INTO THE OPEN

“It’s OK,” you told me, “I’ll take care of it.  You mustn’t worry about anything.”
I nodded in agreement, because you were the fastest runner, the better hunter and you stood a good chance of surviving outside our shelter alone.

The first time you returned, you wouldn’t let me look, you covered your face and arms, handed me the deer you’d caught and went and sat quietly in the corner.  I bled it, skinned it, cooked it, but you barely ate anything, just enough to keep you alive.  The deer could have lasted longer, but my appetite got the better of me.  I couldn’t stop eating.  Pretty soon, you had to go out again.  I muttered under my breath that perhaps it was my turn to take a chance, to go into the open, but you shook your head fiercely and I was somewhat weighed down with food.

You were gone a long time.  I thought maybe something had happened.  Your people weren’t particularly happy; you’d gone against their wishes when you’d taken up with me.  Perhaps they had become dissatisfied with just punishing you by isolation, by leaving you out of the hunting groups, depriving you of the protective gear that kept the vicious rays of the sun off you... Maybe they’d thought of something worse.  I hoped not.  I was getting so hungry.

I was relieved when I heard your footsteps, but I didn’t like the stagger in them.  This time you showed me how the sun had burned through your skin, that parts of your arms were bleeding and your once beautiful face was scarred.  You’d only managed to catch a rabbit this time, you apologised for failing me and cried.

I was determined I would go out next time, even though I'd eaten so much recently it made me puffed out to even stand.  I couldn’t imagine hunting, I was sure my growing belly would slow me down, but I was determined I’d do it for you.  However, when I woke from a long sleep, made deeper by eating all of the rabbit, you’d gone.  Somehow, I seem to recall being half asleep and you whispering to me that you weren’t sure if you had the strength, but you’d try, you’d really try.

THE BELL JAR HEART

The mind recalls events and the heart remembers the emotion.  A memory can wander into the brain unbidden and cause pain.  I had memories – the car accident I caused that killed my best friend, my lovely Becca leaving and my brother’s losing battle with leukaemia.  My heart hurt constantly.

I took a scalpel, removed my heart and replaced it with an efficient machine I’d built that circulated my blood and kept me alive.  It connected to my brain, but didn’t process emotions, allowing me to recall events without anguish.  My past couldn’t haunt me anymore.

I kept my organic heart in a safe, preserved in a bell jar and lived a carefree life.   Irritatingly, bad things still happened.  There was the fire in the study that destroyed the specifications of my artificial heart; it was now a unique thing I couldn’t patent or recreate.  Also I thought it was now safe to take women for their love and money, then leave, but each time I did so, organic matter grew round the artificial heart, like it was trying to become real and hold memories of guilt, the feeling I feared most.  I operated on the side of the machine, removing the matter and put it in the bell jar because I couldn’t destroy what was part of me.  Then I watched the stuff glue itself to my heart, forming a black ugly mass of scar tissue.  Was this what hearts normally looked like?  Was mine in terrible pain?  It still beat, so I assumed it was OK.

I thought Miranda was another wealthy woman with whom I could play, but there was hardness in her pale eyes.  Everything I said she found amusing, even when I told her I loved her.  Still, she gave me money, without seeking attention and I wanted more.

“If you love me, you’ll tell me what’s in that safe,” she said.

“My heart,” I replied, lips twisting sarcastically.

“How convenient,” she responded.

We went drinking and she taunted me, telling some bullshit story about her dad being a safe breaker.  I don’t remember staggering back from the pub and going to bed, but I remember waking.  She was sitting astride me grinning, in one hand a scalpel; in the other the machine that had replaced my heart.

“What have you done?” I panicked, thinking I was about to die, but then I felt the beating in my chest and saw the empty bell jar.

She smiled and drove the scalpel through the pump, breaking my irreplaceable machine forever.  As I watched her do this, the connections between my organic heart and brain rewired and the tide came in.  Overwhelming feelings of pain from my past were re-enforced, by the remorse I’d repressed regarding the women I’d left destitute and broken - that black organic matter.  I could feel the tears welling up and looked at her pleadingly; “Make it stop.”

 Miranda’s voice was soothing, “But I’ve made you all better, my darling.”

GIRO DAY

I wake to a stale smell and a fuzzy feeling. There’s a damp patch on the ceiling in the shape of a love heart. I reach for you and we hold each other. It’s Giro Day.

 

We were up on time on Sign-on Monday, so the money will be in our accounts today with no effort required. However, there’s no point in hanging around in bed. I can feel the thirst and the tension it brings. Neither of us can keep still. It’s on with our clothes and I stop by the mirror to perform my health check - ensuring the whites of my eyes are not bloodshot or, Heaven forbid, yellow.

 

It’s a perfect, sunshine day. There’s a spring in our step as we head for breakfast. We alternate - the One Stop at the top, the Co-op in the parade... Today it’s the turn of the Corner Shop and you go in first. When you’ve staggered into a display of cheap make up and knocked it over and you’re screaming at the shop assistant to get a fucking life, I slip in, hide a bottle of White Lightning under my coat and creep out again.

“For-fucking-get it!” you roar as you lurch into the blinding sunlight. We hurry down the street, laughing our heads off.

 

By 9am we’re at our favourite bench by the lake. The old couple sitting on it hurry away sniffing when you sit one side of them and me the other. As I take the first luxurious gulp of White Lightning, Regular Becky arrives, with the black market fags.

“Spend anything?” she asks, lighting up.

“Naw, got this for free,” I hand her the bottle and the three of us smoke, bathed in the sun’s early rays.

 

Round the bottle of White Lightning goes and just as we’re wondering where the hell he is, BJ turns up with vodka.

“Woh! Livin’ it large!” you cry.

BJ’s half cut already, the vodka bottle is a quarter empty and he’s jigging round our bench, grinning like a lunatic. He pulls me up into a waltz and I feel his sour breath on my cheek.

“I’m in the money!” he’s singing, “the old cow croaked it!”

“Yer Ma’s finally dead?” cried Regular Becky.

“As a fuckin’doorknob! Been to loan shop, haven’t I? Can’t wait for that inheritance to come through, all that bureau-crazy, they know I’m good for it. I’ve got five grand!”

You leap to your feet and gather up Regular Becky and it’s me, you, BJ and Becky all dancing round our bench, because we know BJ will share his good fortune and it’s going to be Giro Day, every day on our bench in the sunshine.

 

The White Lightning is empty, neck down in the bin. Round the vodka bottle goes and we sit comfortably, the sun on our faces, staring out over the lake, at the ducks and the swans.

 

THE FIEND

We were on holiday and I believe we were wandering around Sienna. We’d had a couple of bottles of wine between us at the restaurant and subsequent bars. Earlier on, we couldn’t have been more in love, congratulating our good fortune in meeting each other ten years ago. At a subsequent stage of the evening, however, you resorted to sarcasm and I took to overreacting. That’s right, you were walking and it was me who was wandering, getting left behind with each drip drip drip of sarcastic comment; plodding slower and slower until suddenly, I saw them, the footprints on the tarmac. Black, the colour of tar, long and narrow with talons at the end and I recognised them. Last seen ten years ago, the evening I met you.

Could I have drawn them to your attention? No. Only I can sense The Fiend and then I can only perceive its traces – footprints behind you, shadows in the bedroom with us, a soft mocking laugh when I whisper that I love you. There was nothing I could do, except make the last of your time with me as nice as possible. After all, you couldn’t know that with each passing day, wherever you went, around on holiday, then back home, those footprints followed and each time I checked they were a little closer behind you...

The evening you returned from work with the footsteps just one pace back from yours, I took a little time out to remember the parties, the laughter, the good times, the love making and the sound of your key in the door. Then I quietly put those things away. I sat in the corner of the living room, watching the big black shadow rear up behind your armchair. You made the mistake of turning round, your eyes widened with fear and you screamed. Only, no sound came out because your head had disappeared inside the blackness, your torso followed, then your legs and finally your feet. I didn’t cry, because you no longer existed to me.

“All right?” the new man is leaning over me in bed.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, “go back to sleep.”
He does so. I switch on a bedside lamp and glance round me. A different room, but the same handwriting is on the wall. I get up and rub it off before he can wake again. These men I’m sent always come with instructions. I must adjust and comply, because the moment I relax, switch off or lag behind, is the second the Fiend’s footsteps will appear and I will endure the horror of failure again.

THE OUTLET

“John, I want that report finished by close of play.  I want quality and attention to detail.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  Your partner’s on the phone.”
“I’ll take it here ... Sweetheart?  ... No.  Tell them if they don’t have someone out immediately, we will change service provider ... I don’t care about the hassle ... all right, I’ll sort it out, I’ll call them later ... The children’s lunches?  Avril has wholemeal pitta, she’s on one of her faddy diets and Peter has the white bread sandwich.  I wish you’d remember these things  ... The washing machine’s still not working?  Right, buy a new one ... any make you like ... All right then, I’ll come with you ... love you too ...  Bye.  
“John, I’m presenting on Monday, please could you ensure the presentation is on my laptop.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  They want a decision on Syria.”
“Delay them.  I’m going out in three hours.  I’ll have a decision when I get back.”
“Absolutely.”

At lunch break I find myself in that familiar bare tidy room of that anonymous suburban house, lying on my stomach being fucked.  Will is very good at his job, an absolute professional.  He knows I don’t want to talk when I come in; I just want to be thrown on the bed, stripped and seen to, precisely what he’s doing.  Halfway through he’ll mutter ‘OK?’ just to check I’m all right and I’ll say rather impatiently ‘Yes!  Yes!’

If John says ‘Absolutely, with bells on’ one more time I swear I’ll fire him.

Will is rather good with his hands ... I can feel the tension being squeezed right out of me.  I’m going to cum and it won’t be the first time this afternoon either.  Will usually gets me off twice.

“OK?”
“Yes!  Yes!  Shut up!  I’m going to cum!”
Ahh, so much better!  Now I’m being beaten with some kind of paddle.  It really hurts, really fucking hurts.  Oh yeah!

Maybe I won’t fire John ...

It’s over, it’s done, Will is untying my hands, gently now, stroking my sore skin, soothing me.  I take a deep breath.  Then he kisses the back of my neck, he’s never done that before ...

“Are you coming next week?” he asks as I dress.
“’Fraid not.  Out of the country.  Tell you what, I’ll pay you for then anyway, I know times are tough.”
“It’s not that, I’ll miss you,” he stares at me with wide, sincere eyes.

Another avenue of pleasure closed.  There can be no more Will.  From now on, it’s only going to be Whitehall and its corridors of decision, power and stress.  Then home, the chaos of the children and choosing new washing machine, because my partner is incapable of making the simplest decisions ...

So fucking irritating!  Will, getting unprofessional  like that ... If John doesn’t have that report ready, I am fucking firing him.

DADDY'S NEW FRIEND

“So, how was your weekend with Daddy and his new friend, darling?   ... Yes, she is pretty ... You sat on her knee?  ...  Daddy told her he loved her!  What did she say to that?  ... Commitment?  It means staying with someone ...”

So, there’s another woman in James’ life and he’s serious about her.  I saw her when he dropped Jodie off.  Lovely designer clothes she wears, apparently she doesn’t have kids.   She mentioned commitment, I wonder why.   I’ll show her commitment.

“Play a fun game with Daddy’s friend this weekend, darling.  Call her Mummy and give her lots of cuddles, even when your hands are dirty ... Yes!  Clever girl!  Definitely, when you’ve finished eating chocolate pudding with your fingers.  You know Mummy’s shown you how to throw food, but remember you’re only allowed to do that when you’re with Daddy.”

Can’t wait till Sunday J

“Oh, what’s the matter, sweetheart?  You got ice cream on Daddy’s friend’s white jeans? ... And then she shouted that she wasn’t your Mummy?  ... Oh dear!  What did Daddy do? He told her to shut up, did he?  ... Then she played computer games on her Ipad and ignored you and Daddy on the car journey here? ... I don’t think I like Daddy’s friend ...”

I could barely suppress a smile.  The atmosphere between James and That Woman was somewhat strained and she did look stupid with a great big chocolate stain on her Armani’s.  There’s no time to get changed when you’re on the road with a toddler.

“You know I told you, Jodie, never to play with Mummy’s laptop or Ipad?  Well, it’s OK to play with Daddy’s friend’s Ipad.  Just take it when she’s not using it and when you’ve finished playing with it, remember to throw it on the floor like you do with all the toys Daddy gives you.”

You see, I can’t have James gallivanting round the country with another woman when I haven’t got a man.   It’s not like I want him back; he’s a pain in the arse, but he mustn’t be happy.  As for Miss White Armani Jeans, she doesn’t have what it takes.  James turned up just with Jodie this Sunday, looking awful, eyes all red rimmed like he’s been crying.   I do wonder though, who would have the strength to endure these games Jodie and I like to play.  We make a formidable team and here, at home with me, she’s good as gold.

THE DARKEST DREAM

I love Mariam, that’s why I told her. I couldn’t let her keep thinking I’m a saint when I’ve cheated. Problem is, she’s so fucking fragile, a depressive, haunted by that darkest dream – suicide ideation.

When I ‘fessed up, she didn’t cry or register surprise. She asked politely if she could have a moment. I grilled her as to her next move and she replied; “What do you care?” which really pissed me off. I left her to it and seconds later she was in her car, driving off at speed, no bags packed and she didn’t take her medication. I gave her time, and then rang, but her phone was switched off. At 3am, I panicked and went out to look for her.

This is the last place I’ve tried, I don’t want to face the truth, but here’s her Vauxhall at Beachy Head car park. I’m in bits, imagining the conversation I’ll have with the cops; “We were having problems, I cheated on her.” They’ll look at me like I’m a bastard. I park up, tears are starting and I’ve got a lurching feeling in my stomach. Nothing seems real. Running up to the cliff top passes in a blur. I see her silhouette in the dawn light. Thank God! “Mariam!”

She faces me, the wind blowing her black hair forward over her face, so I can’t see her eyes.
“I’ve been waiting,” she says.
She’s right at the cliff edge, oh fuck she’s going to do it in front of me! I put on my most reasonable voice; “Mariam, be sensible, think of yer Mum, yer friends,” then I beg, “please don’t do this to me!”
She doesn’t move. I take a step closer, if I can get near enough, I can grab the front of her blouse, pull her forwards, into my arms, hold her and tell her how fucking sorry I am. Another stride and she’s staring at me as if transfixed. I lunge, reaching forward and she dodges gracefully to the side, I nearly go over the edge, stupid cow! Then I feel the push and I’m falling, there’s cold air in my face, I can see the sea and the rocks rushing up and what’s that howling in my ears? Oh Jesus, it’s me, screaming.   It seems I was wrong, her darkest dream was murder ideation – mine.