The Hunger Trace

by Edward Hogan

  ‘She just needs to, erm, settle down a bit.’

  The man in front of them received a shove from his girlfriend and turned around. ‘Look. Could you keep it down please?’ he said into the space between Maggie and Christopher.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ Maggie said.

  ‘I can speak for myself, you know,’ Christopher said to her.

  ‘I know, kiddo,’ Maggie said. She turned back to the man. ‘I didn’t realise I was talking so loud. Sorry.’

  The woman turned around now. ‘It’s not so much the talking as the eating. Can’t you get him to eat with his mouth closed?’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Maggie protested. ‘Have you seen the size of those hot-dogs?’

  The woman tutted and turned back to the film. Maggie had tried to joke it off, but she was hurt by the couple’s reaction. She looked at Christopher and saw that he was almost crying. ‘Hey,’ she whispered. She put her hand on his arm but he stood and addressed the couple. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry for eating. At least I’m not, erm, virtually having coitus in a public place. I mean, there’s a time and a place for that sort of, erm, copulation, and it’s the bedroom. Or maybe the stairs if you can’t, erm, wait. Erm, eff off.’

  He tramped up the sloping aisle, his body tilted into the gradient.

  ‘Cheerio,’ the man said, shifting back into his seat.

  Maggie paused for a moment, and then leaned towards the woman in front. ‘What you said was very cruel,’ she said. The woman did not turn round.

  She followed Christopher out into the car park, where he was already trying the door of the Land Rover. Maggie unlocked it and went round to sit in the driver’s seat. She rubbed her face with her hands.

  ‘It’s not you that should be, erm, upset,’ said Christopher.

  ‘You mustn’t listen to people like that, Christopher. They’re ignorant.’

  ‘It’s all very well saying that now, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a substandard wingman. Louisa Smedley would have been all over them like a bad, erm, rash. Smack.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Louisa Smedley didn’t take you to the cinema. She’s not here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Maggie felt like saying more on the subject, but she did not want to poison the friendship between Louisa and Christopher.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said.

  ‘So do I,’ she said.

  ‘Alone,’ he said.

  Maggie started on cocktails as soon as she got home. She drank Pisco sours, like her mother used to make. She mixed the drinks in an empty biscuit tin, which was the only suitable receptacle she could find. After four of these, she felt acidic and needy. She called Louisa and got a dead tone. These days, she felt disinclined to knock on the door. It seemed like a wasted walk. A mood of resentment struck her, and then gave way again to the simple wish to be with her friend.

  What she remembered was autumn, when they had seemed to find a possible way of living, pulled by the magnetism of the animal rhythms, and the arc of light over the hill. She recalled that day out by the reservoir, Diamond coming down from on high, and taking the duck into the pond, riding him, drowning him. Louisa had waded in after them, to take Diamond off the kill. She threw the limp mallard to Maggie, who stood on the bank, watching in awe as Louisa, breathing sharply against the cold of the pond, held her left hand up high above her head with Diamond perched on top, feeding. As Louisa waded back to the bank, Maggie held out a thick branch. Louisa took the branch and dragged her into the water, Maggie bouncing like a colt. She might have laughed, had she been able to breathe.

  In the van, on the way home, the radiator had bitten through the coldness of their clothes and created a heat haze. Maggie nipped at the whisky flask Louisa kept in the glove compartment. She had been tired in a way she had never been before. She felt healthy, and knew that she could get out there tomorrow and do the same again. She knew that she would have company, help, a purpose.

  Perhaps her mistake had been to imagine that could go on indefinitely. People seemed only to exist in her memory these days. That needn’t be true of everyone, she thought. With an aching need, she reached for the phone.

  * * *

  He got there just before it started to rain, his head pounding. ‘I can’t remember from last time,’ he said, when she met him at the side door. ‘Do I take my shoes off?’

  ‘Well. Eventually,’ she said, and walked on into the little room. She had a swaying, high-shouldered walk. She was drunk. He followed her.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, turning to look at his shoes. ‘They are very muddy. Did you have an outdoor appointment?’

  ‘I took a cab to the main road, and strolled up through the pines. For the sake of discretion, you know?’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you, but there’s no need. I can honestly tell you that nobody around here takes a blind bit of notice of what I do.’

  Adam opened his mouth to sympathise, but stopped himself. Maggie shut the door behind him. The room felt cold, as though there was damp in the walls.

  ‘I thought it would be a problem,’ Maggie said. ‘You know what they say about small villages and nosey neighbours. But I’ve been having difficulties of a quite opposite . . .’ She trailed off.

  She poured a lemony liquid into a glass. ‘Cocktail?’ she said.

  Adam smiled. ‘Yeah. If that’s all you’ve got.’

  She brought him the glass, sipping from it as she walked. She turned on the little heater and the desk lamp by the empty fireplace. The shadows flared.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, to be honest, if the neighbours were a bit nosier. Came and visited, even.’ She looked out of the window. Adam felt the veins in his head constricting with the first bitter sip. Maggie whispered theatrically. ‘The people around here are very hard. Unpredictable. I get myself into trouble, no matter what I say. But now I have company. So thank you for that.’

  She turned so that her back was against his chest, and she took his wrists and wrapped his arms around her. Adam noticed that they were about the same height. She shuffled back into him, put her hands behind his thighs and pressed him against her. They were both breathing heavily: he from the walk and she from the drinking.

  ‘I was surprised when you called,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe what?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He heard a noise from outside and flinched.

  ‘It’s an old house,’ she said. ‘The guttering can’t cope.’

  Adam drew his arm away and Maggie stumbled slightly, adjusting her footing.

  ‘Had a few jars, have we?’ he said.

  ‘What’s it to you, Constable?’ she said, smirking.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I just . . . I don’t want to make you do something you’ll regret in the morning.’

  She turned to look at him, regaining some sobriety. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said. ‘And, in case you’ve forgotten how this works, it’s me that’s forcing you.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. Listen, is there a toilet down here?’ Adam said.

  ‘End of the corridor. I’ll put some music on,’ she said.

  In the bathroom he fumbled in his pocket for the painkillers, and his keys came with them. He detached the mouse-head charm from the key-ring and stared at it in his hand. It rolled in his palm and the bell clinked. Louisa had once told him that birds swallow stones, which they use to grind up the food in their stomachs, because they have no teeth. He himself had often dreamed, as a child, that he was choking on stones, and would wake suddenly, coughing and spitting. Now he could hardly swallow the paracetamol. The taps were tight, the water shockingly cold.

  He recalled his last argument with Louisa. Don’t make it about me, she had said. As if it could be about anyone else. It was a kick in the guts, after he had laid himself bare like that. Maybe she was right. Maybe his proposal of a life together was hopeless and unrealistic.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. L
oud music came from the other room. Maggie sang a line, and then stopped. She was his age and she liked the music he liked: The Pixies, Pulp, Pavement.

  The bathroom window was frosted, the swirls like scars. Behind it was a blue-blackness, and – somewhere – Louisa’s cottage. He tried to make a mental list of the saleable items in his house, totted up the value. Maths was never his strong suit, but he knew the answer was a pittance.

  Maggie was opening her buttons when he came back in. She was sitting in the armchair now, holding his gaze. He knew his expression was as serious as hers, and that she had mistaken it for desire.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  She did not respond immediately, but pulled her shirt closed. He could still see the rich creamy colour of her bra strap.

  ‘What did I do?’ she said.

  ‘It’s not you, love. I swear. My mind’s not right.’

  ‘Well no,’ she said, as if that was a given. ‘Mine neither.’

  Maggie looked around for a moment and then seemed to accept the rejection.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You want to stay for a drink?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  He turned to go and then stopped. ‘I think you’re wrong, you know, about nobody around here caring about you,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to withdraw. ‘Just strikes me that people around here are alright.’

  Maggie shook her head with bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what’s going on any more.’

  ‘I’ll just . . . I’ll go,’ he said.

  She stood, but he raised his hands. ‘I’ll let myself out.’ He turned back to her at the door, but there was nothing more to be said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Louisa had watched Cynthia Driscoll, David’s first wife, flinch back from a barking dog on the day she arrived at Drum Hill, and she had known that she had the power to make her leave. But Cynthia was not frightened of people. She described herself as an emotionally sensitive woman. She was in touch with her feelings, she said. What that really meant, as far as Louisa could see, was that her emotions were more important than anyone else’s, and you had better keep yours to yourself if they were likely to upset, contradict, or irritate her. Many of her acquaintances compromised their feelings to avoid judgment, or the hassle and embarrassment of a scene. As a consequence, she considered most people she met to be repressed, which further fuelled her opinion of her own exceptional emotional range.

  Louisa afforded Cynthia grudging respect for the way she controlled David. It had taken Louisa years to eradicate her angry streak in order to please him, to put him first. She had kept everything inside to maintain the balance, but he remained unimpressed. And here was this woman who cried and stomped and threw her handbag out of the car window, and David was on his knees.

  The first time Cynthia visited Louisa’s house, she did so alone. Louisa saw her walking towards the window, tilting her head to check her hair in the reflection, unaware that Louisa stood behind it. Inside, Cynthia said little as she toured the rooms. ‘Is this a supporting wall?’ she asked. She knocked on the wall with one sharp knuckle and listened. Louisa found herself being unusually placid and careful. It really was impressive. Cynthia looked at her watch. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’ she said.

  Jealousy, Cynthia had explained to David, was disgusting. It destroyed relationships. She was a model – it was her job to look good, and she would not apologise for that. There would be attention, obviously, and he would have to accept it. ‘David knows the deal, in that regard,’ Cynthia told Louisa.

  So Louisa was surprised, and – she had to admit – delighted when Cynthia berated David in the White Hart for spending too much time at the cottage across the field. She was less surprised to hear David describe the accusation as preposterous.

  He repeated the word to her, later.

  ‘It’s not preposterous,’ Louisa snapped. ‘It’s not true. There’s nothing in it. But the idea itself is not preposterous.’

  He curbed his visits.

  David tried to provide entertainment and society for Cynthia. He bought her a basic model white BMW to enable her to get around. Her sales rep car, she called it. The one area in which David would not compromise was the park, and that was the most devastating defeat for Cynthia. They would stay at the park, despite its financial unfeasibility, its dwindling visitor numbers, its incitement of animal rights groups, the jokes people made about it, and its remoteness from any reputable retail shopping centres.

  It would be inaccurate to say that Cynthia confided in Louisa, but Louisa was often present at closing time in the White Hart when Cynthia slurred her predicament.

  One December night, Cynthia’s lament coincided with a rare visit from Louisa’s old falconry buddy, Nelly Carter, who listened to Mrs Bryant with some amusement.

  ‘How am I supposed to find work, living here? Anyone can see how my profile has dropped,’ Cynthia said. ‘And I’m losing my independence.’

  Louisa’s coat was already around her shoulders, the empty sleeves hanging limp in her lap. Nelly made a wisecrack to which Cynthia seemed oblivious. She was yet to even acknowledge Nelly, despite his whistles and asides.

  ‘I wasn’t built for this solitude,’ she said. ‘I’m a social person. I need more. I mean, it’s alright for you.’ Cynthia waved her cigarette vaguely in Louisa’s direction.

  Louisa could probably have left without interrupting the flow, but she felt compelled to introduce her friend. ‘Cynthia, this is Nelson Carter,’ Louisa said.

  ‘Hello,’ Cynthia said, with a sidelong glance. ‘And what is your first name?’

  Nelly laughed, and Louisa left them to it, walking past Philip Cassidy, who was drinking quietly at the bar.

  Louisa could understand Cynthia’s unhappiness. She was a woman, too.

  When Cynthia fell pregnant, she withdrew from life in Detton. David continued to try everything. He even abandoned the park for a week during the busiest season, and took Cynthia to the Canaries, but she came back pale. David caught the sun easily, and the disparity between their skin tones fired the imagination of Detton’s residents. ‘She had morning sickness,’ David mouthed. Nobody pointed out that the sun shone all day in Lanzarote.

  When he arrived, Christopher provided no liberation. At the nursery school, a trivial argument over an object not shared had ended with a little girl holding a bleeding ear, and Christopher sitting on the roof of the PE shed counting the tiles. It brought home to David what he had denied and excused since before the boy could talk: Christopher saw the world askance. That day, Louisa noticed the serene, accepting look on David’s face as they walked through the fields between their houses. ‘Cynthia’s taken it badly,’ he said.

  ‘What about you? Are you okay?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘It looks like we’ll be doing battle with this thing for the rest of our lives. But he’s my son. In a way, I can’t help thinking there’s some sort of order to this. That it was bound to happen, after what I did to that other boy.’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘David, that’s rubbish. Sometimes I think you forget what happened, and to whom.’

  Not long afterwards, Louisa took a hawking trip to the Yorkshire Moors. On her return, driving through Detton after midnight, she saw the white BMW concealed off-road near the pub, the front end tilted into the bushes and smears of filth like fingernail scrapes along the bodywork. Louisa had imagined such scenes before, and so assumed there had been a crash. She pulled over a few hundred yards down the road, and ambled back to the BMW. She stood behind the car for a while, studying the tyre tracks in the dirt.

  Louisa took a step back when the passenger door opened. Nelly Carter tumbled from the car, his stance as aggressive as could be for a man off-balance with his jeans undone. He relaxed considerably when he recognised Louisa, and gave her an elated beam. ‘Eh up, youth,’ he said. ‘What you doing here? I thought you were
the pigs.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Louisa said. ‘Have you not heard of a bed?’

  ‘Well. Hers is a bit crowded, in’t it?’ He walked past her.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ she said.

  ‘’ome,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Bus. Me and her’s had a falling out. You’ll make sure she gets back, right?’ He crossed the empty road calmly, zipping his jeans.

  ‘Bye, Nel,’ Louisa said.

  ‘See you, duck.’

  Louisa approached the BMW. The scene inside the car needed no help from the blue-tinted windows to convey the sullied, bottle-bottom mood. Cynthia lay back on the reclined passenger seat, skirt hitched, hands folded over her stomach. The leather gleamed in places.

  Louisa opened the door and Cynthia looked at her and laughed. ‘Oh. It’s you,’ she said.

  ‘My van is up the road,’ Louisa said.

  ‘I can drive. There’s nothing wrong with the car,’ she said.

  ‘I know there’s nothing wrong with the car. Get in the van.’

  Cynthia followed without much protest, in one of her increasingly frequent numb states. She got into the van and sniffed the air.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Louisa said, nodding to two peregrines in the back. ‘They probably don’t think much of your stink right now, either,’ Louisa said. Cynthia smelled of turps, milk formula, Malibu, saliva, Nelly’s Asda own-brand aftershave, tobacco, semen, and Chanel.

  ‘Don’t tell David,’ Cynthia said flatly.

  ‘It’s not the first time, is it?’ Louisa said.

  ‘First time with that prick.’

  ‘Steady on. He’s a friend.’

  Cynthia spoke quietly, and without conviction. ‘Of course. You introduced us. All the more reason not to tell David.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me,’ Louisa said. Before, Cynthia would have screamed at a line like that. She would have actually cried. Now she just looked at her feet.

  ‘I did introduce you,’ Louisa said. ‘So it does put me in something of a bind. I don’t appreciate that.’

  ‘We’ll probably divorce anyway, but I can’t afford to walk away with nothing. Tell me what I need to do to keep it quiet,’ Cynthia said.