by Jonny Glynn
‘It’s cold,’ I said.
‘Well, why don’t you just stop in here and have it?’
‘…I wouldn’t mind the air,’ I mumbled, carrying on, not listening to her, pulling the mac around me. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
She was uncertain of what to do.
‘You’re not going to go, are you?’
I stopped. That forlorn helplessness was all about her.
‘No,’ I steadily reassured, placing my hands on her shoulders, leaning in and gently kissing the side of her mouth.
‘I’ll put the kettle on then, will I?’ She was trying ever so hard to please. It was all so grim, and treacherous.
‘Yes,’ I said, opening the front door and stepping out. ‘Put the kettle on, I’ll be back in a minute.’
But we both knew I was lying. We both knew that the moment I closed that door behind me, I was closing it for good. Rotten lying liar.
I crossed to the car, it bleeped and snapped open. I got in, rolled a jazz cigarette, a strong one–a real old-fashioned banger–sparked her up and reflected on what had just passed. I felt such shame, the terrible grip of guilt was on me, tightening in my chest, and an awful grubby accountability was rubbing up inside. The feral depravity of it. The furtive desperation of it, and the sight of her sex–old, and bald, and yawning…Urgh–the thought of it sticks in my throat, and the taste of mustard repeats. Loneliness is an awful thing, but it’s something we all have in common. I took a last long tug on my jazz and exhaled a huge plume of thick purple smoke. A man of evil conscience, Crumb–he cannot act well…I lowered the window, dropped the butt of jazz out, and let the smoke thin. My mind was swimming, my senses were dizzy, feelings and recriminations running wild. I closed my eyes and stared into the darkness. I felt so tired. I just wanted it all to end…But I knew it wouldn’t end, it will never end.
I opened my eyes and glanced back at the house. Valerie was standing in the front-room window, watching me. She was just standing there, staring at me, and holding a tea towel. There she is, I thought–still my wife–still the mother of my child, and still the only woman I have ever really loved. And yet none of it makes any sense. I turned the key in the ignition, found first gear and then paused for a moment to give Valerie one last look. It was that look you’ve grown accustomed to me giving, that distant look of cold disdain–detached sorrowful disdain, remote and broken, I’ve perfected it.
Valerie’s face mournfully broke into a smile, rueful but accepting. She lifted her hand to her shoulder, splayed her fingers wide in that childish way, such small and pretty hands, gave a little wave, made a ‘write to me’ gesture, paused for a moment, and then stepped back into the shadows and drew the curtains. I indicated east, and was gone.
It is now nearly midnight. I am sitting writing this in the darkened corner of a car park on an industrial estate somewhere on the outskirts of Leeds. It has been a long day…And I am tired…so tired. Bach is on the radio, English suites, numbers 2, 4 and 5…He’s in the back doing one of his drawings. I’m staring, trying to forget, hoping soon to sleep.
FRIDAY
Last night I dreamt of Hell, and the guilty man that God forgot. Now it is morning, and the bad day has broken.
I should have booked myself into a hotel. Hiding all night in the darkened corner of a car park, it’s animal behaviour–I don’t know what I was thinking. But then I wasn’t thinking–that was the trouble–he was–racing through thoughts–remembering. You know how he loves to recall–give him an evening and he’ll be at it all night, digging things up that are all but forgotten, regurgitating details–all the little bits of in-between, thoughts about thoughts, and the guilty man…The guilty man that God forgot. Remember him? I remember him. How could I forget him, after what he did? You don’t forget something like that in a hurry–oh no, it stays with you–it keeps you up all night, knowing that he’s out there–going unnoticed–ambling on, up and down, to and fro–looking, seeing and thinking. You know the sort. The guilty man that God forgot…Yes–I remember him all right. How he used to torment me–worse than this one, I can tell you, much worse. All the evil things he did, you couldn’t possibly imagine, but I saw, I saw with mine own eyes, as they like to say in certain circles. How he got away with it I’ll never understand. Never caught, never brought to book. He has the luck of the devil that one–the kind of luck we’d all like. But he hates it, it rips at him–that he was forgotten. He wants to be caught, wants to be brought to book. In a noble way he wants to be counted. But he was forgotten, and if there is one thing he cannot stand, it is being forgotten. But forgotten he is, leaving me to remember…And I do remember…I remember sad thoughts that are never happy…And I remember you…
But I digress…I feel very distracted this morning, my thoughts are scattered. As I said, it was a troubled night, I dreamt of Hell, and a badger, and now the bad day has broken.
The Dream of Hell
I was ten years old. My father was leading me. Space was confined. The ceiling was low. I felt very afraid. He was walking so quickly, I couldn’t keep up. The carpet was old and worn and threadbare. My feet kept catching and tripping on the torn strands, stumbling and burning my knees–they were bleeding. I was wearing shorts. I stumbled again, and hurt again. I was starting to cry.
‘Not in that one. Not in that one.’ He kept repeating it. His rasping nasal twang rising with exasperated irritation. He stopped and turned and looked at me, looked down at me, as I looked up, my socks around my ankles. There was no mistaking him–tall and thin, towering above me. He smiled and showed me his teeth. They were Dad’s teeth all right. No mistaking those gums.
‘This is your room,’ he said, and then he turned and opened a door.
‘In you go,’ he said. ‘They’ll never find you in here.’
The room was dark and cold and stank of a moist sickly sweetness. There was no furniture, just a dirty stained mattress flopped on the cold stone floor in a corner.
‘Come on now,’ he commanded. ‘No arguments–get into bed.’ I didn’t disobey. I walked to the middle of the room and slowly started to undress. He watched me. I removed my clothes very slowly, deliberately folding each piece by piece and placing them in a neat and tidy pile. First my jumper, shirt and shoes, then my shorts and socks, then my vest, and then my underpants…And then naked, ten years old, my little white limbs peeled clean, goose-pimpled and shivering. I remember a feeling of terrible dread. I knew that something awful was about to happen, something I couldn’t control or stop. Troubled vibrations tickled my perineum.
‘Lie down,’ he said. I didn’t disobey. I pulled the mattress flat, lay down and kept perfectly still. He leant forward over me, his face close to mine. His breath was of the kidney. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t, he whispered, ‘Lie perfectly still, and try not to breathe.’ And then he was gone…
I closed my eyes, my heart was beating, I felt again the certainty of something savage about to unfold…And then it began. There was a noise, I opened my eyes…The badger. I cannot describe the degree of terror I felt at the sight of that hideous badger. As fat and as large as a circus dwarf, and black and filthy. Its thick fur covered in a greasy sap, and smeared with a sticky foulness–its twisted black claws scarring the floor–its snout, long and bristling with spiky hairs–its mouth slavering repugnant juices, its teeth, broken, chipped and razor sharp–and its eyes–a diseased yellow, stung with a poisonous red surround. It shuffled slowly towards me, licking and smelling the air. I took my father’s advice and lay perfectly still and tried not to breathe. But it was no use. The badger knew, and was on me. My blood ran cold. My heart was pounding. I wanted to scream. He was on me, tonguing and sniffing and licking and scratching, his claws tearing at my flesh. I was bleeding. The weight of him on top of me, greasy and stinking, slavering juices–I could take it no more, I had to breathe–I gasped a huge gulp of air–but it was a mistake–the moment my lips parted he rammed his snout down into my gullet, choking me, for
cing his head down into my mouth, his teeth biting and ripping through my throat, clawing into me, chewing his way through me, eating his way into me…
And then I woke…Rockall, Malin, German Bight…Such confusion, freezing cold, peering bleary-eyed about me…The time past south, south-east…Urgh, these wretched dreams, damned subconscious intrusions, fiddling with me in the dead of night. Make of them what you will…It is morning now, and the bad day has broken…And I am, as we say in England, fucking knackered.
And it’s a horrible morning, overcast, wet and grey. A miserable northern day, full of aching limbs and stiff joints. Troubled thoughts to follow…
Something bad is going to happen today, something very bad, I can feel it…
There are humans everywhere, full of frenzied direct attending, this way and that. Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to work…and that righteous little weasel John Humphrys is at it again on the radio, eloquently working his wit, peddling his cheap opinions. The vain conceited villainy of the man, and those awful New Labour excusers. One twitters this way, and then the other twitters that. The everyday hula of opinion and point, spat back and forth between a monkey and a clown. One says to the other, and then the other says the same. Gobbling edible facts in easy-to-swallow bite-sized chunks, and all of it washed down with the sour swill of statistics. A live unscripted two-way, they call it. Pompous little Englanders. Stupid humans and their molested opinions, endlessly repeated…And a woman called Margaret Dugdale–a real Albion eccentric this one–Margaret, desperate to see a dentist but unable to find one, took a pair of pliers to her mouth and forcibly ripped her own teeth from her gums, bloodily but boldly tearing them out, one by one. The mad old sow then popped them all into an envelope and sent them to the Home Secretary…Can you imagine? Toothless from Tunbridge Wells! The mad bitch.
North by north-west.
Breakfast, greedily gobbled down at the hotel du ponce. I was served by a charming Albanian waitress called Malgazorta. She brought me my eggs exactly as ordered, no funny business, and I ate them all up without incident. Sipped my coffee and smoked a cigarette. It was charming, and so civilized to find somewhere that still accommodates smokers. I am feeling calmer now, and much more even…The day is up and running and I have had my dump–Grade 4 on the Bristol this morning: ‘sausage with smooth surface’. It was like Frank Bruno’s arm–my health returns. Whilst in the khazi I took the opportunity to spruce myself up. I fear my man-of-mode transformation is starting to wear thin. I’m starting to look a bit crumpled, and shadowy–wolfish even, heads are starting to turn again. I gave my face a good clean, combed my hair, straightened my tie, glasses on…I’ll pass, for now, and our adventure can continue.
I am now sat back in the lounge, sipping another latte, smoking another cigarette, writing this and contemplating the day. The slow drip of what to do? There is a newspaper lying folded face down in front of me, but I can’t be bothered with it yet. The thought of what horror it may deliver is too much–it’s far too early in the day to start that carry-on. And I know it’s going to be a bad day, so not yet…The time is south by north-west. I’m going to go and talk to the woman at reception.
I think I knew…if I’m honest. I think I knew then. I mean, the moment of first gleaning, I think it came as I walked towards you…I think I knew then, I can’t be certain–I didn’t pay it any mind–it was a fleeting thing, caught for less than a second, and then gone–but I think I knew then. You see, when I say that the newspaper was folded face down, and that I didn’t yet want to see the headline, didn’t yet want to be inculcated in whatever gruesome story the day had to herald–well, the truth is, I’m lying. You see, I had seen the headline. There were other newspapers, not folded face down, but folded face up. And so you see, I had seen the headline. And so you see, I knew, as I walked towards you–I knew…
Your name was Janice. You were wearing a name badge. You were a clean and well-presented woman, upright, polite and courteous. You had the sanitary air of a woman clean-flushed, and were dressed in a smart blue skirted suit, with black tights that showed off your nimble ankles, and feet in third position. Your hands were held politely in front of you, waiting to attend. You were about forty-five, slightly rubber-looking, with red lips that smiled.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Those were your first words to me, Janice. Your voice was light and gently enquiring, your northern tones soft and warmly including.
‘Yes,’ I said, all formal, southern, educated and posh-toned. ‘I was wondering if you could advise me…’–pausing for a beat to give weight to my enquiry, your head tilting, lips together. ‘I’ve got a free day and I was just wondering if you knew of anything of any interest to do, or see, as it were, in Leeds, whilst I’m up here?’
And then for some reason I put my hand on my hip and rather ostentatiously raised my eyebrows, do you remember? You looked at me–a cream-faced loon with his eyes open round, full of innocent enquiry. I plopped them, gazing into yours and smiled. He is legion, I thought–honestly–the disarming charmer.
‘Well, yes, there’s lots of interesting things, let’s see…What sort of thing is it you were looking for?’ You blushed a little, didn’t you?
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I stammered, diffident and raffish.
‘There’s the theatre…D’you want me to check and see what’s on?’
‘Yes, that’s probably not until this evening though–’
‘Oh right–it’s something for today, is it, you were looking for?’
‘Yes.’
‘P’r’aps they have a matinee?’
‘Yes. On a Friday?’
‘Should I see the times?’ You were very professional, Janice.
‘Is there anything else?’ I said–do you remember? ‘I’m not sure the theatre’s really my bag–I find it all a little embarrassing.’
‘I know what you mean,’ you said, and then we both smiled, conspirators together–do you remember?
‘Well, if it’s shopping you’re interested in–’
‘Oh no, no,’ I said, stopping you immediately. ‘I can’t stand shopping, or shoppers, they make me sweat.’ I was overplaying it, I know.
‘Oh,’ you said, all Yorkshire jolly, ‘just like my ex.’ And then we smiled again, Janice, and I almost laughed, do you remember? You were flirting, Janice.
‘Well, if it’s something more cultural you were looking for, there’re some nice walks, or what about a museum or an art gallery?’
I looked very blank, didn’t I? The truth is, I didn’t want to do anything. I was killing time Janice, avoiding the headline…Sniffing you out, Janice.
‘Let me fetch you a leaflet,’ you said.
It all sounded so dull–museums, galleries, walks, shopping, theatres, culture…You handed me a selection of flyers and leaflets and bid me, ‘Have a look through that lot–if anything interests, I’ll give them a call and see what they’ve got on.’
I shuffled back into the lounge and ordered another latte. Malgazorta busied. I leafed through the leaflets. All were as expected, the only one of any interest was for the Thackray Medical Museum: From the horrors of the Victorian operating theatres to the wonders of modern surgery, the Thackray Museum’s galleries, collection and interactive displays bring to life the history of health and disease, treatment and cures, medical discoveries, equipment and technology. Admission charged. Concessions available. 2 miles from city centre.
Hmm…He pondered. Would going show malice aforethought?
The newspaper waited. There was no putting it off. I glanced back at you over in reception, do you remember? You caught my eye, your lips split and creases broke…I knew it would be you…And that made me happy. I felt reassured, glad that it was you, but also sad that it was you, that it was going to be you. The time was north by north-north-west. I paused for a moment and considered my conscience–it was totally inactive, both disinterested and uninterested. I reached for the newspaper, merely going through the motions. The headline, I alre
ady knew:
WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN BIN BAG
I thought of Emma and the guilty man.
And then I walked Janice, I walked all over, and I couldn’t get you out of my mind–your lips, your gentle tones, warmly including, and your feet in third position, waiting to attend. You said, ‘Enjoy yourself’–do you remember? And I smiled and said thank you. There wasn’t hatred in your eyes then, Janice. You waved to me, happy to have been of service, and I waved back. There you were, Janice, alone, loitering in the empty corridors of my mind, playing with my memories, unattended. It was a foolish thing to do, Janice, my memories are not happy, they’re grumbling, miserable and sorry–no-one should ever know of them…I tried to find another Janice, I kept saying to him, What about this one? What about that one? But he was having none of it. There was a fat one, with child, lumbering, lard-arsed, in the way, utterly useless, utterly stupid–no good to anyone–I said to him, What about her? I worked myself up into a rage over that fat one, Janice–and it was for you that I did it–I baited rage upon hatred and, let me be frank, murderous intent on that fat one, Janice, and her retard pant-crapping child, the stinking little shit. I can honestly say that I’d have taken great pleasure in sorting those two out–I’d’ve swung for the pair of them, as they say in certain circles–once bitten, going to be bitten again–but I’d’ve done it to keep you out of it, Janice. But no, he was having none of it. There was an old man–an old man even, an elderly–he could hardly walk. Doddering git, I heard him mutter–I thought I had him–but no, he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, would he? I followed that bastard for miles, Janice, until my insteps were aching–all the way up the Headrow, onto a bus–I thought I’d convinced him, I was sure he’d agreed–but I told you, he’s a conniving one, you can never second-guess him, he’s a liar, a scheming pretender, and he’d decided. He’d set his heart on you, and that was that. That was that. There was no stopping him.