by TL Dyer
‘I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry...’
The voice is coming from somewhere, but it doesn’t sound like me. I’m breathing too fast and clutch at my chest where my heart won’t slow down. My blood is molten lava sliding through my veins, my skin ice cold, and I can’t look at her. My stomach flips. I clamp my fingers across my mouth, thinking I might throw up, hot breath hitting the bank of my hand. Something solid inside is crushing me, my eyes sting but I daren’t close them.
‘I’m not like that.’
Like what? Like Craig? Like Simons?
‘I’ve never...’
I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in anger in my life.
‘Christ, I’m sorry.’
She moves, blocking out the shred of moonlight from the edge of the curtains. I flinch when her fingers touch my shoulder, but she doesn’t back off, coming closer, her arms going around my neck. I should tell her I don’t deserve her attention, her sympathy, but she’s hushing me, telling me it’s fine, telling me I was dreaming, but it’s alright now.
Is it? If it was a dream, does that make it alright?
I drop my forehead to her shoulder, my eyes closing as the scent from her t-shirt calms my breath, her neck beside my head warm and soft. I hold her gently under hands that feel detached from me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mutter, and mean to say more, but she stops me with her mouth on mine, her movements slow and delicate, her lips parted. My hand reaches for her jaw, drawing her closer and returning the kiss with the same careful tenderness she’s showing me, letting her know I’d never hurt her, I’d never hurt any woman. I’m not that man. Her fingers on my neck and in my hair are enough to make me think she believes me, enough to make me forget what I did, and who I am.
*
I’m alone in the bed with the sound of the fan from the bathroom rumbling through the thin walls of the en-suite. Daylight projects in a single strip onto the wallpaper at the other end of the room. I roll over on my stomach, stretch my arm across the crumpled blankets and feel them still warm, my fingers tangling in a strand of fair hair on the pillow.
Last night we had taken our time, her body shaking under my hands, or mine was, neither of us saying anything, both of us forgetting what I had done for us to end up there. Not so easily done now, in the cold light of morning. I cover my eyes with my hand, recalling her pinned beneath me, frightened by the rage that wasn’t meant for her.
Her phone vibrates on the side table, snapping me from my pathetic self-pity. I turn over, peel myself to upright and pull on my boxers. Retrieving my phone from my jacket pocket, I switch it on and drop onto the edge of the mattress, running my hand through hair that feels thick with the dust from this room. A handful of messages ping through when the screen lights up, all from Ange. I read only the latest and tap a reply, telling her I’ll be home sometime later. I mute the phone just as the door of the en-suite opens.
‘Hey,’ I say, as Tricia comes into the room wearing only the t-shirt she had on last night. Her smile is thin, and she avoids looking at me as she scoops up the rest of her clothes from the floor.
‘I’m taking a shower. I won’t be long,’ she says, reaching for her phone.
‘Course. There’s no rush.’
‘I think we’ve missed breakfast.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll grab something on the way back.’
She taps a message into the phone and returns it to the side table. ‘I need to be at the practice. One of our dogs has taken a turn for the worse.’
‘I’ll get you there.’
She nods once, and turns to the bathroom.
‘Are you okay, Tricia?’
She hesitates before answering. ‘I’ve never done this before.’
Done what, I could ask, but I don’t want to hear the answer. ‘Me neither.’
She looks down at the clothes she clutches in her hands. ‘You realize we can’t do it again?’
‘Don’t say that.’
Her eyes come up, and she’s wearing the same contorted expression of concern that she did twenty-four hours ago when I picked her up.
‘I won’t be the other woman, Steve.’
I don’t know how to answer that. And I don’t get time to, anyway, the bathroom door closes behind her. The shower starts up, beating against the tiles in time with the pressure building in my chest. We passed a line last night, one we can’t go back on. It’s either forward or nothing. But the thought of going home, then to work, playing the husband, the dad, the copper and all the rest of it, stretches out endless and hollow in a way it’s never done before.
So what is it I expect of her? That’s what she wants to know, isn’t it?
Dropping my chin to my chest, I stare at the ring on the finger of my left hand, not thinking of anything other than what it is. A piece of metal. A bind. An instruction manual of what you can do and what you can’t. When did it become that?
I twist the thick gold band over my knuckle, and when it comes loose, it leaves behind an indentation I fail to rub away with my thumb. Dropping the ring on the side table, I examine my hand anew. Just a hand. Just me. The same me that always was.
I get up from the bed and cross the room to the en-suite, pressing down on the handle, which clicks open. The shower cubicle is misted with steam so that all I see is the outline of her body, the colour of her skin, and her movement as she pushes the water from her hair. I go in, closing the door loud enough for her to hear. She stops and turns, not moving as I take off my boxers and put my fingers to the glass panel to slide it open.
Water drips from hair that tries to curl in the steam and droplets cling to her pale, freckled skin. Her eyes on mine are wide and unreadable, but not telling me to go, so I push the panel closed, sealing us inside. When I turn to her this time, my mouth on her damp lips is hard and searching, my hands glide over her wet skin. She draws me to her, backing up to the wall, the shower beating down on us, driving us on, fingers curling into slicked-back hair. And as I press her against the tiles, lift her thigh over my hip, there’s nothing else but this. Her body, my hands, her mouth, too much and not enough.
Despite the heat from the shower, and the steam that robs me of my breath, when I come inside her, I shiver, my grip tightening around her waist, fingers pressing into her skin. And it’s only because of her hands lightly stroking my back, her whispered words in my ear lost to the rage of the thundering water, that I realise at some point I’m sobbing. And I have no idea why.
Chapter 31
It’s quiet in the car on the drive back. Her phone pings with updates on their sick patient, and I put the reason for her silence down to that. When we get to the practice, she says nothing as I unload the box of things she collected from her ex yesterday and put them in the boot of her Land Rover, nor when I say I’ll see her Friday, if not before. She only wears that tight smile she forces when she doesn’t mean it. And once she’s hurried away into the building, I sit a few minutes looking at the closed door, willing her to reappear, maybe even just wave to suggest that last night and earlier wasn’t a mistake she was already regretting.
Driving home, I try to think about what happens next, but I’m too close to focus and nothing is clear. It’s less clear when I pull up outside the house and the Tiguan is parked on the driveway.
I check the clock on the dash in case I’ve misjudged the time, but it’s not even half one yet. It’s Monday and she should be in work until five. I unmute my phone and three messages and a missed call light up the screen, all from Ange. With a glance at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, I push my hand through my hair, but there’s little I can do about the grey patches under my eyes, and the rough stubble that a few hours ago I thought made me seem gruff, but now just makes me look like I haven’t slept. Squinting eyes have got guilt stamped through them deeper than a stick of rock.
I turn the key in the door thinking I’ll stay long enough to make my excuses, then take myself off somewhere, come back later when I have this all worked
out in my head. Because whatever I am, I’m not a coward, and I won’t be a cheat. I won’t lie to her, not over something like this. Things haven’t been right for a while. If we’re both honest with ourselves, we can’t deny that.
The house is quiet as I go through to the kitchen, fill the kettle and take the Thermos from my work bag to rinse it out.
‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
I half turn, catching her outline in the doorway out of the corner of my eye. Dragging the coffee jar over the counter, I flip up the lid, drop two spoons of it into the flask.
‘I told you I was on my way back.’
The soles of her slippers scrape over the floor as she comes into the kitchen.
‘Day off?’ I ask, glancing back to see leaning against the cabinets on the other side of the room, arms crossed.
‘How was the work thing?’
The water is close enough to boiling and I hit the switch, fill the flask. ‘Same shit, different venue. Just a training exercise. We had a few beers after. It was easier to stop over.’
‘So you said in your text.’
I screw on the top of the flask and give it a shake.
‘So where are you going now?’
‘They’re holding a memorial for an RTC victim in a couple of weeks. At the college where she studied. Told them I’d help the family with some of the arrangements.’
‘Very good of you. Is that a work thing too?’
‘Some of us go beyond what’s asked of us,’ I say, tipping the flask over the sink to check for leaks, and hoping she’ll leave it there.
‘So they’re paying you overtime? The Force for yesterday, the Johnson family for today? I’m assuming it’s the Johnson girl you’re talking about.’
Anna. Her name’s Anna.
I turn from the sink, eyes stinging and a headache threatening. ‘When did you get so bloody heartless, Ange?’
She returns the stare, hard and cruel. This isn’t the way I wanted to do it. But at least it’s progress. Now we’re getting somewhere. Except when she speaks, her voice is empty of anger, empty of everything.
‘Steve, do you not notice anything?’
My head’s so fuzzy, and her words so unexpected, I have to replay her question in my head first. But while I do, I look at her properly. Her face is free of make up and she’s dressed casually in jeans and a white cotton blouse that hangs loosely over her hips. Her thick, chestnut hair is hooked back behind her ears with nothing of the care she usually takes over it.
‘Are you alright, Ange? Are you ill?’
‘Do you not notice something missing?’ she prompts, trying to be firm, but tears welling up against her better intentions.
‘Ange, please. What is it, love?’
I put the flask on the counter, tightness gripping my chest. But she looks from me to the corner of the room. I follow her line of vision to the plastic bed on the floor, the worn brown cushion that fills it, the half-chewed duck and the blanket Ange crocheted, Dan’s before he gave it to his new pup Rumpole.
My gaze goes around the kitchen and out to the hall, replaying the last five, ten minutes. How I’d come in through the door and Rumpole hadn’t greeted me. But that wasn’t unusual; he didn’t do that so much any more. He’s always in his bed though, or else will come out from the sitting room to find me once I’m home, pre-warn me of trouble with his weary eyes. But not now. Not today. No tapping of his paws over the tiles, or grunt as he gets himself down or back up again, no pant of his breath as he tries to run. Another glance at Ange tells me the rest.
‘Where is he?’
‘I had to take him to the vet. I’m so sorry.’
I cross the room while she’s still talking, and crouch to the empty bed.
‘I couldn’t leave him there like that, Steve. Not with Dan... And I didn’t know when you’d get back. I’ve been calling—’
‘When did it happen?’ I touch the bed. It’s cool on the surface, but the blanket is warmer when I reach beneath.
She doesn’t answer. I turn and see it’s because she can’t. Her hand is curled into a fist at her chin, mouth crumpled, tears dripping from her face to her shirt.
‘He was already gone when I got up this morning,’ she says, still looking at the dog’s bed when I get up from the floor and go to her – still seeing him there maybe, how he would have looked when she found him. I put my arms around her, swallowing over the lump that catches in my throat.
‘I left him in the sitting room while Dan had breakfast,’ she explains, the words warm on my skin through my shirt. ‘I haven’t told him yet. I couldn’t.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll tell him later.’
‘The vet says we can pick up the ashes tomorrow. They’ll call. I think that’s what they said. I think they said they’ll call.’
‘Alright, Ange.’ My hand brushes over her hair. ‘I’ll sort it. Okay? Don’t worry. I’m here now. I’ll sort it.’
She nods against my chest and we stay that way for a while. Her taking comfort that she’s no longer having to do this alone; me feeling like a hole’s growing so large inside of me I might any second choke on it.
Chapter 32
That afternoon I phone the vet to check all the arrangements, and confirm they’ll call tomorrow when the ashes are ready for collection. Then I gather up all of Rumpole’s things – his bed, his blankets and toys, the bowls from his dog cupboard, lead from the hook in the hallway, everything that was part of his life here with us – and take them out to the garage. We don’t want to get rid of them yet in case Dan wants to see them, but Ange can’t bear to look at them, and though I don’t say as much, neither can I.
After that I make lunch and we eat it in the sitting room with the news on in the background, and later, when Dan comes home, we sit him down to tell him – me doing most of the talking, Ange unable to get far without breaking down. He stares at the floor, patches of pink tingeing his cheeks, and when he’s sure I’m done, he leaves the room, thudding up every other step of the stairs and slamming his bedroom door. His mother looks hopelessly at me and I tell her I’ll check on him later, and get up to fetch my car keys. I drive out to Asda in Duffryn to pick up his favourite pizza, another for us, and a bottle of Merlot and bunch of roses for Ange.
She trims the flowers and puts them in a vase while I cook the pizzas. Dan takes his to his room, and we eat ours in front of the TV, a spy drama playing out on the screen that my mind can’t focus on, and Ange seems only to stare at as she sips her way through half the bottle of wine. When it finishes, she goes to bed, and I pick up my phone and send a text to Tricia asking if she’s okay. Her reply comes the next morning when Ange has left for work and Dan’s still not up because we’re letting him stay there for today. I’m packing my lunch for shift when I read her message. She says Salsa is cancelled this week. She doesn’t say why.
*
‘Fuller, you legend. You might have redeemed yourself, fella.’
John Russell is front of the line to crack open a box of chocolate eclairs, one of a selection of fresh cream desserts I’ve bought in honour of my hefty cake fine. A blade to the bonce is no cheap error.
It’s my first day back on shift after the incident, and the morning briefing is all about examining my battle scar and turning what happened into a soap opera. Everyone has a different version, but Russell’s is the one that excites them the most – my commitment to Queen and country such that I would place my neck on the line for it; literally. Already a willing hero for his efforts, Russell tries to pin me with the same accolade, without realising that’s the narrative that sits the most uncomfortably with me. The bare truth is, as I try to tell them but which they refuse to hear, preferring sensationalism instead, is that in the chaos I didn’t know where the knife was. If I did, I’m sure my survival instinct would have had me backing off tout suite, each man for himself.
They don’t care for that, but they are impressed with the head wound, some even snapping a few pictures. It’s alw
ays a party atmosphere in the office when there are war wounds to share. They lament Peghead’s return and make bets on the size of his scar. I plead poverty, drop out of the stakes, and keep my mouth shut.
Roberts is the sergeant on shift, which gives me some respite from Dalston. But I’m reminded that we’re one big happy family when the skip pulls me aside after briefing to check on how I am, and to inform me I’ll be single-crewed for the foreseeable. I tell him I’m fine with that and walk to my unit thinking, so this is it, I’ve become the next Peghead, the partner everyone could do without. I’m glad of the peace, anyway, and take my lunch break parked beneath the trees alongside Belle Vue Park, trying to get my head straight, thinking about texting Tricia again or calling her. But if I push too hard, she’ll back off altogether. Perhaps she already has. Perhaps she’s had time to consider whether taking a chance on yet another unpredictable man in her life is worth the effort.
The vet surgery calls about Rumpole’s ashes when I’m halfway through the afternoon shift. They confirm someone will be there until seven, and once I’ve clocked off and changed out of my uniform, I head straight there. The receptionist, little older than Anna, offers an apologetic smile as she passes me the card machine, and holding the black urn in my left hand, I make the payment with my right, take my receipt and leave. I drive away with Rumpole on the passenger seat, the quietest he’s ever been after a trip to the vets, but only fifty yards down the road I have to pull to the kerb, biting back tears and telling myself to get a grip.
Back home, Ange waits in the doorway down the hallway and shakes her head, pointing to the sitting room. She doesn’t want to see it – him – just yet. I set him on the bookshelf and step into an atmosphere in the kitchen that fast tells me there’s more going on here than grief over the loss of the family dog.