by Gary McMahon
She gave a wan smile. I didn’t really know what that word meant until I saw her expression: it fit the description perfectly. “Yeah…well. I was feeling a bit low. Thought you might be able to cheer me up.”
Today she was wearing something a little more colorful. Topping off her black trousers and long black coat, there was a bright red scarf. It was thin, pulled tight around her neck, and made her look like someone had cut her throat.
“Is it your usual cup of tea, madam?”
“Yes, please.” She left off staring at the house next door and walked along the footpath, pushing open my gate with one of her booted feet. She approached the door and stood before me, her pale face looking even paler than the last time we’d met.
“How are things?”
She shrugged. “Not good. They must be worse than I thought if I’m coming here, to see a total stranger, for a bit of human compassion.”
Oh, she was good. I was really starting to like her.
“Hey,” I said. “What about me? How bad is my life if the only company I can stand is some teenage misery-addict who only wears black and thinks I’m a prick?”
She laughed, and it sounded good. It sounded nice and natural. I wasn’t sure why the two of us were drawn together in this way, or what the hell we expected to get from this odd relationship, but it was starting to feel comfortable.
I wondered if I was showing the girl this level of kindness because of my own fragile relationship with Jess, or if I simply liked her. And what did she want from me? I hoped it wasn’t something that I was unable to give; the last thing I wanted was more complications in my life. But this didn’t feel anything like a teenage crush: I didn’t even think she saw me that way, as a source of attraction. This thing—whatever it was—felt platonic, asexual. She was a pretty girl, but not my type; from what little I could tell, I wasn’t exactly her idea of Prince Charming, either. I didn’t have enough black in my wardrobe, for a start.
I thought then of Carole, and of the undeniable attraction I felt toward her. She and I had a fire between us. The flames were small, but they were growing. There was nothing like that here, between me and this mixed-up girl. Perhaps what drew us together was a shared sense of pain; the fact that we each recognized in the other some form of emotional trauma.
What the hell was it anyway that conditioned human beings to think about relationships primarily in terms of sex? Was I so desperate for the suggestion of physical attention that I’d begun to see everyone as either a prospective lover or someone to avoid in case they wanted to have sex with me?
There it was again: that tendency of mine toward self-absorption.
This abstinence thing wasn’t quite working out how I’d hoped.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said and turned away, expecting Pru to follow me inside without being asked. This scenario was turning into a habit, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.
I made the tea before speaking directly to her, just let her get settled at the kitchen table.
“Here,” I said, setting down a mug before her. “Done just how you like it, with a kilo of sugar.”
I watched as she sipped her drink, and then sat down and stared at her, watching her pale face, her stubby black fingernails, as she handled the mug of tea.
“Tell me some more about your father.”
She put down the cup, smiled weakly, and then blinked a few times. “He was…strange. Looking back now, I can see that he was an obsessive. He dragged me and my sister across the country, moving house twice a year so that he could write about whatever serial killer he was interested in. His books didn’t sell a lot, but they did well enough to pay the bills and to give him a certain reputation in his field. He was on TV a few times, a talking head on documentaries about killers. I have them recorded. I watch them when I’m feeling bleak.”
“Sounds like you had quite the unconventional upbringing.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” She drummed her fingertips against the table, then stopped, realizing that it was an annoying habit. “My mum died when I was very young. My sister and I were all the old man had left, and he didn’t even know how to love us. His work…his work consumed him.”
“So what happened next door?” I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know, but it would distract Pru and give her something else to talk about. I didn’t want her to cry. I really couldn’t have handled the tears.
“Katherine Moffat?”
I nodded.
“She lived with her boyfriend, a guy called Benjamin Kyle. She was into black magic, kinky sex, all kinds of weird shit. According to my dad’s book, Kyle was pretty normal when they first met, but she pulled him down, got him involved in all kinds of freaky stuff. She controlled him using sex. She was a striking woman: over six feet tall, dark hair, quite beautiful by all accounts. He was suckered in; he did whatever she asked of him. Before long, they were luring kids into the house and killing them in the cellar. Part of some ritual, some black magic rite: blood and sex and screams.”
She paused, then, and took another sip of her tea.
“They soundproofed the cellar so nobody could hear the screams. There were a couple of police photos in the book…that’s part of what got my dad in trouble. He used them without permission. The book was pulled before it even went to print—only a few advance copies were made.”
“Why was that?”
She sighed; a small, hollow sound. “Kyle was found innocent. The courts decided that he didn’t have any part in the killings, and that it was all down to her, to Katherine Moffat. His lawyers told them that he didn’t even have access to the cellar because she kept it locked. And they believed him. He got off with it. They set him up in a new town, with a new identity, because he testified about her sexual habits and the way she liked to control him. He put on quite the little sob story, by all accounts.”
She paused there, drank some more tea.
“So what happened to Katherine Moffat?”
“They only found her because she killed herself before the cancer got her. Kyle called an ambulance. He was distraught, didn’t know what else to do. One of the attending police officers broke down the door and went down into the cellar. She found a human skull being used as a candle holder. She called in the detectives. They uncovered the remains of several bodies. They’d been mutilated; parts of them were missing…and other parts showed signs of being eaten. All pretty gross stuff.”
I stood and walked to the window, looked out at the empty house next door. “Jesus,” I said. “What about Benjamin Kyle? What happened to him?” I imagined someone inside the house, standing behind a boarded window over there and watching me through the gaps in the same way I was watching them.
“Nobody but the authorities knows where he is. He could be anywhere.”
I closed my eyes, no longer wanting to see the house, but its image was burned onto the insides of my eyelids, a visual echo of unease. I could see its outline and even some of the finer details: the roof, the chimney, the windows, the doors…I doubted that I’d ever be able to stop seeing that place, even if I moved away tomorrow.
“You have someone coming over for dinner?” Pru had left the table. She was standing beside the chopping board, motioning toward the steaks I’d left there on a plate.
“Yes. I have…a friend coming over.”
“Is it a male or female friend?”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
“No,” she said, “but I’d still like to know. I’m nosey that way.” She glanced at me, her eyebrows raised. She seemed more relaxed now, almost chirpy.
“Female.”
“I see…maybe I should go.”
I turned, facing her across the small space. “You’re welcome back anytime. Don’t be a stranger.”
She took a single step toward me, and then stopped. “What is this? I mean, what are we doing?”
“Becoming friends,” I said. “If that’s what you want. I know I haven’t had a
real friend in years.”
“What about your dinner guest?” She shuffled her feet on the linoleum floor.
“She’s…more than a friend. She’s something else entirely, to be honest. I’m just not sure what.”
“A fuck buddy?”
“Please. Don’t be so crude. It doesn’t behoove you.”
“Ah…so she’s a potential lover. I get it, Thesaurus Boy.” Pru grinned, and it made her face change for the better; in that moment, she turned into someone beautiful. I couldn’t help smiling back at her, and wishing that she’d smile like this more often.
“We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see.”
SIX
Visiting
Carole arrived around seven o’clock that evening. It was already dark; the black sky looked like it was huddling closer to the earth, looking for comfort.
I watched a taxi pull up outside my house, and Carole climbed out of the back. She leaned toward the open front window and paid the driver, then turned and walked across the footpath, through the gate, and along the front path.
I met her at the door. When I opened it, she was readying herself to knock, and still had one hand in the air, clenched into a fist. Her face registered surprise when she saw me standing there on the doorstep.
“Expecting someone else?”
She laughed. “Yeah, someone tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Better luck next time,” I said. “Come along inside. It isn’t much, but it’s a home…well, it is now, anyway. Or the closest thing to one I can afford.”
She followed me through into the kitchen.
“You look nice,” I said. She was wearing chunky red high-heeled shoes, tight black jeans, a sparkly blouse, and a short leather jacket. I took the jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair.
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing down the jeans at the front of her legs. She kicked off her shoes and pushed them under the table with her foot. “Is this okay?”
“Of course,” I said. “I prefer you without your heels. At least now you’re my height.” I approached the cooker. “You hungry?”
“I’m starving, actually.” She stood next to me, inspecting the pans. “Let me guess…steak?”
“Am I really that predictable?”
She nodded. “Particularly in the way you never offer me a drink until I ask.”
“Shit.” I reached for the fridge, opened the door. “White wine?”
“Lovely…as long as it isn’t chardonnay.”
“I know,” I said, setting down the bottle on the counter. “I remembered. You hate chardonnay. This is a cheeky little pinot grigio.”
“Nice.”
I opened the bottle. “It even has a classy screw top. I pull out all the stops, me. Really know how to treat a woman.” I poured two glasses, waited until she picked one up, and then did the same. “Cheers,” I said.
“Saluté.” She took a long, slow hit of the wine, her eyes closing as she savored it. “God, I needed that.” Her cheeks flushed red.
“Rough day?”
She nodded, licked her lips, then walked back to the dining table, sat down, and placed the glass in front of her. “You could say that.”
“Has Evans been giving you shit?”
A brisk shake of the head. “No…not work. Evans is cool. It’s something else.”
“Oh…sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She smiled, but it was only halfway there, as if she couldn’t quite manage the full thing. “I don’t mind talking about it. Just an old boyfriend giving me grief.”
“I see.” I took a mouthful of wine; it was cold, delicious.
“He keeps coming round, making a nuisance out of himself. I’ve asked him to stay away, but…well, he doesn’t.”
I walked over and sat down at the table. “Is he being…violent?”
“Oh, God, no. Not him. He’s just irritating me. Won’t take no for an answer. We broke up a month ago, but he thinks we still have something going on. I’ve told him straight, but he just doesn’t seem to get it.” She shrugged. “What can I say? We all have our little problems, don’t we?”
“I guess we do. But some of them are bigger than others.” I stared at her; she stared back. Something happened. I couldn’t be sure what it was—I’m still not certain—but it seemed like a proper connection was made, and certain aspects of our lives slotted together in that moment, becoming clearer. We were both damaged goods; we both had history. We weren’t young kids starting out, looking to fall in love. We were adults, and we had our battle scars, even wore them with pride.
“I’ll start cooking.” I stood and went back to the cooker.
“You do that. I’ll just sit here and drink.” She laughed softly, and everything seemed okay again. The laughter was all the way there; it was good and honest and filled with a kind of self-deprecating humor that had always made me warm to her.
During dinner, we indulged in small talk, but it was the good kind: we laughed and bullshitted about people at work, spoke about odd childhood memories, and I even told her about the day Jess was born, how it made me feel, how everything in my life had seemed to narrow around that single moment.
We drank a lot of wine; got through two bottles.
Afterward, I opened a third bottle and we moved into the living room. We sat down on my inherited sofa and stared at the television without watching it. I took off my shoes; she stretched out, resting her long, slim denim-clad legs across my lap. It felt good; it felt like something that I might like to have in my life, at least for a while.
“So,” I said, filling a small silence that appeared between us. “Tell me about this ex-boyfriend.”
She threw back her head, made a curious whining sound. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now. I think I only did so to make you realize that I haven’t just been sitting there pining for you since the last time we did this.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to. You’re a beautiful woman; there’s no way you’d not be the center of some poor loser’s world.”
She kicked me in the stomach. I smiled. She laughed.
“He’s in the army. He came back home on leave a few days ago and started coming round to my place, begging me to give him another chance. Brought me flowers, chocolates…all that kind of crap, all the cheap, romantic shit I hate.” She shook her head briskly, her hair fanning out around her face. “He doesn’t even know me—thinks that stuff will win me over.”
She glanced at me, and then looked away, at her wineglass. I noticed that her pupils were dilated; her eyes were shining.
“And what does win you over?” I was fishing, and she knew it; we both did.
She sighed. It was loud, long—I thought it might go on forever. “You do. You win me over, you bastard.”
Then our hands moved, and they were slapping together. She was grabbing for me, I was grabbing for her. We were grabbing each other. It happened quickly, but we leaned together, moving in for a kiss. Our teeth clashed; we laughed; then we tried again, lunging more slowly this time, more carefully, and it happened perfectly. Our lips pressed together, clamping down; our tongues flicked lizard-like, each one slipping into the cavern of the other’s mouth. We kissed and we kissed, and I didn’t think about anything. Not the house next door, not the girl who came here visiting, not my poor daughter, my drink- and drug-dependent wife or her junkie lover…none of this crossed my mind.
Then Carole was pulling back, breaking the connection. Her hands came up, pushing between us, and she was forcing me away. I moved backward, too, confused, but giving her the space she wanted. And I remembered that this was what happened last time, too, but I’d convinced myself that it was me who had called the shots. That I’d been too scared to go any further with this woman, and the decision had been mine.
In reality, it had been Carole who pulled away, just like she was doing this time. I’d responded by pretending that it was my idea, and that I wasn’t ready to take things that far. To save her from embarrass
ment, or maybe because I was glad it had turned out that way, and wanted to show my gratitude.
We sat there on the sofa, panting, feeling like we’d just run a fast mile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, between breaths.
“It’s okay.” I touched her knee, and then took away my hand. This sudden awkwardness confused me, made me question what we were doing here anyway, on the grotty sofa, in this dull little house. “It’s my fault. I’m out of practice.”
She looked at me with such a degree of hopelessness that I thought I’d said or done something tragically wrong. Her eyes were empty; her face was a void.
“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t you. It’s me…it’s always me.”
I waited, knowing that something big was coming: something important was about to enter the room and start making a fuss.
“I have issues…issues in this area. In the bedroom area.” She sighed. “I can’t even fucking say it, can I? That word: sex.” She winced, as if she’d been struck lightly across the face.
“You don’t have to say anything.” I didn’t know whether to reach out for her or to stay where I was, motionless, in case I spooked her.
“No, I want to. You deserve to know. If you want to…”
“If you want to tell me, then I want to know.” It seemed like the right thing to say, and it was certainly how I felt. I didn’t want to push her into saying anything that made her nervous. It was up to her. None of this was my call to make, so all I could do was be there for her if she wanted me.
“A long time ago, I was mistreated. A man broke me. I can’t really say much more, because it hurts too badly. Even after all these years, it hurts like a bastard.” Her voice was cracking; her throat was dry and hoarse. I realized it was taking an amazing amount of strength for her to tell me even this much.
I groped toward her and took her hand. She didn’t fight me, didn’t pull away, not this time, so I gripped her hand tighter, trying to communicate to her all the things that I was unable to put into words. Those nebulous thoughts and feelings, the ones that never wanted to come out into the light.