by Mark Dawson
I open the cupboard to verify this information; the luxurious smell of fresh bread reaches my nostrils, reminding me of how hungry I am. Three different types of bread from the bakery up on the main road have been neatly stacked on the shelves.
I take down a round bloomer and unwrap it from its brown paper bag. Tearing off a chunk, I bite in; the white bread inside the golden crust is still light and fluffy. I butter several slices and daub them with set honey from a jar that Brian has added to my provisions.
SHOPPING
I step outside. The snow has started to turn into grey viscous slush, sludging into the gutters and disappearing down the silted drains into the city’s sewers. Rain is falling.
I visit Safeway to pick up the ingredients for the recipe I plan to cook tonight. I’m surprised to find that I’m feeling almost optimistic about the evening. Maybe Hannah wants a reconciliation? Perhaps she’s missing me?
I’d change my plans if she asked me to stay.
I squeeze a plump red pepper and pop it into my basket.
I decide on something Italian, and drop in a courgette, an onion, a bulb of garlic and some durum wheat pasta. Two bottles of wine, one white and one red, complete my requirements. As I approach the check-out I remember that I’m out of booze and drop in a selection of bottles.
Brian is still not home when I return. The door to the spare room is shut and I put my ear to it to make sure it’s empty. I can’t hear a thing.
I take out the postcard from the Skin Trade publicity pack and lay it on the dining table. Hannah stares out at the camera, an enigmatic half-smile playing on her lips. I pour out a whisky and drink a toast.
To second chances. New beginnings.
WHERE DID OUR LOVE GO?
By the time 8 p.m, comes around and the doorbell rings I’m feeling very nervous. I open the door, half-expecting it to be Brian.
Blood floods my cheeks as I smile shyly at my beautiful ex-girlfriend.
Hannah is wearing a long dress, very glamorous, like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Dark glasses obscure her eyes. Expensive-looking jewellery I’ve never seen before is around her wrists and neck. She’s gone to a lot of trouble.
Things look promising.
I can’t help saying, ‘You look gorgeous.’
I open the door wider for her to come inside. I then say, ‘It’s great to see you.’
She doesn’t come inside. She stands there, glaring at me from behind her shades.
‘Come on, come in,’ I encourage. ‘I don’t bite.’
She grimaces. She takes off her shades; her eyes are like flints. A certain warning that she’s angry. I’m going to have to try harder.
‘I’ll make this quick,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be.’
‘Come on, come inside.’
She pauses and looks at me questioningly. ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asks.
‘Just a little,’ I admit. ‘Just while I was cooking.’
I got through half a bottle of JD but I’m not going to admit to that.
She wrinkles her nose, a familiar habit I always used to find cute. A frown creases her brow but she smoothes it away. She looks resolute.
‘I want you to stop pestering us.’
‘What?’
‘Me and Vincent. I know what you’ve been doing - and it’s very immature of you.’
‘You… and… Vincent?’
‘Yes, me and Vincent. You know. My fiancé.’
I’m suddenly breathless. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve been ringing my agent and trying to get in touch with me. And you’ve been ringing my friends, too - Karla told me about it.’
‘I wanted to speak to you and it was-’
‘And now Vincent’s told me you’ve been bothering him. Chasing him outside the hotel, trying to intimidate him. That’s harassment, Daniel.’
‘Come in,’ I plead. ‘Let’s talk about this over a glass of wine.’
‘I’m not coming in, Daniel. I’m not staying. I’m just here to warn you. If you don’t stop bothering us I’m going to report you to the police.’
I desperately try to change the subject. ‘But what about dinner? I’m ready to dish up. It’s my specialty-’
‘Stay away from us, Daniel.’
‘-spag bol.’
‘I’m only going to tell you that once. If you bother either of us again - either of us, or any of my friends I’m going to report you to the police. I mean it.’
‘I only want to talk to you.’ I’m half-wailing now.
‘Do I make myself clear?’ she says sternly. ‘I’m serious.’
‘Hannah, please-’
‘That’s it. I’ve said what I wanted to say.’
I change tactics, taking a deep breath until my composure returns. ‘OK. Just give me five minutes, that’s all. Come in for five minutes and let me talk to you and then I promise - I swear - I’ll never bother either of you again.’
Hannah looks over her shoulder and down into the dark of the stairwell. A flicker of uncertainty.
‘Come on, you owe me at least that. I’m not asking you to stay. Hear me out and then that’s it.’
I open the door wider and stand aside. With another uncertain look over her shoulder, she grimaces and steps inside.
‘Five minutes,’ she warns, ‘and no longer.’
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
An uncomfortable pause that I avoid by quickly dashing into the kitchen and pouring myself a large whisky. I finish half in one long drag and then refresh my glass. When I return to the living room, Hannah is fingering a frame on the mantelpiece. The picture is one of us in Ibiza, both coming down from whatever drug we’d been taking, a warm pink dawn breaking over the island. Another partygoer took the picture for us; it’s off-centre and slightly blurred.
‘Remember that?’ I ask her.
An almost wistful look melts her stern glare away. ‘Just before you jumped into the harbour, wasn’t it?’ she says. ‘You didn’t know the water was going to be so cold. I can still see your face.’
‘I’ve got a picture of it somewhere. After they pulled me out.’
‘Remember the night with the Ecstasy?’ she says.
As she smiles sadly at the memory, I realize that she must have already been seeing Haines by then. I remember her sadness after we had sex that time. She had suggested the holiday; perhaps it was her giving us one last chance.
I close my eyes and try to forget it.
‘Look - are you sure I can’t get you a drink?’
‘No,’ she says again, although the hostility has gone. ‘I’m not going to stop. But thanks anyway.’
Nelson, who has been asleep on my bed, walks into the room.
‘Nelson!’ Hannah exclaims happily.
She takes a step towards him. Nelson arches his back and takes a sudden backwards step. He peers out from behind my ankles.
‘He’s probably nervous,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t seen you for ages.’
The cat walks carefully to his water bowl.
‘Where’s he tonight?’ I continue.
‘Who?’
‘Loverboy.’
‘This isn’t about Vincent. We’re not talking about him.’
‘It’s just every time I see you on TV with him-’
‘Daniel, don’t.’
‘Do you trust him? He seems so, I don’t know, so… flirtatious.’
She tells me, with firm resolve, that, ‘We’re not talking about me and Vincent, Daniel.’
‘I miss you so much.’
She smiles a melancholy smile. ‘You’ll get over me. You’ve still got your work.’
This last sentence is delivered with mild, gentle resentment. I recognize, at last, the reason why Hannah walked out: my fucking job. Ever since I took on Brian’s case, I’ve b
een devoted to it; it was the chance I’d been waiting for to make my reputation. I’ve worked long hours, at weekends, cancelled holidays, made every sacrifice necessary to ensure the case got my full attention. Did Hannah, sidelined by my feverish activity, see a future with me where I was married to my job and not to her? I realize, too late, how stupid I’ve been.
There’s an uncomfortable pause before I say what I have to say. There seems no other way to do this, so I just start talking. I tell her how empty and cold the flat is without her in it. I tell her that I’m sorry that we’ve broken up and how I’d do anything to have her back again. I tell her I’ve missed her, again. I tell her I can’t stop thinking about her, that every time she’s on the television is another small torture. I tell her I’m jealous of Vincent Haines, and even though I know bugging him is immature I didn’t know what else to do. I tell her again that I want her back. I tell her that I’d try harder. That I’d pay her more attention. That I wouldn’t be so selfish or obsessed with work. That I’ll make the effort.
When I’m finished she can’t bring herself to look at me.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘That’s that.’
When she turns back, her eyes have a slick, glassy appearance. ‘I’m sorry we broke up, too,’ she says. ‘And I’ve missed you as well. It’s just. .. God, Daniel, it’s just that things are much more complicated now. You can’t just rewind to how it was before.’
‘Why not?’ I press. ‘Finish with Vincent. Come back to me. Give me another chance? I’ll try harder.’
‘It’s not as easy as that,’ she wistfully half-smiles.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just, you can’t just-’
‘I want you back.’
‘No, you don’t.’
I take a deep breath. Time for the last shot in my locker.
‘What if I said I’d quit my job? Get something with more reasonable hours?’
‘Daniel-’
‘And what if I said I wanted you to marry me?’
‘Daniel, I-’
Hannah looks down at her feet. There’s another, heavier pause. Offering to change jobs is an easy concession to make, given the circumstances, but I can see the gesture has had the right effect. She frowns. Something drops to the floor in the spare room but I hardly hear it. She reaches up a hand to brush away a gemlike tear. She looks beautiful. I’d forgotten how beautiful she really is. The television doesn’t do her justice at all. She bites her bottom lip to stop it quivering.
AN UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION
As I’m thinking of what I should say next, wondering whether I could get away with sitting next to her on the sofa and taking her hand, the door of the spare room opens. I start to work out how I’m going to introduce Brian to Hannah.
Only it isn’t Brian.
The door opens outwards so my view of the person behind it is obscured. But Hannah has a direct view. And I have a direct view of her. And so I’m able to watch her face as it slowly dissolves and transforms. As it breaks up. The softness there the moment before fades, hardens - and fierce anger settles across it like a dark cloud.
‘You bastard,’ she says tonelessly.
I don’t have time to ask her what she means. The door opens fully and Lisa, Brian’s groupie from the club, wearing the red cashmere dressing gown that Hannah bought me last Christmas, walks out into the lounge. The dressing gown is only loosely tied together around the waist, and a wide slash opens downwards, half exposing large breasts, brown skin and a tattoo of a kingfisher above her navel. Her hair is mussed up and, as she saunters towards me, she tousles it with a long fingered hand. Her eyes are only half-open; she looks like she’s just woken up.
‘You bastard,’ Hannah repeats, but with more heat this time.
‘No, no, no,’ I falter, frantic. ‘Ohmigod. This isn’t what it looks like.’
‘Is that right?’
She’s on her feet, wrapping her coat more tightly around her.
A thought breeds in the panic - maybe if I changed the subject, appealed to her vanity? I know it’s irrational, and probably even a little freaky, but I’m desperate, and ready to try anything. I go into the kitchen and fetch the postcard of Hannah from the Skin Trade publicity pack.
‘What time is it?’ yawns Lisa, before trailing off.
‘I don’t even know who she is,’ I say, pointing. When I realize how crazy this sounds - professing not to know the buxom chick naked except for my dressing gown - I clarify, adding, ‘No, she’s a friend of a friend. I’ve got someone else living with me at the moment. A friend, OK? She must be with him - not me.’
‘Just fuck off,’ Hannah spits, jutting her chin in my direction. ‘Save your breath for someone who cares.’
‘It’s Brian Fey. He’s been staying here with me. She’s a friend of his.’
Her jaw drops in stupefaction. ‘Brian Fey?’ she exclaims incredulously. ‘Oh, please, what do you take me for? You’re out of your mind.’
I take her wrist in my hand. She jerks it away, disgusted. She pauses at the threshold. ‘All those things you just said - I almost believed you were being sincere. But you don’t even know what sincerity is. After everything you put me through, everything, I can’t believe I’m still crazy enough to fall for your stupid lies.’
My temper snaps. ‘Everything I’ve put you through? You? What about what you’ve done to me?’
‘What were you hoping for? A nice little ménage a fucking trois? ‘ Hannah turns to address Lisa. ‘Listen, sweetheart - a word of advice. Don’t believe a word he says. He’s completely full of shit.’
‘Just listen to me for a minute,’ I bellow at her, totally losing my cool. ‘Just listen.’
‘No, not any more. I’ve had enough of listening to you.’
Lisa is standing between us, gaping at me. ‘Hey… you,’ she says, the dopey pause between the two words confirming that she has absolutely no idea who I am.
‘Just listen-’
‘So, like, what’s going on?’ Lisa asks dreamily. She’s gazing absently around the room with no idea where she is.
‘Will you just shut up,’ I yell at her.
Hannah steps outside. ‘Bye, Daniel.’ She puts her shades back on again.
‘No. Don’t go. Please-’
‘Oh - in case it isn’t obvious - I never want to see you again.’
As Hannah turns to go I spot a figure lurking in the shadows at the bottom of the stairwell. Another pair of shades glints darkly up at me in the artificial light. As he takes a step forwards, Vincent Haines’s face is briefly lit.
‘You bastard!’ I roar at him, setting off down the stairs. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
The door to the flat starts to close after me. My keys are inside. I pause uncertainly - caught between propping the door open and following Hannah downstairs - and I wait long enough for them both to get outside the front door. While I hover, undecided, the door to the flat shuts anyway. I ignore it; for now I want to stop Hannah or attack Haines, I’m not sure quite which.
‘Wait,’ I call out as I scamper down the stairs after them.
‘Leave us alone!’ she barks out; they’re onto the pavement now and heading off towards the main road. A car parked twenty yards away starts up’, pop-up lights rising out of the bonnet and flashing on.
I’m suddenly overcome with anger. I’m being treated shabbily. This is unfair. Diplomacy seems less urgent now.
‘Starfucker!’ I shout out.
‘Fuck you!’ she turns and yells back at me. Haines takes her by the elbow and tugs her backwards, faster, towards the car as it rolls forward to meet them. I can hear Hannah’s high heels clacking on a patch of pavement treated with salt. The remaining snow and ice numbs my feet through my shoes as I skid out onto the path.
There’s a sudden flash from the inside of a car parked up beside me. As I swing around to face it, there comes another. The driver’s door opens into the road and a silhouetted figure gets out.
‘Daniel,’ says
Scott Dolan, shooting off another snap of me. ‘What’s this all about?’
I stumble. A light flicks on in the bedroom of one of the houses opposite. But it’s much too late to worry about upsetting the neighbours.
THE FAN HITS THE SHIT
Hannah and Haines get into the waiting car and slam their doors shut. As it rolls forwards towards me I notice the driver. It’s Rip. The car slows as it reaches me, and the passenger window slides down.
Haines leans out and says to me, ‘You should get a life or something. You’re a disgrace.’
As I lunge at him, he bangs his head on the roof of the car trying to get out of my way, then my clawed hands fasten around his neck. I tighten my grip and squeeze. I’m half in the window, half out of it, and being dragged along in the gutter.
‘You don’t love her,’ I shout. Dolan’s flash lights up again and again.
‘Get out of here!’ Haines chokes, dislodging one of my hands.
Rip hits the gas and the car bucks away. I flail at the handle with my spare hand and the door opens as I grab and pull against it. Haines didn’t shut it properly. With my free hand tugging at his neck, all of his weight is being pulled against the door, as it opens, he loses his balance and tumbles out on top of me. Rip stands on the brakes; the wheels lock and skid. I lose my grip on the handle and both of us slide along the icy road, legs and arms entangled, the car slowing down beside us. Haines struggles hard and breaks free of me, his momentum causing him to glide away. As I slither to a stop against a lamppost, I watch with sick fascination as his slow spinning drags one of his legs underneath the car, between the front and back wheels. The car, slowed almost to a standstill now, keeps creeping forward. The rear wheel rolls leisurely onto and over Haines’s trailing right leg.
I’ve never heard the sound of a gun being fired in real life, but the sharp crack his leg makes as it snaps must be similar. The car finally stops with the rear wheel half resting on his leg. Haines screams.
Somewhere, behind us, a camera flashes. Haines screams again.
I scramble to my feet and take half a step towards him.