by J. A. Baker
The dim light smooths out the fine lines on her face, painting her complexion a fresher clearer shade of grey. Because she is grey; so little life running through her, everything she used to be, slowly ebbing away. A ghost of a woman, that’s what she is. A ghost of her former self. Her hands sit on her lap, dry, loose and veined, her thin flesh the texture of old paper.
He allows his mind to roam back to a time when she was able-bodied, when she had a brain, ambitions, was able to formulate thoughts, speak coherently, be a fully rounded person. He places his arms beneath her tiny frail body and lifts her back onto the bed, her soft exhalations caressing his face as he straightens the covers and reaches down to softly kiss her head. The mattress sighs under her weight, the floorboards groaning and creaking as he moves away and closes the door behind him. He’s glad she’s still here. Her body and mind may be weak and he is aware she is suffering, but just having somebody else around is enough to keep the loneliness at bay, to stop that black dog from howling at him and dragging him off into the depths of the darkest night.
He isn’t sure he could have carried on living in this house alone. The nights are long, hour after hour of silence and emptiness. Her presence has helped him get through those evenings, given him a reason to rise each day and face the world. Some days are easy, others not so much. It’s not been the same since Clara disappeared. Nothing has been the same.
A freezing fog billows through his mind. He thinks back, remembering how he had planned to drive up to Scotland to see her all those years ago. After repeated requests for her to get in touch, she maintained her radio silence, making no attempt to reply to his many letters. He should have just let her go, allowed her to sever their relationship at that point. He knows that now, but he just couldn’t shift her from his mind. She was in his head all the time; every waking moment, ever present in his dreams, a ubiquitous presence he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. He knew then that he couldn’t carry on without her.
It was the not knowing. Did she have somebody else? What had he done that was so wrong? It ate at him. It was the not knowing that he couldn’t handle.
And then the day he was due to leave, his mother took ill. Her sickness altered his plans. He was forced to stay home, had sat by her bedside, watching, monitoring her condition, making sure she didn’t deteriorate. She stabilised and slept for most of the day but leaving her was unthinkable. He was all she had. With Clara out of the picture, they only had one another.
It was later that week that he heard about Clara’s disappearance. Her parents paid him a visit, detailing the events of that day. They were closely followed by the police, who questioned him relentlessly. Clara had gone for a walk to the nearby lake and failed to return. Her grandparents had alerted the police later that afternoon. The area was scoured, every available officer out searching for her, but Clara was never found. She had vanished into thin air.
Dominic slumps into the chair, the living room a swathe of undulating shadows. He sits in silence, contemplating the past, the present, the future. Sometimes, when the sun is shining, when the sky is clear, summer close by, nudging its way into view, he feels sure he can cope with losing her, then there are other days when the pain of her absence is as acute as it was the day she went missing. Winters are the worst. Those endless grey days. The long dark nights.
He still has the letters he wrote to her, piles of them stuffed into his wooden box, carefully straightened out, neat and tidy, just how he likes them. Many a time he has considered disposing of them but can’t seem to bring himself to do it. Seeing her name written there is a sharp reminder that she existed, that she was once his. That he was once hers. He hasn’t read them for such a long time now, he’s not sure he could bring himself to open them, to sweep his eyes over those words or think about how much she meant to him. Still means to him.
There hasn’t been anybody since Clara. It’s crazy, he knows that. He should have moved on, found somebody else but knows that nobody would have matched up. What they had was unique. That’s why he has hung on to the letters. Just knowing they’re around is enough. By storing them he has been able to cling onto the very essence of who she is. Or who she was.
No.
Who she is. Clara is still locked in his heart, in his head. She is everywhere and nowhere. He sighs, stares up at the ceiling. It all happened such a long, long time ago and yet it was only yesterday.
His hand is trembling as he pours himself a large whisky. He’s earned this. Despite knowing it will make him groggy the following day, he swallows it down in one long gulp, his gullet a trail of fire as the amber liquid trickles into his belly. He pours himself another, just to blot out the memories, drinks it down and then pours one more for good measure.
With each consecutive drink, the desperation lifts, clearing a space in his head, his heart not so cumbersome and heavy. Not so full of Clara. Empty. That’s how he is now, he thinks as he drains the last of the alcohol. An empty husk of a man, hollowed out and cavernous. Still, he has his work and this house and his mother for company. And whisky. When all else fails, whisky will always be here for him. It’s a solid reliable entity in his life, alleviating his stress. Helping him to forget. Forcing him to remember. He shivers, closes his eyes, tries to draw a line under it all.
It happens as the edges of his musings have begun to blur – the noise, the commotion outside. Stumbling to his feet, the alcohol softening his reflexes, Dominic heads to the door, aware he can’t defend himself or his mother in his current state. He turns the door handle and all but falls outside, his feet twisting under him as he lurches forward into the shadows. Righting his posture he looks around, craning his neck and peering through the growing darkness to the spots of light beyond the trees.
‘Hello?’ It sounds ridiculous to his own ears, his tinny whiny voice echoing through the woods. Pitiful and pointless. ‘Come on, old boy,’ he murmurs, shaking his head at his own ineptitude. ‘There’s nobody here.’
And then he feels it – a rush of air, somebody brushing past him, a shadow on the edge of his line of sight that shoves him sideways, his body being pushed into the door frame, his spine crunching against the wooden jamb.
The shadow darts inside the house and Dominic feels his legs fold under him. He flexes his fingers, straightens up and runs after them, his heart a steady thump in his chest.
Dear God, his mother. She is upstairs in her bed. Alone and helpless with an intruder in the house while he is down here trying to drum up enough courage to stop them. Always a coward. His father was right. He has always lacked enough courage to be considered a true man.
The shadow flits ahead of him. His skin ripples with dread. He turns to follow it, his head a mass of terrified thoughts. It’s dark outside and in, this house full of dim shadows, sharp corners, surrounded by foliage. He is alone here. They are alone here. He and his mother. Nobody around to help them.
‘Stop!’ No response. His voice echoes through the house, a tinny cowardly squeak.
And then up above him he hears the creak of a floorboard, the thud of feet as the trespasser moves from room to room. He bristles. Fear and anger flood through him.
‘I’m calling the police!’ If somebody were to ask him afterwards how he reacted, he would find it hard to give a clear answer. Everything is indistinct, his logic clouded, panic taking over and muddying his thinking. His head pounds, blood thrums in his ears. He eventually breaks out of his torpor, races upstairs and can see the intruder standing outside his mother’s room, their fingers curled around the handle. In slow motion they push open the door a crack and peer into the darkness of the bedroom.
With a sudden rush of strength, he lunges forwards and grabs at them, trying to lock his arms around their midriff, knocking them sideways onto the floor. The shadow is lithe, stronger than he is, more agile. Younger. It scrambles up on its feet and slips around him, pushing him with strong hands, an inordinate amount of strength behind them, slamming him into the wall. He gasps, hears t
he voice as they call out to him and knows then. He knows who it is that is here in his house with him, trying to scare him, prowling around. Trespassing.
‘Fucking creep, Rosey. You’re a fucking creepy old bastard.’ Dane Bowron hurls himself down the stairs and out of the door, slamming it shut, rattling the frame, shaking the windows.
Dominic chases after him, his feet thundering down the stairs before he follows the boy out into the night, stumbling and hurtling through the trees, squinting ahead, knowing that this is a futile chase. The boy is younger, fitter, leaner. He will easily outrun Dominic’s ageing body.
Slowing down to catch his breath, he catches sight of the lad as his silhouette pelts into the woods. He’s alone. No sidekick tonight. A small amount of relief blooms within Dominic’s chest as Dane weaves through the trees before disappearing out of sight. Alexander needs to distance himself from this boy. He’s trouble. His father was trouble and he is following the same route, too like his father to ever think for himself and carve out a more positive life trajectory.
His mind already geared to tightening the security around the house, Dominic makes his way home. He locks the door after himself and drops into the chair with a heavy sigh.
23
Alex turned Dane down and now it’s not sitting well with him. What if his friend suddenly takes offence? What if he throws a hissy fit at Alex’s reluctance to go along with his plan and refuses to speak to him? Dane is a moody one, his face set in a permanent scowl, always on the cusp of tipping over into a fit of pique.
It’s just that Alex thinks they’ve done enough to old Dominic Rose. They have hung around his house making nuisances of themselves and scared the old guy senseless and Alex doesn’t fancy doing it again. Dane was insistent he go along and, in the end, Alex used his dad as an excuse, telling Dane he had promised to go fishing with him. Neither he nor his dad have fished for years and years but it was the first thing that came into his mind and now he’ll have to think of something to say when Dane asks him about it this morning.
Alex finishes his juice, throws his satchel over his shoulder and heads for the door. ‘I’m off. See you later.’
His dad has already left for work. Joss is upstairs doing her hair or her nails or something to preen herself, and his mother is still in bed, dead to the world, bitter and hung-over. What she needs, he thinks idly as he winds his way down the path and out onto the pavement, is a job. Something that will give her a purpose, a reason to get up and face the world every morning. He thinks of speaking to his dad about it, how he could phrase it to cause the least amount of upset and offence. Somebody has to do something. His father and Joss are trapped in a web of apathy and denial. It’s easier to do nothing than be proactive, he knows that, but doing nothing can lead to disaster.
Dane is waiting for him at the school gates, a cheesy grin plastered on his face. His eyes are black and full of something that Alex can never quite put his finger on, something questionable and suspicious, but his smile is a mile wide, a rarity for the lad who is normally full of solemnity and malevolence. Alex just thanks his lucky stars that the resentment that constantly swills deep in the pit of Dane’s abdomen isn’t directed at him.
‘You missed it all last night, mate,’ Dane says, his voice a hoarse whisper as they fall into line and head down the path towards the large schoolyard where a gathering of teenage boys stand, kicking at stones and elbowing one other, their guffaws rumbling around the sprawl of asphalt. ‘I did it. I actually fucking did it!’
Alex stares at his friend. He can see that Dane is bristling with excitement. Alex wants to ask. He doesn’t want to ask. It doesn’t matter. Dane will tell him anyway. Alex’s absence made no difference and any fears he had over being castigated for not going along, were completely unnecessary.
‘I got into his house! I sneaked past him and got inside his ramshackle old place. Christ, what a bloody dump.’
Alex’s guts tighten. At least he wasn’t part of it this time. At least he was at home. What the hell was Dane thinking, going inside Mr Rose’s house? Hanging around outside is one thing. This is trespassing. A whole new level of stupid. ‘His house?’ The incredulity he tries to keep out of his voice creeps in. He clears his throat, attempts to dampen his dismay, keep his tone sober and even. Easier that way. Safer. Alex stares down at the ground, kicks at a stone and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, his stance conveying borderline boredom while his insides shift and squirm.
‘Yeah. Man, it was awesome. I even managed to sneak upstairs. Got a peek in one of the bedrooms. The place stank of piss. I reeked of it all night when I got back home.’ Dane glances at Alex for a second before dipping his head and looking away into the distance. ‘You missed a cracking night. How’d the fishing trip go?’
‘Yeah, not bad.’ Alex’s blood rushes up to his neck, settling in his face. He’s a rotten liar. Always has been. That’s the problem with spinning a yarn, it inevitably comes back to bite you when you least expect it. More lies are then needed, more and more heaped on top of those already told until in the end, it becomes impossible to continue, the complications of said yarn too difficult to remember. ‘What you up to tonight?’ He is saying anything at all now to cover his embarrassment, to move the topic of conversation along, steering it away from his non-existent fishing expedition.
‘Nothing much. Why – you fancy doing something?’
Alex wants to bite off his own tongue. He was just making conversation and now he thinks that he’s going to be forced into going back to Mr Rose’s house when it’s the last thing he wants to do. Last time was a bit of fun, a way of blowing off a bit of steam. He doesn’t want to do it again. ‘Not sure, really. Was just asking.’
They walk in silence towards the main doors that lead into the large assembly hall.
‘I think my old man’s having another of his flings.’
Alex’s skin burns at Dane’s words, at the casual way he hangs out his dirty laundry as if what his dad gets up to is normal family behaviour. Alex can’t imagine his dad ever having an affair. He can’t imagine his parents ever being young and enamoured with each other, come to that. Stiff and formal would be how he would describe his mother and father and yet here Dane is, talking about it with breathtaking ease and simplicity, as if they are chatting about lessons or the weather or the price of fucking bread.
‘Right,’ Alex mumbles, unsure how to respond to this latest piece of news. Unsure why Dane even told him. He has enough to deal with at home, with his own family issues. The last thing he is about to do is start oversharing personal problems, telling Dane that his mother is a miserable alcoholic because they don’t have the money they once had.
‘It’ll come to an end,’ Dane replies nonchalantly as they pass a group of giggling girls in the corridor. ‘They always do. It’s what he does. One woman once tried to get him to leave Mum and move in with her. He told her to piss off and broke it off with her.’
Alex feels his heart speed up as Dane talks openly and readily about things that in Alex’s family, would remain deeply private. ‘Doesn’t your mum mind about, you know – all of this?’ He clears his throat, discomfited by this unexpected revelation. It’s an alien experience, listening to this sort of talk. He thinks of Dane’s mum, her nervous smile and disposition and feels a small amount of pity for her swell in his chest. Dane’s dad is a loud formidable man. He and Dane’s mother are polar opposites. He hopes she is okay.
But then, Alex doesn’t know the full story. Maybe Dane’s mum is a different person behind closed doors. As his dad is so keen on telling him, there are always two sides to every story. He wonders about the story behind his own parents’ troubles and who is right and who is wrong and whether the lines are so blurred and tangled that it’s impossible to tease them apart. He wants to remain loyal to his mum but she doesn’t make it easy. It’s as if she wants her own family to turn against her.
Dane shrugs listlessly, as if moving his shoulders is too much effort. He juts out
his bottom lip and gazes ahead. ‘Dunno. Doesn’t seem to. Hard to tell. S’pose it’s between the two of them to work it out, isn’t it? Nothing to do with me, really.’
Alex thinks that perhaps Dane is glossing over things, ignoring what could possibly be an impending family disaster but doesn’t push it any further. It’s none of his business. He’s not going to poke his nose into anybody else’s crumbling home life. ‘Yeah,’ Alex says quietly. ‘Suppose so.’
They go off to their different classes, Dane’s solitary figure soon swallowed up by a moving throng of youngsters who fill the narrow corridors within seconds of the bell sounding.
They meet later in the morning as they are making their way towards the English classroom, Dane’s face set in a scowl. Alex doesn’t ask him what the problem is. There’s no need. He already knows what his friend’s thoughts are regarding Mr Rose.
‘Fucking hate this lesson. Longest hour of my life every time I come in this shithole of a class.’ Dane’s voice is a bark, his eyes once again dark pools of hatred as he finds his chair and slumps down into it, his body languid, apathy and animosity oozing out of him.
Alex doesn’t reply, slipping instead, into his own seat in the row opposite Dane, his desk set slightly behind his friend. He pulls out his textbook from his bag and stares ahead, waiting for the initial furore to simmer down. He likes it in here. Despite Dane’s inescapable hostility that is directed towards Mr Rose, Alex enjoys English. His mind is geared up for each lesson, ready to absorb each word, to ruminate over the workings of language and how it can be used to demonstrate a range of emotions from festering malice and malevolence to passion and love, and everything in between.
