by Mark Edwards
‘But they seemed so nice when we first met them.’
‘Yeah. They were trying to get you to trust them. Or maybe they’re less calculating than that. They might be schizophrenic. One minute nice and friendly, the next – ga-ga.’ He twirled his finger beside his head and pulled a face.
Jamie laughed, despite himself.
‘You must have the patience of a saint. God, people like them want putting down. I really can’t believe that you’re putting up with all their crap, especially with a pregnant girlfriend who’s being scared out of her wits by them. I don’t want to offend you, but you’re not being much of a man, are you? A man’s meant to protect his home – his cave. It’s there, buried inside you, one of the most basic instincts a man can have. To look after his woman and child and their home.’
Jamie looked at Mike. It was easy for him to sit there casting judgement. To an outsider, the whole thing was black and white. But it was more complicated than it looked…wasn’t it?
Jamie wondered. Maybe it wasn’t so complicated at all. All he trying to do was build a home with his girlfriend – his future wife – and their unborn child. And the Newtons were, for whatever reason, trying to spoil it. Maybe it was a simple issue. Maybe Mike was right, even if he did term it in such an outmoded way. It was his duty to protect Kirsty and their nest. So far he had failed. Although Kirsty seemed calm now (too calm?) and happy about their forthcoming wedding, she had been through a lot recently, from the day of Paul’s accident onwards. Jamie didn’t buy into all that macho crap, but maybe, sometimes, there was a need to.
He looked up at Mike, who, apparently reading Jamie’s mind, said, ‘I know what I’d do.’
He slammed his fist into his palm.
Jamie left work early and headed straight to the hospital. He wanted to talk to Paul, to see what he thought. After his chat with Mike, his concentration had been shot: all he could of think of was Mike saying, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ and the way he had punched his palm. He wanted to ask Paul his opinion.
He found his friend sitting up in bed, flicking boredly through a copy of FHM. He put the magazine down when Jamie entered the room. He looked much better than he had the day he had woken up. A shade of colour had returned to his cheeks. Doctor Meer had told Jamie that Paul’s recovery was the quickest and most complete he had ever seen. He was responding well to physiotherapy, he appeared to have suffered no memory loss and all his mental faculties were intact. It was all good news.
‘All alone?’ Jamie asked, pulling up a chair.
Paul frowned. ‘Heather’s just gone to the loo. She needed some tissues to dry her eyes.’
Jamie looked at him quizzically.
‘We just split up. I told her I thought it was for the best.’
Jamie was shocked. ‘Why?’
‘She was getting on my nerves. She’s here all the time, fussing and carrying on. God, the other day she even mentioned the possibility of us getting married. We were only together for a few days before my accident, for Christ’s sake, and from what I remember it wasn’t that great anyway. She’s pretty crap in bed. Just lies there and expects you to do all the work, if you know what I mean.’
‘But you seemed really happy together. That day at the go-kart track…’
‘Did we? I don’t remember.’
‘And you’d fancied her for ages. You said she was really sexy and lovely and that you wouldn’t stand a chance with someone like her.’
‘Well, I changed my mind. She was getting on my tits, so I chucked her. She’ll get over it.’
Jamie was speechless. He had never heard Paul talk like before. This wasn’t the Paul he knew, the Paul who had never chucked anyone in his life. He remembered how Heather had flooded their flat with tears because she was so heartbroken by Paul’s condition. When he awoke from the coma she was so happy. She had been round a few times since and all she talked about was Paul Paul Paul, but now in a happy way. She told Kirsty that she wanted a baby too, and that Paul would be a wonderful father. She told them how she had given Paul a blow job beneath the hospital sheets, when none of the doctors or other nurses were around. She went on about Paul so much that Jamie thought he might go mad if he heard the name once more. But now he could imagine how devastated she was going to be.
‘Why are you acting so cold?’ Jamie asked.
‘Don’t you start, Jamie. That’s exactly what she said.’
‘And don’t you think that’s because it’s true? You were never like this before.’
‘No, I was a poor sap who always let women walk all over me. I was a sad, desperate case. The kind of bloke that women want to be their best friend. I’ve had a lot of time to think since I’ve been in here, and I’ve decided I’m going to change. I’m going to do what I want, and I don’t need some clingy slag holding me back.’
‘Paul–’
‘Paul Paul Paul! Why don’t you all just fuck off and leave me alone.’ His voice got louder. ‘I’m pissed off with people treating me like a sick puppy.’ He was practically shaking now. ‘I’m going to get out of this bed and change my life. And if you don’t like that, I don’t want you in my new life.’
He picked up his magazine and hid his face behind it.
Jamie was so shocked he couldn’t move. It took all his will power to uproot himself and walk out of the room. His legs were shaking; he felt like he’d been slapped hard around the face. Halfway down the corridor, he saw Heather come out of the toilets. He hurried over to her.
Her fringe was damp. Jamie guessed she had just splashed her face to wash away any sign that she had been crying. She looked forlorn, and when she looked at Jamie she almost burst into tears again.
‘Did he tell you?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee.’
They went to the cafeteria and Jamie bought two coffees. Heather stared at the table, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye or be seen by anyone she knew.
‘Do you want me to fetch Kirsty?’ he asked.
‘No. She doesn’t finish her shift for another hour.’
Jamie stirred brown sugar into his coffee. ‘He told me to fuck off too.’
She looked up, surprised. ‘But you’re his best mate.’
‘So I thought.’
‘How long have you known him?’
He performed a quick mental calculation. ‘Nearly ten years.’
‘He’s changed, hasn’t he.’
Jamie nodded. ‘I’ve never seen him like this before. I’ve never even seen him get angry before, not really.’
‘It’s the accident. It’s done something to him.’ She sniffed. ‘Though Doctor Meer says he hasn’t suffered any brain damage at all. He says he’s responded to all their tests exactly as they’d hoped.’
‘Their tests mean nothing. He’s changed. We don’t need tests to see that. We know him – we know what he was like before. He wasn’t like this.’
Heather thumped the table. ‘Shit. Why did we have to go to that bloody go-karting track that day? Why? If we hadn’t gone, everything would be alright.’
Jamie said nothing. Heather started to cry, producing a damp hankie and pressing it against her eyes. Jamie knew why they had gone go-karting: because Chris had suggested it. Chris had taken them there, and then he had made that other driver crash into Paul. And now Paul had woken up, but he wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the old Paul they all loved. And it was all Chris’s fault. He felt a current of hurt run through his veins; the sour taste of anger on his tongue. It was Chris’s fault. Chris and Lucy. As Heather cried in front of him he thought of all the things they had done and the anger and hurt and hatred boiled and burned inside him.
They were trying to ruin his life.
They wanted to destroy everything he had.
They were threatening his sanity; upsetting his girlfriend; hurting his friends.
But what was he going to do about it?
Seventeen
They had to rush for the tra
in in the end, despite their best efforts to get there in plenty of time. Kirsty had a last-minute packing crisis, ushering Jamie out of the bedroom while she packed her underwear.
‘It’s bad luck to see what knickers your wife will be wearing on your wedding day before the event.’
Jamie laughed. ‘I thought it was bad luck to see the dress.’
‘Yes, well, you’ve already seen that. But I have to keep some semblance of mystique.’
Jamie paced around while Kirsty rifled through her underwear drawer. Finally, she was ready; but the taxi turned up late; and then it got stuck in heavy traffic. It pulled up in front of Euston station with a mere five minutes to spare before the train was due to depart. They ran into the station, Jamie weighed down by the suitcase, lagging behind as Kirsty scanned the departures board.
‘Platform three,’ she shouted, sprinting off ahead, clutching the tickets which she showed to the ticket inspector at the head of the platform.
‘My boyfriend’s right behind me,’ she said.
‘He’d better get a move on.’
As she waited for Jamie to catch up, Kirsty realised that her conversation with the ticket inspector might be the last time she ever referred to Jamie as her boyfriend. By the end of tomorrow he would be her husband. It was a weird feeling, but also exciting. My husband. She smiled to herself at the thought of introducing him as such. Running off to Gretna Green to get married. What a cliché. But there was also something very cool about it. It was a funny thing to do. She knew the memory of it would always make her smile.
Of course, memory of your wedding, wherever it was, was meant to make you smile. But Kirsty had never been one of those girls who pined for a big white wedding. The idea of it – the fuss, the expense, all those eyes focused on you – was anathema to her. She told herself she would never get married. It was an outdated tradition, based on a sexist ritual of a father handing his daughter over to another man. When Jamie had suggested that they get married, her first reaction had been to baulk, but in the same split-second she had felt a rush of excitement at the idea, as long as Jamie agreed to certain conditions. And now here they were, on their way to Scotland to do what almost everybody does eventually. Kirsty was fully aware of the pattern she was conforming to: boyfriend, moving in together, marriage, baby, all in the right order, with a good career to boot. But at least they were doing it on their own terms, and at least she had got pregnant before they got married. She still had a streak of rebellion in her, even if it was only a small one.
They made it to their seats seconds before the train pulled away. Jamie hefted the suitcase onto the rack above and they sat back with a sigh.
‘Made it.’
She kissed him and smiled. ‘Husband.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Ah, but just twenty-four hours till the ball and chain goes round your ankle.’
‘Can’t wait.’
The train heaved its way out of the station, and they fell quiet for a while, watching some of the grimmer parts of north London roll by. Before long they had left the city altogether and were heading for Milton Keynes. Kirsty took a book out of her bag and Jamie went off up the aisle to buy coffee.
Kirsty settled back into her seat and smiled to herself. She opened her book and began to read.
Jamie queued at the buffet counter, swaying to keep his balance as the train rattled and vibrated. The man in front of him seemed to be on a mission to sample everything on the menu and was taking an age. Still, Jamie didn’t mind. They had plenty of time to kill.
He had been looking forward to this trip. Not just because of what would happen at the end of it, but because for the first time in months he would have some ‘dead’ time. To him, that was one of the best things about going on a journey somewhere, being stuck on a plane or a train: you had five or six hours to spend in this unreal zone between points A and B; time in which to think or read or just stare at the scenery. The train would reach Carlisle in five hours time, which meant – with nothing to distract him – he had five hours to think, to mull over recent events, to try to get things straight in his mind.
Over the last few days, Kirsty’s mood had improved amazingly, her cool serenity, which had taken the place of her edginess, had in turn been replaced by a perceptible happiness. Jamie was pleased but confused. She had Heather on the phone every evening, crying and cursing men, Paul in particular, wondering out loud what she had done wrong. Then there was Paul himself, who had announced that he didn’t want any visitors apart from his parents, not until he was fully recovered, anyway. Kirsty had gone to see him at the end of a long shift, persuading her way past the nurse who acted as a kind of bouncer for Paul, but he had refused to speak to her, closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep. Jamie was furious when Kirsty told him, but she had simply shrugged and said, ‘If it’s what he wants.’
Then, of course, there was the continuing harassment from the Newtons. Lucy had written them another letter, saying that the sound of Kirsty thrashing the toilet brush round the pan on a Sunday afternoon, when they had been doing their weekly housework, had been intolerable. It was one of those letters that, at first, made Jamie laugh. But after reading it a couple of times it struck him how insane the writer must be, and he felt scared. Kirsty, however, had simply shrugged and said, ‘I’ll just have to thrash a bit more quietly, won’t I?’
On Saturday, they took a trip to Covent Garden and bought their wedding outfits. Jamie bought a fabulous velvet suit and Kirsty spent a fortune they didn’t really have on a beautiful dress from Whistles. Jamie put it on his credit card. He refused to worry about the expense – this was their wedding day, after all. When Kirsty came out of the changing room in the dress, Jamie felt like applauding. She was stunning. Kirsty looked at herself in the mirror and burst into tears.
Surely, Jamie thought, it couldn’t be the wedding alone that was making Kirsty seem so happy, apparently oblivious to all the crap that was going on around them. Even the appearance of a spider in the bathroom the other day had not fazed her: she had calmly called for Jamie to get rid of it, whereas a few weeks ago she would have had a screaming fit. She was so calm that Jamie wondered briefly if she was on drugs. She was a nurse so it wouldn’t be very hard for her to get hold of a bottle of tranquillizers. He quickly dismissed the idea, admonished himself for being stupid. Kirsty would never fill her body with drugs – she wouldn’t risk harming the baby in any way.
‘You seem to be handling all this much better than I am,’ he said to her one night, sitting in front of the TV. ‘A couple of weeks ago you were really stressed, but now you seem as if you’re not worried about Lucy and Chris any more.’
She turned to him. ‘It’s not that I’m not worried, Jamie, but I’m trying to put things into perspective. I hate them. I’d be delighted if they moved out. I’d be pleased if they just stopped writing us such stupid letters. But it’s not as if they’ve actually threatened us physically. In fact, I think they’re staring to get bored. The hoaxes have dried up. We haven’t seen them for weeks.’
‘But their presence is always there.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve almost managed to put them from my mind.’ She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Jamie, we’ve got so much to look forward to. We’re going to be parents. That’s a lot scarier than our neighbours, surely.’
He laughed.
She took his hand and rested it on her stomach. ‘I simply want to think about the future, Jamie. And I don’t have enough mental energy to waste my thoughts on Lucy and Chris.’
He nodded, but he couldn’t quite tune in to her wavelength. He couldn’t cast Lucy and Chris from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. And also, he wasn’t sure how sincere Kirsty was being. It might just be that she was putting on a brave face, persuading herself that she needed to be happy. He was worried that her mood was a veneer, and that it could be torn away at any time.
He prayed that this wouldn’t happen, because he needed her strength and optimism. He was d
oing enough worrying for both of them. Every night before he went to sleep he fell into a state of semi-conscious worry, his mind focusing on one problem after another. He would worry about Paul, wondering why he was being such an arsehole, wondering if the doctors were wrong when they said he had suffered no mental damage. Then he would start worrying about something else. Work, money, how they would manage with one-and-a-half salaries when Kirsty had the baby and went part-time. He worried about how the baby would affect their relationship. He worried about how his parents would react when they discovered he and Kirsty had got married without telling or inviting them.
And most of all, he worried about Lucy and Chris. What would they do next? Would they play that awful music again? He felt as if there were two invisible trolls living underneath him – these malicious entities that he never saw, only heard or heard from. He wondered if they should move out, then reaffirmed his determination that they had to stay. At the end of his cycle of worries, he always fell asleep with two people on his mind: not Kirsty and their unborn child, as it should be, but Lucy and Chris.
What are you going to do about it?
The day after his big scene with Paul, he had been standing in the gents toilet at work, drying his hands. The door opened and Mike came in. He nodded hello to Jamie then stood at the urinal and unzipped. There was no-one else around.
Jamie finished blow-drying his hands and paused. He didn’t want to go back to his desk. He had so much work to be getting on with. He had fallen seriously behind recently, putting all his hardest tasks to the bottom of the pile, even though he knew that was the last thing he should do. A software system he had installed at a school in Colindale was playing up and the headmaster had been on the phone urging him to sort it out. Jamie went down to the school and found that the printers only worked erratically, the internet connection was stupidly slow and the system kept crashing. He couldn’t work out what was wrong with it but didn’t want to admit as much, so he tinkered with it and went home. Now, the headmaster was on the phone every day, growing ever more irate. Jamie left his voicemail on and didn’t return his calls. He knew it was only a matter of time before his manager got involved, but the whole thing made him feel sick with weariness. There were more important things going on than the headmaster’s stupid computer system.
