On the Floor

by Aifric Campbell

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You were lucky I was here.’

  ‘It was your bottle.’

  ‘Nobody made you drink it.’

  ‘Spare me the lecture. I can hardly see you.’

  ‘I’m here.’ He shifts, sitting by my side on the bed and I can sense his outline now, inhale the stale sweat. I gag on a stomach lurch.

  ‘You’ve been out for hours.’ His voice soft and further away as if he has tilted his head upwards.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘5:32.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s 5:32 p.m.’

  ‘What the fuck? I never—’

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ The tone is harsh and the battering ram in my skull and the lurch in my stomach are sapping all my attention but I don’t like the sound of his voice in the darkness or how the mattress dips like a rollercoaster when he moves.

  ‘I can’t see anything. Open the curtains.’

  ‘It’s dark outside.’

  A watery quiver hits my legs. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ I lurch upwards but my right hand catches again. Pie Man grabs my left shoulder and pulls me over onto to my side, shoves something hard and cold beneath my cheek.

  ‘Here, be sick in this.’

  A doorway of light. An overhead lampshade comes slowly into view, the top of a corner wardrobe but I shut my eyes again. I do not move since I know he is here. I can hear his breathing and I do not want him to speak. Something bad is happening here, worse than the dry aftertaste of puke and the rancid stink of all I expelled.

  The last thing I remember is the shower, a noise. My right hand throbs somewhere down by the side.

  ‘You’re awake.’ Didn’t he say that last time? And anyway, how can he tell? ‘I know you’re awake, Geri, no use pretending.’

  ‘Where’s Rex?’

  ‘In the living room. I didn’t think he should disturb you.’

  ‘I want to go home now.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to go anywhere. In your condition.’ When I open my eyes, he is standing by the bedside, arms folded and resting on his massive stomach.

  ‘Yeah, well I’m going.’ I roll to my right but my arm disappears down over the edge. ‘And what’s the matter with my fucking arm?’

  ‘Why are you ALWAYS swearing?’ His hands are clamped beneath his armpits now as if he is trying to keep them from harm. And my skull vibrates like it will surely explode and blow my brains out all over the bed. ‘Why can’t you just STOP? For once, just STOP swearing and drinking and running around and wasting everything that’s good.’

  ‘Why can’t I lift my arm?’ He glances down the side of the bed and back at me, a grim little unpleasantness playing about his lips.

  ‘Why?’ I cannot keep the rising quaver from my voice.

  ‘Because it’s tied to the bed.’ But I know this even as he tells me so I turn my head to the left where it is dark and wintry behind the curtains, the sound of belting rain.

  I might have pissed myself.

  Oh, but pull yourself together, Geri, this is Pie Man. This is the Pie Man you know, not some fucking psycho-killer like in the movies; this is just a fat-boy geek who slobbers around in the office all day eating jammy dodgers. This is a big guy who is really a very small guy underneath, so you need to get it together. Take a deep breath and play it cool.

  ‘I just want you to stay still, to stop all this—’ he waves a paddle hand.

  ‘For my own protection, huh?’ I turn my head back and offer him a feeble smile, try to show him I am not fazed by all this. ‘Only it’s making my arm go numb.’

  He doesn’t reply, but I hear Rex whine softly in the next room.

  ‘He wants to come in.’

  ‘No, he’s staying there.’

  ‘Maybe he needs to go out?’

  ‘I took him out this afternoon. When you were out cold.’ This last delivered viciously. ‘Let’s hoist you up a bit.’

  His big red arms slide me effortlessly up in the bed and he plops a pillow behind me like a hospital nurse. He sits down on the bed, the mattress tips steeply and I slip sideways towards him. And there, over the side of the bed covered by the vast folds of a dark blue bathrobe, is my tethered arm. I pull at the sleeve. Rex’s red dog lead looped round my wrist and disappearing under the bed. A big wad of bandage around my palm.

  Focus on the specifics, Geri. Focus on solutions. Stay in safe waters. Do NOT digress.

  ‘So is it a bad cut?’

  ‘One slice and a few scratches.’

  ‘I might need stitches.’

  ‘It’s not deep enough.’

  ‘There could be some glass in there.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yeah, but I should get an X-ray. You know, in case there are slivers and they could travel up to my heart or something.’

  ‘You don’t need that.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor.’ I smile, winningly. But Pie Man has a new resistance to my attempted warmth and these little gestures that would normally have him fawning and blushing have no effect. There has been some kind of transformation while I was unconscious, a steely immunity to my charm. And I do not like what I see.

  ‘It would be a waste of time just sitting there for hours in casualty,’ he mumbles.

  I WOULDN’T MIND AT ALL, I want to scream. Anything that gets me out of this fetid danger zone, all sorts of unravellings going on.

  ‘I had to rescue you, you know, Geri.’ He shakes his head. ‘But you don’t even remember what happened, do you?’ His lips compressed in tight distaste.

  So I wing it, try to recreate the moment of astonishing heroism where he saved my life while I was blind drunk in his bathroom. ‘I think I remember slipping.’

  ‘I heard the thud and then a smash and I called out but you didn’t answer, so I was really worried. I even hammered on the door but you still didn’t answer. Then I was going to break it down but it turned out you hadn’t even locked it. And there you were on the floor.’ He spreads his arm. ‘The vodka bottle was all smashed and there was blood on your hands. I don’t know how you didn’t cut yourself to pieces. I mean you could have done yourself some serious damage, Geri. It was awful to see.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then I lifted you right up so you wouldn’t roll on the glass.’ He nods in memory. ‘You know how heavy an unconscious body is?’

  ‘Like a dead weight.’

  ‘Yeah, like a dead weight.’

  ‘You must be very strong.’

  ‘You’re not that heavy.’

  ‘Well, about eight stone. Maybe even more.’ I want him to be impressed by his gallantry in the face of my dissolution, so this sordid little story can have a nice ending and we can skate on past the nasty plot twist of captivity.

  ‘I carried you in here. Sorted out your hand. TCP, bandages. Cleaned up the bathroom. And all the while you just lay there.’

  I shake my abject head. ‘I’m really sorry. Really.’

  ‘And you had no clothes on.’

  A chill snap of my spine. He is glaring at me, an unreadable needle between anger and disgust.

  ‘You were completely naked.’ I let my eyes drift down from his unreturnable stare to the stained duvet. I try to push away the horror flashes for this is the Pie Man I know, but I am already body scanning and in the searchlight of failed memory I am squeezing my thighs.

  I cannot tell, I do not know.

  ‘That’s why I put my bath robe on you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ A croak, a little paltry thing.

  ‘You don’t even remember.’

  To continue to pretend would be fatal, he is not stupid. ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t drink so much.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Maybe I have a drink problem. And a pill problem.’

  ‘You shouldn’t sleep around either.’ He lurches up from the bed, the mattress rolls me back to the left and centre. ‘Doesn’t it bother you
at all?’ Pie Man is up and pacing now. ‘I mean don’t you care how you behave? Don’t you have any self-respect?’

  I don’t answer, worry my fingers at the sleeve, contemplate screaming.

  ‘Don’t you see how you can end up?’

  I nod. He twitches his head violently.

  ‘You slept with Rob.’ How does he know? ‘And don’t go denying it because I saw you that night in November. I saw you both leave the bar and go to his place.’

  ‘You were watching? You followed us?’

  ‘Maybe I was worried about you. You were drunk.’

  ‘I know Rob.’

  ‘You know me. But look how you’ve ended up. Passed out, cut up and tied to someone’s bed. Don’t you see what a mess you are making of your life? It doesn’t have to be like this.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ve taught me something very important then. Don’t ever trust men you think you know. Thanks. Thank you, P – Colin.’

  ‘And then you went to Hong Kong, halfway round the world, and slept with Stephen. After all he’d done to you. After he’d been a complete shit, you still had sex with him again.’ He shakes his head roughly as if the repellent thought is stuck in his ear. ‘What were you thinking of?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I was still in love with him.’

  ‘Or maybe you’re just a bit of a slut.’ His mouth creases into an ugly leer. ‘A bit of a slapper. As Rob would say.’ Rex whines and scrabbles at the door.

  ‘And then you come round here and end up lying in my bathroom and I’m supposed to—’

  A little moan of fear escapes my lips. The taste of tears.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Geri. Why you look so scared and so pathetic – so HELPLESS. You even think that I would – you actually think I’m that kind of person – GOD!’ He flings up his exasperated hands. ‘You don’t even know what happened. YOU DON’T EVEN REMEMBER. Even if I did have sex with you, you wouldn’t remember.’

  Rex barks and Pie Man whips round in annoyance. Rex barks again louder. Scratches furiously at the door.

  ‘He can hear my voice. He’ll keep on barking.’

  Pie Man thumps away, Rex comes flying in and leaps onto the bed and licks my face and then settles down beside me with a contented whimper, tail beating happily on the duvet. I am safe, I have my dog now. He will give me strength. Pie Man stands in the doorway watching.

  ‘Could I have a glass of water? Please?’

  The phone starts ringing just as he returns. It could be Dr Who calling with a question. It could be Pie Man’s mum or dad checking up on him. It could be the phone company or it could even be all the people who are supposed to love me who have somehow figured out what is going on. But no one knows where I am, I am awol between Heathrow and the office. If ONLY I had told Zanna on the phone, I might be spared whatever it is that is coming my way.

  I keep sipping the water while Pie Man broods thickly, leaning against the wall opposite.

  ‘Could you open the curtains?’ He hesitates, but he does it, sweeps them back onto a rectangular frame and a blotched January night sky. A line of rooftops planted with TV aerials is stacked against the city glow. We are not overlooked. I could wave my free arm for all eternity and no one would see.

  I could make Rex bark repeatedly. This is easy if you’re playing with him, but I only have one free arm and anyway Rex has learnt to trust Pie Man, so if I tip him over the edge that could be it. In the movies women always do it wrong, take stupid chances, run up blind alleys. In real life it has to be different. But in real life you don’t expect to be tied to a bed in West Hampstead with a fat guy in a red tracksuit who is leaning now in the doorframe, working his mouth.

  Maybe he is not sure how this should continue. Maybe he doesn’t have a plan beyond teaching me a lesson. Or maybe his resolve is weakening. He is not in charge. He does not even want to be in charge. He is just trying to show me he can be in control. He is chewing now on the inside of his cheeks and then I remember: he isn’t eating, he hasn’t eaten in all the time I’ve been here. Maybe he stuffed his face while I was out cold but I haven’t seen him eat a thing and Pie Man is never not eating.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ I tell him, loudly. He straightens up and approaches, swallows once, swallows twice, big earnest motions that dip his head. ‘In fact, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since I can’t remember. Could be days in fact. That’s why the booze went straight to my head.’ He’s licking his lips now, as if my comment were some sort of auto-suggestion. ‘So have you got anything to eat? You must be hungry too.’

  ‘I can’t in front of you.’

  ‘Course you can. We’ll eat together. I can help you cook.’

  ‘You’re only saying that so I’ll let you go.’

  ‘No! Well, yes, I mean obviously I don’t like being tied up, who would? But I’m just saying we could have dinner together, maybe even—’

  ‘DON’T FUCKING TRY THAT!’

  Rex leaps up, barks, looks uncertainly at me.

  ‘Don’t’ – Pie Man kicks the bed frame – ‘DO – that.’

  Rex barks again, his legs rigid in confusion. This is the man he has lived with for two days who has fed him and walked him and let him sit up on the couch and eat Kit Kats. Rex shrinks back down beside me with a soft growl. My stomach flips over and I am shivering.

  Remember, I think inside, remember in the movies where they always go wrong. Don’t antagonise. Stop talking. Say nothing or say only very soothing things. Do NOT argue. Be passive.

  ‘I know that you would never, ever, ever go out for dinner with me.’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘YES true.’

  Rex presses tight against my hip, he trembles at intervals with a faint grumble on the exhalation and keeps Pie Man under nervous surveillance with a stiff-necked gaze that tracks his every movement. His fight-flight instincts are foxed by all this human chaos, he might hurl himself at Pie Man’s jugular if I let him but I would not trust Rex to carry through to the bloody end – I suspect he is all bark, no bite, the killer instinct bred out of him or destroyed by my softie nurturing.

  ‘There are things that—’ he is sliding an agitated hand up and down his arm. ‘There are things you understand, things I can talk about to you that I can’t to anyone else.’

  ‘You mean like maths stuff?’

  ‘But you don’t even care.’

  ‘That’s just what I say.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it always made me feel like a freak show. Even at school they thought I was a freak, a cheat. I never wanted to be different. Just wanted to be like all the other girls.’

  Pie Man approaches the bed and flops down on the other side of Rex. He lies in a backwards sprawl, a doughnut of neck fat cushioning his head as he tilts it up to the ceiling. The red sweatshirt rises and falls with each harsh breath.

  Rex turns to me with a low beseeching whine and I nod and smile and mouth ‘Good Boy’, tickle the favourite spot beneath his chin. I dare not even whisper aloud and interrupt this meditative strategy that could restore Pie Man to an equilibrium, perhaps some abdominal breathing technique that he has learnt. Maybe he is imagining a peaceful blue ocean, sun streaming down on a magically slimmed body, warm lapping water at his toes. Or better still, standing in front of a gleaming tower of monitors, screens flickering with a web of charts and numbers flashing live and dangerous in the world where he is king of minds and hearts.

  ‘I don’t like losing my temper,’ says Pie Man in a voice that is small and squeaky. I scratch Rex’s head and he settles on his front paws with a sigh. We are inching towards safer ground.

  ‘But you shouldn’t wind me up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘When I get hungry, it affects my mood. Sometimes it actually feels like I’m going mad.’ He lunges to his feet and exhales sharply, staggers a little.

  ‘The truth is it’s this—’ he pats his wobbling gut, ‘that puts women off.’ He clutches mournfully at a flesh rol
l. ‘You said it.’

  ‘No, Rob said it.’ And I have no problem emphasising Rob’s culpability in this so he can one day be the one captured and tied to a bed.

  ‘You laughed when he said it. I remember.’

  ‘I laugh at anything. I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You think I’m fat.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Not totally.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘OK, OK, you’re overweight. You’re fat, even. But that’s not a permanent condition. I mean, you can lose it. You can change.’ He turns half to the wardrobe mirror as if projecting his imaginings, a slim fit six foot two inches but then he spins away, the dream doesn’t take shape.

  ‘Were you – a big kid?

  He nods, a big lumpen nod.

  ‘Were your family?’

  ‘No, no. Just me. My dad was like a rake, could eat anything. He hated the way I was. Always trying to get me to play football and run about.’ And he shivers, sets off a trembling of belly excess, maybe the memory of all those years as the fat boy secretly munching at the back of the class, pushed around the playground at lunchtime.

  I can picture exactly how it would have been, the hollow victory of the five A levels and the university scholarship falling on deaf ears. Apart from the maths teacher who’d probably never had a star pupil before, his mum and dad smiling in bewilderment like you do when someone is talking to you in a foreign tongue. There’s nothing wrong with normal, his dad would’ve muttered, remembering all those Sundays when he kicked a ball in the garden and his son lumbered after it like a legless walrus until they slammed through the door and the consolation of a fry-up in front of the telly. I imagine Pie Man trying to love what his dad did, like the funnies, the Marx Brothers, Laurel and Hardy, all that slapstick bungling and the sense that maybe they were laughing together until the screen went blank and the moment was gone, leaving nothing in its wake except Match of the Day, little men in colours worrying at a ball as if their life depended on it and his dad slapping the arm of the chair. D’ya see that? Afterwards an emptiness much like hunger as he sat cradling the biscuit tin on the couch, heard his dad creak across the landing and the bedroom door slam. His dad lean like a bean. Hollow legs: I don’t know where he puts it, his mum said admiringly. Hollow legs, hollow men.