Though you think he knows. Surely he knows. Sometimes, when you’re especially sweet to him.
There’s something nice about another body being next to yours again. And it’s better than before, because this time it’ll just lie there, like a dead weight; each night he stays he sleeps on his back, and he never moves, he never complicates things, he never tries to accommodate you. That was always what put you off in the past, all that accommodation, the way the men would respond to you, it made bedtime feel like such a responsibility. Not for Tom – he’ll mutter on and on regardless of you, he’ll sleep when he’s ready, he’ll snore, he’ll cough, fart. There’s something nice about another body. Something reassuring. “Good night,” you’ll say, and sometimes, “Good night, my love,” and he’ll just keep on chatting away to himself. Oh the restful rhythm of it, it makes your head light and drowsy.
And you touch him. You touch him if you can. You touch the right part. He’s like the old man, the body feels insubstantial and cold, you feel that if you pressed hard enough you’d put your hand right through him, and you wouldn’t want that! But there’s always a piece of him that’s firm and warm. And human. And manly. It’s not hard to find that warm bit, in a cold bed it radiates heat like a beacon. A little lighthouse in the cold flat ocean of his body, and sometimes it’s his chest, and you cuddle up to it, and wonder whether what’s tickling you are chest hairs, does he have hair on his chest? – you put your head down upon that chest and that maybe-hair which might really be your hair, how can you tell, and you fancy you can hear his heartbeat. Which might really be your heartbeat, how can you tell. – And sometimes it’s the neck. Sometimes it’s the forehead. One time it was the lips. Most often, it’s just the elbow.
Tonight it’s just the elbow again, but there’s nothing just about the elbow, it’s not one of your favourite parts of his anatomy, but it’s still him, it’s still warm. Nice. A bit hard and bony, there’s not much give to an elbow, but you lean into it anyway, and you feel it’s as if he’s holding you to him, holding you close, keeping you safe from the ghosts of the night.
But that time with the lips! – and you cradled on top of him, on top of his face, you pressed your lips against his own. And the funny thing was, as you kissed him, he never stopped his muttering. You were up so close that you could even hear it, or most of it. It didn’t make much sense. Good morning. Good morning. Good morning. Toast, please. And did you. Did you. Oh. Good morning. And more like that. Good morning. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Good morning. A single to Piccadilly Circus, please. Thank you. Good morning. Excuse me. Running on, no matter how much you tried to smother it with your kisses, he wasn’t having it, the words had to come out, he was forcing them past your mouth, each little syllable squeezed out through the tiniest gaps between lip and lip and out into the world, Good morning. Hello? Yes, could you just. Yes. Good morning, thank you. Good morning. Good morning. It seemed to you that it was every conversation he had ever had, all run together without the pauses, no room left for another person’s response. Half-phrased questions, greetings, apologies, thank yous, occasional requests for cups of tea. Once in a while you heard an I love you. There it was, Good morning. Good. Thank you. I love you. Excuse me. I love, yes. Good morning. “I love you too,” you said, and kissed him again, long and hard, and his mouth squirmed with further conversation underneath your lips and teeth and tongue, although you knew the I love you wasn’t for you.
Some nights the warm part of his body is below the waistline. But you never go there. You’ve never liked to go there, not with any man, not even with the living ones. No good ever came of it. Yours is a very platonic love. As you nuzzle at his elbow. As you kiss and suck every bit of the body heat you can get from it.
Tonight feels wrong, and different, and it did from the moment he first arrived; the muttering was no louder, but there was more edge to it, does that make sense? Good morning, he says, but now it feels more deliberate, even sarcastic, as he pronounces the words so clearly. He won’t settle, you can’t calm him, no matter what attentions you pay his elbow – is he asleep anyway, is he having a nightmare? For that dead weight body is beginning to thrash, he’s really not supposed to do that – and as he thrashes he’s getting warmer, not just the elbow now, but the whole body, it’s like being in bed with a real man. You don’t want that, that’s not the game, that’s out of bounds. And suddenly you can see that he’s reaching out to you, as dark as it is you can make out his hands coming towards your neck, and you cry out, though he’d never hurt you, surely, not Tom, not your very own Inbetween Man? But he’s not reaching for your neck. He’s not reaching for you at all. It’s the pillow, your pillow, his hands are underneath it now, bulging it right behind your head so you have to sit up – he’s searching for something, and it’s desperate, the muttering begins to turn into a whisper, so scared – and really, this is more the sort of behaviour you’d expect from Young Tom, a baby, not a grown man, what can he be after?
What could be under a pillow? You remember Old Tom, giving you his teeth for the Tooth Fairy.
So – “Is it these? Do you need these?” And you’ve taken them off the dressing table. You can’t see them, but can feel which one is young and healthy, the two that are soft and diseased.
He snatches them from you then. His hand so warm it’s burning. His whole body burning hot.
And he thrusts the teeth under the pillow. And he holds down the pillow over them tight. And he wraps his arms around the pillow, so nothing can get in or out.
He’s quiet at last. The muttering gentle.
There’s no room in the bed for you now. You sit upright in the armchair, watching the contours of your lover rise and fall as he sleeps.
At some point you doze off. Because by the morning you have a crick in your neck, and the bed is empty.
* * *
You think to check under the pillow. The teeth have gone. Instead, there is a large silver coin. You pick up the coin. There are no markings on it, not on either side; it can’t be a real coin. But it feels flat and heavy and rich.
* * *
You go for breakfast, and at the bottom of the stairs you hear Young Tom is playing in the attic. And you never go to him before breakfast, you want your breakfast first, there’s a right time for fun and games. But he’s not playing quietly. There’s stomping and shouting and goodness knows what. And you rush right up there.
You turn the flashlight on. “Come out!” you call. But Young Tom is already out, he isn’t hiding this time. He’s playing with the little Rolls-Royce. He’s dropping it upon the floor, he’s kicking it. He’s smashing it hard against the walls.
“Stop that!” you say.
And there’s a look on his face that isn’t angry or spiteful. It’s utterly intent. And it isn’t childish either, that’s what makes you shiver suddenly. It’s adult intent.
He drops to his hands and knees, starts beating the ground hard with the car.
“I said stop!”
He looks up at you. In bewildered surprise, as if he’s only just seen you. Maybe he has. And all that intent is gone, and his face falls into that of an embarrassed child.
“If you don’t play with your toy nicely,” you say, “I’ll take it back.” But you won’t take it back, look at his sweet little face, he’s sorry now.
He sets the car upon the floor, dented as it now is, with great care and utter precision.
“I have something for you,” you think to say. And you open up your hand, and show him the coin. You weren’t even aware you were still holding it. You turn the flashlight upon it, and it seems to burn in the glare.
Young Tom looks interested, but cautious.
“It’s yours,” you say. “From the Tooth Fairy.”
And Young Tom takes it. He looks at it quizzically. Sets it upon the floor next to the car. He turns the coin on to its side, starts rolling it around in the grime. “Varoom,” he says, quietly. He looks up at you. He likes this game. He smiles.
No,
he beams. He beams the broadest grin, his mouth open in childish happiness. And you realise there isn’t a tooth in his head. It’s all gum. And his face can’t take it, there’s nothing to support its shape properly now, it’s collapsing in on itself.
And he holds out little fists, and he’s raising them towards you. And you don’t want to take what he’s got in there, but your hands are opening in response, your palms are stretched out wide.
You take his teeth. Every last tooth he has.
“For the Tooth Fairy?” you ask, and it isn’t really a question. And because it isn’t really a question, Young Tom doesn’t really answer it. He’s playing with his coin now. With his big shiny coin, shiny even though the flashlight isn’t on it.
* * *
You put the little boy’s teeth under the pillow, every single one of them. The pillow teeters awkwardly on the mound. You press it down firmly.
You lie in bed that night, and wait for Tom. But he doesn’t join you. Perhaps he’s busy.
In the morning you wake up and check under the pillow. Sure enough, the teeth have gone. You’d have thought for all the teeth you gave her the Tooth Fairy would have left you a treasure trove. But there’s just one coin, silver, no bigger than the last.
* * *
You hear Young Tom playing in the attic, and he hasn’t done so for a while. You race up there as fast as you can. But it’s not Young Tom at all. Old Tom is playing hopscotch. He bounces up and down on one foot, laughing, and wheezing through the laughter.
“Greetings to ’ee, Rachel Taylor,” he says. He’s in pirate mode today. He speaks in an accent of richest Mummerset, he squints his eye a lot. He talks about pieces of eight and treasure chests, and pretends he has a parrot on his shoulder. The first time you saw him play the pirate you thought it was quite funny. But it really, really isn’t. He says to you, “When I was young, this was all oceans, as far as the eye can see.”
“Where’s the little boy?” you ask, and he ignores that. “Where’s the other man?” you ask. “Why won’t he sleep with me any more?” And at that he actually laughs. He lights his pipe, and puffs out smoke. No, he lights his thumb. He puffs out smoke.
“Where be my treasure?” he says.
“I don’t know of any treasure,” you say.
“I’ve scoured the oceans for treasure,” he says. “You dog. You landlubber. You scurvy knave.”
“You’re not getting a thing,” you insist, “until I get Tom back. My Tom.”
He chuckles at that, but not unkindly. He reaches out, and strokes your chin. You flinch, but his fingers now are warm. It’s not like before, his fingers are warm and his touch is tender.
He strokes away at your chin, and his eyes twinkle, and you know now it’s nothing to do with the flashlight. His second hand joins the first, they’re both at your chin now, they’re not stroking, they’re rubbing, hard – and you try to pull away, but why would you want to, it’s hard, yes, but it’s nice, isn’t it? It feels nice, and you’ve so missed being touched. And Tom, he never touched you, not really, he never even knew you were there, admit it now, he’s never cared whether you live or die. Old Tom puffs on his pipe, and he has to use a pipe because his thumbs are busy, his thumbs are pushing deeper into your skin, into your jaw, and his eyes twinkle all the more, they sparkle now, and the eyes then are lost behind the clouds of tobacco smoke, and then his entire face is lost.
He takes his hands away. He holds out a tooth to you.
You hadn’t even felt it pop out of place. You touch your face, you’re shocked to find the gap. It’s not one of the front teeth, it won’t be that visible, but even so – how rude. Your tongue can’t but help explore the missing space in your mouth.
“I’ll be wanting my treasure,” says Old Tom softly. And then, of course, in your hand, you’re holding the silver coin. He takes it, pockets it, doesn’t even look at it.
He gives you back your tooth. “Shall I give it to the Tooth Fairy?” you hear yourself ask.
“Oh, Rachel,” he says, and smiles – and you see there’s nothing in that mouth now, no teeth, but not just no teeth, there’s no gums, there’s no tongue, there’s blackness, that’s all there is, void. “Oh, you’re our Tooth Fairy now.”
And he pops his pipe back into the blackness; the void bites down the stem and sucks hard.
You look down at your tooth. It’s yellowing by the second.
“Everything I touch turns to shit,” says the old pirate, and then he’s in the shadows, and then he’s gone.
The tooth is dust now. You wipe it from your hand.
As you walk, your foot kicks at a discarded toy. You bend down to the Rolls-Royce, start to play with it.
Your tongue has settled down in the exciting new gap your missing tooth has created, it loves to loll about in there. It goes to sleep.
* * *
He comes for you that night, and you were sure he would. In preparation you had a bath and washed your hair. You put on that perfume you never wear. You make your skin smooth and soft, just for him, and lie there, spread out like a banquet, and wait.
He comes, and you were sure he would, but you still feel so relieved when you hear his muttering in the dark. You haven’t heard it for so long now. You hadn’t slept well for the loss of it.
A body gets in at the right side of the bed. A body gets in at the left side. The muttering stays apart, it feels a long way away.
To your left the body feels very small. To the right, you can smell the faint whiff of pipe smoke.
And you think, no. No, this really has crossed a boundary now.
The light comes on, and you don’t know how, because Young Tom is to one side and Old Tom is to the other, and besides, they’re so busy, they’ve both taken one of your arms and they’re holding on to you tight. And you don’t want the lights on because it’ll scare your Tom away, you couldn’t bear that.
You don’t want to see him. Just in case he’s not beautiful.
Oh, but he is. And he does have chest hair, you thought he must. And his eyes are dark and strong, and it doesn’t matter that they keep rolling in his head, darting this way and that, like he’s asleep with his eyes open, like this is all some dream for him. And he has teeth, such white teeth. He has all the teeth in the world.
You hope you smell nice for him. You know you do.
And he’s over you now. Straddling your body with his, as the other Toms hold you down. And you can hear his muttering.
Good night, good night, good night, sleep well, love you, good night, sleep well, have a good sleep, night night, night, good night, g’night, love you, love you. And it’s every bit of his pillow talk, every single word he’s ever said as he’s settled down to sleep, all in order, and they’re for you, he’s giving them to you.
He takes the pillow, and he presses it on to your face. And for a moment you think he’s going to suffocate you, but he wouldn’t hurt you, you love him and he loves you, didn’t he just say? And the little boy and the old man keep you from struggling, but you aren’t going to struggle, don’t be silly.
You can feel the teeth melt away. There’s no pain. You spit some out. Others just slide down your throat, already liquid, or near liquid, and the taste of spearmint, it’s all so fresh.
Your tongue loves it, it’s like a child on Christmas morning, such excitement, so many new crevices to explore – and then, no crevices to explore, the crevices are gone now, there’s just a wide open field in which he can play! When you were young, this was all fields, as far as the eye could see, as far as the tongue could roll.
It’s over now. The pillow just slides off your face. No one’s holding it down any more.
They all have their silver coins now. Each of the Toms are holding them out, offering them – but to whom? Because you can’t see anyone. But they can see something, and they can’t see you, or can’t be bothered to see you, there’s no interest in you any more, that’s what hurts.
They don’t even vanish. They were nev
er there.
They were never there, and you’re all alone.
You go to the bathroom mirror, and open your mouth, and you think your red gums look so clean and pretty now the teeth don’t get in the way.
* * *
You don’t leave the house again. You’re not sure whether you even can. But it doesn’t matter. You simply don’t feel the urge.
The people keep bringing you food. It’s hard to eat with no teeth, but that’s okay. It’s not as if you’re especially hungry. You haven’t eaten in days. Months? Ever? No, you must have eaten once upon a time, that’s just crazy talk. Anyway, one day they stop leaving you food.
Your gums fall out, and you don’t mind, you were getting bored of them anyway.
* * *
Sometimes you hear a little child playing in the attic. You like to go up there and watch. It’s not Young Tom. Tom has gone. It’s you. It’s you. It’s you. Look at that face, don’t you know that face, it’s you! Oh, the games she plays. She plays hopscotch. She spins herself around until she falls over. She plays musical chairs, and you know it’s musical chairs, because you hear the music in your head, and you can turn it off the moment you feel like it.
Phantoms Page 4
