The Whip Hand

by Nadine Browne

  It was really very simple: the woman is to store the fig for three full days and nights, and then bake her man a cake with it. After this, he will never want another woman.

  ‘Store it where?’ Clari had asked.

  ‘Inside you,’ said Katja, smiling, ‘Inside, you know …’

  Clari now stood pinching the fig between thumb and forefinger.

  Quickly, so as not to have time to change her mind, she pulled down her jeans, and her panties, and carefully, trying not to squash it, inserted the fruit like a soft, weirdly shaped tampon.

  ‘Three days,’ she sighed, straightening up.

  For the next three days and nights the fig lived inside Clari. She tried not to think about it too much, and instead went about her business as usual. At work she ignored Des, who seemed hugely grateful.

  At home she researched cake recipes and tried to ignore the itching.

  On the Sunday, after the full three days, Clari was standing in her kitchen, sugar, flour, milk and butter lined up before her, the oven on at 200°C and a cake tin greased and ready. She was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of socks, her bottom was bare and slightly cold, and she finally reached down for the last ingredient.

  ***

  Clari had pulled on a pair of jeans, and was taking her work of art out of the oven. She sniffed it suspiciously: it smelt okay. She considered how great it would be if she could try it out on someone first, on someone who didn’t matter, just to see if it worked, if it was safe.

  Katja had told her that, on very rare occasions, the festering fig could make the recipient a bit ill.

  ‘How ill?’ asked Clari.

  And Katja had smiled and shrugged, indicating that it was almost never fatal.

  The front door buzzer went off, and for one moment she thought that maybe the spell had worked just like that.

  She pressed the intercom, and whispered, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Clari?’ asked a stranger’s voice. ‘This is Eric, Mark’s brother. I’ve come for his boxes.’

  Clari stood gazing into space for a moment, feeling the annoyance build inside her. How dare he, she thought wildly, come here and interrupt me … And she stopped, smiling to herself, and pressed the button again.

  ‘Of course, Eric, but do come in.’

  A few minutes later, Eric, who was a taller, slightly fatter, version of Mark, stood in her hall, trying not to meet Clari’s eyes.

  ‘I am sorry about all of this,’ she said, looking forlorn.

  ‘Yeah, well … Is that his stuff?’ Eric pointed at the boxes in the corner and took a step towards them.

  Clari sidestepped in front of him. ‘It really is great of you to come and do this, Eric. Thank you so much.’

  Eric nodded, and again attempted to reach the last of Mark’s remnants. Again, Clari blocked his path.

  ‘It has been just so hard for me …’

  Eric shrugged.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Here Eric did look into her eyes, and they were huge and honeyed and brimming with tears, and before he knew how it had happened, he found himself seated in a sofa, being brought a cup of tea by Clari, who really was not the evil bitch his brother had portrayed her as.

  She placed the cup before him and smiled, prettily.

  ‘Cake?’ she asked.

  ***

  At Art Now, it was someone’s birthday. A blonde, skinny someone, who had screamed ‘Like oh my god I’m so fucking old!’ when the office had presented her with a giant birthday card, bearing ‘22’ in large red numbers.

  A chocolate cake, covered in sticky white icing, had been chopped up and distributed. Des, who had come in especially to wish the birthday girl well, had helped himself to a slice, placed it on his desk, and then strolled off to see what plans the blonde had for the evening.

  Clari took her chance and surreptitiously got up from her desk. She strolled, casually, to Des’s cubicle, holding in her hand a piece of cake wrapped in foil. She unwrapped it quickly and with a plastic fork lifted the icing off Des’s slice and plastered it on hers. She placed her cake on the little paper plate, ditched the other, and then went back to her seat, waiting.

  Her mobile rang, just as she watched Des retuning to his desk.

  It was Mark. She ignored it.

  Des was smiling at an email he was reading, typing something back with enthusiasm. She watched him pull the paper plate closer to him.

  The blonde stopped by his desk. Des showed her something on his computer screen and they both laughed, him in a masculine baritone, her in a girly shrill.

  Des whispered something to her, and she hit his shoulder playfully.

  Clari’s mobile beeped and, in an attempt to distract herself, she picked it up to listen to the voicemail she really couldn’t care less about.

  For one irrational moment, the idea of hearing Mark’s voice felt comforting. And then she heard it, trembling on her voicemail, and was immediately annoyed.

  The blonde was now sitting in Des’s lap. They were typing something together, while she giggled helplessly.

  ‘Clari …’ Mark’s voice sobbed, ‘Clari, my brother, Eric, he’s in the hospital … he really isn’t well, I need to know …’

  Clari pressed delete. She put the mobile down.

  She watched the blonde wriggle back to her desk.

  She watched Des take a large forkful of her special cake. She half-stood in her chair and reached out towards him, about to yell something, when he gave her a look: a tiny dirty glance filled with pure contempt.

  Clari sat back down.

  She watched the fork get closer to his mouth, and for one moment thought to herself, ‘He’ll either want me again or he’ll get what he deserves.’

  But then Clari let out a howl, jumped to her feet, clambered over her own desk, scattering computer monitor, papers, stapler to the floor and, still screaming, propelled herself at Des, slapped the fork out of his hand, grabbed the paper plate off his desk and threw it into the bin and, for good measure, shoved her foot in the bin and stomped on it.

  She thought, ‘I am a good person, I am a fucking good person and I am not going to let a man possibly die even though he deserves it.’

  She stopped screaming and looked around; the whole office had freeze-framed and was watching her with varying expressions of shock and confusion. The blonde had a look of dazed alarm on her face, which, Clari noted with annoyance, suited her.

  Des had shrunk back in his chair and looked properly scared; properly five-year-old-lost-in-the-supermarket-monsters-under-the-bed-that-film-with-the-zombies-that-kill-everyone-and-will-get-you terrified.

  As Clari was leaving the office a few minutes later, possibly for the last time, she felt proud of herself. Yes, she had probably lost her job and a little bit of her dignity, but she had also saved a man’s life.

  Her mobile started ringing again and this time she answered.

  ‘Look, Mark, I’m really sorry. About your brother, I mean. I can’t really explain but I was, you know … I feel responsible.’

  ‘No, no, it’s …’ Mark started, but Clari interrupted him.

  ‘Maybe the doctors need some … information … maybe, I don’t know, but I am sorry. It’s my fault.’

  ‘It really isn’t,’ Mark whispered.

  ‘No, it really is,’ Clari insisted.

  ‘No, Clari, you had nothing to do …’

  ‘Look, Mark, believe me, it was my fault.’

  ‘How could it have been? I mean, if that driver …’

  ‘That what now?’ Clari stopped.

  ‘The driver of the bus? Clari, Eric was run over by a double-decker in Camden. What did you think?’

  Clari didn’t answer, but stood watching the road, thinking that a double-decker might not be a bad way to go after all; thinking that of all the things she had thought were hers, only one remained and it didn’t seem like much.

  Drop

  We are waiting for the bottom to drop. We are waiting und
er the dome of a perfect sky, with the heat in our eyes, sweat down our backs and suspicion rising somewhere beyond the horizon.

  The waiting began as soon as we left London, left it behind in a blaze of glorious late summer, with Eli moaning that we were to miss those few precious days every year when London is a sweet-tempered delight.

  Radio 4 warns that the Indian summer we’ve been enjoying is sure to end, with gloom to follow, and Eli smacks her lips and switches off to silence. She says it is the same as telling a happy someone their joy is sure to curdle eventually; why take it away from them? Why not allow the nation to plan barbecues and hang their laundry out to dry? Why worry about the rain that always falls when it isn’t falling yet?

  ‘To taper expectations,’ I say, for argument’s sake.

  ‘Bullshit. Disappointment is always disappointing.’

  I glance at her, trying to spot any hidden meaning, but Eli is gazing out the window at the passing countryside, already lost in a blur of green and gold. That’s what disappointment is to her; a passing blur, insubstantial and vague.

  We stop at a BP station to fill up the car and buy snacks, and Eli insists we get a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. The attendant is a tall, thin young man. He wears the regulation green shirt, and smiles as if expecting the world to laugh at him. His nametag says ‘Jamie’.

  Jamie gives me a nod and a grunt.

  ‘How’s it going, mate?’ I ask, in a low, gentle tone. I wonder, for no reason, about his life; if he lives in the country and if he’s still a virgin. My dad once told me that a man always looks people in the eye. I wonder what pearls of wisdom Jamie has gotten from his folks.

  ‘Ice-cream,’ he says, smiling at Eli.

  Eli nods.

  ‘Where you heading, then?’

  ‘Devon.’

  ‘That’s nice, that’s really nice.’

  ‘You should come along, Jamie,’ Eli flirts shamelessly, leaning forward on the counter. Jamie’s gaze flutters from her to me and back to her, his whole body erect, his smile uncertain, as well it should be.

  ‘Yeah, like?’

  ‘Oh yeah. We’re going camping. I hate camping. Do you hate camping, Jamie?’

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘We’re going camping because my mate here thinks it will help cure me.’

  ‘Are you … ill?’

  Eli laughs and takes my hand, placing it against her mouth.

  ‘Very,’ she says into me.

  When we get back to the car, Eli jumps into the backseat, stretches out amongst the mess and falls asleep within minutes. The old Volvo is packed with boxes and bags, everything Eli owns in the world. I glare at the ancient PC, now on the seat next to me, and wince at the vicious bastard.

  Time passes and all I know is the dark slit between her parted lips as she lies sleeping.

  We get into Modbury and drive for an hour before we finally find the campsite. The ice-cream has turned to mush and Eli drinks it out of the container. I’m unloading the tent, trying to decide which way is south.

  ‘That’s so fucking nasty,’ I tell her.

  Eli scoops up a Chunky Monkey and throws it at me.

  Though summer is drawing to an end, and the trees are blushing with the advancing change, the place is chocker. All around the campsite tents of absurd dimensions have popped into being out of the copious interiors of the four-wheel drives that seem to be the only acceptable way of getting into the wilderness.

  ***

  I am reading the Culture section of last Saturday’s Guardian, my feet are bare in the sun, and I am massaging the grass with my toes. The nail on my left big toe is a stunning purple-black shade of agony.

  Eli is lying topless in the sun, on her stomach, tanning herself.

  I notice that the large fella next to us, with his executive tent and plump family, has noticed this. He is working on his fifth can of lager and keeps reaching greedy glances towards Eli. His daughter, of whom he is blissfully unaware, is howling by his side, her face red and her little fat fists clenched. The kid, who is no more than six years old, is prostrate with the grief of being denied a third ice-lolly and shrieking for all she is worth, tugging at her father’s shorts.

  Eli is listening to her iPod, singing lazily, and out of key, along to Madonna’s ‘Holiday’.

  She pulls an earphone out and glares towards our neighbour, her abrupt movement offering a flash of creamy delight.

  ‘You think someone’s gonna shut that kid up?’ she says.

  ‘You shut up. You want her father to eat you? Look at the size of him.’

  We laugh and glance towards the man, who has rediscovered his daughter and is now squatting next to the kid, trying to reason with her, before giving up the fight and disappearing into the caravan to procure the lolly.

  ‘And Eli, could you please put on some damn clothes. This isn’t fucking Ibiza.’

  Eli looks at me, though I cannot see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she is wearing, and says, ‘If we took a holiday, aha, oh yeah, took some time to celebrate, just one day out of life, it would be, it would be so nice.’

  ‘Grow up,’ I say, as she flops back down and covers her head with the top she could be wearing.

  I fall asleep and dream of nothing.

  When I open my eyes again it is cooler and the light has changed from golden to deep orange. The shadows are long and there are a few barbecues going in the vicinity. Ringlets of smoke reach for the sky.

  ‘Here,’ Eli says, and shoves a plastic goblet in my hand.

  She is now wearing jeans and a man’s flannel shirt, her hair is up in a loose bunch and her sunglasses are reflecting back my own groggy face.

  I wonder, briefly, whose shirt she is wearing.

  When I made a pass at her, years ago, she told me that I was too good for her. She leaned into my arms, her hair smelling of cigarette smoke and candyfloss, and she begged me not to want her in that way.

  ‘How should I want you?’ I asked.

  ‘Like this,’ she said, taking my hand and squeezing it, ‘like this …’ leaning back and smiling at me like a child, utterly trusting and utterly selfish.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Eli asks.

  ‘I’m thinking that you are quite the little slut,’ I reply and take a sip of my drink. Next to us, the father has fallen asleep in his chair and his daughter has disappeared.

  ‘What do you think these people think when they see us?’ I muse, partly to myself. ‘You think they think we’re screwing?’

  Eli shrugs, and I can tell she is a few glasses ahead of me.

  ‘You think they think we’re weirdos?’

  She snorts with laughter. ‘These people are fucking weird.’

  I look at her. ‘You reckon? They seem like the core of normality to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but normality is weird. Look at them, in their massive fuck-off tents and two point five children. You think any of them are actually happy?’

  ‘Fuck Eli. Who’s happy? Are you happy?’

  She tilts her head to one side and purses her lips, considering. ‘Sure I am. When I’m not depressed, I’m happy.’

  ‘So you are happy, like, right now?’

  ‘No, right now I’m fucking miserable. But if I were not then I would be happy.’

  ‘So you wish you were back home? Going another round with what’s his name?’ It’s a cheap thing to say, but I can’t stand the eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, watching me as if I were made of stone or nothing at all. I can’t fucking stand it.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘hey, don’t do that. I’m never going back to that. Not ever.’

  I might even believe her, if this weren’t the fourth time she and what’s-his-name had broken up. The first three times she came and stayed at my flat, got wasted and showed me her bruises. I asked her if she enjoyed getting hurt.

  ‘I like that he can make me feel. Pain is feeling,’ she had told me.

  ‘Pain is feeling, like a fucking tornado is weather,’ I h
ad replied, not looking at her.

  We both know this game, she would go back to him, and I would take her in when the shit hit the fan yet again. She would get drunk and saunter around my living room, a glorious mess, laughing and crying and undoing the buttons of her shirt to show me where it hurts. I’d touch her bruises – press the marbled heart of mauve and purple. Press it just a little bit too hard.

  Something buzzes close to my face and I swat it aside, while Eli drains her goblet and puts it carefully down on the blanket next to her.

  ‘You are a little fool,’ I say, and she seems uncertain for a moment. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the empty goblet, takes a sip of nothing, and throws it to the ground.

  ‘Maybe. But I know who matters. I know who cares about me, really cares.’

  ‘Do you, really? And what does it matter?’

  Eli removes her sunglasses and looks at me. The space between us catches fire, and I suddenly, violently, want to take her face between my hands and say to her you stupid girl, you lovely, stupid, stupid girl.

  That’s when we hear it: the scream. It is abrupt, jarring, and for a moment it does not seem human.

  Around us people are looking about, startled, and the large guy sits up in his chair. Eli is on her feet before me, before anyone else, sprinting towards a grove of trees beyond the campsite, and I get up to follow her.

  As I get closer I see a group of kids standing beneath the trees and I think, though I don’t believe it, that they must be messing about.

  Eli stops. She looks over her shoulder at me, her face smooth with fear.

  At the bottom of one of the trees, sitting amongst the debris of dried leaves and twigs, is the little girl who was howling only a few hours ago. Her face is covered in blood, her blonde hair blackened and sleeked to one side of her skull.

  She is silent.

  Her eyes dart around at the children who are screaming next to her.

  Eli kneels down next to the child and speaks, but the girl just stares ahead, her face ashen beneath the streaks of red, her eyes now fluttering wildly.