Extended from short version for Chris Fielden's 'To Hull and Back' short story writing competition (4,000 words)
Rob has a clear plan for the day. He has a rare Saturday to himself and has done his chores, so can settle down to watch the match on TV, as long as he remembers one crucial thing, the thing that he has been toying with for some time, the thing that he must do a bit later on, but before she gets back. She is out with friends, shopping, and is not expected home until dinner time. He'd kept out of her way before she left. Probably didn't need to rinse the car twice or pursue the perfect stripe on the lawn - although attention to such details always pleased him - but they spared him Pam's unrelenting nit picking. So he'd poodled up and down, up and down, and she'd left while his back was turned. When finished he washed his hands, twice, and did a few things in the kitchen. On his own he could do as he wished, and he wished to prep dinner. Now Rob sits in his armchair and has everything he needs arranged around him; his warm beer, the peanuts, the remote. He scrutinizes the teams' player formations and subs bench, listens to the pundits while voicing unkind opinions about their form-fitted shirts or slick hair, and scratches the cat's ear. Sooty is stretched, his full length flopped across Rob's lap, as if attempting to prevent further activity that afternoon. On the TV the game gathers pace. Long pass to Trimble who legs it down the right wing, short one to Koplinsky, back again to Trimble, missed tackle from Fabrizio who falls clutching his left leg (ignored by the ref), then a floated lob to Nguni who leaps, gazelle like, making contact with his head, driving the ball millimetres over the cross bar. Rob lifts from his seat, displacing the cat, his arms aloft, slumping as the heroic attempt at goal converts to a goal kick. Should be a good game. Then his phone gives off a mournful dong. A text message. Rob glances sideways, the phone static, the message waiting - look at me. He doesn't, he thinks it's probably Pam. Did you trim the edges this time, not just skim over the middle of the lawn? Of course I did the bloody edges, I do them every time. The imagining of this re-occurring row makes him miss a goal at the other end of the pitch. Rob pauses the game. He can watch the goal in a minute but it's not the same, he hates being behind real time. His forehead wrinkles as he reads the text: I need your help, can you come now? It is Martin, an old friend from school days, back in town after a failed marriage. Still has a pile of cash though. Bought the cubist's dream house set in three acres just out of town. Rob had done the decent thing, met him for drinks, talked him through the worst, helped him feel good about himself again, til he was ready to start the whole sorry business of dating again, as if he'd ever had difficulty there, with his money. He's having another crisis, thought Rob. One of his internet dates didn't show last night maybe. He texted back: Come over. Chelsea's on. Pam's out! It didn't look good. Rob could feel the anguish in every word: I don't know what to do. She's getting re-married. Rob looks at the cat who is lying on the rug, looking back, his tale flicking, disapproval in his eyes. Rob sighs and shrugs in apology, then goes to find his jacket and car keys. Before leaving the house he goes to the kitchen to check all is ready for later. There is a beef bourguignon for reheating and a good red, that they'd put off drinking, is open and breathing. Why wait for a special occasion? He'd enjoyed making the effort. From his pocket he takes a small bottle with a dropper screwed into the lid. Into the wine he measures three drops of a clear liquid, the thing that he must do. Then he checks the fridge, where he'd placed a bottle of white wine earlier for himself. He isn't a fan of red anyway. He eyes the preparations and nods in approval, ticking a mental checklist, straightening the arrangement. He gives Sooty a final pet. 'Sorry fella, won't be long. Want to get back to watch the show.' Then leaves. Shortly after, Pam walks through the door, in a haze of J'Adore and silk. She doesn't call out, she knows where he is. Instead, she kicks off her shoes and busies herself tidying up the living room; the peanuts go in the bin, the beer is poured down the sink and the remote is placed on a side table closest to where Pam usually sits. Sooty is watching from Rob's chair. In the kitchen she raises an eyebrow at the dinner arrangements made ready. A glass is placed beside the wine bottle and she pours a generous amount into it, then flicks the oven on to warm up. Back in the living room she sits and swings both legs up and along the sofa. She's about to drink her wine when she spots the cat, inscrutable, accusing. She picks up one of her pleated peach scatter cushions and chucks it across the room. Sooty scatters. The glass of wine rests on the side table while she flicks through the TV channels and starts to unwind. She knows she should check her phone, she's expecting a call, but for a moment she wants to think about the rest of her life. The house was too small really, she could do with a more stately look, and maybe another bedroom. Next year they could perhaps take a trip to the Maldives? She looks at the candy floss pink nail polish on one hand and tuts, a broken nail. There's nothing on the TV and she's restless, waiting for that call. As she reaches for her wine she sees a pen, a shiny black casing holding black ink, Rob's crossword pen. Now she is thinking about Rob, about his moccasin slippers in the hall and his thumb-sized trophy on the mantelpiece - his first Pub Quiz win with The Riddlers. She sighs and waits. Earlier, a large man, tall and heavy set, was shuffling with haste between his four wheel drive behemoth of a vehicle and the road bridge across the river. He was carrying temporary barriers, from the bridge to the car. The road was deserted, serving a remote part of the area where he had chosen to live. The bridge is undergoing repairs, the barriers optimistically placed to protect drivers from the side exposed to the deep and whirling currents below. Martin had parked as close to the bridge as he'd dared, didn't want to be too obvious, but he wished he could get closer. The red and white striped barriers were heavier than he thought, and sweat was starting to dampen his Barbour collar, and flatten the thinning fair hair. Once the barriers were in his car he drove off the road and hid behind a clump of trees. He lurched out of the car and leant back against it, placing both hands on his knees while wheezing in some oxygen. He had a stitch, his jeans were cutting into his middle-aged spread, he needed a drink and he'd temporarily forgotten why he was doing this. Straightening and in need of inspiration he looked at his phone, and there was Pam, her radiant, immaculate image, a hint of shoulder, of glossy lips, all under fingerprint lock of course. The image was not recent. It came from a hasty assignation when he was last passing through about ten years ago, before settling here again. But she was just as trim today, lissom even, still with that sense of adventure, abandon; hunger. Despite the stress of his current situation his loins stirred and he reasoned that the quicker he was done here then the quicker he could deal with them. Rob is stuck in traffic, a set of three-way traffic lights at road works that he'd forgotten to avoid. It was bad enough that Martin lived in that monstrous white box in what locals had termed Death Valley - the roads were narrow and twisting and the bridge had seen better days - but he might also miss seeing Pam's finale. He wasn't a sadist. He'd earned it. He had the scars of tension and persecution etched across his soul, the anticipation of Pam's disappointments and reprimands had become hard-wired into every sinew until he was sure he was no longer fully human. No one could see it, but inside he was screaming. While his eyes remain glued to the red traffic light, he feels inside his pocket. The small dispensing bottle is there. No one would miss it. He is a trusted team member at the lab and if he says the sample was in its place when he last checked the inventory no one would doubt it. They believe him to be a boring pedant, and he knows it. Wouldn’t they get a shock, if they really knew him? This made him smile, a lop-sided, deranged smile, which he rather liked and thought he could adopt more often. He'd dump the bottle in the river on his way over the bridge. There would be no trace, in Pam, as long as he waited about twenty minutes, before calling anyone. He could say he was in the bath. He thinks about the call from a friend this morning; fancy a pint tomorrow lunchtime? Haven't done that in ages. Could do that every weekend if I want soon enough. Maybe double date with Martin. He thinks of the corduroy jacket he could start wearing again, the one she nearly gave to Oxfam. And he could go fishing, or train spotting! Well, maybe not that, but he could if he wanted to. He wonders if there is any of Pam's Victoria sponge left in the cake tin. He could have that tomorrow for breakfast, if he wanted to. She does make a good Victoria sponge. Pam is dancing to Abba's 'Dancing Queen'. She needs to cheer herself up and this always does it. Her pedicured feet skip across the rug as her shoulders shimmy, hips and arms swinging like a Pan's People person. She's laughing, exhilarated, feeling free, then she's crying, face and nose wet and dripping, make up adrift. Slumping on the sofa she lunges for her wine and a tissue. She dabs at each eye and her sniveling quietens as she sees the picture of her and Rob on their first holiday together, on the shelf next to the TV. He is slim and tanned, wearing Speedos - all the guys did back then - and his dark hair flops over one dark eye. She remembers that she thought him enigmatic. When did this change to tedious? She picks up the photo, leaving the wine glass in its place. She believes her own features have barely changed, and she tucks a stray hair behind one ear and smooths the back of her hair with a delicate hand, composing herself. They are both sitting astride a moped, she behind him, her arms wrapped around his torso, her face close to his. They both wear wide smiles, and she remembers that hers was for a different reason, unknown to Rob. It was for Martin, who took the picture. Before texting Rob, Martin had taken a can of oil from the car and spread a slick over a large area of road as it became the bridge, the side that Rob will use to cross it. He returned to the car, from where he could see the road but not be seen, and sent his texts to Rob. He was still breathing heavily and welcomed the few moments to sit still and not do much, while convincing Rob of his torment. He lingered over the dialogue, enjoying the simple use of pathos, knowing it would be effective, then lit the remainder of a fat cigar started that morning. The cigar came from Pam, a juicy token taster of the spoils that lay before him. She always knew what he liked. He didn't care that the main attraction for her was his money. For him the benefits were worth it, she looked good on his arm and in a ceiling mirror. Over the years it had suited them both that he would come and go, it probably helped the relationship last so long. But she was right of course, why put off the inevitable any longer? Why deny the chemistry, the yearning, the promise of regular service for the foreseeable future? And he wasn't getting any elsewhere at the moment. Shame about Rob, decent guy. But he wouldn’t understand, would probably make a fuss, might even cry. The house and the blue chip shares could come in handy too, Martin’s own assets suffering a few set-backs of late. Rob’s a creep anyway. Just one thing, one little reservation, kept blinking at the back of his mind, she’s a bit of a nag. He felt a twinge of acid. He shifted his bulk in the seat to accommodate his restricted stomach a little better, just as a car came into view approaching the bridge, but it wasn't Rob's. Martin flew - with some discomfort - from his car and waved down the approaching vehicle. Inside an alarmed elderly woman rolled down her window, while stopping. She listened with wide eyes as he warned her of the stolen barriers, how he'd phoned the contractors (who won't work weekends, won't pay the going rates), how they'd left oil from their trucks on the road. Wisely, she decided to turn around and take the long route. Rob has moved four cars nearer, he is two away from the light, which is red again. Tempers are being tested. The lights are obviously out of synch. Behind him a large man keeps craning his head out of his window, leaning away from the steering wheel, away from the brake pedal. Rob thinks that the inches he creeps forward amount to being reckless while (not) in control of his vehicle. He should say something, or report him. In front of him a woman keeps checking her lipstick in her sun visor mirror. She is young, and slim, with long, thick hair, and he thinks of Pam. Maybe he's been a tad rash. She keeps the house nice, makes exceptionally good cakes, and he might only be granted conjugal formalities once a month, but how much would he get without her, as a train spotting, corduroy clad assistant lab technician? A warm and unholy feeling engulfs him below the waist and he grabs his mobile and fumbles trying to call her. Before he can try again there is a fevered banging on his window. The large man from behind is out of his car and gesticulating at Rob, the eyes are wild, the teeth bared and drenched in spittle. Rob sees that the traffic light is green. Hurrah. With a calm gear engagement Rob sticks out his chin and rolls forward, as the large man combusts with rage. She isn't expected home yet anyway, probably still nattering to her Stepford-like friends. Rob watches the man he leaves behind rush to his car. He sees the man stumble, grab a wing mirror for self-preservation, pulling it to a downward angle, and is reminded of Martin. Large, back-slapping Martin, who used to be the looker, the one who attracted the girls on their lad holidays, with the surfer-dude blond hair and skin colouring to honeyed tones. Rob knows all about Martin and Pam's liaison a few years ago. He was enraged of course, well, quite angry, but there was something else. A speck of pride perhaps, a satisfaction that he and Martin had a shared taste for something, a mutual appreciation. When Martin’s marriage failed Rob wasn’t concerned. It was clear he adored his ex-wife but was trying to move on, embrace change, he just needed to secure that second date with one of his internet selections. Rob grips the steering wheel as a mental picture springs unbidden. He doesn't know why it is there, how his thought processes conjured it. It is a picture of Martin and Pam, Martin holding Pam, Pam whispering to Martin, a giggle, a hand here, a leg there. They are of course naked. That ghastly perfume she wore a few years ago has made a return. And her hospital volunteering keeps her out quite a lot. By the time Rob reaches the narrow lane that heads north, to Martin's place, he has made a final and unwavering decision, free of benevolence, the picture quite clear. His actions will be deemed perfectly acceptable, no longer immature or petty. Some might say he was driven to extraordinary lengths by a despot. She is clearly the devil. He feathers the accelerator pedal in an approximation of road rage. Pam can go back to hell, with Martin. Pam backs away from the photo, the one of her and Rob that reminds her of Martin, which is why she insisted it stay on the shelf. The music has stopped, the cat is sitting by the patio doors, hoping for escape. Pam compares all the stolen moments she and Martin had contrived, from the beginning. Those from the furthest past were admittedly more urgent, more delicious than those more recent. Martin, she recalls, has trouble keeping up these days. But he understands her, has a handle on what makes her tick. They seem the same, to want the same things. In the kitchen she places the hearty casserole that Rob has made in the oven. Fool. Casseroles and wine. Why no single red rose while he's at it? Complete the illusion, the semblance of a shared life, like the passive puppy that he is. Was. It’s absurd that she is warming up dinner, but it's what she would be doing anyway. She knows she is seeking normality, in an abnormal day, and she is going through the motions with a constant white noise in the background. She needs a drink, where is it? In the lounge she stands by the open patio doors, wine glass in hand, drinking and thinking, steadying herself with some fresh air. No word yet. It might not be too late. Where does her future lie? In the familiar and predictable, with a man dedicated to straight lines and atomic clocks, a social circle of real ale drinkers and their bookish wives? Or, never knowing where you'll be this weekend, in whose label, drinking what cocktail, and with what opportunities around you? Beautiful people? Was Martin one of those? His pink, sweaty face leans over her, the features contorted with ... well it is pleasure, but it resembles pain. For a moment everything swims. Steady girl, think of the perks. Outside Sooty is sitting on the freshly mowed lawn, surveying his realm, as Pam's glass falls, followed by Pam. Martin is wiping his forehead and trying to steady his breath. He is looking down, from the bridge. Below this broken and incomplete section, in the deep waters, a car turns and sinks, it's occupant trapped. He needs to phone Pam but must make his way home first before being seen. At his house he removes his jacket, not stopping when it misses the avant-garde coat stand in the hall and falls to the floor. He strides to the living room, nervous fingers tripping over the contacts list of his phone. At the wide, frameless glass doors that look out to his landscaped garden he stands, phone to ear, waiting for Pam to answer. The garden is green and lustrous, heavy with May's sudden bounty, and he breathes easier, glad to be home. Pam doesn't answer. Martin tries again. Nothing. He paces, wondering what to do, the acid and the headache blurring reality, the whiskey and paracetamol not working yet. He waits, but he receives no call. So he sits, still gazing through the glass. With each passing moment he is calmer, the pains in his chest less noticeable. He is watching thrushes and finches skitter through the remaining blooms on his azaleas, the charged moments of the past hour receding in his memory, the final breaths discharging from his body. |
Photo on this page: From Flikr, by liz west