The Inside Out Man

by Fred Strydom

  Voices swirled in my head. One called out forgiveness, wanting to console her, take care of her. Another gloated that she deserved her fate, and that she could just drop her bags on the doorstep of hell, for all I cared. And then there was the one with a word or two on the subject of survival: her problem was irrelevant. Nothing to do with me.

  Bent, are you there?

  I took a moment, put all my thoughts in a row, slowly flipping them over, one by one, like Tarot cards.

  I’m here, I said. But I’ve got to go.

  Then I hung up.

  60.

  I was brought out of sleep by music.

  Not the soft, lulling kind.

  It was as if there were an immense machine beneath the house—a coal-powered monstrosity, churning, thundering at the core—somehow keeping the whole world going. The clock on the wall said two-forty. I got out of bed, slid my feet into a pair of slippers, and stepped out into the dim corridor.

  The booming and blaring was so loud that the pictures were askew on the walls and the windows trembled in their frames. I closed the door behind me, and headed down the corridor. At the staircase landing, a razor blade of moonlight sliced the wall. By now, I was able to put a band and title to the sound, with its doubled-stopped guitar, whimsical baseline, and snatches of whiny, wasted vocals: Television’s “Marquee Moon” doubled the darkness.

  I stared over the rail into the dark spiral of the staircase below. Still no hint of activity in the house. I even called out, but my voice vanished, like a match flicked into a tornado. I descended, one slow step at a time, and at the bottom of the stairs I heard the giggle of a woman, followed by a man’s voice. Then I turned.

  Standing in front of me was a tall blonde woman I’d never seen before. She was wearing a man’s white shirt, unbuttoned to her belly. Below, her long bare legs stretched to the floor.

  Boldly, she ran her eyes over me, from my toes to my head.

  So you’re him, huh? she said, her eyes level with mine. Hey, man, you’re missing out on all the good stuff.

  I could just about make out what she was saying over Tom Verlaine singing about listening to the rain, but hearing something else …

  I’m sorry?

  She snickered, turned, and disappeared into a room along the corridor, like a ghost through a wall. I looked around—left, right, and over my shoulder—and when I was sure there were no more surprises in the shadows, I headed her way. I got to a doorway, the room where Howard was staying, it turned out, and looked in.

  The scene before me was so weird it seemed to have been staged, like some kind of late-night experimental theatre. In the dim blue glow of a bedside light, Howard lay sprawled on his stomach, naked except for the fedora perched on the back of his head. At the opposite end of the room, a woman was sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her long brown hair very slowly, repeating the same stroke over and over and over again. The blonde I’d just met was on her back beside Howard in the bed, her raised legs swinging like two unsynchronised pendulums.

  If he’d rented the women for the night I couldn’t give a shit. But what did worry me was how easily they’d gained access, and without my knowledge. Where else had they been in the house? What had they seen … or smelt?

  Howard turned on his side, waved for me to enter, to join in. I gestured for him to turn the music down. He cupped an ear and scrunched his face, pretending not to understand, and waved again. Obliging him, I took a step into the room. It reeked of sweat and sex. I’d evidently arrived after the main event. Then Howard stood up on the bed, stepped over the blonde, hopped off onto the floor, and dropped the volume on a big black sound system in the corner.

  How’s that? Any better?

  I nodded. Thanks.

  Oh, man! Were we keeping you up? Yes, we were keeping you up! What time is it? He looked at his wrist for longer than it should have taken him to realise he wasn’t wearing a watch. He looked to the women. Girls, what time is it?

  Both mumbled non-responses.

  I really am sorry, Bent, he said with a grin. You see, it’s my birthday.

  One of the women chimed that he was a liar.

  Okay, he continued. It’s Tina’s birthday.

  The other chuckled, saying how full of shit he was.

  No, but seriously, Howard laughed. We’ve got to keep it down. For my friend Bent here. Bent’s got to be up early, right? To do whatever it is he does. He swung round and said, What is it you do, Bent? Besides, of course, skulk around. I’ve noticed you’re pretty good at that. Here. There. Like a busy little spider.

  The blonde said she was hungry, but Howard’s stare seemed bolted to me, not even a blink.

  Eight eyes, eight legs. Skulk. Skulk. Skulk.

  He broke into laughter again, sauntered over. With a hand on my shoulder, he said, I’m kidding, man! Look. We got a little out of hand, but it’s a first offence, okay? First verbal, then written. After that, no excuse. You get to lock us up and throw away the key. With a theatrical sweep of an arm, he turned and said, Sound reasonable, everyone?

  His hand was back on my shoulder, but this time it was pushing, until I was back in the corridor. Howard tacked a smirk to his lips, joked that his guests should Hush now, dammit, people are trying to sleep around here.

  And then he shut the door.

  61.

  The morning after was bright and warm. Not so much as a cloud in the sky, a breeze through the trees, or a ripple on the pool. I had my coffee out there, sometime around ten, but within a few minutes I had to move into the shade. The coffee probably wasn’t the best idea, either; I felt dehydrated after a poor night’s sleep. I’d tossed about, replaying the surreal scene in my head: those two wacko women, bare-arsed Howard and his dumb hat. That music playing at such an eardrum-ripping volume he could only have done it to irk me, to lure me down.

  There was no sign of any of them in the house. I pictured the two women draped over Howard in that bed, all asleep or dead, baking in the hot darkness. Remembering Jolene’s guests—melding as they danced, skin into skin, merging into one shapeless mass of flesh—I pictured the three-way: Howard and the two women intertwining, filthily amalgamating. My stomach flipped at the thought, and I went back inside the house.

  The bedroom phone rang. It could only be one person, and I was right.

  Bent, she said. I don’t know if now’s a better time than before, but I was wondering if we could talk a bit. Would that be okay, if we just talked a bit?

  I closed the door, and fell back onto the bed with the phone to my ear. Up on a wall, I saw a big brown spider. I couldn’t tell if it was poisonous, and though I knew the larger ones generally weren’t, this did nothing to relieve my unease. If it moved, even a little, just one of its hairy legs to the left or right, I decided I’d get up and kill it.

  What do you want to talk about? I asked. My voice was cold, colder than I’d wanted.

  I don’t sleep so well any more, she said. I’m on these pills. They’re supposed to help. But they make me feel so zonked, so out of it.

  I promised myself I’d stay aloof, but I also felt my control slip away. I remembered the smell of the nape of her neck. Her silkiness. The toothy smile. It was as if there were hooks in my guts, and everything was being tugged down.

  I have these recurring nightmares, the voice went on, and I wake up in a sweat. I get these icy cold sweats, and my pillows are soaked through, like I’ve just got out of a lake. I just don’t get it any more.

  Get what? I heard myself say.

  This path I’m on, and why I’m on it, and where it’s all heading. Like, this thing I have for the company of strangers. I don’t know why, but things somehow feel safer, it numbs something inside, keeps it down. And then you—you stopped feeling like a stranger to me. Bent, that scared me. Don’t ask, because I wouldn’t know what to say. Does any of this make sense? I took some pills … ten minutes ago. Or an hour? Maybe longer. Maybe just ten minutes. I can’t say … but please tell me you’re trying�
��trying to understand.

  I am, I said. Trying, I mean.

  Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.

  I sighed, closed my eyes. An image formed in my head. I saw myself as a child, sitting beside my mother. She was beaming as she held my hand, gently moving it over a piano, guiding me across the keys. She was in the dress she’d worn on my eleventh birthday. Her hair was done up. There was colour in her cheeks, a glint of something alive and well in her eyes. I looked at the ceiling, and as I did so, the picture faded away, like warm breath on cold glass.

  The voice again: Bent, what about you?

  What about me?

  How are you?

  I hadn’t been asked in years. I could be all right.

  Sure. Okay.

  There was nothing else in the world right then but me and Jolene. I didn’t want to make any more promises. I didn’t want to tell her I could save her, or that she could save me. I just wanted to be there, right there in the room with her, cut off from the chaos of the world. And I didn’t ever want to go back.

  She laughed nervously, continued: Y’know. It’d be okay if it was just me to worry about. But there’s Edgar too. I jump out of bed after these nightmares, and the first thing I do is go to my son’s room, look in on him … and he looks so peaceful … and I want to wake him up, tell him that no matter how I behave, no matter what I say, or where I go, it’s not his fault. None of it is his fault. He should know this as he goes on, and grows up, and becomes his own man. He should be totally free of it. You know what I mean?

  I said nothing, her vulnerability making me ache for her, want her—more than ever. I wanted her next to me. In front of me. All around me. I wanted to drown in the ocean of her.

  I’m not expecting everything to be perfect, not right away, but maybe we could just see each other. We don’t have to rush anything, just see each other. It was fun. We had fun—didn’t we?

  Jolene …

  Would you at least consider it?

  I don’t know.

  What are you thinking right now? she asked, her voice low.

  My hand dropped to my side and I stared out the window, into the blue. Then I put the phone to my ear again.

  Look, she said. Let’s just give it time … and possibly, maybe, one day we could even work our way back to, I dunno, rethinking your offer?

  Wanting reassurance, I asked her to remind me, and she replied, The offer you made at the restaurant, about Edgar and me coming to stay there with you. And, hey, when Leonard finally gets out, we can make some other plan, go somewhere else.

  I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea any more—if we were going to have a new start, we’d need somewhere new. Some place far away from that goddamned house.

  Then something clicked in my head. Like a seized cog in a machine: when Leonard finally gets out.

  Gets out.

  The shadow of some terrible, looming thing fell over me. Over the room. Over the house. Over the world. I asked Jolene to repeat what she’d said, just to make sure.

  I said we could move in, and when Leonard gets back we could make another plan—

  No, I cut her off. That’s not what you said.

  What?

  You said: when Leonard gets out.

  I don’t know what you’re on about—

  I propped myself up. Look, I heard what you said. You just said, when Leonard finally gets out.

  I don’t know what you think you heard—

  I sprang to my feet and demanded, Jolene, what is this?

  Bent, I—

  What the hell are you up to?

  Bent—

  Stop saying my name! I shouted, my fist tightening on the receiver. Just tell me. Tell me now.

  Tell you what?

  I stomped to the window with the phone in my hand and scanned the garden. I didn’t know what I expected to see out there, but my leg began to tremble and I felt a wave of dizziness.

  Bent, are you there?

  So, this whole time it’s been some kind of game?

  A game? I don’t—

  You and him! You and him!

  Look, she said, whatever this is about, just hold on. I’m coming over, okay. We’ll talk then—

  I slammed the receiver down, battled to catch my breath as I closed my eyes and put my head between my legs. I needed to think clearly. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t imagining this. She’d said it, given herself away. Just as Leonard attested, she didn’t actually want me. She’d never wanted me. She’d been coaxed into some kind of plan. That’s why she’d ditched me at the supermarket; she couldn’t take it any more, having to be with me. Smile at me. Sleep with me. But now, something had happened: she was forced to call, make amends, get whatever twisted plan it was back on track.

  But she’d fluffed it.

  Minutes later, I stood up and walked out the door. The hallway was unnaturally bright, and the ceiling began to bulge like a plastic tarp filled with water, moments from bursting and flooding the house. Not again. No. Not now. I needed to keep it together. I lurched forward to the staircase landing, held the rail, and took another breath. As I hurried down, the light of the day flared through the windows, and I felt a compulsion to get the hell out. Forget the corpse. Forget Howard. Just go.

  I went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, quickly drained it, then cupped my hands and splashed my face and the back of my neck.

  Anything the matter?

  My head almost spun right off my neck.

  Howard stood at the counter, his hands behind his back. Not feeling so well?

  With both palms, I slid the water off my face, then wiped my hands on my shirt.

  You gave me a fright, I said. I was just …

  My hands fumbled to complete my non-existent explanation with a series of awkward, meaningless gestures. Unruffled by my theatrics, Howard stuck to his spot (just as he had in the rain, and at the goddamned pool, the bastard).

  You know, he said coolly, the moment you opened the front door on that first day, I knew.

  Knew what?

  That something wasn’t quite right with you.

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him. Look, you’re here now, I said. You’ve got things covered. I think I should be off.

  Oh, you’re leaving?

  Yes. I’m off.

  In such a hurry?

  This isn’t working out.

  Oh? Why’s that?

  I’ve not been feeling well. I unhooked a tea towel and dabbed the back of my neck. I think I need to see a doctor or something.

  Yeah, you sure don’t look well, Bent. All red and sweaty. Like you’re about to have a heart attack. He gave me a funny look. By the way, before you go—you know what it was, the thing that got me thinking?

  Tell me, I said.

  You’re not at all how my father described you.

  For a moment, Howard inspected his shiny black shoes. Then he pinned his eyes on me again.

  I leant against the sink. How so?

  For one, he said you were charming. And eloquent. Confident. Essentially, he said we’d get on like the proverbial house on fire, lots in common.

  Sorry to disappoint.

  And then, he began, and paused. And then, Bent, I started getting this feeling. Because the thing is, I don’t see any sign that my father’s gone anywhere. You’ve taken his room, but what really gets me is that everything of his is here. I mean, everything. I even found his travel bags in a cupboard. Together with his passport. Now how do you suppose a man travels the world without a passport?

  He stepped forward—quite clearly, he did not expect a reply.

  But there’s something else. Something I found, that maybe I wasn’t supposed to find. Any guesses? He tilted his head at an angle. Hmm? Mr. Charming. Mr. Confident. I asked you a question.

  He pulled his right hand from behind his back, and dangled a bloodstained shirt in my face. The one I’d worn the day I’d hit the dog.

  I froze. Where did you get that?

  It
was his turn to ignore the question, and he continued, This really got me thinking—and you know what I see here, Bent? I see the full picture. A picture of a psycho. A loser. A man who saw an opportunity. Who thought, hey, here I am, out in the middle of nowhere. And here’s this rich nut who’s just given me the key to his house, to his entire fucking estate, and maybe, just maybe …

  He held up the shirt, gave it a shake.

  Howard, that’s not what you think it is. There was an accident—

  An accident! Looks like one hell of an accident. No. You know what? I reckon he’s still here. You didn’t expect me that morning, and you’ve been skulking around ever since, trying to clean up the mess. Right? Tell me I’m right? Maybe that’s why it stinks in here—hey, look at me—I said that’s why it smells so fucking terrible in here.

  He glared at me, gave a shake of his head—but this calm was just a prologue. I sensed the rage amassing within him, which he was struggling to hold in, to contain.

  Howard, listen to me, I softly said. That’s not your father’s blood. I hit a dog. With your father’s car …

  He began to laugh. In seconds, his facade would be gone, and he’d blow up. My eyes flicked sideways to the door, my exit route if he decided to grab a knife from the counter and come screaming towards me.

  Trust me, I said. That shirt—

  Stop. Just stop. I don’t want to hear it.

  Instead of coming for me, he stepped briskly away, out of the kitchen and into the corridor. I went after him, stopped at the door, and saw him heading for the hallway. He was muttering that it was all over for me, and he’d make sure I lived out the rest of my days in an endless, inescapable hell of his own devising.

  There was a phone just off the hallway, I suddenly clicked—and ran to head him off.

  Don’t do that! I shouted. Wait! Put it down. Don’t …

  Howard dialled, slipped me a side glance, coolly turned to complete his task, and turned his back on me. I yelled for him to just hold on for one minute, to take a second to hear me out—when my eyes landed on a nearby object on the floor. It was a large ceramic pot. Without so much as a thought, I bent down, grabbed it with both hands, raised it above my head, and brought it down squarely on the back of his skull as he stood waiting, the receiver in his hand.