Some part of me knows that. I’ve known since I saw a woman with snakes of fire for hair.
But fuck it, though. Fuck it, right? You go on. The clock ticks and the dark winds down toward night and you go on and the routine is what gets you through.
But the minutiae of day to day life change, too. Life changes us, changes our routines, shuffles us in the direction we’re meant to go.
I don’t know where I’m meant to go.
In those early days, I didn’t even think about it. Me and Helen, we’re learning each other all over again. We’re holding hands, we’re creating a life for ourselves in our new world, learning how to love and making the most of our time in the sun with no thought of the night.
Like how we eat. No takeaways. We’ve got time. Helen cooks.
Like getting up before the sun. When I was working we got up at six on weekdays, seven on weekends. Weekends used to be the bookends to the week. Now they don’t matter anymore. Our weeks don’t have ends.
We just do the same thing. Everyday, without fail. But there are subtle differences. Like, bin day was Tuesday. Blue and black, alternate weeks. Brown…
I still don’t know about brown. How many bins can you need? Two seems about right to me. Three seems like overkill.
But I don’t moan about the bins. I like the bins. Bins are man things, like shaking after a piss instead of wiping.
I see Frank on Monday, that first Monday. Helen sees him too, but I’m not there then, so I don’t know exactly what was said. I do know she liked him right off the bat. I’m glad. I wanted her to like him. I can’t say why it’s important that she does.
Tuesday, we drive around ‘til we found a shop. Just a small chain store, five aisles. We buy the bare essentials. Bread, milk, cheese, beans, bacon, sausages. The meat’s British. We’re conscientious shoppers. Some juice, not British, but who grows oranges in Britain? You can’t even do that on the Isle of Wight.
We get eggs. Free range. Some waffles. It says on the pack that they’re genuine Belgian waffles, but they’re made in Stockport. I don’t think that’s in Belgium, but I don’t get on my high horse about it. I just hand over the cash. The woman behind the counter takes my money, looks away. She doesn’t make eye contact at all.
Some people don’t. I don’t cry about it. It’s just the way it is. My lip’s pretty much bounced back, but my eye is weird. I have to give her that. I don’t like the look of it, either.
Once, there was a cleaner at my office. He’d come in when I was working late. I never liked him. Some people you don’t take to. He had crazy eyes. It’s true, you know. You can see madness in a man’s eyes.
I don’t know what happened to the cleaner. I think he got the can. I like to think he was caught fucking chickens in the toilet. I don’t know, though.
I don’t look crazy like that cleaner. Just not quite right. The perennial smile I was wearing lately didn’t help. People like a smiler, right up until they buy Belgian waffles made in Stockport and don’t complain. Then they get worried.
We get home. No one’s on fire. No one’s going mad. Not me. Getting out of London did the trick.
Wednesday, we have a late breakfast with all our purchases from the day before. We go the whole hog. Or at least the parts of the hog that make up the bacon and the sausage.
I realise by then that as perfect as this is, I’m looking forward to Frank coming over. He’s due Sunday. Helen thinks the thing he’ll miss most, since his wife is gone, is a roast.
I try to imagine what meal I’d miss the most if Helen wasn’t there. A roast is right there. Pig, cow, chicken, sheep.
Pig, probably. Of the four.
‘Helen?’ I say.
‘Yes?’
‘How about pork? For Sunday.’
‘With crackling?’
I smile. She’s reading my mind.
‘Of course with crackling.’
‘You can’t have crackling.’
I just look at her. I could, but don’t say, 'I’ve given up coffee, honey, but that’s the least of it, because I gave up beer and vodka Red Bull and vodka orange at the end of a night when I’m being healthy, I’ve given up pills, uppers, downers, dodgy valium that Dave Thorpe bought online, Viagra that I took once by mistake, marijuana in bongs round some black guy’s house with fucking dreadlocks and a gun on a coffee table, heroin in little tin foil rollies, coke…'
I didn’t say that. I didn’t say, 'Don’t take away my crackling.'
I could pull out the waistband of my trousers, make a pointed comment about how I need a new pair.
I could’ve said a ton of things but I didn’t. I don’t do it like that anymore. She appreciates me not doing those things, because I don’t bully her anymore.
She just looks at me and says, ‘OK. Not all of it, though. You leave some for Frank. You think Frank likes crackling?’
‘Helen. Frank’s a man. Men like crackling. Frank’ll like crackling. Frank’s been missing crackling since his wife died.’
‘OK,’ she says.
Everyday, same things, different things. A marriage, kind of like I imagine retired peoples’ must be, but fresher, because each day we look at each other with new eyes.
More urgent, because I’m not dead and we’re both glad. Urgent, because since I died the day started running down and we both know it, even if we never talk about it, not once.
We don’t rush.
Time’s running down, like when you’ve got a bus to catch, you rush.
Time’s running down, like you could be dead in a month, a year? Then there’s no sense in rushing. Slow down. That’s the way to go. Enjoy the simple things.
Really, the day’s winding down for all of us, from the moment we’re born. People don’t think about it. They rush around. All that achieves is getting there quicker.
I don’t want to get there any quicker than I have to.
If you slow down, you don’t miss it. People are rushing about so fucking fast I bet they won’t even know when they’re dead.
Each day we go to the sea. It’s a two minute drive, now we know the way.
We go to the same spot. The coast might change, but the sea’s pretty much the same. It’s not the coast that does it for me, though. When I ask Frank he says there’s a pretty good stretch of sand off to the west. Cromer’s to the east, but he turns his nose up when I ask him how that is, and I trust his judgement. Frank’s got years on me. If he doesn’t like it, I’m not going to waste my time. My time is too precious. I don’t have enough to waste.
Maybe I’ll go and see the sand. For now, the waves, crashing against the sea defences. That’s what does it for me. The weather, being born out to sea. The rain, the spume (I learned that from Frank. I had to ask Helen what it meant) and my yellow sunset that only I can see. The after light.
I didn’t talk to Helen about it, not again. But I made sure we were at the sea for sunset. That burst of yellow was like a shutter going down on the day, or a blanket, being pulled up to your chin on a cold night.
It became something I did, like brushing my teeth before bed, or going to the toilet.
Always in that order. Minutiae, but ritual, too.
It gets you through the days.
*
14.
Sunday comes around.
I sit in the living room, out of the way. Helen gets shitty when she’s doing a big dinner. I never get to hang out with her. In London, our kitchen was tiny, so it wasn’t an issue. Now the kitchen’s huge, big enough so we can have a table in there, too, and I still can’t hang out.
It feels weird, but it’s OK, too. I’m into this story by Joe R Lansdale. I haven’t heard of him, but there’s a preacher in it, with six-shooters, and a dead guy with bees coming out of his chest cavity. What’s not to like?
Sometimes I have to close my eyes mid-story, when my eye gets tired. The words dance around but that’s OK. If I’m enjoying a story I read on, if I’m not I don’t bother. It’s a good system.
Like so much else, I don’t know exactly why things touch me all the time these days. I’m an emotional wreck. I cry sometimes watching the Simpsons because most everyone’s grey and it’s really fucking depressing.
‘Sam, get that, would you? My hands are full.’
I’m slow, but I hurry. I don’t want to make Frank wait too long.
‘I brought a bottle of wine. For Helen,’ he tells me, when I finally open the door. Helen joins me. Her hands are empty.
I don’t offer to take the wine. I’ve got the door in one hand, the stick in the other.
We don’t shake. No point. We’ve done that.
‘Thanks,’ Helen says as she takes the wine. There’s a moment, just a second. I notice. Frank doesn’t. Then Helen makes up her mind and kisses him on the cheek. No more moments after that. This is the way it’s going to be between them.
Then he’s in.
‘Dinner’s coming. You want to go through to the living room? I don’t want you hanging around the kitchen.’
This she directs at me. She’s taking charge. I grin. Frank gets it.
‘Beer?’
Frank thinks for a second.
‘Please.’
Helen waves me away as I make to go into the kitchen.
‘Glass or bottle?’
‘A bottle’s posh enough for me. I’m normally a can man.’
There’s a clunk and a hiss. Helen hands Frank a lager.
‘Is that OK?’
He takes a sip. Sighs.
‘Better than OK. Thank you.’
Helen nods. Disappears back into the kitchen.
‘Come in,’ I say. ‘We’re still all over the place. It takes a while.’
‘I’ve still got boxes stacked in two of the bedrooms.’
We sit down. Between the two of us, we make a fairly good comedy sketch. One of those long running shows where people say the same thing, different scenarios. We sit, we go 'ooch'. Everybody laughs.
‘We managed to get the essentials done,' I say, shuffled into my chair, 'but mainly we’ve been getting to know the neighbourhood.’
‘It’s a good town. It’s got most of what you’d need. The supermarket down the road’s got pretty much everything else.’
‘How do you get there? You haven’t got a car, right?’
‘I get the bus, if I have to. My eyes keep getting worse. It seemed sensible to give up the car. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened.’
‘I can’t say I miss driving.’
‘Me, neither.’
Helen’s standing in the doorway.
‘Well, I’ve never had to call you to the table before. Sam’s got some kind of sixth sense when it comes to dinner.’
‘I’m slacking.’
I push myself up. Frank does the same. He winces, but doesn’t complain. It must hurt. I’m lucky. Mine doesn’t hurt, I just look like a dead crab rising from a watery grave.
He should have a stick. Maybe it’s pride.
Helen’s given us fair warning. She lays the last of the dishes as we make it to the table.
‘Where am I?’ says Frank, eyeing the food. His mouth is just shy of watering.
‘Here,’ she says. She holds the chair out for him. He gets his own back. He waits for her to sit down before he takes his seat. This impresses me. It’s a nice touch. Old school. I think, I’ll remember that.
I follow his lead. It’s a small thing but Helen seems pleased.
Frank’s wife must have been one happy woman.
‘This looks fantastic,’ Frank says, once we’re all seated.
‘I hope you enjoy it.’
‘I’m going to. I haven’t had a home cooked roast since I lost Dana. You’ve no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this.’
‘Well,’ says Helen, a little flushed, ‘help yourself.’
We let him take first shot at everything. We pass him pork, roast potatoes, green beans, carrots, parsnips, sweet potato, gravy, apple sauce. I pass him the crackling.
He grins.
He takes some, taking a bite and cracking it with his teeth – his own, I’m sure.
‘That’s perfect.’
I offer it to Helen. She shakes her head, like always. I take some, leave the plate between me and Frank. I leave the crackling ‘til last. I know it’s good. It always is.
We eat. We don’t make conversation. We just pass dishes, clack serving spoons and slop on apple sauce. Frank makes this noise while he eats. A kind of contented hum.
He finishes first. Like he’s not had any kind of meal since Dana died, let alone a roast.
‘You’re a lucky man. That was a fantastic dinner, Helen.’
‘Seconds?’ says Helen.
‘No. Thank you. That’s enough for me.’
‘There’s plenty,’ she says, and there is. She’s done enough for six.
‘Well…’
Sensing he’s going to cave, Helen just passes him the spuds. I take my cue.
After a while, it finally looks like we’ve made a dent in the mountain of food.
Me and Frank share the last of the crackling.
‘That’s the best meal I’ve had in years,’ says Frank. ‘But no more. You’ll kill me.’
‘We can’t have that,’ Helen says with a smile. ‘Beer? Coffee?’
Frank swishes the dregs of his beer.
‘I better go with coffee,’ he says. ‘Any more beer on top of that and I’ll sleep for a week.’
We offer to help clear up, but don’t complain too hard when Helen shoos us away.
Back in the living room, we sit, too stuffed to move. Ooch.
‘How are you getting on? With the stick?’ he asks.
‘It helps. I’m hoping I won’t need it forever.’
‘I’ve been thinking of getting myself one.’
‘It’s not as bad as it looks. You get used to it.’
‘Hmm,’ he says. Helen comes in to hand him his coffee, me a tea. She goes out again.
‘Maybe,’ he says, as if there was no interruption.
‘I’m trying to get some more exercise in. I want to be able to walk up the shop. I won’t be driving again, but I feel bad, you know…Helen does all the driving.’
‘I go to Skip’s, at the edge of town. It’s not too far.’
‘Is that the closest?’
He pauses. ‘No. There’s the Stop Shop.’
‘The closer the better.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘There’s a cut through, past the old youth centre. Up an embankment. I don’t go that way. I wouldn’t make it with my hip. I guess you wouldn’t make it, either.’
‘What way do you go?’
‘You can go through the estate, over the back. Cut down the alley by Bob’s,’ he says, sees my look. ‘You haven’t met Bob? Well, you can make your own mind up, there. He’s the other side – the one with the ugly shed. Anyway, the alley comes out on Cedars. It says it’s a dead end, but it’s not. There’s a footpath, leads out onto Townshend.’
‘Townshend?’
‘Townshend. With the ‘H’. Don’t ask me why. Follow that, you’ll come out on the old Fakenham road. Down the hill, there’s the one-stop. But I don’t go that way.’
I smile, like it’s a joke. But it’s not a joke.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t like it.’
‘What, the estate?’
‘Right.’
‘Is it rough?’
He laughs. ‘It’s just…it feels wrong...’
He seems like he’s got more to say. I don’t push him. He’s getting there. I don’t rush around anymore. Neither does he.
‘Well, alright,’ he says, like I’m pestering him, but I’m not. I’m just drinking my tea.
‘Best I can put it…when I was working on a boat, sometimes you’d know it wasn’t right.
You’d do the same thing as always. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, thing would go right. But that one time…things just wouldn’t run true, no matter what you did. I guess estates are like that. You do the same thing a hundred times, one’ll be bowed.’
‘Now I’m intrigued,’ I say, both that he used to work on boats, and about the estate.
‘Don’t be. I’m just a superstitious old man. You’d probably think nothing of it. But, like I say, I don’t go that way.’
I don’t know why, but I get the sense that he’s holding something back. It puzzles me. I’m not a great judge of character, but Frank seems as straight as they come. I’m sure I’m not wrong on that front, but just the same, I feel there’s something else.
He shrugs. ‘Like I say, I don’t go that way. It’s quickest, though. Still, if you want, I’ll show you the way to Skip’s.’
‘Sure,’ I say. And then we’re back to normal.
‘I better get going. I don’t want you to think I’ve lost my marbles.’
I think about sunsets. I think about people on fire, way back when. It seems like another life. The man in the sports shop. I think back…it’s only just over a week ago, but it’s faded. Things like that fade. That’s good. Some things should fade.
If Frank says it’s wrong, I’m not going to argue. I don’t think he’s lost his marbles.
But I’m still intrigued.
I walk him to the back door, after he’s said his thanks and goodbyes. I watch him go to our back gate. I hang by the back door until he comes into sight again, walking slowly to his back door.
He pauses, at the back of his house. Pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket, flicks a lighter. Then he waves and goes inside.
*
15.
Me and Frank do the walk to Skip’s the next week. I go over to his, knock on the back door. I feel like saying, ‘Do you want to come out and play?’ but I don’t.
‘Do you fancy that walk? I’m taking your advice. I’ll try Skip’s.’
‘Let me get my coat,’ he says.
I don’t have a coat on. I wonder if he knows something I don’t. Maybe old boat builders know about the weather.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 26
