Encircling 2

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Encircling 2 Page 28

by Carl Frode Tiller


  “Tom Roger, wait.”

  Her tearful voice. Frightened voice. She’s asking me to wait. Maybe she wants to stop me from leaving after all. I don’t know, but it almost sounds like it. That frightened voice. She’s frightened that I’m going to leave. I can hear it in her voice and it’s so good to hear it. It reassures me a little. Now I know I have the chance to change my mind. I don’t need to leave her if I don’t want to and that helps a lot, it’s comforting.

  “Tom Roger,” she cries.

  Don’t stop now though. Keep walking. Have to prove to her that it’s not just talk this time. I understand the seriousness of the situation and I want her to know that. If I stay it’ll only be because she wants me to stay and I want her to know that. So I don’t stop. Or look back. Just carry on into the bathroom and shut the door. I’m about to lock it, but I don’t. Want to give her the chance to come in if she wants. Slip off my boxer shorts and step into the shower. Nudge some Bratz and Barbie dolls out of the way with my foot—Vilde’s been playing in the shower again. I turn on the shower, shut my eyes and turn my face up, feel the spray hitting my face. I could do with a beer soon, I can tell, I’m thirsty, my throat’s dry and there’s this tension inside me, a jangling that’s soon going to turn into the shakes. Need some hair of the dog, need a beer. I pick up the shampoo bottle, squirt some yellow shampoo onto the palm of my hand, soap up my hair. Rinse it off. Open my eyes every now and again and glance at the door handle. Waiting for it to turn, but it doesn’t turn. I feel a flicker of unease. Maybe she’s going to let me leave after all. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I finish showering. Turn off the water, grab the big bath towel that’s hanging over the side of the cabinet and step out of the shower. Keep shooting glances at the door handle. But it doesn’t turn. She’s not coming. And the unease grows inside me. I give myself a brisk rub-down. Start to get dressed.

  Then suddenly the door opens and there’s Mona. She looks at me with glistening eyes, swallows.

  “Tom Roger, don’t go,” she says.

  And my heart lifts again. What a blessing, that she won’t let me go, it feels so good, such a comfort. But I don’t let it show. I can’t let it show. Have to prove to her that I’m determined to go. Prove how much I love her. Love her so much that I’m even willing to leave her for her sake.

  “Tom Roger,” she says.

  “It’s no use, Mona,” I say, pulling my T-shirt over my head. “You’re such a good person, you deserve something better than a life with me,” I say, saying exactly what I shouldn’t say. Blaming myself so that she’ll feel sorry for me and start to play down what I did. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m doing it. It just happens.

  “I love you so much, Tom Roger,” she says. “I don’t want anybody but you.” Her voice is thick with tears.

  “I love you too, Mona,” I say. “But I don’t deserve you.” Still saying what I shouldn’t be saying. I can’t help it. It feels so good. That’s she’s trying to stop me from leaving, begging me to stay, it’s feels so good and I’ve primed her to do it. “You’re too good for me,” I say, and now she’s supposed to start talking about all my good points. I shouldn’t do it, but I do.

  “Oh, but you do deserve me,” she says. “You deserve a lot more than you think,” she says, saying exactly what I’ve primed her to say. “And … I think that’s your problem,” she says, coming up to me, putting her arms around me, the warmth inside me as she does this, this wonderful feeling that spreads through me, warmth radiating from her fingers. “You have such a low opinion of yourself,” she says, “that’s your problem, you … always have to act so tough and sure of yourself … and in a lot ways you are … but sometimes I get the idea that you’re not as sure of yourself as you make out. Because if you were you wouldn’t always be on your guard the way you are … and you wouldn’t get so mad the second you feel offended,” she says. “I’ve often thought that … well, my friends just shake their heads, they say I’m naive and stupid to think like this, but I really believe that if you can see how much I love you that might help you to feel a bit better about yourself. And I believe that might help you feel sure enough of yourself not to have to beat up me or anybody else just to defend your honor … or whatever it is you’re trying to defend,” she says, then she pauses. “I …,” she says, then her voice falters. She bursts into tears again. Leans her forehead against my chest and cries so hard her whole body shakes. And I just stand here. Rigid, my arms hanging by my sides. “I love you so much, Tom Roger,” she wails, sobbing and rubbing her forehead against my chest. I hear the rasp of hair. Her bangs scraping against my T-shirt. “You’re so much better than you think,” she goes on. “My friends get quite mad at me when I say it, but there’s so much good in you, you’re kind and considerate … and you’re fun to be with. I’ve never laughed so much as I have since I’ve been with you,” she says.

  She’s saying exactly what I knew she would say. Talking about all of my good points. And she presses herself against me. Holds me tight. It’s going the way it always goes. She’s forgiving me. Comforting me. No matter how big a bastard I’ve been she won’t give up on me. And I just stand here, accepting all her love. It feels so good. Almost like being healed. Like being renewed. I lift my hands, place them on her back. Hug her to me, her slight figure pressed against my burly body. Feel her warmth. It feels so good. It’s almost like being renewed. The only problem is that I’m not renewed. It may feel like I’m being renewed, but I’m still exactly the same. Here I am doing exactly the same as I did after the last time I beat her up, acting like the repentant sinner, and here she is forgiving me, full of love. This is exactly how it always goes. Nothing changes. There’s this pattern we’re caught up in. A pattern that we’re stuck in and can’t break free of. That’s the problem. We may kid ourselves into believing that this time things will be better, but they won’t be any better. I shut my eyes. Swallow. And suddenly I feel all the happiness drain out of me.

  “I need to take a shower as well,” Mona says. “I stink of booze.”

  Telling me she stinks of booze. Saying nothing about all the blood. Wants us to put what happened behind us so she doesn’t say anything about the dried, black blood that she’ll have to wash off. This is exactly how it always goes. It’s this pattern we’re caught up in. I take my hands off her back. The happiness is gone. And suddenly I feel sad, angry almost.

  “Why don’t you rustle up some breakfast while I take a shower?” Mona says. She’s never asked me to cook for her before, but she says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s a way of trying to make me feel better. She’s making me out to be more kind and helpful than I actually am and that’s supposed to make me feel more kind and helpful. She’s doing exactly what she always does in situations like this. Trying to boost my ego. Trying to fool me into thinking that I’m better than I am. But I don’t want to play this game any more. Can’t be bothered fooling myself any longer. I know who I am and I’m sick of myself. And I’m sick of our gutter romance. That’s how we like to see ourselves. Like one of those white trash couples you see in films sometimes. The kind who’ve taken their share of hard knocks, but who hang on in there as best they can. The kind who may hurt each other and be mean to one another sometimes, but who still love each other more than any other couple could. That sort of crap. I can’t do that any more.

  “What’s the matter, Tom Roger?” she asks, tucking her fine, fair hair behind her ear and looking at me.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” I say.

  I try to smile, but I can’t quite pull it off.

  “Is your stomach hurting again?” she asks.

  She eyes me tenderly. Wanting me to say yes. Wanting me to play that same old game of ours. Wanting me to pretend that my stomach hurts so we can focus on my aching stomach instead of what happened last night. This, too, a way of moving on.

  “Nah,” I say, shaking my head.

  But she won’t let it go. Playing that same old game.


  “Oh, you,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Both your legs could be cut off and you still wouldn’t admit you were in pain,” she says.

  She’s making me out to be a real tough nut and acting like she despairs of me. She knows I like that. I like being told that I’m a real man. Always have done. But not right now. I can’t fool myself any longer. I just can’t be bothered. I’m about to pick up my toothbrush, but I don’t, I need to get out of the bathroom now, can’t bear to stay here playing this game, so I’ll just have to brush my teeth later.

  “But I know you, Tom Roger,” she goes on. “I can tell when you’re in pain, and I’m telling you, you’ve got to make an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible,” she says. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, can’t be bothered saying anything else, can’t be bothered explaining and laying it all out for her, just want to get out of here now, out of this pattern, out of this flat.

  “Promise me now,” Mona says, actually making herself sound a little cross now.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, shutting my eyes, nodding and opening them again. Then I put a hand to the bathroom door and push it open, see the steam swirling up in the draft.

  “Will you make breakfast then?” she asks as she steps into the shower.

  “Yep,” I say.

  I hear the shower door sliding shut as I walk out of the bathroom. Catch the sound of her turning on the shower before I close the door. She’s going to wash off the blood now. I beat her to a bloody pulp and now she’s going to wash it all away. In a little while she’s going to come out of there washed clean and that will be that. And we’ll be so nice and attentive to one another for a while. I’ll get around to doing jobs I should have dealt with ages ago. Fix the tap in the bathroom or clear up all the junk we’ve got lying in the storage area downstairs. That sort of thing. I’ll throw myself into these jobs and pretend it’s just a coincidence that I’m doing them today of all days. I know that’s what I’ll end up doing. And Mona will be happy. Not happy enough to remind us of why I’m getting around to these jobs today of all days, but happy all the same. She’ll praise me, tell me what a great job I’m doing. Be amazed that I can do the things I do. And then she’ll do something she knows I’ll like. Buy something nice for dinner. Maybe rent a good film. And we’ll watch the film and then we’ll have sex. And not just ordinary sex. Serious fucking. Real hard fucking. She’ll moan even louder than usual. Maybe cry out while we’re at it. And afterwards she’ll tell me how good I am in bed. You’re the best I’ve ever had, she’ll say. I know that’s what’ll happen. That’s what always happens. But we can’t go on like this. We have to stop fooling ourselves. Have to get out of this. For once I’m going to fucking well take responsibility. I’m sick of being the way I am. I hate it. But now it’s got to stop. Now I’ve got to get out of here. Got to go. Don’t know where. I’ll have to see. In any case I’ve got to go. And I can’t face talking to her before I leave. Because it’ll just go the way it always goes when I try to talk to her and explain. We’ll just fall back into the same old pattern. I’ve got to get out of here before she comes out of the shower.

  I go through to the kitchen. The fluorescent tube above the sink is on the blink, I notice. It’s flickering and making this loud buzzing sound. I put out a hand and switch it off, open the fridge and take out a beer. Open the can with a little pop, tip my head back and drink. Knock it back. Cold beer running down my throat. I feel the beer washing away the tension in my body, feel everything in me gradually relaxing. Christ, I needed that beer.

  All of a sudden there’s a knock at the door. One knock, then another. Who the fuck can it be at this time? Shit. I’m not up to talking to anybody right now. I set the can of beer down on the kitchen table. Very gently. And just stand there. Stand perfectly still. Just have to wait till they go away. Don’t want to see anybody right now, I’m not up to it. One second, two. And I just stand here. Perfectly still. Then suddenly the front door opens. I hear the little click. Must have forgotten to lock it when we got home last night and now somebody’s opening it and walking straight in.

  “Hello,” a voice calls. Aw, shit. It’s Anne. And my heart starts to thud. Her—of all people it had to be that cunt. I wait a second. Don’t answer. She’ll probably go away if there’s no answer, so I don’t say a word. I just tiptoe over to the tall kitchen cabinet and tuck myself in behind it. Hide behind the cabinet.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” she calls.

  But I don’t answer.

  Silence.

  “She’s not out is she?” she asks.

  At first I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then I realize it’s Mona’s rat, she hates that fucking rat as much as I do and she wants to make sure she’s in her cage.

  Silence again. And then I hear Mona say: “Oh, that was good.” And I feel myself go cold. Because she’s coming. She’s had her shower and now she’s coming out of the bathroom. And I have to get out of here. There’s going to be trouble and I can’t face it. Not right now. I can’t face going head to head with Anne right now, so I’ve got to go. I’ll have to walk straight past the two of them and out the door. Cut and run before anything’s said. Have to get out of the house before Anne realizes what’s happened. But I don’t. I just stand here clutching the cold beer can, staring down at the froth that’s gathered in the shining groove on the top of the can. I can’t move a muscle. Just stand here listening.

  “I didn’t think you were home …” Anne says.

  And then she breaks off. Stops in the middle of the word. She must just have seen Mona’s face, that’s why she’s stopped so abruptly. And my heart’s thudding. Because now there’s going to be trouble. There’s going to one hell of a fight.

  Total silence.

  “Walked into a door again, did you?” Anne says. She sounds calmer than I thought she’d be. Her voice is sharp, but she’s not freaking out. One second. And Mona doesn’t say anything. And I don’t say anything. I stand perfectly still, staring at the beer can. Stand here like a big sissy. Don’t show myself. Can’t bring myself to. Stay tucked in behind the cabinet, listening. “Or maybe you fell down the stairs?” Anne says.

  “Cut it out,” Mona says.

  “No,” Anne says, raising her voice.” “No,” she says again, raising it even more, almost shouting now. “I’ve had enough of this, dammit,” she says.

  “You’ve had enough?” Mona says, speaking almost as loudly as Anne now. I’ve never heard her raise her voice to her mother before, but she’s doing it now. “Believe it or not, Mom, but not everything in this world is up to you,” she says. “Would you please leave me alone. Would you please stop poking your nose in. You live your life and let me live mine.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mona, don’t be stupid, you …”

  “I’m not stupid,” Mona yells.

  She’s fucking yelling at her mother now. What the fuck’s going on. I’ve never heard her yell like this before.

  “Don’t you call me stupid,” she yells. “I’m not stupid.”

  “I never said you were stupid, I’m just say …”

  “But you always manage to make me feel stupid,” Mona breaks in, livid. “You’ve always made me feel stupid. The very fact that you can come barging in to our flat and … and … take charge like this … it makes me feel stupid. As if I’m incapable of making my own decisions. As if you’re a better judge of what’s best for me than I am. It’s … it’s … oh, my God, you’ve no idea how things are between Tom Roger and me.”

  “I know he hits you,” Anne retorts. “And that’s more than enough for me.”

  “It’s not that simple. Yes, we have our problems, but we … we love one another,” Mona says.

  Coming out with all that gutter romance stuff now. Presenting this picture of us that we always try to present after I’ve done something to her. Trying to turn us into the sort of couple we’ve seen so many times in films. A couple who hurt each other really badly someti
mes, but still love each more than any other couple ever could. “I don’t want anybody but Tom Roger,” she goes on. “I love him and no matter how hard you try you’ll never manage to split us up, Mom,” she says, glorifying our gutter romance, still making us out to be like one of those couples we see in films. “And anyway, I think you should be careful what you say about how Tom Roger treats me,” she says. “What about all the fancy women Dad’s had over the years? How humiliating that must have been for you, eh … you think I don’t remember all the fights you had when I was at home? You weeping and wailing and threatening to kill yourself and him always apologizing afterwards, always promising that it would never happen again … and then the kissing and making up … when the three of us had to pretend to be all sunshine and light again and make everyone, including ourselves, believe we were the perfect little family. All that—was it so much better?” she asks.

 

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