by Kane, Paul
She placed the glasses on the table, one at each end, then proceeded to pour the crimson liquid.
‘That enough?’ Beryl asked Trevor.
‘Plenty, dear.’
Beryl sat down opposite Trevor and took up her knife and fork. The gravy was still hot, so hot in fact that when she popped a piece of beef into her mouth it seared the surface of her tongue.
‘I think you’ve got the right idea,’ said Beryl. ‘Leave it to cool for a minute.’ She smiled at Trevor. He smiled back. Beryl did adore him so.
Naturally, like any other couple on the planet, they’d had their fair share of bad patches. Arguments at times, the occasional raised voice. Usually Trevor’s. Nothing abusive, though, and they’d always kissed and made up afterwards.
Take for instance that incident with the clock. The clock that stood on the three-legged table in the hallway. Trevor had won it by solving a crossword puzzle in a magazine (Trevor and his crosswords!): a china carriage clock with a black and white checked pattern on the side. Quite clever really. It was a one-off. Unique. And Trevor was so proud he positioned it where anyone who came to the door – Jehovah’s Witnesses, duster salesmen and such – could marvel at his achievement.
But Beryl, stupid, stupid Beryl, had knocked it off when she was cleaning one day. Her hands were quick enough to catch the side of the clock, but not fast enough to prevent the top right-hand corner from striking the floor. The corner broke clean off and left a spider’s web crack running down past the clock face.
Panic-stricken, Beryl had tried to glue it back together. But even an idiot could tell.
Trevor had been none too pleased when he came home from work.
‘You clumsy… How could you?’ And so on, well into the night. Beryl had cried. She didn’t do it on purpose and had tried her best to fix it. Couldn’t he see that? Eventually he had calmed down, forgiven her careless mistake. But for just a while there she had been worried.
Then, of course, there was all that trouble when he’d been made redundant a decade or so ago. Just as he was doing so well; a promotion assured. All those years of working his way up the ladder only for a merger to take place, throwing half the workforce on the scrap heap.
Trevor had moped around for weeks after that. Had not been himself at all. Who could blame him? Having to go through the humiliation of signing on, being turned down for all those other jobs (too old, sorry) and looking back on his past triumphs with nostalgia. Thank God she’d managed to set him up with that nice little position working from home, constructing dolls for a company in the Midlands. It was only a few pounds an hour, depending on how many you did, but it was work. It kept the wolf from the door, with enough left over for occasional luxuries – saved him from the dole queue, and ensured that Beryl could have him all to herself every day.
Life was good again.
Beryl hadn’t even minded…much…when she’d found Trevor’s magazines – hidden behind the wardrobe in the spare room, jammed between the wall and the wood where no one would think to look. Why, if she hadn’t knocked one of their old records off the top with her feather duster, sending it plunging down the gap, she might never have found them herself.
Imagine her surprise when she saw the pictures inside. Disgusting, ugly images of women doing unspeakable things to themselves, to men, to each other! Beryl had felt physically sick. Surely they could not belong to Trevor, that was her immediate reaction. Perhaps they’d been left there by the previous owners? But how could she ignore such incriminating evidence? The magazines were far too new, and there was writing, Trevor’s handwriting, next to some of the adverts: cheap women who would visit your house to give massages. She couldn’t believe it!
But she remained silent, hoping it would all go away.
It didn’t. It just got worse.
Tuesday was shopping day. Always had been, always would be. 10 till 11:45. But on the Tuesday after she’d found the journals, Beryl returned home early (at 10:50 to be exact). Whether she’d done so consciously or not she didn’t know. All she did know was she’d crept into the house through the back door, and silently padded up the stairs.
Beryl heard the noises before she reached the top step. The creaking of the old wooden bed, the grunting of her husband, and the high-pitched cries of someone else; obviously faked. She didn’t want to see. She tried to block out the sounds by putting her fists in her ears. It didn’t work. Like Lot’s wife she had to look, even if it turned her into a pillar of salt the size of a skyscraper.
Through the rails in the banister Beryl had a good view of the bedroom, their bedroom, its door ajar, a woman of maybe thirty with long dirty-blonde hair riding her spouse like a jockey on Grand National day. And Trevor’s face: screwed up, the sweat streaming from his balding scalp.
Beryl turned and ran, down the stairs and out of the back door. There she sat on the cold stone step, sobbing her heart out. Trevor had said it was okay if they…didn’t anymore. It just wasn’t right, not after the baby and everything. He’d never complained. If he had then maybe she…
But now this! How could she ever face him again?
However, face him she did, at 11:45 when she came through the front door, a little less loaded up than usual. Beryl said nothing. She simply kissed Trevor on the cheek. She could forgive him. If that was all he wanted every now and again, well she could turn a blind eye. It was a small price to pay for having him at home with her where he belonged. At least he wasn’t having an affair.
Although even that hadn’t been the true test of their marriage. This had come a short while later…on the day he announced he was leaving her.
Shocked and stunned, Beryl had stood watching him struggle with his suitcase down the stairs; shirtsleeves and trouser legs sticking out here and there. He never did know how to pack properly.
‘I need to get away from here. From this town, this house. From you! Can’t you see how I’ve wasted the last twenty-nine years? How you’ve wasted them?’
Beryl shook her head. No, quite frankly she couldn’t. She’d done everything in her power to please Trevor. He wasn’t just going to walk out on her like this. How would she cope without him?
Wasted her life? HE WAS HER LIFE!
‘No, Trevor please—’
‘This is something I’ve got to do. It’s been on my mind for some time. I’m sorry.’
Beryl recalled the scene, one year ago to the day, while she chewed her carrots. She smiled at Trevor. He smiled back. They’d worked through it together. Come out the other side with a greater respect for one another. A greater understanding…although she had to admit he’d scared her quite badly at the time.
Particularly when he’d turned away, heading towards the front door with his case in one hand, his coat gripped in the other. He wouldn’t even stop to put it on.
What else was she expected to do? Beryl refused to let him go.
The crossword clock was the first thing that came to hand. It made a wet thudding noise as it connected with the back of Trevor’s skull; shattering both the ornament and bone simultaneously.
Trevor had dropped to his knees, the suitcase flung aside as he felt at the wound she’d inflicted on him. His eyes went wide when he turned to face her, as if he couldn’t believe what she had done. His mouth a grimace that could almost be mistaken for a smile.
Blood washed down his neck, staining his light blue jumper, turning it the colour of…red wine. He fell forward, allowing more of the liquid to seep out, splashing all over her nice clean floor.
Tutting, Beryl had gone through to the kitchen for a cloth.
Trevor, his head pounding, had summoned up enough strength to move. He managed to get his right arm underneath him and push up. His left hand was reaching out for the doorknob. If he could just get out into the street someone would see him and—
But that was when he’d felt something pointed enter his back, rammed in with considerable force. It seemed to take forever for the carving knife to come out the other sid
e, slicing through his flesh and bone, puncturing his heart (his sweet, sweet heart) along the way. Even more vital fluid pooled around him. Beryl looked down at Trevor, trying to come to terms with what had happened, to rationalise and justify it. She concluded that he was still here, with her. That was the most important thing.
Then as a ‘thank you’, she stooped and kissed him on the cheek.
It had taken some cleaning up, that hallway – blood’s a swine to get out of your carpet – but somehow Beryl got it all looking shipshape and Bristol fashion again. Alas, there was no salvaging the clock this time. For a while she’d sat Trevor in his favourite armchair. However, some logical sliver of her mind told her that soon he would begin to smell.
That’s when she’d struck upon the notion of the freezer. It seemed appropriate. His prophetic gift to her, and now his new quarters. Somewhere he could put his feet up and relax, then come out feeling refreshed and alert. Ready to face the world again.
Although he always stayed at the bottom and the food remained at the top. Couldn’t disturb Trevor while he was sleeping.
Because that’s all he was doing in there really, sleeping.
Often during the night Beryl would wake up in a cold sweat, believing him to be dead. But how could he be? If he was a corpse, then how come he still talked to her? How was it he’d forgiven her for what she’d done? He’d even told her to take over the doll-making business while he was feeling a bit under the weather; then they’d have enough to live off each week – the money deposited into their joint account at the bank every Friday.
She actually enjoyed the work, too. It kept her mind active. That and the crossword puzzles. As for any official documents that came, well, she had Trevor’s permission to sign his name – she could do this blindfolded after thirty years. That’s what marriages were about at the end of the day, sharing the load…for better or worse, in sickness and in health. In a few years Trevor would be on a pension too, just like her. Then they wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. They could both…retire.
Yes, life was just fine at the moment. Couldn’t be better. The best it had been for a long time now she knew Trevor wouldn’t leave her.
Beryl looked at Trevor again. He’d hardly touched his food.
‘Not hungry, darling?’
Trevor dropped face-first into the dinner, the hole in the rear of his head clearly visible. Beryl pushed him back on the seat and wiped his face clean with a paper napkin.
‘Clumsy,’ she said giggling. She didn’t have long now; the fire was speeding things up. He would have to go back soon.
Beryl took her wineglass in her hand. ‘I propose a toast. To the anniversary of our marriage…and to the first anniversary of our…fresh start together. Here’s to the next thirty years!’
Beryl clinked the two glasses together. She smiled at Trevor across the table.
Trevor smiled back.
1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3
The numbers. They were the worst part.
Counting, and the continual repetition. 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. But it had to (3, 1, 2) be done. There was no escaping the fact that she had to (3, 1, 2) do it. Michelle Blake was a prisoner of the numbers, of the counting. She performed her bizarre acts like a dancer obeying the rhythm of a silent tune. 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3… or a fitness fanatic following a precise work-out routine. Never any release, never any differentiation.
She mouthed the numbers even now as she placed one (2, 3, 1) foot in front of the other. Forwards and back again, keeping a watchful eye on the pattern of the carpet. Michelle had long since broken the concentric square motif down into (3, 1, 2) a series of arithmetical interpretations. It no longer represented any aesthetic value to (3, 1, 2) her, like everything else it was part of a template she lived by – though many wouldn’t even call what she lived a life. When she looked around all she could see were the numbers, those three…1, 2, 3…numbers. Everything fitted into (3, 1, 2) that familiar triad.
1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3. She would make it to (3, 1, 2) the living room door in what, half an hour? That was quite fast for her. During her darkest days it had taken something like two (3, 1, 2) or three (1, 2, 3) hours to (3, 1, 2) cover a few metres. Stopping, starting, beginning again. Never right. Never enough times; she was never able to (3, 1, 2) reconcile it in her mind. If it wasn’t done correctly then she knew what would happen. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about and the responsibility was hers to (3, 1, 2) shoulder alone.
No, no it wasn’t. Not anymore. For one (2, 3, 1) thing she had to (3, 1, 2) stop thinking about it as a responsibility. It wasn’t; it was a combination of chemicals and conditioning. Imbalances and habituations. She had to (3, 1, 2) start thinking about it as more of a disorder than a birthright – or a princess being handed a crown and a kingdom.
‘Trust me,’ she whispered under her breath, in the slight gap between counting, ‘this is not a kingdom I’d choose to…3, 1, 2…rule.’
But whether it was a responsibility or not, she no longer had to (3, 1, 2) cope with it on her own. After twenty-five years of being passed from pillar to (3, 1, 2) post, she had finally found the support she needed in Josh. Not Dr Nesbit, not even Dr Josh. Just Josh – plain old Josh, although with the best will in the world nobody could ever describe him as plain. Not with that curtain of blond hair and starry eyes…
Concentrate, Michelle, or you’ll never get to…3, 1, 2…the door. Or worse still, she might lose count again and have to 3, 1… Damn! Michelle sighed and backtracked carefully, starting again, quite literally, from square 1 (2, 3, 1).
But now that the thought of Josh was in her mind, she found it all but impossible to (3, 1, 2) get rid of it. She’d known him almost two…3, 1, 2…years now. A young therapist who’d heard about her plight and taken a special interest. He was the reason it only took her half an hour to (3, 1, 2) cross a room and not longer. The work they had done to(3, 1, 2)gether had given her new hope. He’d broken down her affliction into (3, 1, 2) its component parts: delved deeper than anyone (2, 3, 1) had ever bothered before, or she’d let anybody delve – because it was Josh, because she trusted him and, if she was honest with herself, was more than a little in love with him.
Josh didn’t look at her like she was a freak. Okay, she knew it was part of his job not to (3, 1, 2) look at her that way, but that hadn’t stopped most of the medicos she’d known from doing just that. No, Michelle knew it was more than that. He did genuinely care about her and that meant the world. Even so, it had taken some time to (3, 1, 2) get her to (3, 1, 2) open up, to (3, 1, 2) get her to (3, 1, 2) remember.
It was a strange thing, she’d thought her memory was lousy. She couldn’t recall actions she’d just performed, couldn’t bring to (3, 1, 2) mind carrying them out: hence the repetition in case she’d done it wrong or hadn’t counted correctly. But Josh taught her that there was nothing wrong with her memory at all. It was her mind purposely rubbing this out so that she would have to (3, 1, 2) keep doing the ‘Groundhog Day’ thing, as he called it. The way Josh explained this was by comparing it to (3, 1, 2) someone (2, 3, 1) who didn’t think they deserved to (3, 1, 2) be happy.
‘Think about it,’ he’d said. ‘They unconsciously create difficulties to ensure that they won’t ever reach that state. They won’t be happy because they’re not giving themselves permission to be. Does that make sense?’
Michelle had nodded, flicking the light switch on and off and counting out loud, ‘1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3.’
‘In your case, though, you’re not giving yourself permission to be free of this. You’re caught in a loop, or a sequence of loops, that you don’t want to break out of. At least not yet.’ He paused. ‘The question is – why?’
Michelle broke off from the switch for a second. ‘I don’t enjoy doing this,’ she told him, then continued flicking the light switch.
‘I know you don’t, of course you don’t.’ Josh put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jesus, who would? But that’s not the point I’m making, Michelle.’
She
almost stopped then, but caught herself in time, and started counting faster: ‘1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3.’
‘You’re doing this for a reason. We just have to figure out what it is.’ He smiled, and it was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.
The hard labour had started in earnest after that, trudging through the minutiae of her life. God, that had been fun. About how she’d been living in that house for the seven years since her mother left virtually on her own, a recluse from society, surviving only with the aid of social services and various medical staff who would come in and check that she was okay – or as okay as Michelle could be – periodically.
‘Thank heavens for takeaway pizza,’ she’d said. The joke had been forced and neither of them laughed. ‘I don’t even have to…3, 1, 2…count the knives and forks for that. Don’t even have to…3, 1, 2…make it to…3, 1, 2…the kitchen, just the front door.’
Doctors and the usual ‘nutcrackers’ – her words – had visited Michelle since she was little. Her mother had made sure she received attention from the best (‘She felt she had to…3, 1, 2… Anything to…3, 1, 2…have a “normal” daughter,’). But nobody had been able to (3, 1, 2) do anything for her. In fact half of them didn’t have the first clue where to (3, 1, 2) begin. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder specialists came and looked at her, prescribed pills and tried to (3, 1, 2) talk her through the treatments. None of them worked.
‘I could hear what they were telling me…1, 2, 3…I knew they were right, honestly I did,’ Michelle said to Josh.
