by Aled Islwyn
A gargle from his throat made me lower my gaze for a moment from his hollow eyes to his dead man’s lips. The two thin lines quivered slightly, but remained perfectly dry. And I remembered the time he’d tried to kiss me. The only time.
I’d flinched in repulsion and lashed out with my fists.
Kisses were for girls and proper poofs, I’d thought.
Today, I know differently. My stomach muscles tightened, squirming at my adolescent reasoning. I drew in breath. The way I would before a lift.
There was no one there to see me. He has a room to himself. The dying do, it seems. It’s a private affair.
When the taxi finally drops us off, it turns out Joanne’s long since let herself in. What you call a surprise party, apparently.
The kids ran around like idiots and shouted, Welcome home, Nanna! when prompted.
To crown it all, when Dean arrived from work at the end of the afternoon, a dirty big cake appears. It’s candles. And streamers. And most of all, it’s a load of bollocks.
She’s in cancer remission, not joined the circus, I shouted.
Mam didn’t want that crap. I could tell.
But she’s laughing as I went upstairs to change into my jogging suit.
Four hours later, it’s her and me again. The remnants of a cake and a pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen.
She’s gone to bed, exhausted. And I’m lying here in the bath.
It rained solid for the two hours I was out. And Gavin had his mobile phone switched off, it seems.
He caught me unawares. I’ll give him that.
That first punch to my belly stopped me in my tracks. And I never saw the second coming, either. His fist colliding with my face with such clarity its terrifying thunder still throbs from the pit of my jaw to the top of my skull.
Floored in one fell sweep, he towered over me, asking repeatedly, You were abused, weren’t you? His voice intense and calm. The emphasis placed on a different word with almost every repetition. It isn’t a passion on his behalf; it’s a technique put into practice.
In intent, my Yes was a defiant shout, but gasping as I was for breath, I know that the reality of my utterance was nothing more that a whisper in the autumn air.
Barely a mile down the hillside from the scene of my humiliation, Dan Llywellyn’s remains were burning in the municipally-approved manner. Even as I lay there, stunned into neo-silence, I remember noting that I was thinking that thought.
Conspicuous contempt had been the motivation for our run. Or so I thought. His idea, of course. Let’s run while old Dan burns? I’ll pick you up!
Our fun run through the Pencwm woods high above the crematorium was planned to coincide with the very hour of his funeral. A show of disrespect. A symbol of indifference.
In reality, it was nothing of the sort, of course. It was his planned revenge. Now that it’s too late for me to add a gold star to his CV. Now he’s been humiliated by a high-profile investigation that’s come to nothing. Now that promotion is that much more difficult to achieve.
Yes, I desperately tried to articulate a second time as I felt his trainers thundering into my ribs.
And he buggered you? Go on! Say it! Tell me what I already know, you piece of shit.
At that point, my hands tried to stabilise the floor. And failed.
I flinched as I saw his right foot raised again and aiming for my face this time.
Once again, Yes formed submissively in my brain. The trees above me swayed. The sky-blue faded. Pain was all around. Rolling over on the earth, my capacity for thought was consumed by it.
Then why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me? This time, his voice doesn’t come from far away. He’s in my ear. I smell him close. Feel him grab me by my vest, dragging me to my feet…. You stubborn Welsh bastard!
Instinctively, I aimed a fist to ward him off. But one arm was already planted round his neck for balance and, staggering backwards, I dragged us both down. Drops of blood spraying both his face and the leaves beneath.
It’s a long time later that I laughed. His outstretched arm ignored as I fumbled on the ground for a wrist-watch that somehow managed to get dislodged in the assault.
He only allowed himself a smile.
Finding the watch, I stagger to my feet of my own accord and follow him to the car. We’re both mute.
My senses remain disconnected. Even now, hours later, the pervading pain is the only message any of them will carry to my brain with any conviction. All else is fluff. Pain stands alone. Still throbbing, black and sore. Thorough and unrelenting. Worse than anything my memories of a bruising youth can bring to mind.
Mirrors have always been my friends. Until tonight. The wardrobe door’s been left unlock, allowing the reflective façade to swing away from the sight of me.
I can bear no light. I can bear no blanket. Tonight, I lick wounds. And curse.
Just leave it there… and… and go away, I said, straining to be civil to her.
If I’ve said I tripped and fell while out on my run then that is what she will accept as truth. That is what she’ll tell the world. After all, that’s what she told Mike. I know how Mam works.
What exactly happened? he asked in that tone of voice he reserves for cynicism.
Oh! Mam exaggerated as usual, I said when I eventually decided to ring him back. You know what she’s like. It’s just a scratch.
It was two days ago that he spoke to my mother. He just happened to ring almost as soon as I’d come into the house. Bad timing. I’d hardly had time to hobble to the bathroom to clean up before Mam could take a proper look when I heard the ringing.
Made the effort to take myself downstairs last night to ring him back. My mobile won’t stretch as far as Spain. But I’m struggling for normality.
That’s what you get when you hide yourself away in a darkened room. Self-absorption becomes self-destroying. Self-pity dulling you’re ability to deal with the world.
The telephone rings. Not often. Just once or twice a day. Joanne. Some of Mam’s cronnies. Mike. A social worker. The front door bell goes too. But that’s an even rarer event. No symbolic roses have arrived to put my bruises in the shade. No perfumed bloom has been forthcoming to make tender my unsated nose.
A good bottle of brandy might have been the manly gesture. But, no. Nothing has been forthcoming from him. All I get are trays. Left on the landing by my mother as instructed. A knock on my bedroom door heralding each arrival. Mere supplies for a self-imposed prisoner.
I’m OK. Honestly. Just leave me alone. Had to shout at her several times before I heard her footsteps retracting that last time.
To all the world, I’m here to look after her. But the will to nurse anything except my own ego has left me. I just lay here on this bed, thinking that after this fiasco’s over, I never want to come back to Wales again.
OK! I’ll go back for Mam’s funeral, I conceded. But that’s all.
Mike just smiled over his cup of tea. I smiled back.
He doesn’t believe me regarding almost anything I’ve told him since my return. But it’s all true.
We were both up early this morning. Mike and I.
He had some faculty meeting at the university. Wanted to know if I’d met Gavin back in Wales. You know, your gay detective friend, he said, pretending not to remember his name. The one who came here that time with his fat colleague with a taste for fine art.
Oh him! I replied. We collided once or twice in the corridor. But he never got what he wanted from me.
Serge wouldn’t believe me either at first, when I said I wouldn’t work the darkroom for him any more. But wasn’t too concerned.
Don’t worry. I find someone else.
Maybe I wasn’t that sensational after all. But maybe it’s just that there are always others. Others who’ll come do what we do after we’re long since given up. Moved away. Moved on.
I figure darkrooms are like Wales. I won’t go there again. Well! Only in my memories.
About the Author<
br />
Born in Port Talbot, South Wales, Aled Islwyn has lived and worked in Cardiff for many years and published nine novels to date. His first volume of stories won the Welsh Arts Council’s ‘Book of the Year’ prize in 1995. Muscles Came Easy is taken from his third collection, Out with It, his first in English.
Copyright
First published in 2008
by
Parthian
The Old Surgery
Napier Street
Cardigan
SA43 1ED
www.parthianbooks.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2011
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.
All rights reserved
© Aled Islwyn, 2008
The right of Aled Islwyn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
Cover design by Lucy Llewellyn
ISBN 9781908069443
If you enjoyed this book, please visit www.parthianbooks.com for information on our other publications.
