A Model Partner

by Seery, Daniel;

  He trudges to his neighbour’s place.

  His feet feel heavy. His legs feel distant, more detached than usual.

  It is the bang on the head, he tells himself. The bang on the head is making him feel like this. That impact would have caused his brain-process to disrupt, a kind of scrambling of his thoughts for a moment. And his brain is now in the process of trying to return to normal.

  Rebooting.

  That’s a nice way of looking at it.

  Tom pushes open the door to his neighbour’s place. He barely hears the usual squeak that accompanies the swinging of the door. There is a haze around his sight and when he tries to catch the edge of that haze it moves with the movement of his eyes.

  He is unaware of the blankets dragging in the dust behind him.

  Just as he is unaware of the figure who stands against the banister rail of the stairs.

  The figure sways slightly, watches Tom intently as he moves inside the bed-sit.

  Tom pushes the door closed. He doesn’t lock it.

  For the first time in years he doesn’t even bother brushing his teeth.

  Tom lays the duvet on the floor first, pulls at each corner until it forms a neat rectangle. He places the blankets over the duvet in the same fashion, folding them backward at the top to make room for the pillow. A cool breeze enters through the open window. It causes the hair on the model to sweep back and forth. It carries the scent of vinegar from the chipper on the street outside. It carries noise too, the engines and the random voices. There is a whoop and a playful scream.

  Tom switches off the light and gets under the blankets. He looks to the window. The model is a dark silhouette against weak light outside. Tom wonders if the paint and glue are dry. He wonders if the features will hold together when he brings it to the agency for the first time.

  ‘An adventure, Shatner,’ he says, even though Shatner’s head is no longer there. ‘I’ll bring you on an adventure tomorrow.’

  There is a flutter in his stomach at this notion, at the prospect of showing his creation off for the first time. Because it is a creation, he thinks. And although he wasn’t serious when he said it was art to the girl in the shop, now that the idea of art has been planted in his head he is beginning to feel that there is something artistic about the whole thing. He has created a woman, not a real woman of course, but he has created something that will hopefully lead to a real woman.

  He imagines Martha and Anna from the agency in the room with him.

  What about Fiona?

  ‘Fiona isn’t going to call,’ he says.

  Sarah?

  ‘Sarah is the past.’

  What do you want Tom? Tell us what you want?

  ‘I’ll show you what I want,’ he closes his eyes and pictures himself placing his form on the desk in the office, the two women nodding appreciatively.

  A gauge for humour, why didn’t we think of that Martha?

  Indeed Anna. Indeed.

  Tom pictures himself unzipping a large suit-type bag.

  The slow, careful reveal, head first, moving downwards, the grey eyes, the thin nose, the yellow dress against the curves of her body.

  Wow!

  Sleep pulls at him.

  Absolutely wow!

  Dragging him under.

  The waves are black and they wash over his senses.

  He needs sleep. Just a little rest.

  The door suddenly crashes open.

  ‘You fucker!’ a man shouts.

  His footsteps are heavy enough to shake the floorboards.

  They move past Tom’s position on the floor towards the silhouette at the window.

  Chapter 30

  Colm and Clara were standing at the front door when Tom walked out to the hall. Clara was gesturing with her hands and explaining that there was nobody called William at the party, in that repetitive, irritating way that drunk people do. Colm was speaking with the mellow tone of someone who believes they are fully in control of the situation.

  J.P. staggered in from the sitting room, smiled goofily in Tom’s direction and mouthed the words ‘Mad Mary’.

  Tom walked past him and Mary crossed her arms and shook her head angrily, nodded at his approach.

  Tom wished he hadn’t come to this party. He wished it was the next day and he was only listening to Sarah’s stories of drunkenness, wished he was ignorantly helping her through her hangover. Jesus, he thought, will she even want to talk to me again after the whole vomiting thing?

  Tom pushed past Mary at the door.

  He needed to be away from her, them, everyone.

  He pictured the river briefly, the lull of its gurgle, the meandering calm, the constant movement, the sureness of the direction.

  ‘You all right?’ Colm grabbed his arm.

  Tom pulled away and walked.

  Mary came after him.

  ‘William,’ she called. ‘Don’t you walk away from me.’

  Tom upped his pace and so did Mary.

  She was at his side, speaking, but Tom barely heard the words. The pitch of her voice rose. Her face was angry.

  Tom began to jog, past houses which were dark at that hour.

  She ran too, her coat opening. She was wearing an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a loose-fitting nightshirt. She panted in the effort to keep up.

  ‘William,’ she called. ‘Get back here William. Please.’

  Tom increased his pace.

  ‘William please,’ she pleaded. And there was pain in that voice and it cut Tom deeply and his thoughts moved to his grandmother, to a time when he would nestle in beside her on the sofa as she read from a nursery rhyme book.

  It didn’t seem that long ago.

  How had he found himself here? What had happened?

  ‘William,’ Mary called

  And Tom ran faster.

  Wee Willly Winky.

  Runs through the town.

  Upstairs downstairs

  In his nightgown.

  Away from the row of council houses, along dark roads.

  The trees whispered, seemed to hush each other, warned of his approach.

  He pushed his legs as hard as he could and her voice gradually faded into the distance.

  He was left with the sound of his shoes patting the road surface.

  Tapping on the windows

  Crying through the locks.

  He could see Ryan’s bar in the distance. There was a sole spotlight shining out front. The Bedford was a black bulk in the car park. It was a creature crouching in the night. And it grumbled, a continuous grumble that grew louder as he approached.

  Are all the children in bed?

  It’s past eight o’clock.

  His legs slowed.

  There was something wrong.

  The engine shouldn’t be running.

  He came to the Bedford from the rear. There was a tube. It was attached to the exhaust. It was snakelike, slinked along the ground at the side of the horsebox, led to the front wheel of the cab and lifted from the earth up to the window, which was open a fraction.

  Tom moved around to the driver’s side, found a grip at the point where the wood met the cab, hauled himself onto the step and gripped the door handle.

  He pulled.

  The door opened first time.

  He dropped from the step while the door swung open fully.

  Tom could see his grandfather’s head resting on the steering wheel.

  His eyes were closed.

  He was dead. Tom knew this immediately.

  In some way, Tom would think later, he always knew it was going to end like this. And the weight of this knowledge is something that he would carry for a long time to come.

  His grandfather’s arm was in a forward position at the side of the steering wheel. His sleeve was caught on the indicator. The weight of it was dragging the indicator downward, causing it to buzz continuously.

  Bzzzzz

  Like an angry bee.

  Bzzzzz

  It vibrated
in Tom’s head.

  Bzzzzzz

  He wasn’t sure how long he was standing in that position. At one stage she appeared, Mary. She looked into the cab and she screamed. And he turned to the scream and she had her hands over her mouth and her eyes were similar to the eyes of a victim in a scary film.

  But worse. Because nobody could act out that expression.

  Nobody could pretend like that.

  He looked back to his grandfather.

  And Mary screamed.

  And the indicator buzzed.

  Chapter 31

  A character flashes into Tom’s head.

  It emerges from his memories of the fairground in Rossboyne.

  They had been in the haunted house, a cart slowly creaking its way through a darkened tent, plastic skeletons on the walls, a stuffed dog hanging from the ceiling.

  The character had been at the end of the ride, this dummy in a torn suit which shot upright from a horizontal position, only to be knocked back down in the next instant by the cart.

  Blink and he was there, blink and he was gone.

  This image flashes into Tom’s head because for one horrible moment he feels as if he is that character. He springs from the ground just like that dummy, with a force that seems to be completely out of his control. And for a time after he feels as if a hardened substance has filled every inch in his body, tightening the muscles so suddenly that they vibrate momentarily.

  He stays like this for what seems like an age.

  Unable to move.

  Rigid.

  With a fear that shows itself as dampness on Tom’s forehead, across his crown and down to the base of his back. It flashes in his head, this fear. But a section of Tom’s mind still ticks along logically because this part of the brain seems to work independently from the rest, the part that compels his hand to pat the kettle three times after he has used it, the part that makes him continuously return to a door to check if it is locked, the part that prefers lines and squares and likes to package the world into neat little bundles, the part that he hates, that would drive him over the edge if he thought about it too much. But even the act of thinking about it has become part of the compulsion, the act of organising his mind into different compartments. Because by organising his mind into separate compartments, surely this means that it is the compulsion that is now controlling his mind and that it has spread, this madness, this disease, this infection. And that is more frightening than any intruder or attack. If it is spreading, when will it stop? He may end up like some of the unfortunates who have compulsions so bad that they spend hours rolling hand over hand under running water, their brains telling them to go and do something else.

  Eat.

  Sleep.

  Move.

  Do something for fuck sake. Just leave the sink and do something.

  Anything!

  Or he may end up like those who are affected so badly that they can’t bear to hug their children for fear of contamination. Or those who are unable to leave their rooms. Or those who spend so much time on their irrational routines that they have no time to do anything else.

  That is a fear worse than any, the fear of losing the mind.

  And that is what makes Tom brave. Because he knows he is brave.

  I am brave.

  He is not violent or persuasive. But he is strong. You have to be strong to cope with the thing he has. So he stands and he shouts back at the intruder.

  And the intruder does turn slightly, veers to the right, his shoulder rumbling along the wall for a couple of meters.

  But it is too late because the intruder is heading right for his model.

  And he is smashing against the head of the model.

  And the model is falling forward.

  And it doesn’t stop where Tom is expecting it to stop. And it doesn’t stop where the intruder expects it to stop either. Because the intruder immediately throws his hands out in an effort to prevent it from falling any further.

  But he is too slow.

  The model falls forward, slides across the counter and drops through the open window.

  Tom’s feet are in motion and he is at the window quickly and his hands move upward, grip his own hair and pull.

  He looks down.

  She has landed on the roof of one of the extensions attached to the building, face down, her arm at a strange angle.

  Tom looks from the model to the intruder.

  It is Karl Wallace. He smells of drink and sweat, sways drunkenly. His eyes are directed towards the model, unblinking. The fingers of his right hand are in his mouth and he is biting down hard.

  ‘What have you done?’ Tom shouts. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Karl turns towards the voice. He blinks for a time, his fingers still in his mouth. He begins to shake his head slowly, closes his eyes before suddenly gripping the sides of the sink and vomiting. He grunts when he’s finished, breathes heavily and then begins to sob.

  ‘What have I done?’ he leans against the counter. ‘Jesus Christ, what have I done?’

  He turns so quickly that he loses his balance and strikes his shoulder against the wall.

  ‘How do I fix this?’ He grabs Tom by the collars of his stripy pyjamas. ‘You have to tell me Tom. How do I fix this?’

  He releases Tom.

  ‘I’m fucked. Fuckin’ hell I’m so fuckin’ fucked.’ Karl slumps to the ground. ‘Oh for fuck sake. Oh God.’ He covers his face and begins to rock back and forth. ‘Oh God.’ His words are muffled by his hands. ‘I’m fucked.’

  He continues this motion for a minute, the sob transforming into a slow whimper.

  Tom looks at the model again. It is too far away to calculate the extent of the damage. But he does know of a way to reach the model. There is a door in the basement that leads to a set of cold grey steps, which in turn lead to the roofs of the extensions. On occasion, he has seen Mr Reilly, the landlord, move through that door with a toolbox in one hand and a coffee in the other, always a coffee in the other. He is the type of person who probably needs to have a coffee for every task he does, sips it while contemplating his next move. Tom briefly imagines Mr Reilly sitting naked with a Styrofoam cup in his hand, his wife in bed waiting on him.

  Come on honey, hurry up and finish your coffee.

  The model is on the third section over. I could reach that, Tom thinks, and he decides he will get the model as soon as Karl leaves.

  Karl is silent. He is a closed bundle.

  Tom wonders if he has fallen asleep. He flicks on the light and Karl suddenly raises his head, opens his eyes. They are red and watery. His mouth hangs open drunkenly.

  ‘Who was she?’ he drawls. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘She didn’t really have a name,’ Tom says.

  ‘What?’ The alcohol has resulted in his face taking on extended, exaggerated expressions, the eyebrows raised for longer than they should be, his mouth forming and holding an ‘O’ shape.

  ‘What?’ he repeats.

  ‘I just called her Shatner,’ Tom says.

  ‘A fuckin’ prostitute,’ Karl shouts. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Tom asks.

  ‘You,’ he points at Tom. His finger wavers in the air while he does it. ‘You and a dead prostitute.’

  ‘She’s just a model,’ Tom says.

  ‘That’s what they all say, you fool,’ he shakes his head.

  ‘No really. She’s not real. She’s just a model.’

  ‘What?’ He tries to stand quickly. His legs give way and he ends up on his knees. ‘You,’ he places his hand against the wall and stands slowly. ‘You’re sick. You really are.’ He stumbles towards Tom, staggers to the side for a stretch before hitting the wall. ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘Stay there,’ Tom moves towards the door. ‘I’m getting dressed and bringing you home.’

  Tom supports Karl as they move through the building, shushes him when he begins to call Tom a sick bastard, tenses when he tries to push him away
.

  They totter down the main street and Tom watches the traffic lights change and soothes himself with the predictable sequence, a sequence that continues on regardless of the day and regardless of what is happening in people’s lives.

  ‘She’s left me, ye know,’ Karl says at one point, stops and hangs his head. ‘And it’s all your fault. Why did you have to stick your nose in?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll take you back,’ Tom says dryly.

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘She will,’ he nods regretfully.

  ‘I love her.’

  ‘Good,’ Tom pulls at his sleeve. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I can’t leave my husband,’ Karl imitates a female voice. ‘I could never leave my husband.’

  Tom stops pulling.

  ‘She was okay before you turned up at the hotel,’ Karl raises his head and looks at Tom through bleary eyes. ‘You messed it up. You and that fuckin’ watch of yours.’

  Tom feels the urge to walk away, to just leave Karl here in his drunken state. He thinks of Angela, questions whether she will be better off without him. But it is not his decision to make. He’s not sure if he could ever make a decision like that in any case.

  ‘Come on,’ he eventually moves on and drags Karl the rest of the way home.

  The door to Karl’s house opens quickly after Tom knocks. It makes him think that Angela has been awake. He imagines her crouched over the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the phone to ring.

  She opens the door fully and makes a noise when she sees him, a deep sigh, the sound of someone releasing a lot of pent-up pressure. She places her arm around Karl and leads him inside. There are words from her, too low for Tom to make out.

  They may be encouraging words to her husband or a relieved prayer to God.

  Tom isn’t sure.

  They may even be the words ‘thank you’.

  Chapter 32

  Monday.

  It is time for Tom to clean up his neighbours’ bed-sit.

  Clean up?

  No, he thinks. It is time to dismantle the clean lines of his neighbours’ bed-sit and clutter up the room. It pains him to do it but it is a necessary evil. The Walters are due back on Wednesday.