Between a Wolf and a Dog

by Georgia Blain

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says when he finally looks up, his cheeks damp with tears, his Adam’s apple working nervously in his throat.

  Ester tells him that this is one of the reasons why he is here: to let it out.

  ‘What if …’

  Jenny’s eyes are wide, her nostrils flared as she looks across at him.

  ‘I’m so scared he’ll …’

  Outside, a black cat slinks quickly across the fence, its fur jewelled with raindrops, its dash to shelter so fast and smooth that it’s gone almost as soon as it appears.

  Damon watches it, breathing slowly, trying to regain his composure before he turns back to Jenny.

  Ester leans forward. ‘The situation you’re in is very difficult. Unfortunately, it’s up to Marlo to change his behaviour; I can’t, you can’t — no one can but him. Which is why Greg didn’t want to see him unless he wanted to be there. And he doesn’t at the moment. But I can offer you both coping strategies. And information,’ she adds, ‘about what you’re dealing with.’ She has already sent them links to various articles about school refusal and different approaches being trialled by different therapists, as well as a useful article for parents of addicts.

  ‘It’s up to you as to whether you want to continue — either together or just one of you by yourself, although I think that dealing with this as a couple would be better. But you need to make that decision.’

  Jenny nods. She is picking at a fingernail, and then she takes it up to her mouth and snaps at it, small white teeth cutting through it.

  ‘You’ve never met Marlo,’ she eventually says.

  Ester shakes her head.

  ‘He’s over six foot. And he’s big — broad-shouldered, heavy-set. If he wants to play a computer game, I can’t stop him. If he doesn’t want to go to school, I can’t get him out of bed and into the car. If he won’t help with clearing the table, I can’t make him. I know I can’t force change. I know.’ Damon has taken her hand, her pale fingers curled up inside his hold. He strokes her arm gently, and she seems to ease a little, uncrossing her legs, her shoulders slumping slightly as she continues to speak: ‘Last week, I took all the keyboards and locked them in the car. He smashed the car window to get in.’

  She glances across at Damon. ‘Sometimes I hate him.’

  Damon pulls her close, his arm around her, rocking her. Even as the cracks in the world around him widen, he has love to give. It is wide and deep, sure flowing and constant, there to carry her moments after he himself has plummeted. Ester sees it; the warmth of its certainty fills the room each time they sit together on the couch opposite her, and it is there now as the rain beats steadily on the cold glass of the windows, running down the panes like sheets of silk.

  The clock on the desk shows their time is almost up. She looks at them both.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘You can’t force change for him, but you can change your responses. And you have such a good basis from which to work together. I’d like to talk more about this — boundaries that are possible to draw and ways in which you can enforce them without escalating conflict further. We began to touch on this at the end of our last session, and that’s the place I’d like to return to. Sometimes when we are in very difficult situations, it’s tempting to keep going over our helplessness rather than focusing our attention on areas in which we do have some power.’

  Damon nods earnestly. ‘That sounds good,’ he says with the enthusiasm of a young child for a project. ‘I want to do that, we can do that.’ His watch is loose on his wrist, and he pushes it back up again as he reaches for his boots.

  Jenny is staring at the floor.

  Ester turns to face her.

  ‘Why don’t you both talk about this at home?’

  Jenny nods.

  ‘I’d like to continue working with you together, but obviously that’s up to you.’

  When she stands, Jenny only just reaches Ester’s shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed as she puts her bag on her shoulder and takes out her phone. ‘I’ve got a meeting,’ she says. ‘A merger that’s gone ugly.’ She looks out the window, not really talking to either of them as she composes herself, and then turns back to face Ester, all vulnerability masked. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  This is what her clients do. They breathe in, leave her house, and re-enter the world, heading back to home or to an office where everyone is answering emails, talking on the phone, seeing clients, making tea. All of them with their own pain — divorce, parents dying, illness, trying to have children and not being able to, daily tragedies like shadows, growing, shrinking, growing again.

  A world of ghosts, Ester thinks.

  She shakes her head. This is the world she lives in. Here, in this room, it is the shadows that talk. I am the third miscarriage; the fear each time my ex-husband contacts me; my regret at putting my mother in a nursing home — and my unbelievable sorrow about my son.

  She talks to their shadows, but they never talk to hers.

  LAWRENCE SITS ALONE in his room, staring at the computer screen.

  Normally, he would have delivered the results by now: summarised data, accompanied by a media release that will form the basis of the next day’s front page and a double inside spread. He would be on the phone to Paul, the editor, talking through any queries, trying to nudge the story in a particular direction, usually with little success. He also has interviews tentatively booked in with three radio stations, the evening television news, and a couple of blogs. It is likely that there will be more requests coming through today.

  Edmund will be enjoying taking his time deliberating. This is what a man of conscience does. Will he let Lawrence off the hook with a sanctimonious lecture and an end to their relationship, or will he go straight to the paper to inform them that Lawrence has been ‘adjusting’ the data?

  Lawrence contemplates the possibility, a cold stone in his stomach as his mind slips into a habitual weighing of outcomes. On a scale from one to ten, how serious would the impact be on his life, with ten being the most serious?

  The answer is as it always is: It depends.

  Is he talking about the impact on him as a person, on his identity and sense of self, on his reputation? And if so, would the paper keep quiet, wanting to protect its own reputation? Or would others find out? Is he talking about the financial impact? Again, this would depend on whether his other clients got wind of the scandal. He uses Edmund for other jobs. How far would he go?

  One question is inevitably capable of opening so many more. Lawrence shakes his head, and checks his email once again. Still nothing.

  And so he stands and stretches, the panic in his gut becoming colder.

  His office is sparsely furnished. There is a desk under the small window that looks out over the street, and, next to it, a filing cabinet. A large rug, deep-orange wool, covers the floor, and on the other side of the room is a long, low mid-century couch that he bought for an exorbitant sum when he first separated from Ester. He had thought it was stylish, and it is, but it is uncomfortable as well. There is a coffee table next to it, also far more expensive than he had been able to afford, and, around the walls, speakers, one expense that he does not regret.

  He turns the music up a little, but it is hopeless with the drumming of the rain. He cannot hear the slow lilt of Bill Callahan, the tired, sardonic drawl drowned out by the steady rhythm on the tin walls and roof.

  He needs to think.

  No, more importantly, he needs to buy some time. He should call the newspaper and let them know there has been a problem with the data, that there might be a delay. And then he should alert each of the other interviewers.

  He looks at his computer screen.

  If he doesn’t call them, they will call him.

  There is one message on his phone — the number unknown, the time earlier in the day. He remembers now. It was when he was talking to Edmund
. It’s likely to be another request for an interview, although it’s unusual for him not to have the number in his phone. He’ll check it in a minute. First, the paper.

  Paul answers on the second ring. They are friends of sorts. He and Ester went over for dinner a couple of times, and then, after the divorce, Paul took him out for a drunken night, detailing his own misery at home for most of the evening. Sarah was either haranguing him or cold and dismissive. I don’t love her anymore, and he’d leant across the table as he’d made this admission, his face flushed and ugly from too much red, his breath stale. Lawrence had recoiled, wondering at how repulsive so many men could be, and then when Paul had asked him what had led to Ester booting him out, he’d shaken his head and lied. We grew apart, he said, which, while not untrue, wasn’t the whole story.

  Paul answers now with his usual clipped work response, a ‘gidday’ that launches straight into the matter at hand. He hasn’t had a minute to look through his emails, he’s assuming no major surprises in the poll. And then, before Lawrence has a chance to answer, Paul says he’s been wanting to chat to him, to talk about the future. The cost cuts are going to mean big changes, and it’s going to affect them.

  ‘But I’ve got an editorial meeting happening five minutes ago, I’ll have to call you back —’

  He is about to hang up, and so Lawrence speaks over him. ‘No results as yet,’ he tells him. ‘Which is why I’m calling. There’s been a hitch with the data.’

  ‘How serious?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ Lawrence says. ‘I’m on the case.’ He can hear someone laughing loudly in the background, and that, coupled with the incessant drumming of the rain, means it’s difficult to catch Paul’s response. Something along the lines of ‘get it sorted’ and ‘talk soon’.

  At least he knows Edmund hasn’t spoken to them yet.

  Jesus Christ, he hates Edmund. Always has, he realises. Although the intensity of his dislike had crystallised when he had told Edmund that he and Ester had divorced. He doesn’t know why he told him — it wasn’t like they ever talked about anything personal — but he’d been such a mess at the time he’d frequently found himself blabbing without thinking. Edmund had told him that he didn’t believe in divorce. You make a vow and you keep it.

  Perhaps this is a good thing after all. He’ll find someone new. And then he shakes his head again. Who’s he kidding? This isn’t a good thing. It’s a mess, and he doesn’t know why he did it. He’d begun when the previous government had hit rock bottom in popularity. He supposes he’d just wanted to make some feeble attempt to counter the relentless flow against them, a flow that his work had helped to create.

  But was that all it was?

  Ester had once accused him of being in love with the power of lying and cheating. There had been previous girlfriends who’d voiced similar sentiments.

  He sits down on his over-priced lounge and looks out at the gloom of the day, his phone still in his hand. The sweat on his palms makes his grip slippery, and he drops it between the cushions, only remembering the missed call as he searches for it by feel, the darkness of the room making it impossible for him to see.

  When he finds it, he dials his voicemail, but is unable to hear a word.

  He needs somewhere quieter.

  He lies down on the couch, pressing his ear on the phone and the phone against the cushion in an attempt to muffle the sound of the rain.

  It’s Hilary. She needs him to call urgently.

  And she leaves her number in case he no longer has it.

  AFTER APRIL LEAVES, Hilary goes back to the house. Her daughter’s coffee cup is still on the table, the imprint of her lipstick like a fossil on the rim. Her plate is next to it, a half-eaten piece of toast sitting in the centre, now cold.

  She leaves them where they are, holding onto the traces of April’s presence for just a little longer.

  In the hall, Maurie’s dressing gown is draped over the bannister, and Hilary leaves that too, breathing it in as she walks past, the faint turpentine from Maurie mingled with April’s talcum sweetness. It is almost too much, this increasing bombardment of the senses, each instant passing with a slowness that is pure and painful. It is as though her life has been in fast motion until now, racing forward, a great crush of people, places, moments, anger, joy, love, despair all coming to a sudden stop, colliding into each other at the gate, while she slips through, walking onwards, alone in a quiet land.

  Upstairs, she takes two painkillers. The headache is there again, at the edge of her temples, like a dense cloud clotting. She can see it in her eyes and in the tightness with which she holds herself, shoulders and back straight, face staring directly ahead. The doctors have told her that initially the pills should help in dealing with the pain, however they will soon not be strong enough. She hopes that moment hasn’t yet come.

  The first headache struck on the evening she completed the rough picture cut. She thought she’d been working too hard, that she might have strained her eyes, although the intensity of the pain had alarmed her.

  Something wasn’t right.

  And then a fortnight later, the world collapsed into a throbbing centre, her entire being at the mercy of its force. Lying in her darkened room, she could do nothing but ride it out, let it wash over and through her, until a day later she emerged, shaken and weak, and booked an appointment with her GP.

  There are two tasks to complete before she sees Ester this evening. The first is simple. She has to go to Henry and pick up the drugs. The second is meeting Lawrence. Hilary splashes her face with lukewarm water and then puts on the red enamel ring that Maurie gave her when she turned twenty-seven. She wears it when she particularly needs his presence, the warmth of the copper base against her skin and the weight of the round red disc solid enough to ground her.

  She remembers that birthday. They had been living in a studio in Paddington, not far from this house now. It was tiny, surrounded by monstera, the green glossy leaves pressing against each window. She used to call it the ‘Triffid room’, and although she hated the determined growth of that plant, its thick fleshy stems and pods too alien and alive, she did love the softness of the light filtering through, the coolness of that chlorophyll veil.

  They had invited everyone they knew, too many for the flat and the slender concrete balcony that ran along the front, too many for the hall and the driveway, and for the small garden off the street. There had been a moment when she had thought they were going to bring down the long outside landing, everyone tumbling into the monstera, caught in the great spread of its leaves, giant green hands waiting to catch them all.

  The record player gave up by midnight, the needle so blunt it couldn’t follow a single groove. The alcohol also came to an end early, but no one minded — they rolled fat joints and passed them around, damp Tally-Ho paper pink with lipstick, the sweet smell of grass.

  Later, when the crowd had thinned, she found Maurie sitting on the low-lying wall that ran along the footpath. He was staring up at the stars, pinpricks of light in the midnight sky, humming softly to himself. It was unlike him to be alone, and she came up behind him, wrapping her arms around the warmth of his body, burying her face in the softness of his hair.

  ‘We should get married,’ he said when he turned around, his voice so hushed she wondered whether she had heard him.

  He waited for her to speak.

  ‘Not us,’ she eventually told him. ‘It’s a beautiful night. I love you. But I don’t want to marry anyone. Ever.’

  He had looked at her and smiled, taking her face in his hands, her cheeks cool beneath his skin, and he had kissed her, once on the mouth, and then the forehead. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ he whispered. He kissed her again. ‘Which is why I asked you.’

  Across the road, a drunken couple laughed loudly, and somewhere back in the flats a glass shattered, a sharp, staccato bell as it hit the concrete. Next to her, M
aurie had continued staring up at the sky, the warmth of his body close, the smell of alcohol and smoke and paint, and, beneath that, a deep richness that she knew so well.

  ‘We’re going to have a good life, you and I,’ he told her. ‘Years and years and years in front of us, and so much love.’

  The roughness of his cheek was fresh against the smoothness of her own skin, the coldness of the night air swallowing her in great gulping gasps as she moved closer to him under the darkness of the sky.

  ‘You’re my home,’ he had told her.

  ‘And you’re mine,’ she had replied.

  She had been so fortunate, carrying the gift of that love within her, along with an awareness of the keenness to its edge: the possibility of loss glinting just in sight. Perhaps this was why she had always held a certain part of herself in reserve. Or perhaps this was simply who she was. But not Maurie. He saw nothing but the joy, and he wanted to scoop it all up, roll around in it, throw it in the air; a fabulous toy that never ceased to surprise and delight.

  ‘Let’s have children,’ he’d said on the third night she’d slept with him. ‘Hundreds of them.’

  Hilary had laughed. ‘And will they look after themselves?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he’d insisted. ‘They’ll grow and flourish and burn bright without us ever having to do a thing.’

  He hadn’t wanted to stop at Ester. He would have kept going, child after child after child, their entire life reduced to milk and nappies and prams and blankets, heaters drying clothes, the cry of babies like kittens mewling.

  ‘That’s it,’ she’d insisted, refusing to sleep with him until he had a vasectomy.

  And there had been war in their house, silent, pacing war — who could hold out the longest? — a war he never had a chance of winning. It was what she had to do, temper his enthusiasm with a strain of harsh reality, a role she’d sometimes hated him for.

  But now, here alone on the other side of their life together, she looks back on those flashes of anger as simply that: no more than jagged cuts of lightning in the sky, so brief against all that stretched before and after.