by Anna Legat
Still, the wellbeing factor had vanished. Luke felt deeply unsettled, his private life invaded by the most vindictive, lethal enemy. Nothing good would come of it. She had to go. With her there, amongst Sammy’s so called friends, he would end up looking over his shoulder all the time. You never knew what the fucking bitch would come up with next.
‘How did you get hold of her?’ The moment Sammy entered the room, Luke went on the offensive. He couldn’t help it. His hands were shaking. Everything was shaking inside him.
‘Who?’ Sammy glanced on the screen. Her hair brushed his shoulder. It reminded him to keep his cool. ‘You mean Tanya? She added me, actually.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Your ex. She told me.’
‘And what? You all right with that?!’
‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s been like, what? Fourteen years since the two of you split up. I’ve got nothing to worry about, do I?’ Sammy laughed, leaned over him and kissed the top of his shaved head. He could smell Forest Pine washing-up liquid on her hands.
‘It’s not that. You don’t know her. She’s a stirrer. A real bitch if I ever met one!’
‘Whoa! Take it easy, Luke,’ Sammy pointed to Imogen, who upon hearing Dad’s raised voice, had stopped playing and was looking up at her parents, mouth gaping with intrigue. ‘She’s only a Facebook friend. It’s, like, nothing. And fourteen years is a long time. She looks... nice, anyways.’ Sammy shrugged.
‘She ain’t nice,’ Luke hissed. He cupped his skull with his hands and pressed hard into it. He could feel the tiny prickles of the new growth on the palms of his hands. He stood up, towering over Sammy. He said, ‘I want you to unfriend her. Block her off, yeah?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Sammy could be bloody stubborn. She didn’t understand what that woman could do.
‘You’re being stupid! Take her off! Delete her!’
‘Leave off, Luke! I’m not doing it!’
The row was turning into a staring contest. He had no more arguments. He just wanted that fucking bitch out of the picture, out of his life. He closed his fists tight to stop his hands from shaking. Sammy was glowering at him, challenging his will. ‘You’re scaring Imogen,’ she said.
He had to get out. Get some air.
*
He knew his mates would be at the Goose and Egg. They were always there, every Saturday, every Sunday, unless they were working. Luke knew where to find them though he had never tried. He hadn’t been joining his mates for a drink for years. Until now. He needed company. Truth be told, he needed a stiff drink. It was down to Tanya.
Ron patted him on the back. He didn’t need to be told what happened. He said, ‘Women, huh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’
Stu knew just the remedy. ‘Have a pint, mate. On me.’
Smooth, cold lager was his salvation. It went down a treat. It felt as if Luke and lager had never parted ways. It felt like coming home. He could relax. After the third pint, he was beginning to think that maybe, after all, he had overreacted. All that shit with Tanya and Sammy – it was nothing. Bollocks to that! He drained the glass and announced that the next round was on him.
*
The girls were in bed by the time he rolled back home. The little mobile lamp in Imogen’s room was on, shedding a kaleidoscope of colours on her sleeping face. She looked peaceful. A sharp pang in his chest reminded Luke he had not kissed her goodnight, perhaps for the first time in all her four years. He stumbled to her bedside, tripping on some damn toy left on the floor for the pur-pose of, well – tripping him over. He cursed the damn toy.
‘Daddy?’ Imogen’s eyelids were heavy with sleep.
‘Goodnight, my angel,’ Luke whispered and kissed her on the forehead.
She was asleep before she could reply.
Luke proceeded to the bedroom. He shed his clothes on the floor, in the dark so as not to wake Sammy. She was lying with her face to the wall, he could just make out the outline of her body. He was desperate for a piss. Lager does that to people! For some reason that thought had made him chuckle. His voice sounded hoarse. He staggered to the bathroom. Felt for the toilet seat. Found it. Lifted it. It fell back with a clank. ‘Shhhh, you shit! Shut your mouth!’ Luke told the fucking seat.
A few minutes later, having achieved the clearance of his bladder, Luke tiptoed to bed – as best as he could considering his unexpectedly flat-footed gait and significant difficulties with maintaining balance.
Sammy sighed. It wasn’t a proper sleep-breathing, it was a sigh. So she was awake. She had been waiting for him! Surely, she deserved a reward. He pushed the bulk of his body into her and tried to look over her shoulder to see her face. He threw his arm over her and probed around her pubic area. He was growing hard. Kissed her neck – she liked that.
Not today.
‘You stink!’ she told him.
‘Shhhould I clean my teeshh?’ He was an accommodating man.
‘Don’t bother. You’re drunk. Go to sleep!’
That hurt his feelings. He wasn’t drunk, for fuck’s sake. Would he get a hard-on if he was drunk? Bitch. ‘And fuck you too, shhunshhine!’ He turned away. Her loss.
*
Another day in Paradise! Luke had forgotten how good it was to have a refreshing pint – or two – after a day of hard work. Relax. Forget about things. He had taken to the Goose and Egg like a duck to water, he was chuffed with the pun. He smiled under his breath as he took long, assured gulps from the glass, watching the world go by from the table in the garden. It was Wednesday. They had just watched Liverpool demolish Man U. They were in high spirits: Luke, Stu and Ron – the three musketeers.
He didn’t feel like going home. Not yet. Not for another hour, maybe two. Another few drinks. He was letting Sammy stew in it – she had been a pain in the arse over the last few days, since that Saturday when he told her to fuck off, or something similar. He couldn’t make out what the fucking fuss was all about. She had told him the same, maybe in not so many words, but Luke wasn’t one to count them. Let bygones be bygones! But not Sammy! She was beginning to get on his nerves.
And she was still friends with that bitch, Tanya. Luke had checked. So there – they were quits!
*
‘Go to your room, Imogen!’ She was shouting at his little angel, making his blood boil.
‘Why, Mummy?’ You go, girl! Luke smiled, exuding vapours of alcohol.
‘Mummy wants to talk to Daddy.’
‘I don’t have secrets from my daughter,’ he protested.
‘Go to your room now!’
A hurtful expression on her little angelic face, Imogen scampered. Luke was fuming. ‘What is your fucking problem?’
‘Don’t use that language in front of –’
‘She ain’t here, is she? What do you want? I’m knackered.’
‘You’re drunk! Again! Every day – Saturday, Sunday, Monday –’
‘And you’re still friends with that bitch. I told you!’
‘Is that what it is? You’re punishing me? Getting plastered out of your skull every day because of that!’
‘I’m going to bed. Am knackered.’
‘Tanya warned me –’
Hearing her name must have done it to him. It was as if that name alone had teeth. It sunk those teeth into his guts and shook him like a dog would shake an old rag. He had just about lost it! He saw red, his hands folded into fists of their own accord, and he pounced at Sammy and had his fist in her face. Only in the last split second, he diverted the blow to the wall behind her. His fist went through the cheap cardboard wall like a battering ram. It left a gaping hole with ragged edges. Luke stared at it, baffled.
‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ he pointed out to Sammy.
She was slumped on the floor, holding her throat, gasping. ‘Just like she said... You’re just like she said,’ she mumbled.
He couldn’t believe it was happening. ‘Is that what she said?’
‘Getting
drunk. Violent. She warned me about you.’
‘Can’t you see what she’s doing?!’ he yelled. ‘Can’t you fucking see!’ His eyes stung with tears and he had to do something about it, not to give in to them. He punched the wall again and again. His knuckles bled.
*
Two weeks out of work. His boss had called, several times as a matter of fact, and gave Luke three choices: you report to work, or you bring a doctor’s note, or you’re out on your arse. So Luke was out on his arse. The bastard hadn’t bothered to tell him that to his face, had merely left a message on his mobile. Luke hadn’t seen the message for three days – the battery was flat and he couldn’t be arsed to charge it. What for? Who was going to call? Sammy wasn’t speaking to him. She and he were two ships passing in the night, or something like that. He liked that saying, must have heard it on TV, and it stuck. He was the ship that had sunk to the bottom, that bottom being the lounge downstairs where he had been sleeping ever since that hole in the wall. Only forward and aft from here!
The drinking had been spinning out of control, Luke was willing to admit that. Fair’s fair. He was going to stop. Today he’d only had four pints – that was all. He was weaning himself off alcohol. He knew how to go about it. He had done it once before. Tomorrow he would pop over to see the boss. The old man was a reasonable man, he would understand Luke had got himself into a spot of bother, but he'd pulled himself out of it – that’s what mattered!
He might even buy Sammy flowers. She liked flowers. She liked gestures. Luke was sure Morrisons sold flowers, and there was a Morrisons on his way home. He had chosen the largest bouquet they had. All sorts of exotic flower species thrown together to make a woman feel special and loved. He loved Sammy, so there – she would get her flowers, and they could put it all behind them. Maybe she would let him back in bed. The bloody settee downstairs was doing his neck in.
A suitcase was sitting on the pavement in front of their house. It was surprising no one had nicked it. It could be a suitcase full of money! Though these days it could be full of fucking explosives. Luke gave the strange suitcase a wide berth and fumbled in his pocket for the key, the large bouquet in his left hand – a peace offering.
It had to be the wrong key. It wouldn’t turn in the lock. But he didn’t have any other key in his pocket. The only key he had was his house key. He wasn’t that drunk! He knocked on the door. No answer.
He banged on the door. ‘Sammy! Open up! Lost my key!’
The bloody cow from across the road came out to watch. Luke gave her a dismissive look. He didn’t like her. She was always there with her fucking fag, eavesdropping. She put her hands on her hips, the usual, and stood there on the edge of the kerb.
‘What is it?’ Luke snarled at her. ‘Get a life, or something!’
‘She changed the locks. She doesn’t want you there.’
‘You wish!’ Luke decided to try the handle a bit harder. He gave it a good yank. Nothing. ‘Sammy, for fuck’s sake! Open up! It’s me!’
Sammy showed up in the bedroom window. ‘Go away, Luke. It’s over. Don’t make a scene. Your things are in the suitcase.’
‘Open up! It’s my house. I fucking live here!’
‘Don’t use that language. Imogen –’
‘I’ll use any fucking language I like! Sorry, I mean – sorry!’ He put his hands up in a gesture of symbolic surrender. The bouquet was still in his left hand. ‘Look, Sammy, I got you flowers. Can we sit down and talk, yeah?’
‘No. You can’t come in. Ever.’
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Luke couldn’t help kicking the door. To make a point that he wasn’t going anywhere other than inside the fucking house.
The bitch across the road shouted, ‘Shall I call the cops?’
‘Fuck off!’ Luke told her. ‘Just fuck off!’
She disappeared behind her door. Good fucking riddance!
‘Sammy, open the door. I don’t want to damage it! I just want to talk. I want to see Imogen!’
‘You won’t come near Imogen or me. Ever! I know what you’re capable of, you bastard. Tanya told me everything!’
She could just as well have poured a bucket of ice water on him. He was stone cold sober in an instant. ‘It’s lies. It’s all lies! Fucking lies! Let me prove it to you!’ He was kicking and punching the door as if the door had done something. Fucking door, standing between him and his wife. And his daughter! ‘Open the fucking door!’ He was crying. Literally crying.
The police car arrived to save him, rather than the door. Luke was beside himself with grief. He would top himself then and there if a copper hadn’t put his hand on Luke’s shoulder and calmly said, ‘You’ll come with us to the station, sir.’
And so Luke did. He hurled the flowers to the ground and crossed his wrists in front of him, waiting for the handcuffs to come on.
*
The divorce papers had been served on him at Mum and Dad’s house. So that Mum and Dad could witness his humiliation.
‘What is it that man gave you, Luke?’ Mum, forever clueless, asked.
‘What do you think?’ He threw the papers on the kitchen table and sat down, for his legs were too weak to keep him upright much longer. He put his fist in his mouth so that the scream wouldn’t come out. He was so powerless that all he could do was scream. Or punch something. So he had to keep his mouth and his fist busy.
Mum picked up the papers and read through them. The only thing she did read was the title, ‘Divorce petition, petitioner Samantha Orwin...’ That was it. Her eyes became misted. She took off her glasses, wiped her eyes. ‘Not again, Luke. We can’t go through this all over again.’
Dad had been making tea, and was still hunched over the kitchen worktop, the three mugs in front of him. He returned the teaspoon to the sugar bowl before he spilled any more sugar. The two of them, Mum and Dad, waited for him to do something, say something.
‘I’ll sort it out. It’s Tanya – she’s behind it. She’d started it. I’m not going without a fight. It’s Tanya. She's poisoned Sammy’s mind, and they’re both against me. Ganging up! But I’m not giving up on Imogen. They can forget it, because I am NOT!’
Dad’s legs must have gone weak too for he had joined Mum at the table, slumping down heavily in a chair next to her. He said, his voice bereft of any strength, any hope, ‘They can’t be all wrong.’
EMMA
The indignity of it!
Emma was sprawled on Dr Bleibner’s gynaecological bed like a starfish, her legs wide apart, held up in mid-air by cold metal braces. Dr Bleibner, a pleasant enough, middle-aged gentleman with the vacant face of a eunuch, stood there in his mask and surgical gloves, enduring the full, unrestricted sight of Emma’s vagina. His assistant, Tamsin, a glorified chaperone, busied herself with medical instruments, banging and slamming them about as if they were pots and spoons in her kitchen. Indeed some of them looked like spoons; others resembled ice-cream dispensers and shoehorns. The whole procedure, which Emma had already been through twice, would invariably take her back to her early childhood memories, when she had been five or six. She remembered how she would pilfer her mother’s silver cutlery and carry her loot to the sandpit where she would lay an imaginary table, neatly aligning knives, forks and spoons, and serving mud cakes and dandelion leaves to her imaginary guests. Those memories helped her make peace with the surgical instruments and the indignity of her IVF ordeal.
When the memories failed to come, Emma occupied herself with matters at hand. Work invariably provided ample distractions. In fact, she had been forced to take yet another day off for this medical emergency, which didn’t quite qualify as sick leave. If she were sick, she could just about justify her absence from the bank. As it were, it was much harder. Impossible. Unforgiveable. Well, at the very least... unnecessary.
She had to wonder how the new assistant cashier was getting on today. It was his first day at the branch, following a week of training. For all intents and purposes, Emma should be there, hel
ping the poor chap get into the role. He was in his late forties, not the best age for new beginnings in one’s career. He used to be a maths teacher. He would be good with numbers, Emma hoped. She needed a cashier with strong arithmetic skills and attention to detail. Accurate. Resilient. Most of all, mature. Bank work wasn’t for the faint-hearted. She had high hopes for her new staff acquisition, Blackburn. What was his first name? It had escaped her. She really ought to make a note of that. People could be sensitive about small things, like their first names... Emma could recite from memory the current balances of her customers’ bank accounts and their overdraft facilities, but not necessarily their first names. First names were statistical clutter.
‘We know the drill, don’t we, Mrs Rydal? Fingers crossed it works this time. We have a promising embryo. I have a good feeling about this one.’ Dr Bleibner’s voice cut into Emma’s musings, bringing her down to earth, or rather to her gynaecological bed, which reminded her of an economy class aeroplane seat with limited leg room. Thus the unfortunate elevation of her legs. Deep down, she wished for the doctor to shut up and just get on with feeding that bloody plastic tube into her fanny. But it would be way too impolite to suggest that to him.
‘That’s great!’ she enthused insincerely. Her mind was back in the surgery, re-focused on the instruments of torture, back to square one. Evoking early childhood memories was by now a drug that had worn off. Thinking of work wouldn’t do much good if she wasn’t there. No! She was firmly strapped in her economy seat, painfully conscious of her plight.
She was a little angry. Emma was not quick to anger, and her anger wasn’t really... angry. But it was an irritation and it was growing inside her, a bad – emotional – itch she couldn’t scratch. Here she was, for the third time running, stretched and invaded, giving her time and effort to something that wasn’t on her list of priorities. It was on Ben’s. But all Ben had to do – and again she didn’t want to sound unkind, but couldn’t help thinking it – was to look at some pornographic materials, please himself, and come. Literally: C-U-M.
