We got married in a church. I remember that, too. And it wasn’t a Catholic one. I didn’t tell the vicar about my latent Catholicism. It’s not relevant to me, day to day. I didn’t see as it was relevant to them.
But sand. I was talking about sand.
It’s easy to forget the sand, right there, under the sea.
We’re like that, me and Helen. The sand beneath us is shifting. We’ve got no foundations. They rotted away while the stranger was in me. He came in, dug them up, ploughed them over. Maybe he fucked someone’s dog on the way back to wherever he comes from. I don’t know. I don’t know because when the stranger’s in the house, I’m not there.
Sand.
We’re starting afresh, building on sand. It seems fitting, by the sea. It’s a good way to build, as far as I can tell. It keeps you on your toes. We could fall down at any moment, but we’re vigilant. A marriage needs vigilance. You’ve got to set a watch. You’ve got to keep the stranger out.
The sea’s there, everyday. That’s part of our rhythm. It’s the drums, keeping beat in the back. The sea’s keeping time. It’s solid, dependable.
It’s not like in it was in London. In London, time’s in pieces. The day’s winding down faster there, because it’s broken. Here, the clock is the sea. You can’t break the sea.
And yet, although the pace is slower, it’s winding down just the same. The shore is changing. The sands are shifting, our buildings washing away.
One day the sea, too, will be gone. But I won’t be here to see it. For now, we’re here, me and Helen. We’re solid enough.
Frank’s there, too, and my tennis ball.
The days pass. Sometimes Frank’s there. Sometimes it’s just me and Helen.
People in town say, ah, you’re Frank’s neighbour. Never Bob’s neighbour. People associate us with Frank, and that’s good. People think Frank’s sound. That rubs off.
He comes over for dinner. We pop in for tea. Sometimes I take my tennis ball. I squeeze it and I bounce it and sometimes I drop it, but not so often.
We watch out for each other. The sea watches over us, too.
We roll along while we keep the beat. I don’t remember my dreams. They fade as I have more and I don’t remember what happens in them, whether people are on fire, or whether my daughter’s in them. That’s good.
But it can’t last forever. No matter how vigilant we are, we can’t keep the stranger at bay.
He’s there in me, in the dead parts. I can feel him. He’s rotten. A pale, bloated thing. He smells of graveyards and dirt, of decay and mould. He’s dead, but he’s come back.
I didn’t even know he was there until the night with Helen by the sea. I was watching for him. Part of me knew he’d come back, standing in the door one night, flesh sloughing from furry green bones.
I think it was the stranger in me that fucked it up. Fucked up our rhythm.
I think it was the stranger that made me go back to the estate. Because the stranger’s the one that can’t leave it alone. The stranger is the addict in me.
The stranger peered out through my dead eye, watching Frank talking about the estate. ‘It’s bowed,’ says Frank, and the stranger watches. Maybe he lip reads. Maybe he can hear what I hear.
But he’s interested, and this time he’s hooked on worse than coke.
Addiction is part curiosity, part fascination.
He’s curious, alright. This time it’s Townshend he wants, and the same as all addicts, he hides it with lies.
*
31.
‘I’m going up the shop,’ I say. ‘You want anything?’
That’s the best lie. The one that’s true. I was going to the shop. After.
‘No. I’m fine. Maybe some milk…’ The fridge door pops, closes. I imagine the rubber sucking, holding the door. ‘Yeah, some milk.’
I’m in the dining room. She’s in the kitchen.
‘See you in a bit,’ I say.
‘Hang on,’ she says, and comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. ‘Kiss.’
We kiss. Just a touch on the lips. I feel guilty, but the stranger’s there, too. Now’s the time to tell her, but then I’m hitching my bag onto my shoulder and heading out the door. Thump, slide, clump. A three-legged circus act.
By then it’s too late.
I stop on the front step and look up at the sky. There are no clouds, no sun. It’s behind Bob’s house. I’m in a shirt, with a t-shirt underneath. It’s warm enough. Spring’s in full flow. Our grass is long, but I haven’t been able to find a gardener. It’ll keep. It’s only grass.
Frank isn’t in his garden. I’m grateful. If he saw me head down the alley at the side of Bob’s he’d know.
I never told Frank about the first time I went to Townshend. Helen told him about the blackout, and he knew I went to the hospital.
In my head, the events weren’t linked, but addicts lie, and they lie to themselves most of all.
I cut down Bob’s. Bob’s in the garden. I can see his head over the fence. I walk in a kind of crouch. I don’t want to talk to Bob. He probably wouldn’t even look up, but I’m hiding just the same. I’m hiding from strangers and friends alike.
I come out on Cedars. Same as before. I go slower than I need to.
The houses look different somehow. It’s probably just a trick of the light. The last time I was here, with Helen, the sun was full in the sky. Now it’s off to the west, maybe an hour or two away from setting. The light’s different, and so the estate looks different. That’s all it is.
I can see individuality in the structures. Some have bay windows; some have Dorma’s in the roof. There’s one, it’s got this kind of ornate wooden decoration under the gable’s eves.
They’ve all got double glazing. Cars are parked neatly on drives. The drives are short. Enough for one car, maybe two hatchbacks.
The cars are all new. Three years old, maybe, the oldest of them. Apparently, there is some money down this street. But how? I wonder about it, walking in my three-legged shuffle over onto Townshend.
All the cars, new. But it’s a weekday. Why is no-one at work?
You don’t make enough money to buy these kinds of cars working in town. There are solicitor’s offices, some hotels, an accountant who we pay to sort out our finances. There aren’t many high flyers. It’s nothing more than a town of gift shops and chippies.
These are yuppie cars.
It’s weird. But it’s not the weirdest thing. I go over to the house where the painter was doing the double glazing. I don’t walk up the drive. I’m not that bold. I can see, standing at the edge of the property. The frames are plastic. Not a hint of paint.
I’m freaked out already when the cat walks out.
I can’t tell where it came from. It walks up to me, and I’m repulsed at first, because where its tail should be is just a stump. It’s like I used to feel when I saw someone in a wheelchair. I’d feel uncomfortable, look away. I’m a cripple now, too, so I try to curb that.
I kind of lean down, rubbing my fingers together to get the cat interested, feeling bad for thinking bad thoughts about a maimed cat. It’s a fucking cat, I think. Only a cat. It’s miaowing like mad. Happy to see me. But then I’m up straight, clumping away, because there’s no sound coming out of the cat.
I’m freaked already, because of the feel of Townshend. The atmosphere of the place. The silence. The weight.
Then the fucking mute black cat.
The mute cat tips the balance.
I walk away as fast as I can, my heart working too hard.
I look back as I reach the end of Townshend. The cat’s there, its jaw working, no sound coming out. It’s just sitting there. Mute. Miaowing, just the same.
Townshend’s long, but it’s a short enough walk to the old road, down the hill, to the shop.
My head’s pounding by the time I get to the shop, but my heart is beating slower. There’s a short wall hemming in a wheelchair ramp, so I go in, buy some milk and a Coke, g
o back out and sit on the wall. I sit for a long time, drinking the Coke.
My legs are shaking. My head hurts, but I figure it’s just the fear.
I laugh, after a while.
I laugh because I’m afraid of a little cat.
I laugh because I’m still afraid. I can imagine it sneaking up on someone easy enough. A silent cat, biting through my achilles’ tendon, my ankle flopping as I try to run away.
I’m thinking about the cat eating me. I don’t know why. It was just a little cat. Black, sure. Maimed and mute. But it was just a fucking cat.
I pull my mobile out of my pocket and my hands are shaking even though I have no idea why.
‘Helen?’
‘What’s up?’ she says, straight off. It’s my voice. I take a breath. Get some control.
‘Nothing. I’m just tired. Would you come pick me up?’
‘Sure. Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine,’ I say. Calm. ‘Just tired.’
I’m concentrating enough to follow Helen’s words, but my head’s pounding and I can’t shake the cat. It’s burned into my eye. The vision of it, sitting there, miaowing, purring, no sound.
‘Where are you?’ she says. I tell her.
She’s there in five minutes.
I don’t tell her about the cat. I don’t tell her about the headache.
We watch the sea, at sunset, same as always.
The headache fades with my sunset. Same as always.
Then I figure, what do I need to tell her for? Why should I tell her about every little headache? Every little cat?
A man’s got to have some secrets.
It’s a simple thing. As simple as that.
Just open the door. The stranger’s in. You can’t keep him out, anyway. Why fight it?
*
32.
I’m bouncing the ball against the wall. I throw it with my left, catch it with my right. I’m getting better at it. I’m sitting close to the wall because I still miss often enough to make getting the ball a chore.
Helen’s reading on her sofa. She can read with pretty much anything going on. TV, radio, world war.
I’m getting on my own nerves, though. Bu-donk…bu-donk…I stop.
‘What you reading?’ I ask.
‘The Reach,’ she says. ‘It’s by Stephen King.’
‘Good?’
‘Give me ten minutes, I’ll tell you.’
It doesn’t take ten minutes.
‘Yes,’ she says in answer to my earlier question. ‘You should read it.’
So I read it.
I cry. Just a bit.
It’s good. It’s really good. I’m enjoying it, but the wind is getting up. I can hear the wind blasting against the side of the house, whistling across the front. I can hear something banging, outside.
‘Did you bolt the gate?’ I say.
‘Don’t know. Did you?’ she says. ‘I didn’t go out the back.’
I think back. Neither did I.
I push myself up, get my stick set. ‘I’ll go check.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘That’d be nice,’ I say. Every now and then I take tea. It seems right, on a night like this, with the wind blowing and the gate bashing and Stephen King folded down beside me.
I go out the back door. Round the side. The gate’s flapping in the wind. I grab for it and bash my hand as the wind snaps it shut. I try it again and manage to get the catch on, and then the bolt. I turn around and see a pair of eyes, low down, unblinking. The lights from the house reflect in the eyes.
It’s a cat. I cluck, crouch.
The cat turns and walks away. I can hardly see it. It’s as black as night, but I can tell. Where the tail should be is just a stump.
‘Fuck,’ I say.
My heart beats madly in my chest as I open the back door, fight my way into the house.
Helen’s there.
‘Was it open?’ she says, then, ‘What is it?’
Because I’m gasping for air. I fumble for a lie, but the best lies are built of truth.
‘Fucking cat,’ I say. ‘Scared the life out of me.’
‘Really? Since when were you scared of cats?’
‘Since today, I guess,’ I say, and force a smile. ‘I’m fine. Just made me jump.’
‘Must be lots of cats round here.’
‘Must be,’ I say. Not so unusual to see the same one twice in a day, obviously.
But I couldn’t shake the impression the cat had been waiting for me. Watching.
I lie in bed and wonder if a cat can do the bolt on a gate. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that we’d used the front door all day.
That’s just stupid, though. I tell myself it’s stupid. Time to stop reading horror stories before bed. The fucking story wasn’t even horror. Not really. It was a fucking love story.
I kiss Helen’s shoulder.
She murmurs. I turn over and reach for sleep, but the wind outside the window keeps snatching it from my grasp.
*
33.
The next day’s hazy. Maybe it’s Townshend, something about the place, something thick, oppressive, hanging like a fog over our place. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had hardly any sleep. Whatever the reason, I can’t get it out of my head.
The estate, the black cat, the stranger.
Above it all, the stranger. A dark portent in the sky.
Five o’clock comes around, and I can’t bear it anymore.
I come up behind Helen. She’s got her apron bundled up in her hands, about to put it in the washing basket.
‘Ready,’ she says. She’s glowing. I feel like a shit.
‘Shall we walk? I need the exercise.’
She’s ready to say no.
‘I’m up to the hill if you are.’
The glow is fading, but I’m prepared to push.
‘Sam, it damned near killed you last time. Seetha says you’ve got to push, but not too far. Not too fast.’
Suddenly I’m angry. Helen has no idea how far, how hard, I can push. The stranger can push.
The women are making me jump rope again.
But the stranger’s sly. He’s had practice at this.
‘I’m ready, Helen. I want to show you I can do this. Come on. Please? If we don’t go soon twilight will be gone. I want to see my yellow.’
It’s all about me, but not forever. After today, the stranger’s going away. For good.
At least, that’s what I say to myself, as I bully Helen, like in the old days.
She’s wavering, because I’m doing this for us.
‘Come on. If we get out of puff, we’ll rest, come back. Let’s try, OK?’
‘OK,’ she says. Her mouth pulls down, but she gives in, like always. ‘First sign of trouble, I swear, I’m coming right back here, getting in the car, taking you to the hospital.’
‘It won’t come to that. I feel good. Get your coat.’
So we step out, round the front. Down the alley. Onto the estate.
The estate’s quiet. No different. The sun’s on its way down, but still a way off the horizon. It’s a nice light. There’s warmth in it.
I notice things I didn’t notice in the full light. The lawns aren’t cut. They look a little patchy, with clumps here and there. It seems the estate can’t find a gardener, either.
I don’t know why I think that. Each house is different. Families, cats, probably dogs, although I don’t hear any. Individual units that make up the estate, but I’m thinking of it as a whole.
Like a person, but that’s wrong. People have personalities. The estate doesn’t. It doesn’t have any character at all.
We hold hands. I hold on as tight as I can with my bum hand.
We pass a small green, isolated within the estate. The grass is clumpy.
There’s the group of houses, with the shared drive.
Too many cars. But something’s different.
There’s a girl. She’s on a mobile, talki
ng. She’s laughing, but she’s uptight, too.
It’s wrong.
The thought is way down deep, where I can’t reach it. My fingers brush it, down the bottom of the hole. Brush it, but can’t get a hold enough to figure out what it is.
We carry on walking. She looks worried but we just nod as we pass her.
I hear her flip the phone shut behind us.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. We slow and turn around. Easy as you like. I’m not shaking at all. Helen smiles. I nod. ‘Do you know where the show home is?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’ I’m blunt. For a reason. I want to see my sea and my sunset and nothing more. I don’t want to be standing here talking to this girl. Nothing more to it than that. I’m sure of it. I take Helen’s hand, as if to pull her away, but it’s my crap hand and she either doesn’t notice or I’m too weak to pull her away.
‘We’re new to the area,’ says Helen, completely ignorant of my desire to get away. My need.
The girl shrugs.
I finally get a good grip on Helen and turn her away. Subtly as I can, but I steer her. Maybe she notices, but I don’t think she does. She’d say. I’m sure of that. We walk on down Townshend.
‘Do you think we should go back?’ Helen asks.
I know she means to go back, help the girl. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back, because the sun’s setting, because I can see something behind the window of the house the girl is standing outside.
I don’t want to go back because the thing I see behind the dark window in the fading light is burning. It’s on fire, and its face is awful. I’m suddenly, powerfully, terrified. I know there’s nothing I can do but get away.
I need to get away. Right now.
I risk a look back. The girl’s still there, standing around like she’s totally lost.
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