by David Mathew
‘I’ve had enough, thanks.’
‘So two for two on undrinkable drinks, then.’
Inside Yasser’s jacket, the phone beeped; he had received a message. His torso stiffened.
‘Oh the agony of bad timing,’ Maggie said, fingering one of the bracelets on her left wrist. ‘”Will I stay or will I go now?” What will the boy do? This is Act 5 of the tragedy, Yasser: it’s time to make some decisions. “If I go there will be trouble. If I stay there will be double.” Or is it the other way around?’
Not knowing what Maggie referred to, Yasser said, ‘Shut up.’ Near the opening on his jacket his left hand twitched. Should he? ‘It might not be Shyleen,’ he added.
‘Sure. It’s your film teacher texting you an emergency assignment for tomorrow’s class – at focken midnight… or whatever the time happens to be.’
Later than midnight, was the answer: this Yasser discovered when he pulled out the phone and read 00:13 and 1 NEW MESSAGE. He thumbed for the text and read it. ‘I have to go,’ he told Maggie. ‘Tell me quickly.’
‘No. I’ll do no such thing,’ Maggie replied. ‘You’d better go while she’s still warm, Yass. Honey doesn’t spread from the fridge and all that.’
‘Shut up, Maggie,’ Yasser repeated. ‘Just tell me.’
Maggie laughed. ‘You’ll have to beat it out of me, Monsieur. I’ll give you name, rank and serial number – and that’s all.’
Was she drunk already? The bootleg was certainly potent, but was it strong enough to account for this fresh development? How many shots had she had before he’d arrived?
‘I will in a minute,’ Yasser threatened, referring to the beating.
‘Big man.’
‘Where’s he travelling to? Or from. I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
Through another storm of laughter Maggie added: ‘Maybe you should get the two of us together! Girl on girl action, Yass! We’ll do a show for you and take turns to lick your toolbag. How about that?’
‘I’m warning you, Maggie.’ Yasser rose to his feet: to leave the caravan, mainly. But entirely?
‘Ooh. You are going to beat it out of me!’
‘I might at that. Travelling, you said.’
‘”You are travelling through another dimension,”’ Maggie quoted. ‘”A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into-“’
Yasser slapped the left side of her face. Though negligible in terms of weight behind it, the blow was sufficient to silence Maggie’s ramblings. Adrenalin poured through Yasser’s upper body; it added weight to his right arm, as if he’d lifted dumbbells; and squeezing the phone in his left fist, for no other reason than to prove that the one strike had not been a fluke, he slapped the side of her head again with his open right palm.
‘You will take me seriously, Maggie. I promise you you will,’ he said as calmly as he could manage. His breath was laboured.
Looking up at him with cow-eyes piled high with tears, Maggie uttered one single word.
‘More.’
This time Yasser used the back of his hand, sideswiping his knuckles into the right side of Maggie’s face. The impact must have been more powerful because her head rocked to the side.
‘Harder,’ she instructed him. ‘In the face.’
Although he did not strike her in the manner that she’d specified, Yasser did slap her once more for good measure, employing his original style: the right palm, the left temple.
Maggie licked her lips.
Yasser pulled her up from her seat, and as soon as she was upright he pushed her backwards, using his free hand and her breasts as bumpers. She toppled onto the surface of the table, knocking Yasser’s beaker flying, and Yasser slipped his phone into his trouser pocket. Clutching hold of the dressing gown hem, he pulled the garment open like a pair of curtains… to reveal her nakedness.
Or near nakedness, at any rate. As Maggie lifted her knees, she presented her labia and anus to her attacker. Embedded deep into the latter was an item that Yasser had never clapped eyes on outside of pornography: a contoured butt-plug… Taking rage as his inspiration, Yasser unraped Maggie of this implement, pulling it free with an audible pop and an anal burp… She was open to the size of a ten pence coin, and Yasser unbuttoned his fly to find something to fill in as a butt-plug replacement.
Cabin in the Woods
1.
Don’s hut showed all the signs of recent habitation – the lights were on, and judging by the aroma, something was roasting in the oven – but Don was nowhere to be seen. The place was empty.
Roger suggested: ‘Maybe he’s slipped out for a piss,’ speaking as he stepped over the threshold and in. Immediately he was enveloped in a friendly homecooked warmth.
‘This is ugly,’ said Dorota. ‘It’d be one thing if he was here… but this is his home.’
‘It’s your property,’ Eastlight reminded her.
‘I know that.’
‘And we got nowhere last time when he was here,’ Roger added.
‘Last time?’ said Eastlight.
‘A few weeks ago,’ Dorota explained. ‘So what do we do? Tear the place up?’
Don’s absence had sucked some of the wind from the mob’s sails. If they were not careful, they’d be returning to the big house with nothing to show but blood-patches of embarrassment on their cheeks, irrespective of their former bluster and lynch-lust.
‘He’s cooking a chicken,’ Roger said as he stepped into the kitchen area and bent at the waist. A light was on inside the oven. ‘It’s nearly done, it’s brown. He hasn’t gone far.’ Roger paused. The memory of what he’d seen last time – during their inaugural raid – did not so much return to his consciousness (it hadn’t ever gone away) as it did reintensify. It was like a lightbulb, suddenly given too much voltage: it burned with a fierce illumination and would surely explode. In his mind’s eye he saw the box of nappies once more, and without another word he started to yank open the kitchen drawers and cupboards.
Eastlight watched him. The memories inside his head were a good deal more problematic than what burned for Roger, but they acted in a similarly inspirational way. Ignoring what felt like a fist – a swollen fist – inside his stomach, he set to dismantling Don’s lounge with a ferocity known only to the frightened and the insane. He used his left forearm to swipe a row of framed photographs off the sideboard; they crashed to the floor with a satisfying din.
It felt good to damage Don’s property. Eastlight had far from forgotten the old boy threatening to shatter his knees: he had thrived on the threat, he realised. He had used it as a fuel, perhaps, even through his dealings in the Eggington house. During the first few seconds of destruction in Don’s home, the feeling moved through Eastlight’s brain that this was as good a form of exercise as any (he needed to lose weight); it was also likely that he would have continued, riding an identical sadistic wave, until he ran out of breath or his muscles grew heavy and hard… were it not for Dorota’s interruption.
She said, ‘Stop!’
Eastlight stopped in an instant; breathing like a Bull Mastiff, he regarded what little he’d achieved with the slow blink of a fat man waking from a fair sleep. Guilt shook him by the lapels; his mouth tasted dry – dry and bitter – and he understood that he had been taken. He’d been gripped by the pandemic of mob madness, as contagious as the mumps. Mistake! Mistake, thought Eastlight to himself, in a spirit of self-flagellation. He was here to earn himself an alibi; he was not here to fuck up the old prick’s belongings. (‘Sorry.’) Doing damage would be better, after all, when Don was present. Indeed, he’d make the sad wanker beg him to stop.
Roger was slower to abide by Dorota’s command. Having found Don’s front door unlocked – which was hardly the action, he reflected, of a guilty man hiding treasure – he was now determined to find evidence of the child that Don must have take
n with him, into the woods. For as sure as night followed day, there was no child here in the hut. No smells of one either: the place was perfumed with nothing more sinister than this season’s must-have rolling tobacco, and even this residue had all but been obliterated by the rotisserie scent. So at best, Roger was annoyed and frustrated.
But what had he really expected? What really? That Don would by lying, supine, on a bed of duck down, with a baby contentedly suckling at his left breast?
Ridiculous.
Horrendous and bloody ridiculous.
His nostrils flared and contracted in quick succession; he was livid. Only the discovery of Don-Acting-Weirdly would have tossed a gallon of water on this specific bonfire. In the second or two that he engaged in his last flurry of activity, before he knew that it would be too late to pretend that he hadn’t heard Dorota’s Stop, Roger longed for the scent of human blood, for the hungry or furious cry of an infant – for anything.
And then he found it.
Accompanying Roger’s elaborate flourish and his presentation of a box from the tray cupboard under the oven, was a loud ‘Huzzah!’ And then he said, ‘The night has magic colours,’ slamming the box onto the draining board.
It was a box of twelve jars of baby food.
‘What do you think of that then?’ Roger asked, his voice a tad intimidating. The finding of treasure can make you as angry as fulfilled.
Eastlight and Dorota stepped closer. ‘Baby food,’ they said almost in unison.
Roger’s excitement was not forced or acted. ‘Which tells you what?’
The kitchen door to the outside opened inward. Standing in the doorway, Don said, ‘Yes. Which tells you what exactly?’ With a face lined and thundery, he stepped into his kitchen and reached for a smudged glass by the sink. This he filled from the tap, his back to his houseguests; and still in this position he raised it to his mouth and drained it dry.
‘I asked you all a question,’ he said, turning to face them once more. With the slick movements of one fully familiar with his surroundings, Don produced, in swift succession, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of ginger wine, his pouch of tobacco, a packet of papers, and a saucepan to use as an ashtray. Then, carrying all of these items, he pushed past his visitors and took his place in his favourite seat.
‘The cat got your tongues?’ he asked, and for the first time he sounded more than angry: he sounded as though he were not only within his rights to shoot those who trespassed on his land, he was also accustomed to doing so, and enjoyed it. He mixed brandy and ginger wine in a 50/50 mix that filled the half-pint glass. Took a swig (silence from the visitors) and rolled a cigarette with the hand not busy holding the glass.
Who would explain this to Don? All in situ wondered this; but it was Dorota who said, ‘We do at least owe you an explanation.’
‘You don’t owe me anything, Miss.’
‘I think we do. But do you mind if I ask where you’ve been?’
‘Looking in on the birds,’ Don answered. ‘Sometimes I’m of a mind to just let them go – fly free. And it’s times like these I wonder what’s crueller: releasing them to fend for themselves, even if they wouldn’t have a chance, or keeping them cooped up.’ He turned to Dorota. ‘What would you say, Miss?’
‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ Dorota admitted. ‘If you let the birds go…’
‘I’m out of a job.’
‘You’re out of a job. But keeping them enclosed has always seemed…’
‘Barbaric?’ Don suggested.
Dorota nodded her head. ‘A bit.’
‘I agree. I concur.’ Don laughed and took down more of the Brandy Mac. A thin plume of smoke writhed upwards from his cigarette knuckle.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Roger, under his breath.
Don heard him. ‘Oh you have. You’ve had enough of this. Well let me tell you, Doctor –‘
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘So have I. For the last two weeks I’ve been waiting for you to come back. Do you know why? Because you’re a bully, Mr Billie. And bullies always go back to taunt the same weak person if they can – or if they think they can.’
Sulkily Roger replied, ‘I’m no bully.’
‘Oh yes you are, sir.’ Don took a drag on his roll-up. ‘Which is why you let your good lady wife wear the trousers in your home life – and your love life, for all I know.’
‘How dare you!’ Roger spluttered.
‘No, how dare you, sir.’ Don looked up from his chair, and by twisting his neck he was able to lock Roger in his sights. ‘It’s almost as though you think you haven’t done enough damage. Would that be right, sir?’
Roger stood his ground, albeit with an air about him of unimpeachable embarrassment. ‘I want to know why you keep baby food here,’ he said.
‘Weren’t a crime, last time I looked.’ Don raised the smoke fizzing in his knuckle up to his wind-bitten lips.
‘No, it’s not a crime…’
Twisting further in his chair, Don added: ‘You’ll have my resignation in the morning, Miss. The proper morning.’
Dorota shook her head. ‘There’s no need to be hasty, Don,’ she protested.
‘But it’s only fair to advise you that in this country we operate under certain rules of employment,’ Don said; ‘and if this don’t constitute a case of constructive dismissal then I’ll be a bloody Dutchman.’
‘No one’s trying to dismiss you, Don,’ said Dorota.
‘It’s not a crime,’ Roger repeated; ‘but I’m asking for an explanation all the same.’
‘Call his bluff,’ said Eastlight to the Lady of the House.
Up to now, Vig had refrained from uttering a word. His stomach felt wrong; his conscience felt diseased. But now he raised his voice and said, ‘Charlie, you’re not helping.’
Eastlight proffered a grin that appeared both sanctimonious and cheesy. ‘Sure thing, Viggy-Loo.’ And he made the mime of zipping up his lips.
‘Don. Please understand: we’re not trying to get rid of you, okay? I’m very happy with your work – and so are the birds. If they could talk they would confirm this.’ Vig smiled. It had been intended as a joke.
‘They can talk,’ Don told him. ‘It’s a case of learning their language.’
‘Nutty as a fruitcake,’ Eastlight said to the room. ‘Sorry.’ He had received a withering glance from Vig.
‘Okay, Don – you tell me you’re fluent in their language…’
‘I didn’t say fluent, sir.’
‘…but the matter remains, there are, there are indications of a baby or child being here.’
‘Look about you, sir,’ Don continued. ‘Let me know if you find one. And Mr Billie? Baby food contains sources of calcium – for the bones, the development of the bones. My doctor suggested it for me knees. It’s as shameful for me as it’s difficult for you, I assure you: pretending to be a grandfather every time a checkout girl gets a bit nosey.’
Don sipped his Brandy Mac; such was the confidence with which he had clarified the point about the baby food and its constituent ingredients, that nobody had noticed the time-wasting tactic that he’d employed before answering Roger’s question. Indeed, even Roger himself appeared humbled by the calcium reference: it sounded medical, authentic; it sounded good. Which left them where?
‘What about the nappies I saw here last time?’ Roger asked.
Evidently Don had expected this: the shrug of his shoulders was carefree, nonchalant. ‘Got to keep up the pretence, haven’t I? For the checkout girl… Besides, I’m an old man with a sixty-year sixty-a-day nicotine habit. You wouldn’t believe the stuff comes out of my nose sometimes. A nappy’s more suitable than a piece of bogroll. Begging your pardon, Miss.’
‘Nice image; thanks,’ said Dorota, but there was a softness beneath the sarcasm. She was as aware as they all were th
at this mission would be aborted. There was simply no conflict possible if the other party did not want to fight.
And yet?
Dorota could not escape the sensation that she was being lied to: a thick impression, as complicated as grief. What was it? What was tipping her off? She didn’t know; what arrived in her head, unbidden and unwanted, was a memory of her childhood home in Brzeźno, Gdansk. She was four or five. And the teacher from England had rented the room in the basement. He had taught at the Business College… and Dorota had been unable to comprehend that he spoke a different language. She’d thought him ill. After all, if her parents could understand her, and if Smilla (the family Dachshund) could understand her, then the only reason that the teacher had for not understanding her was illness. A sickness of the brain, the infant consultant had diagnoses… Even when her parents had tried to explain that the teacher came from another country, it wasn’t good enough for Dorota. She’d wanted to cure him: and the only way to do this (she had reasoned) was by being mean to him. By being cruel.
The memory drew to an abrupt end, and Dorota was throwing her food across the table at the teacher, much to the displeasure of her parents; she was shrieking. She was telling them that the teacher had hit her.
‘Don?’
‘Yes, Miss Dorota.’
If being mean was what it would take, then this was a language that Dorota could recall from a long time ago.
‘Tell me the truth right now,’ she instructed the old man, ‘or I will personally release all of the birds. Do you understand me? Not you. Me. I will do it while you’re asleep and you won’t even get a chance to say goodbye to them.’
‘Dorota, please,’ said Vig, who’d been under the (incorrect) impression that he had got somewhere in the summit talks and had had matters under control.
‘In the morning you’ll be out of a job and a home. And don’t bullshit me about employment law either. It was only a little while ago you were thanking your lucky stars we’d let you stay. So what’s it to be?’
As Don stood up his knees creaked, like staged effects in the fiction of his fib. A wince raced across his features; it looked real. He placed his empty glass on the table, his dog-end in the saucepan; and the shuffle that he undertook past his visitors piled years onto his back. He did not seem the same man as he had even a minute earlier. He moved into the kitchen. Wordlessly he turned down the oven, and then (on further inspection: this might take some time) turned it off altogether. From inside the oven the chicken splashed and sizzled in its juices, tastily noisy.