Surface Tension - Chapter 23

Chapter 23

I'm grateful for the bed. It's soft. It engulfs me in a way mine in the flat didn't. It feels safe, a place to hunker down in. I'm lying here, dog tired but wide awake staring at the thick, dark night.  I've not drawn the curtains. It's so dark you don't need to; no street lights here. I'm watching clouds scud by, translucent apparitions in the night sky set against stars gradually being revealed; golden nuggets sparkling in the deepest of mines. 

            My only course was to leave, to get out, run, flee. Dress it up however you like it always came to the same point.  I was finished back there. Job gone. What else was there?

            Bill?

            I pushed that thought away.

            I didn't have any idea of where to go when I walked out of the flat. I got in the car and went. Just pointed the car and drove.  Richard and Josie were surprised when I turned up on the door step after 10 pm but they welcomed me in without too many questions. I blathered on about getting the invite wrong, lying that I'd go and find a B&B but they insisted and it was easy to slip in and head to bed, as they were doing so, with glib platitudes about the weekend to come.  I took the triple whiskey Richard offered, I needed it, maybe even deserved it and then made my excuses. 

            Part of it feels remote, distant a process on a computer running in the background. But pause and think and it’s there, red-raw.

We’d driven back to my flat in silence, there was nothing left to say.  Then, wordlessly, we’d arrived at my front door. I’m not sure why we ended up there. I was on autopilot still digesting my decision; spinning it round turning it over, flipping between the excitement of a decision made and the fear that it was all wrong, but knowing that there was no going back.

            Bill? I don’t know, but she didn’t indicate that she wanted to duck out. Penance? Worry? Regret? Maybe she wanted to see me home safe, make sure I didn’t do something stupid.

            Anyway we arrived at my front door, together apart; me wondering what to say; invite her in – coffee? Or was this goodbye.

            The door was ajar. Bill looked at me askance; it was the first look since we’d last spoken which had some warmth. I’d shrugged - no this wasn’t me, I’d not left the door open. I laid my left palm tentatively on the door as if it might burn and pushed. It swung and stuck only a quarter open. I pushed again, nothing and then leant into it. There was a crunch and it lurched forward allowing me to squeeze into the hall. Bill said something, can’t remember what. I cleared the broken chair that had been behind the door and Bill stepped through.

            Outside of films, books, TV and those adverts for house insurance where they’ve got a kindly voice at the end of a phone I’ve never seen a place trashed. But that’s what had happened to my flat. Lounge – chair driven through my TV, cushions on sofa slashed, its foamy guts spilling out. Kitchen – cupboards emptied with doors pulled off, crockery etc. smashed. Study – lap top had been disembowelled, books torn from shelves, paper was smouldering in the bin, small miracle it hadn’t taken hold. Bedroom curtains slashed, wardrobe emptied. Someone seemed to have urinated over the piles of clothes and my bed.

            The memory jerks me out of bed, two strides and I’m at the window.   Low clouds have come in, masking the stars.  The snow covered field change as the light shifts; dull and flat in the shadow but when the clouds break the moonlight momentarily makes them iridescent.

            I’m dog-tired but wide awake. I lever the window open enjoying the blast of cold air that rushes into the room. It’s so quiet.

            I’m back in flat, Bill at my side. The chilled air makes shiver and my skin goes all goose bumps, or is that the memory of her caress on my arm? Her hand slides down until her fingers entwine and lock tight with mine. I see again the alarm in her eyes as we moved from room to room, a little ball of mascara clinging to her eyelashes, the way she looked up questioningly.

             Things are said, muttered. I can’t remember any of them. All there is, is the actions; the hurried packing of a bag, searching to retrieve random things in the detritus of what used to by my personal possessions.

            The knock at the door echoes.

Now, I know it was stupid to be afraid.  What thug courteously knocks having trashed your place?  But there, then, at that point in time there was fear; crisp, hard jagged and nauseating fear.

An owl hoots and then wafts pass the window. Now, it’s easy to see the pieces. The message was clear, as if I didn't get it already. See this destruction? Well imagine if it was human flesh, my flesh: give up the money or next time...

            I’m back creeping down the hall brandishing a broken chair leg. The knock comes again and slowly the door begins to swing open until it sticks on the broken chair. I see an overcoat, one black brogue and at that moment the fear goes. In that instant any doubt was gone. I was leaving and taking the money with me, a down payment and recompense for all that I had lost.

             A gust of wind blows the curtains. They lash against my numb skin. The cold reassures me. I know I’m right.

I’m in the hall again pausing halfway to the door when I had the moment of clarity. Something shifts behind me and I turn.

It’s Bill, of course it’s Bill.

 She's transfixed, wide-eyed and beautiful. She’s stepped into the hall, staring past me to the person at the door. Her mouth is slightly open and there's lightness about her.  Her right hand holds her stomach, fingers splayed, as if she is fearful of being sick.  Her left hand is over her face. It journeys round, sliding over her mouth, touching her nose until it brushes the hair that had fallen forward away. As she does this the light catches her wedding ring. She grasps the lock of hair, twisting and turning it.  I can see the tension in her hands, each strand of hair as it is pulled, the reflected light in her eye. 

I’m at the door, dragging it open, backing away as it swings. For a moment I'm hidden behind it.  I can't see person on the threshold but as twist I catch Bill and her excitement and anticipation.

            For a moment I think it’s meant for me. For one misplaced moment.

            Somehow, McClelland must’ve worked it out, found the link.  Maybe he'd finally placed Bill at the funeral and from there realised the link to me.  Outside the house he'd not paid attention to Bill, the focus was me.  But maybe in retracing things in his search for the money he'd found her as a link, a way of connecting worlds.  Physical violence maybe his normal modus operandi but whose to say he couldn’t act with more subtlety. Then there was the fitness club. They'd have produced our membership details and it would be obvious. 

Somehow McClelland had  made the link. He knew sending this lackey as a messenger would carry as much weight and power as the words that he was to deliver.  That maybe in doing so he'd divide and conquer , forcing home the point that he, McClelland, had taken my, made me unemployable, destroyed my home and now, well, he’d take away what  was left. 

            The messenger's words were simple, a repetition of all that had been said before but without McClelland's menace. 

            It made me angry.  It made me want to fight.  Wordlessly I'd gone to get ready to leave.  Bill had come; I could see that she was distracted, not sure where she should be.  She was hesitant, then restless. I blurted something, as much to dismiss her and absolve her of responsibility. Then I was out the door, down the stairs, holdall in hand, duffle bag over my shoulder. 

            One part of me ached. I wanted to look back, to see her there, wanted to hear he feet behind me on the stairs, wanted to her voice calling me back.

            All I got was a hurried glimpse from the window as I clambered into the car.  I flicked a look up and there she was watching. She caught my glance retreating from the window into the darkness.

            The messenger was Jonah.