was a mantra; something my mother had said that had stuck with me over the years. Even on her deathbed, she’d apparently said those words. This, too, shall pass. I didn’t know for certain, because I wasn’t there for her when she went. I was out somewhere getting drunk, getting high, or getting laid…doing something that I regretted now that I was older, and supposedly wiser.

  Back then, I’d been a callous bastard. The person I was now would have gladly bitch-slapped the person I had been then. But all that was over and done with. I was a better person now. My daughter had brought out the good in me—she’d drawn out the traces and filaments of light that my mother had always said were there, hidden beneath layers of crap. Her words again: she was always so succinct when it came to homespun homilies.

  I smiled, remembering my mother’s hard gray eyes, her muscular arms, the way she always wore her hair short so it wouldn’t get in the way when she worked. She was a tough woman, someone who would never back down, never surrender. I’d hated her when I was a child, but then, during my teenage years, I had begun to admire her. By the time she was dying, I finally discovered that I loved her, despite her failings.

  I knew she’d treasured the irony of that.

  Back in the kitchen, I opened up one of the boxes and took out a bottle of whiskey. It wasn’t exactly the good stuff, but it wasn’t the cheap stuff, either. As far as single malts went, it was decidedly average. But it was all I had. I grabbed a tumbler out of the same box, used my fingers to wipe away dust from its interior, and poured three fingers of the whiskey. I held it up to the weak kitchen light and stared at the amber fluid.

  Then, without further hesitation, I drank the lot. It was raw on the way down my throat, but as soon as it hit my belly, I felt warm and relaxed. I poured another glass, replaced the bottle cap, and then put the bottle on a shelf near the cooker. Wandering through into the living room, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the sofa that was not mine, would never be mine. Like everything else in my life, it was merely rented.

  It was getting late. I could see the sky darkening beyond the windows. Clouds shuffled across the view, as slow and heavy as dirty, pregnant sheep. I stared at them for a while, enjoying their lumbering motion. After a few minutes I took my iPod out of my shirt pocket and put in my earphones. I played some Pearl Jam and closed my eyes. “Just Breathe”…it was one of my favorite songs. Eddie Vedder’s gravelly, soulful voice carried me away, just like it always did, transporting me beyond my problems.

  I closed my eyes. Dreamed.

  I was out in the garden. The grass was high, right up to my shoulder. The garden was bigger than I remembered from inspecting it earlier, in waking life. Something was moving through the grass behind me, stalking me but not getting too close. As I watched, I caught a glimpse of something thin and black and lopsided, like a scarecrow that had jumped down from its frame.

  I looked up at the sky. It was black and speckled with silver; there were lots of stars lighting the heavens. The moon was huge. It took up one corner of the sky. The night was as bright as day, but it was a cold light, a dead light: nothing could live for long under this kind of illumination.

  I started walking away from my house, toward the fence line. Before long I caught sight of that ruined place next door, and was filled with a sense of trepidation. I slowed down, felt my feet catching in the long grass close to the ground. I stopped and stared at the empty building.

  But it wasn’t empty at all.

  There were lights on inside the house, but the boards across the windows blocked my view. Some of the boards had been inexpertly torn away, leaving gaps. The light was an orangey color; it was warm, but there was something about it I didn’t like. It felt wrong, that light, as if it were being generated by something unwholesome.

  I bent my legs and let my head dip below the long grass. I heard a door open and then slam shut. Then I heard footsteps scampering across hard ground, moving in my direction. That same slender figure that had been following me was now on the other side of the fence. It moved quickly but clumsily, like a puppet set free from its strings. Parts of it seemed to be hanging off, like scraps of dark material. Its arms and legs were so thin they looked as if they might snap.

  I caught only a brief glimpse of the thing, and then it skipped away around the side of the house. I could have sworn it was waving at me.

  The lights went out.

  I heard laughter. Deep and throaty. Humorless.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes, it was full dark, but there didn’t seem to be any stars. I got up and walked across to the window, shut the blinds. Then I panicked because the room was in darkness. I stumbled across the room to where I remembered seeing a table lamp, managed to put my hands on it in the dark, and switched it on. I had the sense that something was retreating, moving away from me as the light went on. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, even when I walked over to the other side of the room and turned on the main light.

  I returned to the sofa and picked up my glass. There was an inch of whiskey left in the bottom. I saluted some imaginary friend, raised the glass, and finished off the whiskey. It tasted flat. But it was better than wasting the liquor.

  I slumped down onto the sofa, feeling tired and strung-out. I promised myself I’d finish unpacking and clean the place after I’d had a little rest.

  So this was it: my first night in my new home. When I thought about it, the image of that waving figure in the dream had felt like a greeting. I hoped that the experience wasn’t some kind of warning, that it was in fact a sign that I belonged here.

  Because, let’s face it, I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  TWO

  A Lonely Dawn

  The next morning I was awake before dawn. I sat with my back propped up with pillows against the headboard and stared at the opposite wall and the curtains across the window. I was lonely. There was nobody in the house with me, nobody with whom to share this new place.

  Shadows twitched as the sky outside the window lightened. I got up and opened the curtains, sat in the wooden chair by the window and watched the sun climb. I wasn’t due to start work again until the next day. Evans, my supervisor at the factory, had given me a few days off so I could get the house in order. He knew how hard I was finding things, and was a decent enough guy. We’d had a few pints together, been for the occasional curry. I had the feeling he was trying to make what we had into a proper friendship, because nobody else at the factory would give him the time of day. He had only been in the job a few months. My coworkers thought he was strange; they didn’t trust him. I didn’t think they’d realized yet that he was gay—in my experience a lot of macho manual workers don’t tend to notice such things until the evidence hits them right in the face—but it wouldn’t be long until they did.

  To me, Evans was just another lost soul, much like me: somebody trying to make his way in the world without causing too much damage to the people around him.

  On impulse, I decided to go o
ut for a short run. If I wanted to start karate training again, I needed to work on my fitness. There had been too many late nights, too much drink and bad food. I knew that I had to get myself in shape—not just mentally, but also physically. Starting off on this new phase in my life was like training for a fight: everything was linked, mind and body. It was all connected.

  I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, staring at my face in the mirror. My stubble seemed to have gained some gray overnight. I needed a haircut. The lines around my eyes looked like somebody had slashed me with a blade and the scars had healed badly.

  When I was done, I put on my shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and some old running shoes I’d hung on to just in case a day like this one ever arrived—the first day of a new training regimen.

  I left the house and did some stretching in the street. Calves, hamstrings, a few trunk twists. Then I started to jog toward a concrete subway tunnel half a mile away. I’d driven past the tunnel when I arrived, and had clocked the distance on the car’s odometer.

  My legs complained a little as I ran, but I kept my pace slow and steady. I didn’t want to break any records. All I wanted was to get my heart pumping, wake up my muscles.

  I’d forgotten to activate the stopwatch feature on my wristwatch, so I just kept an eye on the time. It took me six minutes to reach the mouth of the subway: a slow pace, but a manageable one.

  My footsteps echoed, reverberating off the concrete as I ran through the tunnel. I checked out the graffiti on the walls as I approached the other side: abuse, obscenities, and several telephone numbers to ring if you wanted a blow job. Basically, it was all the usual stuff.

  As I ran, I experienced an odd sensation. The opposite end of the tunnel seemed to waver, then shrink, as if it were receding, moving away from me as I ran toward it. I rubbed a hand across my eyes, blinked away sweat, and tried to focus on my breathing. I was less fit than I’d thought. This was pathetic. I couldn’t even run a mile without gasping for breath.

  Eventually—it took much longer than anticipated—I reached the other end. I felt like I’d been running for an hour. My legs hurt, my back was coated in sweat, and I was breathing hard. I stopped for a rest, leaning against the concrete arch as I tried to get my breathing under control. I felt weak, ridiculous. I was glad there was no one else around to watch me as I wheezed like an asthmatic old man.

  I looked at my watch: I’d gone just over half a mile. It felt like I’d run three, and at a fast pace.

  For some reason the thought of going back the way I’d come didn’t appeal, so I started running away from the subway tunnel instead. There must be another way around, even if it added some distance to the journey. The last thing I wanted was to go back inside that dark, dank place with its hollow sounds and its spray-painted walls. It reminded me too much of the dream I’d had the day before. I needed the daylight, the open air, the sounds of traffic on the road above the subway, and the sight of people getting into their cars and setting off for work.

  I turned right and headed along a residential street that ran alongside the elevated section of main two-lane road. After a short while, I came to the point where the road level matched that of the footpath upon which I was travelling. There was a narrow point where I could cross. I looked both ways, increased my pace, and made it to the central reservation. I had to pause a moment to let a few cars speed past, then I made it the rest of the way over.

  I was sweating, but it was cold. As I headed back toward home, I glanced right, at the concrete subway tunnel, and saw what looked like a tall, dark figure vanishing into the entrance. Again, I was reminded of yesterday’s brief bad dream and the figure I’d glimpsed.

  When I reached home, I unlocked the door and lurched inside. I sat down in the hallway with my back against the wall, taking in big gasps of air. My exhaustion was disproportionate to the exercise I’d taken. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. I’d always been reasonably fit, even when abusing myself with bad living. I felt like I’d been training at an atmosphere, perhaps halfway up a mountain in a hot climate.

  Once I managed to calm down, I stood and climbed the stairs. I stripped and stood under a hot shower for fifteen minutes, enjoying the scalding sensation of the water on my skin. I kept my eyes closed and tried to keep my mind empty, but for some reason I remembered that tall, dark figure entering the subway. In my memory—if not at the time—the figure turned to look at me and was in the act of raising a thin hand when it was swallowed up by darkness. Was it waving, beckoning, or trying to warn me away?

  I stumbled sideways, hitting the bathroom tiles, slamming my elbow hard against them.

  Jesus, I’d been nodding off as I stood there, lost in the embrace of hot water. How was that possible? Why the hell was I so tired? I couldn’t remember another time when I’d ever fallen asleep on my feet like that.

  The stress of the move was having more of an effect on me than I’d anticipated.

  The image of the figure was now fading; all I’d seen was someone walking to work, crossing beneath the main road so they didn’t have to face the traffic. For some reason I couldn’t quite work out, my mind was turning this into something sinister, as if I were trying to scare myself.

  Stepping out of the shower, I switched off the water and grabbed a towel. I wrapped the towel around my waist and stood there for a while, drip-drying. My mother had always called it that: “Make sure you drip-dry. I don’t want you treading water all over my carpets.” My chest ached; my eyes itched. Christ, what was wrong with me today? My emotions were out of control. Perhaps it was the excitement of finally setting down some roots, creating a base for myself where I could safely take care of my daughter, if only on alternate weekends.

  Or maybe I was cracking up under the pressure of holding down a menial job, renting a house in a bad area, and being kept away from Jessica by her drug-and booze-addled bitch of a mother.

  Once again I found myself staring at my face in the mirror, but this time all I saw was an old man, way past his prime; a man who saw strange figures in subway tunnels, tried to fool himself that he could make a new life for himself, and pretended that his existence actually mattered. I drew back my arm, made a fist, and straight-punched the mirror. I felt no pain as the glass smashed, sending crooked-lightning cracks spreading out in a sun-ray formation from the point of impact.

  Slowly, I ground my knuckles into the broken glass until they bled, still feeling nothing. Then I took my hand away from the mirror, stared hard at my damaged skin, and started to pick tiny slivers of glass from the wounds. When the small, shallow cuts were clean, I licked away the fresh blood. The taste reminded me of old times; it reminded me of fighting.

  Downstairs, while I was dressing my hand with a couple of cheap supermarket sticking plasters, the phone began to ring. I went into the living room, trying to remember where I’d left the handset. The ring tone drew me toward the sofa, where I found the little black flip-top model under a cushion.

  “Hello.”

  “Adam. It’s Evans.”

  “Hi, mate. What’s up?”

  “Listen, I hate to do this to you, and I know I said you don’t have to come in until tomorrow…”

  “But you need me to work a shift tonight.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Any chance of it?”

  I paused, looked around the room, wondering what else I possibly had to do this evening. Finish unpacking my meager belongings, TV and a takeaway, read a book, set up my ancient, clunky laptop and masturbate to harshly lit Internet porn that took ages to buffer.

  “No sweat, mate. What time do you want me in?”

  “It’s Jacko’s late shift—five till midnight. The daft fucker’s gone and sprained a wrist, so he can’t operate the forklift.”

  “A wanking injury?”

  Evans laughed, but it was only out of politeness. By this point, he’d probably heard that same joke fifty times or more. “Playing football…and at his age. He was in goal. Reckons he stopped a rocket fro
m some big center-forward and twisted his wrist backward from the power.”

  “Yeah…right.”

  “My response exactly. It’s more likely he fell over scrambling after a tap-in and bashed it against the post.”

  This time it was his turn to pause.

  “Listen, I’ll make this up to you. Next time you have Jess over, you can have the Friday off.”

  “You sure? That’s this Friday.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “But I’m still getting paid for tonight’s shift?”

  “Of course you are. What the hell kind of piece of shit do you take me for?”

  “Whatever kind you want, Evans. See you tonight.”

  I ended the call before he could thank me again. I liked the guy, but sometimes he was a little…full on. He never knew where to draw the line, and there were occasions when his familiarity made me uncomfortable. I didn’t need a friend. I was happy to go for the occasional drink with the bloke, but that was where it ended. If I wasn’t careful, next thing I knew he’d be inviting himself over for dinner with a rose between his teeth.

  “Christ,” I said, tossing the phone back onto the sofa. “That’s all I fucking need.” Despite my reservations, the image of a lanky, badly dressed Evans trying to woo me with flowers and chocolates brought a smile to my face.

  I went back upstairs and put on some clothes. Nothing fancy: just a pair of blue jeans and a faded university sweatshirt. Still just about clinging to the front of the shirt was the emblem of the college karate squad I’d once been part of. The olden days, ancient history. If I tried hard enough, most days I could even forget what subject I’d studied to gain my degree.

  A first: English literature.