by J. P. Pomare
I met Cain before dating apps were a thing, so when I downloaded the app and started swiping, I was shocked by some of the messages I received. Strangers online can be so forward; they move in quick and are entirely comfortable shifting the conversation to the explicit. There was a grey-haired man whose first message to me was a photo of his modestly sized penis. Daniel was the only one I chatted to who didn’t send through explicit pictures, or ask if I did anal, or message me at 3 am on Saturday to ask if I was awake, as though I might be some genie who he could conjure up for pre-dawn sex.
‘I didn’t realise you were so young,’ I say now. ‘I feel like a cougar.’
‘I’m not so young.’
‘Twenty-five?’
‘Older.’
‘Twenty-six?’
‘Twenty-nine,’ he lies.
We chat, it’s earnest and, in a way, disarming. He admits to being a bit of a ‘closet gamer’ and spends a lot of time online when he’s not gaming. I think about the profile of the Tinder Strangler who suffocated his date at his apartment in Wellington – he spent a lot of time gaming, meeting other toxic men in online fitness forums where he discussed his conquests. I shake all negative thoughts from my head like a dog shaking water off. Daniel is different, I have control over the situation. I wonder how many other women have had these exact same thoughts until the night takes a turn for the worse? It helps that I plan to give this man what he wants.
When I first met Cain, I saw a certain charm in his seriousness and occasionally he would say something genuinely funny. He found in me a laugh I’d never even heard myself. Something deep, a sort of guffaw of which I was almost embarrassed. Stop thinking about Cain, I tell myself. For a few hours, I needed to forget about him, forget about my marriage and just do what I really wanted to.
‘A twenty-nine-year-old bad boy, my mother would blush.’
‘I’m not bad.’
‘That’s a shame.’ I’m beginning to relax a little. It’s easier for me now to play the part.
‘Is that what you’re into?’ his voice is already wet with the booze. ‘You normally go for arseholes?’
I tip the last of my soda water back, then lick my lips. ‘Don’t most women?’ I hate myself for saying it, but it has the desired effect. A hungry smile spreads across his face, the shyness draining as fast as the alcohol.
‘Well,’ he says, pausing, summoning enough courage to deliver what is likely to be an appallingly awful line. ‘I can be bad, I can be very bad if you want.’
It’s happening so easily now. I feel like I can almost have some fun with this. ‘Yeah?’
‘If only you knew,’ he says, with a wink and a smile that’s morphed from self-conscious to suggestive.
‘Well, why don’t we cut this date short and head back to the house?’
‘Is that a test, make sure I’m keen on you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I want to get to know you a little better first, Anna.’ He reaches for my hand now, rolling his thumb over my knuckles where my wedding band would be had I not strung it through my necklace before arriving. ‘Slow down, no rush,’ he says, his brow slightly creasing and his wet lips pulling up at the corners. It’s so smooth, so natural that I think maybe he really is a nice guy.
‘What do you want to know about me?’
•
I invent a backstory as his questions roll in and I fire back a few of my own. Here’s what I learn about Daniel in the next sixty-four minutes and four pints: his mother was a nurse but now she’s unwell; his father is a mechanic; he went to a small country primary school but a big all-boys high school where he used to get into fights; he wanted to be an engineer but later decided against it. His childhood best friend, Iso, lost a finger in a pig-hunting accident. He’s never done drugs before, not even smoked weed. He had one girlfriend until his mid-twenties, and the break-up was messy. He’s not sure if he’s looking for anything serious but ‘could change for the right girl’.
‘And that’s where I come in?’
‘Maybe,’ he says. He’s adequately liquored and his advances are becoming more overt. ‘It’s hard to say after an hour of drinking but …’ Again, that shyness. He continues, ‘I think I like you.’ I lean a little closer to him. Then his hand is on my thigh slipping higher and my forearm rests over his shoulder, my thumb sliding along the hard edge of his jaw. Despite being seated, he is swaying a little. His eyes half closed. I block out the guilt. Ignore it. I concentrate on my body instead. I’m ready, I need this.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ he whispers into my ear, filling it with his hot boozy breath.
I place my free hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle beneath, then I bring it up near his belt buckle.
‘Oh, you’re ready now, are you?’ I say, my mouth moving close to his. Then suddenly, almost violently, he is kissing me. My hand gropes at him and I can feel his blunt fingers force their way down the plunged back of my dress, searching for something to squeeze.
I pull away, breathless.
‘Come on.’
‘Ladies first,’ he slurs, again with that drunken smile.
I feel much safer walking the streets now but wonder if I should.
‘Down here.’ We walk past the park and those houses, almost all of which are dark now. I act as a crutch, holding him up as he stumbles along until he turns abruptly into a house and leads us up to the front door. He fishes in his pocket for the keys, dropping them, then scooping them back up.
‘Let me do it,’ I say, opening my palm to take them from him. The anticipation is growing.
He holds them out by the map of New Zealand key ring and I snatch them.
I force the first key into the lock, turn and hear a click, then I use the second key. Inside, we fall back against the wall. His hands hungry, pulling my dress straight up over my head. I push back, directing him towards the bedroom. He unbuckles his belt almost in a frenzy and falls back onto the bed. I twist my arm up my spine to unclip my bra. I thought I wouldn’t mind wearing it, but I simply can’t do this with my wedding ring around my neck. I feel like it might combust, or sear itself into my skin, so I slip the necklace off and place it in my bag, which I throw on the bedside table. Would he even care if he knew I was married? But it’s not just that. It’s the betrayal, it’s the reminder of the vows I took.
‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘You’re so hot.’
‘What do you want to do to me?’
‘Everything,’ he says, breathless, sitting up and reaching for me, pulling me down onto him. I think for a moment about Cain, what this would mean if he knew. I think about Daniel, what this means to him. Nothing, a one-night stand with an older woman. Not even a fling. A conquest who will scurry away with her heels in hand in the morning. I think about what this means for me. I can’t keep going on like this. This dull life. I need to be selfish and do this for me. I block out the noise of guilt and doubt. Well, I try to, but the guilt is a growth at my core, spreading to my limbs, weighing them down. Then he takes my face in his hands, kisses me again. I let my body respond in kind.
At some stage, when I’m on top of him, he reaches for my throat and gently squeezes. Then harder. Suddenly, my hand flies across his face and he stops his bucking beneath me. I see a little blood on his lip. The shock registers in his eyes.
‘Don’t touch my neck,’ I say. ‘Don’t leave a single mark.’
‘Okay,’ he breathes.
Afterwards, I find my way to the bathroom. I look around when I’m on the loo, see his toothbrush by the mirror, the modern shower and furnishings. It’s a nice place he’s staying in, clean, sterile. When I get back out, he is asleep on the bed. My phone is on the bedside table near my bag and my alarm set for 5 am. I can’t go home any earlier because I’m supposed to be working a shift. I pull my bra on and climb in beside him, avoiding touching his skin. I lie there, eyes wide, thinking sleep will never come.
Peephole
Live Cam Premium
Stream: 029A
/> Viewers: 052
GeneralMayhem:
Oh yes! We have action on Cam 1. Clearly their first time together.
Le_Coq:
Il l’a baisée!
TheSpecialist:
Holy shit did she just slap him? This slut is wild.
GeneralMayhem:
That was quick. Hope they go again.
RonnieJ:
Where is she?
Monsterdong3000:
She’s on the toilet. Cam 3.
Predator:
What’s he doing with her phone?
TheSpecialist:
Now she’s back, hopefully we get an encore performance.
PlatoOf21C:
She looks so familiar. I swear I know this slut.
THREE
‘YOU’RE ALREADY AWAKE,’ I say, pausing at the top of the stairs as Cain turns towards me from the kitchen bench. I didn’t think he’d be out of bed yet. My body feels filthy, as though the guilt of last night is a film of grime covering me head to toe but invisible to anyone but me. I’d almost slept through my alarm, leaving in a mad rush this morning with Daniel grabbing at me again for a second round. I pushed him off in my haste to get home.
Stepping out the door right as the sun was pinkening the cloudless sky, I’d found my car, changed into my ambulance uniform and stashed the bag with my dress, heels, make-up and perfume in the spare tyre well of the boot before driving home.
‘Yep, I’m up,’ Cain says now, putting the iPad he’s been looking at down on the kitchen bench. ‘How did you go last night?’
‘Oh, not great,’ I say, hoping the ambiguity is enough to end the work chat. I never ask him about what happened in Afghanistan, despite how much it still affects him, and he doesn’t ask about any traumas I might have encountered at work. He sniffs at the air. It occurs to me that I’ve not washed off the perfume. He doesn’t say anything, so I walk past him into the kitchen and fill a glass of water, take my vitamins and iron supplement. He starts the coffee machine. It filters through into an espresso cup. It’s 6.30 am. He’s always been an early riser, only now he seems to stay up later too. I can see from the dull pink stain in his eyes and the haggard look of his skin that he’s hungover. He holds the coffee beneath his nose, then turns back to me and takes it all in one mouthful.
‘It’s early,’ I say. ‘Even for you.’
He gives a tired smile. ‘What do they say about the early bird?’
‘It’s grumpy, hungover and fatigued?’
‘Sounds about right. Not that you can talk. Out there saving lives all night, you should be straight to bed. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘A coke habit,’ I joke. ‘That’s where all our money goes.’
‘Ha,’ he says. ‘Seriously, you don’t look so bad. You eaten?’
‘I can’t eat I’m too …’ I trail off, a yawn overtaking me, ‘zonked for food. I just need a shower, brush my teeth and get under the covers.’ I think about Cain’s training in the SAS. Resisting interrogation is drilled into them so if they’re ever taken prisoner they are more likely to withstand torture. Sleep deprivation is just part of it. Are they also skilled at interrogating others? Detecting lies from the subtle cues most people can’t disguise?
I start towards the bathroom, pulling my moss green ambulance officer’s shirt over my head and tossing it straight into the washing machine, despite the fact it’s only been worn for about half an hour.
‘Lina?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, turning back, seeing his frown. My heart pounds as he holds up his left hand.
‘Where’s your ring?’
Shit. I force a smile. ‘Oh, it’s still on my necklace from work.’
‘Where’s your necklace?’
‘Good question, must have left it in my locker at the station. I’ll get it on my next shift.’
‘Right, okay,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’d hate for someone to think you weren’t married.’
I eye him, keep my smile up. ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much risk of that, Cain.’ Then I turn and step into the bathroom. Shit. The ring. Where did I put my necklace? It must be in the car or in my bag. I step into the scalding hot water. Thoughts are the master and feelings are the slaves. Now the thoughts come thick and fast followed by a rising anxiety. I was wearing it last night. I know I had my necklace on at the bar. I took it off at the house but did I have it this morning?
In the shower, I hold myself up off the wall, letting the water wash over me. When my skin is adequately scalded, I start to scrub at myself, lathering up under my arms, down my body, between my legs. I scrub it all away, the night that was, the man and his odour. The scene runs through my mind, his hands on me, his thumbs finding the base of my throat. It’ll be the one and only time. I can’t do it to Cain again. But what if I get desperate again? No. This emptiness, this regret, it’s not worth it.
After my shower, I regard myself in the mirror, scanning my body for any signs of Daniel. I glance down at my inner thighs for evidence of his hands. I turn my head and look closer at my neck, my ears where he had gently taken the lobe between his teeth. I stand there for a moment taking myself in, the sickness of guilt feels a lot like grief. A gut punch that almost brings tears. Was it really worth it? Do I actually feel better now?
There’s one loose end I need to tie off before I go to sleep. I go to the garage. I find my bag in the spare tyre well. I drag my hand through it, pulling the clothes out. The necklace is not there. I search the car top to bottom, under the seats, in the glove box.
‘What’s going on?’ Cain says. I jerk, hit my head on the underside of the steering wheel.
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘No, just my ring. I might have dropped it while I was driving.’
‘It’ll turn up,’ he says. ‘I can look for you? Go grab some sleep.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ve searched the entire car, it must be in my locker.’
When he’s left the garage, I pick up my workbag with my clothes from last night and take it with me to the bedroom, shove it in the bottom of my wardrobe, and then climb into bed, sleep mask on, rain sounds coming through my headphones. I close my eyes, become still and pray that Cain never finds out what I did. For hours, I lie there, running it all over and over in my mind until eventually I fall asleep.
•
When I wake, what seems moments later, the clock on my phone insists it’s the afternoon. I get up and find Cain in his study. It’s a small room. On one wall is an image of him in full sand-coloured military gear, with his wraparound sunglasses and a rifle slung from his shoulder. Beside the photo is a similar image of five men, all in the same fatigues, with their rifles and their big grins beneath those sports-style sunglasses. One is Axel, another I know is the infamous Trent Skelton. A set of drawers sits beneath the window that looks out on the backyard. ‘Sultans of Swing’ plays through the tiny computer speakers. He doesn’t look up until I’m halfway across the room. On his screen is the WeStay website.
‘What are you up to?’ I ask.
He reaches forward, minimises the screen, lowers his music. ‘I’ll tell you, but I don’t want you to get annoyed.’
‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve made a profile for the house,’ he says, without further hesitation. ‘No one can see it, but I just wanted to play around with it, so it’s ready if you changed your mind about doing it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The lake house.’
‘Wait,’ I say, my head still a little foggy from the sleep. ‘You’ve put it online?’
‘I’ve just set up the profile. It’s not live.’
I catch my face in my hands, draw a long breath. I have no right to be angry at him, not after last night.
‘You put it up before I’d agreed? My place?’
‘Your place? What happened to our place?’
It’s ours, yes, but technically I own it. He doesn’t have memories of rushing up and down the ladder that Grandpa built between rooms or si
tting for hours out in the dinghy, hopelessly sinking fishing lines into the murky depths, or helping Grandma turn buckets of feijoas into jam. All those good memories but among them, loudest of all, is a bad one. Mum turning up, eyes bloodshot, haggard. The screaming. Grandma sweeping up the broken glass.
‘Cain, I’m not entirely comfortable with strangers going there,’ I say, with an even tone.
‘I know but can you consider it? We need the money, Lina, and we have outgoings for that house. We’ve got rates, insurance, utilities. We’re treading water as it is.’
‘Do we need money that bad?’ I press him, remembering the conversation I’d had with Claire the night before. I know the answer. Things are dire. We’re behind on rent, we may have no choice but to move to the lake house soon, find new jobs down in Rotorua.
‘I see it as a project, something to do while my business is getting off the ground.’ He spins around on the chair now, faces me. ‘I’ll manage it all, you won’t even know it’s happening.’
‘How will you manage it? Tarawera is three hours away.’
He smothers a yawn with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll make sure we only let people stay who have good ratings and reviews. I’ll organise a cleaner, lock our stuff away.’
‘Some things are more important than a quick buck.’
‘It’s not just about the money,’ he says. ‘I want to do something that makes me feel useful. I’m in a rut.’
‘I know, Cain,’ I say. It’s not just the money; the nightmares are back. He’s drinking a lot again. It’s the secrets, it’s Afghanistan. It’s the void of combat that almost nothing, no amount of love or care, can fill. Family is the only thing that can help, I think. A caring, interdependent network.
