Fragile Lies

by Elliot, Laura

  “You can take the girl out of the convent but you can’t take the convent out of the girl,” says Virginia which sounds like something her mother would say. Lorraine is angry rather than amused. Last night is a hole in her head and all Virginia can do is make patronising remarks. For minutes, or perhaps hours, she walked and talked and breathed in some unconscious sphere that was neither sleep nor wakefulness. Even dreams leave a residue but this – this was oblivion in the deepest sense.

  Alone in her room she begins to draw on a sketch pad, using sticks of charcoal. Her hand moves freely over the pages. Sinewy, snake-like figures emerge. The shapes weave in a convoluted circle, sometimes hidden behind clouds or coiling around a bridge that hangs suspended in mid-air. Soon the shapes are obscured by a face, a lush expression, smouldering eyes, a half-open, pouting mouth. When Virginia bangs on the door and announces that Adrian has arrived, she guiltily shoves the sketches under the mattress. Dream analysis or doodling, she wonders, spraying perfume on her wrists and combing her hair. She looks tousled and childish, unawakened. The only exhibitionist tendencies she ever displays are on canvas. Perhaps if she was more daring – she frowns and her lips, which she is outlining, suddenly quiver. She sits down, her fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. Something flicks, a thought, a vision. She has no idea why she should visualise Adrian and Virginia entwined like snakes, their sleek, smooth limbs writhing silently in the deep cushions of the sofa where they often huddle, the four of them together, watching television.

  She is crazy to think such thoughts. Razor and Virginia belong together. The sounds they make at night, such thudding force, as if their bed is unable to take the strain of their desire, and sometimes they make love against the wall, uncaring whether or not she hears. And she does hear. Even with the pillow over her head the sounds are audible. The moaning, urging sounds that hint at sexual violence and a passion she can only imagine.

  * * *

  Two months later the summer is almost over and Sulphuric Acid are touring the Midlands. Lorraine looks forward to spending time alone with Virginia before she returns home but her cousin has disappeared from the flat. She leaves nothing, not even a note to explain her whereabouts. Out of the corner of her eye, Lorraine imagines her flitting by but when she turns, the room is empty. Yet there is evidence that she calls into the flat when Lorraine is at work. Her underwear dries on a line in the bathroom, make-up is scattered across the window ledge, sunglasses lie on the mantelpiece. On the draining board two mugs have been rinsed and left to drain. Lorraine notices spilled granules of coffee on the counter. Virginia’s bedroom door is open, carelessly tossed shoes are on the floor, rumpled bedclothes.

  She takes the tube to Angel where Adrian lives. The front door bell remains unanswered. She stares upwards at the windows but no silhouettes or shadows suggest movement beyond the dusty Venetian blinds.

  Marley is playing his reggae music when Lorraine arrives unexpectedly back to the flat on the fourth day. Her stomach is cramped with spasmodic period pains and the hotel housekeeper, taking pity on her, has given her the rest of the day off. She fills a hot-water bottle and lies on the sofa. From next door the beat of a calypso drum thumps heavy as a hammer against her head. To love Adrian Strong and not to be loved in return – that is all she has gained from a summer in London. Swamped in misery she goes to the bathroom in search of tablets.

  The door is closed. Inside, someone is sobbing, the sound audible now that Lorraine has moved away from the reggae beat. She opens the door and stares at Virginia’s huddled figure weeping against the side of the bath. The bath is old-fashioned with claw legs and a chipped surface that was never cleaned until Lorraine moved in. Virginia’s hair is no longer spiky, just greasy and defeated, and her eyes, when she looks upwards in shock, are ringed with streaked mascara.

  Without speaking, Lorraine drops to her knees, pulls her close. They rock together until the sobbing eases. She has never heard Virginia cry. Perhaps during the early summers in Trabawn there were tears but she cannot remember them – only her own tears as she floundered on the edge of her cousin’s moods and indifference. Now, Virginia is clinging and needy and Lorraine feels as if she has crawled beneath barbed wire to reach her. She confirms what Lorraine has already guessed.

  “I kept thinking it had to be a mistake.” She releases a hiccuping sob. “Even when the doctor confirmed it, I had to check for myself. How can this happen to me?”

  Remembering the nightly sounds from behind the bedroom wall, Lorraine figures this is a rhetorical question.

  “Have you told Razor?”

  “I don’t want to tell him.” Virginia shakes her head violently. “I can just imagine what he’ll say.”

  “You don’t know how he’s going to react. He could be thrilled when he hears.”

  “That’s just the problem. He’ll be so thrilled he’ll want us to get married immediately. This is exactly what he needs to twist my arm.”

  Lorraine sits back on her heels, startled by this new perception of Razor who has remained as enigmatic as when she first met him.

  Virginia gives way to a fresh paroxysm of tears. “He’s so possessive. He thinks he owns me. I don’t want this baby … I don’t … I don’t.” She is adamant, her voice rising as if she can already hear the words of caution Lorraine is about to utter. “Will you help me? I have to borrow money, oh God! How am I going to manage?”

  “But you can’t not tell Razor. He has a right to know … to be with you if you decide –”

  “I have decided. I’m too young to be stuck with a baby. I don’t want one – ever.”

  “At least talk to him about it.” Lorraine forces authority into her voice. “You can’t get rid of his baby without saying a word.”

  “Don’t call it a baby. It’s nothing yet, just a lump. Nothing! Do you understand?” Her face, ravaged by tears, is defiant.

  “Razor – he is the father, isn’t he?” Lorraine asks. The stifling heat of the day has gathered in the bathroom, making it difficult to breathe.

  Virginia’s hesitation is as painful as a skipped heartbeat. “Who else would be the father?” She snaps her answer with such fury that Lorraine dares not repeat the question. “I don’t want him involved in this. Promise me you won’t tell him … or anyone. I want it to be over as soon as possible. Will you come with me to the clinic? I need you with me, Lorraine.”

  “But you haven’t looked at any other options. You could come to Dublin with me, stay in my house. You might change your mind and want to keep the baby or have it adopted.”

  Virginia’s eyes are swept with long lashes. “No! No! No! Are you listening to me? If you won’t come with me I’ll go by myself. I’ll get the money from somewhere and you can keep your priest-ridden, bog-Irish opinions to yourself.”

  The vehemence of this attack stuns Lorraine. She is a child again behind the sand dunes, struggling to understand. Virginia grabs her hand when she tries to rise, presses it tightly. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m so upset. Please, Lorraine. There’s no one I can turn to except you.”

  Razor is back by the end of the week. He and Virginia are lying like spoons on the sofa watching television when Lorraine arrives in from work. Coronation Street is on – a programme they claim to despise but they watch every episode. They barely acknowledge her presence until the credits start to roll and appear so contented together that Lorraine is convinced Razor must know. She feels light-headed with relief as she switches on the kettle and makes tea for everyone.

  Virginia pats a space beside her on the sofa and Lorraine sits down. Razor has love bruises on his neck, pinheads of red skin, raw and flagrant. She thinks of Virginia’s sharp white teeth sinking into his flesh, imagines, also, him calling her “my vampire bitch”, which he does at night behind the wall. She wonders how Virginia broke the news and what he said in reply – and if they made love afterwards – she suspects they did by the languid way they lie against each other, no tension,
no urgency. They probably did it right there on the sofa where she is sitting. The thought makes her rise hurriedly and open the window, allowing the night breeze to cool her face.

  “We’re having a celebration party tomorrow night,” announces Virginia.

  “What are we celebrating?” Lorraine smiles knowingly across at her cousin, who fixes her with a cold warning stare and replies, “Sulphuric Acid’s got a new record deal. Isn’t that something worth celebrating?”

  People lounge on beanbags, prop the walls, invade Lorraine’s bedroom in pairs. The air reeks of hash and cigarettes. Sulphuric Acid have taken over the stairs which they block, refusing to move aside and forcing the late arrivals to squeeze past. Virginia dances in the centre of the room. Her head thumps the air, her fists raised high. Thick metal links around her neck remind Lorraine of a slave collar and she thinks about the bites on Razor’s neck, a ring of fire, enslaving him, and how he no longer seems aggressive and controlling, just sad. The clinic has been booked, excuses made and the money Lorraine saved throughout the summer has been transferred into Virginia’s bank account. Razor stands at the edge of the crowd and watches Virginia. His eyes follow every movement she makes.

  Adrian arrives late and forces his way through the crowd.

  “Where have you been all week?” Lorraine tries to control the question but it sounds angry, demanding. He frowns, mutters about working overtime. Is he under an obligation to send her his schedule?

  “I thought something had happened. I was worried, that’s all.” She wants to have a row, scream and slap his face, make him aware that she exists. “The House of the Rising Sun” is playing on the stereo and the crowd sing along. Virginia sits on the floor, cross-legged, smoking a joint. She stares at Adrian, not smiling or even acknowledging his arrival. She passes the joint to Razor, leans like a cat against him. Lorraine almost expects her body to ripple with pleasure. The singing voices are a raucous chorus, parodying a song that Lorraine loves. She sees the same expression of distaste on Adrian’s face.

  “We need fresh air.” He grabs her hand and leads her from the room. The crowd on the stairs has grown. She follows him downstairs, a pall of smoke stinging her eyes. The new moon, frail as a clipped fingernail, rocks between lucent clouds. It is difficult to see the stars. They seek the shelter of an empty shop doorway. She aches to tell him about Virginia but, as soon as she mentions her name, he kisses her, tells her how much he missed her, apologises for being rude. His kisses are deep and passionate. She is pushed further into the dark recess but she is conscious that the distance between them keeps widening, even as his hands seek her body. She begins to vibrate with his tension, unable to respond when he moans and snaps open the buttons on her blouse. Voices intrude, people pass too close, car lights sweep across their privacy.

  “Not like this … I can’t.” She pushes him away and returns to the house where young men sweep knowledgeable, indolent eyes across her flushed face.

  A sloe-eyed Rastafarian refuses to budge from his position at the foot of the stairs. When she tries to climb past he stares up her legs, tilting his head provocatively. She senses Adrian’s fury and is frightened he will lash out, igniting a fuse just waiting to explode. She grips his arm, warning him to calm down. The Rastafarian catches her ankle, slides his hand up above her knee, grinning when she tries to struggle free. She is aware of movement, his dark face jerking backwards, his mouth opening in shock but no sound emerging. Adrian punches him again. Blood spurts from the Rastafarian’s nose and the men on the stairs stir like a choreographed group of dancers waiting for a signal. The fight is so instantaneous, so violent, that she has only a panicked impression of hurtling fists and boots kicking.

  She is pushed backwards, her head cracking against the banisters. Razor appears at the top of the stairs, boots flailing, and notices her huddled against the wall. He grabs her, almost lifts her through the mêlée to the safety of the street. The police are called by an elderly woman in rollers who flings a bucket of water down the stairs before retreating to her flat and locking the door. The siren is heard in the distance and the crowd scatter, leaving behind stubbed out cigarettes and empty bottles.

  Virginia greets the police at the front door. Her slave collar is missing. She addresses them with a demure smile and an apology. Her contagious laughter floats up the stairs where swollen lips are being nursed and tempers calmed. Marley’s Uprising album is playing on low volume and the plaintive lyrics spill into the balmy night. The police warn of dire consequences if there are any further reports of trouble. The younger policeman asks for Virginia’s phone number before they leave.

  The house is silent. Even Marley has called it a night. Lorraine is restless, unable to sleep. On her head there is a bump, solid and painful. She thinks it is swelling. Perhaps she has concussion or a brain haemorrhage; the blood clot even now waiting to explode with deadly precision. She leaves the bedroom, opening the door quietly, and is startled to find Razor sitting by the window, his face in profile, a set of earphones on his head.

  She has seen his record collection and knows he is probably listening to Vivaldi or Sibelius. He is a sham, a punk without conviction, a manipulator who enjoys unleashing the power and the fury. He looks up, equally surprised to see her, and flaps his hand in greeting. She moves past him into the small kitchenette and pours a glass of water, adding ice cubes, a slice of lemon. Her night-dress clings to her; she feels the static electricity in the air, or perhaps it is the antagonism he always displays on stage that is causing her skin to lift in goose-bumps. They have never been alone together without the presence of other people to buttress the space between them.

  “Can’t you sleep either?” He removes the earphones as she passes by him. The faint strains of a violin, the strummed rhythm of a cello are audible for an instant before he switches off the stereo.

  “It’s so hot.” She fans her face, creating a breeze, and sits down beside him. Blood from a cut has congealed above his right eyebrow. “Does it hurt?” Her touch is light as she runs her finger over the wound.

  “Not much.” He grins. “You should see the bastard who did it to me.”

  “I can’t,” she replies. “He’s in intensive care.”

  They laugh quietly. She tries to imagine him married like her parents, semi-detached in suburbia, wheeling a buggy past neatly mowed lawns, his trouser chains clanking, the skeleton on the back of his leather jacket terrifying children and setting the dogs barking.

  “Thanks for rescuing me, Razor.” She has found it almost impossible to address him by that name but now it slips easily from her.

  “All part of the service.” He pulls a curl of her hair and lets it run loose between his fingers. His grey hooded eyes remind her of a hawk.

  “Do you think I’m scum, like her parents do?” The abruptness of the question, or even that he should ask it, astonishes her.

  “Of course not. I’m sure her parents don’t –”

  “I know what they think.” He allows his hand to fall heavily to his side. “She’s going to dump me. There’s some other fucker waiting in the wings to step into my boots.”

  “Who?”

  “Could be anyone. I’ve seen the way they look at her, the guys in the band, that fucker Adrian. If I thought she was cheating –”

  “Did she say that?”

  “She doesn’t have to. I know her mind, her thoughts. I feel them here.” He taps his head, thudding his fingers against the side of his skull. He talks so low she has to strain to hear him. “I’d walk through fire for the bitch and she knows it.”

  “Her name is Virginia,” she snaps back at him. “It’s not a difficult name to pronounce if you try.”

  “She likes it. Vampire bitch.” He watches her reaction and she sees Virginia, blood on her lips, draining him. It is such a vivid, disgusting image that she draws away from him with a muttered exclamation.

  “Why is she doing this to me?” His mouth is tight, even his nose seems thinner, sharper, an
urchin’s face, unable to disguise his hurt.

  “She’s afraid of you, Razor. She doesn’t think she can talk to you – tell you things that are important.”

  “What things?”

  “Things like … oh, how should I know? If you stopped pretending to be on stage all the time it might help.”

  “Don’t change the subject. She tells you everything. What’s going on?”

  “Do you love her?”

  “What kind of shit question is that?”

  “Do you?”

  “She’s my life. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Why do you think that she and Adrian –?” Unable to complete the question she lets it hang between them.

  “It could be him. It could be anyone. What difference does it make? She’s breaking my heart and he’ll break yours.”

  On the wall a spider scuttles slant-ways towards a crack. It slips and hangs suspended on invisible silken threads. Razor’s arm slides around her, awkward and comforting. They sit silently together. It is the first time they have touched. She cannot remember even shaking his hand when they were introduced.

  “I’ll love her until the day I die.” He makes this admission without embarrassment.

  She rests her head against him, whispers into his hair. “She’s pregnant, Razor … and she’s scared to tell you.”

  After he leaves her and his bedroom door has closed, Lorraine sits alone on the sofa. She plays with the edges of a cushion, twirling tassels around her thumb, the skeins biting deep into her skin. A coral dawn steals over the rooftops and she listens for sounds beyond the bedroom wall where Razor and Virginia lie. There is only silence, a silence that remains unbroken throughout the house – except for the hoarse rasp of her breathing.