by Hayley Doyle
The room falls quiet, the glow of the lamp a bright reminder of being alone. Of course, I can turn the TV back on, catch up on the news, wait for Jim to return. But what if he doesn’t want me to wait? What if nothing happening between us is exactly how it should be?
I pick up the towel from the carpet, fold it onto the chair. Then I place the empty bottles and snacks into the trash. I brush my teeth again.
The silence beckons me to darkness, to bed.
I wait another minute, maybe two … And then climb beneath my half of the duvet, switch off the lamp, and fall sound, sound asleep.
Daylight isn’t the only thing to wake me. It’s also the need to drink some water. The wine helped with the deep sleep, but I feel groggy, a dull weight sitting between my eyebrows. I don’t want to wake up properly just yet. My thoughts are quite consumed by Jim; I’m anxious to open my eyes and find him beside me.
Unless I’ve been dreaming. The kiss … no, the almost kiss …
What will I do once I open my eyes; once Jim opens his?
How my heart flutters.
Turn. After three, I say to myself. One, two, THREE.
But all I’m faced with is a sea of white cotton, Jim’s side of the bed still empty, the pillows missing. The bathroom light is on. I somehow recall turning it off, falling asleep in complete darkness, which means Jim must be in there. I sit bolt upright in bed, my ears sharp to welcome the shuffle of a towel, the flush of a toilet, the dripping of a tap, but I hear nothing. His pillows are on the carpet, a few bath towels discarded at their side. The room is etched with stillness, not a human sound other than my own breath.
The clock tells me it’s nine forty-three. Wrapping the duvet around myself to keep warm, I get up and circle the room. Jim wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. But there isn’t a sock or a shoe or a pair of jeans here that belongs to anybody other than me.
Jim Glover has gone.
And I’m back to being where I should be, on my way to the airport.
PART THREE
26
Jim
The luxury of choice wasn’t available. There was no deciding whether to stay, whether to go. I could only go. And Christ, I didn’t want to wake Zara up. She’d slow me down.
It’s nine in the morning. I’ve passed Birmingham, the Saturday-morning quiet giving me a much-owed favour. The minibus is hanging in there, pushing seventy, hitting eighty with a rattle. And so what? I’d take another busted vehicle into my responsibility if it means getting back to Liverpool in record time.
‘Come on,’ I will the accelerator.
Of course, Zara wouldn’t mean to slow me down. She’d only ask questions because she cares, probably would’ve poured me a glass of water, held out my fleece to help me into it, and, well, get smack bang in the middle of me having to make a swift exit. All of this would’ve taken time. Time which I don’t have.
Why am I so far away from Liverpool? Why? Of all nights to be away from home, why this one? I’m never away from home, never. The motorway’s beginning to feel like quicksand, dragging me under. If only I could see its ending.
Hurry, hurry, please.
And God, how my neck aches when I move it slightly to the right. Ouch. A never-ending ripple of creaks and crunches patters down my spine as I twist, stretch, trying to iron out the stiffness engulfing me. I slept on the floor last night. It was only fair that Zara got the bed to herself. She’d paid for the bloody thing.
Sixty-nine miles to Liverpool.
Come on, hurry.
When I finally got Helen off the phone – not an easy task since she was a) crying and b) pissed as a fart – Zara was fast asleep, tucked up in the bed beneath the duvet. I stood for a moment, watching her, that sweet face cuddled into a pillow, her pink lips slightly parted, her breath light. Her scar was hidden behind a curtain of her hair and I felt the urge to sweep it out of the way, stroke her cheek, but I didn’t want to frighten her. Bloody hell, we’d almost got off with each other. What’s more, I wanted to. I think. Maybe it would’ve been the final piece to the mind-boggling puzzle that was yesterday, but I’ll never know now.
Helen had called me from her mate’s house, an unknown number. She’d been fighting with Snowy – again – and wanted me to pick her up in my BMW.
‘That’s impossible, Hels.’
‘Nothings i-poss-ble, Jimbo.’
‘Me car’s in the pound.’
‘Liar.’
‘I’m not even in Liverpool, love.’
‘Fucking LIAR.’
And so on.
If Helen had used her own phone, would I have answered? Or would I have let it ring out? Would I have kissed Zara? I recall my stance, how I’d bowed my head, angled it to the left a bit, leant in. My lips were a second away from touching hers, maybe less.
But the moment was missed.
Gone.
All that remained was the floor, beckoning me to sleep. I woke up around six, nature calling. On instinct, I checked my phone, on silent after Helen’s call. There were four missed calls, all from an unknown number, and thank God, a text message from Snowy.
Jimbo. Pick up your phone. Your ma’s in the ozzy.
I wanted to tell Zara I had to go. I did, honestly.
I’m going to be honest, right. I hated her at first, for obvious reasons. Then I resisted liking her until, hand on heart, it became completely impossible. But the rush of pleasure she’d made me feel smacked me in the face like a harsh, cold gust of wind. I’m needed at home. Urgently. Yet this morning, I was more than two hundred miles from home, from my ma, and Zara bloody Khoury was the sole reason for that. She was the root of all my problems, growing deeper, branching out further. So, I scribbled a quick note before dashing off into the bitter dawn.
I had to go.
The wheels beneath me can’t go fast enough.
‘Ah, come on!’ I yell, bashing the dashboard with my fist. ‘Hurry. Please.’
I go over that text message again and again, the vision giving me a headache. If Helen hadn’t been such a pain in the arse last night, I would never have put my phone on silent. And if I’d never met Zara, I wouldn’t even be in this situation.
It was a blessing I’d needed a wee at six in the morning.
Thirty-three miles to Liverpool.
The unknown number had come from Ethel Barton’s home phone. Ex-directory. Luckily, she knew Snowy’s ma and was able to get a message to her, and she passed on the message to Snowy. I saw the text just before returning to my makeshift bath-towel bed on the floor of the Travelodge room.
I tried calling Snowy back, standing in the Travelodge car park, the dull fuzz of planes flying low overhead. The frost bit my toes within my trainers, my fleece just not cutting it in the Baltic early morning. I watched my breath condensing in the air as each ring repeated itself, a hamster wheel of frustration. Snowy never picked up. At least he’d sent me Ethel’s number.
I got inside the minibus, called Ethel Barton.
‘Ethel? It’s Jim,’ I said, throwing the van into gear.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘What happened, Ethel?’
‘It’s a good job I was there, you know. A good job I found her, you know.’
‘Found her where?’
‘Where are you, Jim?’
‘Shut up and tell me what happened to me ma, Ethel!’
‘Well, I can’t tell you if you want me to shut up, soft lad, can I?’
‘Ethel.’
‘Do you know what time it is? I never got to bed ’til gone eleven, you know.’
‘IS SHE OKAY?’
Ethel let out a long sigh. ‘Yes. She’s okay.’
‘Is it her heart?’
‘She fell. Getting out the bath.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No, I wasn’t there, soft lad. Your mother had this God-awful idea to get in the bath on her own. On her own! For the rest of me days, Jim, I swear I’ll never understand what the bleeding hell compell
ed her to do it. She knows not to get in the bath on her own, never mind get out of it. I said to her time and time again, you know. I did, you know.’
‘So, how did you find her?’
‘Well, I sensed something wasn’t quite right when she didn’t come to our Yvonne’s sixtieth, didn’t I?’
‘She never went?’
‘No. I waited ’til the buffet opened and thought, it’s almost nine, it’s not like your mother to be late. She’d booked a taxi for seven, you know. Seven.’
‘And you waited ’til nine to realise something wasn’t right?’
‘I had to wait ’til the buffet opened. The cling film doesn’t come off the plates by itself.’
‘Fucking hell, Ethel.’
‘Jesus Christ, Jim. You’ve got a dirty mouth.’
‘So what happened after nine?’
‘I told our Yvonne to give me a lift to your mother’s. But she was well away. It was quite embarrassing, you know. A woman of our Yvonne’s age, drinking like a teenager, you know. So, I dragged her husband away – he’s teetotal, you see, since his bypass – and God love him, he took me to your mother’s.’
‘And she was … where? I don’t understand, Ethel.’
‘Lucky I had that key, Jim. I went straight upstairs and there she was on the floor.’
‘Oh, God. Me mam? On the floor?’
‘She’d been there since tea time.’
‘She could’ve caught pneumonia.’
‘Well, the heating was on full blast, you know how careless she is about that.’
‘Thank God.’
‘So I called an ambulance and she was whisked in. She needs a hip replacement.’
‘But her heart?’
‘Her heart’s fine, love. It’s … fine.’
‘You don’t sound so sure, Ethel.’
‘I called your sisters. Although, I hate to think what my phone bill’s gonna be next month. They’re on the next flight home.’
‘Oh Christ, Ethel,’ I say, my throat tight, dry. ‘What does this mean?’
‘Just get yourself to the hospital.’
‘I’m on me way.’
‘If I hadn’t left our Yvonne’s party, you know, I hate to think what would’ve happened.’
And if I’d truly let Helen go all those years ago – with my blessing like I said I had – I’d already be at my ma’s side.
It was supposed to be a beating, not a blessing. Pushing ten years ago, roughly.
Snowy had asked me to meet him in the Old Ship, the sort of pub where you went once, but never twice. A blend of damp and piss reeked from its walls and although dry roasted peanuts were sold behind the bar, nobody dared to eat them.
‘What the fuck are we doing here?’ I whispered, although we were the only customers present. ‘And why are you dressed like a mef?’
Bulked out in a multitude of layers, Snowy was sporting jumper upon jumper and three beanie hats. His short arms stuck out by his side and as he sat at one of the many empty tables in the pub, he gave a little knock on his shin to reveal a shin pad. He looked ridiculous.
‘In answer to your questions,’ Snowy began, a wobble in his voice. ‘We’re here so you don’t get barred from the Pacific Arms, ’cause it’s our local, and I’m dressed like this ’cause you’re gonna beat me up. And I’m a wuss.’
I rolled my eyes and bought us both a pint. I’d had a long day in the mailroom followed by another rejection from the editor after asking if I could write a feature – just a short one and not on company time – to go in next month’s issue. Snowy’s cryptic behaviour was amusing, if anything, but not what I fancied putting up with this evening. I sipped my pint and, with respect, tried not to wince at its bitterness. Snowy necked half in one swift go, then cleared his throat.
‘Jesus, I’m sweating me tits off.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I need to ask you some questions, Jimbo. You ready?’
I let out a big sigh.
‘Good. When did you last have sex with Helen?’
‘Y’what?’
‘You heard.’
I scratched my head, lowered my voice. ‘Dunno. Ages ago. Why?’
‘Ages ago? As in years? Months? Weeks?’
If only the ale tasted a fraction better.
‘Jimbo, please.’
‘About two years ago,’ I lied. It was more like two months ago.
‘But you split up three years ago?’
‘Four.’
‘Okay. Who broke up with who?’
‘You know that.’
‘Well, we all know it fizzled out, but someone must’ve pulled the plug.’
In all honesty, I don’t know the answer, it’s foggy. There were endless moments you could say me and Helen became no longer me and Helen. Like how she didn’t let me inside her house for months after the abortion. Or when she decided it’d be best if I wasn’t invited to her sister’s wedding. And there was that fella with the Honda Civic who drove her to work. And picked her up. Steve.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘When have I ever beaten anyone up? Why am I gonna—’
‘Next question.’ Snowy started to rip up his soggy beermat. ‘Do you wanna get back with her?’
The doors into the Old Ship swung open and an old fella shuffled in, paper beneath his arm, a nasty cough rattling around his chest. A silent nod to the barmaid indicated his usual and he continued to shuffle, heading straight for me and Snowy. We edged our low stools out of the way as the old fella squeezed between us and plonked himself down on the sofa against the wall. Evidently ‘his spot’; no compromise was going to be made just because we were in its vicinity.
‘Well?’ Snowy asked. ‘Do you?’
Braving my pint, I took a huge gulp. It was kind of Snowy to show his concern for me and my wishy-washy love life, but that’s all it was. Kind. No offence to Snowy, but I didn’t need kind right now, I needed a lucky break. Maybe I would write the feature anyway, print it in bold (and a huge fucking font) and staple it to the editor’s desk.
‘Do you wanna get back with Helen?’
‘No,’ I said. Surprisingly.
‘Why?’ Snowy asked, concern draining his usual cheery face.
‘Snowy lad, you know why. We don’t work. We’re not right for each other. She’s here,’ I unfolded one hand, and then the other, ‘and I’m there. And we just can’t seem to …’ and I tried bringing my hands together, but couldn’t, as if a magnet was keeping them apart. ‘I mean, I love the bones of Helen, I do, and I care for her. We all do, don’t we? But, Christ. Can’t believe you’re making me say this out loud, lad, but she’s not … she’s not me girl.’
Snowy removed one beanie hat and mopped between his thick black eyebrows. I snatched it and, scrunching it into a little ball, threw it into Snowy’s face, a subconscious attempt to lift the atmosphere. I didn’t enjoy how the words I’d just spoken rang in my ears, how they now hung inside the Old Ship. There was either a great amount of dishonesty in them, or an overbearing truth, one I wasn’t ready to admit. Four years on.
Four years.
Christ. I’d always presumed stuff with Helen’d work itself out.
‘So, you’re not in love with her?’ Snowy asked.
I shook my head, slowly. ‘No.’
‘Phew,’ Snowy said. ‘’Cause I am.’
The old fella stood, shaking the table and pushing his way past. I tried to work out what Snowy had just said, but caught a glimpse of the old fella pointing a finger towards the Gents’, so I gave him a thumbs up. Me and Snowy watched him shuffle into the loo, the door swinging open, then swinging shut with a slam. It echoed. We couldn’t exactly sit and wait for him to emerge. Nor could we order another pint. Our stomachs wouldn’t be able to cope. So, we returned to face one another.
‘I’m in love with Helen,’ Snowy confirmed.
‘And is she …?’ I asked.
‘She doesn’t have a clue. I’ve never … I wouldn’t ever …’
Snowy p
ulled off both beanie hats and wiped his whole face. I’d never seen my best mate so serious before. Even when his nan died, Snowy wore a smirk beneath his tears, thinking of the mayhem she was causing up above. But not now.
‘Go on, mate. Hit me,’ Snowy said, bracing himself. ‘Hit me, Jimbo.’
‘Behave. I’m not gonna hit you.’
‘I’m so sorry, mate. But I’ve got to tell her. It’s eating away at me and I need to just, you know, unleash the demon. Get it out there. So I can move on.’
‘Move on?’
‘She’s gonna reject me, right? So, I might as well get it over and done with. Hear her actually say no.’ Snowy flicked away some long, imaginary red hair. ‘“No, Snowy. I don’t want you”.’
‘Good impression.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
The old fella returned and the barmaid brought him a second pint.
‘What are you waiting for then?’ I asked.
‘Your blessing, of course.’
I wished we were in the Pacific Arms. At least I could’ve cleared my head with another pint and a few rounds on the quizzie. I didn’t want to give Snowy my bloody blessing – as if it were my God-given right – to have Helen Gladstone. She wasn’t a puppet with strings controlled by me. She could do whatever she wanted. As could Snowy. As could I. I wasn’t going to be the bastard who tried to own his ex. That was the sort of crap Mikey Farley did, every time, and made a misery out of everyone involved.
Besides, I knew Helen.
Snowy was right. She would say no.
‘You’ve got it,’ I said. My words lay thick between us, hovering.
The tightness across Snowy’s neat face began to slip away, his laughter lines reappearing, his cheeky grin poking out. The bright wet glisten in his eyes lost its balance and a couple of tears ran down his cheek, relief literally pouring out of him. He offered his hand, a formal move between two best mates, so I accepted with a grab rather than a shake. We laughed and pulled each other in, turning the moment into a hearty hug.
