The Other Son

by Nick Alexander

  She freezes. Her eyes widen. Her heart begins to race. Because downstairs, someone is opening the front door. Someone is stepping inside. Ken is back, and the letter, the damned letter, is sitting on the kitchen table. How stupid could she be?

  She wipes herself dry and flushes the toilet. She returns downstairs as fast as she possibly can without looking panicked.

  ‘It’s just me,’ Ken says. ‘I forgot my bloody wallet.’

  Alice nods and forces a smile. ‘You’ll forget your head one of these days,’ she says.

  But she knows she’s too late. Because in Ken’s right hand is the letter.

  She imagines various scenarios. She could run over and snatch it and run away. She could distract him by lurching at him for a kiss. That would certainly surprise him! She could pretend to see something, someone in the back garden. She could – and this, she decides, is the best idea of all – feign a fainting spell, or a heart attack.

  But as good as this final idea may be, it has come to her too late. She’s taken too long to think about her options, and she hasn’t taken enough care over her facial expression as she does so. She can see that Ken has noticed something’s wrong. He’s looking suspicious and creasing his brow. He’s following her terrified regard, tracing the treacherous line of her own vision to the letter in his hand. And now, he’s removing his glasses and raising it to his eyes in order to read it.

  ‘So what’s this then?’ Ken asks, his features tightening as he scans the page.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Alice replies, her voice far more trembly than she’d intended. She crosses the kitchen to take the letter from his hand but Ken moves it away from her and turns towards the window.

  ‘Cash card?’ Ken says. ‘Nationwide?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Alice says again. She’s pleased with her voice. That came out sounding far more casual. ‘It’s for a surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I wanted to put some money away for a surprise.’

  ‘What money?’ Ken asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ Alice says. ‘Just small change. You know, left over from the shopping and stuff.’

  ‘My money then?’

  ‘Our money.’

  ‘Since when did we have any dealings with the Nationwide?’ Ken asks, his face reddening. ‘We’re with HSBC.’

  ‘I know. But as I say, it was a secret. For a surprise.’

  ‘You’ve gone and opened your own bank account?’

  ‘Yes, Ken. I’ve gone and opened my own bank account. Now calm down.’

  ‘Without telling me?’

  ‘This isn’t Saudi Arabia,’ Alice says. Ken frowns at her. He doesn’t seem to know what that means. ‘Anyway, it would be hard for it to be a surprise otherwise, wouldn’t it?’ Alice continues, struggling to soften her tone. ‘If I’d told you, I mean.’

  Moving the letter from one hand to the other, Ken shrugs off his wet coat.

  ‘I thought you were going to the bookies,’ Alice comments.

  ‘I was going to the bookies. But that was before I found out my wife’s been sneaking around behind my back opening bank accounts,’ Ken says. ‘Now I’m inclined to stay here and find out what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Ken! There’s nothing going on,’ Alice says. ‘Just go.’ She swipes at her mouth with the sleeve of her dressing gown. She can sense beads of sweat sprouting on her top lip. Her heart is racing and she has a strange high-pitched ringing noise in her ears.

  ‘Now just sit down and tell me exactly what’s been going on here,’ Ken says.

  ‘Nothing’s been going on,’ Alice says again.

  ‘Sit down!’

  ‘No!’ Alice says, her sense of outrage swelling. ‘I don’t want to sit down.’

  ‘Sit the fuck down,’ Ken says, now grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the table.

  But Alice shakes him off. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Kenneth Hodgetts?’ she asks. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘How dare I? How fucking dare I?!’ Ken’s rage is visibly swelling.

  ‘That’s what I said. How dare you.’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting something here, love,’ Ken snarls. ‘You seem to be forgetting who’s the man in this house. And it’s me. I’m the man. I’m the husband. I’m the breadwinner around here. And every penny, every single bloody penny—’

  ‘You’re the man?’ Alice interrupts with laughter in her voice. ‘Do you have any idea how pathetic that sounds?’

  Ken’s hand flies at her, catching the edge of her cheekbone in a hard, heavy, open-handed slap, causing Alice to stagger backwards. She raises one hand to her cheek. She’s shocked. Despite everything that has gone before, she’s stunned. Because she didn’t believe that this could still happen. It’s been years, after all.

  ‘Now bloody sit back down,’ Ken says slowly, spittle spraying from his mouth as he speaks. His face looks swollen, double-sized almost. ‘Sit down and tell me why you’re sneaking around opening bloody bank accounts.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Alice says, shaking her head and wiping fiery tears from her eyes. ‘I won’t sit down. If you want someone who sits to order, get a dog, Ken.’

  Ken steps towards her and slaps her again with his left hand, catching her by surprise. This time the blow collides with the back of her head. Alice staggers sideways and gasps.

  ‘SIT. DOWN!’ Ken orders.

  Alice slowly raises her regard to meet Ken’s. She looks him straight in the eye. Time stretches strangely and during a second that seems to last thirty, Alice finds herself thinking calmly. She feels wise and clear and brave – heroic even.

  This is enough, she thinks. I’m bored with all of this. Let him kill me. Let me die, right here, right now. Let him send me away from all of this. And let the bastard spend the rest of his life in a stinking jail for it.

  They continue to stare crazily at each other like two animals facing off. Alice can see the anger, ever-present in Ken’s regard. But she can see fear and confusion, too. She wonders if they were always there or if it’s a new development.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she tells him quietly, her top lip curling. The F word isn’t one that she’s ever used before, or if she has, she certainly hasn’t used it often. But exceptional circumstances call for exceptional words.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Ken says. He sounds almost amused.

  ‘You heard me,’ Alice says. ‘And you want to know why I opened a bank account? I’ll tell you.’ Some demon is rising within her. Some devil has taken hold of her tongue. She feels strong and angry and reckless, like some famous martyr in history, like Joan of Arc perhaps, riding into hopeless, suicidal battle. ‘Oh yes, I’ll tell you,’ she snarls. ‘Because you’re a bastard. Because I don’t love you. Because I never loved you. That’s why I opened a bank account. I’m leaving you. Just like Dot left that bastard Martin. That’s the surprise I was planning, darling. And you know what—’

  She sees the fist as it forms. She sees the arm as it starts to swing. But unlike every other time, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t cower. She steps into it. She dives into the wave. Kill me, she thinks again ecstatically. Do it! Kill me now.

  Even by the time the punch is over, Alice hasn’t flinched. She raises one hand to her eye. She checks her fingertips – there’s no blood. She licks her lips. She smiles slightly. ‘You see?’ she says. ‘You see what you’re like?’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Ken says. ‘You need to get help.’ He swipes his coat from the back of the chair and stomps from the room. He slams the front door hard enough to make Alice jump.

  I am crazy, she thinks. She feels so unlike any version of Alice she has ever known that craziness is the only logical explanation. She wonders if she is truly possessed.

  Ken will go to the pub now. He will go to the pub and get blind drunk. And then he’ll return and, if she’s contrite, he’ll apologise. But she’s not feeling contrite. So she needs to not be around when he returns.

  The vision in her left eye is bl
urred. She probes the area with her fingertips in an attempt at measuring the extent of the damage. She moves to the hallway and looks at herself in the mirror. Her cheek is red from the slap and she’s going to have a classic boxer’s black eye. But surprisingly, she’s not dead. Surprisingly, the damage isn’t even that bad. She’s certainly known worse. Perhaps Ken’s getting old. Perhaps Joan threw him off his stride.

  She glances at her wristwatch. She has two hours before he returns, maybe three. She’ll be fine. She’ll do what Dot suggested and write a big cheque to herself from the joint account. She’ll pack a bag and she’ll leave. Finally, yes, she’ll leave. And she’ll be fine.

  She heads to the freezer for frozen peas to calm the swelling, but then changes her mind and closes it again. Let her eye swell. Let Timothy see what his father has done. She’s done sparing everyone’s feelings. And she’ll be needing his support, after all.

  She crosses to the kitchen drawer to look for the chequebook, but it’s not there. She checks Ken’s office. She checks the bowl of random things in the lounge. Damn! He must have taken it with him.

  She finds her purse and verifies that she still has her Visa card. She wonders if Ken can put a stop on it. She wonders how much cash she can take out in one go.

  So is she really doing this then? The idea seems absurd. The adrenalin of the moment is already fading, her certainty leaking away like so many times before.

  In ten minutes she’ll be crying. In twenty, she will have taken to her bed. And by this time next week, she’ll have forgiven him. She pushed him to it after all, didn’t she? She goaded him, knowing exactly what was going to happen, didn’t she? She leant into the punch.

  You see? It’s already happening.

  Alice sinks on to a dining chair and raises one trembling hand to her lip. Joan of Arc has deserted her, taking all of her certainty with her. Her body shudders. She can taste salt. She has started, she realises, to weep.

  She cries for ten minutes, maybe even a quarter of an hour. The sobs come in unpredictable waves and every time she thinks it’s over with, every time she starts to wonder what comes next, another wave rolls in. Because that thought, of what comes next, fills her with a void, with a sense of utter hopelessness.

  And then finally, thankfully, it’s over. All is calm. She feels cried out. She feels tired, as tired as she has ever felt. And her eye hurts. It hurts a lot.

  Her phone rings so she slides it towards her and peers at the screen. It’s Dot calling.

  Alice had forgotten. She was supposed to call her back last night. ‘Hello?’ she says. She’s not quite sure why she’s answering. Perhaps to share some of the blame with Dot. This is partly her fault, after all.

  ‘Hello!’ Dot says brightly. ‘I’m bored to death with this bloody rain! I wondered if you fancy a film this aft’.’

  So surreal is Dot’s enthusiasm that Alice struggles to think how to reply.

  ‘Alice?’ Dot says. ‘Alice? Are you there? Damned phones.’

  Alice clears her throat. ‘I can’t come.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘No, I’m . . . I’m busy.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘OK,’ Dot says. ‘Go tell that to someone who doesn’t know you. You’re upset about something so tell me what. Is it me? Have I said something?’

  Alice swallows with difficulty. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell Dot, it’s just that she’s struggling to find the energy required to even begin to explain any of it.

  ‘Alice!’ Dot says. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alice says. ‘Ken found out. About the account. That’s all. They sent a letter.’

  ‘He found out?!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. What did he say?’

  ‘I . . .’ Alice’s voice starts to wobble. ‘I’m feeling very confused right now, so perhaps we can talk later?’ Her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

  ‘Is he there?’ Dot asks.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is Ken there?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to the pub.’

  ‘You should come here then.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming there then.’

  ‘No, don’t.’

  ‘I’m coming over,’ Dot says. ‘I’ll get a minicab. I’ll be half an hour, OK? Don’t move.’ The line goes dead.

  Alice phones Dot back twice. She sends her a text too. She tells her not to come. She warns her that Ken will be back soon. But she knows Dot well enough to know that she’s coming, and that nothing can stop her coming. And she’s glad. She needs a friend right now. She needs someone to tell her what to do. The only trouble is that she knows what Dot will say and she doesn’t think that it will be the right advice. And even if it were, she doesn’t have the courage to follow it.

  After fifteen minutes, Dot’s imminent arrival shakes her from her stupor. Pausing to look in the mirror (Mike Tyson looks back out at her) she climbs the stairs to the bathroom. She showers and painfully applies make-up, then dresses and pulls her old sunglasses from a chest of drawers. Looking at herself in the mirror she thinks, a little obtusely, of Jackie Onassis. When she was younger she used to convince herself that the sunglasses hid everything. She used to tell herself that they made her look like Jackie O. But at sixty-nine on a rainy May day, the only thing they look is silly.

  I’ll just open the door a crack and send her away, she tells herself. But even as she thinks this, she’s imagining Dot saying, ‘Oh my God! Did he do this? Has he hit you?’ And she knows that she won’t send her away. She knows that she’ll collapse instead into Dot’s arms. She’ll fold into a fresh bout of tears.

  Alice stares at her mug of tea. She watches the steam rising from it, then raises her head and looks out of Dot’s window at the rain, gentler than before, but still falling. She’s avoiding Dot’s concerned, questioning regard. Her friend is waiting for her to say something profound, something definitive about the situation. She can sense this without looking at her. But her mind is a complete blank so she stares at her tea instead.

  At her feet, on Dot’s woolly rug, sits her hastily packed bag. So unable was Alice to think about what she might need for whatever comes next that the contents of the bag are, she knows, almost useless. But Dot had insisted, so, through tears, she had thrown random things into the bag. She sips at her tea and clears her throat, and this is apparently a mistake, because Dot takes it as a sign that she’s ready to speak. She isn’t.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Dot asks predictably.

  Alice shakes her head. The spirit of Joan of Arc is a mere memory. She’s just another bashed-up housewife now.

  ‘OK . . .’ Dot says slowly. ‘Then do you want to know what I think you should do?’

  Alice half-shrugs but still doesn’t look up. She’s feeling ashamed. She should be more like Dot, she thinks. She should have a plan all worked out. She should have a flat and money and the gumption to build a new life for herself, but instead she’s just a woman on a sofa with a mug of tea, a badly packed bag and a black eye.

  ‘We need to go to the bank and get you some money out,’ Dot says. ‘That’s the first thing. As much as we can.’

  Alice snorts. Dot’s advice is based on the assumption that Alice isn’t going to go back and she has never been less sure of anything. Fifty years feels like an eternity. After fifty years it’s impossible, it seems, to imagine anything different. But she’s too ashamed to tell Dot that.

  ‘And then we need to go to the police,’ Dot says.

  Finally Alice looks up. She pulls a face, and the process of pulling it hurts her swollen eye, causing her to flutter one eyelid behind her sunglasses. ‘I’m not going to the police, Dot,’ she says, imagining just how tooth-numbingly embarrassed that would make her feel.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Dot asks. ‘He punched you in the face, for God’s sake.’

  Alice shrugs again and pushes her sun
glasses a little further up her nose.

  ‘No, come on,’ Dot says. ‘Tell me why on earth you wouldn’t go to the police.’

  Alice clears her throat again. ‘Because this isn’t a sitcom,’ she whispers. ‘Because this is my life, not some Channel 4 documentary.’

  ‘That makes no sense and you know it,’ Dot says. But Alice doesn’t know it at all. It makes perfect, albeit inexplicable, sense to her.

  Dot gasps with frustration and runs one hand through her hair. She still has lovely hair, Dot has. ‘OK. We can think about it later. In the meantime, let’s at least deal with the money thing. Whatever happens next, you’ll need money. So we need to get you some money from the bank. Ken could lock you out of the joint account at any moment. He could transfer all of the money to a different account. So you need to get there first.’

  ‘Stop,’ Alice says. ‘Please. Just stop.’

  ‘Look, I understand that you’re not thinking all that clearly . . .’

  ‘Stop, Dot,’ Alice says again.

  But still Dot continues. ‘You have to trust me on this one thing, Alice. Money is everything.’

  ‘Money is nothing,’ Alice replies.

  ‘You won’t be saying that in a week when you’re penniless, living under a bridge,’ Dot tells her. ‘Let me take you to the bank.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Dot! I don’t want to think about money. And I don’t want to go to the bank.’

  Dot looks exasperated. ‘Why the hell not? Is it your face?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice says, simply because it’s easier than trying to explain to Dot, trying to explain to herself even, why she doesn’t want to go to the bank. ‘Yes. It’s my face.’

  ‘All right,’ Dot says hesitantly. ‘OK . . . um. Then give me your card then. I’ll go.’

  And again, because it’s easier than fighting, because giving Dot her card and her PIN code means that she gets a break, alone, Alice gives in. ‘It’s two-two-seven-three,’ she says as she hands over the card. ‘And don’t take too much. I don’t want Ken calling the police.’

  During Dot’s absence, Alice lies on her back on Dot’s sofa. She stares at the ceiling and listens to the refrigerator clicking on and off, to the neighbour upstairs walking around. She doesn’t think about what’s next, and she doesn’t think about what happened. She’s numb, but that numbness feels comfortable. And didn’t Matt once like a song about being comfortably numb? It was by Pink Floyd, she thinks. She can almost remember the tune.