The Companion

by Lorcan Roche

  I like it when you can get lost in Time – you know, when you’re doing something you really like, say gluing together an airfix as a kid and you look up at the kitchen clock and go, Jesus, I better do my eccker, or you’re floating on the sea after an exhausting race out to Lambay Island and endorphins kick in with a surge you’re thinking, Fuck, it doesn’t get much better than this. Or you’re lying on the bed talking to your Ma, and you realize you’re hungry, and you stand up and stretch as you look out the window of the bedroom you realize the sun has gone down slowly the sky has gone black, or even better, it’s turned an inky purple which exactly matches the easy rhythm of your breathing.

  That’s better. In through the nose, out slowly through the mouth.

  A gypsy cab slows down like a hearse in a gangster movie it takes a long look and as the driver winds down the window I say ‘Astoria?’ with a black question mark in the air.

  He just shakes his head slowly. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t go out over the bridge no mores.’

  I thank him for nothing and walk on, except he hugs the kerb beside me, he says, ‘Hey, you walking way too fast man, you drawing all kindsa tension to yourself.’ For ten dollars he offers to take me somewheres more safe, so I say that would be very nice indeed.

  The seat is hot and sticky, like tar on a rooftop in summer, I’m hoping someone spilt soda, not spunk. In the rear view he says, ‘I seen you before. You that Polish dude on TV, rescue all the old peoples in that building. You up for getting’ that science-tastin thing from the Mayor, right?’

  I say, ‘No, I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with somebody else,’ and he says, ‘Nothin’ to be ‘fraid about, maybe you jus’ got one of those faces.’

  And now it’s my turn to mutter under my breath, ‘Maybe you just got one of those faces, what the fuck does that mean? And for your information Mr Smelly Cab the word is citation, citation.’ And, if you want, you can put an echo on it all the way home – citation – up the stairs – citation – and it’s still there when I open the fridge and peer in to see one of her poxy yellow post-its attached to a litre of nice cold milk: ‘Don’t even think about it. Buy your own!’

  Citation.

  Fuck her.

  I drink as much as I can then I carry the carton into my room. In the middle of the night the cardboard pops back out, it makes a small sound like when you put your tongue up against the roof of your mouth to imitate a horse, clop. Except when you’re drifting in and out of a drunken stupor this is the sort of tiny sound that makes you think someone with a handgun and silencer has slipped in, fuck, maybe the sexually frustrated cow you share with has finally flipped her lid.

  No. You are not dead. You have not been shot. You are wide-awake; you can hear her walking around with the cordless, she is hissing like a rattlesnake.

  ‘I left a note, but he just went ahead and drank the whole fucking thing, he’s obviously trying to freak me out, he obviously wants the apartment to himself … No, you have to help me, you’re going to have to come here and talk to him … I don’t care if he’s the size of a fucking mountain, you have to help me get him out, you hear? Jesus Christ!’

  When I open the door of my room to the hall, she looks like a cornered rat. She holds the phone to her tits, then her slack jaw opens a degree but she just makes this trapped animal groan, Oooh. And that’s when I say, ‘Hey, it’s OK, I’m leaving so you can have your mental fucking breakdown all on your own, alright?’

  She hangs up, badly. I hear the line go dead, over and over. She starts to cry, I mean really fuckin’ cry, what with hot snot coming out of her surgically-enhanced nose, and sobbing shoulders going up and down, like pistons. And I have no choice, I have to hug her for a while I keep saying, ‘I’m sorry OK. I’m really fuckin’ sorry.’ Except, we’re both in our underwear and it starts to feel uncomfortable, ‘specially when the temperature of our skin starts to climb, and things become a little hard and clammy.

  It’s been quite a while since I’ve held a woman in my arms. But to be perfectly honest, hugging someone you weren’t even sure you liked is better than hugging no one at all.

  Nothing happens for a while, just the sound of the fridge humming and the phone line thrumming in the background. And all the while I’m rocking her gently from side to side, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.’

  And it’s weird, it’s as if I’m apologizing for the all things I’ve done, and all the things I haven’t dreamt of doing.

  And out over the looming metal bridge and the deep dark water swirling, out across the vaulting cathedrals and fake fountains foaming I feel him. I close my eyes and lay my huge hands upon her gently this time she sighs and falls into me, her body a book abandoned on a never-ending summer’s day.

  She is giving herself to me wordlessly now all I can do is remain standing, breathing and quivering inside I am thinking of what will happen tonight in her room, then tomorrow in his, I am thinking of what will happen when it is my turn.

  When I will be called upon to quietly make the sacrifice.

  5

  June 12th

  There’s a disturbingly beautiful creature sitting on Ed’s bed when I come to work, all riddled with remorse feeling like an overseas container with the wrong address stamped on. It’s like the time I came home from the Clinic to find my ex-girlfriend the actress upstairs with Ma, the two of them eating grapes, spitting pips and laughing the way women who know things about you always do.

  She’s one of those people that’s incredibly alive: Her hair is the colour of a copper beech in September, no mucky fuckin’ products in it, her skin is alabaster and her eyes are steely and determined, like the actress who once played Carrie – Spacek, Sissy. Only without the freckles or bucket of blood on her head, obviously.

  She is petite, but you can see she does a serious workout; in fact she’s the sort that would last a lot longer than most if this city really were under attack and everyone had to live on rations. I can feel it already, in my balls, an invasion of detrimental tadpoles. With her chiselled cheekbones, perfectly proportioned shoulders, and tiny scooped-in waist, she makes me feel like a Golem. Still, I know enough not to say anything until she does, except she doesn’t; she just stands up silently and proffers her hand.

  It is cool, with delicate, long, tapered fingers. I put my hand over hers and make no effort to squeeze.

  ‘It’s OK. I won’t break.’

  Her voice is molasses and honey. The sound of the South hidden deep down in it.

  ‘And when it rains you won’t melt, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  She smiles, and I’m not saying my knees go weak, but something akin to a butter churn turning over is going on inside. Then she takes her other hand, places it carefully on top, and with her two resting there she starts moving the pile up and down. I’m like a puppet on a string.

  ‘Dana.’

  ‘Trevor.’

  ‘The new guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m Ed’s physical therapist. I want to go through some of his routine with you,

  OK?’

  She lets go and asks what I’m laughing at, so I tell her the word routine makes him sound like a member of a synchronized swimming team.

  ‘You know, Esther Williams and all that?’

  She doesn’t know. And she doesn’t find it all that amusing; in fact she looks away and says she’s sure Ed will be along any second now. And that’s when my stomach rumbles like a storm gathering, so I say, ‘Sorry, skipped breakfast, didn’t want to be late. You know, first day and all that.’

  She arches one of her perfect eyebrows and says it’s OK, she nearly always eats when she’s over here too, no big deal, no need to feel awkward; except she leaves a little pause before the word awkward and I’m thinking, Red alert, red alert! She’s reading your thoughts, she’s a fuckin’ witch. Make your mind a total blank. Which I do and then I can’t think of anything intelligent to say, obviously, so I just come out with, ‘Eh, she
’s an amazing cook, isn’t she?

  ‘Ellie? Yes. But you be careful there, Trevor is it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’ll eat you up, that’s why.’

  She nods her head in an exaggerated way, she lets me know I can stop being afraid of her, then she moves to the door which is slightly ajar and checks to see if the coast is clear, craning her neck and standing on her tippy toes, bit like Alice in Wonderland, except I don’t think Alice’d be wearing a thong.

  She sits back on his bed, folds one leg under and pats the duvet the way his mother did, only this time it’s different.

  I cross over and sit down, carefully. It’s a relief he has an expensive mattress which doesn’t sink too deep.

  ‘This isn’t as easy as you might think.’

  ‘Who said I thought it was easy?’

  ‘Hey, Big Guy. I’m on your side. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, Ed is very weak, very sick.’

  ‘I gathered as much.’

  She bites her bottom lip. ‘Can I ask you a question, Trevor?’

  ‘Yes you can. Dana.’

  ‘Have you ever worked with sick or dying people before?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You wanna tell me about it?’

  I worked for nearly a year at the Central Remedial Clinic in Dublin.’

  ‘OK. Good.’

  ‘Plus, I nursed my mother right up until the end.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. You had no way of knowing.’

  A pause. She shifts her body towards me. ‘Do you know what “skin hunger” is, Trevor?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s when sick people like Ed yearn for what we call “non-clinical contact”. But back home, we used to refer to it as plain old-fashioned loneliness.’

  She smiles as if to say, Ya got me there buddy, but I don’t smile back. I’m feeling quite sad actually I’m remembering the time the chalk scraped the blackboard and Dalek started screaming, the way he was jumping around in his chair you’d swear his little kiddie-pants were on fire. I found out afterwards that a wasp had flown into his shirt, and after they’d all gone home I dabbed his stumpy pigeon chest with vinegar and cotton wool. That’s when these huge, slow tears began coursing down his hard little face, the sort of injured mask you find on street-kids in Belfast, or Baghdad, or etched on pale victims of clerical sexual abuse. And I could hear my ventriloquist voice saying, over and over, ‘Hey, it’s OK, it’s over now, it’s OK,’ but it wasn’t because of the wasp that Dalek was crying, it was because no one had touched him lovingly in years.

  I really want to tell her this story, I really want to show her I’m not some total fuckin’ chancer who just walked in on off the street but sometimes the more we want to say something the harder it becomes.

  Before I left for Dublin Airport my father stood on the steps of our house, his mouth opened like a greyhound trap. Words refused to spring forth. There was just the acrid odour of his undigested breakfast. Then the longest-ever pause. During which he retreated up two steps.

  ‘Goodbye Trevor.’

  ‘Bye Dad. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I, son.’

  Dana smoothes the duvet by my leg, she says she is sorry if she was, like, in any way patronizing. Then she gives me this really genuine smile, except James Mason is saying, My dear boy, exercise caution since it’s entirely feasible she’s one of those disconcerting individuals, like Andy Garcia, who can do that instant empathy thing with their eyes, alright?

  ‘You need to understand something, Trevor.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Ed has no friends. He has no future. He has no idea of what he can and cannot say to people.’

  ‘I see.’

  But all I can see is her collapsing naked on my chest after making love my cock still inside her, Jesus, wouldn’t it be amazing to drift off to sleep like that?

  (Yes.)

  ‘Most guys last about a week.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘With Ed.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘Less, if you have any kind of ego. Or you can’t handle insults.’

  ‘I’m Irish. Historically, we’re used to being insulted.’

  ‘I’m serious here. You work in this house, you leave normal rules of society outside that door. Your companionship is being bought, you understand? You will never be friends with him. Probably, you will never want to be. He’s a cruel and shallow young man and he has an anger inside him that no matter how hard you try to justify, it doesn’t allow for him to … Look, what I’m trying to say here is, Ed’s not really a very nice person.’

  I’m thinking, It’s probably best if I make up my own mind, but I just nod and say, ‘OK, thanks.’

  There’s a long pause as she stretches her legs out in front – you’d swear she was on a little swing bench on a porch in Georgia.

  ‘Have you met his mother?’

  ‘I’ve had the pleasure, yes.’

  You can see her trying not to smile.

  ‘What’s the jackanory with her?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What’s the story, what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Technically, jack shit. She broke her leg in a skiing accident upstate about ten years ago. Then she just took to the bed.’

  ‘Jesus. Her husband must’ve been over the fuckin’ moon.’

  ‘You’ve met the Judge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I dunno. I think his bark is worse than his bite.’

  ‘Did he talk money with you?’

  ‘It’s OK. Ellie already briefed me.’

  She’s talking suddenly about how much wealth they have, and about this amazing place they own in Saratoga, ‘you should see it.’

  But all I can see are the tiny places in the corners of her rosebud mouth where there is no gloss shining. And I’m thinking of those excellent scenes in old black and whites where the hero grabs the girl and starts tongue-sandwiching her and little fists come up to beat him on his big broad chest, You beast, you beast, then she just gives in, Aaah.

  ‘You listening to me?’

  ‘Your lips are moving. But I switched the sound off a while ago.’ I was actually saying to myself, Self, this has to be one of the most amazing women you’ve ever seen.

  ‘Jesus. Another fruit cake.’

  ‘What are you doing later?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This evening. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m having dinner with my … fiancée.’

  ‘You remind me of a mermaid, do you know that?’

  ‘A mermaid.’

  ‘Yeah, I really love your hair. Can I touch it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, relax. What about dinner?’

  ‘I told you already, I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘I was hoping you were going to say “I’m washing my hair” because I’d really love to wash it for you. In fact, I’d pay you.’

  She smiles, despite herself.

  ‘Seriously, how does twenty bucks sound?’

  She’s giving me the how-could-someone-like-me-be-interested-in-a-whacko-like-you look, but I just reach out and touch the silk on her head, and she’s laughing at the audacity of it now she pushes me away, so I push her back, then she pushes me again, trying to get me to go sideways on the bed.

  Dana is very strong for her size; she is made of rock, she definitely will not break. I push her hard this time she rolls over and her foot comes up so I grab it and give it a sharp tug, then she starts kicking and laughing. We are ten years old and I have to say, it feels very nice. Her hair is cascading back on the starched white duvet, she really is astonishing.

  That’s when Ed rolls in like Jack fuckin’ Nicholson with this fake grin planted on his mush, like a plastic yellow sunflower. As his smile melts his elongated face becomes disfigured, like the Wicked Wi
tch in The Wizard of Oz and it isn’t funny anymore, so we sit up.

  She rises slowly she fixes her hair solemnly, and walks over to him. I’m trying hard not to look at her perfect Kylie Minogue little ass, thinking, Fuck I’m off to a disastrous start.

  I hate when that happens, don’t you?

  Ed points the wheels of his chair at me, like the captain of a doomed nuclear sub.

  Dana stands behind him, her fingers resting on his skeletal shoulders, her morse code eyes flashing: Remember, he is shallow and cruel, he has no friends. When I look into his watery, weak ones, they are giving me daggers, and a volcano inside me wants to erupt. What’s your fuckin’ problem, pal? Is no one supposed to laugh or have fun in your presence? And tell us, where’s the Scottish fucker? And how many people applied for the job, Ed? How many mature, responsible English-speaking people with genuine experience are standing outside the fuckin’ door? Well?

  But of course I say nothing, just try to make my big potato face a blank, a canvas he can project and paint on, a clown at a rich kid’s party.

  Ed stares at his pedals as if he’s just been told that, on top of having six months to live, he has to give all his money to Fidel Castro. He’d like me to step outside for a while I can hear him talking with Dana all low, slow, and serious.

  I’m called back in. Dana says she’d like to see me lift Ed from his chair, please. Then place him on the bed, gently.

  I can’t stand when people use schoolteacher voices to underline things that are patently obvious; I mean, it’s not like I’m going to pick the little prick up and toss him across the room, though come to think of it …

  I bend down slowly. I slide my hands under his thighs, put my arm around his emaciated shoulders and when I stand up straight it’s like holding a really skinny young dog. Dana says, ‘Jesus, you’re strong.’