The War Zone

by Alexander Stuart

  I feel safe now. I feel in charge – a moment’s pause makes all the difference. I gather up the prick pictures and push the others back under the bed. This is going to give Jessie something to think about. When she finds what’s missing, she’s going to shit a brick.

  It’s my game now and we’re going to play by my rules.

  15

  Jessie’s room again. It’s dark, two o’clock in the morning and everyone’s asleep except me. Her windows are open, the curtains half drawn to let in some air, though there’s a stillness in the

  room to match the stillness outside. No sounds, no dog barking, no village traffic, not even a far-off owl or twittering bat or any of those country sounds you’re supposed to be able to hear. London is not like this. In London, there’s always someone walking the street, a thug, a partygoer, some poor homeless sod whose life is now a can of Carlsberg, a filthy coat over his face and his hand down his pants trying to scratch away the lice. This village is dead, it makes me care about nothing. I just want to get out, I don’t care what the rest of my life is like as long as it’s not lived here.

  Jessie is sleeping in her bed, her face turned toward me. She’s asleep. I can’t but she can, that’s how it works. She looks a step ahead of me even in sleep, her mouth curled down and open slightly over her teeth, ready to launch any argument I might present into space and convince me that nothing is what it seems. The pictures must still be under the bed – the ones I left. I don’t know if she knows I’ve got the others yet, but if she does she’s given no sign of it. I hesitate, standing over her, scanning the room in the darkness.

  Mum and Dad are asleep on the other side of the landing and I don’t want them to hear me. I especially don’t want Jake to hear me. I’ve pushed the door shut but have wedged one of Jessie’s shoes between the door edge and the frame. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts but I’m sweating despite the fact that a chill blade of fear is working its way between my bones, making me feel that this is a mistake, I should forget about everything and turn a blind eye, things can only get worse for me.

  But that’s what I want. If I’m stuck with it, it must be, right? I must want life to get worse, it’s only by getting worse that we’ll get away from here and everything will change. Jessie, you make life difficult for me. I fucking worship you and you mess us all around. You lie there sleeping like a perfect being, immune to the chaos you create, and I have to decide what to do. There’s no one to turn to on this, so I’m blaming you because you’re the only one I can reach.

  There’s no light in my hand but I switch it on. The glare is powerful, blinding, the heat instant. I ram it in your face – spit it out, make your promises and your repentance! She’s only half awake and already I’m slapping her hard, sharp, a quick blow across one cheek, a heavier one across the other. The cut is still on her mouth where I scratched her on the beach. I should have scratched harder. She won’t understand unless I can make her feel the pain – and I can’t feel any until she does.

  I take her by the shoulders and shake her. She lifts herself off the bed, bleary-eyed, listening to what I’m saying. If only I had that light I could press it in her face, sweat it out of her, make her see what this is doing to me, to all of us as a family.

  She sits up. I shove her back. ‘You’re weird, Tom,’ she tells me. ‘It’s not happening now. Go to sleep. I won’t let it hurt you.’

  Why should I believe her? ‘Have you told Dad I know?’

  ‘I’m not crazy.’ She sits up again, brushing me aside, turning and digging a determined elbow into her pillow. ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  Her voice is a whisper, hoarse, sharp, she wants to get rid of me. I sit on the bed. She lies back wearily, keeping her arms above the sheet which is her only covering, pushing it down to her navel to cool off, maybe to reinforce the suggestion that she wants to be left alone to sleep.

  ‘How can I trust you?’ I ask. ‘I want you to say it’s stopped, but how can I ever believe you again?’

  ‘You’ve got to find a way.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Jessie’s head is on the pillow. I have a view of her chin, then shadow and just the glint of her eyes. ‘No one was meant to know about this, it wasn’t meant to hurt you.’ She cranes her neck to look at me, tries to sound close, like we used to. ‘This is between Dad and me. It’s over. If you can put it out of your mind, it’s as if it never happened.’

  What she’s saying is true, but it doesn’t help. Because it’s not true, it’s only true on one level, it’s convenient, but she’s a liar and a cheat and she’s betrayed everyone closest to her. They both have. How could they do it? Sex must be better than love, better than money, better than anything for them to have wanted to do it this much. They must have wanted to, they must have thought about us and said, ‘Yes, fuck it, let’s do it. Let’s do it anyway. They’ll survive, they’ll never know.’

  I’m quiet. I keep my voice low. I don’t need histrionics, I’m in control now. I throw myself over Jessie so fast she’s stunned. I pin her to the bed, pressing her arms down by her side, moving my mouth so it’s over her face. I could bite her nose off, it’s in the way, it’s getting between us, obstructing what I want to say to her. I let her wait, listening to my own breath, listening to her silence. She doesn’t struggle, this kind of thing must happen to Jessie all the time, the way she behaves.

  ‘Jessie—’ My voice is dry. I try to squeeze it out of my throat, make it sound threatening. I am threatening her, I mean it. ‘I’ve seen the pictures. The pictures you did of Dad. I’ve got them.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to stop. You must stop, I’ll make you. I’ll take them to the police. I’ll tell Mum.’

  ‘The police wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘I hate the bastards. But I’ll go if I have to. I think they would. I think, especially here, they’d love to bust open a family like us. They think we’re sick already.’

  She’s hot beneath me. Her arms are rigid, maybe ready to throw me off, but I’ve got my hands locked over her wrists, she’s not going to get anywhere without a struggle and that would wake Mum and Dad. I sense a movement in the curtains, but I wait and it’s nothing.

  ‘Get off me, will you?’ She tries to lift herself up a little. I don’t let her. ‘You’re acting like a child.’

  ‘I’ll tell Dad if I have to. I’ll tell him I know and I’ll tell him I’ve got the pictures. I’d rather tell him than Mum.’ I’m working this out as I go along. ‘And I’ll tell him about the coke.’

  This doesn’t worry her. What proof would I have? She could get rid of it before I’m even past her door.

  ‘What is it you want me to say? I’ve told you we’ve stopped.’

  ‘No you haven’t.’ What promise can I extract from her? There isn’t one. I force my weight on her, pushing my bony chest onto her ribs beneath her breasts.

  ‘Look,’ she pants, ‘it hasn’t happened much. It was something we tried. I wish we hadn’t. It’s too complicated. I’m more interested in Nick. You think Dad’s that exciting?’

  ‘You told me he was. You told me he was brilliant. Either you were lying then or you’re lying now.’

  ‘Why should I want Dad when I can have Nick? Dad’s old.’

  ‘He’s not that old.’

  I think about this. She’s starting to confuse me. I relax my weight a little, my grip. I feel her breathe, sucking in air, forcing my chest up with hers. She looks at me, eyes like slits, her voice different, less worried.

  ‘It’s not going to happen again,’ she says. ‘I promise. It’ll be all right. It’s Nick I’m interested in. At least until London. I mean he’s not perfect, he’s incredibly insecure, but he fucks well. He’s great physically. The minute this stupid week is finished, I’m seeing him, he can’t stop me. You know that – he can’t stop me?’

  Suddenly she’s talking about Dad the way she always has, as a force to be manipulated, to be defied or won over. Maybe sh
e means it about Nick. They were gone long enough. But I can’t imagine him insecure. The thing about Nick that comes into my mind if I think about him is a quiet calmness. I would have thought he’d be very sure with Jessie – out of his depth, who isn’t? But still very strong and confident.

  I lie on her thinking this through. She’s quiet, she doesn’t interrupt. I can feel her breathing, relaxed now, waiting. The room is still, not the slightest waft from the curtains, just the two of us stretched on the bed, no movement, no creaks.

  But then there’s a sound outside on the landing. Someone is getting up, they must have heard us. No. The steps are on the stairs, going down. I can’t tell if it’s Mum or Dad. Jessie and I are frozen, holding our breaths to hear. There’s a knock from the bathroom as the loo seat is lowered, then a tinkling sound, more a falling than a jet so it’s probably Mum.

  She flushes. Water trickles from a tap and there’s a muted thumping from the cistern or the tank as it fills up. Then silence and Jessie and I tense up. Nothing for a moment, then a click as the bathroom cabinet is closed, I think.

  Silence again. More steps on the stairs, coming closer now. The room hangs in the air as she comes past. Will she look in? No. The steps turn away, there are some dim, muffled sounds, then a murmur from Jake, half a cry, not much, then the sense more than the sound that he is feeding.

  My mouth stretches into a strained smile of relief, though my heart’s thumping and I don’t know what I’m relieved about. Jessie eases me off her and I don’t resist. I straighten up on the bed and sit over her, but then she slides out and gets up, moving silently to the window. She stands there naked, her back to me.

  ‘I’ve still got the pictures,’ I whisper, barely audible but needing to reassert myself somehow. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She glances back at me.

  Maybe she’ll try to find them, I think. But they’re well hidden, not even in my room, down behind a prized-loose panel of wood at the bottom of the stairs – next to where Dad’s work drawings are stored, but not actually in the understairs cupboard.

  I get off the bed, looking around the room as if there’s something I’ve forgotten. Jessie is still at the window, in front of the dark rectangle of Sonny’s portrait of her but her head angled past it, staring out at the village. I move to go. She turns.

  ‘You’re thinking about this too much,’ she says, her voice almost a hiss. We can hear Mum soothing Jake. ‘I’m worried about you.’

  I stop in my tracks. It’s another one of her classics, not really believable. ‘You should be,’ I tell her.

  ‘No, I mean you’re concentrating too much energy on the wrong things. This is something that’s over, it can’t be changed. You ought to concentrate on your own life more. I know,’ she says before I can stop her, ‘this is as much about you as me and I’m sorry, I am sorry. But you should be careful.’

  I feel awkward suddenly. She can do that to me. I feel a hole somewhere gaping in me, an emptiness. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’re too serious, you’re too hostile. All right, I deserve that at the moment, but it’s not good for you.’

  I can hardly hear her. I’m not sure I want to. I cross the room back toward her, just to say this: ‘You’re really concerned about what’s good for me, aren’t you? You and Dad. Did you ever think about the rest of us before you started? I don’t know how the hell it did start but you certainly weren’t showing how much you cared for me.’

  Jessie faces me in the darkness, leaning down to scratch her leg. She’s totally naked but she might as well be driving a tank for all the impact I’ve made on her. But I’ve got the pictures and that must make a difference.

  ‘Life doesn’t have to be a constant battle,’ she whispers. ‘The week’s almost finished. Get out. Spend some time with Caz’s brother.’ She looks at me, right through me. ‘Go and see Lucy.’ I blush. She sees everything, she gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. ‘I think she might be interested if you approached her right.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word with her?’

  She’s doing it again. I thought this was my confrontation, she’s meant to be on the defensive – but she’s turning the tables. She can’t let it stop until she feels she’s on top. I walk away. Jake is wailing now in the other room and Mum must have her hands full trying to quieten him. Jessie takes advantage of the cover to throw a thought at me, spoken so I can hear it clearly, so it knocks around my brain.

  ‘Do you think she wanks in the toilet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lucy?’ I can feel Jessie smiling at the back of my neck. ‘Do you think Lucy wanks in the toilet when she’s feeling neglected. I do.’ And she scratches her pubic hair as I turn, to point out to me how it’s done.

  I struggle to block my mind from thinking about anything but Jessie and the power she has over me. I don’t want to hear things like that about Lucy – but I do, and about herself. I like her to try and shock me, to open doors I didn’t know were there. She’s an evil little cunt but she’s my sister and all she’s doing is driving me nuts.

  Jake has stopped crying. Mum must have heard us, some of it, but if so why hasn’t she come through? If she came through now, it would all have to come out, there’d be a way of telling her, I’d have to, but she doesn’t.

  I’m at the door. There’s no one on the landing. Mum and Dad’s room is quiet, no voice asking, ‘Who is that? What are you two doing out there?’ Jessie is back on her bed, sitting on it, one leg on the floor, the other curled up, her foot almost in her lap.

  ‘Remember, I’ve got the pictures,’ I say and I go back to my room, not even very quietly, the floorboards creaking and my mind all over the place, not caring, making myself not care. That’s the thing: not to care.

  16

  So Mum asks me what’s wrong. ‘What’s wrong?’ she says when I spend a couple more days moping around the house even after our internment has ended. ‘What is it? Is it being here? Is it really

  that bad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We’re on our own together. She’s sorting through a stack of

  photographs of Jake, choosing ones to print for relatives. The TV is on on the kitchen counter, an Australian soap opera with some young beach blond in her knickers but they all look the same. Mum’s face is alive as she looks at the pictures, a delicate smile hovering on her lips, real delight showing there, this is her escape, this is her baby, she doesn’t need the rest of us. She looks at me, reading my thoughts – everyone can do that.

  ‘Talk to me, Tom. Is it the baby? Does that make you feel different?’

  She’s astute, my mum. She likes people, she’s genuinely fascinated by them. I wonder if she fucks her clients? I’ve often thought she must, she and Dad have their own lives so much and he’s always been a bastard, I bet – I mean he used to seem like God to me and still could, almost, but he’s also like Jessie, selfish, able to justify anything to himself. If Mum did make love to one of her clients I think it would be important to her, it wouldn’t be something she’d enter into lightly. With Dad it’s just greed, he’s a slobbering prick, he doesn’t give a shit either.

  ‘I know this hasn’t been a good summer for you,’ Mum says, watching me, making me want to cry stupidly but I don’t. ‘You didn’t want this move but you’re stuck with it and you’ve behaved pretty well, really.’ Have I? This must be a mother’s eyes. Whatever, it’s distressing to hear good of yourself.

  ‘It won’t be for ever,’ she says. She holds a strip of negatives up to the light to identify a frame. She likes real photography, my mum, the warmth of film. Life isn’t digital for her. Not yet. ‘We’ll go back to London. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  This sounds surprisingly definite. But perhaps she’s just trying to make me feel better. She doesn’t know, how can she when I won’t tell her? It’s all nonsense, like the shouting match on TV, two bad Australian actors trying to act emotion
al. It’s all crap, except the part that hurts and that doesn’t fucking hurt enough.

  ‘What’s the point of me going through the horror of starting a new school if I have to leave the dump after a term or two?’ I ask. ‘I mean I know I don’t exactly have the most brilliant record with educational establishments, but this is doomed from day one.’

  ‘I know.’ She puts the negatives down and writes numbers in a box on the flap. She looks at me, her mouth open in a pout that’s a lot like Jessie’s for a moment, only more concerned. Mum cares, she feels for me, but just not enough to go to war on my behalf. ‘It’s a good school,’ she says. ‘You might like it.’

  How can I tell her? She doesn’t want to know about Jessie and Dad, it will destroy her. She’s got her baby and she’s got her career and she thinks she’s still got us in the background and she’s probably happier now than she has been for years – I ought to be glad that someone is. Why?

  ‘I might be miserable,’ I point out, no surprises, she’s used to me like this. ‘I’m good at that. I get a lot of practice.’

  ▪

  I’m not alone, at least I know that. Other people are unhappy, maybe more so. This village is a sham, the quiet lives everyone leads. Only this evening the television news had the story of another village, not so different, where someone went mad with a gun and topped all the old familiar faces – his neighbors, his teacher, his parents and finally himself. Was his dad skewering his sister, or did he have another excuse? What good is life if everyone else can lose theirs so easily? It’s rubbish, it’s more Australian soap opera. I sit in my bedroom with the lights turned out and the window open and for once I think I can hear the sea and I wonder if I could do it, if I could just get a gun and open fire indiscriminately, and then I wonder why I don’t – is it just some chemical in my brain and in most other people’s that stops us from acts like these? Is it just some component of my blood preventing me from crossing the edge, or even now are Dad and Jessie not clear enough targets for me?