The Inside Out Man

by Fred Strydom

  You listening to me? I know you’re there, I can still smell you. But it’s not you I’m smelling, is it? I can smell her—and me. My cologne. And her perfume. And you. In the middle of us.

  His voice rose.

  Hey. I’m talking to you. You listening to me?

  41.

  Jolene rolled over on her back and grabbed a cigarette from her bedside table. I’d not seen her smoke before, guessed it was a post-coital thing. The room was warm, though the windows were open. A portable fan oscillated while crickets chirped outside. The moon filtered through gauzy red curtains.

  She lit up and took a pull. Calmly and without hurry she exhaled, the smoke twirling to the ceiling from her O-shaped mouth, like the first grey wisps from lit kindling. As my eyes moved down her body, I spotted a small freckle below her breast, which seemed somehow out of place on her smooth olive skin. I felt an odd sense of privilege seeing it there.

  She looked up at the ceiling, took a drag, and said, I have this idea of being happy. Of being totally, deeply happy. It’s like, I can imagine how it should feel, but without actually feeling it, if that makes sense. Like when you watch something happen to a character in a movie. She rolled onto her side and faced me, the curve of her hip haloed by the glow of the bedside lamp. I was thinking I’d never before been with anyone who looked quite this good with her clothes off, when her voice interrupted my train of thought: But then I think maybe this idea I have of happiness isn’t real, that it doesn’t exist. That it’s something we’ve just made up, y’know? Some finish line we’ve convinced ourselves is real, so we don’t have to deal with the truth.

  The truth?

  That being scared and dissatisfied is unavoidable, programmed into us. A biological survival mechanism—the main reason we’ve managed to survive so long.

  I watched as she blew smoke up at the ceiling.

  I dunno, she continued. Maybe I’m just talking crazy—but maybe not. Take Edgar: I love him more than anything, but I wouldn’t say this makes me feel content. I’m a lot of things, but content isn’t one of them. Always worried about whether I’m raising him right; concerned whether he’ll succeed in life; paranoid he’ll get hurt. These are my anxieties. But that’s just how it has to be, right? Because if the day ever comes when I’m one hundred per cent happy, free of all those bad feelings, well, that’s the day we accidentally walk off a cliff with big smiles on our faces. She stubbed her cigarette out in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a boot. Another of her cutesy odds and ends. Like the pink vinyl wall clock, and the vase of flowers with their blue-glass petals and wire stems. I mean, we talk about happiness. We talk about goodness. Fairness. But who’re we kidding? These ideas … they’re just words. Marketing tools. Scams.

  I said, You don’t believe in fairness?

  I wanna believe in it—but that’s not quite the same, is it? Fairness is a fairy tale. There’s just … whatever makes it in one piece—and whatever doesn’t. Survival for those with the sharpest claws. You know what I mean?

  I think so, I said.

  Take you and Leonard.

  Leonard. Leonard. Leonard. Dinner for three. King-size bed for three.

  I cleared my throat. What about us?

  She ran her finger lightly up my arm. A pause. A self-conscious smile. Look, I don’t want to cause problems, she said. But just because he’s paid you to take care of his house doesn’t mean it’s a fair arrangement. It might feel like an even deal, but it’s not. And he knows that. Because he’s not paying you or helping you; he’s buying you.

  I laughed defensively. Buying me?

  Hey, man, I’m just saying. That’s how people get rich. Not by making fair deals, but by getting people like us to sell our time and freedom for a few bucks they won’t even miss. Make no mistake, that’s why Leonard’s worked to get wealthy. It’s not a plan for happiness. Or fairness. Just a plan to stick it out, to endure, to survive—the thing that probably counts most. She paused, then wistfully went on: Sometimes I wonder what my life might be like if I had the guts to just do what I needed to get ahead, y’know? Really not give a shit, and go for it. To see a picture in my head, zone in on it and say: To hell with everything and everyone, I’m gonna get that! Like that big house you’re taking care of. Who knows? With a little not-giving-a-shit, a little brutal self-interest, I might end up with a mansion of my own. The luxury of travelling the world whenever I feel like it—

  She stopped dead, like a car out of petrol. I could tell she wanted to say more, but instead she leant over to kiss me on my lips, as if to say, Hey, sweetheart, forget the whole thing, it’s the wine talking, or the sex, or the moon. Or a dirty combination of them all.

  But I couldn’t forget what she’d said. Her words eddied in my head. I thought about having to go back before the sun came up to feed Leonard his breakfast. And after that, having to get back in time for his lunch, and then his dinner. I thought about doing this day after day after day, under the pretence it presented a valuable opportunity, offering some kind of revelation. A year to do things differently.

  It was all a joke, I suddenly felt. And the joke was on me. But not only on me. On Jolene, too. Sweet Jolene, who was trapped by something other than Leonard’s money—or his mealtimes. She was trapped by a hope. The hope of being with a man who had the guts and the means to do whatever it takes to survive in the world—a world that lauds survival as the end that legitimises all means, however bloody, however manipulative. In the end, Jolene wasn’t drawn to Leonard the Suave as much as Leonard the Survivor. That was the Leonard she wanted—the quality she sought in all men. No more talkers. No more dreamers. Nature favours the doer. We may get the world we deserve, but we take the world we want—

  And nice guys get finished first.

  I thought all of these things as Jolene lay breathing against my neck, her eyes closed. I was thinking these thoughts as she lay a hand on my heart, as she whispered, ever so softly, that she was sorry for being such a downer, and that, you know what, she wasn’t sure, but she thought she might even love me.

  I bet you even had dreams of your own, once. Not someone else’s dreams, but your own. What were they? A concert hall? A record deal? Your name in lights?

  Look, I don’t wanna nip the hand that feeds, but sometimes I think, maybe I didn’t need to lock myself in this room. Maybe all I needed was to move into your shitty apartment. Skulk around at night wasting whatever talent I have on strangers who don’t give a crap … junkies there for the two-for-one drink special, for the off-chance they’d go home with someone to screw. And since we’re on the topic: we both know that Jolene … well, Jolene’s a very special woman. A woman who deserves good things in this life. She’s like me. We’re a certain type. Our success is mostly … genetic. That’s what makes us the same. No offence, Bent. You’re a great guy. You probably know how to iron your shirts, cook penne al dente. You might even have got her to sleep with you. But when I get out of here, call her, what do you think she’s going to say?

  No, thanks … I’ll take the empty fridge. The damp ceilings, the seedy smoky bars … The guy without the guts to give life a real go?

  Hmm? When I get out, honestly now—what do you think she’s going to say?

  42.

  Murder is such a strong word.

  When I think of murder, it’s stabbing someone, shooting someone, or putting poison into a drink. It’s pushing a person off a building, or pulling the plug on a life-support machine. Something like that. But that’s just the point: murder is a thing that’s done. An action. It’s not inaction. You wouldn’t call someone a murderer just for ignoring the starving kids in the world. That might make us ignorers, maybe. Self-absorbed arseholes. But that wouldn’t make us murderers. Murder requires a particular type of mind, and I’m not sure I’m that kind of person.

  Let’s just be clear.

  As for a bit of wilful ignoring … well, that’s something else entirely. I’ve been doing that all my life. Turning a blind eye. Whistling to mys
elf as I stroll by a world going to shit, as most of us probably do. Which isn’t all bad news, if you stop to think about it. Sometimes walking away is exactly what the world needs of us.

  You know how they say evil prevails when good men do nothing? Yeah, well, it works the other way too; that evil prevails when good men keep doing things for evil men.

  IV.

  Thud, thud

  43.

  It was easy, really.

  One morning, I simply stopped putting food through his door.

  I didn’t plan it, or think it through.

  It just happened.

  I’d prepared breakfast at the usual time—Eggs Benedict on an English muffin, Colombian coffee in a plunger, and even some freshly squeezed orange juice—but as I was about to slide it through the door, I hesitated. It was a reluctance that came from nowhere, rushed through me and flooded me. And this instantly became a decision, and the decision was to stand up, tray in hand, and keep walking with the Eggs Benedict.

  That was it. That was how I did it.

  Or didn’t do it.

  I returned to the kitchen, put Leonard’s meal on the counter, and went outside, as if it were the most ordinary day in the history of days. I laid a table for myself, my cutlery neat on a napkin, and sat down to enjoy my own breakfast in the brilliant morning sun. Slowly and methodically, I bit into my crispy toast, drank my juice, sipped my coffee, and did my piss-poor best not to think about what I’d just done (hadn’t done). I didn’t want to think about Leonard at all, in fact—especially not about him being confused as hell up there, wondering whether I’d be coming back any time soon. No, I just wanted to eat my meal slowly, to savour every taste and texture, and to watch the way the wind moved through the blameless trees, with the sun shimmering on the guiltless lake.

  44.

  If I was smart, I could make my money work for Jolene and me. For at least another ten months there’d be more money coming into my account through an automatic debit system. Maybe I’d be cut off after then, but maybe I wouldn’t. Most importantly, no one knew Leonard was in that room. No one knew when or if he’d ever be back. And no one knew about the task I’d been paid to do. There was that document with the lawyer—only to be opened under my instruction—but that was it. All I had to do was ensure it was never opened, or, if I wanted to be really conscientious, have it destroyed before anyone else could take a look. That way, as with good ol’ Schrödinger’s Cat, as long as that door stayed locked, Leonard could be just as much there as not there. Just as much writhing in agony in a confined space as milking a yak in Mongolia.

  Not that he made it easy for me to write him out of existence. The more time that passed, the more agitated he got. His initial confusion grew quickly to a loud and persistent anger. Then the anger alternated with a sad, pleading fear. To remedy this, I did my best to stay away from the room, out of earshot, but it didn’t help; somehow, I could hear him through the entire house. I played piano to help drown the sound of him kicking and screaming and throwing his fists, all the while demanding that I do what I’d promised to do, threatening, Oh, you fuckin’ loser, so help me God, when I get out of here, you’re not gonna know what’s comin’, you’re not gonna know …

  But this only kept me away, making me skip his dinner without compunction … and go to bed that night with a racing heart, as well as a strange and unexpected satisfaction. A satisfaction quite unlike anything I’d ever felt, powerful enough to put him out of sight, out of mind. To take on his broken promises to a mother and son, a bad debt I’d settle with love and loyalty and a family and a future. To play unfair, claim a reward in this shit-accustomed world, and have the apathy of the universe work in my favour, for a change.

  To let Leonard Fry starve himself to death.

  45.

  Jolene was sitting beside me at an outside table of a rustic restaurant. We’d been filling our glasses from a jug of some kind of fresh and fruity cocktail mix. Edgar was playing down by a river that meandered through the grounds. He was leaning over, trying to scoop up some tiny fish with a cup. His mother had warned that he wasn’t to harm them—once caught, he’d have to throw them back where they belonged. To be with their fish families.

  What would you say if I knew Leonard wouldn’t be back, I said to Jolene. Well, if I knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t be back in his house for a long while? And that maybe you and Edgar could move in, with me, for as long as you’d like? As a way of making things easier. For the two of you. But also for me—just mulling there, y’know? All by myself.

  I paused, waiting for Jolene’s reaction.

  Leonard’s not coming back?

  A needle of jealousy, straight into the main vein.

  Not for a very long time, I said.

  Oh. Do you know where he is?

  I cleared my throat, sipped my drink, and sat back. He’s abroad. On a private island somewhere. Busy with some long-term project. He told me he won’t be back for … I dunno, five to ten years?

  You spoke to him?

  Uh-huh.

  When?

  I turned to watch Edgar by the river. But I wasn’t really watching him. I was staring inward, at the dim images cast on the shady back wall of my mind, as if by a projector whose bulb was about to blow.

  A few days ago, but that’s irrelevant. I put my drink down. It’s like you said. Sometimes we’ve just gotta see the chance and take it. Have the guts to go for what we want, right? So what do you say? You wanna take a shot, move in? The two of you?

  She was immobile.

  Shit, Bent. When?

  My mind flicked back to a long-ago school biology lesson, did a quick calculation. Survival without water: about seven days. Survival without food … Six to eight weeks’ time, I said. Give or take.

  Silence. A clearing of the throat.

  By now a small crowd had come in, placing orders as they chuckled and blabbed and yakked.

  And Leonard’s okay with all this? She just sat there. Staring at me. And that’s when I came up with the clincher, the line of the day, the one I patted myself on the back for before even uttering the words.

  Of course, I said, touching her hand. It was Leonard’s idea.

  46.

  I’d considered cutting the whole thing short. Making a specially prepared meal—one with fifty crushed sleeping pills stirred into his mayo. But I knew I was incapable of anything like that. There was a line in my mind. To do would be to murder. It was easier merely to shut Leonard out. I took solace in the fact he’d entered that room of his own accord. I reminded myself that I hadn’t kidnapped him. I hadn’t lured him to that house to indulge some sort of torture fantasy (for that, Leonard could count on his orgies with perverted pals). I was simply leaving a careless man to his own devices. Quitting my job. Walking away from a bum deal, like some corporate lackey deserting his cubicle.

  But the noise.

  The goddamned noise.

  There seemed to be no getting away from it, no matter where I was in the house. His voice permeated the walls. He screamed. He whined. Sometimes he even tried to beat the door down.

  At other times, he just scratched.

  Of all the sounds, that’s the one that bothered me most. It was the scratching that kept me up that night. The rest of the sounds were almost symphonic. Crescendos and choruses, or a long breathless solo of Fuck-you and Burn-in-hell and Feed-me and Please-I’m-begging-you.

  But the scratching at the door.

  It went on and on, into the night.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch …

  47.

  Next evening, I took Jolene to the theatre. The musical we saw was her choice, something she’d remembered from a short but positive review in the paper. I’ve since forgotten the name of it, but it was about a man who died and made a pact with the devil, then returned to earth, exacting revenge on those who’d murdered him.

  The devil didn’t look like the devil. He was just a tall old man in a coat, but somehow the stage desig
ners had given him an elongated shadow that followed him across the stage wherever he went. Any character unfortunate enough to encounter his shadow would first burst into verse—part-singing, part-screaming—and then disappear into the blackness, becoming part of the devil’s shadow, which grew in size as events unfolded. By the close of the final act the old man stood mid-stage, all alone, and delivered a monologue. The joke had been on him, he said: he’d thought it was his shadow, to control as he wished—but all along, it was the shadow that had been manipulating him. And at the end of everything, there’d be no other option but for the shadow to swallow him too.

  I was concerned it was all a little dark for my date, too morose, but Jolene said she’d enjoyed it. As we walked arm in arm through the chattering throng, she mentioned that she liked the fact it didn’t have a happy ending.

  Do your best. Fuck up. Darkness befalls. The end. It’s somehow more satisfying that way, she said. And isn’t that a funny thing? That it can be so terrible and reassuring at the same time? What do you think that means?

  I said I didn’t know—and I really didn’t.

  On our way back to the car, we ambled through a mall, where we happened upon a high-end clothing store. Inside the clothing store, we stepped up to a jewellery counter that was waiting for us hungrily with its gold-toothed maw. That’s where the walk came to an abrupt and not-entirely-unexpected halt.

  Paris? Jolene replied to the question I’d just asked. She was staring at a gold bracelet under the glass-topped counter. A man loomed on the other side, one smack of the lips short of slobbering on the glass top in anticipation of a big, fat purchase.