The Sound of My Voice

by Ron Butlin

  You got out of your chair and, offering her your arm, began to make your way across the lawn to the right-hand corner of the garden where the accusations were digging in the flower-bed. Mary was saying something about how it was a good surprise, very unusual in fact, and that she had . . .

  But you were having increasing difficulty in hearing her. It was as if, as soon as you had begun walking, someone had been gradually turning down the sound in the garden.

  You continued walking.

  ‘Mary!’ you called out, and gripped her arm.

  She looked at you. Panic must surely have been showing in your face. Everything seemed to be slowing down. It was an effort to place your feet one after another; you felt very heavy, as though the air pressure or gravity itself had been greatly increased.

  She was telling you something; her lips were moving, but you could hear nothing of what she said. Her arm began to go round your waist, but how slowly everything was happening, how laboriously. It was becoming difficult to breathe; each breath was an effort, a greater and greater effort.

  By the time you reached the accusations you were struggling for every breath. Slowly, very slowly they turned to face you. Tom’s fringe took an unending length of time to settle. To be able to breathe you had to undo your tie and open the buttons of your shirt.

  Mary’s lips were moving again. You tried to make out what she was saying. She was pointing towards something in the flower-bed; all you were aware of, however, was your breathing as you forced your head down with an appalling slowness to look. Tom and Elise had moved to one side to let you see more clearly.

  There was something in the earth, in the mud, something burrowing, trying to dig itself back into the ground away from the sunlight and the air.

  Tom picked up a trowel and scooped busily at the mud to bring whatever it was back into view.

  You felt you were about to collapse from lack of oxygen.

  Each time the creature was almost exposed, the mud slid back on to it in slow motion. Elise began to help with the digging, then Mary. You no longer had the strength to gasp for another lungful of air – there was none anyway.

  You turned and rushed back to the house – choking, bent almost double.

  The cocktail cabinet was locked and the key missing. Where was it?

  The door was glass-fronted. You could hardly breathe. Inside you could see a large bottle of gin. Your fingers slid across the glass panel; you were on your knees trying to prise open the door. Where was the key?

  There were three bottles: gin, brandy and vodka. Standing behind the clear glass. And no key. You were choking, retching almost.

  A moment later, the gin tasted like liquid oxygen. The pressure lifted immediately and you could breathe again. It was like surfacing; you took deep gulps of air.

  Then you looked round to see Mary come in.

  ‘Oh no, Morris! No!’ she cried out.

  But you were alert now – and backed away from her. She was not going to take the bottle away from you, not yet.

  You took another drink. ‘I was dying out there, dying – do you understand?’

  Mary began to cry.

  ‘I just needed one drink, that was all. I couldn’t breathe.’ You added: ‘It’s all right now.’

  ‘One drink!’ she exclaimed. ‘Morris, you’ve drunk nearly half the bottle. And there’s blood all over your—’

  She started to cry again.

  Half a bottle? No, not quite. But your hands and arms were covered in blood from smashing the glass front of the cocktail cabinet.

  The two accusations had followed her in and were standing at the french windows.

  ‘Mummy will be there in a minute.’ Mary turned to them. ‘Daddy’s cut himself,’ she added. ‘We’re just going to wash it and put on a band-aid.’

  But Elise was already inside the room. She was standing a few feet away – staring at you. Was she too frightened to speak?

  ‘I was thirsty, it was so hot – do you understand?’ you explained to her.

  She kept staring at you. Not a word. You wanted to have another drink – but not while she was watching, not against such silence. But if she turned to go away without saying a word . . .

  ‘Elise,’ you called after her.

  ‘Elise!’ you called louder, but she had already gone.

  You remained staring at the place where she had been while Mary took the bottle from you. Then she led you into the kitchen to run your hand under the tap and wash off the blood. After she had done this she applied some TCP, all the time calling you a silly boy, a proper nuisance. She was brisk but very affectionate. Having examined the cut to check that it was clean, she bandaged it – not too loose, not too tight.

  ‘That should do,’ she said finally. You would have liked to kiss her at that moment, when she lifted up her head. But on the cheek. Were you too ashamed to kiss her on the lips?

  ‘Thank you,’ you managed to say in a clear voice, holding her gaze for as long as you could before having to look away. Was that genuine shame?

  ‘Well,’ she began, then put her hand on your arm so that you looked at her again. She smiled and continued: ‘Well, we’d better pick up that broken glass – we don’t want everyone cutting themselves, do we?’

  She moved towards you and opened her arms. You embraced her, and for several seconds the two of you stood without speaking – your head on her shoulder.

  Ten o’clock. The accusations were in bed, having looked in a medicinal half-bottle earlier to say goodnight to their dad who still felt a bit poorly after cutting himself so badly that afternoon. Tom asked if you’d lost lots of blood, and how much you would have needed to lose to kill you. Did you feel any lighter now? he wondered. Elise touched the back of your hand; you weren’t sure if she did this accidentally or not as she reached over to kiss you. Then she said ‘night-night’ and immediately left the room.

  Mary was downstairs watching TV.

  Tomorrow was biscuit-Monday. You lay in bed watching the moon float slowly past the window, leaving in its wake a trail of weightless stars. You too were utterly weightless: you breathed deeply, the gills were still in good order after their day of rest. You had survived and returned to the ocean where you were born, washed there on a lulling tide of gin. Tomorrow would find you gently brought to shore.

  Until then you could let yourself be carried by the current. A draught from the window made the partly-open curtains sway backwards and forwards to cast a reflection on the ceiling – like sunlight upon water. Lying on your back, you gazed straight ahead and could no longer tell whether you were above the surface looking down on the flowing water, or, as it seemed a moment later, were at a great depth looking up to where light broke against the far wall.

  5

  The alarm clock was ringing. It kept ringing.

  You stopped it and lay there, wide awake. Helplessly and hopelessly wide awake. Monday morning. Mary was still asleep. Seven o’clock. Bright, bright outside.

  Seven-o-two. Okay: up, up, and away. Up, up—

  And dressed.

  Downstairs and into the kitchen. Water on, toast on . . .

  And into the bathroom. Splash on the face, splash in the pan . . .

  And back. The toast gets turned, the pot gets filled, mind the snowman.

  Off with the gas and out with the toast.

  Snowman?

  A snowman. In the middle of the kitchen. Standing perfectly still. He’s looking at you. Smiling.

  Smile back.

  The snowman unfolds his arms and waves. Folds them again and smiles. You’re dreaming. You must be.

  But this is the kitchen, the teapot, the toast and the tea.

  You’re up and dressed and going to work. Majestic’s.

  But there he is.

  He winks.

  You need a drink. No.

  Not that. Must be dreaming. Must be. Try a little test.

  So you taste the toast and try the tea. You pinch yourself – all while the snowman wat
ches.

  And so – on with the radio full blast: the traffic news; seven-seventeen; the weather report, lovely summer’s day.

  The snowman scowls.

  Change to Brahms – the snowman nods and taps his snowy feet in time.

  One final test: you reach out to shake hands.

  But the snowman won’t.

  Of course he won’t! A short and melting introduction that would be!

  Instead—

  You take the kettle and pour boiling water onto the back of your hand.

  And—

  Nothing; nothing. Then pain; pain. Pain.

  ‘Okay,’ you say aloud. ‘This is not a dream; I believe completely that this is not a dream.’

  So either there is a snowman in the kitchen, or you need a drink.

  The kitchen feels warm, doesn’t it? And getting warmer.

  You need a drink. You’re shaking now. Look. A drink. A brandy. It’s either that or snow-madness. And it’s so warm in here.

  A bottle, a glass – and here’s to you, my abominable!

  And nothing. Nothing, while the snowman watches.

  He doesn’t disappear. He watches. The brandy doesn’t hit you. Not hard. Not at all. How hot it’s getting.

  Another brandy, and bigger. To you again.

  Again nothing. The brandy doesn’t hit and you have begun to sweat. The snowman looks, if anything, concerned.

  Another, bigger brandy – and don’t stop until the bottom.

  ‘To you – a vanishing species,’ you suggest.

  This time, if anything, the snowman looks a little hurt.

  The heat’s become unbearable; the sweat’s running into your eyes, your hands. You’re wiping your brow; you’ve opened your shirt. You can hardly breathe – meanwhile the snowman looks on, cool, unmelted.

  Angrier and angrier with every drink now – hotter.

  The bottle’s empty. You’re roasting. You need that snowman. Badly. Near him the cold’s delicious. You need to touch him. You want his icy forehead against yours – you need that snow-coolness.

  You step towards him – closer. Another step. You reach out to touch him; you place your hand hard against him. You press your hand right into him. He begins to melt. You’re wounding him. You stab him again and again. You grab handfuls of snow to rub on your burning face and chest. You’re killing him.

  Suddenly the doorbell rings. You stop for a moment – caught in the act.

  The doorbell is ringing.

  Then you laugh out loud, realising that no one need ever know: there’ll be no evidence. You’ll have nothing to hide! You’ll tear at the snowman until he’s melted into nothing. Let the doorbell ring, you’ll answer it when—

  The alarm was ringing. Monday morning. Mary switched it off and lay back in bed.

  ‘God, do I feel tired!’ she said. ‘Mondays!’

  It was a lovely summer’s morning and you felt terrible. You didn’t answer your wife, but kept still – you had enough to do simply lying there and feeling terrible.

  ‘You’d better get up, Morris,’ she prompted. ‘It’s almost five past, and—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ you interrupted, but not angrily. You weren’t angry.

  ‘Just reminding you.’ Mary turned and kissed you.

  Time to get up. You had to get up. Majestic Monday morning: new Monday clothes for a new week. Another biscuit week. You showered, shaved, got dressed.

  ‘Shall I open the curtains?’ You were standing at the window.

  ‘Might as well,’ answered Mary. ‘It looks sunny outside.’

  And she was right. The sun had already warmed the window-panes – even the wooden frame around the glass felt good to the touch. Outside, the part of the lawn nearest the house was brightly coloured, while the other remained in early morning shadow. The curtain being lifted for the opening scene, you thought to yourself: a summer’s day, a biscuit day, a Majestic day!

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ you said, then went downstairs.

  You entered the kitchen and switched on the radio, filling the room with a Vivaldi concerto—Opus 3, Number 8, for two violins. One of your favourites. It felt very warm, so, after putting on the water and lighting the gas, you opened the back door. The air was fresh and cool. You stood there for a few moments, breathing deeply.

  You returned to the kitchen at the beginning of the slow movement in time to put on the toast.

  You had poured in water to heat the pot and were coming back from emptying it when you remembered the snowman.

  Of course! A snowman in the kitchen! You laughed to yourself and continued making the tea, putting in three teaspoonfuls: one for you, one for Mary and one for the pot.

  That was all very strange, you thought to yourself: it was really hot, and then this snowman . . .

  Suddenly, as you poured the water, you remembered the part about proving it wasn’t a dream. All very strange. You had got up and come into the kitchen as usual, made tea and toast, then the snowman. You’d been making the tea and everything was as real as—

  You stopped for a moment, putting down the kettle although you had not yet filled the pot, and remarked half aloud: ‘As real as this.’ You paused briefly, then glanced around – but of course there was nothing. No snowman. Just the kitchen: the pots, pans, cooker, the table, the chairs, the posters on the wall. Everything as it should be.

  You continued making the tea, pouring the rest of the water into the pot – and then you remembered that in the dream, also, everything had been exactly as it should be. Except for the snowman.

  You placed the lid on the teapot and were beginning to feel a little anxious. Of course, you could always prove that it wasn’t a dream, couldn’t you? By pouring boiling water on the back of your hand, for example.

  There was no need to slam the teapot down on the sideboard. No need to get anxious, it would only make things worse. Your hand was shaking. You didn’t want Mary to see that, not after the previous day’s little disaster with the cocktail cabinet.

  ‘Daddy, the toast’s burning!’ Elise was standing at the cooker watching large flames that had begun coming from the grill-pan underneath.

  Into the sink with it: toast, grill-pan and all. Start again.

  ‘Go and get washed, Elise.’ You needed room – Mary and Tom would be down at any moment.

  ‘But I’ve already washed, Daddy. I’m all ready for breakfast now,’ she declared proudly.

  ‘Well, sit down then.’ But you didn’t mean to be angry. You repeated more gently: ‘Sit down, please, Elise,’ and you smiled at her.

  Having dried the grill-pan, you took fresh bread and tried again. You brought tea, milk, sugar, butter, marmalade; plates, cups, saucers, knives, spoons over to the table and told Elise to sit up straight. The snowman had gone. If you managed to get breakfast right, everything else would follow.

  ‘Daddy, the toast’s burning again.’ Elise was laughing.

  Mary had come into the kitchen. Your hands were shaking. The grill-pan rattled against the cooker as you lifted it out. You could feel sweat breaking out on your brow.

  ‘Morris?’ Mary was standing behind you – ready to be understanding. You would have to turn to look at her.

  ‘Morris?’ She placed her hand on your shoulder; in a moment she would come round to stand beside you. Her hand was warm – and briefly you wished that you were a snowman so that her touch would melt into you, soothing the pain deep inside. The pain that you yourself are unable to reach.

  ‘I’m all right, Mary,’ you turned, and said with a smile: ‘Let’s have breakfast.’

  Tom and Elise were there too, looking at you.

  ‘Division of labour,’ you announced. ‘Tom, put these in the bin,’ indicating the burnt toast. ‘Elise, more bread.’

  The accusations did this.

  ‘Monday mornings, eh?’ you smiled at Mary.

  ‘Maybe if you—?’ she began.

  ‘I’m fine,’ you interrupted firmly in answer to whatever she wa
s going to suggest.

  ‘How’s the toast doing, kids?’ you asked.

  In less than two hours you would be at your office.

  6

  Katherine hadn’t yet been in with the Majestic mail and the diary, so there was still time for a quick glance round your office, round your third-floor mud-trap. Time for a last-minute check to see that everything was in place: the files in their correct order, the pens primed, the pencils sharpened, the calendar at the correct date.

  Across the car park at the loading bay opposite, the men had been working since eight that morning, bringing large boxes on trolleys to fill the lorries. They had begun when you were still eating breakfast, and they’d still be hard at it long after you’d left for home. You earn over five times what they do, plus perks. No one would give you a row or cut your pay for being an hour late, or for choosing to leave an hour early. It makes you feel bad to think of them – yet that morning, like every morning, you devoted a few moments to standing at the window and feeling bad. You realise, of course, that in the same time someone somewhere has probably made a phone call and earned himself ten times your salary – but you are never sure whether that thought makes you feel better or worse.

  You turned from the window to give the room a final once-over.

  Everything was exactly as it should be: the blue door, the light-blue carpet, the executive swivel for you, the padded straight-backs for visitors, the desk-light, the telephone, the multicoloured graphs on one wall, the matching Mondrian on the wall opposite. You crossed the floor to make sure your coat was hanging securely on its peg – you didn’t want it falling down suddenly during an important meeting.

  But it was fine. Everything was fine. Monday morning. A Majestic Monday morning – and you were ready. Quite ready.

  Katherine would be in at any moment. You were ready for her. Ready and waiting.

  She would bring mail needing to be answered, and the diary setting out the rest of the day in intervals of thirty minutes. There would be plenty to do. Plenty to keep you busy.

  The phone rang: ‘Call from Mr Lowestoft, Mr Magellan, on line two.’

  Lowestoft – and it was only just nine-thirty!