Her Every Fear

by Peter Swanson

  “You studying?” Henry asked.

  “Yeah.” Corbin held up the cover of the book.

  “The classes here are ballbusters, eh?”

  “Yeah, they are,” Corbin said.

  Corbin hadn’t gotten to know too many fellow students during his time in London, but he’d gotten to know Henry, because everyone knew Henry. He was one of those effortless socializers, someone who remembered everyone’s name, someone who always kept the conversation going. Shortly after orientation week he’d thrown a party at his rental, a sprawling ground-floor flat in Hampstead. It was a cold, raw night, but Henry had strung lights in the shared garden and even somehow purchased a keg. It wasn’t just Americans at the party but English neighbors as well, sudden lifelong friends that Henry had made during his short time in London.

  It had begun to snow that night, small white crystals that melted as soon as they touched a surface, but everyone stayed, huddled in the fenced-in garden till long past midnight. The first two hours of the party were awkward for Corbin, but the beer kicked in, and before he knew it, it was two in the morning and he was talking college football with a girl from the University of Richmond and a beefy student from Baylor who had his bare, tattooed arm draped over the shoulders of the girl. Corbin excused himself, deciding it was time to leave. He wandered back into the flat, looking down a side hall for a bathroom. Henry was in the frame of his bedroom door, an unlit cigarette between his lips. Corbin generally hated long hair on men, but Henry’s dark hair—two inches below his shoulders, at least—suited him. He was on the short side, strong looking through the chest and shoulders, and with small facial features. Corbin thought of a fox, anthropomorphized, cocky and handsome.

  The bathroom door swung open and a tall redhead in a short skirt emerged. She brushed past Corbin on the way to Henry’s bedroom, trailing a hand across Henry’s shirt as she entered.

  Henry smiled, the cigarette still between his lips, and cocked his head toward the interior of the bedroom, raising an eyebrow. Corbin was confused for a moment, then realized that Henry was asking him to join them. Casually, Corbin held up both hands and shook his head. He could feel the blood rushing to his face and ducked into the bathroom. When he emerged Henry’s bedroom door was shut.

  Corbin had seen Henry several times since the party, and there was never any indication that Henry remembered the incident in the hallway. Corbin began to doubt what he’d seen. Had he really been asked into the bedroom for a threesome? The details of the night had blurred and now he wasn’t so sure. But every time Corbin saw Henry, he felt a click of anxiety in his chest and found himself stumbling over his words. Not that he needed to say much in the presence of Henry, who liked to talk and prided himself on knowing everything about everyone. Corbin tried to convince himself that Henry was a boorish attention seeker, but every time they were together he found himself hoping to please Henry in some way. With a joke, or by telling Henry something he didn’t already know. And when that happened, Corbin felt an embarrassing surge of pride. He wondered if other people felt the same way.

  Henry, surprisingly, was alone in the pub, and even though Corbin was half panicked in anticipation of his Game Theory exam, he was happy to see him and invited him to sit down.

  “You know, I can help you with that exam,” Henry said, sprawling on a chair across from Corbin, pint glass in his hand.

  “You’re not in this class, are you?”

  “No, but I got the scoop on it. Same exam every year. Your professor never, ever changes it. Wanna know the questions?”

  “Sure.”

  Henry told Corbin what he’d heard, apparently from a student who’d come to this program the year before. “I memorized all the questions, then ended up not taking the class because it filled up. So that’ll help you out, right?”

  “You positive about this?”

  “Ninety percent sure. Ninety-five percent. Don’t worry, dude. Let’s have another pint.”

  Corbin went and bought a round. The questions did sound legit; all of them were around subjects that Professor Hinchliffe—one of those old men with a spiderweb of broken veins on each cheek—had expounded on at length. Corbin decided to trust Henry—it would make his life a lot easier.

  Corbin put the book away, and he and Henry had several pints. It was the longest amount of time they’d ever spent in each other’s company.

  “Where’ve you been all term?” Henry asked.

  Corbin, who didn’t think he’d exactly been hiding, said, “I didn’t need housing during that first week so I didn’t really meet anyone right off the bat. I’ve been hanging with some of the English students.”

  “Traitor. You know you’re not supposed to meet anyone foreign during your foreign studies program.”

  “I didn’t get that memo.”

  “No? It’s a requirement. Come to Europe as an asshole, make sure you don’t meet anyone but other American students, and then return as an even bigger asshole. Spend senior year beginning stories with the words, ‘When I was in Europe last summer . . .’ Hey, you traveling this summer after classes end?”

  “No, I wish,” Corbin said. “I have an internship in New York. Starts first week of June.”

  “Hey, no way. Me too. Where?”

  They compared notes on their summer internships. They were at different companies but on the same block in Midtown Manhattan.

  “Excellent, dude,” Henry said. “We’ll be best friends. I already know what bar we should hang out at.”

  As they discussed the various bars and restaurants they knew in New York City, the phrase best friends echoed in Corbin’s head. He knew that Henry was just using the words casually, but Corbin, although he’d always had friends, felt he’d never had a best one. He could picture Henry and himself haunting the same bars every night, meeting up without making plans in advance.

  “It’ll be epic,” Henry said. “I mean, I love London, but we need a break, don’t you think? Drink in cocktail lounges instead of pubs, meet some tanned women.”

  They laughed together, then each took a sip of his beer. Henry leaned in, dropped his voice a little.

  “You know, Corbs, I think you and I have something in common.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Claire Brennan.” Henry smiled, lips spreading thinly over his teeth.

  “Yeah, I know Claire.” Corbin felt like he’d just swallowed a tennis ball.

  “Yeah, I know you do. Intimately, I believe.”

  “Why?” Corbin asked.

  “Yeah, I thought that was the case. It seems she’s been two-timing the both of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what you think I mean. Jesus, look at you. Don’t have a heart attack, dude.”

  Chapter 14

  “Is that why you came over here to talk with me? Because of Claire?” Corbin asked, some time later.

  Henry paused. “No, I just came over to talk. I did think I’d bring up the Claire situation, though. Seemed the right thing to do.”

  Corbin had regained some composure since Henry had dropped his bombshell about Claire. The sickening gut-wrench of betrayal had been replaced by a mounting feeling of rage. Henry shared the feeling.

  “Bitch lied to us both,” he said.

  They’d gone back over events in their own personal timelines, trying to figure out how she’d gotten away with it exactly. It turned out that Henry and Claire had first hooked up over a month earlier when Corbin had gone for a long weekend to Amsterdam to meet up with two of his Mather friends. Henry, like Corbin, had met Claire at the Three Lambs. He’d asked her out for dinner, and she’d agreed. The dinner had gone well, and Henry had been seeing her off and on for the past few weeks.

  “How often do you see her?” Corbin asked.

  “We have a standing date on Tuesday nights.”

  “I have my seminar on Tuesday nights.”

  “And Sunday afternoons we sometimes go to a pub on the river.”

  “She to
ld me she always spends Sunday catching up on her studies.”

  “We got duped, buddy,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Did she tell you to not act like her boyfriend in the Three Lambs? That she didn’t want people there to know she was dating a customer?”

  “Yep. She told me that. Jesus.”

  Henry finished his current pint in one long sip, then wiped his lips with the back of a hand. His lips curled slightly on one side, as though he were enjoying himself.

  “You don’t seem as upset as I am,” Corbin said.

  “I am, trust me. I’ve just had a lot longer to think about it, and now I’m more pissed than upset.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Henry explained how he’d accidentally spotted Claire the previous Saturday night, coming out of the Camden tube station. He’d waved at her but she hadn’t spotted him. She was in a rush, and on a whim, Henry had followed her, along the market stalls and to an Indian restaurant. Corbin was waiting outside, and they had kissed on the street.

  “And you didn’t tell her?” Corbin asked.

  “I gave her a chance to tell me. I saw her the next day and asked if we were exclusive, and she said, yes, that she hoped so. That’s when I got angry instead of just disappointed. And I decided I’d just stop seeing her, not give her a reason, and make her stew over it. And then I saw you here tonight. I almost didn’t tell you, you know. I mean, you never would have found out, and maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference in the big scheme of things. But you seem like a nice guy, and I figured you should know.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I feel like a fucking idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot. You just trusted a woman. I’m serious. Don’t ever do it again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Henry asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Henry was playing with his empty pint glass, turning it upside down and making damp rings on the wooden table. “What are we doing to do to get back at her? Ball’s in our court. She has no idea that we know.”

  “That’s true.”

  Henry jumped up. “One more pint, okay, then we’ll figure out the best way to fuck her up.” He went to the bar before Corbin could answer.

  They concocted a plan. Henry knew a disused graveyard north of Hampstead Heath called Boddington Cemetery. He’d discovered it in his first week in London on a Sunday afternoon walk. The gravestones were mostly vandalized, and it was completely overgrown with trees and shrubs. Henry had already mentioned it to Claire, telling her that he wanted her to come back there with him before he returned to America, that he wanted to bring his camera and take pictures. She agreed, and they settled on a Wednesday afternoon. Henry hadn’t seen anyone there on a sunny Sunday and didn’t expect anyone there during the middle of the week. Except for Corbin, who would be waiting in the center of the cemetery, where they’d scare her enough to make her never want to get involved with two men at the same time again. Or one man, for that matter.

  Henry gave Corbin a detailed sketch of the park. Near the center, the terrain dipped into a shallow valley. On one of the graves was a moss-covered statue of an angel, the head missing. Henry had written decapitated angel on the sketch, and had designated it as the perfect place.

  “What if someone else is there?” Corbin had asked.

  “No one will be there. And so what if they are? We’re just scaring her.”

  Wednesday turned out to be typical London weather, the sky filled with low, fast-moving clouds, the cool air peppered with occasional rain. Corbin found the entrance to the cemetery and slid past the broken gate. There was still a discernible path, littered with rotting leaves, and he followed it into the heart of the cemetery. Henry had been right. There wasn’t going to be anyone here today. Maybe on a sunny weekend a photographer might turn up, but not on a rainy weekday. He felt confident that he was alone.

  Following Henry’s sketch, Corbin found the split in the path and turned left, having to push his way past damp branches to reach the hidden clearing. He spotted the decapitated angel right away. She was robed and holding a garland of leaves. The stone was entirely covered in lichen, and she wasn’t just missing her head, but both tips of her wings, as though they’d been clipped. A shudder of apprehension passed through Corbin. Were they going too far? But then he pictured Claire going back and forth between his bed and Henry’s, and the anger flared up again. Maybe they weren’t going far enough.

  He took off his backpack, placed the retractable shovel on the damp ground next to the statue, then took out the water bottle that was now filled with the fake blood that Henry had mixed up. “It’s awfully brown, isn’t it?” Corbin had asked when he’d first seen it.

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. Blood turns brown after it’s been exposed to the air. We don’t want you to look like you’ve just been offed twenty minutes ago.”

  “I guess not.”

  Corbin checked his watch. He had half an hour until Henry was supposed to show up with Claire. He sat on the ground in front of the angel, leaning against its base, and smeared the fake blood across his neck and down his T-shirt, pooling the blood in the shirt’s folds. He took the knife from the backpack and smeared that with the blood as well; it was Henry’s knife, a folding buck, and it was incredibly sharp. He ran its edge along the pad of his finger and it sliced through a single, translucent layer of skin, not drawing any blood. He dropped the knife onto his lap.

  He put the water bottle back into the backpack, nestled among the change of clothes he’d brought, then he tucked the backpack behind his lower back and out of sight. When Claire arrived, she’d see his dead body, laid out in front of the statue like a ritual killing. He began to giggle at the thought, couldn’t stop himself from giggling, and he was soon laughing out loud, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Jesus, get a grip, he thought, then decided to let it out of his system. He let out a yelp of laughter that sounded strangely animalistic in his own ears. He stopped laughing, worried that someone might hear him. What if some stranger did come along, wanting to photograph the statue? He laughed some more, nervously, then told himself that no, it would be Henry arriving with Claire, promising that he wanted to show her something that she’d like to see. How would she react? Would she faint? Or scream? The thought made him giddy again, the way he’d felt years ago when he’d shown his brother the photographs he’d found hidden in the attic, the ones with naked girls being whipped and spanked by men in leather hoods. His brother had gone running to their mother, of course, and she’d punished Corbin by not letting him shower for over two weeks. He’d been a fastidious kid and hated the idea of not being clean. Being told he couldn’t shower had been torture. “You can shower when your outsides look as dirty as your insides,” his mother had told him. He’d asked her every day when that would be, and she’d told him every day that he wasn’t dirty enough on the outside yet. She eventually let him take a shower only after his teacher sent him home with a note suggesting that he wasn’t properly washing himself. Where had Corbin’s father been during all this? His parents weren’t divorced yet, but they were, for all practical purposes, separated, his father primarily staying at his apartment in the city. Corbin had wondered if it was because of the photographs; maybe his father was being punished as well for looking at them. It never occurred to Corbin, until much later, that the pictures might have belonged to his mother.

  Wind shook the trees, and drops of rain pattered down on Corbin. It was almost time for Henry to show up with Claire. Thinking about the incident with the pictures and his mother had taken some of the giddiness out of him, but that was fine. It was time to get serious. He channeled his nervousness and his anger until he felt only a sense of detachment, the way he used to feel during an at-bat when he played high school baseball, as though he was floating at a slight remove from himself. He began to focus.

  He heard a rustling from the undergrowth and watched as a large pigeon with a ring around its neck stepped out int
o the clearing, then flew away. More rain pattered down, this time from the sky. Corbin stared straight up at the mass of cloud cover, and at the one swollen, ink-colored cloud in the middle that looked like it was about to unleash a deluge. Where was Henry? Maybe Claire had refused to come into the cemetery with him when it looked like it was about to rain? Corbin shifted his position, sitting a little more upright, so that he could watch the path where they would emerge, if they came at all.

  He heard them before he saw them, Claire emitting a surprised yelp followed by laughter. She’d probably slipped coming down the incline. The laughter felt like sharp pricks against Corbin’s skin. He hadn’t seen her, or talked to her, since finding out who she really was; they’d only e-mailed, Corbin claiming he was suffering from a vicious flu and that he was unable to see her.

  Henry came first into the clearing, and Corbin caught him glancing in his direction before turning back toward Claire, who was moving gingerly down the slippery path, her eyes angled down.

  Corbin closed his lids, pulled in a deep breath of the damp, earthy air, and tried to be as still as possible. The rain was coming down harder, and it made listening difficult. They must be looking at him now. He heard a voice—Henry’s—saying something like: I brought you here to help me. Then it was quiet for a moment, just the sound of the rain on the leaves, then he heard Claire’s voice: “What have you done?”

  “I did it for you, Claire,” Henry said back. They were closer now. Corbin desperately wanted to open his eyes, to see the pained shock on Claire’s face, but he kept them closed. Rain was pooling under his collar, and he could smell the dye from the fake blood.

  “What have you done, Henry?” Her voice pitched right on the edge of hysteria.

  “I brought you here for two reasons, Claire. I wanted you to see what happens to your other boyfriends. And I need you to help me bury the body.” Henry’s voice was calm, almost placid, and Corbin was amazed at the performance. He could only imagine the look on Claire’s face, the panic in her eyes. He heard her say something but couldn’t make it out. It was one word.