No Way to Say Goodbye

by Anna McPartlin

  “OK,” Sam said.

  “I don’t feel good about this.”

  “It’s just hash. I want to sleep.”

  “I’ll give you enough for two joints and then you’re on your own.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mossy cut a small piece from his stash, took out some papers and two cigarettes. “I suppose you know how to roll?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right so,” Mossy said. He handed Sam the contraband.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Mossy said. “We both know you’re fucking yourself up.”

  Sam left without another word.

  Mary lay on the sofa with Mr Monkels’s head on her lap. She had drifted into sleep during That ’70s Show but woke an hour later with panic rising. Everything within her told her to go next door. She lifted Mr Monkels off her legs. He moaned and moved to take up the entire sofa.

  She knocked on Sam’s door but received no answer. She knocked on the window and still nothing. She knew Sam was inside and every fibre of her screamed that something was wrong. She went back into her own home. In the kitchen she opened the french windows. She fetched a chair and dragged it outside. She placed it against the wall and levered herself over and into her neighbour’s garden. The back door was open. She slipped into the empty kitchen. She went to the sitting room but he was not there. Upstairs, his bedroom door was open, but the room was empty. The bathroom door was closed. She tried to open it, but it was locked.

  “Sam!” she called.

  “Go away.”

  “No!”

  “Please go away!”

  “Come out!” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said. She heard him flick a lighter.

  “Sam, please don’t give up!”

  “I’m not strong like you.”

  “I’m not strong like me! Please come out!” She sensed his terror – and that he wanted to tell her something desperately but didn’t know where to start. She sat on the floor, leaning against the door. “Just tell me,” she said, after the longest time.

  “I can’t,” he said, as though he’d been expecting the question.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll hate me.”

  “I’ve never told anyone this.” She took a deep breath. “I wanted to have an abortion,” she said. “That night on the mountain I told Robert I was pregnant and I wanted an abortion. He wanted to keep it. We argued and he died. When I woke up full of baby, I hated it. I wished it would die. Every day in that hospital and through rehab and right up until he was born I wished my son would die.” Tears streamed from her eyes. “And then he did die… Do you hate me?” she asked.

  “No. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  Sam was silent for a minute or two, but Mary waited and her patience paid off. “It was the night I overdosed,” he said.

  She sat perfectly still, afraid that the slightest stir would stall the tale.

  “There was this dealer, a guy I knew from school. I’d bumped into him a few weeks before. He was a junkie too. He sold to feed his own habit. He was a loser ! He’d said he’d fix me up if I ever got stuck. My guy had been lying low. I didn’t want to use him. I fucking hated him but I was desperate. I went to his place. He lived in some shithole in the Bronx on the third floor. It took a while to make the stairs. I hadn’t banged up in a while.”

  Sam was talking to Mary from the bathroom floor in a little cottage in Ireland but right then he was in a dank apartment block on 233rd Street. He was walking up the stairs, his legs aching. The damn lift was broken, which was typical. He had an abscess on his foot at the point where he injected. It burst on the second floor. Fuck! He got to the third and smelt piss. He felt sick but he knew if he could make it to 56C he’d be OK. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He was pissed as the asshole had sworn he’d be waiting. He knocked again, harder and with urgency. He would have broken the door down but suddenly it swung open.

  He entered a room. The kitchen merged with the bedroom, which was also the sitting room. The bathroom was a tiny cubicle off the kitchen. He knew it was the bathroom because of the shit stench coming from it. The guy was sitting on the sofa with his back to him. Sam called from the door. He noticed the paint peeling down the walls and the frayed furniture from a different era, which didn’t meld with the large-screen TV and hi-fi system in the corner. He called again but the guy just sat there. He closed the door behind him. He was annoyed that the fucker thought it OK to ignore him.

  Then he was facing him. The guy’s skin was a translucent blue against deep purple lips. A needle was stuck in his arm, which was bent and ready to receive. The elastic was tight around his forearm. His eyes were open and he was hunched as though the end had come in a second.

  Sam took a chair and sat close to absorb every detail, as though the dead man was some sort of macabre museum piece.

  “Oh, my God!” Sam heard Mary say. He hadn’t spared her the graphic details. Why should he? He wanted her to know. She needed to know what a rotten degenerate he really was. She deserved a fair chance to run.

  “After that I robbed him of his stash. I closed the door good and tight and left him to rot.” No more than he deserved.

  “Jesus!” he heard her mumble.

  “But just as I was leaving I heard something. I could have sworn I heard him take a breath. It was barely audible and there was no movement when I stared back at him – but I was sure I heard something. An hour or two later I was choking on my own vomit in my Manhattan penthouse.” He spoke as though the story had ended.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I lived. He died. What’s not to understand?”

  “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” she asked.

  He laughed as though she’d told a joke. “Why would I?” he asked bitterly.

  “But if he was still breathing?”

  “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.” A tear slipped down his face.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I was a drug addict in a dealer’s apartment.”

  “Why did you leave him to rot?”

  “Because that’s what he deserved!” he shouted.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted him dead!”

  “Why?”

  “I despised him.” He got up and walked to the bathroom door.

  “Why?”

  He leaned against the door.

  “Why?” she repeated.

  He opened the door and she fell back a little. “You know what the worst thing is?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “When I left him I had a fucking smile on my face.” He walked past her and into his bedroom.

  “Why?” she called. Tell me!

  He turned to her. “You don’t understand. I’m so full of hate, Mary, I rattle with it. Fucking Topher!” He mumbled the last words and fell onto his bed.

  She flushed the joint and pocketed the lighter. She sat on the floor at the end of his bed.

  “Go home.”

  “No,” she said, and she listened to him cry until at last he fell asleep.

  Later, alone and in the half-light, she sat in her sitting room with her sleeping dog at her side. She recalled every aspect of his story up to the final mumbled “Fucking Topher!” She closed her eyes. She no longer needed sleep to see the boys circle the kid in the hood. She heard, “Look, Topher’s excited!” She saw the kid, and the ring-leader leering. She heard him direct the other boys: “Give Topher a go!” She saw the boy-bear called Topher move towards the kid lying on the ground. Oh, Sam, what did they do to you?

  26. Down but not out

  It was six the following evening before Sam saw Mary again. He had spent most of the day in bed with a headache that stubbornly refused to go away. In trying to sleep he employed every trick in the book, but counting sheep, hot milk, herbal remedies and even a sleeping tablet didn’t h
elp. His mind refused to comply – it was too busy picking apart the previous night’s revelation. Part of him had wanted to finish the tale – perhaps if he confided in Mary he would finally be free of that which gnawed at his insides. Part of him wanted her to know everything but the rest stopped the words in his head pouring out of his mouth. He just couldn’t do it. And now, worse, he feared he couldn’t bring himself to face her. I’ve lost her. I deserve to lose her. She’s better off without me. Oh, God, I can’t stand it!

  He was in the kitchen taking two painkillers when the bell rang. The door had been on the latch since Jerry Letter had dropped in a parcel that Sam hadn’t bothered to open. Mary didn’t wait for him to answer: she walked into the kitchen with her car keys in hand. “Let’s go,” she said, turning on her heel.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Let’s go.” She stopped. “I’m waiting.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m in my sweats, for God’s sake!” He looked down at his unsightly navy sweatpants in an attempt to avoid eye contact.

  “We’re going,” she said, with a look that meant business.

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  “There is nothing more I want to hear,” she replied.

  “You drive me crazy,” he said, following her to the car.

  “You were always crazy. I just highlight it.”

  She smiled at him and he felt like crying. I’ve disappointed everyone who has ever cared about me.

  They drove in silence for at least twenty minutes before he asked about their destination. “You’ll see when you get there,” she said, and turned up the volume on her CD player so that Marilyn Manson’s ode to “Beautiful People” filled the car. He turned it down and looked at her but she continued to stare straight ahead.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “An ending,” she said.

  “An ending?”

  “Everything has to end. You need peace. I need to give it to you.”

  “And you think you can?” He snorted.

  “I don’t know, but there’s no harm in trying.” Her eyes were fixed on the road. “And then we’ll say goodbye.”

  “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “I never wanted to be hurt.”

  “I’m damaged goods.” He sighed.

  “We’re all damaged.”

  He fell silent. Not like me.

  It was close to eight o’clock when they arrived at the small strand. Mary parked the car on the hill and handed a flask of coffee to Sam. She pointed at a spiral sandy pathway that led to the beach below. “Follow the path,” she said.

  “What about you?”

  “This isn’t about me.” She smiled.

  He opened the door, but before he could step out onto the cold sand, she grasped his arm. He faced her with a quizzical look.

  “It’s going to be OK,” she said, pulled him to her and kissed his forehead. “Everything’s going to be fine.” She hugged him tight, as a mother would a child. Then, without another word, she released him and pointed again to the pathway.

  The glistening water captured him. The tide was high and pink under the last of the evening sun. The beach was empty save for a woman and her dog, and a lonely figure sitting close to the lapping tide. He stood for a moment breathing in the salty air.

  The man turned and Sam saw it was Mary’s father. He smiled at Sam and beckoned to him. Sam approached and Jack patted the sand beside him. “Sit,” he said.

  He complied. “Jack?” What the hell was going on?

  “In the flesh,” Jack replied.

  “I’m not sure what this is,” Sam said.

  “Me neither,” Jack replied, with a sigh, “but Mary has a way of getting people to carry out her will. She’s just like her mother that way.”

  “What is it she wants?”

  “She wants me to tell you a story,” Jack replied softly.

  “A story?” Sam asked, perplexed.

  “I’ve only ever shared it with one human being and that was my daughter, and only because after Ben died I had an inkling she’d try to follow him. I needed her to know that a lifetime of happiness can’t be destroyed in one moment, no matter how terrible or what is lost in that moment.” He sniffed the sea air. “Did you bring the coffee?” he asked.

  Sam lifted the flask.

  “Good.” Jack took it and poured a cup for Sam. Then he pulled a plastic mug from his pocket and poured for himself. “She makes great coffee.”

  Sam drank half of his in one gulp, then balanced his cup on a rock. He looked back towards the hill, and could barely make out Mary’s car. Jack took a slug and began.

  “It was the summer of 1957 and I had just turned sixteen. My father had a friend with a farm who offered to pay me half nothing to help him clear out an old stable that needed fixing. I’d been working three days before he came near me and I was exhausted from lifting and hauling. The place was in a terrible state. He brought me a lemonade drink his wife had made. Jesus, I can still taste the sugar – it was thick with it. I sat down to drink it. He sat beside me. The next thing I know his hands were in my hair. I thought maybe there was straw but then his other hand was in my crotch.”

  Sam wanted to stand but his legs failed him. “I can’t,” he said. He put his hands to his ears, but Jack gently removed them.

  “I tried to push him away but he was a strong man. It didn’t take much to knock me out, just one clatter of his hand and I was a goner. I wasn’t out for long, though. Only long enough for him to have my pants off.”

  Suddenly Sam was crying, tears streaming down his face. He was shaking the way he did when the anger took over.

  “I understand that kind of hate,” said Jack. “I know how it can infect your entire being. I know how it can destroy a soul. I know how you feel, son.”

  Sam was sobbing and Jack stayed quiet. He focused on the tide turning and the birds calling until Sam had collected himself enough to speak.

  Mary sat in the car. It had become clear now – she had seen it all. She saw him rehearsing above an old launderette. She watched him say goodbye to the others and turn onto a street marked 7th. She saw him pass those boys. They were calling out, Loser, hey, loser, where ya going, loser? He gave them the fingers. They started running. He started running with everything he had in him. Again she felt the concrete under his feet and heard the steam emitting from a grating. She could hear the car screeching to a halt and the horn beeping. She could feel the steel bumper against his thigh as he brushed past it. She could hear them coming and the thud of eight feet moving closer and closer. She could feel his chest tighten and his breath shorten. They were closer now, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention, warning him of danger. He tried to speed up but his legs weighed heavily. He slowed by a fraction but it was enough.

  Seconds later they had caught up. The kicking and punching started. He was on the ground, his hood pulled tight around his face and his hands attempting to protect himself from their blows. There was the big guy Topher, the one they called Bear. He was standing there with a bottle in one hand. He was jumping up and down and laughing.

  “Topher’s excited. Give Topher a go! Go on, Bear, give it to him! Give it to him!”

  Sitting in that car she was lost, lost in another time when a boy was about to be raped. “Do it! Do it! Do it!” The words resonated in her head. She closed her eyes but she heard Topher release his buckle and unzip while two of the others held the boy down. She heard them tearing at his jeans. She felt one unzip him, then the cold air strike him, as though he’d sat on ice.

  “Do it! Do it! Do it!” the boys chanted.

  “Get him on all fours!” their twisted leader called, but he was barely audible.

  She saw them pulling him to his knees. He wanted to call out but his voice was gone. He wanted to kick and punch and make them all bleed, but he couldn’t. He just wanted to run. It felt like he was tearing inside. It felt like he was burning and every invasion burned deeper
and deeper until time meant nothing. The moment froze. Then, suddenly, he was alone, covered with blood, shit and piss, and still he couldn’t scream, so instead the rage simmered until it infected every part of him.

  Mary returned to the present, sobbing and wiping the never-ending stream from her eyes and nose.

  “Save me!” the boy had called to her.

  “Even if it means losing you,” she said to her empty car, then put it into reverse and drove away.

  “If I hadn’t given them the fingers!” Sam groaned.

  Jack nodded. “If I hadn’t agreed to the lemonade.”

  “If I’d run faster,” Sam said.

  “If I’d grabbed the pitchfork by the stable wall,” Jack replied.

  “If I’d been stronger.”

  “If I’d been stronger,” Jack repeated.

  Sam turned to him and Jack smiled as best he could. “If ‘if’ was a donkey we’d all have a ride,” he said. “Time to let go.” He waved towards the sea. “Time to turn it around.”

  Sam watched the tide lap away. “Is that possible?” he asked.

  “I’m proof of it,” Jack said.

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Then you’ve allowed those bullies on that night to wage a war that would last a lifetime. Don’t let them win, son.”

  They sat in silence until the tide was far away and the evening chill had set in. Then they walked together to Jack’s car.

  “I have to go home,” Sam said.

  “No more running away,” Jack stated.

  Sam nodded. “Mary.”

  “Maybe in another time and place,” Jack said, with a sad smile.

  “Maybe,” and Sam was crying again.

  Mary returned home to Mr Monkels, who was waiting for her, his tail wagging. She sat on the floor and hugged him. Earlier that day when she had asked Jessie and Pierre to watch over the bar so that she and her dad could talk, they had sat in Jack’s apartment and she had told him what she suspected about Sam’s past. He had agreed to talk to Sam, as difficult as it was for him.

  Before she left, he offered a warning. “If you’re right, he might never forgive you for knowing,” he said.