by David Mark
I smile at my own reflection, but there’s no pleasure in it. I’m the worst man I’ve ever known. I should be floating downstream towards the River Trent, muddy water in my lungs and absolute nothingness in my bloated eyes.
And then I’m just drinking, and thinking of dead bodies and criminals and bullets and victims, and the unfairness of it all. Thinking of the people charged with finding justice for the innocents, and their unsuitability for the task. Wondering at the madness of the world we have created and my hatred of my place within it.
Taking solace in alcohol.
Drinking until I’m numb.
22
“Daddy brush?”
Fin McAvoy looks at his father through a veil of frothy soap. He’s been told that brave boys and girls tolerate the stinging sensation in their eyes. He’s stoic in his tolerance of the discomfort, squinting up at his dad as the suds drip down his face.
“Brush, son?”
“Yep. Mammy say it punk. What punk?”
McAvoy, damp to his waist, smiles indulgently at his son. As instructed, he takes the soft Mason-Pearson hairbrush from the window sill, and begins to brush his son’s soft, red curls into a mohawk. Fin, as instructed, sits quietly.
“This is the look you’re going for, is it?” asks McAvoy, softly. “Suits you. I’m not sure my dad would have approved of this. Did I ever tell you that my dad used to cut my hair. Your Uncle Duncan too. He used the same scissors that he used on the sheep. Can you imagine that?”
McAvoy doesn’t await a response. He disappears inside his own head for a moment, remembering the croft. Himself, Duncan, his big strong dad, making a living from the land in a little white-painted croft not far from Loch Ewe in the Western Highlands. The memories are never entirely happy. He has never forgiven himself for taking his mother’s offer. She walked out on his father when McAvoy was only five years old. At ten, she came back. Told him she was remarrying. A wealthy man; a man with connections. He was welcome to come and take advantage of them. Welcome to make the best of himself. His brother, his father, his teachers – they all told him that there would never be an opportunity like this. That he owed it to whichever deity had given him a big brain then dumped him in Aultbea. He did what everybody seemed to be telling him to do. He’s regretted it ever since.
“Look good, Daddy?”
McAvoy considers his son. He’s brushed his curls into a magnificent peak, sticking up as if greased with hard butter. McAvoy grins, indulgently. Lowers his forehead to Fin’s and tells him, in a quiet voice, that he is what life is for.
“Jesus, I’m sorry…”
McAvoy turns as Roisin scurries into the bathroom, unfastening her dressing gown. She gives him a look – desperate, beseeching – and then she is lowering herself to the toilet seat.
McAvoy looks down to the floor. Closes his eyes. Prays, and wishes, and wonders which has more potency…
Roisin looks between her bare knees. Raises her head and gives McAvoy a look. Then she shakes her head. “Gone,” she says, quietly. “I’m so sorry…”
McAvoy holds himself together as if afraid he were made of sugar. He walks to his wife on his knees. Puts his head against hers. “It’s not your fault,” he says, softly. “Oh Roisin. We should stop. This isn’t fair…”
Fierce, face flushed, she shakes her head. “No,” she says, and rubs her face against his shoulder. “No, we keep trying. Whatever happens, we don’t give up.”
McAvoy strokes his wife’s hand. Looks away, as she rises from the toilet seat, and looks, dejectedly, into the bloody water. She says a small prayer. Fastens her gown. Presses herself to McAvoy. Sniffs, and wipes the tears from her eyes.
“Looking good, boyo,” she says, to her son. Fin is making no complaint about the goose pimples which pattern his flesh. He knows Mummy is sad. Knows that Daddy would slice off a limb if it made her pain go away.
“Me a punk,” says Fin, cautiously. “Me in Prodigy. Me Twisted Firestarter…”
Through the tears and the pain and the desperate desire to make everything different, Aector and Roisin McAvoy hold their son, and weep, silently, for the child that will not be.
“I’m sorry,” says Roisin, again.
At her side, her husband wraps his arm around her waist. He can find no words of comfort. Just holds her, and hopes it is enough.
Knows, to his bones, that it is not.
23
9.17 p.m.
Owen Lee, Press Association Hull and East Riding correspondent, staggering across Spring Bank.
Rain; an upright sea.
The night, dark and unforgiving: all neon signs and dirty yellow street lights. Circles of illumination as cars swish by. Me in the spotlight. Horns honking.
Too much blood in my head. Face feeling full. Fit to burst.
Passing the pizza place at the top of Kerry’s street. Bright inside. Too bright. All white walls and photographs of fried chicken and lasagne. Pizza boxes stacked behind the counter. Vaguely ethnic guy in a white T-shirt talking to two teenagers in the warm. Looks inviting. Friendly. Sort of place that beckons you in on a wet February night.
Staggering on down Morpeth Street.
Sick with hunger. Sick with drink. Sick of myself.
My coat heavy with water, pulling me down. Bent over, mouth open, eyes glazed, working my jaw in circles to relieve the pressure in my head. Fear my ears may pop. Or my eyes.
Halfway down the street, trying to focus. Walk into a wheelie bin and fall over.
Cars parked along the length of the street. None with a registration plate less than three years old. White vans. One by my head.
Kick open the gate to Kerry’s place. Pain. Think I may have twisted my ankle. Think I might do it again.
Front door wide open. Light on in the hall. Bare bulb, no shade. Migraine exploding behind my eyes. Wet, muddy palms screwed into my face. Shapes moving behind my eyelids. Colours around the edges of the picture, moving rhythmically, delicately. Black kaleidoscope. Central flame, now. A perfect circle of white darkness, glowing among the blurs.
Sliding up the wall. Moby CD playing in a downstairs room. Dusty carpet, edged with cobwebs, turning to sludge beneath my feet.
First floor. Stop moving. Payphone nailed to the wall, impeding my progress.
Bumble around it. Half blind.
Fingers scrabbling at the doorframe.
Door swinging slowly open.
Pictures of Audrey Hepburn on the wall.
Lights bright.
Sofa-bed, still in sofa form, draped with an Afghan scarf. Coffee table, covered in paper, ragged envelopes, empty bottles of 7Up. Foil dishes. Dirty teaspoons. Personalised coffee mugs bearing other people’s names.
Kerry, laid out on her back, head draped over the far arm. Wearing nothing but a faded grey T-shirt. Riding up.
Hairy legs. Filthy soles to her feet.
Eyes closed. Nobody home.
Man in blue overalls, standing over her.
The names of the Hull City promotion-winning side of 2004, winding around his neck.
Pants around his thighs.
A look of acute surprise creasing his face as I crash into the room.
Alcohol in my system igniting like brandy in a frying pan.
Flaring blue.
And as I’m rising to my feet, listening to his protestations of embarrassment, his apologies, his shame, I’m piecing it together.
Thinking “money lender”. Debt collector. Bailiff. Popping round to collect a payment, and leaving a deposit instead.
And I’m barrelling into his chest, pinning his arms beneath my legs, nutting him silly, tenderising his forehead, laughing as he uses what little consciousness he has left to try and find a way to fasten his pants.
Me, sitting on his chest, down behind the sofa.
Kerry still not moving.
My hands at his throat, thumbs wedged between the central defenders and last season’s midfield general.
My face impassive as I throttle
the life out of him.
Watching his face turn blue.
Hearing his feet drum on the carpet, the rhythm reminding me of an old C&W tune Dad used to play over and over again on long car journeys back from the hospital; Kerry and me humming along on the back seat, playing games, counting horses and pylons, listening to Mam and Dad talking about wallpapers, about new stair carpets, about my grades and medicines, about itineraries, and how to squeeze museums, galleries and beach days into one week in Cornwall. Telling us to keep the noise down. Always watching me in the rear-view-mirror, always keeping a suitcase between Kerry and me. Mam reading one of the leaflets they had given her, listing which food colourings I should be kept away from, and which signals she should come to recognise as an indicator of looming violence.
Me, gulping down mouthfuls of air.
Eating his soul as it leaves his body.
Thinking: I’m getting better at this.
24
Peaceful, now. Lights low. Tie-dyed curtains pulled to. Low thump of bass coming from somebody’s CD player. Like a heartbeat.
Me, wrapped in an Afghan scarf and fading adrenaline.
Warm and damp.
Bailiff still on the ground, eyes open.
Kerry not moving. Breathing like a hot bullmastiff.
Me on the floor with my back to the sofa, legs drawn up. Smoking a cigarette. Calm. Concentrating on every breath. Counting them. Eyes open as I breathe in. Closed as I exhale. Exhausted. Weary to the bone. Starving. My vision bobbing as if I’m in the ocean, looking at the room through waves that push and pull, lift and break.
Not much left here now. Everything of value sold or taken. Still cluttered, but with nothing. If you tidied away the crap the place would be empty. Kerry’s life. Kerry’s home. Kerry’s creation. Kerry’s world. Not Kerry’s fault.
I pull myself up to my knees, and then stand, shakily, feeling the blood returning to my legs. Pins and needles jabbing my feet.
Things to do. Got to clean up my sister. Got to eat. Got to stop all this. Got to keep going.
Feel like I’ve been breathing in paint fumes. I know what I’ve done, but it’s not real. Even the body at my feet seems somehow removed. Staged.
The bathroom’s at the bottom of the corridor and I make my way to it, locking the door behind me. Light on. Off-white suite, lemon walls. No panel on the bath. Ring around the enamel. Half-finished tiling job. Squelching over green lino and a rotting pedestal mat.
I turn the cold tap on full and hold my face under the stream until my head is numb. Mouth under the tap, drinking and slurping. Slightly minty flavour in my mouth as I lick the tap.
Drying myself with the hem of the scarf that’s still around my shoulders.
Walking back into Kerry’s place, still dripping.
She hasn’t woken. Neither has he.
I kick the door closed behind me, and push the TV up against it. Best not to be disturbed. Business-like, I cross to the small kitchen area in the far corner of the bedsit. Two-ring hob and a dirty rectangle where the fridge used to be. Door hanging off the solitary cupboard. Nowhere to hide a body. Bin-bag full of dirty clothes.
Hands on hips I look around, willing the bare walls to suddenly yield an empty cupboard or a waste disposal chute.
Kerry gives the faintest of groans and I smile down at her as though gazing at a contented baby. I’m consumed by love for her, the need to protect her. I want to tear my skin off and drape it over her as a shield. She’s an innocent. Mine. My responsibility. Something Jess could never understand.
I take the hem of her T-shirt in my hand and pull it up to her face, wiping her eyes and cheek, the folds at her neck. I’m looking at the body I’ve exposed. I see the bones pushed up tight against her belly, and skin like candlewax. Bruises in the crook of each elbow, drilled with holes. Veins standing out on her breasts, nipples flaccid and shapeless. Chipped nail varnish, long since applied.
Hurriedly, I pull the T-shirt down, and squat down by her face. She’s still beautiful, to me. Ears like a pixie, pierced a dozen times. Button nose, full lips. She shaved her head a few months back and it’s still short and ragged, with twin beaded rat-tails hanging down at the front. Her mouth’s open, and I catch a glimpse of her teeth. They look like toffees, and are starting to rot. The smile of a smackhead.
I stroke her cheek gently with the back of my hand and then slide my arms under her, one under her head and the other cupping her arse. I ease her off the sofa and carry her to the door. She’s almost weightless. It’s like carrying a ghost. She doesn’t wake as I lay her on the floor and cover her with the duvet.
The bailiff’s not that big of a guy, and I figure he’ll fit where I’m going to stick him. I pull the cushions off the sofa and grip the metal frame of the bed inside, pulling it out and unfolding the legs, propping them up among the detritus of the coffee table. A space appears inside the sofa. To me it seems coffin-shaped. Naturally, as though I’ve done it a thousand times, I put my hands under the armpits of the bailiff, and heave him into a standing position. It’s hard going, and I’m consumed with a fit of giggles as the words “dead weight” appear in my head and beat like a drum. In stages I get him to his feet and myself to mine, and drape him over my left shoulder as though burping a toddler. I can feel his erection prodding my hip. With my free hand I push the wire frame of the bed into the air, and bundle the bailiff into the gap created. His legs don’t go in. I try to bend them at the knee but they seem stiff and it creeps me out, so I just kick at him until he squeezes into the gap, then drop the bed back down. I nudge the coffee table out of the way and the legs of the bed hit the floor, then unfold the mattress out over the frame. In a second, the bailiff has gone. Out of sight, out of mind. Problem solved.
I pick Kerry up again and feel her begin to stir. I lay her down on the sofa, still bundled in the scarf. I step back, and slip off my coat, jacket and boots, switch off the light and lie down beside her. I spoon up behind her and let the heat from her body warm mine, a fiery aching suddenly spreading into every limb.
My arm around her waist, nose at the nape of her neck.
Dick squashed up against her left buttock.
Room spinning. Eyes heavy.
Falling asleep with my naked sister on top of a corpse.
Gazing at perfect blackness behind my eyelids.
Monsters nowhere to be found.
25
Two hours later, and we’re snuggling. Little cold nose in the crook of my neck, rasping gently against my stubble. Hand on my chest, fingering my hair. Breath slow and soothing. Her on her front, leg draped over mine, drawn up, like a dog pissing.
She’s awake, but fighting it. Knows she’s got to come down and doesn’t want to. Hanging on to sleep. Me too. Liked it there. Dark. Uncomplicated. Silent.
Trying to keep my eyes closed, but the lids slide upwards, slowly, like a lift carrying a fat man.
Open into grey.
Still dark in the room, but dark with shapes and lumps. Possibilities.
I stifle a groan as I realise I haven’t changed during the night, and I still have to face every day with my own mind.
“I knew you’d come,” whispers Kerry, so low and breathy it comes out in a rush and I feel the breeze on my cheek. “I needed you.”
“I’ll always be here, princess,” I say, without thinking. I’m pre-programmed to say this shit, regardless of the truth. “I’ll always look after you.”
She starts to wriggle, like a baby with wind. Fluttering, groaning noises escape her lips. Her hand leaves my chest and I feel her rubbing her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose. “Ugh,” she says, and starts to sit up. “Just urgh.”
I put a hand on her bare shoulder and pull her back down to my chest, resting my head on her soft, short hair. She doesn’t resist. I kiss her on the top of the head, and wrap an arm around her shoulders. With my other hand I pull the scarf up, over our heads, and we’re in a warm little cave, where I can only see the tears that sparkle in her
eyes, the hints and shadows of her face. It’s nice. Our voices are soft, like a spoken lullaby. We’re safe in here, on top of a corpse.
“You got somewhere to be?” I ask softly. “Let’s just chill.”
“I’m all for chilling,” she says, sibilant, like a tyre swishing over a wet road. “You’re not normally a fan.”
“I am. I want the easy life. I’ve just got responsibilities.”
“You’re too tightly wound to chill, Owen. You even sleep aggressively. Do you still sleep with your arms folded?”
“It has been mentioned. That’s the way I was shown.”
“At the hospital?” Her voice is cautious. An ember from an old fire suddenly begins to smoulder in mine.
“Yeah. Never really broke the habit.”
“What’s the thinking behind it?”
“Christ knows. I just did as I was shown.”
“They probably didn’t want you touching yourself.”
“Probably not. Didn’t work though. You just get somebody to do it for you. Maybe that’s what they were hoping.”
I hear Kerry smile. “You’re never short of offers, Owen. Jess didn’t know what she was letting go.”
“She didn’t let go, Kerry. I set her free.”
“Did she want to go?”
“She said she did. Can’t really blame her, but I do.”
“I’ll miss Jess. She was fun. Don’t think she really liked me though. Think she thought I got in the way.”
“I remember moments when she liked you a lot, and I remember moments when she wished you were dead. I remember all of our moments.”
Silence for a little while, then, timid, she says: “Do you still see her?”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My hands are shaking.
“Sometimes,” I say. “She still appears when I’m tired. Or stressed. I can control it though. She doesn’t tell me what to do.”
“I envied you, you know,” she says, quietly. “The things you saw. I sat and stared at her too, and she never spoke to me. Never moved.”
“You don’t want what I’ve got, Kerry. You don’t want to see what I see. Or do the things I’ve done.”
