Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Hi,’ he says. He raises an arm in a sort of half wave, half salute, and the movement makes him stumble backwards. He’s flat against the wall now. His face is confused. He steps away and takes a step towards Laura. Instinctively, she steps back, rests a hand on the frame of the kitchen door. Then places one foot partly inside the building. Away from him.

  She can see it in his eyes.

  Even from the few feet that separate them, she can see that his pupils are the size of chocolate buttons. It’s only just gone two o’clock. She’d checked the time when Quinn had dumped the pots down at her washing-up station. She’d been surprised it was so early. They’d not done many lunches. But Mondays can be like that.

  Mark is out of it.

  He stumbles towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey – where you going? I need to talk to you . . .’

  The words come out as intended, but his speech is drawn out. Slow. He is trying hard to enunciate every word. He’s trying hard to act like he’s not completely off his head on something. Laura feels sick. How could she have been so stupid, doing it with this fucking clown? He’s a loser. Hayley is welcome to him – once she moves on from Gaz, of course. She places her other foot inside. She bends down to unhook the door from the metal catch that keeps it open to give them air in the stifling kitchen.

  ‘Laura . . . wait,’ he says. ‘Don’t go. Please. I need to talk to you. Come back out, just for a minute.’ He takes another step, sways. He turns to the side until he spots another support. Sees a wheelie bin. Leans against it. A couple of boxes slide off the top of the bin and disappear down the back. Someone will need to climb in there later, stamp them flat. Something else that Bill will be asking her to do. He reckons he’s too old to climb into the bin. Too fat, more like.

  ‘Go away, Mark. Sleep it off or something.’

  ‘No, Laura . . . wait. Look . . .’ He takes his hand away, raises them both towards her in a gesture of acceptance. ‘I’m a dick. I know that. I got carried away. I was spending too much time at the shows—’

  ‘With Hayley . . .’

  ‘Yeah. No. No!’ he shakes his head violently. Falls back against the bin. ‘No. She was just there. I was with Gaz . . . he’s got this stuff . . .’ His voice trails off, and he looks confused. Turns to face the bin, turns back.

  Laura’s almost had enough, but she needs to clarify something first, before she shuts the door in his face.

  ‘Hang on . . . so you weren’t with Hayley? You didn’t tell her anything? About . . . about us?’

  Mark shakes his head again. ‘Of course not. Me not turning up . . . that was nothing to do with us. I told you. I was being a dick. I got a call from Gaz and I went to see him. I saw you at the bridge and I was embarrassed . . .’ He falls back against the bin again, and Laura notices how pale he looks. His eyes seem to have shrunk into his skull. He’s shaking too. His body seems to be jerking spasmodically.

  ‘Mark . . .’ She steps outside, walks towards him.

  He slides down the side of the bin, lands in a heap. ‘Laura. I think there’s something wrong with me. I don’t feel right. My head . . . lights. Turn off the lights. Laura . . .’

  Laura kneels down beside him. ‘Mark. Keep talking to me.’ She turns towards the window at the back of the public bar. It’s open just a fraction at the top. ‘Quinn!’ she shouts. ‘Bill . . . quick!’ But she can’t compete with the sound of the extractor fan that is whirring noisily nearby.

  Mark slumps over to the side. The smell of vomit hits her before she realises that he is being sick. She lays a hand on his back. He is retching violently, his body shaking. The stuff that is coming out of him is bilious green.

  ‘That’s good . . . that’s good,’ she says. She knows that being sick is what is likely to save him. His body is rejecting it. Whatever it is. ‘Can you tell me what you’ve taken, Mark? I’m going to go and get help, but they’ll need to know.’

  He’s in no state to protest. She pats him down, checks his pockets. Finds a small clear carrier bag. At first she thinks it’s empty, but when she unfurls it she can see there is a small beige capsule inside.

  Mark swipes an arm at her. Tries to grab the bag. ‘It’s nothing. Just some herb thing. Don’t hand it in . . . please.’

  She shoves the crumpled-up bag containing the capsule into her pocket just as Quinn and Bill appear at the kitchen door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bill says.

  Quinn gives her a look and disappears inside. She knows he’s worked it out. One look at Mark on the ground, the stench of vomit. Of course he’s worked it out. Quinn’s a recovering addict. He despises drugs. She knows he’ll have some strong words for her later. She also knows that he’ll be on the phone for an ambulance right now.

  Bill stays back, not quite sure what to do. He is the most squeamish man Laura has ever met. He is categorically unable to walk into the gents if someone’s been for a shit in there, never mind if someone’s puked up. More than once she’s found herself with a bit of a bonus in her pay packet after having to go in there with a bleach-filled mop bucket because Bill was more likely to add to the carpet of vomit than clean it up. It explained why he didn’t have kids. He was far too much of a clean freak for that.

  ‘Can you get me a glass of water, please?’ Laura says to him.

  Mark has stopped being sick. Laura is sitting on the ground, Mark’s head on her lap. She’s watching his chest rise and fall, making sure he’s still breathing. Small croaks come out of his mouth now and then, but other than that he doesn’t speak. His eyes are closed.

  Bill comes back with the water. ‘Is he OK?’ he says. He scurries across and hands her the glass. Laura doesn’t answer. She tips the glass at an angle and tries to let some touch Mark’s lips.

  ‘Come on, Mark,’ she says. She is talking loudly, saying his name a lot. It was part of the first-aid training she did at the karate club. Keep them with you. Try to engage. Talk slowly and clearly. Let them know that you’re there.

  ‘Take a drink for me, Mark.’

  He opens his mouth and she trickles in some water. Some spills down the side of his face, and she wipes it away. She feels the change. As if his muscles have gone into spasm. His head jerks back against her leg.

  ‘Mark . . .’ She can hear the panic in her voice. She tries to move back, but his head has become heavy in her lap. ‘Mark . . .’

  Bill crouches down. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ Laura is panicking now. Mark’s body is jerking. His eyes have opened slightly, but all she can see is white.

  Quinn reappears at the kitchen door. ‘Ambulance is on—’ He begins to speak, then clocks what’s happening. He runs towards them, bends down and pulls Mark up. Laura pulls her legs out of the way, rolls herself back onto her knees.

  ‘Mark,’ Quinn says. ‘Mark, you’re OK, but you need to work with me here.’ He rolls Mark over, fighting with the jerks of his arms and legs. He manages to get him onto his side, and Laura sees something that looks like white foam dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. In the distance, she can hear a siren.

  She’s vaguely aware of Bill, ushering away the crowd that has gathered at the entrance to the yard. ‘Go back inside,’ he says. ‘Give them some space.’

  The ambulance pulls up in front of the pub. She sees the uniforms through the gap in the open door. The first one appears, with a black bag in hand.

  ‘What’s his name?’ the paramedic says.

  ‘His name’s Mark,’ Laura says. ‘He’s taken some of this.’ She hands the bag to the paramedic. Feels Quinn’s eyes on her. Looks away.

  22nd July 2015

  Dear Marie,

  This is getting ridiculous now. I feel like I’m talking to myself. They tried to get me to start writing a journal at the start. But I couldn’t do anything back then. Not with all the fucking medication they pumped into me. I’ve kept some of the letters that I wrote to you. The ones I never sent. I keep them under my mat
tress, inside the plastic sheet. I wonder what they’d do if they found them? If they found all the stuff that I really wanted to say. When they come in to change the bedding, I have to shove them all inside my pants. It always reminds me of you and your hair. Did I ask about your hair? It’s still long, isn’t it? Still dark? I can’t imagine you with a different style, but then I suppose maybe you changed it for the latest fashion. I thought I would always recognise you, but maybe I won’t. Maybe I have to think of your face. Your lovely pointy chin. Those big brown eyes.

  I wonder how you dress. Has that changed too? Everything has changed, I can feel it. Everything has changed for you, but nothing has changed for me. I am trapped inside the body I once had. I’m not sixteen any more. But what am I? A middle-aged man with no knowledge of the world outside. I don’t watch the news. It would only depress me. Those loons in the TV room watch cartoons all day. No one ever turns it over. No one stops them. They just don’t do it. And that’s the ones that are allowed out of their rooms. There are some people who’ve been here as long as me, and I’ve never seen them outside their rooms. I’ve walked past, seen them through the little window. Stared into the vacant eyes. They don’t scare me, though. There’s only one thing that scares me.

  Never seeing you again.

  I’m going to have to do something about that.

  Lots of love,

  Graeme x

  28

  Graeme has fallen asleep on the couch. He looks peaceful, his soft face relaxed against the cushions. Marie feels a stab of something inside. She’s not sure if it’s love, not any more. Despite everything, she’s missed having Graeme in her life. He’s been out of it longer than he was in it, but those years they spent growing up together shaped her into who she is.

  She remembers how he looked when he slept as a boy. Peaceful, his eyes flickering as he dreamt – but what he dreamt wasn’t peaceful. He would tell Marie terrible stories about the things that inhabited his mind, and how he tried his hardest to keep them at bay . . . Keep himself safe from the things he couldn’t explain – things he knew were trying to harm him. Or others. Marie never really understood what it was that had driven him to harm her. She wasn’t sure Graeme knew either.

  She stands there, watching him. Watching his chest rise and fall. So peaceful, so calm. But the memories of what he did still scar her soul. She steps towards him, plucks a pillow from where it has slipped down behind his back. She goes to lift his head to place it underneath, but an overwhelming urge hits her.

  Smother him, Marie. He shouldn’t be here. Get him out of your life. He will torture you. He will ruin you. See, it’s already started. See what he’s making you want to do.

  She drops the pillow on the floor. Runs through to the bathroom, just in time to reach the toilet. She vomits until it feels as if her stomach lining has been ripped from the sides.

  This is not love, Marie. You know that. Remember what he did to you.

  She cleans herself up. Pushes away the thoughts that are fighting inside her head, two fully formed entities trying for victory in a battle of wills.

  Get him out of here, Marie.

  He’s your brother, Marie.

  Call the police, Marie.

  Cuddle up beside him, Marie.

  She clutches her head, squeezes tight, trying to make the voices stop. Is this what it’s like for Graeme? Or is it worse, somehow? She knows this is her own subconscious having a battle – but what is it like for him? He was always so alone. No one ever seemed to understand him, except her. The wild mood swings – one minute terrifying her, the next crying in her arms. Begging her to tell him what he did.

  He could never remember what he did. Not when it was bad.

  The bad person wasn’t him. Not really. The bad person was an alien being who lived inside Graeme’s skin. Most of the time he stayed quiet, hidden. But when he came out, no one could do anything to make him go away.

  The bad man always left. Eventually.

  And so she always felt responsible for him. For Graeme. He was her true other half. ‘My wee double-yolkers,’ their dad used to say. When their dad used to say things that had any affection at all. They’d coexisted before they were even born, and even though neither of them could ever have a way of remembering that, they shared an invisible bond that held them closer than mere siblings. When they were young, it was as if they’d almost tried to climb inside one another, to get away from a world where they didn’t quite fit in. Graeme, especially. Something in him that wasn’t quite right. Something that made him more vulnerable. Susceptible. All the time he’d been away from her, she’d missed him. Every single day. He must be terrified. But she can’t help him any more. This is wrong. A mistake. Right now, the only thing she can do is get out of the house.

  * * *

  The pub is fairly quiet when she arrives. Helen is fidgeting at the end of the bar, handbag in hand, ready to leave.

  ‘Oh, you’re here!’ she says. Her eyes are gleaming with untold gossip. ‘Did you hear what happened?’

  Marie shrugs. Takes off her cardigan and stuffs it under the bar. ‘No. What?’

  ‘Your wee pal’s boyfriend got taken away in an ambulance. Drugs, I reckon. Although Quinn gave me one of his looks when I asked what happened. Laura was a bit shaken up . . .’ She lets her sentence trail off, waiting for Marie’s reaction.

  ‘Mark? I didn’t have him pegged as a druggie. You sure?’

  ‘Well no, like I said—’

  Marie snaps, ‘I’m so sick of people round here. Bloody gossips, the lot of them.’

  ‘Who rattled your cage, eh?’ Helen throws the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and storms off. ‘Have a good night.’ Her voice is sickly sweet. ‘The Best and the Strongbow need changed.’

  Marie says nothing. Balls her hands into fists until she feels her nails cutting into her palms.

  A few of the regulars are playing darts and they glance at her, exchanging looks as she disappears through the gap into the other bar. Fuck them. There is only one couple in the lounge, sitting in the corner nursing pints of heavy, gazing at each other, deep in conversation. Oh to be like that. She collects a few glasses from a table near the kitchen. Spreads out some beer mats. She takes a few deep breaths and tries to get rid of the dark cloud that is hovering over her. When she goes back through to the public bar, she has a new customer.

  ‘Evening,’ he says. ‘Pint of Tennent’s, please.’

  Marie pours the pint. Says nothing.

  ‘You not speaking?’

  She rings it up on the till. Turns back and offers a palm towards him. He drops the coins into her hand. Eventually, she says, ‘Thought you were laying off that stuff during the week.’

  Sam sighs. ‘I just fancied a quick pint. Hoped you’d be here. Felt like a chat. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not. Sorry. I’m not feeling myself at the moment.’

  Someone quips from over by the dartboard: ‘If you’re not feeling yourself, you need someone else to do it for you.’ They all laugh. Marie doesn’t feel like laughing. Hears someone say: ‘Grumpy cow.’ Ignores them.

  ‘You still seeing that copper, then?’

  Marie turns away. She takes a large glass from under the optics, sticks it up. Adds a measure of dark rum. She turns back, fills it with Coke from the gun. She looks Sam in the eye, waiting for him to challenge her. No drinking behind the bar, ever. It’s not the thing. One of the others does it, though. They think no one notices, but everyone does. It’s just the one, Marie thinks. Nothing to worry about. Sam lowers his gaze.

  ‘Not sure it’s going to work out,’ she says.

  Sam looks at her again. He has nice twinkly eyes, Marie realises. She downs the Coke. Serves a round to the darts players. Then she pours another pint for Sam and another sneaky rum and Coke for herself.

  Davie comes in when they’re on their third.

  ‘Hiya,’ he says. ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a bit busy r
ight now.’

  She disappears through the gap into the lounge bar. She hears the swing door open and close. Davie appears on the other side.

  ‘Why are you avoiding me? Have I done something?’ he says.

  She’s poured another rum into her Coke on the other side. No one has seen because the couple that were lost in each other’s eyes have gone. Probably home to fuck themselves into a stupor. Or maybe just to sit in silence and watch EastEnders on catch-up. Who cares?

  ‘I’m just . . . I’m not myself right now, Davie. You should probably just go.’

  He’s staring at her, making her squirm. Can he tell that she’s been drinking? She wants to tell him: I’m doing this for you, Davie. I’m doing this to protect you. If Graeme finds out about you . . . I don’t know what he’ll do. She’s had this feeling since the start, since she first suspected that Graeme was around . . . watching her. Waiting for her. She thinks that it’s not her that Graeme wants to hurt now – it’s whoever is with her. That’s what he should’ve done in the first place. He made a mistake. He got it wrong. Go away, Davie. Please.

  He takes something out of his pocket. Inspects it in his hand. He looks like he’s going to give it to her and then he changes his mind.

  ‘Call me. If you change your mind.’ He walks out of the lounge-bar door. Doesn’t look back.

  Marie closes her eyes. This wasn’t what she wanted. None of this is what she wanted. She slips out from behind the bar, locks the lounge door. Picks up the glasses from the couple that were sitting in the corner.

  When she goes back through to the bar, the darts players have gone. Their empty pint glasses are lined up at the end of the bar. Only Sam is left now. He’s staring at her. His eyes have glazed over. Four pints. She walks around the other side, goes to lock the door to the public bar.

  ‘Bit early, is it not?’

  She glances at the clock. It’s ten thirty. They are meant to stay open until eleven, but there’s no one here. It’s Monday night. No one is coming in now. She ignores him. Locks the door. Pulls down the blinds. Switches the window lights off.