by David Moody
'What about my chips?' she mumbles, her voice slow and drowsy.
'What about them?' I ask, moving away again.
'I didn't finish them.'
'None of us finished our food. Mummy and Daddy didn't finish either.'
'Will they still be there?'
'Will who still be there?'
'My chips.'
'I doubt it.'
'Has someone else eaten them?'
'No, they'd have gone cold by now. Someone will have thrown them away.'
'Can we go back tomorrow and see?'
'No.'
'Why not? I want to finish my chips…'
'Ellis,' I interrupt.
'What?'
'Shut up and go to sleep please.'
I've finally reached the door. I flick the light-switch off and wait for her to react. She doesn't. The only light in the room now comes in from the hallway. I can still see her shuffling around in bed but I know she'll be asleep in a few minutes.
'Night, Daddy,' she yawns.
'Night, sweetheart.'
I'm about to leave when she speaks again.
'Is he dead, Daddy?'
What do I say to that? Do I tell her the truth or do I lie to save more questions and reassure my little girl? I'm a coward. I sit on the fence.
'I don't know,' I mumble quickly. 'Goodnight.'
I wait for a little while longer until I'm sure she's asleep. Finally free but exhausted I drag myself down the corridor towards the living room. Halfway through the weekend and I don't feel like I've had any chance to relax yet. There's a film on tonight that Liz and I wanted to watch. After the last couple of days it will be good just to sit down together and relax for a while.
I look around the living room door and see that Lizzie is asleep. She's sprawled out along the full length of the sofa snoring. I'm disappointed but not surprised. I fetch myself a drink and something to eat from the kitchen before finding somewhere to sit and watch the TV. The other seats are piled high with the children's toys and clean washing waiting to be put away. I can't be bothered to move any of it. I sit down on the floor in front of the sofa.
Now I can't find the remote control. I upend most of the washing and turf through the toys but I can't find the damn thing anywhere. I bet one of the kids has hidden it. Josh has a habit of putting things in the bin. I check through the rubbish then under all the chairs and the sofa. When I'm on the verge of giving up I finally spot the end of it peeking out from underneath Lizzie. She's fallen asleep on top of it. I pull it out from under her. She grunts and rolls over onto her back but she doesn't wake up.
Just in time. Seconds to spare and I'm finally there. I change the channel and sit back to enjoy the film. Looks like it's already begun. Actually, it looks like it's been on for a while. I check the TV listings. Bloody thing started three quarters of an hour ago.
Saturday nights are beginning to depress me. For a while now they've begun to feel empty and, if I'm honest, pathetic. We're still young and we should be out enjoying ourselves but we're not. I always start the weekend with the best of intentions but things never seem to work out how I planned them. Family life gets in the way. I don't have many close friends to go out with or any spare money, the kids wind us up and wear us out and Lizzie and I are both tired all the time. More often than not I'm left sitting here on my own like this in front of the TV watching pointless drivel. It's almost midnight now and I've wasted hours here on my own. Liz got up and went to bed ages ago.
The film I missed was the only thing worth watching tonight. It's crazy - the more TV channels we get, the fewer programmes worth watching there are. I've been sat here with the remote control in my hand constantly flicking through the channels and all I've found has been terrible game shows, chat shows with boring guests, pointless reality TV programmes, soap operas, talent competitions, made-for-TV films, repeated dramas and crappy compilations of CCTV footage and home video clips. I've ended up watching the news as usual. It's a rolling twenty-four hour news channel which was interesting for a while but the headlines are on a fifteen minute loop and my eyes are starting to feel heavy now that I'm watching the same thing for the third time. I should go to bed but I can't be bothered to get up.
Hold on a minute. Finally there's something moderately interesting on screen. A banner saying 'Breaking News' has just appeared and they've cut to a reporter standing on a city centre street corner. I recognise where they're broadcasting from. It's a place in town, not far from where I work. What's happened there? I try to read the scrolling text captions at the bottom of the screen but my eyes are tired and the words are moving too quickly. I turn up the volume and listen as a windswept reporter starts talking about something that's happened at Exodus, one of the trendy bars right in the centre of town. There are people milling around in the street behind him. Christ, someone's been killed. He's talking about an attack that happened in the last hour or so. Hold on, no… there have been several attacks. They must have been connected. Sounds like some lunatic has gone on the rampage. Worst time of the week for it to have happened. The middle of town is always heaving with people on Saturday nights. Everyone's there. Everyone except sad bastards like me, that is, stuck at home with the kids and a partner who's asleep by half-past nine.
I can feel my eyes starting to close again. I try to stay awake and concentrate on what's being said but it's difficult. It's getting late and…
***
That bloody reporter is still talking.
I try and focus on the clock on the shelf. I must have nodded off for a few minutes. Hang on, the clock says three-thirty. I've been asleep on the floor for hours. No wonder my bones ache. Christ, whatever happened in town tonight must have been pretty serious to warrant this much coverage on national TV. It looks like they're still broadcasting live from town. I wouldn't want to have that bloke's job, stuck out on a street corner for hours on end. Still, at least he gets out…
My back hurts. I should have gone to bed hours ago when Lizzie did.
I sit up quickly and get ready to move. I hate waking up like this. I feel sick and my arms and legs feel heavy and numb. I get up and I'm about to switch the TV off when something the reporter says makes me stop. He's not just talking about the same few attacks he was reporting on earlier. Sounds like there's been more trouble. There's a map of the city up on the screen now with a load of markers on it. Looks like there's been a hell of a lot more trouble. That's the problem with binge drinking and Saturday nights. There are so many people out there and it only takes one idiot to start a fight. Someone gets hurt then someone retaliates, someone else tries to stop them and, before you know it, you've got a real problem on your hands. It looks like that's what's happened tonight. From what I can gather there was some trouble in a bar which spilled out onto the street. They're showing footage of crowds of people fighting now, fuelled by drink and drugs. Riot police have been sent to the scene to try and restore some order. Almost makes me glad to be boring and stuck indoors. The map on the screen has been updated now to show the location of four fatalities and more than thirty arrests. It's always the mindless minority who ruin it for everyone else. Bloody hell, they've just said something about the body of a police officer that's been found with more than forty stab wounds. Christ, what kind of animal could do that to another human being?
Wonder how long that reporter's going to be stuck out there?
I'm tired. Before I fall asleep again I switch off the TV and the lights and feel my way through the dark flat to the bedroom.
SUNDAY
iv
Susan Myers woke up next to Charlie, her husband of thirty-three years. She lay in silence in the semi-darkness, taking care not to move. She didn't want him to know that she was awake. She didn't want to have to speak to him. Through half-open eyes she watched the curtain as it gusted back and forth in the wind from the vented window, revealing snatched glimpses of the bright world outside. Was there any point in getting up? During the week she managed to fill her
time with friends, shopping and social appointments but her weekends, Sundays in particular, were long, bleak and empty. Since Charlie had retired eleven months ago their lives had become increasingly dull and monotonous. Most of her friends had their children and extended families to keep them busy but all she had was him and he bored her. He seemed happy doing nothing but she couldn't stand it. He wanted to potter around the house and garden, she wanted to be out. She wanted to scream and shout at him and make him understand how she felt but she knew it would be pointless. He didn't even know she was unhappy.
Here we go, she thought as he shuffled and turned over in bed beside her. Maybe - just maybe - he'd roll over to face her this morning and put his arm around her tell her that he loved her and start kissing her and touching her like he used to. It had been so long since they'd made love that she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. And on the very rare occasions she'd managed to get him in the mood (she was always the one who had to make the first move these days) he'd get himself so fired-up and over-excited that their passion, if it could be called that, was generally over and done with in a matter of a few desperately short and empty minutes. If it had been months since they'd made love, it had been years since she'd been satisfied.
Maybe she should have an affair? She'd thought about it before but never had the nerve to do it. Charlie probably wouldn't notice if she did. There was a man at one of the mid-week dancing classes she went to who she'd caught looking in her direction too many times for it to have just been coincidence. The idea of seeing someone else tempted her, but she knew she'd be putting a lot at risk if she ever actually did it. She was worried that she might end up losing everything she'd worked for with Charlie just for a little short-term excitement and adventure. She loved her grand house and her expensive clothes and all the associated trimmings. She loved the elevated social status it gave her and she didn't want to let any of it go. But what if the man at the dance class could give her all that and sex too...?
'Cup of tea?'
That was how Charlie started every day. No 'good morning' or 'how are you today?' or 'I love you' or anything like that anymore. Just a short, unemotional, truncated question. Should she answer or should she stay silent and pretend to still be asleep?
'Yes please,' she grunted, still with her back to her husband. She felt him throw back the covers and then slide out of bed before neatly tucking the bedding back into place again as he always did. Everything he did was predictable and safe. She could anticipate every move he was going to make. She knew he'd go to the bathroom next where he'd use the toilet, break wind, apologise to himself and then wash and shave humming the same damn tune he hummed under his breath every bloody morning. Then he'd put on his dressing gown, come back to the bedroom to fetch his slippers from under the foot of the bed where he'd put them last night, and go down to the kitchen. She knew he'd stop on the fifth step down to open the curtains and blow the dust off the top of the employee of the year trophy his employers had awarded him almost fifteen years ago…
She screwed her eyes tightly shut, buried her face in the duvet and thought of the man from the dance class again. She felt empty and depressed, trapped and angry. Sometimes she wanted to kill her husband. That, she decided, would be the answer to all her problems.
'Lovely day today,' Charlie said brightly as he returned to the bedroom with two cups of tea.
'It's always a bloody lovely day,' Susan silently screamed to herself. 'Even when it's raining and there's a force ten gale outside he says it's a bloody lovely day.'
'Here's your tea, dear.'
She cringed under the bedclothes and readied herself to face him. Saddest thing of all, she thought, was that he didn't have the faintest idea how unhappy she was. In his rose-tinted little world everything was just fine and dandy. He didn't know how old and worthless he made her feel and he probably never would. She took a deep breath and rolled over onto her back before shuffling up the bed and taking her tea from him.
'I had a lousy night's sleep,' she complained, looking up at him. 'I was freezing cold all night. I kept waking up because you kept pulling the covers off me.'
'Sorry about that, my love. I didn't realise.'
'And if it wasn't the cold keeping me awake it was your snoring.'
'I can't help that. If there was something I could do to…'
He stopped talking. In silence he stared down at his wife who scowled back at him.
'What's the matter with you?' she demanded as she sipped her tea.
Charlie continued to stare.
'For crying out loud, find something else to look at will you?' she cursed before taking another sip.
With a single sudden swipe Charlie slapped the cup out of his wife's hands. It smashed against the wall opposite sending countless dribbles of tea dripping down the pale pink anaglypta wallpaper. Bemused, Susan watched the drips of hot brown liquid trickling down the wall. What the hell's got into him, she wondered? In a bizarre way she was actually excited by this sudden display of unexpected forcefulness and spontaneity.
Behind her Charlie quickly yanked the waist belt free from his towelling dressing gown. Shoving her forward and gripping her shoulder tight with one hand he looped the belt twice round her neck in a single spiralling movement and then pulled it tight. Panicking, and with her eyes bulging and throat burning, Susan struggled to breathe. She kicked and squirmed under the bedclothes and scraped at her neck, desperately trying to force her fingers under the belt. Her strength was no match for his.
Charlie pulled the belt tighter and tighter until the last breath had been squeezed from his wife's body.
8
Another bloody wasted day.
Today started slowly. I got out of bed late (which really annoyed Lizzie - she had to get up and see to the kids for once) and I made a conscious effort to do as little as possible. I'm back at work tomorrow and I need to relax. I tried hard to do nothing but it's impossible in this house. There's always something to do or someone who needs you. Liz has been nagging at me for weeks to fix the bolt on the bathroom door and, today, I finally did it. It was the last thing I wanted to do but I reached the point where I couldn't stand her complaining about it every single time she used the damn toilet. Christ, the rest of us managed without any problems. Why was it such a big deal for her?
I worked on the door as Lizzie cooked dinner. What should have been a ten minute job ended up taking over an hour and a half. I had the kids running round my feet the whole time asking questions and getting in the way, then I didn't have the right size bolt, then I bought one that was too big… I lost my temper and almost kicked the door in but I finally fixed it. Hope Lizzie's satisfied. She'll have to find something else to complain about now.
And now here we are approaching Harry's house and the weekend's almost over. I genuinely don't mind Harry but he seems to have a huge problem with me. He doesn't think I'm good enough for his little girl and although he never says it as blatantly as that it's implied in just about everything he says to me. I can usually just shrug it off but when the day has been as frustrating as today and Monday morning is looming on the horizon it's something I could well do without.
We pull up outside his narrow terraced house and the kids start to get wound up and excited. They enjoy their time with Grandpa. Truth is they tolerate their time with Harry. They put up with it because they know they'll get sweets or some other treat out of him before they go home.
'I don't want any arguing today,' Liz says as we wait for him to answer the front door. I think she's talking to the kids but I realise she's looking at me.
'I never argue with your dad,' I tell her. 'He argues with me. There's a difference you know.'
'I'm not interested,' she says as the latch clicks open. 'Just be nice.'
The door opens inwards. Harry opens his arms to the kids and they run towards him, giving him a dutiful squeeze before disappearing deeper inside to trash his house.
'Hello, love,' he says to Lizzie as she hug
s him.
'You okay, Dad?'
'Fine,' he smiles. 'Better now. I've been looking forward to seeing you lot all day.'
Lizzie follows the children into the house. I go inside, wipe my feet and shut the door behind me.
'Harry,' I say, acknowledging him. I don't mean to sound abrupt but I unintentionally do.
'Daniel,' he replies, equally abruptly. He turns and walks towards the kitchen. 'I'll put the kettle on.'
I step over the children (who are already sprawled out across the living room floor) and head for my usual spot - the armchair in the corner of the room near the back window. I grab the Sunday newspapers off the coffee table as I pass. Burying my head in Harry's papers always helps me get through these long and monotonous visits.
A couple of minutes go by before Harry reappears with a tray of drinks. Vile, milky tea for Liz and me and equally weak, over-diluted fruit juice for the children. I take my tea from him.
'Thanks,' I say quietly. He doesn't acknowledge me. He hardly even looks at me.
I sit down in the corner of the room and start to read. I'm not interested in the politics or the finance or the travel or the style and fashion sections. I head straight for the cartoons. That's about the level I can cope with today.
We've been here for almost an hour and I've hardly said a word. Lizzie's been dozing on the sofa on the other side of the room and Harry has been sitting on the floor with the kids. There's no disputing the fact that they get on well together. He's laughing and joking with them and they're loving it. Makes me feel like a bad parent if I'm honest. I don't enjoy being with the children like he does. Maybe it's because he can walk away from them and we can't. They drain me, and I know Lizzie feels the same too. Everything's an effort when you have kids.
'Grandpa just made a coin disappear!' Ellis squeals, tugging at my trouser leg. Harry fancies himself as something of an amateur magician. He's always making things disappear and reappear. She squeals again as he 'magically' finds the coin tucked behind her ear. It doesn't take much to impress a four year old…
