Crying in the Dark

by Shane Dunphy

  ‘S’pose we could try,’ Bobby said, looking uncertain.

  ‘I’d really like it if you did.’

  Micky was already on his feet. ‘C’mon then. I think I should be the one. He calls me, see? I’ll do it, righ’?’

  Bobby sat where he was for a moment, seemingly still unsure of the proposed enterprise.

  ‘Does Mammy know ’bout this?’

  ‘Yes. I asked her if it was okay.’

  ‘I don’ tink Daddy will be too happy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shook his head, obviously unhappy. ‘I jus’ don’t. Le’s play a game instead. What ’bout musical chairs? We played that th’ other time. It was good fun, wasn’ it?’

  Micky was at the door by now.

  ‘Oh, come on, Bob. It’ll be okay. Stop bein’ a sissy.’

  Begrudgingly, Bobby stood up and followed us.

  They walked down the narrow path that ran through the grass lawn that covered most of the garden, and stepped up onto the raised verge of the ditch, which was overhung with branches from trees and shrubs that had grown wild behind it. I remained several feet from them, not wanting to get in the way, squatted down on my haunches and waited. The object of the exercise was not to intervene. I simply wanted to see what happened during these secret meetings.

  They stood for a few seconds, not saying anything. I got the sense that they were gauging the atmosphere, taking stock of the light and the temperature. Micky was slowly turning in circles, looking at the top of the tree line. Finally, after several minutes had passed, he called loudly: ‘Daddy! Daddy, I wants you. Daddy, come and see us, please.’

  I had expected that he would continue calling, but after that single cry he fell quiet, and he and his brother stood side by side on the ditch and waited.

  What happened next has played on my mind a good deal in the intervening years, and I wish to state clearly that I am open to admitting that there may have been aspects of suggestion in how I perceived it. But, as far as I can recall, and without conscious exaggeration, this is what I experienced with those two children that summer’s afternoon.

  Everything seemed to go very still, as if the trees had stopped all movement and the very breath of the wind had ceased. I felt a trickle of sweat run down the small of my back. It was as if the actual environment was subdued, waiting pensively for someone or something.

  ‘He’s coming,’ Micky said.

  A sudden blast of cold wind almost knocked me over and I had to steady myself with a hand on the ground. The branches over the children’s heads lashed violently and then, just as quickly, were still, but a very audible breeze continued to ruffle the leaves like an electric current.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ Bobby said, his eyes now fixed on that intangible point in the air.

  ‘Daddy, this is Shane – he’s our friend we telled you ’bout,’ Micky said, and I noticed that there was a new quality to his voice. It seemed to be deeper.

  The boys went quiet, seemingly listening to something. I moved slowly around to the left, trying desperately to see if they were using a visual point of reference, but once again could see nothing.

  ‘Daddy, that isn’t nice,’ Bobby said. ‘He’s not bad. He’s good to us.’

  Micky had started to look frightened. I had to fight the urge to go to him. Something was happening. And whatever it was, they were unprepared for it.

  ‘I don’t wanna say that to him, Daddy,’ Micky said. ‘He’s my friend.’

  ‘That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that,’ Bobby said, tears in his voice now.

  I’d had enough. I stood up and slowly walked over to them. They were apparently unaware of me, locked into the confrontation with whomever or whatever it was they could see. I reached out my hand and touched Bobby on the arm. He started, pulling away from me in alarm.

  ‘You gotta go ’way from here,’ he said, his body quaking. ‘Not in the house – far ’way. He’s awful mad. You gotta go right now.’

  ‘What’s going on, Bob?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, but probably not succeeding. The air seemed to be full of electricity. I could almost see it crackling about us. A bank of dark clouds had gathered overhead, and there was a scent of rain heavy in the air.

  Micky slowly turned his head so that he was looking at me. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated to the point that I could barely see the corneas.

  ‘He says he hurted you once before,’ he droned in a monotone. ‘To show you he was real. You gots to go now, or he’ll hurt you again. Worser. He don’t want you in the house no more.’

  The wind kicked up again, a plaintive wailing accompanying it. In a great downward gush, the rain came. I was soaked through in seconds.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ I shouted over the roar of the elements, pulling both of them to me. ‘It’s time to go back in.’

  They came passively, moving as if they were in a trance. I closed the back door against the howling gale and ferocious downpour, and steered the boys to the front of the house. I could hear Biddy moving about upstairs. She did not come down to join us. Bobby and Micky sat together on the couch, staring at the wall.

  ‘You gots to go,’ Bobby said again, shivering, water running from his hair into his eyes. ‘He ain’t goin’ to let you stay.’

  I sat down in front of them on the floor, placing a hand on each one’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said firmly. ‘He can’t hurt me, and he won’t.’

  Micky, a strand of saliva dangling from his lower lip, stifled a sob. ‘You don’t know him. He’s mad now, and that means trouble for you. Don’t make him mad no more.’

  I looked out the window, and was amazed to see the sun shining brightly, and not a single raindrop on the glass pane. The boys and I were drenched. I stood up and went to the front door, opening it. The footpaths were bone dry. Somehow, it had rained at the back of the house, but not at the front.

  I went home and changed into dry clothes, then sat in front of the TV for half an hour, channel surfing. I opened a bottle of beer, but took a couple of sips and set it aside. I switched off the television and put on a CD, Springsteen’s Nebraska.

  I grabbed my keys and went back out.

  It was six when I knocked on the door of Sylvie’s flat. The front door of the building had been opened by a skinny woman who was coming out as I walked up, and she let me in without even looking at me.

  There was no response, so I banged a bit more loudly, calling: ‘Sylvie, it’s Shane. Are you home?’

  She opened the door, and I felt my heart drop.

  She’d been badly beaten. Her left eye was swollen shut, her cheek on that side red and puffy. Her lower lip had obviously burst, probably through her having bitten it, and it was caked in blood, misshapen and discoloured. Her forehead was black and grazed. I could see more marks about her neck and shoulder, where her top hung loose. The rest of her was probably a patchwork of bruises too.

  ‘Have you come to see your handiwork?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh Christ, Sylvie, I’m sorry.’ I knew why this had happened, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  She turned and walked back into the flat. ‘He hasn’t been back since, so you may as well come in. Mind you, what you were thinkin’ comin’ at this time, when he’s usually here, I don’t know.’

  I followed her inside and closed the door behind me.

  ‘He did this because of what I said to him?’

  The flat was a mess. It had been spotlessly tidy on my last visit. It seemed that she had let things slide. The room was in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn. Toys, rumpled clothes, cups, plates, dirty nappies rolled up in balls, used baby-wipes were everywhere. The television was on with the sound muted, playing The Simpsons. The door to the kitchen was open, and I could see that it was in an advanced state of disarray too. The smell of rancid food seeped out.

  ‘From what he told me, you did a little more than talk to him. He said you tried to rough him up.’

  I plonked down ont
o the couch.

  ‘I may have gotten a little physical, but I didn’t hit him or anything. He wasn’t hurt.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s beat me up before plenty of times.’

  She was a wreck in more ways than just the injuries. Her hair was stuck to her head, greasy from days without being washed. Her clothes were wrinkled and stained. I could smell sweat and more from where I was sitting. She obviously hadn’t been looking after herself.

  ‘It doesn’t excuse it. If I caused this to happen, I’m truly sorry. I was trying to get him to treat you better, not worse.’

  She attempted to smile and stopped, her lip causing her pain.

  ‘He said that you’d made it so’s he couldn’t pimp me out any more. Said that if he couldn’t put me on the street, then he might as well have me for himself. So he had his fun with me and then gave me a fairly sound hidin’. Usually, when he beats me, he tries not to leave any marks. This time, he didn’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Then, he left. Just like that. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’

  ‘D’you think he’s gone? I mean, has he left you for prolonged periods before?’

  She shook her head. ‘Never. I’d be fuckin’ thrilled except that I’ve no money, and we’re out of food and Gloria needs nappies and formula. We’re pretty screwed, to be honest. I woulda gone out to work anyways, except the woman downstairs won’t take the baby. Daddy told her not to.’

  ‘Well, I can help you there. I’ll pop down the shops and get some groceries and stuff for the baby. Why don’t I cook us dinner? I haven’t eaten yet. What do you say?’

  ‘Kitchen’s a bit of a mess,’ she said sheepishly, sounding every bit the thirteen-year-old she was.

  ‘Well, it’s nothing a little cleaning and tidying won’t fix. Where’s Gloria now?’

  ‘Asleep in her cot.’

  ‘Will she be okay while I pop out and you hop in the shower?’

  ‘Yeah. I can leave the door open in case she wakes up.’

  ‘Good. Get yourself cleaned up. Put on some fresh clothes. I’ll be about half an hour. Is there anything in particular you’d like to eat?’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you like.’

  She thought for a second.

  ‘In the centre, they used to make us sausage and mash on a Monday. Today’s Monday, isn’t it?’

  ‘All day.’

  ‘Can you make that?’

  ‘I think my culinary abilities can stretch that far. Go on. Get yourself looking human again. I’ll see you in a bit.’

  I felt as if I had beaten her myself. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid, that my macho need to protect her had clouded my judgement so badly. There was nothing to be gained from dwelling on it just then, so I did my waste-paper basket exercise again, and went to the car. I decided to focus on the mundane, on shopping, cleaning and cooking for her. I thought that, if I could immerse myself in the nuts-and-bolts of everyday living, I could get through the evening without becoming so consumed by guilt that I ceased to be functional.

  There was a supermarket ten minutes up the road. I got a trolley and did a week’s worth of a shop, getting basics like bread, milk and butter, as well as some fresh fruit and vegetables, tins of beans, peas and soup, dried pasta and rice. I threw in some frozen meals, unsure of how competent a cook Sylvie was, and plenty of baby products: nappies, formula, lotion, talcum-powder, as well as some of those jars of baby-food. I planned to check back in on her regularly anyway, and would need to talk to her about her financial situation. There were allowances she was entitled to, but the authorities would ask questions about her age and ability to care for Gloria. We had some serious conversations ahead of us, and Sylvie wasn’t going to like any of them.

  I stopped off at a chemist on the way back and bought painkillers and antiseptic cream, plasters and bandages. The cuts and bruises looked painful, and it didn’t seem that she had made any effort to tend to them.

  She let me in, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, flip-flops on her feet. Her short hair was tousled and she had a towel draped round her shoulders. I dumped the groceries in the centre of the living-room floor and handed the bag from the chemist to her.

  ‘I want you to take care of those bruises,’ I said, ‘while I clean up the kitchen and get dinner on. Then we’ll tackle the rest of this place. If we get stuck in, it’ll be done by the time the food’s ready.’

  She nodded. Now that she’d washed, her face didn’t look so bad. I guessed that she hadn’t bothered with personal hygiene since he’d given her the beating, and the blood had congealed, making it look worse than it actually was.

  The kitchen, on the other hand, was every bit as bad as it looked. I stacked dishes, scraping the contents into one of the plastic bags from the groceries, and ran some hot water into the sink, leaving the crockery to steep for a few minutes as I tidied up jars and sauce-bottles that had been left sitting among the crumbs and sticky knives and forks on the small kitchen table. I had bought detergent and dishcloths, and gave all the surfaces a good scrubbing, then went to work on the contents of the sink.

  When the kitchen was reasonably clean and tidy, I packed away the groceries I had bought, then peeled potatoes and put them on to boil. As I was chopping an onion for the gravy, Sylvie stuck her head in the door. She looked even better, having cleaned out the cut on her lip and stuck a plaster on the grazing on her cheekbone.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  I pointed to the pile of empty plastic bags.

  ‘I’ve got things under control in here. Why don’t you make a start on the living room? I’ve been using those as rubbish bags.’

  She smiled, took a couple and ducked out. Seconds later I heard her opening the curtains. She seemed more upbeat, and I reasoned that she was as happy to be doing something – anything – as I was. I like to cook, and the simple rhythms of making a meal acted as a kind of non-chemical anaesthetic.

  I heated a frying pan, drizzled in a little olive oil and put on the sausages. When they had browned, I removed them, putting them on a plate and leaving them in the warmed oven. I threw the chopped onions onto the pan, letting them soften in the remaining oil and then tossing in some butter, salt and black pepper. I left them to simmer.

  ‘D’you have a vacuum cleaner?’ I called to Sylvie.

  ‘Yeah. It’s in the press there in the kitchen.’

  I brought it into the living room and plugged it into the wall socket.

  ‘Will this wake Gloria?’

  ‘Probably, but it’s time she woke anyway. Our routine’s all shot to shit these past few days. I haven’t known which way was up. If she wakes, she wakes.’

  I nodded, and switched on the power with my foot. Sylvie had a duster and was cleaning the screen of the TV.

  When the place was liveable in again, I put the vacuum cleaner back in its place, and checked the potatoes. They were done. I poured off the water, retaining it in a bowl to use for the gravy. I made the mash with butter, salt, nutmeg and milk. Sylvie laid the table as I added the stock to the onions, deglazed the pan, then added some flour and mustard to make the gravy.

  ‘Jesus, that smells great,’ she said, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Fuckin’ starvin’. The cupboard’s been bare for a while.’

  ‘Well, hand me those plates. Watch out, they’re hot.’

  Just as we were setting the food on the table, Gloria began to make waking noises from the bedroom, and Sylvie went in and got her. I put some potato into a bowl for the baby, cooling it with some milk, and added a little of the gravy for flavour. Sylvie changed her nappy, gave her a quick wash, and we sat to eat.

  Sylvie didn’t say much during the meal, but she ate two helpings, allowing me to feed Gloria, who seemed to enjoy it almost as much as her mother. She was a happy, smiling child, gurgling merrily to herself, and, despite my best efforts, she managed to get
food pretty much all over herself and no small amount on me. I had bought some Ben and Jerry’s cookie-dough ice-cream for dessert, and we took it into the living room. The sound of the street came in through the open windows, and Sylvie put a CD into a small player she had.

  ‘The Carpenters?’ I said in surprise as the first chords of Close to You played.

  ‘Shut up. I like ’em.’

  ‘Not a damn thing wrong with the Carpenters.’

  ‘Me ’n’ Gloria love this song. Don’t we, Gloria?’

  The baby, who was sitting on the floor playing with a stuffed bear almost as big as herself, looked up at the sound of her name and smiled, burbling something at us.

  ‘I never would have seen you as a Carpenters’ kind of girl.’

  ‘And what kind of girl would you have seen me as?’

  ‘I dunno. Chart stuff. Britney Spears, Beyoncé; West-life, maybe.’

  ‘Well now, you’re wrong as can be. I don’t like any of that shit. I like the Carpenters and I love Simon and Garfunkel. And Elvis, of course.’

  ‘You’re full of surprises.’

  She sat in an armchair and attacked her ice-cream.

  ‘So how’d you get into the Carpenters? They don’t exactly get blanket airplay on the radio. At least not lately anyway.’

  ‘D’you remember Yolanda? At the centre?’

  ‘Yolanda Frears? Yeah.’

  ‘Yolanda was my key-worker for a few years. She used to listen to the Carpenters and Simon and Garfunkel. And my daddy likes Elvis.’

  ‘I see.’

  She gazed off into space as Karen Carpenter sang about how the angels came together and decided to create a dream come true.

  ‘It’s a happy song, I think,’ she said, ‘but she still sounds sort of sad. It doesn’t matter what she’s singing about. She always sounds that way.’

  ‘She wasn’t a very happy person, Sylvie. She died very young. Starved herself to death. Anorexia, y’know? Happy people don’t do that.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘It doesn’t make the music any less beautiful.’

  ‘More, maybe. Poor Mrs Carpenter. I wonder what she was sad about.’