by Paul Finch
For one troubling moment, Phil thought this was the property in which he'd seen the moon's unstable image earlier, like a cadaver's grinning face boasting too many teeth. But maybe that house had been farther up the street.
"Perhaps it was a… reflection, darling," he said, his voice sounding strained and fractious. "There are no leaves on the trees right now, are there? It was probably just… well, just branches moving in the wind. Or something like that."
"It certainly looked thin enough," his wife said, standing from the table for the first time since he'd arrived home. "It was hardly there at all, really."
****
Once he and Beatrice had retired to bed, Phil suffered an unpleasant episode. He tended to get up a few hours after falling asleep, his bladder practising its unhappy habit of reminding him of advancing years, of his swift assault on middle age. This time he'd hurried to the bathroom to unburden his kidneys, the urine smelling like the coolant he'd added to his car: sweet, warm, toxic. After returning to the bedroom, he smiled at the way his wife had earlier connected his physical problem to his mechanical one, but that was when he heard something out in the street.
The neighbourhood wasn't a gated one; if people wished to walk through it, taking shortcuts home from pubs or after a late shift at work, that was fine. But while pushing back one of the curtains, Phil wasn't convinced it was anyone he'd heard moving outside; the sound had seemed too insubstantial. He was reminded of the shadows he'd observed from down in the kitchen earlier, but then looked into the street.
It wasn't motionless: a breeze was sweeping up and down its deserted length. Yes, that had to be true. How else to account for the tree swaying in the garden of the house in which Beatrice thought she'd seen movement while he'd been at the office? There must be a minor problem with his eyes-dried tears on his lids, perhaps-because moments later Phil thought he saw something skeletally pale moving around the tree, using the trunk to conceal what little it had by way of a body. The brief glimpse he'd got of this thing had revealed something made of ragged sticks and with sap-slimed flesh…
But of course he'd merely imagined it, his lack of sleep getting the better of him. Then, letting the curtain fall with dismissive haste, he returned to his sympathetic bed. It was only further compromised perception that had led him to observe no other tree along the street betraying hints of windswept motion.
****
No other troubling episodes occurred during the next few days. Phil continued reorienting himself to his job while Beatrice seemed determined to tackle light household duties, keeping the whole place tidy and tending its rebellious garden.
Near the end of his first working week in months, Phil took off a few hours to visit his doctor, a follow-up appointment after his blood had been taken for testing the previous week. Despite having moved across the city, Phil had kept his previous GP, who knew all about the upheavals he and his wife had suffered. Dr Graham was in his late fifties and possessed a cheerfulness, which always served as a tonic.
Entering the consultancy room, Phil felt apprehensive. Diabetes was hardly a mild disorder; his dad had died from it and the condition could compromise daily life, including diet, physical activities and sleep patterns. If he failed to get his body in good balance, he might experience episodes of fainting or perspiration. His dad had suffered these but had had Phil's mother to help. Who would care for Phil if he required similar support?
"Good to see you again," said Dr Graham, holding out a hand for a shake and then inviting Phil to take a seat near his desk. Ahead of him sat a chunky computer, its screen bearing Phil's medical records. "So how have… things been lately?"
Phil knew the man hadn't referred to his urinary problems. After Phil and his wife had lost their baby, Dr Graham had made sure Beatrice received the best therapeutic care. Phil would always be thankful for that, despite realising that this was simply the guy's job. Clients sometimes offered Phil similar gratitude at the bank, mainly after he'd arranged loans with which they could fulfil all their materialistic aspirations.
He explained that "things were as well as they could be", but was unwilling to go into detail. The fact that something nebulously troubling had crept into his thoughts lately was maybe just a side-effect of returning to work and shouldn't be seriously entertained, especially as it was now time for the doctor to deliver the blood-test results.
"It's good and bad news," he said, reading data off the screen turned away from Phil. "The first thing to say is that you're not suffering from diabetes."
Phil was unaware how much he'd feared the alternative verdict-his mind had been focused exclusively on Beatrice for so long, he hadn't had much time to consider himself-but this was now drawn inexorably to his attention. He exhaled so lengthily his breath stirred a potted plant on the doctor's desk, its many spiny limbs waving.
"Well, that's a relief," he said, thinking how much more effort he could put into caring for his wife, making sure she made a full recovery. "I've been worrying about this a lot, but have… well, have just pushed it to the back of my mind. I mean, that's what you have to do, isn't it?"
When Dr Graham failed to respond, Phil suffered a revival of anxiety, but this time was less reticent about expressing it. Indeed, he'd just recalled that the doctor had mentioned bad news, too.
"Is there a problem, doctor?" Phil hesitated, but only for a moment. "Look, I've been through lots lately. Do I… do I have something worse than diabetes?"
That potted plant swayed again, its small branches reaching out like awkward limbs. But then its owner drew breath to speak again.
"Your tests show that you're suffering what's known as CKD: Chronic Kidney Disease. Now, before you grow too concerned, let me say that it's a very common condition, suffered by about one in ten younger men and by the great majority of those who are older. All this means, Phil, is that you're getting on a bit and need to take care of your body. Your kidneys, basically, show some signs of deterioration, but at this stage that's only minor. It's almost certainly an inherited vulnerability and you can control it by making sensible lifestyle choices: taking exercise, following a healthy diet, and carefully monitoring your medications."
Phil felt bewildered by all this information and found that he could only listen as the doctor reviewed all his prescriptions onscreen. The man suggested that Phil continue using only painkillers to control stress but that the statins he took to combat bad cholesterol (another congenital problem, his late mum responsible for this one) would have to be switched for a milder dosage. Phil nodded, feeling numb all over.
"Don't worry," said Dr Graham, clearly registering his unease. "People are programmed by nature to be resourceful. When one part begins to fail, compensatory mechanisms kick in. In fact, it's truly remarkable how much of ourselves we can live without."
A sudden unpalatable image occurred to Phil, one involving a human body stripped down to only its essential components. While reflecting that a person could have so much removed-gall bladder, appendix, a kidney, a lung, even parts of the brain-and still survive, he rose and thanked Dr Graham, eager to get back to work and deal with something within his sphere of influence: foolish clients seeking credit, maxing themselves out to their bones.
****
Once he'd returned to the office, he called his wife. After his mixed news at the doctor's, he needed to hear Beatrice's voice, experiencing the reassurance it always brought him. It had been this way in the past, particularly when they'd first met in a shopping mall and he'd asked her out to dinner. His parents had just died, one after the other, and he'd felt fragile. His future wife had comforted him simply by being there.
But on this occasion, although he left the phone ringing for several minutes, there was no answer.
That was unusual. Where might Beatrice have gone? She'd been working in the garden, but there was little to do there now. When Phil had returned last night, he'd noticed many beheaded plants and even that the hedge had been trimmed; the lawns were also cut, with no autumnal leaves litter
ing the place. His wife could be obsessive about property-a trait exacerbated by her depression-but in the absence of further tasks, what could be invented?
Invented . He disliked the word in this context. Imagining the unoccupied interiors of houses alongside his own, he gathered all his garments-jacket, gloves, scarf-and then made for the exit, explaining briefly to his manager that there might be "a problem at home." The woman didn't protest, even though she'd yet to discuss with him flexible working options. She was a mother of three healthy young boys and perhaps felt unnecessarily guilty.
****
But there'd been nothing to worry about, after all. When Phil reached home, panting after travelling at speed (such was his haste, he'd forgotten to check his car's coolant level), he found his wife seated as she always seemed to be, up against the kitchen table, smiling broadly.
Months ago he'd assumed this expression was induced by her medication, but he wasn't so sure now. She hadn't boasted any kind of smile lately, even after moving into their new home. While settling into the place, Phil had feared her slipping back into the darkest recesses of depression, and yet this hadn't occurred. She'd been… delicate, he guessed the word was; a major jolt might knock her off course to recovery. But he'd been determined to minimise the chances of that, even if this meant exposing himself to the world's seemingly endless problems.
He'd eventually had no choice but to return to his job and had hoped Beatrice would be strong enough to withstand further upheavals. It appeared as if this period of relative calm had lasted less than a week. Wherever she'd been today, it involved nothing positive; Phil could feel that deep in his bones.
When he finally asked the question, however, she issued only a cheerful response. "I… I just nipped out to the shops. I bought steak for dinner. You like steak, don't you?"
He certainly did, despite what the doctor had warned him about eating fatty foods. But surely one wouldn't do any harm. Besides, that was far from the issue here. Since it had happened, his wife had never been to the shops alone. She'd been too afraid, too wary of suffering another panic attack, which made her body tremble, mimicking the symptoms of an epileptic fit. And so was she finally getting over everything that had happened? Was this the period for which Phil had waited such a long time?
He doubted it. As Beatrice rose from the table and crossed to the kitchen cupboards to remove a pan, he sensed something furtive about her behaviour, as if she'd just told him nothing like the truth. She looked a lot like the way some of his clients did when he asked what their loans were for: a subtle yet perceptible aversion of the eyes, a twist of the lips resembling suppressed unease. She was basically lying, and Phil knew that well. But the most important question was how he should handle this.
He let it pass, however, and when, twenty minutes later, she set a plateful of steak, chips and peas in front of him, his unease retreated. His stomach still raw, all he could do was eat the meal she'd prepared. Then they both moved into the lounge to watch some trivial television, a documentary about the credit crunch in which housing much like all the unoccupied properties near their own was discussed. The country was full of such shunned urban developments, most falling somewhere between the credit capacity of the lower middle-classes and the aesthetic appeal of those more affluent. These had become ghostly neighbourhoods, economic vacuums, each packed full of spent market forces.
"I know banks would lend on them at a stretch," Phil said when it drew close to their usual bedtime. This was an attempt to fill the silence wedged between him and Beatrice. Despite all her problems, they'd always talked together, but now something stood in the way. Although he needed to approach the problem tangentially, he was determined to do so.
But that was when his wife responded.
"Did you get your blood-test results today? How were they?" she asked, without sounding as if she'd just remembered about them. It was as if she'd been waiting specifically for this private moment, but for what reason Phil struggled to imagine.
A sound came from outside but one too quiet to have been made in their garden. Perhaps something-an animal, probably-was at furtive work across the street, digging in the grounds of the property boasting that skeletal tree. But thoughts about bones only switched Phil's mind back to his appointment that afternoon.
He told his wife about his unserious diagnosis and she obviously sympathised, wearing a tender expression he'd thought lost forever. Whatever she'd been up to while he was at work seemed to have changed her, but why, despite the concern she displayed now, didn't Phil believe this was for the better?
When they finally went to bed, he listened to the dark as Beatrice, heavily medicated, drifted into sleep. Later, after he'd visited the toilet a second time that night, she mumbled, "There's just enough of you left for me to befriend." As another sound stirred somewhere across the unseen street's deserted expanse, Phil told himself that his wife was just dreaming, especially after she'd added, "Let's see how much more there is on the little one."
****
Every time he glanced at his office phone the following day, he thought about calling Beatrice at home. On Fridays, his final shift before the weekend break, Phil dealt with his latest applications, approving or declining each one. Here were some frighteningly large requests, five or six digit sums, which would surely take lifetimes to pay off, or maybe longer. During his lunch hour, when Phil enjoyed a salad sandwich and decaffeinated coffee, he imagined borrowing against all his future earnings, maybe even compromising offspring with inherited debt. But who in their right mind would do such a thing? It was so irresponsible.
Maybe he was being melodramatic. But the issue was an emotive one for him, and for his wife. He looked again at his desktop phone, determined not to use it for anything other than business. The truth was that, deep down, he didn't want to know what Beatrice got up to in his absence. It scared him, and he'd been frightened enough lately. But then he remembered his wife's words last night: There's just enough of you left for me to befriend… Let's see how much more there is on the little one… He recalled sounds he'd heard in his neighbourhood, along with half-glimpses of things lurking amid its vegetation, in front gardens and behind trees. His mind churned with irrepressible suspicions, extracting meaning from chaos, and he grew more fearful.
The only way to resolve these concerns was to leave work early, but he didn't want to take liberties with his employer. His manager had been very understanding, and there might come a time-he had to admit this-when flexible working conditions would be more useful than they'd prove now.
He spent the rest of the day examining applicants' statuses, assessing their capacity to repay loans. He struggled not to picture each of them stretched out, flesh barely holding together bones, their internal organs reduced to a minimum. These were unpleasant mental images, and when five p.m. came, he rapidly collected his possessions, wished all his colleagues a good weekend, and then exited to drive off in his car, his head reeling with unrest.
Was his wife visiting tenants of other houses in their street? The question made no sense, but even so Phil asked it several times as he negotiated another traffic-jam packed with impatient drivers. For one foolish moment, he thought he'd spotted only half a person in the vehicle beside him, the driver's face eroded, bone showing through its flesh. But when Phil turned and looked closely, he realised this was merely the moon at work, perched high in the mysterious sky. The man snarled and quickly drove on, presumably headed for a family whose health and security required him to work every day.
Phil had driven only a few miles and had reached a relatively quiet stretch of road when his engine began overheating. What with all his troubling thoughts today, he'd again forgotten to check his coolant level and now the temperature needle was maxed out, while a hissing sound came from under his bonnet.
He pulled into the kerb, sounds from his lips mimicking those of his car. Once he'd switched off the engine, the temperature needle slid back from its dangerous red zone, but his rage refused to
relent.
"You useless piece of shit!" he cried, hardly rationally at all, but what else could he do? He was still several miles from home and couldn't abandon his vehicle. It needed fixing up in advance of work the following week, more expense he was unable to meet, even if he could get a garage to deal with it as soon as the following day.
His troubles mounting, Phil reached across to his glove compartment and produce documents from his breakdown company. Still feeling reluctant to let his wife know about the delay, he removed his phone and summoned assistance from elsewhere.
****
By the time a mobile mechanic arrived in a bulky tow truck rumbling like thunder, Phil had grown faint through lack of food and his desperate need to pee. This was his kidney disorder playing up but was presently the least of his concerns.
Once the mechanic-a short, middle-aged man with thinning hair, a gold ring on his third-left finger, and an ear-stud indicative of a freer youth-had used a torch to inspect the chaos under Phil's bonnet, he delivered his verdict.
"Your radiator's rusted to buggery, mate. It has a hole in it as big as a bollock. Coolant's not getting round the system. Head-gasket's sweating like a pig before breakfast."
But Phil wanted to know only one thing. "Can it be fixed?"
"There's a trick I could try," the man replied, and quickly returned to his van, slid open its side door, scrabbled inside for a while, before finally returning, holding a small tin of liquid.
"Radiator weld, mate. It's a temporary fix, if it works at all. But it might help you reach home and then get a garage to sort it out properly. You're looking at a new rad', really. It's an old car. Original parts failing."
"And… how much is a new one likely to cost?"
The mechanic mentioned a three-figure sum, but also gave Phil a calling card for a "buddy of mine, a good guy" who charged half as much for labour as any backstreet garage. Phil thanked the man, and as they waited for the radiator weld to perform its dubious magic-the guy ran the engine for a while, with the heater blowing hard inside-Phil was regaled with much street wisdom.