Throwback

by Guy N Smith

  It was funny how they never swapped with the Joneses again after that night, never even called round for a quick drink, didn't even get a card from them at Christmas. Something had gone wrong somewhere along the line. Maybe Marie had had a fit of jealousy in the cold sobering light of a November Sunday morning.

  And Sylvia seemed to lose her enthusiasm for the way-out scene too. Just like that, a marital screw at weekends but she didn't even try to lure Eric into anything else. He even got to thinking that she'd had her wild fling and had decided to resign herself to the dull routine of a straightforward marriage even though they were apart five nights of most weeks.

  Then rumours trickled back, a muddled jigsaw that needed a lot of piecing together. In remote rural areas, it was true, the last person to hear stories concerning one's wife is oneself.

  It was that nut up at the organic farm who was shagging Sylvia. It figured. It was funny how Eric experienced a pang of jealousy the first time he found out for sure. If it had been Al or George it wouldn't have mattered. They were ordinary guys who just wanted a fuck, nothing more, a thrill to boost their own marriages the same way that Eric needed one now. It ended when you came, as simple as that. But this fellow was different. His wife was a flighty bit of stuff, if all the stories about her were true, going off on her own at nights to nightclubs and doubtless getting herself shafted. The ice was dangerously thin in that quarter.

  Jon Quinn needed more than sex, he needed to fill a gap, companionship. And that could be dangerous. The guy was one of these food-freaks who thought everybody else should be also, so he was marketing organic produce and preaching that chemicals were poisoning half the population of the world.

  Then Sylvia had started dishing up these funny meals at weekends; no longer proper salads with lettuce, tomato and cucumber, but all sorts of fruit mixed up with nuts. Just weaning her husband on to nuts. A nut-roast next. Jesus, she was really going nuts!

  Gradually Eric Atkinson was aware of his marriage slipping away from him, an erosion that revealed itself in a number of ways. Sylvia's personality was changing, becoming morose. Because her mind was on Jon Quinn. When she prepared a vegetarian meal it was for him, not Eric, regardless of who ate it or slyly tipped it into the waste-bin.

  Eric had wondered what to do about it. Should he tackle her outright? No, she might lie to him and whatever else she had done she had never lied. If she did that then he would lose his respect for her and then it would al! be over. That he didn't want, oh Christ Almighty no. A sudden realisation, in spite of it all he loved Sylvia. God yes, and he missed her like hell. Which was why he had other women whilst he was away from home. Substitutes; each and every one of them was a Sylvia.

  So he had let her carry on with Jon Quinn, afraid to detonate the affair into something he couldn't handle. Each weekend he went home with the same nagging fear, his mouth dry, his guts in knots. I'm sorry, Eric, I'm leaving. Really, I'm sorry, please believe me, but I need a husband not just a weekend lover. Or maybe just a note left on the mantelshelf, the easy way out.

  But it hadn't happened and he had come to the decision that just by letting the affair continue, it wouldn't. It might go on for years. Basically it boiled down to this bloody job. Reps were married to their firms. You gave them everything or else you were out on your ear. They bought your marriage, your life, months and years which you could never retrieve, all for a pittance of a salary offset by reasonable expenses.

  So he let it go, just like that. Every weekend he came home to an organic diet that had a distinct Quinn flavour about it, got a thrill out of screwing Sylvia in the same way that he had that night when Al had first had her, and it would be this way until he retired at 65. Fuck the firm, they didn't even offer him a redundancy when they had drastic cut-backs three years ago. No golden handshake for him. Maybe it was as well, though, because if he fouled up Sylvia's little game she might take off and go and live with Quinn. Don't poke the sleeping lion, as the saying went.

  Marlene was the nearest he'd found to Sylvia yet. Sophisticated, sexy, her husband was an 'area manager', an up-market rep. He sometimes stayed away weekends too; it was a vicious circle, they were all on the same roundabout. Sometimes you lose, sometimes you win. You paid your money and gambled your luck.

  She wore a long evening gown tonight that showed off every curve, didn't leave you with much to guess, the kind that gave you a hard-on under the table and you hoped that the other diners thought she was your wife. She was class and she gave you class. Yet tonight she was strangely sombre, long periods when she concentrated on her food and didn't speak at all. There was definitely something on her mind but he knew her well enough to know that if she wanted to tell him she would do so in her own good time. If she didn't want to, she wouldn't. You knew where you stood with Marlene, no bullshit. That compensated for a lot.

  She played with the stem of her wine-glass, regarded him thoughtfully. Shall I tell him or not? Decision time. Finally she decided to tell him.

  'Joey's left me.' She said it just like that. She might have said Tm going to mow the front lawn tomorrow.'

  'Oh!' For once he felt incredibly stupid. His vision swam, something clutched at his heart and stopped it for a second, restarted it almost immediately. Tm sorry.' He didn't know whether he was or not; if he was, he was sorry for himself.

  'He's had a woman down in Lampeter for a long time.' She talked easier now that she had made her decision. 'I knew about it, of course, but there was nothing I could do about it even if I'd wanted to. I just let things take their course, it's often the best way because they generally work out. I'm not sorry because our marriage as such was finished three years ago. Divorces are easy, don't take long these days, but I guess right now I'm a free woman, Eric.1 The bail's in your court.

  Suddenly his Kentucky fried chicken tasted sour, the dry white wine so bitter that he grimaced. Sylvia, darling, I love you. This is only a game like yours. Our marriage isn't over, it's just gone into a recession like everything else in this damned crazy world. Given time it'll come back. It has to.

  'Oh, I see.' He did, only too well. 'What . . . what are your plans then?' Don't answer that because I don't want to hear, I don't want to jettison my fantasies. I don't want reality.

  'Do you really need to ask?' The twin candlelight had her dark eyes glistening and because he couldn't meet her gaze he found himself looking down at her cleavage. Small perfectly shaped breasts that had never been suckled by a babe; just himself. And others. But he topped the poll at the moment.

  'No, I suppose I don't.' He tried to laugh but it came out wrong. False.

  'That's fine then.' She didn't appear to notice. Tve been married to a right bastard for more years than I care to remember and you've been hitched to a bitch who goes and screws with any guy who gives her the eye.'

  He felt himself cringe, wanted to leap to his feet and yell, 'No, she's not like that at all. It's me. I've screwed another bird already this week. That's all I'm after. Sex. I don't want a permanent relationship with any woman except my wife.1 But he didn't because he was too scared.

  'You've told me often enough that you're in love with me,' she went on. 'Well, I'm in love with you too, Eric, and at last it looks like we'll be able to share each other for ever instead of continuing with this nerve-racking affair, wondering ail the time if somebody who knows us will see us.'

  'Yes, it'll be nice,' he said politely. 'For both of us. I'll talk to Sylvia about it this weekend.'

  'Will you, really?' Euphoric relief in her tone, her slim fingers coming across the table in search of his. 'I knew I hadn't made a mistake about you, Eric. I confess that at one time I thought that maybe I was just your once-a-week woman, a bit on the side and then shelved for another week. I know now that I was wrong. Let's treat tonight as a celebration because everything's working out. When we go upstairs tonight I really will feel that I'm Mrs Atkinson at long last.'

  Mrs Marlene Atkinson! There was a glisten of perspiration on Eric's forehead
as they went up in the elevator after dinner. Mr and Mrs Atkinson! Jesus Christ, he wouldn't be able to stall this one for long. I've spoken to Sylvia, Marlene, and she says that's fine but we've got to straighten a few things out first. It won't take long. Marlene wasn't the kind to hang about. Everything was going to blow up in his face, one way or the other, very soon.

  Her naked body didn't look so alluring tonight and he knew he had got to put on another act, the clandestine lover who has finally got his woman for keeps. She was eager for him, helping him off with his clothes, her sensuous fingers straying all the time, then pulling him down on the bed with her.

  'Just think, Eric, it'll always be like this with us from now on. And maybe you can get another job so that you won't have to be away from home all the time.' Not that I don't trust you but I want you all to myself.

  She was good, very, very good. Any other night it would have been sheer ecstasy but tonight he had to struggle to keep up with her. You are getting fat. So he let her do all the work but she did not appear to notice because she was doing everything she wanted to do. Astride him, gyrating like an eastern belly-dancer, teasing him, tiring both of them so that finally they sank down exhausted, not bothering to retrieve the sheets off the floor because the night was too warm, anyway.

  Eric Atkinson was dimly aware that it was light, a kind of guilty feeling that it was time to be up and doing. Sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  He didn't know where he was, didn't even try to work it out, just accepted the fact that he was in some strange place with four symmetrical walls around him and a hole through which the daylight shafted in. Frightening, suddenly.

  Then he sa.w the woman, She was lying on her stomach, head buried in the pillow. Sleeping. He grunted, forgot his claustrophobia, reached out a thick coarse hand and touched her buttocks. She stirred slightly. His head hurt, a throbbing pain behind the eyes which distorted his vision but he fought against it. An urgent need had to be satisfied, a priority in any situation.

  The woman was not fully awake but he had no reason to wait. His hands slipped beneath her thighs, dragged her up into a kneeling position, her head still resting on the pillow. She seemed to understand, parted her legs without disturbing her position, half-kneeling now, gave a kind of low whine which was interpreted as willingness, not that it would have mattered to him anyway.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, almost shied away from it; not because he saw his own naked body matted with coarse fair hair like some subtropical tree-dwelling species but because for a moment he thought that a rival was contesting for his mate. Then he seemed to understand, did he not see his own features when he stooped to drink from a clear pool? He did not investigate further because he had other things on his mind.

  He pushed hard with his thighs, thrust fiercely to penetrate her, pulling her back on to him as he found her entrance. A minute, possibly two, and then he was arching his back, shuddering, coming out of her because it was all over and there was no point in remaining coupled.

  He sprang from the bed, rushed to the window. He saw towering bare brickwork interspersed with windows that had the misfortune to look out on to the rear of these buildings. An untidiness thirty feet below, an array of dustbins and empty cardboard cartons, litter everywhere.

  Eric stretched out a hand, jerked it back with a cry of surprise as he touched the glass, an invisible barrier which frightened him. His teeth were bared in a snarl of defiance, glancing back towards Marlene as though she had the answer. She cringed, whined, would have offered herself to him again for he was the male of the species and it was his right. But he was satisfied in that respect, his uppermost desire right now to find some means of escape from this terrible place which he did not understand, a prison which denied him the freedom of the open spaces.

  Throaty noises: 'What is this place and why are we here, woman?'

  *I do not know.1 Cowering. If he flew into a rage he might strike her.

  He prowled the room, knocked over the flimsy bedside table and stooped to examine it, half-afraid of an obstacle which he did not understand, backing away. His bulk caught against the door handle, sprung it. With a howl he leaped away, stared in disbelief as the door swung slowly open. Through the gap he spied dazzling white walls, the long carpeted corridor. Hesitating, again looking to his mate for support. There is a way out.' 'Where you go, I go.'

  He nodded, aware how fast his heart beat, realising for the first time that his skin smarted. He held out his hairy arms, examined them; the thick hair was patchy, uneven, and he saw toe redness of his flesh, how it burned, itched in places. The discomfort angered him, but the need to escape from here dominated his limited instinctive powers of thought.

  Stealthily, a stalking beast of prey, he crept out of the room, Marlene close behind him. A fluorescent tube flickered badly, hurt his eyes, decided him upon which way to go,

  And then he saw the other woman! She was old, her blotched flesh wrinkled, her hair grey and sparse. Her breasts sagged, empty milk bags that were of no further use, legs skinny and weak. The head was almost bald, the mouth shrunken and toothless, gnarled hands clutching a stick, an extra artificial limb upon which she had been leaning to support her frail body.

  She saw them and her eyes widened, toothless mouth opening to emit a scream of terror, the stick raised to protect herself.

  Eric went into a crouch, saw a weapon which threatened them, this hag barring their escape route, one of the old ones seeking to strike them down. Fat had tautened into muscles, his reflexes were as sharp as any animal of the wild for his life depended upon them.

  Powerful short legs springboarded him into action, had him airborne, mouthing unintelligible hatred for the old woman, spittle frothing down his shaggy beard. A killing cry, an arm brushing aside the wielded stick, clattering it against the wall so that it thudded to the floor. A clenched fist raised, coming down.

  Just one blow, that was all that was necessary. He scarcely felt the impact, heard only the sharp snap as the brittle skull cracked, the head jerked right back. Something broke. His adversary was dead even as she fell, never felt the weight of his feet as they landed on her abdomen, ballooned her intestines into a tight ball so that the stomach wall split and spewed them out, blood and matter spraying the ceiling. He slipped in the slimy mess, fell headlong in the human offal. One bound and he was upright again, a stinking hairy thing fleeing for the stairs with its mate close behind. Steps going down, not knowing where they led but it was dangerous to remain here. A landing; down another flight, then stopping as he saw people below him in the halt, slippery bloody fingers clutching the stair-rail until the wooden struts threatened to snap. His wide nostrils flared, smelled death and fear in the stuffy indoor atmosphere.

  Marlene moved close to him, whined her own terror softly. A bunch of men and women prowled the ground floor area restlessly, skin-festered fingers examining mundane objects with the gleeful enthusiasm of young children. A brass handbell clanged as its clapper swung, was dropped to the black and white marble floor. Rolling in a half-circle until its momentum ran out, the watchers scattering, chattering in alarm, circling it warily as though it might suddenly come to life again and spring up at them. When it did not it was ignored, forgotten.

  The swing-doors leading out into the street spun crazily, banged one who sought to enter, had him jumping back with a howl of anguish. Outside the street was crowded, everyone going his or her own way with urgent purposeless gambolling movements, arms hung low, some even moving about on all fours. Backwards and forwards, a few dashing for no other reason than that they got in one another's way; not a mob because they were mindless individuals who had not yet succumbed to the gregarious instinct. Confused, afraid, screaming whenever blue lights flashed and sirens blared. But neither ambulances nor police cars were going anywhere, the early-morning traffic already shunted into an immovable tangle. All transport ground to a standstill.

  Screaming, there was always somebody
screaming but nobody took any notice. Here and there a couple mated openly but their copulation was ignored because it was acceptable to ensure the continuation of their kind. Corpses lay on the pavements and in the road.

  Eric Atkinson descended the remaining stairs cautiously, Marlene following close behind; he knew she was there because he could smell her fear. Nobody was interested in them, they did not even seem aware that strangers were in their midst. Because everybody was a stranger.

  He tried to work out how to pass through the swing-doors, plate glass rotating every time anybody pushed at them; then somebody fell, perhaps was pushed, sprawled headlong and jammed the doors, pinned securely, struggling and yelling. Eric Atkinson seized his chance, squeezed through the narrow gap, pulling Marlene after him, treading heavily over the unfortunate youth who shrieked in agony; his abdomen bulged but it was stronger than that of the aged woman on the second floor and did not split.

  Outside, breathing in the fresh air, hustling and being hustled. Some of the passers-by were still clothed, struggling to rid themselves of clinging garments, tearing at material, pulling blindly. Frustrated, wondering how their bodies came to be obstructed by these inexplicable things which overheated burning skin and restricted their movements.

  Futile flight in a strange land; roads that were circular and brought them back to the place from which they had started but they were not aware of this because the landmarks were all the same, buildings that looked identical wherever they went.

  The crowds were swelling as more and more poured out into the packed streets, clambering over vehicles, some examining them with interest, overcoming their fear of alien objects, chattering excitedly.

  A large van was pulled on to the pavement close to a bank, a black chassis with a green trim, barred windows on the side doors and at the rear. One of the side doors was open so that you caught a glimpse of the interior. Two men, naked except for their helmets, of which they seemed totally unaware. Money everywhere; packets of notes, the polythene wrappings split so that the currency had showered out, a carpet of giant confetti, blue, green and brown spilling across the floor, down the steps, wafting along the road. A fortune in street litter that was being trodden and shredded by an army of feet, ignored because nobody realised and even if they did they weren't worth anything. A gust of warm summer wind stirred them, swirled them, swept them further away.