Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  34

  I often sit buried in a book until the early hours, finding the nocturnal habits of weekdays hard to break at the weekend. How can I sleep anyway, knowing that the photographs have been discovered on Pete’s computer? I only put them on there to print them off, and I’m certain I deleted them. I never intended for Sally to see them. They were for my benefit alone, created only to see how we would look together. It’s bound to come out, all of it. I’ll get reported and lose my job.

  So what, it’s a crap job. Crap job, crap life. Without the prospect of Sally in my life I don’t think I can be bothered to carry on with either.

  The coal effect gas-fire radiates a golden-warmth into the room, but it doesn’t feel as cosy now that there’s no chance of ever sharing it with Sally. Outside, I hear the occasional taxi or group of drunken revellers returning home after an enjoyable time out with friends. I do not envy them their Saturdays out; it is not the kind of life I want. What I desire, what I desired, was a cosy life, a life sheltered from the rest of society. What I wanted was my own private paradise.

  Mrs Seaton is curled on my lap, purring and kneading my thigh like a kitten dreaming of milk, totally oblivious to the horrid turn of events. An unexpected knock on the door startles her as much as it does me, and her claws pierce my skin. Who can it be? Mrs Sewell often sits up late of a night; she also finds sleep hard to manage, but she’s not likely to be out of doors at such an unearthly hour. I check the clock: One-forty-five. No she wouldn’t venture out at this time, not Mrs Sewell. Not unless there’s an emergency. I decide to ignore the knock. Wrong house. Must be. They’ll soon realise and go away.

  Again a rap on the door; this time it’s more insistent. Maybe it’s the police? My neck suddenly feels cold, there’s dryness in my throat, a burning sensation deep in the flesh of my wrists and ankles. I chance a glance through the curtains while chanting primes: 2-3-5-7-11-13. Cautiously drawing back the drape, I glance out into the darkness. The angle does not offer a good view of the door, but whoever is standing there takes a step back, no doubt having noticed the sliver of light falling to the pavement. It’s not the police, but my knees still turn to jelly.

  “Hi!” I say, opening the door, not quite knowing what to expect. She looks to be nervous, upset, maybe both. They must have told her about the pictures. She’s come here to have it out with me. I’m surprised she’s alone.

  “I got your address from Arthur. I hope you don’t mind me coming?”

  I smile broadly; it’s forced, but Sally doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes. I mean no. No, of course not. Come in.” She’s taking it well. Stepping back, I open the door wider. “Come in. Yes. Er, come in. Hi...”

  Sally scans the room as she takes her coat off.

  “Coat. Yes. Er, let me take your coat.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.” Her eyes fall on the carpet, take in the sofa, the colour of the walls. “You like the way I decorated my living room, I see.”

  “Yes.” I take in the room myself, pleased with my efforts, but wishing she were seeing it under better circumstances. Why did you merge us together on those photographs, I’m waiting for her to say. You weren’t meant to see them, is all the mitigation I can think of. They were for my benefit. I scanned the photos in the frames at your house and put me in them instead of Steve because I never dreamed it would happen for real, and now it certainly won’t, and I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.

  “Oh well,” Sally smiles. “If you can’t better something, you may as well copy it.” She indicates the sofa with a sweep of her hand. An open book, face down occupies one cushion, a curled cat the other. “May I…?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Come on Mrs Seaton, we’ve got company.” I gently nudge the cat from the sofa. “Let Sally sit down.”

  “That’s Mrs Seaton?” Sally smirks, and grips her lips between her teeth, before cupping a loose hand over her mouth. Her eyes glint with mirth as she shakes her head.

  “Yes. Why? What?” I emulate her smile, feeling relaxed in her company despite worrying about the photographs. I’m unclear about the source of her amusement, but I welcome it all the same. Maybe she understands. Maybe she doesn’t mind.

  Sally lowers her hand. She shakes her head as a calm look comes to her face. “No. It’s nothing. It’s just... nothing. I’m a little bit tipsy.” Suddenly she looks serious. This is it, then. She’s still standing, and Mrs Seaton appears to be weighing up the chance of once more curling on the cushion. Sally takes a gentle hold of my forearm, her hand underneath, drawing me slightly closer to her. “Do you have a spare room?”

  “Yes b-but, it’s not. That’s not the room meant for you.”

  Sally looks a little confused. “Arthur told me you’re a little ashamed about the state of your house. You’re obviously doing it up though, and if you’ve not got around to the bedroom just yet it doesn’t matter. You should see the state of my spare room. Honestly, Keith, I don’t mind what the room looks like.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just–” I stop short of telling her, deciding that the surprise of actually seeing it will be much better. “I’ll sleep in the spare room.”

  “Keith, I couldn’t turf you out of your bed.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be. I’ve not been sleeping in there, anyway.” I wanted to keep the room fresh for Sally. I wanted it to be brand new when first she saw it, for it to smell fresh, for it to be unused. Virginal. Pristine. Fit for an angel.

  “I told Kerry,” Sally says, her words slurred. “Keith is generous, I told her. I’m not going to argue. After all, it’s only for one night. You don’t mind then? You don’t mind me staying the night?” Sally places her other hand on top of my arm, squeezing it between both hands, as if holding onto something precious. “Only I’ve had a fall out with Kerry, and well, I couldn’t think where else to go.”

  I suddenly feel excited. Things couldn’t have gone any better. “Really? Yes. Great. I’ve got your room ready, and everything. It doesn’t have to be just one night, you can stay as long as you like.”

  “Thanks, you’re a good friend.” She pauses a moment, looks to be thinking, a serious expression creasing her forehead. “Don’t you want to know what we fell out about?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “She’s a nasty-faced lying lez, and just as bad as Steve. She showed me some photos of Steve doing disgusting things with another woman and then she tried it on with me.” Sally looks a bit dizzy and suddenly flops down onto the sofa. Mrs Seaton leaps to safety in the nick of time.

  I don’t know what tried it on with me means, and I’ve never come across the word lez before but it’s obviously not a good thing. Photographs of Steve, then, not photographs of Sally and me. Different photographs altogether. Now it makes sense that she isn’t angry with me.

  “Is Kerry actually called Lesley?” I ask.

  “What? No. Where are you going to sleep?”

  With you, I want to say. “I’ll sleep in the spare room.”

  “Oh, yes. You already said.” Sally closes her eyes and holds them closed for such a long while that I think she’s fallen asleep. “I’m a bit tipsy,” she says, suddenly forcing her eyes wide open. “Why would you think Kerry’s...? No, never mind.”

  Mrs Seaton has slinked onto Sally’s lap. “I’ve heard all about you,” Sally slurs, “crapping behind the sofa, singing on the pavement. I thought you was an old lady, but you’re a cat.” Sally bursts into a giggling fit.

  “You’re a real sweetie, you know?” She blows a kiss up at me from the sofa. My insides feel as if someone shook the room, and I expect silver snow to rain down from the ceiling. “I’ll take the spare room, Keith. I’m not fussy.”

  “No. The other room’s meant for you. Tea?” I head for the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

  “Er, have you got coffee?”

  I’m not fully prepared for Sally to be here. I wanted it to be perfect; fortunately she hasn’t seen me grimace. It’s not just
the state of the kitchen and the bathroom – which is in even more of a state than usual as it’s due to be ripped out soon, and I didn’t see the point in cleaning it. Not if it’s going anyway. It’s the little things. I was going to buy one of those machines that make the kind of coffee that Sally drinks when we go out. Camping chinos, I think Poppy calls them.

  “Actually, tea’s fine,” Sally says, with a smile. “Why would you have coffee? Silly me, you don’t like it.”

  In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I try to get my thoughts in order. Mrs Seaton followed me in, but realising there are no tit-bits on offer, she’s returned to the living room. So, it turns out that there are compromising photos of Steve with another woman. They must be the ones that Pete was showing him in the pub. They thought I’d done them, said they looked almost real. Mine don’t. Maybe the photographs that Pete had are real, and Steve was just pretending that they weren’t. Maybe Pete did them. I don’t care, as long as they’ve come between Sally and him. And she’s fallen out with Kerry too. When I get chance I’ll go and take the pictures of Sally and me out of the bedroom. I never intended for them to be permanent anyway, they were for my benefit alone. Just for me to look at, until they can be replaced with real ones.

  When she’s asleep, I wonder if I might dare to slip into bed with her. Just to cuddle.

  “Shut up,” I say, making certain to not let Sally hear. If only the kitchen and bathroom were done, then mother would be gone.

  “Sally’s my guest... That was different... I was only twelve... She made me touch… I’m not a liar. Nasty bitch. Witch.”

  Mother is going to try and ruin this for me. I can’t let her. I can’t risk having an episode, not with Sally here.

  * * *

  When she trots back from the kitchen, which looks awful from where I’m sitting, Mrs Seaton twists through my ankles. I bend forward and give the cat a finger massage on its head. “I thought you were a crazy old lady,” I say, quietly, straining to try and hear what Keith is saying. When the cat was in there, I thought he was talking to her, but the cat’s in here now and he’s still chuntering away, as if having a mild argument with someone. I suddenly feel apprehensive. I can’t quite put reason to it, but it’s a strangeness that Keith is exuding. It’s just his usual way, I tell myself. Besides it’s just the one night.

  “So this is the singing cat, then?” I say, purposefully loud.

  I turn in the seat, placing an arm over the sofa back, as I crane my neck to look into the kitchen. Keith doesn’t answer. The kitchen reminds me of something from a seventies sitcom. I almost expect Mr Rigsby to appear in the doorway, hands on hips, his groin leading the way, chuntering Miss Jones. The room looks cold and uninviting, a polar opposite to the living room. Keith is definitely talking, but even as intently as I’m listening I can’t hear well enough to make any of it out. Maybe he’s singing. The reasoning does nothing to calm me, because I don’t actually believe it. I place my hand on the seat in readiness to push myself up, intent on walking slowly over to the doorway without him noticing, so that I might tell what he’s saying.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  He appears in the doorway so suddenly that I gasp with fright. In two strides Keith is standing right over me.

  “You startled me,” I say, patting my chest.

  Mrs Seaton jumps onto the sofa, nudging my thigh with her head, purring. “I said, so this is the singing cat?”

  “Singing?”

  “You said she keeps you awake in the day, singing?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s her.”

  Amid an uncomfortable silence the kettle rumbles to a boil. “Pity you don’t like coffee,” I say, as Keith disappears into the frosty-looking room, “Might have calmed me a bit.”

  “I could probably get used to the taste,” he calls back, “but I don’t like the smell of it. Reminds me of burnt toast.”

  “Oh, I love the smell of coffee. Pity you don’t have any. Might have sobered me up a bit.”

  “Shut up.”

  Did he just tell me to shut up? No, I must have heard wrong. It was quiet, hardly audible, and angry sounding. I must have heard wrong. He seems to be talking to himself again, although the clatter of the teaspoon is much louder by comparison.

  “Did you say something?” I call out, wishing I’d stayed at home.

  “No. No, er, just singing.”

  I blow a sigh of relief and tell myself to stop being so stupid, to stop letting my imagination run away like a dish with a spoon. Keith’s all right. I told Kerry he was, and I meant it. You’re just being silly: Silly-Sally Bradwell.

  The tea is far too strong for my taste, and the mug looks dirty. I take a couple of sips then sit cupping the mug as it gradually cools. The silences with Keith are too numerous and too long and too uncomfortable. These quiet periods are not at all like the enjoyable silences in Steve’s company, which were numerous, but almost telepathic-like in that a communication of sorts still happened. Steve’s silences were the sort of silences that covered me like a welcome blanket. They were the kind of silences that sit well when you’re in the company of someone with whom you are wholly familiar. Wholly familiar! I think about the photographs. When it comes down to it, do we know those we are close to any better than we know perfect strangers? What faults do they have? What vices and peculiarities of which we are totally unaware?

  What little conversation there is with Keith is also becoming uncomfortable. Keith constantly refuses to acknowledge that I’m staying for one night only. To shut him up, I eventually say, “I’ll think about staying longer, but I will have to go home tomorrow for a change of clothes.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he says, grinning, with a peculiar, almost devious expression, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable.

  Why won’t it be necessary, I silently question realising that coming here was a mistake, feeling that it would be best to just stay the one night. Yes, that would be best, let Keith believe I’m coming back. Just leave in the morning and count this as one of my least enjoyable experiences.

  I place the half emptied mug on the coffee table.

  “Another?”

  Making a show of it, I stretch my arms and give an exaggerated yawn. “Actually, Keith, I’m shattered. Can I just go on up.”

  “Yes.” Keith says, his enthusiasm bordering on hysteria. His excitement fades as he casts a quick glance into the kitchen, but returns, exuberantly, as he looks back at me. “Come on,” he says, bounding to the door in the corner, the heavy-looking door that presumably leads to the stairs. “I can’t wait for you to see the room. It’s perfect. I got it just right. Everything, perfect, right down to the smallest detail.”

  Odd. Really, really odd. I brush Mrs Seaton from my lap and stand.

  “You first,” Keith insists, opening the door and stepping aside to let me pass.

  On the stairs side of the door, I notice there are two hefty bolts, one at the bottom, and one in the middle. Keith closes the door; thankfully he doesn’t slide the bolts into place. He follows up the stairs so closely that his nose almost touches my back. It makes me feel uncomfortable, so I quicken the pace, taking two steps at a time.

  * * *

  I’m wondering if I’ve given too much away. Sally is so excited she’s practically running up the stairs.

  “That’s your room,” I say as Sally hits the landing, pointing out the freshly painted door at the far end. I can feel a tremor in my voice and try to cough it away.

  “You know, maybe I should go home.” Sally smiles broadly. “I’ve no night clothes, or change of underwear, or anything.”

  She hasn’t guessed then. “Not a problem.” I give her a wink, feeling especially pleased with myself, knowing that I’ve provided all Sally could possibly need. “There’s some in the bedside cabinet.”

  Sally’s smile fades as she draws her bottom lip over her teeth. “I think I might need some... my time of the month’s coming up. I really think it would be best
if I went home. I mean, I don’t want to get–”

  “Time of the month?”

  “My period.”

  “Oh. Oh that. No problem.” I really have thought of everything. “Bathroom cabinet.”

  Why would he have such things in the house? “I think Kerry will be worried about me. I really think I should–”

  “SALLY! Stop it. You’re always putting others before yourself. You’re here now–”

  “But, I–”

  “You don’t need to worry about a thing. Everything is going to be all right, now. And we don’t need to worry about Mother, either, not now. You’re staying here; I’m not having you walking the streets at this hour. If anything happened to you, she’d blame me? I would blame me. Everyone would. If anything happened to you I would be in big trouble. It’d be like before, like last time. And that wasn’t my fault either, but I still got the blame. It was her, Heather; she led me up the garden path. She told me to do it.”

  “Keith, are you okay?”

  “What? Why?”

  “I thought... it’s just, for a moment, you went, like into a trance or something.”

  “Yes. It’s all right. She’s gone now. She won’t bother you, anyway. It’s me she doesn’t like.” I take hold of Sally’s arm, to reassure her, and guide her along the landing. “You might want to use the bathroom, then, before we go to bed.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  What are you doing here Sally? Screams the voice in my head. Why didn’t you listen to Kerry? There’s no lock on the bathroom door. What kind of person has bolts on the door to the stairs, but not on the door to the toilet?

  Most bathroom locks are useless anyway, more a discreet way of saying occupied than a means of keeping out deranged nutters; so, it makes little difference.

  So much for my idea of spending the night, leaving early in the morning, and putting the whole thing down as a bad experience never to be repeated. That thought dwindled rapidly and caused me to really worry when he followed me up the stairs, so close that I could feel the heat of his breath on my back. Words from studying A-level literature – a sonnet by Edmund Spencer, of all things – come to mind: My love is like to ice and I to fire. How comes it then that she is not dissolved by my so hot desire?