Compulsion

by Shaun Hutson

  She heard movement on the landing.

  “Just get the bottle!” her mother bellowed.

  More hollow banging from next door.

  “I’ll fucking kill that old cunt, I’m telling you,” he snarled.

  She heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs, heard him blundering around in the kitchen.

  In the next room, the baby was still crying.

  The banging on the wall continued.

  Donna swung herself off the bed and crossed to the wardrobe. One of the panels was cracked. The wood looked rotten.

  The lock was new.

  She had put it there herself.

  She retrieved the key from her bedside table and unlocked it, rummaging among the boots, shoes and trainers there.

  She finally took out a small box wrapped in a piece of velvet.

  Oblivious to the noises all around, she opened it and reached inside.

  Her hand was steady as she held the hypodermic needle up for inspection.

  The rest of the stuff was inside the box. The blackened, twisted spoon. The length of rubber tubing.

  And the gear itself.

  She put down the needle for a moment and fastened the tubing tightly around the top of her arm.

  As she extended the limb she saw the heavy bruising inside its crook.

  Several track marks had already scabbed over.

  There were two or three more between the toes of her left foot.

  She pulled hard on the rubber tubing, simultaneously slapping at her arm to raise the veins.

  They pulsed like tumescent worms beneath her pale flesh.

  “Fucking shut it!” screamed her mother from the next room.

  The banging on the wall came again.

  The baby continued to cry.

  Donna reached for the needle.

  CARL THOMPSON DIDN’T recognise the woman; then again, there had been so many of them, why should he?

  He rarely asked their names.

  What difference did it make?

  Since his mother had walked out when he was six, there had always been women around the house. Sometimes for months at a time, sometimes just for the odd night here and there.

  They never stayed.

  Just came and went, dropped from a never-ending conveyor belt.

  A cunt conveyor belt.

  There was obviously something about his father that women found attractive, but Thompson was fucked if he knew what it was.

  Blondes. Brunettes. Redheads.

  All colours. All kinds.

  One had stayed for a month. Moved in with most of her stuff. She’d cooked and cleaned for them both (what was her name?) until his father had tired of her.

  She’d packed her clothes again and moved out.

  Alice? Alison?

  He sucked on his cigarette and gazed at the contorted face of the woman in his father’s bedroom.

  He had a clear view of the entire room through the hole he’d chiselled in the wall.

  Both she and his father were naked, sheathed in sweat. The woman’s dark hair was hanging down in matted strands like serpents’ tails. She was gripping the duvet with both hands as Thompson’s father held tightly to her hips and slammed his penis into her.

  Every now and then she would look over her shoulder at him.

  At the veins bulging in his neck and temples.

  At the clenched teeth.

  Words were exchanged, but Thompson couldn’t hear them properly. They communicated mainly by grunts and sighs that obviously meant something to them.

  The woman was gritting her teeth now, her back arched. She reached back between her own legs with one hand and began to stroke her clitoris.

  Thompson studied her features. She was in her mid-twenties. The make-up around her eyes was smudged and most of her lipstick was gone. He could see some of it on the duvet.

  She was broad on the hips. There were stretch marks on her tits and thighs.

  Thompson heard her suck in a racking breath.

  Saw his father redouble his exertions.

  Thompson himself felt his erection pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his jogging bottoms and he slipped them off.

  He slid his fingers around his erection and began to move his fist slowly up and down.

  The woman was saying something, but Thompson couldn’t make out the words.

  He synchronized his own rhythm to that of his father’s powerful stokes.

  The woman allowed her head to drop forward onto the bed, her body shuddering.

  Thompson continued to work his throbbing stiffness, his eye pressed tightly to the hole in the wall.

  His own breathing was harsh now.

  He saw that his father was smiling.

  It looked as if he was gazing straight at the hole in the wall. Perhaps he was, Thompson mused. Who cared?

  Then the overwhelming feeling of pleasure wiped all other thoughts from his mind.

  He saw the woman shudder in the last throes of her orgasm.

  Fucking bitch.

  He reached for a tissue.

  VERONICA PORTER BROUGHT the Fiesta to a halt behind her husband’s Peugeot and switched off the engine.

  She yawned, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the rear view mirror. She suddenly peered more closely, inspecting the lines around her eyes.

  Six months away from her thirty-first birthday and she was looking for crows’ feet. She managed a smile, then swung herself out of the car and locked it.

  The street lamp directly outside the house was on the blink again. It buzzed like an angry wasp, the sodium glare occasionally fading, then glowing even more brilliantly for a moment before settling into its usual sickly hue.

  She had wondered about reporting the fault to the council, but had finally thought better of it. She had lived in Kempston all her life and the inadequacies of successive councils were all too familiar.

  Kempston was about thirty miles north of London. Politely termed an ‘overspill’ town, it had, during the past ten years, become more of a dumping ground for all and sundry.

  With its estates of 1950s houses and flats, it was depressingly similar throughout its length and breadth. There had been the inevitable encroachment of Barrett homes in the early seventies and more modern houses had been erected for those who opted for the millstone of a mortgage. But for the most part, Kempston’s council residents dwelt in the same kind of accommodation their parents had known.

  Of course, there was central heating now. Double glazing. Wall and loft insulation. Even fitted dishwashers and washing machines. But no matter how many examples of modern convenience were crammed inside, the houses themselves belonged to a more sedate age.

  Ronni was a good example of this. She and her husband had well-paid jobs and enjoyed most of life’s comforts. But she felt as if she somehow belonged on the estate. Her father still lived less than half a mile away in the house where she had been born.

  The close proximity to London made Kempston ideal commuter country and prices of private houses had risen accordingly during the last ten years. But the town was predominantly a council-house haven.

  Naturally, many had heeded the Tory mantra in the eighties and chosen to buy their council houses (there were enough two-up-two-downs with fake brick cladding to attest to that). But the majority of the people on the Waybridge Estate and all the other estates in Kempston desired nothing more than a roof over their heads and cared little whether that roof was owned by the council or ransomed by a building society.

  Ronni made her way down the short path to the front door and let herself in as quietly as she could.

  She took off her coat, then inspected her reflection in the hall mirror.

  The image that gazed back at her had shoulder-length brown hair, and high cheekbones. A black polo neck and tight charcoal-grey trousers hugged her slim frame.

  She paused and slipped off her shoes, glancing up the stairs, listening for any sounds.

  When she heard none, she p
ushed open the living-room door and stepped inside.

  Andrew Porter looked up from his book and managed a smile.

  “I thought you’d be in bed by now,” Ronni said, surprised to see him.

  He closed the book, pushing the piece of torn newspaper he used for a bookmark between the pages.

  “If you’d have phoned to say you were going to be so late, I would have been,” he told her.

  She wasn’t slow to catch the edge in his tone.

  “All right, Andy, I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “That’ll have to do, won’t it?” He got to his feet.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” he wanted to know.

  “I’d love one.”

  He wandered through into the kitchen and Ronni heard the sound of running water.

  She sat on the sofa, drew her legs up beneath her and gently massaged her aching feet.

  “What happened?” he called out from the other room.

  “Mr. Fuller had an accident. Cut his hand. It needed stitches. I took him to the hospital.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because I was there, Andy.”

  “You’re always there.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t start that again. We all work late when it’s our turn.”

  “You did your late shift last week,” he reminded her.

  “Alison had to leave early today. I said I’d cover for her.”

  “They use you there, Ronni.”

  “Andy, it’s my job. As supervisor there’s more responsibility, you know that.”

  “Then get some more staff in. How many people does it take to look after nine old bastards anyway?”

  She eyed him irritably as he returned from the kitchen with her tea.

  “You’ll be old one day, Andy,” Ronni told him.

  “You might be grateful for a place like Shelby House.”

  “I’d rather top myself than end up in an old people’s home. Sitting around waiting to die.”

  “It’s not like that. Some of them are only in their sixties. They’re there because they want to be. They pay for their own upkeep.”

  “Good for them.” He turned towards the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  To bed. I’m on ear lies this week, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He didn’t answer, merely closed the door and climbed the stairs. She heard his footfalls, then the creaking of floorboards as he crossed into their bedroom.

  Ronni exhaled wearily.

  She glanced at the TV and its meaningless images, then she leant across and switched it off.

  On top of the set was a gilt-framed photo.

  Herself and Andy on their wedding day twelve years ago, smiling joyfully at each other with love in their eyes.

  She wondered where those smiles had gone.

  She wondered where that love had gone.

  The two people in that photo were strangers to her now.

  Ronni tried to remember when she’d first realized she no longer loved this man she’d married.

  RONNI UNDRESSED QUICKLY and slipped into bed.

  As she pulled the duvet around her she glanced across at the motionless form of her husband. He had rolled onto his side, his back to her.

  She studied the outline of his body in the darkness. She could hear his low breathing, but she knew that he was still awake.

  Perhaps she should tell him she no longer loved him.

  With what purpose?

  She ran a hand through her hair.

  What was he going to do? Get up there and then, pack his bags and leave?

  She wasn’t even sure that was what she wanted.

  Twelve years was a long time. They’d shared a lot of memories, more good than bad.

  She wondered why she no longer loved him. It was a question that had plagued her for some time now.

  What had stopped her loving him? Was it one incontrovertible moment?

  One act? One blinding flash of realization?

  No.

  It had been a gradual erosion of feelings. She didn’t blame Andy. He hadn’t begun behaving differently. He hadn’t cheated on her (as far as she knew).

  He hadn’t started hitting her. But something between them had died and she knew that whatever it was emotional resuscitation was out of the question.

  She wondered if he felt the same. Was he as tired of her as she was of him? Was he, even at this moment, thinking identical thoughts?

  Better not ask. You might not like the answer.

  And, if he was ... what then?

  If he left, she would be alone.

  Six months away from her thirty-first birthday and alone. Granted she was an attractive woman; there would probably be no shortage of companions. But was that what she wanted?

  Face it. You’re scared. You don’t want him anymore but you’re terrified of life without him.

  She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, then pulled it back slightly.

  “Are you asleep?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  She smiled.

  “Whatever it is, Ronni, can it wait until tomorrow?” he asked, still lying on his side.

  “I’m calling in to see my dad tomorrow,” she said.

  “Say hello from me.”

  “You should come with me. You’ve always got on with him.”

  “He’s a good bloke.”

  “I’m going to try and talk him into moving out of the house.”

  “To where?” Andy asked wearily. He rolled onto his back.

  “He’s lived in that house all his life, Ronni. He’s happy there.”

  “He hasn’t been happy since my mum died. She’s been dead for two years and he still can’t get over it. He told me he still cries some nights when he thinks about her.”

  “What do you expect? They were married for forty-odd years. She meant everything to him.”

  “I’d like him where I can keep an eye on him.”

  “You visit him every day.”

  “I’m going to try and get him a place at Shelby House.”

  “And how the hell is he going to afford it? What do they charge there?

  Six hundred quid a week?”

  “He’s got some savings. He’d be able to afford it.”

  “And what if he doesn’t want to move?”

  She had no answer.

  “Just leave him alone, Ronni. He’ll be fine.” Andy rolled back onto his side.

  “Now, please go to sleep, will you? I’ll be shattered in the morning.”

  Within minutes she heard his low breathing settle into a more rhythmic pattern.

  “Andy,” she whispered.

  No answer.

  Ronni lay on her back, thoughts tumbling through her mind. Sleep came slowly, almost reluctantly, but she finally drifted off into welcome oblivion.

  Somewhere in the next street, the sound of a car alarm filled the night air.

  THE NOISE INSIDE the classroom was getting louder.

  Graham Brown sat back on his wooden seat, balanced on the two back legs, his shoulders resting against the rear wall.

  Around him, the other thirty-five children either watched the board, chatted, scribbled in their books, or gazed blankly into space.

  Brown had his eyes fixed firmly on the woman at the front of the classroom.

  She was young. Early twenties. Barely out of college.

  Fresh meat.

  A ‘relief teacher’ he’d heard someone call her.

  He smiled.

  Miss Sinclair.

  Short brown hair. Dark blue blouse. Black skirt. Pretty.

  He ran his gaze up and down her slender legs as she wrote, the marker scratching across the board.

  She was either determined to ignore the noise in the room or she was reluctant to turn and face the increasingly rowdy class.

  Brown thought he knew which was more likely.

  “Settle down n
ow,” she called as she continued to write.

  It was some shit about the war; about Hitler gassing Jews.

  He took his eyes away from the board momentarily to look at his companion, who was busily copying what the young teacher wrote down.

  “Fuck are you doing?” Brown sneered.

  Clive Skinner nodded in the direction of the board.

  “She’s going to test us on it,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

  “So fucking what?” Brown grunted. He continued to rock backwards and forwards on his seat.

  “I wouldn’t mind testing her,1 he said finally.

  Skinner chuckled.

  “What on?” he wanted to know.

  “On my fucking knob.”

  Several of the other boys sitting nearby laughed loudly.

  Miss Sinclair finally turned to face the class.

  “All right, settle down now,” she said, her voice cracking.

  The noise barely abated.

  She stood staring at the assembled throng.

  Brown saw her swallow he could see the uncertainty in her eyes.

  “The names I’ve written here are all the names of Nazi death camps,” she said, gesturing behind her.

  AUSCHWITZ

  BUCHENWALD

  TREBLINKA

  BEL SEN

  “Of course there were many more,” she continued.

  “But it was in places like these that prisoners were murdered in their millions.”

  “Are they like the places in Schindler’s List7.” someone close to the front asked.

  Miss Sinclair nodded.

  “That’s right,” she said, relieved that at least one of the class seemed to understand what she was talking about.

  “Although the camp in Schindler’s List was Plaszow. That was a forced-labour camp.”

  “Why did Hitler kill the Jews, miss?” someone else wanted to know.

  “Because he thought they were cunts,” Brown shouted.

  There was a chorus of giggles and gasps from the others in the class.

  “Who said that?” Miss Sinclair demanded, looking around.

  Brown put his hand up.

  “Come here,” she snapped, using her most authoritative tone.

  Brown remained balanced on the back legs of his chair.

  “He did think they were cunts, didn’t he?” he persisted.

  Miss Sinclair licked her lips and exhaled wearily.

  “I told you to come here,” she repeated, raising her voice slightly.

  “I’m busy.”