THUGLIT Issue Nine

by Jen Conley

  I got back in bed, read more of my book, and eventually fell asleep.

  At four in the morning a truck barreled down the road, hitting a pothole, waking me up. I rolled over, noticing Colin wasn't in bed and my stomach twisted. Where was he? The faint smell of cigarette smoke made me hopeful that he was downstairs, so I jumped up, about to go see him, but my heart sank as I remembered there was a guest in our house who could be smoking. I put on sweatpants and a shirt, brushed my hair, and went down.

  It wasn't Colin, but Ni in the kitchen, sitting in the stark fluorescent light, smoking. I waved to him and checked the sitting room. Seeing it was empty, I returned to the kitchen. Ni was at the table, the stained bandage lay in a pile next to him, along with a sharp set of scissors. He was staring at his hand, at the ghoulish wound, which was a long slit crusted with dried brownish blood.

  I stepped closer and he lifted his head to me.

  "Do you want something to clean it?" I asked, offering to get Hydrogen Peroxide.

  He said no.

  I couldn't help myself and asked him how he had gotten such a terrible cut.

  "I fell," he said. "On something sharp."

  "Where?"

  "On the street."

  "Glass?"

  He nodded. "Yep."

  "You should go to the hospital. You need stitches."

  "Yes," he said quietly, studying his hand. "Later today."

  Again, I offered to get him something to clean it but he turned me down. "It will sting."

  "Hydrogen Peroxide doesn't sting," I said. "Alcohol does."

  Ni smirked. "An expert, ay?"

  I shrugged.

  With his good hand, he picked up the packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I took it and we sat at the table quietly, until I asked him if he'd seen Colin.

  "No."

  I smoked and stared at the steel knobs on the bottom kitchen cabinets, wondering where Colin could have gone. The last time he'd done this, he had claimed he'd gone to Shug's, who lived in Walthamstow, which was quite a long journey from King's Cross. I didn't have a phone number, although I knew Colin had it written down in his phone book which was two feet away from me in a kitchen drawer. Yet, if I called and it turned out Colin wasn't there, then what?

  I finished the cigarette and stood.

  "You can stay," Ni said quietly.

  "I have to go to work in a few hours," I said.

  "Mmm," he muttered. "I never liked work."

  "Nobody likes work," I said, looking at his hand again. "You need to wash it."

  Ni gazed at me, blinking slowly. "It's gonna leave a scar."

  "Yes," I said, feeling nervous. He was definitely a creepy guy. "But," I added, not knowing why I felt the need to chatter, "you can make up a great story with it. You can tell people you were mugged at knifepoint and you fought the guy off, saving your girlfriend."

  "Don't have a girlfriend," he said. "Can I say I saved you?"

  I swallowed, stared at the floor, shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."

  Ni laughed—a deep, robust, rolling guffaw.

  I said goodnight and returned upstairs, shutting my door and locking it. I wasn't tired anymore, so I turned on the little light near the bed and tried to read. After a while, I heard footsteps. I assumed Ni was going up to bed. I rolled over and heard him in the bathroom, then expected him to go to the guest room, because I'd showed him where it was.

  But then I heard footsteps near my door. I lifted my eyes and stared.

  The knob shook. Then I heard him push against the door.

  I stopped breathing. Why was he trying to get in here? He knew where the guest room was.

  "Wrong room!" I called.

  The doorknob stopped jangling yet Ni didn't move. I waited. Eventually I heard him step away and go back downstairs.

  I didn't sleep. I just sat in bed with my Ian McEwen book, gripping the paperback as if it would protect me. For several hours I listened intently for a noise from the kitchen. Every so often I smelled cigarette smoke, heard a slight cough, but no more movement.

  At nine, I got out of bed again and dressed, not showering because I wasn't going into the bathroom by myself with Ni in the flat. When I was ready, I braced myself, unlocked the door and raced down the first set of stairs, catching a glimpse of his hulking body in the kitchen. I kept moving, flying down the second set of stairs, racing out the door into the cold London morning.

  I tried to phone Colin from the pub in Whitechapel but he didn't answer. When my shift was over, I didn't know whether to go home or stay out. I thought about taking the tube down to Covent Garden and wandering around the shops, like I used to. I thought about asking my boss to let me stay with him for the night but I didn't want to explain why. In the end, I took the bus back to King's Cross and called Colin from the train station. This time he answered.

  "Is your friend still there?" I asked.

  "No. He's gone."

  I returned to the flat and to my surprise, Colin handed me a chocolate bar and apologized for not coming home. He gave me some story about going to a club with some mates and getting stuck in south London because they didn't have money for a cab. I half-listened because I knew it was a lie.

  I should have been angry, but I couldn't be bothered. I was rattled from Ni's visit. I told Colin I was tired and went up to bed, leaving the chocolate bar on the coffee table.

  Two days later I was at the pub working the night shift and talking with a customer who suddenly slid the Evening Standard in front of me.

  "Look at this," he said, pointing to a headline with a black and white photograph of a man with thick eyebrows and his long hair pulled behind his head. The headline read: Man Wanted in Stabbing. My gut wrenched as I read the story: four days earlier, Ni had stabbed a man seven times in a brawl outside of a pub in Stepney Green. Only blocks away from where I was now.

  I stared at the customer.

  "Wild, eh?" he said. "Could've been me." He chuckled. "Could've been you."

  I looked down at the paper and read on. The victim was still alive, barely.

  I didn't know what to say. I just thought of Ni's hand, the blood, and the fact that I'd offered to help him clean it, this wound which he'd probably gotten while he was stabbing the man. There must have been so much blood, enough to make the knife slip for a moment and slice into Ni's hand.

  Then I read the story again and realized Nigel wasn't his real name. It was Paul Whitfield. Apparently he'd been in trouble before, had even done time for burglary.

  Colin appeared dumbfounded when I stood in the kitchen the next morning and showed him the paper. The scissors were still resting on the table but the bloody bandage was long gone.

  "Aaaah," he said, shaking his head. "We had a wanted man in the house!" He laughed, and then became fidgety, complaining he needed a shower.

  "Did you know?" I asked, my voice rising. "Did you know that he had just stabbed someone seven times and then you left me here alone with the guy?"

  "No!" Then, "Fuck off."

  Colin went upstairs and I sulked, immediately feeling bad for accusing him of such a shitty move. No guy would leave his girlfriend alone with a man he knew had just stabbed someone. That would make him vile.

  I sat in a chair at the kitchen table, stewing, thinking, turning the situation over in my head, thinking about how Ni had tried to open my bedroom door, how frightened I'd been of him. Then I thought of Colin, that he had left me with this man. Eventually I realized Colin had to have known, he just had to. He told me Paul's name was Ni, meaning he'd been in on the cover-up. Perhaps Paul offered Colin money to put him up for the night and keep quiet.

  "His name is Paul," I snarled, brushing hair from my eyes and glaring at Colin when he entered the kitchen. "Not Ni."

  "So?"

  "Why did you call him Ni?"

  Colin shook his head, sucked on his teeth, and eyed the gleaming scissors. "He's always been Ni to me," he finally said.

  "Where did Ni, I mean, Paul go?
" I asked.

  Colin chuckled and crossed his arms. "Don't remember, do I?" he said.

  "You asshole. You knew."

  He just shrugged.

  "I can go to the police. Give them your name."

  Colin leaned forward and hissed, "Dare you, pet."

  "You're a shit!" I suddenly screamed, spit flying out of my mouth and landing on his face. "You're a fucking shit! A shit!"

  In one clip, my boyfriend seized my arms, ripped me out of the chair, and threw me across the kitchen. I hit the cabinets and steel knobs hard, the pain dizzying. I lay in a heap on the floor, stunned while he just looked at me.

  Then I craned my neck, remembering the scissors on the table. What if they were his next move? I had to get them first.

  But he was quick, snapping them up in one whip.

  "Ha-ha," he laughed, stepping towards me, bending down, sticking the sharp scissors at my throat.

  Terrified, feeling the cold point of the weapon against my skin, I cowered against the cabinets. "Don't," I whispered.

  He smirked, held the scissors at my neck for a few beats, then moved them away. He grinned, winked, and then chuckled. "Just kidding, babe," he said.

  My body ached from being tossed against the cabinets. "You hurt me," I said, expecting a real apology from him but I don't know why I was thinking that. I suddenly recalled a night in November: Colin and I had been walking home from a pub, discussing our biggest fears. I revealed that like most women, I was afraid of being jumped and raped. Instead of comforting me, Colin had grabbed my arms, slammed me up against a van, and put his hand against my throat. "Like that?" he'd asked and then laughed.

  "You alright?" he asked now.

  I rolled my neck. "I'm fine," I said. Fucking psycho.

  "Good."

  Colin was still crouched down next to me. I could feel his breath. "What?" I said. "Try apologizing." Again, I was holding out for this.

  Colin sucked on his teeth, the hissing sound echoing in the kitchen like a snake. My stomach clenched. I was in trouble again. The gleaming scissors appeared and fluttered before my eyes. He was going to kill me.

  He didn't. Instead, Colin snatched a chunk of my hair and yanked my head towards him. Then he cut the piece off.

  I didn't dare respond.

  "Right," he said, standing straight up and throwing my hair in the air like confetti. I watched the strands drop to the floor, like thin flower petals. He shoved the scissors in the back pocket of his jeans and straightened his shirt. "See ya, pet."

  I remained on the kitchen floor for a while, shocked that this had happened to me. That I, a woman who had graduated from college with a 3.4 GPA, a woman who had been independent enough to move overseas and seek adventure, had let herself sink into this rotten situation.

  The escape was quick. In an hour, I packed my bags, called the airline and purchased a plane ticket with my emergency credit card, and phoned the pub in Whitechapel explaining that I was quitting. I took only the essentials, leaving some stuff in the flat: some clothes I didn't need, my shampoo, my books and my CDs—even Nirvana. There wasn't much damage to my hair, just a small chunk that reached my chin whereas the rest reached my shoulders.

  The day was blustery, with bright clouds racing across the London sky as fast as I was making my getaway. I moved quickly along Copenhagen Street, and then Caledonian Road, lugging my belongings, heading towards King's Cross, where I would catch the tube to Heathrow.

  When I neared the station, I noticed a policeman in his car. I thought about knocking on his window and revealing what I knew about the stabbing, but I kept walking. It would delay me. Besides, I didn't know where Ni had gone. Maybe Colin did, maybe he didn't. Anyhow, if I did tell, the cops would bring me into headquarters, then call Colin in, and there would be a scene, and I would melt, and cry, and beg for Colin's forgiveness. Pathetic thinking actually, but at that moment, I didn't trust myself to fight off the last dregs of the relationship, this beast of a romance I had tangled myself into. It was better to run, and run quickly.

  At the airport, there was a salon and I used my emergency credit card to get a haircut. I couldn't dare show up at Newark with a chunk of my hair missing, forcing me to reveal the truth to my mother. But the hairdresser, a tall Russian woman, did wonder about the missing piece. Although I was about to concoct some crazy yarn about being at a club and some drunk coming up to me with scissors and chopping off my hair, I told her some of the truth—there was an argument, I was thrown across the room, he put the scissors to my neck, and then cut off my hair.

  The hairdresser placed her hand on my shoulder. "Lucky you got away."

  Lucky.

  Yeah.

  The Bottom of My Heart

  by Adam McFarlane

  The picture window overlooked the driveway. He drew drapes across the glass and pushed the rheostat until it clicked, turning on the lights.

  "I don't think people can see in, Jason. The window reflects outside," I said.

  He wore a Minnesota North Stars vintage reproduction T-shirt and fraying jeans with bare feet. His eyes and hair were brown. "I might seem paranoid about my privacy, Andrew. But I've never hired a private investigator before."

  "Call me Drew."

  We sat down on a leather sofa facing a fireplace. The chimney was a column of rough stones and mortar. On the mantel in a school photograph, a boy showed blue eyes, slightly mussed hair, and a smile missing a tooth. He looked barely old enough for school. "Cute kid," I said.

  The child posed against a velvet black background framed in brass and cream matting.

  "He died last summer," he said.

  I was quiet.

  "I could talk about Michael for a long time, but that's not why I'm looking for a detective."

  I nodded.

  "My wife is having an affair." He averted his eyes to a poker stand and wood stacked beside the hearth.

  "What exactly do you want me to do?"

  He stood up and paced around. "I want proof."

  "Who's the guy?" I asked.

  He stopped pacing and sat down again, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  "You don't know?"

  He shook his head.

  "How do you know she's having an affair?"

  Looking away, he said, "I just know."

  I looked down at my hands.

  "Ever been married?" he asked.

  "No," I said.

  "You just know these things. Or, at least you should," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't know until I found a tube of Astroglide in her purse. Then I knew."

  A coffee table stood between us and the fireplace. A laptop rested on it alongside a can of Coke and a liquor bottle.

  "Something to drink?" he asked.

  "No, thanks."

  "Mind if I?" He poured bourbon into the cola on the table. As his hand trembled, the neck of the Wild Turkey bottle tapped against the aluminum rim.

  "Whose computer?" I nodded to the laptop.

  "We both use it."

  "Any others in the house?"

  "Not unless you count our phones."

  "Does she use e-mail, Facebook, anything on it?"

  Shrugging, he said, "We both do. I have access to her passwords and everything."

  "Maybe she has an account you don't know about?"

  His face froze. "Maybe."

  "What's your e-mail address?"

  He said it.

  I took out my phone and started typing. "I'm sending you a computer virus. Download it onto the computer."

  "You're going to destroy the computer?"

  "The virus is harmless, except I'll be able to track every click and keystroke. You'll need to sign a consent and waiver."

  Humming with swirling blades, a fan turned its head toward us and blew a breeze.

  "Does anyone else know about the affair?"

  He shook his head. "No one."

  "How long has it been going on?"

  "Fuck if I know, pardon my French."

  "
How long have you known?"

  "Since yesterday," he said, then bit his lip. "Yesterday morning. That's when I called you."

  "Do you have a picture of her I can borrow?"

  He pulled out his wallet and handed me a photo. Natalie's dark chocolate hair parted on a side and fell along her shoulders and her bangs curved down over an eye. She wore a red turtleneck and matching lipstick.

  "What happened to your son?" I asked.

  "What's that got to do anything?" he said.

  "It might help if I understood what was going on in Natalie's life. If I figure out how she thinks, I can track how she spends her time, the people she sees."

  He paused. A lawnmower buzzed outside.

  "We were walking together, stopped at a crosswalk, when a MetroTransit bus pulled over to let people off. Michael walked out in front of the bus."

  "This was when?"

  "Last summer. July 29th."

  "And he kept on walking?" I asked.

  Spilling a little from his lips, he picked up the can and guzzled it empty. "Must have thought traffic would stop, like it does for school buses. Soon as he cleared the front of the bus, he was in the middle of the road. And a car hit him full speed."

  I nodded. "But traffic doesn't stop for MetroTransit buses."

  "Not city buses. Nat and I were right there, but we didn't have time to react. Michael went up on the hood of the car and hit the windshield, and when he hit the windshield, the car braked." Jason winced and rubbed the back of his neck before continuing. "So the momentum from the car flung him onto the pavement."

  "Then what happened?"

  Nervously, he stroked an eyebrow, then moved his fingers to his temple. "He was convulsing, you know? Seizures…and covered in blood when we got there."