A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

‘My god, that was quick.’

  ‘It’s been a long, lonely week.’ I pulled at my clothes and then swept Anna onto the bed.

  Our lovemaking was by turns, tender and heated, languorous and spirited, hungry and sated. After who knows how long, I lay back on the bed, flushed, covered in a fine film of sweat and feeling like I was floating on a cushion of air. The smell of sex coated the room with a sweet musk.

  ‘That … was … wonderful,’ I managed to say, while my body sought sleep. Anna leaned over to kiss me and then sat up. She hunched forward on the bed, opened her legs and pulled up the flesh under her pubic hair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I sat up slowly, feeling as if I had no strength left.

  ‘I’m looking. There isn’t very much.’ Her voice sounded strangled.

  ‘Much what? Gold nuggets?’

  ‘Sperm, you useless git. There isn’t very much, is there?’ She rounded on me, her eyes tight with anger, ‘What have you been up to?’

  I was astonished at how rapidly the temperature in the room dropped. Sweat chilled on my back.

  ‘How can you ask me that? Have I given you any idea that I have been unfaithful?’

  ‘Yes.’ she spat. ‘There’s not very much sperm here.’ Her head ducked down again. She pulled at her vagina. ‘Where is it all? You’ve been with some woman, haven’t you,’ she pushed me down on to the bed.

  ‘No, absolutely not.’ I sat back up again, ‘I didn’t even have a wank while I was away.’ I put my arm round her and pulled her tight. My tone was conciliatory. ‘Honey, how could you think I would betray you? I love you. I neither need or want another woman.’ I’m sure that my eyes must have shone with sincerity for this was the absolute truth.

  Anna looked up at me, and the anger in her expression dissolved swiftly into desire.

  ‘Okay, if that’s the case then make love to me again.’ Her fingers cupped my half-flaccid penis.

  ‘Give me five minutes, a man need time to recover you know,’ I said.

  But she ignored my words and stroked me, almost roughly.

  ‘No, I don’t want to wait. I want you again. Now,’ she barked, her fingers tightening.

  ‘Aww, come on, honey. Don’t get so uptight.’

  ‘Uptight, I’ll give you uptight!’ she pushed me back down onto the bed and sat astride me. ‘I want your hard cock inside me know.’ At the right moment this last sentence would have worked beautifully, but now the words were laced with threat.

  ‘Anna, Anna, please.’

  With her right hand she was trying to stuff my lifeless penis into her vagina.

  ‘Are you a poof or something? I want you hard!’ Her voice rose in pitch, its edge, her expression, and wildness anaesthetising me to desire.

  ‘Useless.’ She cursed, raising herself above me.

  And then it came. What I had been secretly fearing for months. Her fists rained down on my stomach, her eyes blazing from behind a torn curtain of hair. I tried ineffectively to deflect the blows. As her arms moved in a blur insults were spat at me, ‘You useless bastard, I hate you.’

  ‘Quiet,’ I urged. ‘Don’t wake up Pat.’

  Suddenly her shoulders dropped, she tugged at her hair, pulling it behind her ears. A strained smile pulled at her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I just want you inside me,’ she wheedled. ‘Please, just stick it inside me. Prove that you love me.’

  ‘Not like this, Anna. Please. Not like this.’ I whispered and softly placed my hands on either side of her hips.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ She had barely rested enough to catch her breath. Her hands reached down again and pulled at me. Her nails raked at the tender flesh.

  I fought to keep control while pulling her hands off me. If I treated her too harshly I might hurt her, or even make her hurt me even more.

  ‘Anna, stop it.’ Despite my best efforts anger flooded my voice. Pushing her off me I stood up. ‘Anna, you need help. This is crazy.’

  She came at me now, launching herself from the bed, her teeth bare in a rictus of rage. She aimed a kick at my groin. I deflected it with my hand and backed away, all the time speaking to her, begging her to calm down, trying to keep my voice low, Pat always in my mind. But my words had no effect. She was rabid. Options raced through my mind. I could run downstairs, but she would only follow me. There were knives down there and I was afraid the raging, spitting monster in front of me was capable of anything.

  Should I just stand and let her hit me until she cooled down? If I protected my head and my groin, the damage wouldn’t be too bad. Neither of these options were realistic or bearable, I had to calm her down.

  I rushed at her and caught her up in a bear grip. Her knees and feet once again aimed for my groin. Overbalancing, we fell onto the bed. Taking advantage of this I pinned her down with my knees jamming her arms to her sides. Her teeth flashed dangerously close to my genitals and her knees thumped up at my back. The teeth were clearly the worst threat so I placed my palm on her head and forced it down onto the pillow, with the other hand I tried to deflect the blows to my back.

  For what seemed like hours Anna managed to maintain this effort. I was showered with her sweat and saliva, but I was determined to hold her like this until she calmed down.

  Eventually she weakened, her knees barely reached my back. Judging that the dangerous part of the storm was over, I loosened my grip but stayed ready, in case she should erupt again.

  When Anna eventually quietened, I heard a suppressed cry, sniff and a shuffle of feet from the door.

  I turned and looked over my shoulder.

  ‘Pat?’

  Shit. How long had been there?

  He wheeled to the side and ran out of view back to his bedroom. I grabbed at my boxer shorts, pulled them on and followed him. When I got to his bedroom, he was burrowing under the covers, his small body heaving with tears: trembling with fright. I tried to imagine what he might have seen.

  Anna and I naked. Her eyes distant with anger. Me holding on, trying to save myself from injury.

  No child should ever experience something like that. What would it do to his growing mind? How would he make sense of it? He’d bury it. That’s what kids do. Until it comes back like some kind of mental acid reflux. And causes what?

  I tried to pull the cover down so I could see his face. He resisted.

  ‘Pat. Pat,’ I said. ‘We’re fine. You’ve nothing to be afraid of, son.’

  He turned away from me. I placed my hand on what I guessed might be his shoulder. He had stopped crying, but even through the thickness of the quilt I could feel him vibrate with fear.

  I pulled the cover from him. Lifted him from his position on the bed and pressed him against my chest. Then I lay down with him on top of me, his head tucked into my neck.

  ‘I’m so sorry, buddy.’ I stroked the silk of his hair. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And in the slow motion of my fingertips on his head I searched for a peace I was sure I would never find again.

  When Pat’s breathing slowed into sleep, I turned onto my side, allowing him to fall onto his bed. Then I placed the cover over him and with one last kiss on his forehead I returned to my wife.

  Anna was sitting up against the headboard, still naked, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her hair was stuck to her forehead and sticking out at crazy angles from the side of her head. She looked tiny. Lost.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, my back to her.

  ‘Andy,’ she said in a croak. ‘Andy.’ There was pain there. In only two syllables, a world of apology and shame.

  Clenching my teeth, I hardened myself to her distress. This was my wife, this was the woman I loved, yet who knew what she was capable of? I’d thought the attacks months before were one-offs. But now … was I at risk? But of what?

  Was Pat safe?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Andy. I’m so sorry.’ I could barely hear her, but in any case her apologies were weak-winged and floundering against the worry of what this would all do to Pat. I loved her, but
I couldn’t compete with the demons I had now seen take her over for a third time.

  I stood up, pulled on my dressing gown and turned to face her. She looked as if a strong wind could lift her up and carry her away with as much ease as if she were a dandelion seed. I hardened myself to her vulnerability.

  ‘I’m going to spend the night on the couch.’

  I steeled myself and stood up, feeling the tremble in my thighs. Everyone tells you that an abuser will never change. Get out. And I knew that’s what needed to happen. This would be the most difficult thing I ever had to do, but I had no choice.

  I loved her. But in that moment, I knew I had to protect my son. I couldn’t risk him seeing his dad attacked again. Couldn’t risk him losing me, perhaps. I had to do this. For everyone’s sake. For Pat’s sake.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll help you pack. This … this marriage is over.’ Ignoring the plea in her face, the anguish that distorted her beautiful features into a mask of self-loathing, I walked out of the room.

  15

  My mother was incredulous, Jim said nothing and Pat withdrew into the world of cartoons. He only spoke to me when I spoke first or when he needed food. He had a TV, a video recorder and a tower of trusty cartoons that never let him down, what did he need his father for? I tried to talk to him about Anna, to let him know why it wouldn’t work, but how do you tell an almost five-year-old that your wife and his new stepmother has such potential for violence? I told him that we were arguing too much and that we didn’t love each other anymore. He asked for a packet of crisps.

  ‘I don’t mean to judge, son,’ said Mum. ‘But you youngsters don’t know how to work at a marriage. You’re not even married a year and you’re splitting up? Crazy. I blame this whirlwind lifestyle you all lead. A quick fix and then move on. Things that are worthwhile don’t come to you as easy as that.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Still, at least I’ll get to see more of you now.’ This was the first time that my mother alluded to the fact that she had seen less of me since Anna came on to the scene. A lot less. ‘Where has Anna gone to stay?’ she asked

  ‘I found a bedsit for her. I’ll look for something more substantial, a flat or something.’ We were talking in her kitchen. A place that we had often sat and talked over the years. We always sat on the same bone-hard seats, facing each other, cradling cups of strong tea in our hands, talking for hours. Even though my mother didn’t bake much anymore, the scent of scones, pancakes, fresh bread and jams still hung in the air like a sweet cloud. These four walls had listened to the growth of our family, its joys and its torments. I used to swear that my mother dropped something into my tea whenever we sat here, because I could never hide anything from her while we talked in this room. It became my confessional. My hopes, my desires, my sins were all disclosed to my mother while sipping tea and eating cake.

  Mum would just sit and listen. Sip and chew. She would only speak to ask questions, draw a little more out from me.

  This time, however, I couldn’t confide in her. I couldn’t tell her that my wife was violent, that my penis was bruised and lined with lacerations from Anna’s nails. What would she think of me? I was a man, a big man. Anna was a dainty woman, how could I have let her do this to me. This was one situation I would never be able to discuss. Shame stoked the furnace of my face. I buried my head in my hands to hide the deep flush on my skin.

  Mum misread my actions.

  ‘Don’t worry, son,’ she offered. ‘It obviously just wasn’t meant to be. You’ll get over it. In time you’ll be able to put it down to just one of those things and you’ll move on, meet someone else.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said vehemently. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. No more women for me. Widowed once, almost divorced once and I’m just in my early thirties. Married life obviously isn’t for me. Someone up there is trying to tell me something and I’ve heard them. Loud and clear.’

  ‘Never say never, son.’ Mum topped up my cup of tea. ‘You’re a young man yet. You’ve just not met the right woman.’

  ‘Yes I have, Mum.’ I said with finality. Patricia’s ghost hung silently in the air between us.

  Mum sipped at her cup her eyes looking at me apologetically over the rim. Her obvious sorrow at my troubles touched me. Emotion tightened my throat. I smoothed my forehead with my fingers and waited until the threatened tears subsided.

  ‘Besides, Mum. I have Pat.’

  We both smiled fondly at the mention of his name.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum agreed, ‘He’s a wee joy, isn’t he?’

  ‘And I can’t keep putting him through the process of meeting a new mum every so often. That wouldn’t help him. I’ll just have to live like a monk.’ I grinned, trying to inject some humour into the sombre room. ‘I’ll have to tie a knot in it.’

  Mum laughed, ‘If you’re anything like your father then that’ll be impossible.’

  ‘Mum.’ I made a face. ‘Too much information.’

  At work, the rumour mill swung quickly into action. My fellow employees loved nothing more than a good gossip and that doesn’t come much better than a marriage that has floundered within the first year. Reaction ranged from quietly spoken sympathy to people completely ignoring the subject.

  Not keen on anyone knowing my business at work, I preferred the silent approach. With Roy Campbell, however, this was not possible.

  ‘Ah, Andy, Andy.’ He bounced into the room as if delighted to hear of another’s misfortune. ‘Sorry to hear about you and the Mrs. Still, better to realise you’ve made a mistake early on than spend twenty years in absolute misery.’

  ‘How long have you been married like?’ I asked

  ‘Twenty … ah, you cheeky monkey. You won’t catch me out like that. So what went wrong? Not giving her enough? She spending too much of your money?’

  ‘Roy,’ I groaned. ‘Do you have any idea what the word “sensitivity” means?’

  ‘Aye,’ he looked at me quizzically, ‘It means…’

  ‘It means that I’m telling you nothing and I’d rather be left on my own.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ He looked wounded. ‘Miserable sod,’ he announced to no one in particular as he walked back out of the room. At least with Roy there were no surprises. You knew what to expect and he never let you down. I heard a brief conversation in the corridor and then another face popped in the door.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ It was Malcolm.

  ‘Oh, you know. Bloody wonderful.’

  ‘Fancy going out for a pint tonight? Let it all hang out? Get it off your chest?’

  ‘Nah, no thanks Malcolm.’ This miserable sod didn’t want company. ‘Too raw just yet. Soon though, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said retreating back out the door. ‘Soon.’

  The truth was that I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t even want to think about it, but it was in my thoughts all of the time. It was sitting right on my shoulder, a boulder crushing bone, muscle and sinew. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat.

  I wanted her back.

  Four weeks passed while I lived in this purgatory. No one could reach me, I was living in my own little world of misery. I couldn’t escape the fact that I still loved Anna and that I would take her back in an instant. But every time I thought of phoning her a picture of a bowed, quiet woman would impose itself on my mind.

  Sheila Hunter.

  I recalled how that shrunken emaciated figure had talked to me in her house about putting up with a violent partner. I thought of all the films, books and articles that preached as soon as the violence starts, get out. It will only escalate.

  Easy for them to say.

  Get out.

  What if you can’t? What if you are certain it will stop, despite all evidence to the contrary? You love the person, you don’t want to give up on them despite everything. You just tell yourself a suitable lie, and carry on. I had given Anna some time, convinced that her first attacks had been an aberration, something born of stress
, her new situation, everything conspiring to get on top of her. But, just as all the experts might have predicted, the violence had returned.

  And returned again.

  I had to be strong. I would just have to make do without her in my life, no matter how much it hurt.

  Work became my solace from confusion. The minute I walked into the office at eight o’clock my mind closed the door to thoughts of Anna. Behind the thick doors they stayed until six in the evening when I would go to pick up Pat from my mother’s.

  He had now started school and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. All the way home in the car he would chatter non-stop about what his teacher said that day and what his friends got up to. He talked of painting, of letters and of numbers, and his sweet soprano was a balm to the muddle in my mind all the way through to his eight-thirty bedtime.

  It was one such night, however, that my world was thrown into more chaos. I picked Pat up from my mother’s, who had herself picked him up from school and fed him. That night his chatter was about a giraffe that he had drawn. His teacher, Miss Talbot thought that it was very good. He held it up so that I could peruse it in the car mirror, then, not waiting for my words of praise, folded it back up again. Obviously the fact that Miss Talbot thought it was excellent meant that my opinion on the subject was redundant.

  Once home, he played with some toys while I heated and ate a microwave meal and then it was bath time. Occasionally I would join him in the water and that night I decided to do just that. We splashed each other, pretended to make his little rubber bath toys fly before diving into the soapy depths. We laughed a lot. There is something magical about father and son playing naked in a bath. Divested of clothes and of society’s mores we were simply two humans having fun. As we splashed I considered how sad it was that people would often feel too uneasy about playing with their child in such a way.

  ‘You’re really hairy, Dad.’ Pat interrupted my reverie. ‘Will I be as hairy as that when I grow up?’