The Inside Out Man

by Fred Strydom

  They enter through the back door of the house, tracking mud across the floor; then up the staircase, down the carpeted corridor, and past Leonard’s door—he’s laughing and laughing his head off.

  Eventually, the man and the dead dog reach the entrance to the master bedroom. The door squeals open, and they come inside. The floorboards creak. The moon beams through the window. This duo, they approach my bed, where I’m sleeping, and I can see myself sleeping. The dog scratches at the base, trying to rouse me.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  This dream-me, he opens his eyes, and he looks to the side of the bed, and my perspective switches to the him/me in the bed, with the dog at the bedside, missing one of its eyes and panting with a split tongue.

  The man in the coat is beside the dog, tall and stiff, looming like a stone statue. He has no face, as if the sculptor couldn’t care to finish him, unable perhaps to fashion the expression he wanted.

  I ask what they want, both of them, but neither responds. They stare at me as I scramble pathetically in my sheets. I’m begging for them to explain themselves, to leave me alone, but I can barely contain my fear. My internal organs are mashed up. I’m going to spill out of myself and never be solid or contained again. The dog puts its paw against the bed, and scratch, scratch, scratch.

  It goes on and on and on—

  It doesn’t stop.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  And then I opened my eyes for real.

  Awake. Sweating, cold, dry-mouthed, quivering—but awake. It took a while to figure out where I was, and if anyone was at the bedroom door. But the door didn’t move. The moon beamed in through the window. And I wondered why, if it all really had been a dream, I could smell the faintest metallic whiff of blood on my hands.

  35.

  The next day, I decided I needed to know more about my man at the window. After giving Leonard his breakfast, I began my search for answers by rummaging through cupboards and drawers. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but there had to be something.

  I threw open Leonard’s wardrobes, peeked into shelves, and pried open the sticky drawers in his desk. But I found little: a few invoices, ticket stubs. A loose photograph of a man who looked like Leonard—but it was too old to be him: a fuzzy Polaroid from the seventies or early eighties. At a guess, it was Leonard’s old man, with the big sideburns and black sunglasses. He was sitting on a brown checked couch, with a baby on his knee whom I took to be Leonard. I homed in on little Lenny’s face: a normal-looking, chubby-cheeked kid with no clue of all the shit to come. I turned the photograph over; in black ink was written: 7th June 1983. Happy burp-day daddyo!

  I put the photo back in the drawer. I wandered through rooms on a quest for clues, hoping for a bust that would out the whole spiel. The books on his shelves didn’t reveal much, just Leonard’s penchant for tough reading material: books on mechanical engineering. Advanced mathematics. Astronomy. Nautical navigation. I returned to his bedroom, and dug through the drawers of his bedside table.

  I was just about to give up when it caught my eye, something white against the dark floorboards. A small square of paper, no bigger than a Post-it, lay beside the bed. I bent down to grab it, and my eyes ran over the handwritten words:

  Here’s an idea, arsehole.

  Pick up the phone sometime

  And call me.

  Jolene

  A phone number was scrawled at the bottom.

  For a while I did nothing but stare at the words, wondering what the note could mean. I studied each swirl and loop, like some graphologist, arriving finally at a wise amount of nothing. I did, however, concoct a story: this was a morning-after note. This Jolene, whoever she was, had enjoyed a fun night with Leonard, he’d left her to let herself out in the morning, and she’d written in the hope that their casual fucking equated to something more.

  Then again, if they did actually know each other, she wouldn’t have put her number on the note, would she? Unless to say something like, Hey Don Juan, let me make this reeeeal easy for you—cos clearly, you’re not getting the message.

  Had Leonard ever seen this note? Had it slipped off the bedside table before he’d had the chance to read it? Whatever, it did seem to indicate that Leonard was in some kind of relationship with another human being (for some reason, none of the guests on my first visit seemed to count).

  But maybe she was just a family member. A concerned sister. An old friend. Or an obsessive ex who’d climbed through the window while he was in the shower. Perhaps the mystery man out in the rain was really a missus, and this was her doing (okay, that seemed a stretch).

  The fact remained: I didn’t have a clue. Not that I was going to pass up an opportunity to delve deeper, especially with all that time to kill and curiosity to quell.

  No, I needed to speak to this woman.

  I wasn’t sure about what exactly, but that would come.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed with the note in my hand, I read the name over and over again: Jolene. Jolene. Jolene. Then I dialled the number using Leonard’s bedside landline. I had no idea why I was calling her, but I felt compelled to, and with no explicit aim in mind. Perhaps, after the man at the window, I just needed to believe she was real.

  The phone rang six times. When I was about to hang up, I heard a voice. Ha! No, can this really be? After all this time?

  The words rushed out like a flash flood across desert terrain. I almost dropped the receiver. She sounded youngish, in her thirties, I guessed. Sharp. Confident. I said nothing as she continued: So, you finally find your phone in that overpriced heap of rubble you call a home—and nothing to say? There was a sexy playfulness in her voice as she addressed her locked-up Lothario.

  I’m sorry, I said. You see, well, I’m not actually …

  She paused, then groaned. Oh, God! It’s not Leonard, is it? Right, that’ll teach me. You see, his number came up on my phone.

  My mistake, I mumbled, I should have realised …

  Okay, let’s get this clear. You’re not Leonard.

  No.

  But you’re using Leonard’s phone. At his bedside table …

  That’s right.

  I see. Aaaand … I should know who this is, should I?

  No, we haven’t met.

  Ah. Did you dial the wrong number?

  No. I fumbled for words. Well, I found a piece of paper …

  A piece of paper?

  With your name on it.

  So you know my name.

  Jolene.

  Right. That’s not terrifying at all. And you are?

  Bent.

  Bent?

  That’s my name.

  Bent it is. Good. Now tell me, what are you doing in Leonard’s bedroom, Bent?

  I’m, uh, taking care of Leonard’s house while he’s away.

  You’re Leonard’s house-sitter?

  Sort of.

  Sort of? And you got my number … how, exactly?

  Well, I found it on the floor, actually.

  Ha, yes, of course. In Leonard’s house that’s probably the best place to look for a woman’s number. A chortle. So, you found my number, and you just thought you’d call?

  Something like that.

  I see. And—let me guess. You’re hoping I’m a hooker, right? Or one of Leonard’s cheap lays?

  No!

  Yeeesss …

  Jolene’s laugh made me doubt myself, even though I knew this wasn’t true. And she sure didn’t strike me as just another orgy room filler. The two of them were probably attracted because they challenged each other. She didn’t sound like every other dullard out there, with only half a new thing ever to say.

  Sitting on that bed with the phone, having wedged myself into their story, I suddenly felt like an amateur. A stupid fly stuck in a web made by two wily spiders. Don’t worry, she laughed. I’m messing with you. Any friend of Leonard’s is a friend of mine—besides his actual friends, of course. Because even Leonard would know better than to l
et one of them take care of his house. So, you’re not his friend, but you are someone he trusts in some way?

  I said nothing, didn’t know what to say.

  Hmm … okay, now I’m really curious. Right. Let’s see. You’re the shy type, but you’ve got some guts at least for making this call. So that means … well, I suppose that means you’re curious too, right? Maybe about me, but I’m guessing it’s mostly about Leonard. Right? So, how’s my aim, Bent?

  An arrow splitting an arrow that’s dead centre of a bullseye, was what I thought, but all I said was: Pretty good.

  Yeah, sure, pretty good. She’d done damn well, and she clearly knew it, but she changed the subject. So, how long are you staying there?

  For a year. While he’s away.

  Uh-huh. And what do you do?

  I’m a pianist.

  A pianist! Wow. Classical?

  Jazz.

  Jazz! Do people still listen to jazz?

  I’m not sure.

  I’ve always thought it’s one of those things too cool to be actually liked.

  Well, I like jazz.

  Of course you do. Never mind me, I’m in a funny mood.

  Had I caught her at a bad time, I wondered. You call someone and you throw yourself into a moment in their lives, without invitation. It could be any old moment, but that’s what you have to deal with. Life, in the background—like static.

  So, a mysterious, monosyllabic jazz man. You know what, to hell with it. Against all odds, your stalker call’s actually paid off. Look, since you’re Leonard’s new friend, I’m going to take a chance. There’s a group of people coming over. For drinks, maybe some dinner if they’re lucky. Just a few close friends. Nothing extravagant. I’ve got a feeling it’d do you some good to join us. Get you out of Dracula’s castle for a bit. How’s that?

  Sounds lovely.

  Oh, dear. Lovely? Try not to use words like “lovely” in front of my guests. They’ll tear your eyes out if you talk like that.

  Ah.

  I’m kidding. After a pause, she said, Bent, you aren’t crooked, are you?

  Very clever, I thought, but said, Nope.

  I’m not making a mistake by inviting some stranger, am I?

  I gave a dry little laugh, said I was looking forward to it. She said, Okay, then, and gave me the date and address, which I jotted down with a pencil from Leonard’s drawer. I should wear something smart, she said, it would make things easier on me—whatever that meant.

  Then she hung up.

  My heart did a drum solo. A double-time bridge. I got up from the bed and just stood there. The house was hollower than ever. Silent as a ransacked tomb. It had all happened so quickly: from seeing the man outside the window to finding the note to receiving the invitation to a party.

  And the biggest surprise was the feeling that flooded through me.

  Attraction.

  I didn’t even know what this woman looked like, but I knew I wanted her. My imagination went wild, giving her a physical shape, colouring that in, then breathing warm sexual life into this being, like God with Eve. I did feel fairly ridiculous about it, though: me, rocking on my heels in the centre of this room like a mental patient and growing horny.

  So I considered rubbing the whole thing out.

  Instead, though, I went to pour myself another drink.

  36.

  Days passed, though without further incident. The man in the garden didn’t reappear, and with every passing moment the memory retreated to the back of my mind, to that place where the compounds of thoughts and ideas are broken down into harmless, non-reactive elements. The possibility that I was being scammed remained in my mind, and I spent an absurd amount of time checking for hidden cameras, and whether wall mirrors were one-way or not.

  But I didn’t find a thing.

  I soon began to feel like a bored kid playing detective. Each time I didn’t find a camera, or failed to expose a one-way mirror, I felt an acute, infantile sense of disappointment. That’s when I knew I had to stop looking for clues, to quit worrying—and to stop thinking it was a scam. And that’s when apathy crept back in. But when the day of Jolene’s dinner finally arrived, an uneasiness grumbled in my gut, and my new concern became what I’d be wearing for the occasion.

  Something new, I thought. To make an impression.

  I opened a door and flipped a switch. Bright white overhead lights buzzed to life, revealing a wood-panelled walk-in wardrobe, almost as big as the bedroom itself. A hundred pairs of shoes sat waiting against the back wall. A row of dinner jackets and waistcoats hung neatly on the left, while a rail to the right was filled with an assortment of multicoloured motorcycle leathers, all covered in badges and emblems. A dozen helmets were lined up like robotic heads. In the glass-fronted drawers below, there were enough overpriced accessories to carry into the afterlife, as well as an assortment of watches with legendary names: Bulgari. Jaeger-LeCoultre. Vacheron Constantin. But I wasn’t interested in the extravagant stuff. I picked out a turquoise shirt and a pair of trousers, the plainest and simplest I could find, both of which fitted perfectly. I selected a belt. Thin brown leather with a small silver buckle. Nothing too showy.

  I couldn’t remember ever wearing another man’s clothes. I’d once tried on a pair of men’s horn-rimmed spectacles lying in my mother’s bedside drawer (my father’s, possibly, but I never asked), and maybe a jumper I’d borrowed from a school friend one winter’s day. But this was different. It was as if I could somehow feel Leonard, the time he’d spent in those clothes, his accumulated memories and experiences—the mnemonic sillage of old moments in every stitch and thread—all at awkward once. Or maybe, more than our houses, it’s our clothes that end up haunted after we’re gone.

  I searched through rows of small elegant bottles arranged on a white shelf. Most of the brands I didn’t recognise, but I grabbed one anyway and gave myself two liberal squirts. I threw on a black jacket, adjusted my cuffs, and turned to suss out my look in a full-length mirror.

  I looked surprisingly good, though a haircut wouldn’t have been a bad idea. A bit more sun might have helped too. My appearance was passable, I reckoned. Except—I was alarmed to discover—for my fingernails, which I’d tried so hard to scrub clean that day.

  It had been more than a couple of weeks since the accident, but for some reason there was still blood under each of my fingernails—which were also somehow torn and broken. I held out my hands and ran my eyes across my fingertips. There was actually more blood than before. The carmine colour had spread almost as far as the cuticles. I studied my right-hand index finger from all angles, as if to identify a strange new insect, then pressed down on each fingertip to test for pain. They all felt fine. No discomfort at all. I was, however, reminded of having woken a few nights earlier to the smell of blood—on my hands. But that made no sense. The blood under the nails wasn’t mine at all.

  No reason to panic, a voice kicked in. It was nothing. A simple explanation lay just out of reach. I buffed my nails against the front of my jacket (gently at first, but then harder and faster), and used my index fingernails to scrape the others clean, but to no avail. Then I gave up, inhaled, and looked in the mirror.

  I looked good. I smelt good. I felt good.

  I turned out the lights and shut the closet door.

  Ha, yes, finally …

  Leonard.

  I was passing along the corridor, on my way out for the night, when his voice came through the door. I wanted to ignore it, to keep going, but something, a stubborn thing with claws, held me in my spot.

  I was beginning to worry about you. Starting to think I’d picked a prude. Someone without imagination. Good for you. Smelling so good. He sniffed deeply, loudly. Oh, yeah. I know that one. That’s for a night of action, I know. Since you’ve felt free to grab my toiletries, I bet you’ve tried on a couple of my clothes too, huh? Shirts. Trousers. Oh, yeah. Bet you’re looking slicker than the inside of an oil tanker! So, what’s the plan? Where you going? Who’
s the lucky woman? Or is it a man … I didn’t really ask you that, did I? Huh. Can’t really assume any more, can we? It’s okay, hey, we’re all equal in the eyes of the Lord, no matter what we do in the bedroom, right? Here’s to inviting everyone to the party! We are who we are! And you, my friend, smelling so good, you are who you are—a bright and beauuutiful butterfly. Out of his chrysalis of convictions and judgement and disgust for us sad, privileged folk—ready to fly off into the world. Oh, and please—I know you’re not supposed to say anything to me—yes, yes, it’s the deal. But you’ve just got to tell me how it all went, yeah? What she thought of that super slick outfit of yours. How she tasted. Whether you’ll be seeing each other again, and whether next time … next time, he gave a loud, scornful snigger, you’ll have the guts to go there as yourself, chief.

  37.

  I turned up around seven. I was about fifteen minutes late. Entering Jolene’s front garden, everywhere I looked I saw some odd thing, as if a theatre company had had a yard sale and Jolene had got there last. Under a curtain of creepers, a lazy-looking stone satyr stood smoking a pipe. Old teapots hung from the branches of trees, reflecting the glow of hundreds of hanging fairy lights. In one corner, a patchwork couch slumped beside a mirror-mosaic table holding a half-filled glass of wine and a lumpy Joseph Merrick–like candle. Colourful and busy and cluttered, it all seemed a tad overworked, I thought.

  A woman floated across the garden towards me, like a figure in a painting who’d stepped out of a frame. She was wearing a white dress and holding a glass of red wine in each hand.

  My cryptic caller, she said. You came.

  She was attractive, but not in the way I’d imagined. On the phone I’d thought she’d have a sleeker, more sophisticated look. But no: she was baby-faced, with wide curious eyes and a small but voluptuous mouth. She gave me a kiss on each cheek.

  Thanks for the invite. You have a beautiful home, I said blandly, like a machine having just figured out how to feel. Politeness, I thought, the dull cousin of charm.