by Paula Daly
I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the way he spoke, his words loaded with a meaning I couldn’t quite comprehend.
‘Next time you have a crisis, Roz,’ Scott said darkly, ‘you make sure you call me.’
18
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I rose early, leaving Scott in bed, deeply asleep. I’d told him last night I would slip away first thing. He was planning to eat breakfast at the hotel before driving north for the races. Then he was dining with Petra and Vince at the no-frills Italian to which I’d agreed to go but would back out of later with a migraine.
I never got migraines. But since Petra used the excuse so frequently, she could hardly question it. I was quite pleased with my ploy and planned to give Petra a quick text at around two, tell her I was feeling a bit off, to foreshadow the last-minute cancellation I would deliver later at around six.
What did we do before texts?
Remember the nauseating dread on the build-up to calling in sick with a hangover? Hearing your disbelieving boss question you as you spoke in a thin whimper: Yes, I think it’s something I ate … No, you’re totally right, you can’t be too careful with fish.
Wouldn’t it be great if I could get rid of Wayne by text?
I slipped on jeans, flip-flops and a pink T-shirt. I thought about leaving Scott a note, but decided against it. Evidence has a way of finding itself in the wrong hands. I ate two slices of Scottish shortbread and a couple of figs from the complimentary bits and pieces on the desk, and drank a quick cup of lapsang souchong. Then I headed off.
With my bag slung over my shoulder and another lump of money on its way to my bank account – as soon as I invoiced Scott – I had the puritanical sense of accomplishment that comes from striving towards a goal.
But who was I kidding? Look at what I was doing.
I drove beneath a thick, lush canopy of trees. It was still early enough to spot the occasional deer, tearing at saplings in the fields beyond the road; still early enough to catch a convoy of Fleetwood fish vans on their way towards Grasmere to make their first deliveries of the day. The morning stretched out in front of me, full of possibilities, with only one huge blemish on the horizon. Wayne. After paying off my immediate debts, I had eighteen hundred pounds in my bank account. I planned to get to Kendal for just after 8 a.m. and spend most of the morning there. I would stock the house full of food and basic essentials, before heading over to B&Q to buy a new sofa, new crockery, new linen and a few scatter cushions and whatnot to brighten the place up. If I kept myself busy, maybe I could put tonight’s meeting with Wayne from my mind until the last moment.
I would not be spending the entire night with him. I had flat out refused to do that. But I did acquiesce to sex. One time, and one time only.
Turning into Morrison’s car park, I made a mental note to pick up a couple of miniature bottles of Jack Daniel’s that I could knock back in the car outside Wayne’s immediately before entering. There would be no payment for this service. Only the freedom to continue earning in the way I do, and of course the promise that no action would be taken regarding the theft. Which Wayne had now tallied up to total around seventeen hundred pounds.
As far as I could tell, there were two things that could go wrong. One, Wayne had lied and would hold me to ransom for ever (quite possible but, again, I had little choice). Two, I became so sick to my stomach I couldn’t go through with it (see above re: Jack Daniel’s).
I checked my watch. 8.53 a.m. Twelve hours from now and this would all be over.
The shop was almost empty, so I was able to peruse the aisles without the nuisance of too many other shoppers. I filled the base of the trolley with various fruits and vegetables before heading straight to the medicines and cosmetics. There, I was able to examine the display of condoms without fear of interruption, before hiding the packages safely beneath a bunch of bananas, away from prying eyes.
I had told Wayne I expected him to wear two Extra-safe condoms and I would be making a full inspection prior to intercourse to check for any ulcerated lesions or breaks in the skin. This was all very routine, I told him, and he had nodded seriously, saying, ‘Couldn’t agree more. Absolutely.’
I dropped some antibacterial bodywash into the trolley, some antibacterial mouthwash, a bottle of Femfresh (yes, I know the vagina is a self-cleaning oven, but this was Wayne we were talking about) along with two bottles of Night Nurse to knock me out afterwards and hopefully send me to oblivion.
I was all set.
The house itself was a pleasing little cottage located on the edge of Ambleside, just off the road that leads up to the Kirkstone Pass. If Kirkstone Pass sounds familiar, you’ve most likely heard it mentioned on the national travel reports. It’s often the first of the mountain passes to close after heavy snowfall, and lays claim to having the third highest pub in England.
Wayne inherited the house from his parents. His father was a postal worker, dead ten years, and his mother lived in sheltered accommodation.
Because Wayne was savvy, and had persuaded his mum to transfer the house into his name upon his father’s death, the state paid for his mother’s care, leaving Wayne mortgage- and dependant-free, with plenty of money in his pocket to spend on – would you believe it? – fish.
‘I didn’t know you had an aquarium,’ I said, before taking in the room fully – lots of chrome. Clean lines. Two leather sofas in ivory.
A large rectangular glass coffee table took up most of the floor space and the decor was very much stylish bachelor pad. I was surprised by the standard of cleanliness. He was obviously very house proud.
He began pointing out the most prized fish in the tank, which covered one entire wall of the living room.
The house itself was pretty isolated. It was accessed from a single-track road. Back in the sixties, it had been a working farm but, upon the farmer’s death, the house was sold to Wayne’s parents, and the surrounding land divided up and sold off separately. It was now rented to two farmers in Troutbeck who used it to graze their sheep. I’d agreed to come here because I knew no one would see my car, and because I was not about to meet Wayne at a hotel and set myself back eighty pounds. And I’m sure it goes without saying, but the thought of Wayne at my house was totally out of the question. Even without the prying eyes of Celia.
Two seahorses bobbed about in the corner of the tank and, without really meaning to, I reached out my hand, touching the glass. Such endearing, vulnerable little creatures. They are terrible swimmers, apparently, flapping about in the same spot. And was I correct in thinking it was the male of the species who became pregnant? Now there’s a thought.
‘Do you have a generator?’ I asked Wayne.
‘Naturally,’ he replied.
‘What happens when you go on holiday? Who feeds the fish then?’
‘My cousin in Glenridding. He keeps reptiles.’
Of course he does.
‘We look after each other’s menageries,’ he explained, ‘when we’re away.’
I found myself thinking it strange that I knew none of this. I had worked with Wayne for some considerable time, during which he’d told me about the farmhouse, but I couldn’t recall him talking about the fish. Odd, as this was clearly his life. I could only imagine that I switched off when he spoke, absorbing just the bare essentials. Petra said I did the same with her. She said my hard drive was full and I needed to defragment to clear up some disk space.
‘So,’ I said after a moment, ‘this is a bit awkward.’
‘It is?’ He seemed surprised.
I felt like I was in a bad porn film, the actors exchanging a series of stilted lines before suddenly having sex.
Or perhaps an arty French film. A grotesque, loose-fleshed man and a woman without make-up (‘Brave!’ the tabloids would declare her) have a huge, vicious row … before suddenly having sex.
It was kind of tragic the way Wayne had prepared himself for tonight. He’d had his hair cut – somewhere different to his usual barber; perhaps he’d paid a
bit more on this occasion. The result was that his blonde, almost colourless hair had been left longer on top and cut razor-short at the sides. With his thin lips, sweating brow and dark shirt buttoned right up to the collar, he favoured an SS officer.
I smiled wanly his way and suggested we might as well get on with it. I almost said, ‘Get it over with,’ but managed to reel myself in at the last second. After downing the Jack Daniel’s in the car before entering Wayne’s cottage, I had that heady impertinence that comes from teetering on the border of being drunk, when your confidence is at its highest and everything seems a lot funnier than it is. Now was the time to do it. Any longer and my blood alcohol level would drop fast, leaving me melancholy and, most likely, ashamed. And if I remained true to form, this shame would manifest as mild aggression.
I removed my shirt.
Wayne’s eyes grew wide. ‘What, here?’ he said.
‘You really didn’t think we’d be rolling around on your bed, did you?’
‘No,’ he said quietly, but it was apparent by his crestfallen look that was exactly what he’d had in mind.
‘Wayne,’ I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust. ‘Sorry, but no.’
‘Should I get undressed?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘It’s your call.’
I was hoping he would remain fully clothed, but no. First, he unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the fishbelly skin of his chest. He glanced my way, uncertain, nervous I may flee, I think, so I gave my best encouraging look. The longer he dawdled, the longer I was stuck here.
I drew the curtains, stepped out of my flip-flops and slipped off my jeans. My movements were fast and mechanical. I had the businesslike air one adopts when undressing for a medic and, when I caught Wayne watching, for a second I almost felt sorry for him.
At work, both his position of authority and the fact he was a stickler for detail combined to make him unappealing on occasion. He was the boss everyone liked to dislike because he had a power, power over his staff, who were both better educated and earned more money than him. It was an odd situation, but a necessary one. You go removing the hated figure from any workplace and the staff turn on each other. It’s far more effective to have one person who everyone can complain about. I’m sure the owners of the company were well aware of this. On the days that Wayne was absent from the clinic, we bickered. And I would find myself wondering just how far we’d go with our snipes if he wasn’t there at all. Perhaps we’d turn on each other, just as those inhabitants of Easter Island are purported to have done. Though I should say I couldn’t imagine actually eating Gary. No matter how much he got on my nerves.
All this to say that the Wayne standing in front of me was a sorry-looking specimen in his underpants and socks. And even though he was holding me under duress, and even though I beyond despised him for making me come here, I now saw the reason for that was pure desperation.
I removed my underwear and Wayne flinched. I thought he might come right then and there, but he managed to hold it together.
‘When did you last see a woman naked?’ I asked, and he shook his head. He wasn’t willing to say. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I just need a couple of things from my bag.’
I walked the few steps across the room and, out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of Wayne removing his socks and underpants.
With the two condoms in my hand, I made my way towards him.
Ripping open the packets, I held his gaze.
‘One time and one time only, Wayne. That’s the deal. Are we clear?’
He nodded repeatedly.
‘I want to hear you say it.’
‘I promise,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Hurry up, can you?’
‘No. Not until you tell me you won’t bother me again. That you won’t speak of this again. And you absolutely will not inform anyone of my arrangement with Scott, nor the thing with the missing money.’
He screwed up his face. ‘I won’t. You have my word. Hurry, Roz, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Are we clear, Wayne? I mean it.’
‘Yes. Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Okay then.’
With Wayne suited up and ready, I turned around, put my hands on the windowsill and told him to go ahead. I didn’t want to face him. Certainly didn’t want his tongue near my mouth. I expected doing it this way would be such a turn-on for him that he wouldn’t last long.
I expected it would be over within seconds.
Except nothing happened.
I waited. Twenty seconds passed, and there was nothing.
‘Wayne?’ I whispered.
He didn’t answer. I went to turn around, but he reached out, preventing me from doing so. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he repeated, his voice catching.
‘Wayne, what is it?’
‘I can’t do it,’ he whimpered. ‘I can’t go through with it.’
Then he was rambling, something about his body betraying him. I wasn’t sure if he’d had some sort of moral epiphany or he was simply unable to sustain his erection.
‘Wayne, it’s okay,’ I said, trying to pacify him. Then I told him I wouldn’t look at him. Told him I would keep my eyes away, but I would get dressed, and then maybe we could talk.
A moment later, I was reaching for my flip-flops, almost dressed.
After that, I have no idea what he was doing, because the fucker hit me on the back of the head, knocking me out cold.
19
HAVE NEVER BEEN knocked unconscious. I’ve fainted, but that’s hardly the same thing. In fact, I’m just going to take a moment to explain the difference between the two.
Fainting occurs when there is a lack of blood flow to the brain. It’s the body’s righting mechanism. You faint, fall over, the blood doesn’t have to fight gravity to travel up through the carotid arteries in your neck and the brain instantly receives the oxygen it’s been lacking. This is why soldiers faint when standing for extended periods on parade. Their blood is literally in their boots.
Unconsciousness following a blow to the head is quite different; it’s a serious affair. It is not like, say, in the movies, where the villain is put out of action for a few moments, allowing our hero to escape, and then he comes to, fully functioning, only a bit more cross.
No one really knows what causes a concussion, but most are agreed on this: the brain has become damaged, resulting in a temporary and sometimes permanent loss of function. Longstanding problems can occur, the extent of which are under continual investigation. After sustaining a blow to the head, patients may have permanently slurred speech, facial expressions may alter and, in some cases, personality traits change. I knew of one guy, a tradesman, who fell off a ladder, and, where he’d always been morose, the kind of unhappy, scheming type who was highly critical of other builders’ work, suddenly he became happy. It must have felt strange for him to be babbling away to folk, his face animated and joyful, while they viewed him suspiciously through narrowed eyes, none of them quite ready to believe the miracle that stood before them.
And then of course there was Mama Cass. She reportedly increased her singing range after being hit on the head with a piece of copper pipe whilst on a building site – although this story has been challenged over the years by friends of Cass Elliot, who said it was used as a way to explain why John Phillips left her out of the Mamas and the Papas for so long (his real reason being she was too overweight).
But I’m getting off my point.
I lay there on Wayne’s carpet, more or less in the foetal position but with my head extended backwards, swallowing repeatedly, as I appeared to have a surfeit of saliva. I wasn’t afraid at this point, and I was curious as to whether I was unconscious or not. Not many concussions result in a loss of consciousness, and I couldn’t say for sure exactly what had happened. All I knew was something was not as it should be.
I could hear Wayne’s voice as though through water. He was panicked and calling out my name and, in my head, I was answering. I was answering loudly, shouting as y
ou do when your ears are submerged in the bath and you’re asked a question.
But Wayne couldn’t hear me. And I couldn’t see Wayne. And I couldn’t move my head to see where he might be located.
My auditory system was all off kilter. Wayne’s calling was diminishing, just as the hum from the aquarium, the sound of the bubbles rising up every few seconds, became insufferably loud. I tried to cover my ears with my hands. But movement wasn’t possible. And then, naturally, I thought of George.
Oddly, up until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I might be in danger. Silly, really, but I was so focused on trying to wade through my thoughts, on trying to understand my immediate environment, knowing that on some intuitive level my senses were compromised, that I actually felt safe.
More saliva flooded my mouth. That’s when I was able to open my eyes and realize I had been sick earlier. The blow to the head had caused me to vomit.
I began searching the room, and my eyes came to rest on Wayne.
He was rocking to and fro on a dining-room chair, his hands clasped in front of him.
Was this how it would end?
Had the laughable risks I’d taken to try to right past wrongs led me to this?
It seemed as though they had.
It was the cruellest of ironies. In trying to free myself from a life enslaved by debt, I’d become a prisoner.
‘Wayne,’ I said, but it didn’t come out right. The word was blurred and formless. The sound was shocking for me to hear. And for Wayne, too, because he snatched his head up and stared at me.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered. Then he resumed his rocking action.
I turned over on to my back away from the vomit, with my legs straight out. After lying with my knees flexed for I wasn’t sure how long, it was a relief to stretch my hamstrings. I pulled my toes towards me, felt the stretch run right through my calf muscles and into each Achilles’. Then I tried to raise my hands to test if I’d suffered a stroke. Both arms lifted evenly, so I turned my head towards Wayne.
