She made her way towards a group which contained Tom’s grandfather and he tried to move her on with a couple of curt lines. He was in a drinking mood that evening. As he had been for the last couple of evenings. The boyish joviality which had come on him in Rossboyne was gradually evaporating to reveal his true self.
‘I want to borrow your grandson,’ Mary said and winked at Tom. ‘I’ve a few jobs that need doing.’
‘You’ll have him worked to the bone Mary,’ a member of the group shouted, his chin slimy with spit and drink, a toupee rotting on his head.
‘I’m a hard boss,’ Mary folded her arms. ‘I’ll get the boy up and about no bother.’
She moved closer to Tom. ‘Ten sharp tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And don’t be late or you’ll be a sorry boy.’
The group cheered and whooped at this.
Tom’s grandfather moved to the bar to get another drink. He had started on the whiskey by that stage.
Tom left the bar early that evening but he would wake during the night to find his grandfather crying. Tom had never seen his grandfather cry before. Even at his grandmother’s funeral the man had kept an unwavering hold on his emotions, merely nodding and grunting at the offered hands and condolences.
‘She’s gone,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you understand?’ He swayed near the door of the horsebox, rummaging in his pockets. ‘She’s gone.’
Tom remained still and quiet, hoping the darkness would conceal the fact that he was awake.
‘Where’s me keys?’ His grandfather staggered forward. ‘I need them.’
He sat down on the floor of the horsebox, muttering to himself.
The next moment he was asleep.
Tom climbed from his bunk and removed his grandfather’s boots. He placed a blanket over him and gently tilted his head so he was facing to the side.
When Tom woke the next morning he lay as still as he could, tense, listening.
He only relaxed when he could make out the steady sound of the old man breathing.
The dirt of the windows diluted the morning light and gave the kitchen a muddy quality. Mary was next to the cooker, her hair wild, a blonde halo of frizz surrounding it. She had no make-up on and she was lacking the smiling, carefree nature that she usually had in the bar. There was a greyness and lifelessness to her skin which made Tom think of dry, crumbling leaves.
She has aged, Tom thought. In a single night the woman had become old.
The kitchen smelled of grease and the air was warm from cooking. A pot sat on the hob with a dirty silver base and blackened interior rim, the slow plop of bubbling porridge coming from inside. There was a vase on the table, flowers drooping over the side, petals stained brown on the surface. There were net curtains on the window, dead flies and insects caught in the threads. The place had a poverty that Tom had not expected, the way the wallpaper was peeling at the upper edges, the way the bulb hung naked from the ceiling and the dark tiles on the floor were chipped and cracked.
It was an unloved room, a divorced and neglected type of room.
Mary scooped a splodge of porridge into a white bowl.
‘Eat up,’ she said and left.
Her footsteps were loud on stairs without carpet. The echo of her clumping feet dampened as she moved from stairs to landing. Tom listened carefully and tried to imagine the layout of the house. He played with the sleeve of his jumper. He was nervous and the smell of the porridge was turning his stomach slightly. A deep voice sank through the upper floorboards to his position at the table. Tom’s heart raced suddenly. It was her husband.
A low thumping sound soon followed, then the noise of something heavy sliding across the floor.
Tom’s imagination ran wild.
He pictured the man dragging his wife from the room, his spider-like arms flipping her into the air and rolling her in fine silver strands.
Round and round.
Up and down.
Covering her body and legs and moving towards her face, faster and faster, spinning until her whole frame was shrouded in layers and she resembled a butterfly in the pupa stage.
I will be next, Tom thought. He will hear the click of spider legs scuttling down those wooden steps. He will see the crooked shadow grow tall on the wall. He will spy the black hairy body through a crack in the door. And soon, he will be covered, trapped and suffocated, devoured in this dusty building.
Tom listened carefully for more movement.
For a time it was quiet upstairs.
Then the steps began again. Her steps.
Each time he detected her near the stairs his heart would give a slight jolt and the tempo would increase.
Rumpa-thump.
Rumpa-thump.
He wasn’t sure what work she had planned for him. There was no end of things that needed to be done. But he prayed it would be a job in the garden, cleaning the windows or pulling the weeds.
Perhaps her husband would watch while he worked, he thought.
Perhaps they would both watch him, size him up, figure him out.
Rumpa-thump.
Rumpa-thump.
What if he wasn’t here for work? What if she wanted him here for something else?
She moved down the stairs.
Tom sat upright and taut. The support of the chair was hard against his back. He folded his arms and tapped his foot rapidly until she appeared at the door.
She was still unsmiling.
Was this the same woman he had seen naked at the window?
‘He’s asleep,’ she said and walked over to the hob. She stirred the porridge. ‘You make sure you don’t disturb him with your noise, won’t you?’
Tom was quiet. He nibbled on the inside of his bottom lip.
Mary turned from the hob.
‘Sure you won’t?’ she repeated, louder.
‘I’ll be as quiet as I can.’
Her face darkened and she approached the table.
‘You’re not eating your porridge,’ she stood with hands on hips. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Tom inched to the edge of his chair.
‘But you’ve always liked porridge.’
‘What?’ Tom said softly.
‘Eat your porridge,’ she ordered and returned to the pot.
She turned off the gas, slopped some porridge into a bowl and sat down next to him. She took a spoonful from the bowl, blew on it before shoving it into her mouth. The spoon clacked against her teeth as she brought it out.
Tom held the spoon above his own bowl. The mixture was grey and lumpy. It no longer steamed as hers did. He dipped the spoon in, gathered a small amount and brought it upwards.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Tom asked quietly.
She arched an eyebrow.
‘About what?’
‘What work do you need me for?’
‘I’ll ask your father what needs doing,’ she said and stirred the porridge in her bowl, blowing on it at the same time.
‘My grandfather,’ Tom corrected.
‘What are you talking about?’ she snapped. She glanced down at his bowl. ‘Eat your porridge.’
Tom nervously played with the porridge. He was aware of the perspiration on his brow and the sharp sting under his armpits, the trickle of sweat down his side.
She stopped stirring and looked at his bowl again.
‘Why aren’t you eating your porridge William?’ Her anger brought colour to her cheeks.
Tom dropped the spoon. It slowly submerged in the porridge mixture. He pushed his chair back without looking at her and stood.
‘William,’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’
Tom briskly walked through the kitchen door and into the hall.
Rumpa-thump.
Rumpa-thump.
‘Answer me William,’ her voice grew louder. ‘William!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t walk away from me.’
Tom opened the front door. He felt the blood pumping in his head, a coldness across his back, the looseness of his sha
king hands.
‘William,’ she called after him. ‘Don’t you walk away from your mother.’
Tom stepped outside the house and when he felt the cool air on his face he ran from the garden. He ran until his heart seemed to rattle in his neck and head, until his lungs felt like flames in his chest.
Chapter 27
Garda Harry is at the door to Tom’s bed-sit.
His chest rises and falls rapidly, his nostrils flare with the pressure of each exhalation.
As if he has been running, Tom thinks, and steps aside so he can enter.
He strides to the opposite end of the bed-sit, turns and scans the room, his eyes frequently returning to Tom. The light overhead accentuates the sweat on his face and there is stiffness to his movements as if he is encumbered with limited flexibility.
It is the pose of someone who is tense.
The pose of someone who is expecting something to happen.
Tom’s camera is on the counter and Harry picks it up and rotates it in his hands carelessly.
‘What do you want?’ Tom asks.
‘This is a digital camera, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s your printer?’
‘I just print photos off in the library.’
‘Where are the photos you printed off?’ He slaps the camera roughly against the counter.
‘Hey,’ Tom steps towards him.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘What?’ Tom stops. ‘Why? What’s this about?’
Harry raises his palm to indicate that he is waiting on an answer.
‘I cut them up,’ Tom squeezes the fingers of his left hand nervously.
Harry frowns. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t need the whole photograph.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just needed pieces of them.’
Harry thinks about this for a moment. His eyebrows dip and he looks at Tom’s hands.
‘Where are the cuttings?’
‘Most of them went out with the rubbish. They’re probably still in the bin downstairs. I’ll get them for you if you want,’ Tom moves in the direction of the door.
‘Stay where you are,’ Harry snaps loudly, the tendons in his neck standing out.
‘What’s going on here?’ Tom asks.
‘You tell me Stacey,’ he takes a step towards Tom.
‘I don’t know what you want,’ Tom’s chest tightens. His hand moves to his forehead, his fingers tremor. ‘What do you want?’
‘Jesus, Stacey.’
‘What?’ Tom says quietly.
‘Where are the photos?’ Harry drops the camera.
The cracking sound seems to fill the space long after it has landed.
Tom stoops and reaches for the camera.
‘Get back,’ Harry warns.
Tom ignores him. He grabs the camera, kneels and begins to collect the broken pieces which are scattered around.
‘Get up Stacey.’ Harry’s hand moves under his coat. When his hand comes into view again he is clutching a baton.
‘Get up,’ he says.
Tom rises.
‘Get over there,’ he nods to the far wall of the bed-sit.
‘It’s wrecked,’ Tom holds the camera towards the policeman.
Harry brings the baton forward quickly, hitting Tom on his left shoulder. Tom loses his footing and falls backwards. It is an undignified fall, the type that seems as if it is happening in slow motion. He lands painfully on his behind and twists his arm slightly in the effort of protecting his head. It is only when he is in a seated position that a sudden rush of fear envelops him.
‘You stay there,’ Harry says.
Tom’s instinct is to run.
He tries to stand but his movement is sluggish and he is pushed back down.
‘I said stay,’ Harry hisses through gritted teeth.
Tom holds an awkward position for a moment, his arms bearing his weight so he feels his pulse hammering through his palms. Gradually Tom eases himself to a seated position and Harry begins to walk around the room.
‘Where are the fuckin’ things?’ he says.
He moves to Tom’s chair, the one which faces the small window.
He violently shoves it forward. There is a snapping sound.
Tom feels a dipping in his chest, a curling arc of dismay.
A groan follows that arc.
My chair.
Harry glances at him quickly before moving to a bookcase at the back of the room. He straightens his arm and runs it along the books so they thump to the floor. He hunkers to the floor and begins to shake the books. A bookmark falls from one. He lifts it up quickly and inspects it before flicking it away. It spirals in the air and lands at Tom’s feet.
‘I know about you groping that woman in work, Stacey. I know plenty about you.’
Tom shakes his head and closes his eyes.
Harry moves to the cupboards, roughly scoops the contents to the side so they crash onto the floor, tins, glass spice jars that crack and splinter. A plastic airtight container bounces from the counter, the lid popping open and sticks of spaghetti spilling onto the floor. They crunch under Harry’s feet as he moves to another cupboard.
Pieces of food are kicked under the fridge and the oven.
How am I going to get them out of there?
How am I going to clean this place?
A low hum begins to emerge from the questions in his head. It moves as a drill would, boring towards him, growing louder with each second.
It’s not a drill, he thinks. Of course it’s not a drill.
It is a bee.
That damned bee.
Tom covers his ears with his hands but the buzzing continues. He increases the pressure, pressing his palms against his ears.
Harry is beside the opened fridge, his head ducked inside. He scoops things from the fridge and throws them to the floor, cheese, eggs, milk, a glass jar of sauce, the wetness of the contents transforming the sound of breakage into a dull splat. The sauce spreads like paint, splashes his feet, flecks the wall.
Bzzzzz
Tom blinks his eyes tightly. He struggles to his feet.
The pain in his head glows and intensifies with any sudden movement.
Harry has his arms inside the fridge as if he’s trying to climb in.
Bzzzzz
Tom slowly walks to the door and to a sweeping brush that leans against the wall.
This room, he thinks. I have to clean this room.
His left foot slides out on the sauce, so quickly that his thigh muscle sings sharply and he almost loses his balance. He steadies himself and continues on.
There is glass underfoot.
It crunches with each step and alerts the policeman.
Harry is quick. He is beside Tom in an instant and swinging his right fist. It connects with the top of Tom’s crown. Tom falls, the momentum pushing his head back so it strikes the edge of the door.
There is this feeling of dullness, a moment like wakening in the darkness of night.
His sight soon sprinkles with dots of shadow and light. The pain follows, like water rushing into a space. Tom’s hand moves to the point where the door has struck. There is heat and stickiness in his hair. He looks at his hand and it is covered in blood.
‘You stay where you are,’ Harry points at him. ‘Fuckin’ pervert.’ He moves closer to Tom.
‘Where’s all your stuff? Your photos, where do you keep them?’
Tom doesn’t answer. The buzzing has become a looping sound, the way a plane will spin and crash in those old war films, the engine sound changing as if he was right there watching it, somehow sitting on a cloud in the stratosphere.
The Doppler effect, Tom thinks. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?
The darkness pulls at him. It is a weight at the base of his crown.
The policeman taps his foot against Tom’s shin.
‘Come on, where’s all your stuff?’
‘It’s a change i
n the waves,’ Tom mumbles, his eyes blinking rapidly with the effort of keeping them open. ‘Depending on where your position is.’
‘What?’ Harry is confused.
‘The way the noise of a car sounds higher when approaching you and lower when moving away from you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Tom closes his eyes and sees an image of the bee riding the waves, up and down on the looping line, wings buzzing furiously.
The sight is so ridiculous. He feels like vomiting and laughing at the same time.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Harry shouts.
Tom feels his shirt tightening around his neck, feels the ground move away from him.
He opens his eyes and sees Harry’s face coming closer to his.
The pain that suddenly courses through his head is so fierce that it causes his eyes to roll upward, his legs to go limp momentarily.
The policeman supports his weight.
‘You think this is funny?’ He pushes Tom against the wall.
Tom groans loudly, his hands moving to his head.
‘I’m not leaving until I find something. You understand that.’ He moves away from Tom. ‘It’s not so funny now, is it?’
Tom is weak. He bends forward and places his hands on his thighs for support.
‘What were you buying women’s clothes for?’ Harry is beside his chest of drawers. He takes each one of Tom’s drawers out and upends them. ‘I know you have some in here.’
‘I don’t have them any more,’ Tom mumbles.
Harry stops suddenly. ‘Where are they?’
‘I gave them to her.’
‘To who?’ His eyes widen.
‘Shatner,’ he mutters. ‘I gave them to Shatner.’
‘Who is Shatner?’
‘The model.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In the bed-sit.’
‘Jesus Christ, Stacey. You think I won’t find something?’ he storms back to the kitchen area. ‘I know there’s something. Even if I don’t find it now I’ll be back. You’ll slip up, wherever you’re hiding your fuckin—’ he kicks the counter, the noise vibrating loudly in the small bed-sit ‘—photos. Or the women’s fuckin’ clothes,’ he kicks out at the bin.
A Model Partner Page 21