He licked his lips, which were dry as dust and put a hand to his chest, where the hand was squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, just enough to let him live. ‘Number forty-three.’
‘Oh, the smelly house!’ They had often laughed about the smell in the kitchen and just whispering ‘forty three’ when they encountered a whiff anywhere could reduce them to hysteria. Had once reduced them to hysteria; he didn’t need the snicker of the black dog in the corner to know that everything that was once him and Megs was now to always be in the past tense. ‘That’s marvellous and makes me feel so much better. I suppose you did it in the kitchen.’
‘No. The bedroom.’ He said it before he engaged his brain. Of course she didn’t want to know where he did it, as she charmingly phrased it. Mentioning the kitchen was one last, one very last ditch attempt to bond back with her, to share the laugh, however hollow. And he had just blown it.
She went to the door and opened it, then paused, one foot still in the room, one foot still in the place where he could win her back. But the pause was so fleeting, the pain in his heart so intense, that he couldn’t speak and the moment was lost. She didn’t turn, she didn’t raise her voice, but he heard the word as clear as crystal, ringing through the heavy air from her lips to his brain, with nothing in between to prevent it.
‘Goodbye.’
It was a while before he felt able to leave the room which now smelled sour with loss and fear. His colleagues were not the most empathetic people in the world – they were, after all, letting agents – but there was something in Megan’s walk, the set of her mouth, the line of her shoulder, that told them that nothing good would come of interrupting Chris that day. He would come out when he was good and ready, should that day ever dawn.
He opened the door and walked into the main office, which immediately fell silent. Even the landlord haranguing David Stanley about an unreasonable repair bill lowered his voice. It was what Chris and Megs had always called an Attenborough moment, when the wildebeest sense a cheetah, the chimpanzee the snake and silence falls over the veldt or forest. They could sense a wounded animal in their midst and did the civilised version of cutting him out and throwing him to the wolves. The shoulders went up, the voices went down and he walked out of the door into the street without a single person speaking a word to him. If it hadn’t been for the black dog, he would have been all alone in the world.
‘Mum?’ For the second time that day, Megan bit the bullet and phoned her mother to ask her a favour. This was a biggie, one she had never asked before and she wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
‘Hello, dear. It’s Mummy, Kyle.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘He’s watching the television, Megan. We were just wondering when you would be coming to pick him up.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think he had a very good morning this morning.’
That at least made two of them.
‘I think some of the children there are a bit too boisterous for him. Anyway, when are you planning to get here, dear, because I need to go shopping some time today. We’re out of milk, nearly.’
Megan knew that they would be no such thing. Her mother ran her kitchen like she ran her life – like clockwork. A place for everything, everything in its place and woe betide any foodstuff that let itself run out. There would be hell to pay.
‘Mum,’ she tried hard to keep the wobble out of her voice, ‘I wondered if you could hang on to Kyle for today.’
‘Oh, dear, I really don’t … till when?’
‘Tomorrow, really. Probably tomorrow. Or Monday, if you could manage it. I … I need some time, Mum, I …’ It was no good – the tears were back and this time they weren’t planning to go away.
‘Megan, dear,’ how did the woman manage to make that sound like an admonishment? ‘Are you all right? Are you ill?’ Then, the razorblade crept into the voice. ‘It’s Chris, isn’t it? What’s he done now?’
‘That’s not fair, Mum. He has never …’
‘Hmmph. I knew it. He’s having an affair, isn’t he? Your father and I never liked him. He’s …’
‘Mum. Not now. Not the usual. I just need a few days to sort myself out.’
‘But we’ve never had Kyle overnight before. I don’t even know what he likes for breakfast.’
‘Readybrek with a spoonful of jam.’
‘So bad for his teeth, dear.’
‘Don’t try and change it, Mum. Just do it, for a couple of days, please. Strawberry. The other meals don’t matter so much, but breakfast has to be that and no deviation.’
‘What about clothes?’
‘He’ll be all right with what he’s got on now for tomorrow. I’ll drop some more in, but not when he’s there. Let me know when you’re going out and I’ll leave them on the step.’
‘Megan?’ Her mother’s voice was shrill. ‘Has he hit you?’
‘God, no! Whyever do you think that?’
‘Well, you clearly don’t want to be seen.’ Her mother’s outrage was palpable, even over the phone. ‘I’m assuming you have … marks.’
Sometimes she hated this woman more than anyone in the world. More, even, than the anonymous one-night-stand that had wrecked her life so thoroughly. ‘No, Mum,’ she said, her voice tired and flat, ‘no marks.’ She rang off and stood with her forehead against the cool of the wall. A broken heart, now; that left no marks that anyone could see, but the scars were there, for ever.
Waitrose was packed. Kyle was cranky, not happy about being pulled away from the television and also scared, in the wordless, subliminal way children have; it doesn’t have to be monsters under the bed, the world has enough in it to scare them without that. And his grandmother was behaving strangely. And where was his Mummy? His Daddy? His lip began to tremble and a tear rolled down his cheek.
‘Hello, Margaret.’ A shrill voice was suddenly just inches from his ear, a huge nose looming above his face. ‘Is this little Kyle? What a sweetie. Oh, crying, pet? Aww, Margaret, poor little chap.’
Margaret Harris had hoped to get to the shops and back before Kyle began to kick off. He was his father’s child all right. A lovely face that pulled you in and made you love him, then as mad as a box of frogs underneath. He needed to be Seen by Someone and now that things would be changing, she would make it her business … And now, to put the finishing touches on a rather trying day, there was this woman, what was her name? Sylv? Sheila? This woman, anyway, butting in and making Kyle cry.
‘He’s had a tiring day, Sandra.’ Yes, that was it, Sandra.
‘Stella.’
Whatever. ‘He doesn’t really like playgroup but today’s his day, so … well, routine is important, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, mine just ran a bit wild, I suppose,’ the large-nosed woman said, a tad complacently. ‘We didn’t really believe in routine.’
Margaret’s smile was acid. She knew what was coming next.
‘And it did them no harm. Two doctors and a university lecturer, so we can't complain. But what’s wrong with this little one, eh? Tom,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘come and get Kyle some ear money.’
Ear money? Margaret Harris could hardly contain her annoyance. But along came Tom, as ill-co-ordinated in both movement and clothing as his wife. Standing together, they looked like an unmade kingsize.
‘Oh, here we go,’ the man said and, with a flourish, produced a ten pence coin from behind Kyle’s ear.
The child’s face lit up and he smiled up at the man. ‘More,’ he said.
‘Here you are,’ there was a click and another coin appeared, then another and another. Soon, Kyle was crowing with laughter, tears forgotten.
‘They’re a joy, aren’t they?’ the annoying woman said. ‘We don’t see ours half often enough.’
Margaret Harris smiled grimly. Stella’s perfect children had also managed to pop out six perfect grandchildren, all an appropriate time after their marriage to perfect sons-in-law. She could feel her jaw clenching.
‘And how is Megan?�
��
And suddenly, it all poured out. She hadn’t meant it to, but it was sitting on her tongue and she couldn’t help it. How Megan was having problems at home, she was a victim of domestic abuse – here, Margaret dropped her voice and spoke the words silently, looking as she did so, disconcertingly like her own mother had when saying ‘sex’ and ‘pregnant’ – and was afraid to come out because she was so badly beaten about the head. How Chris was always a worry to them, how they were glad it was all over, how it wasn’t going to be easy for them …
Stella’s face was a picture. That had shut her up. Even the ear money seemed to have dried up for now. ‘But, Margaret, that’s terrible. Is Megan all right? Has she spoken to the police?’ She tugged her husband’s sleeve. ‘Tom, Tom, did you hear that?’
‘Now then,’ her husband said, calmly, giving the ear money to Kyle, who clutched it close. ‘Don’t push yourself forward, Stell.’
‘It’s just that I volunteer, you see,’ she said. ‘At a women’s shelter. Megan could get help there. She should at least Speak to Someone. Look,’ she rummaged in her bag, ‘I’ve got a leaflet. Give her this.’
Margaret Harris could suddenly hear the juggernaut approaching that her gossip had unleashed. If she wasn’t careful, this could crush her and her newly-fragile family. Ignoring Kyle’s cries at being separated from the ear money man, she snatched the leaflet, turned the trolley and, as far as she could in a packed supermarket, legged it.
Stella and Tom looked at one another. ‘Classic displacement,’ she said, with all the knowledge of someone who has a psychologist in the family. ‘More going on there than meets the eye. Mind you, I never liked her.’
Her husband looked at her fondly. He didn’t like her worrying. ‘Her Megan’s bloke works at the letting agents down the road from here,’ he said. ‘Dave Stanley comes to my Lodge – I’ll have a word.’
She put a hand on his chest – such a kind man, a husband in a million. ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said. Keeping up the niceties of politeness was what kept a marriage fresh, in their opinion. ‘I think that would be a good idea.’ And, bathed in the golden light of a job well done, they made their way to the organic section.
The pavements seemed extra hard that afternoon as Chris trudged around the town. He passed he didn’t know how many houses with boards outside and he ignored them all; previously, he would have been making notes of who had what on the market but, looking down the long tunnel of fear and despair, he saw nothing but the approaching train. Sometimes, his heart would lurch and he would imagine that everything would be all right. Megan would forgive him and they could put all this behind them, make a fresh start, somewhere new, maybe. Another baby, even – he knew that everyone said that children couldn’t mend a broken marriage, but it might work. A little girl – that would be nice.
He turned into the park, but avoided the children’s play area – if he saw a boy who even slightly resembled Kyle, he knew he would break down. He went down to the lakeside, avoiding the smears of goose shit on the edge. There had been a petition up recently to stop the projected cull of the Canada geese, but he hadn’t signed; he had spent too many afternoons scraping their leavings out of the treads of Kyle’s trainers to want to do that. His eyes began to well up with self-pitying tears. This would be where he would come, with his boy, on his one afternoon a fortnight. Better find somewhere else, before he made a fool of himself.
He didn’t even know he had gone home until he found himself putting his key in the door. A thought flashed through his mind that perhaps he wasn’t allowed here – but he dismissed it as stupid talk. Of course he was allowed. He hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t broken any laws. He had just … well, what had he just? He had had the misjudgement, years before, to take a madwoman to bed for the night. That couldn’t be allowed to colour the rest of his life, surely? He would tell Megan the whole story, leaving nothing out. He had been a bit of a player, back in the day. He often didn’t remember their names in the morning, let alone years later – phone numbers were for wimps. He never rang them back. But now, he didn’t do that kind of thing. Megan and Kyle had changed all that. He put the keys down quietly on the hall table and called Megan’s name. There was no reply and yet the house clearly wasn’t empty. It didn’t have the feel of an empty house and he should know – he could sum up an atmosphere in seconds. So why had he allowed this to happen? He just couldn’t explain it; Mark’s Marvellous Medicine would only stretch so far as an excuse.
‘Yes?’ Megan’s voice came from the lounge. ‘Chris? Is that you?’
‘Of course it is,’ he said, walking through. ‘I didn’t know where to go. I just needed to come home.’
She sat silently, with her back to him, not moving or, it seemed to him, breathing. Then, very slowly, she turned her head and as soon as she saw his expression, bereft, beyond broken, her resolve crumbled and she ran into his arms.
‘Oh, baby,’ she whispered into his hair as she held him tight. ‘We can work it out, can't we?’
‘We have to,’ he said. ‘We just have to.’
They rocked there, holding each other, murmuring, kissing, oblivious to the ticking of the falling plaster on the fragile wall around them and the stirring of a big, black dog, hiding in the shadows.
Across town, a door swung open and heads turned to see the big man come in and stand, surveying the room. A blonde secretary, her asymmetric bob swinging, left her desk and approached.
‘Can I help?’
‘Yes.’ His smile was open and infectious. ‘I’d like to speak to David Stanley, please. Just tell him it’s Tom.’
Mad World
*
For the rest of his life, Chris would list the days that followed his return to Megan that sad Thursday as the best he had ever spent. They both loved Kyle dearly but to have him at his grandmother’s for a day or so was bliss. No waking up in panic. No picking over food to make sure he knew what it was. No demands. Just the two of them, slobbing around in pyjamas until they got dressed to go out for a nice, grown-up drink and dinner – yes, it truly was bliss. And when they went to get him back on the Sunday evening, the way he jumped into their arms, laughing and yelling with the sheer joy of having them back, well, that was bliss too. The black dog seemed to have scarpered – by that night, Chris had stopped looking for it in dark corners and listening for its growl, always just under the threshold of his hearing.
Then Monday struck like a thunderbolt. Chris pushed open the door to the agency and felt the chill; he almost could sense the frost forming on his hairline as his sweat ran cold. Jacintha, a false sad face pinned on over her secret gloating, leaned forward. Her whisper was as fake as her expression.
‘Dave said would you go straight through,’ she said, cocking her head on one side like a rueful sparrow.
Chris didn’t acknowledge her. The feeling in the pit of his stomach, heavy and yet liquid, took up all his attention. He went through into the board room, where Dave Stanley sat at one end of the cheap table. He had a file in front of him and when he heard the door go he flinched slightly but didn’t look up. Chris pulled out a chair, deliberately scraping it on the floor. That should get him; it was like nails down a blackboard.
His boss looked up, as though he had only just realised he was there. ‘Ah, Chris, thanks for stepping through. I’m sorry to make it all look so serious,’ he made that irritating quote sign in the air and Chris wanted to punch him for that alone, ‘but I think we need to talk things through. Last week brought quite a lot of things to my attention and I know you would rather talk them over than … umm …’ He ran out of steam.
‘Dave,’ Chris said. ‘Can you just cut to the chase? If it’s my day off on Friday, I did ring in and I am owed …’
Dave Stanley had his hand in the air. ‘No, no, nothing wrong with that. We all need a day now and then. No, it’s something a little more serious.’ Stanley’s face changed almost as though he had thrown a switch. He had chosen, from his limited repertoire, the Conce
rned Boss Who Has A Difficult Job Ahead expression. ‘I had a visitor on Thursday, just before we closed. A Tom Maddox.’
Chris thought for a moment. He hadn’t shown a house to anyone called Maddox and as far as he could remember, their landlord list didn’t include that name either. ‘Sorry, I have no idea who that is.’
‘Really?’ Dave Stanley risked raising an eyebrow although he was aware it made him look rather brainless; more like Roger Moore than Gregory Peck, both serious exponents of eyebrow work when it came to expressing extreme emotion.
A little more thought but the answer was the same. ‘No. Sorry. Who is he?’ A thought dawned. ‘Nothing to do with that bloody woman, is he?’
‘I don’t know. Is he?’
Stanley was really beginning to piss Chris off. He didn’t have the strength to get mad, he felt as though his clothes – no, his actual skin – had become lead. ‘Dave, can we cut this out, please? I don’t need the third degree right now. I have some personal stuff going on at home, so I just need to know what’s going on here and get back to work. Is this or is this not about Maureen Pugh?’
‘Who?’ David Stanley couldn’t keep names in his head without a face to go with them and happily he had avoided having to make the connection in the case of Mrs Pugh.
‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ Chris said. ‘So, what is it about?’
‘Tom Maddox is a friend of mine, from the Lodge.’ It wasn’t often Dave came out with the fact that he was a Mason; unless he was recruiting. ‘He met your mother-in-law …’
‘She’s not really my mother-in-law,’ Chris felt he had to add.
‘You know what I mean. Megan’s mother. Anyway, he met her in the supermarket …’
‘Better say Waitrose,’ Chris said. ‘She wouldn’t like you to think she shopped anywhere low rent.’
Again, the eyebrow. ‘I see.’ Antagonistic; interesting. ‘Well, Tom and his wife were shopping and met … Megan’s mother …’
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