by M. J. Hyland
‘That’s a very kind thing to say.’
‘I mean it,’ I say. ‘Not only that, you’ve got grace. A lot more grace than most people.’
‘Grace? What a lovely word. Hardly anybody ever uses it.’
‘It’s what you make me think. You make me think of it.’
She moves forward and sits on the edge of the settee so she can reach over and put her hand on my knee.
‘That’s just about the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me, Patrick.’
She keeps her hand on my knee.
‘You just proved it,’ I say. ‘You’re full of grace.’
She laughs and I laugh.
I don’t want him to come. We’re better off without him. If he must come, let it be now while we’re laughing.
As soon as she’s taken her hand off my knee, and we’re silent again, Welkin arrives.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Here we all are. And a fire, too.’
He doesn’t apologise for being late and sits in the armchair nearer the settee, near to Bridget.
I should’ve sat there.
‘I don’t care how mild it is outside,’ he says, ‘an open fire with a stiff drink is perfection.’
He takes a box of Cuban cigars out of his jacket pocket and puts it on the coffee table.
Bridget reaches over and puts her hand on his knee, just like she did to me.
‘But where are my manners?’ she says. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
She moves quickly and gives the impression that a party’s begun, that the room’s suddenly crowded with interesting people. She hums a tune as she fetches Welkin’s brandy and when she hands it to him she says, ‘Cheers!'
He says, ‘Yes, cheers,’ and reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out my alarm clock.
‘Here!’ He throws it at me and I catch it.
‘Why’d you take it?’ I say.
He sprawls back in the armchair, his long legs pointed at Bridget. He looks at her and not at me.
‘Just one of those unconscious things,’ he says. ‘I was only half-awake.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘You took a degree in psychology, Patrick,’ he says. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I didn’t know you had a degree in psychology,’ says Bridget.
‘I didn’t finish,’ I say.
‘That’s a pity,’ she says. ‘Maybe you’ll go back one day.’
‘Anyway,’ says Welkin, ‘the point is, I shouldn’t have taken Patrick’s clock and I’m sorry.’
Welkin stands and pours himself another drink but he offers none to us.
He looks at me. ‘What do you want to talk about?'
‘I’m not fussy,’ I say.
‘How’s the love life?'
‘Healthy enough,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes?’ says Bridget.
‘Tell us more,’ says Welkin.
I’ll not tell them about Georgia. I’ll only be giving Welkin ideas.
‘She’s a history teacher.’
‘Where does she teach?’ says Bridget.
My ears redden.
‘I don’t know.’
Silence.
‘Let’s have a cigar,’ says Bridget. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. I haven’t had a cigar since my uncle’s sixtieth birthday.’
We light our cigars and Welkin stands.
‘I’d love a glass of whisky,’ he says.
Bridget looks at me. ‘Patrick? Would you like a whisky?’
‘If you’re having one,’ I say.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll open one of the bottles I got last Christmas. It’s in the kitchen.’
Bridget leaves to get the whisky.
I start coughing up the smoke.
‘You know,’ says Welkin, ‘you’re not supposed to inhale cigar smoke. Have you not had one before?'
‘No.’
‘You should’ve spoken up sooner instead of sucking away like a baby on a cold tit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘It’s a bit tricky the first time.’
‘Right.’
He stands and comes to me.
‘Do you mind if I give you a bit of advice?'
‘No, why would I?'
‘All right. Let me show you.’
He takes a puff of his cigar and I look up at him and watch.
‘Got it?’
‘'Course I have.’
‘That’s right. You’ve got it now.’
He smiles, a big friendly smile, just as though we’re best mates, as though he loves me.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Since he’s standing and I’m sitting, he’s made me feel like an idiot and, at the same time, in spite of everything, I’m glad of his attention.
Bridget comes back with the whisky and pours us each a drink. As soon as she’s sitting, Welkin turns his chair round to face her. He’s as good as turned his back on me.
‘You can’t get much more civilised than this,’ he says.
My cigar’s gone out again and Welkin throws the box of matches at me. I miss. The box lands on the floor.
‘I’m delirious and stupid with happiness,’ he says. ‘I haven’t felt so good in a long time.’
He goes to the settee and sits beside Bridget.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Thought I’d pop over and offer you a shoulder rub.’
‘There’s no need,’ she says.
‘It’s on the house,’ he says. ‘And I’m good at it.’
‘Oh, all right,’ she says. ‘Why not?'
He takes the glass out of Bridget’s hand, puts it on the floor. She turns round so her back’s to him and he rubs her neck and shoulders, slow and gentle.
‘Tell me if it’s too hard.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘That’s nice.’
‘I’m glad,’ he says.
He slips his hands under her collar, starts on rubbing her back.
She laughs. ‘That’s probably enough,’ she says. ‘I think you’re a little bit too merry.’
‘I think so too,’ I say.
She turns round to face me.
Welkin’s got no choice but to stop.
He moves away from her, moves across on the settee.
Bridget clears her throat.
‘So, Ian,’ she says. ‘Do you think you’ll go back to work soon? Do you miss it?'
‘In a while,’ he says. ‘I’m happy for now just taking a breath.’
‘It’s a long bloody breath,’ I say.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I took a degree at Cambridge and got a first and then I worked for three years and I think I’ve probably earned all the breath I want.’
‘No point working yourself to the bone if you don’t have to,’ says Bridget.
‘That’s my philosophy precisely,’ says Welkin.
He moves in close again, puts his arm over her shoulder.
‘Let’s toast to the good life,’ he says.
I stand.
‘She doesn’t want you sitting there with your hands all over her,’ I say.
‘It’s okay, Patrick,’ she says. ‘He’s not doing any harm.’
‘Do you want him there?’ I say.
Welkin kisses her on the cheek and she laughs, but I can see she’s nervous. Her chest’s going up and down too fast. ‘I think you should leave it,’ I say.
Welkin moves his arm round Bridget’s neck so the tips of his fingers dangle like hungry worms near her breasts.
‘Just having a little bit of fun,’ he says.
‘I know,’ she says.
He puts his hand on her leg. ‘Leave her alone,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you make me?’ he says.
He says this so as it’s not clear if he’s serious or joking.
I take a step closer.
‘Patrick,’ says Bridget. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Is it?'
‘Ian’s going back to his seat now.’
‘You’r
e a bloody spoilsport,’ says Welkin.
He gets up and goes back to his seat.
When he’s sat down, he flicks cigar ash into the ashtray. The ash misses and goes on the carpet. I’ll sit, but I’ll not stay for too much longer.
‘Don’t worry, Patrick,’ says Bridget.
Welkin drags his armchair across so that it’s closer to the settee and reaches for Bridget’s hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I got a bit carried away.’
‘Never mind,’ she says.
She lets him hold her hand and he moves in closer. He’s narrowed his eyes. He’s about to kiss her and she’ll probably let him.
She’s not as smart as she lets on.
‘Let’s play a game of truth,’ says Welkin. ‘Just you and me.’
Bridget looks at me.
‘Can three people play?’ she says. ‘What about Patrick?’
‘It’s time I heard the truth,’ says Welkin. ‘Tell me what you make of me.’
She looks at me, but she’s right back in it. He’s got her right back in.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Let’s try it.’
‘Tell me what kind of man I am,’ says Welkin. ‘I don’t mind if you mention the good with the bad.’
I get up and throw the dead cigar in the fire.
I look at them both, but neither of them looks at me.
I open the door.
‘Fuck this,’ I say.
13
I go up to my room, open my window, take in a few gulps of clean air, sit a minute, get the cool night breeze on my face.
When I go to the bed, I know I won’t sleep, not till they’ve gone separately to their rooms.
I don’t want it, but I get to imagining them having sex. Welkin’s hands round Bridget’s wrists, her chin crashing against his shoulder, Welkin grunting, Bridget crushed against the settee.
I get up and pace the room and my heart’s pounding so hard the blood’s beating in my teeth. To calm myself, I wash my face in cold water, drench my hair, wash my hands.
I listen out.
At last, Bridget’s bedroom door opens and she goes in. She goes in alone.
Welkin comes up the stairs.
I stand near the wall and listen.
He changes, washes, gets into bed and then he’s quiet.
I sit on the bed.
The only sound is of a few drunk lads out in the street, singing, one of them the leader, the other lads following.
I get down to the floor and do twenty push-ups and thirty sit-ups and, from the floor near my bed, I can see my toolkit’s been moved, pushed too far back. It’s not in the place I always leave it.
I pull it out from under the bed and check the contents and there’s no doubt the tools have been tampered with.
Someone’s been in here rummaging.
I take everything out to be sure, line the pieces up on the floor: SF and AF spanners, sealing pliers, grease gun and extension bars, the whole lot.
The ball peen hammer’s gone.
I go to the desk and sit and think about what I’ve to do and it doesn’t take me long to know.
I’ve got to go next door and wake him and ask why he’s moved my toolbox and taken the hammer. He must’ve done it when he got back from St Anne’s.
I’ll not wait till morning to face him at breakfast with Bridget listening in and I’ll not sit up the night without sleep and I’ll not let him get away with it.
I go out to the hall and knock once on Welkin’s door and say his name.
He doesn’t answer.
I try the handle and go in.
The curtains are closed and the stuffy air stinks of his drunken skin. It’s too dark for me to see what I need to see.
I go out to the hall, switch on the light and go back in with the door left open behind me.
I look at his big body asleep on its back and listen to the wet gurgling in his fat throat. His right arm hangs down over the side of the mattress and his fingers are near to touching the mouth of the empty whisky bottle.
I stand close by his bed.
‘Ian? Wake up. It’s Patrick.’
He doesn’t stir. He’s deep inside a drunk’s thick sleep and goes on snoring.
‘Ian? It’s Patrick. Wake up.’
He sleeps the untroubled sleep he doesn’t deserve.
I go back to my room and sit on my bed, but now I’ve got a bad thirst, the parched hot thirst of a fever. I go to the sink and drink two glasses of water then kneel down beside the emptied toolkit and restack it. When everything’s back where it belongs, everything but the ball peen hammer, I take the adjustable wrench and go to his room.
I stand beside his bed and wait.
I don’t know why I wait.
I take hold of his shoulder and shake him.
He grunts, turns on his side, seems about to wake. I move back, take a step into the middle of the room. But he doesn’t stir again and his heavy breath goes on dragging snot through his nose.
I step forward, lift the wrench in my right hand and bring it down. Only once, a good, certain blow to his temple, not heavy, and the wrench bounces.
I stand back and move the wrench from my right hand to my left, feel the heft of the handle, switch again, move it again.
His body shudders, his legs kick, right leg followed by left, then both legs at once, as though he’s struggling to get out from under the weight of the blankets. His eyes are open, staring out, but there’s no sign of pain. Two brief convulsions, then nothing.
He’s stopped snoring.
I go back to my room, put the wrench in the sink, and close the window so as not to be woken by noise from the street.
I sleep.
I wake with my neck and chest covered in sweat, turn over on my side, look across the room to the window. Night will soon be morning and there’s already a murky blue sky.
The pipes in the wall are groaning and I’ll bet Welkin’s left his taps running.
And then I remember.
I get up, dress, and go next door.
I knock on his door, soft, a few times, and when he doesn’t answer I go in, stand next to his bed.
His eyes are open and the room smells of shit and something’s changed. He’s not moving, but there’s something else, something that makes him seem small in the bed.
I hold my finger under his nose. There’s no breath. I put my ear to his open mouth. No breath and no sound. I step back. I keep stepping back all the way to the second bed, then I sit.
I’m not sure of anything, of anything at all. I get up, go over to him, check for breath again, go back, sit down, stand again.
I go out to the hall and stand on the landing. My skin’s gone cold.
I want more light, want the day to hurry up.
I go downstairs and turn on the lights in the hallway and in the dining room.
Bridget’s bedroom door’s locked. I call her name.
My voice is shallow, there’s not enough breath.
She doesn’t answer.
‘Bridget, it’s me. It’s Patrick. Wake up.’
My hands are numb, a tingling in my fingers, much stronger than pins and needles.
‘Bridget, wake up. I need to talk to you.’
She’s getting out of her bed now. She comes to the door, opens it.
‘Patrick? What’s wrong?’
She’s in her dressing-gown.
I say nothing, look at her face.
‘You’re crying,’ she says.
‘I might have done something,’ I say.
‘What’s the matter?'
‘I think something’s happened to Ian,’ I say.
She reaches for my hand.
‘What’s wrong, love? What’s happened?'
‘He’s not breathing. I think you should go and see.’
‘Is he sick?'
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But you’ve got to go up. He’s not breathing. I might’ve hit him a bit too hard.’
It’s sunk in.
‘Oh, God,’ she says.
‘You’ve got to go to him.’
She goes back into the room for her slippers by the bed.
I go after her and grab hold of her arm, probably too hard.
She looks afraid of me.
‘There isn’t time,’ I say. ‘You have to see to him before it’s too late.’
He might not be dead.
‘You have to go now.’
She goes fast up the stairs and I watch her till she’s out of sight then take my key from the hook and leave.
The air’s cool, the first frosty morning for a long time. Summer’s ended.
When I reach the water’s edge, I look out at the horizon and walk in the sand towards the pier. There are two orange lights from fishing boats out at sea and I don’t want to be seen by the fishermen if they come in.
I go back to the promenade wall and get a bit warmer under the light from the street lamps, but I’ve got that thirst again.
I’ll go now to the train station.
There’s a phone booth by the main entrance and I step inside. I think I’m only going in for some warmth. It’s cold with only a shirt on but, once I’m inside, I put the coin in and call.
The phone rings a long time. At last, an answer.
It’s my father.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s Patrick.’
‘Hello?'
‘Dad, I think I’ve done something stupid.’
‘Hello? I can’t hear you.’
‘Dad, it’s Patrick.’
‘Hello? Hello?'
‘I can hear you,’ I say. ‘Can you hear me now? Is Mum there? Can you please put her on?’ He’s hung up. I try again. My mother answers.
‘It’s five o’clock in the morning,’ she says. ‘Who is this?’
‘Hello, Mum. It’s me. It’s Patrick.’
‘Hello?'
‘Mum?’ I shout now. ‘It’s me. I need to talk to you.’ She hangs up.
I don’t know if she’s heard or not and I’ve no more coins to put in the phone.
The buffet’s closed and the waiting room’s open but there’s nobody here to help me and the drink machine’s out of order. There’s a handwritten sign on the front and the word THIS has been crossed out and someone’s replaced it with the word TIME. It says: TIME MACHINE IS OUT OF ORDER and I stare at it for a while before I know what it means and I’ve got a sickness in my gut. I leave the station, go down the main street.
There’s nobody out, only the newspaper man in his white van and a street sweeper. All the shops are closed.
