Monsters under the bed

The doorbell chimes. Rachel wipes her hands on the tea towel, before slinging it over her shoulder. She shoves the dog into the lounge. Opening the door, she prepares her thanks but no thanks speech. It’s nearly lunchtime, a favourite time for the door to door sellers.

Stood before her, arms outstretched, he emanates the odour of stairwells. He grabs her hands in his, like they are about to break into an Irish jig.

“You look fantastic,” he says.

He lets go and her arms slap against her thighs.

“Hello, Joe.” She coaxes her mouth around the words. “I didn’t know you were in the area?”

“Just passing through.” He nods over her shoulder. “You gonna invite me in?”

He wears a navy polo shirt with a weak and rumpled collar. It clings to his torso, accentuating the concavity of his chest. He stamps his feet and rubs his hands together, which sets her teeth on edge.

He slides into the hall and the dog barks, high and sharp.

Joe shouts; “Uncle Pete,” and lets him out of the lounge.

“His name is Leo,” she says. “You know that.”

He sits on the floor and they wrestle. It brings a lump in her throat.

“Get off me you stupid mutt!” he yells as Leo attempts to mount him. He smacks his soft black nose. Leo yelps.

Her fingers itch to smack him across the face. “You always did get him over-excited.”

He springs to his feet, brushing the dog hairs from his trousers, splattered in stains of indeterminate content and date. She remembers the half bottle of red on the kitchen counter.

“Tea?” she says, turning as the word fades and marching into the kitchen. Grabbing the wine bottle she shoves it in the cereal cupboard, between the Special K and Weetabix.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says.

She busies herself with cups and milk. “Just passing through you say?” She holds the teabag over the mug.

“Thought I might stop for a night or two?”

She lets it go and it sinks into the milk. He stretches onto his toes and brushes the ceiling with slender fingers. His top lifts, revealing his pale stomach. She glimpses red lines like stretch marks.

“So I can stay?”

The words, like her tablets, stick in her throat. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.” She heaps three spoonfuls of sugar into his mug.

“I just like to hear you say it.”

He takes his place at the table. She perches on the chair at the end.

“So how many nights exactly? Only I was planning on going up to Alison’s as it’s half term and usually she’s so busy, what with…”

“It’s stupid that saying about sticks and stones.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Words are the beginning and end of everything.”

She realises too late the cul-de-sac he as led her down.

“Without words, people wouldn’t be able to hate, would they? Without words, religion wouldn’t be able to subjugate, would it?”

“Without words, people wouldn’t be able to love,” she interrupts.

“Love? I don’t believe in love.”

His words cleave her in two. She gets up and pours the water into the mugs. As she carries them over, her hands shake. Tea slops onto the table.

“Mind if I smoke?” He fumbles in his jacket pocket, pulling out a tin.

“I’ll make up the bed in the spare room?”

“You want one?” He pushes the tin towards her and
rolls a thin cigarette.

“We’ve given up.”

He leaves the tin by her arm and extracts a hip flask from his pocket. She recognises it, despite the fact the inscription is rubbed smooth. He tips the liquor into his mug until the rim blurs. She traces the veins that thread across his nose and cheeks to the curve of his ear lobe, blackened wax erupts through the delicate hole. She adds cotton-buds to her mental to do list.

“Do you want a biscuit?” She gets up and rummages in the cupboard. “I think I’ve got your favourites.”

She places the packet on the table. He rolls it back and forth, until she is convinced they have turned to crumbs.

“You still taking those sleeping tablets?” He looks at her, the whites of his eyes like clotted cream.

“No, I stopped those months ago.” She examines her recently manicured fingernails; a present from Alison to make up for Mother’s day.

“You got any left?”

She shakes her head and he drums his fingers on the table, his nails torn and rimmed in dirt. She stretches her fingers towards his, but he draws his hand into his lap.

“I could make you an appointment with my doctor?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah… I suppose, but I’m only here for a couple of nights.”

“I'm sure I can get you an appointment for tomorrow.”

She can’t help herself and reaches out again. He jumps up. The pine chair topples onto its back making her flinch.

“Listen, I’ve got to go out for a bit… you know, business – things are looking up.”

“What things?”

“Just stuff. I’ll tell you later.”

But she knows it’s the same old stuff. “I’ll get your room ready.”

He slopes towards the front door. She waits. He turns back, his once feathery blond hair the consistency and colour of well pawed straw.

“You couldn’t lend me a twenty?” He brings his palms together in mock prayer and grins from under his straggly fringe.

“I’m not sure I’ve got any cash.”

“It’s only a twenty. Please.”

She goes into the hall; his breath is warm and sweet on her neck as she opens her purse.

She hears the therapist accusatory voice. She presses the heel of hand to her forehead and then pulls out the notes. “Is fifteen enough? It’s all I’ve got?”

His arm snakes over her shoulder. “Sound. I’ll pay you back later.”

Quiet preparations soothe the creases from her brow. She places a toothbrush on top of a flannel and towel near the pillow. Going into the bathroom, she returns with a handful of cotton buds and places them on the bedside table by the box of tissues.

She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the backs of her hands. The skin is thin. She presses her fingers into her forehead and feels a new wrinkle forming across her brow.

The doorbell startles her. She runs down the stairs.

“Come for the window money, love,” the lad says, his skin is fresh and pink.

She reaches for her bag. “It'll have to be a cheque, how much?”

The lad bounces down the steps like a tightly coiled spring. Her throat aches. Ignoring the insistence voice of her counsellor, with a son in Cambridge, she grabs her bag and follows him out.

He thuds his forehead on the rippled glass on the front door.

“Just gonna grab a snooze,” he says, his pupils dart up and down, round and around. She is nauseous just watching.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” She walks towards the stairs.

“Didn’t you hear me?” He pushes past her taking the steps two at a time. He swears as he bangs his leg against the bed in the spare room. She goes into the kitchen to start dinner. The onions make her cry and cry and cry.

At five o’clock she opens the door to the spare room, a mug of tea in her hand. Rancid sweetness greets her. He is lying on his belly. Little breaths escape his pink lips and a strand of hair falls across one eye. She places the tea on the bedside table and reaches out to brush it from his face. Her fingers tingle against his skin. She hears the back door latch. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she kisses them and places them on his cheek.

Mark is in the kitchen, his tie loose, top button undone. She presses her body against his. He rubs her back.

“Good day?”

“Joe’s upstairs,” she mumbles into his chest.

He steps away. “How long for?”

“Just a night or two.” She wraps her arms around herself.

“But I thought the therapist said…”

She cuts him off. “I know what the therapist said, but where else is there. Maybe I can talk to him, maybe he’s ready… for…”

Mark shakes his head. “Given him any money yet?”

“No. He’s slept since he got here… I’ve been out and got him some new clothes… he needs me that’s why he came.”

“Are you sure it’s him that needs you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mark holds up his hands. “I can’t get into this… you know my feelings. He turns up and you drop everything… I tell you Rachel this has got to stop or…”

“Or what! You’re as bad as the therapist. You said you understood, you said you’d support me… you said…”

“I said I’d help you, but the thing is Rachel, you don’t help yourself. Don’t start crying, you always start crying when you don’t like what I’m saying.”

“I can’t help it. I’m not doing it to make you feel guilty. Do you think I want this?”

“Here we go again, if I’d done this differently, if I hadn’t ended the marriage, if I’d paid more attention. We could have been living in Hong Kong by now. But no, instead we stay here in his house, waiting...”

“Sshh, he’s coming down. Please, let’s not argue.”

“You’re right, let’s not argue. I’ll be at my mother's.”

“Please Mark… please… I need you.”

The back door slams. Hot tears burn her eyes.

“Mmm, something smells nice.”

She swings round to see Joe, dishevelled and crumpled and her heart tumbles. “Do you want me to run that bath now?”

“Maybe later,” he replies. “Mind if I watch the box?”

“No, go ahead, I’ll bring you a coffee.”

“Sound.”

She hears him. Cupboard doors opening and closing, then the sound of glass against glass. The clock blinks 3.12am on the ceiling, the temperature, 5 degrees. She sits up, easing her legs from under the duvet and tiptoes from the room, not remembering until she is on the landing that Mark is not there for her to return to.

Tobacco laces her nostrils and shadows reach out to grab her ankles as she creeps down the stairs. Joe is sat at the table. He looks up, wide-eyed and blinking, and then lays his head back down on his arms, his vertebrae like a string of pearls. She wraps her arms around his neck, resting her chin by his ear. He does not move and she buries her face into his skin of his neck, searching for the scent of yesterday. She murmurs
inconsequential words into his hair, until her back aches low at its base and she has to straighten.

“Night-night my love,” she says in the doorway. He doesn’t reply.

She calls to Leo and he follows her upstairs.

The alarm drags her from her amnesia. The spare room door is wide open. The toothbrush pokes out from under the bed. The cotton-buds are scattered
over the bed. In the hall, she finds her purse on the floor, its insides pulled out and the ‘worthless’ contents strewn across the tiles. She bends down and retrieves two photos. Pulling back the curtains in the lounge, the harsh light reveals a DVD shaped space next to the television.

She sinks into the armchair and stares at the first image of Alison, wearing her mortarboard and gown, beaming with self-belief and worth. She brings the second photo to the top and stares at his face next to her face, when smiling was easy.

Peas in a pod, you two.

She crumples the photo in her fist and lets it go. It quivers on the floor like a dying moth. She thinks about Mark, about Hong Kong, about how it would be. She bites on the back of her hand, leaving teeth marks in her knuckles. She stands up and tightens the cord of her dressing gown, before stooping to pick up the photo. It has half unfurled. The left side of his face jammed up against the right side of hers.

Peas in a pod, you two.

She thinks about the £250 she placed in her purse, leaving her bag open on the chair at the bottom of the stairs. She remembers the feel of his spine under her fingers, not a string of pearls, but popcorn, easily crushed. There’ll be no grubby toilet stalls tonight. No brutes. No monsters. She remembers how he would make her check under his bed every night, his face tight with fear, until she got down on her hands and knees and looked properly.

She will not go to her counselling appointment today and she will not go to Hong Kong tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that.

The therapist is wrong. They are all wrong. She is not an enabler, she is a mother. Joe’s mother.
And she will always be here to keep the monsters away.