A Gathering of Twine Page 22

  It looks like my wife. But she doesn’t act like my wife, and she certainly doesn’t screw like my wife.

  Ryan rinsed his face with cold water. Now he wanted to be sober. He wanted to try and wrest back some control.

  He felt the same icy tendrils in his veins that he had the night before, sliding along his being, caressing his organs before wrapping around them like some knotweed that began to slowly squeeze.

  He wanted to think, but his mind was fuzzy from the alcohol. Almost involuntarily he walked back out, straight to the booth where Anna was, and sat back down. He had not meant to do that. He had wanted to take a minute and… The rain had stopped, and Anna was staring at a small child who was dancing in a puddle before her mother took her hand and pulled her away.

  As he sat, Anna turned to face him. Something about her demeanour, the way she shifted told Ryan that she knew that she had slipped up.

  “I remember everything about us,” she said, “don’t I?”

  A clever slight made its way to Ryan’s lips and waited. Do you? Do you? Do you remember? Or are you pretending to remember?

  Ryan took too long to answer. Anna looked at him hard, eyes ablaze, and through near gritted teeth. “Say yes. I remember everything about us, don’t I?”

  The look reminded Ryan of the Medusa - a seething endless rage behind a wafer-thin visage of beauty. “Yes,” he muttered and, feeling his ears pop, worked his jaw.

  Anna relaxed, and almost smiled. “I like you, Ryan, I really do,” she said in an almost monotone. “Now I am going to ask you to do some things, and you will do them, and we will be together. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” It was automatic. Ryan had barely even registered the question, and the rapidity of his own response had surprised him.

  “Good. And if you do them well... we will do Things.”

  Ryan knew what she meant. Ryan knew exactly what she meant. During that first year after University, when they had struggled for money, Anna had written some short stories. Adult erotica. They had been published in a number of men’s magazines, and whilst the money had actually been very little, it had always just been enough to get them through.

  The stories had been in the tradition that the readerships had enjoyed. Cock-hungry cum-sluts in leather and lace taking it every which way. Candle wax. Toys. Bodily fluids everywhere made for the usual happy endings.

  By contrast, their own sex had been staid, and when Ryan had pressed his wife to be a bit more adventurous, thinking that what was in her stories was actually her real sexual self trying to be set free, she had laughed. She had given the readers what they had wanted, and those ‘Things’ did not interest her.

  And so ‘Things’ had become another part of their secret language. The hidden poetry innate to all relationships. Little words or phrases that mean something completely different. An in-joke that mystifies the rest of humanity.

  Anna was offering ‘Things’. Ryan remembered the stories about the uniforms, baby oil, threesomes, the restraints, and teasing. And of course the glorious climax. When he had first read them, he often did not make it halfway through before he had to take his wife. Then he had to read the second half and be relieved again. Anna had always taken this as a compliment, that her stories were having the desired effect on at least one reader.

  Except now, Ryan was not turned on. Fear flowed freely through him, like a caustic tide, burning and scarring all in its path. Anna had been very insistent. These were stories. They were not to be made real. He had tried to force her once, and that had ended in one of their very rare shouting matches. He had not tried again.

  One part of him told him to be excited. Things! You’re going to get Things! Do whatever she says!

  The other part of him was telling him to run. Get Christopher from the nursery, and just run, and don’t stop running. Ever.

  Because whatever it was that sat across from him, Ryan knew it was not his wife.

  Anna tilted her head. “You are not turned on?”

  Ryan mumbled something deliberately incomprehensible and looked down into the remnants of his beer.

  Anna turned to survey the pub. The barman was just leaving, heading into the back office. Otherwise, The George was empty and the pedestrians who had sought shelter had decided to the brave the December day once again.

  She turned back to her husband. “Stay there.”

  Anna slipped underneath the table, and Ryan realised what she was doing. He tried to flinch, to move but found himself rooted to his seat.

  He felt his fly unzip, but his cock reminded defiantly limp. Ryan felt her take it in her hand, and almost immediately it began to engorge. Then came that feeling, as it found a warm wet hole. Ryan loved that first feeling. Of sinking in.

  Anna worked on him, and Ryan felt himself disengaging from the world and going into his primal place, where men snort like rampaging bulls in the dark before bearing down like a conquering horde.

  Quickly he felt his other self fill, and he positioned himself to release.

  Anna stopped, pulled away, and slipped back onto her seat.

  The barman came back in.

  “Now you’re turned on.”

  Ryan stared at her incredulously as she delicately wiped the spittle from her chin with a napkin, his cock demanding immediate attention. Demanding immediate relief.

  Anger began to well up inside of him, and his face flushed with something other than alcohol. He went to remonstrate, to berate the thing that was now his wife. The words caught in his throat and no sound came.

  Anna smiled. “Now. Do the things I tell you to...”

  *

  Even though it was just before four, it was already dark as they made their way east along Lincoln Road, heading back towards their home. As they approached the dual carriageway, the noise of the rush hour traffic greeted them like so many snarling dogs.

  Suddenly, a little girl rushed passed them. Ryan guessed she was about seven or eight, and judging by the outsized rucksack on her back, had probably come from the nearby Bush Hill Park Primary School. Ryan had not toured it but had assumed that it would be where Christopher would eventually go. He had heard that it was improving.

  Anna stood stock still, watching the little girl intently as she approached the pedestrian crossing and waited patiently for the lights to change.

  There was an unsettling glint in her eye when she asked, “What is she doing?”

  “Going home I imagine.” Ryan was confused. He hoped that the thing that was his wife was not brooding.

  “Where are her parents?”

  “At work probably.”

  “She goes home alone?”

  “Looks like it.” Ryan wanted to say more, to ask her what her interest was, but the words would not form.

  “Come on.” Anna took her husband’s hand and pulled him forward.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Following her.”

  Ryan wanted to panic. This was not right. Using sex as a weapon was one thing. Following little school-girls was completely another. He trotted along with his wife, his feet moving as if of their own accord.

  “What are we doing?” He managed to wrest control back and stopped.

  Anna looked at him and smiled insincerely. “Just making sure she gets home.”

  She resumed her walk, and Ryan followed unwillingly. Whatever it was that Anna was doing, Ryan knew that it was not making sure she got home safe and sound. The light turned green and the girl trotted across the busy road. Anna and Ryan followed, crossed to the opposite side, and followed discretely. They passed the rubble of the recently demolished GE Lighting Factory, the industrial warehouses that stood empty, letting signs that begged for some interest, and under the railway bridge.

  Ryan felt panic return. This was not right. They were stalking her. This tiny, fragile, innocent little girl. They were nearly at their turning. He would be able to say “Stop”, that their home was down there. They could let the little girl go.

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sp; Abruptly, the girl turned right, into Suffolk Road. They reached the top of the street and Anna stopped, watching the little girl half-walk, half-skip on. She trotted up to a door, reached into her coat, pulled out a set of keys, and let herself in.

  The door closed, and Ryan let out an audible sigh.

  Anna turned to him. “There are no adults in there?”

  The house had been in darkness. “Like I said,” Ryan replied, “her parents are probably still at work.”

  Anna said nothing but continued to stare intently, a half-smile playing on her lips. “Come,” she said eventually, and they walked on to their turning.

  *

  That night Ryan dreamed again. He was in his house, and yet it was more. In reality, it was a mid terrace, but here it had two immense industrial warehouses added on to it, like aircraft hangars. These impossible extensions were old, and in places the roofs had buckled and started to come down. In one was a gargantuan boiler, the type his parents had in their old house. Encased in a flimsy red jacket, rotting pipes zigzagged across the walls and floor.

  The other hangar was empty, save for an assortment of strangers who seemed to mill around without purpose. Ryan could see that there were holes in the concrete floor, through which he could see a variety of cardboard boxes. The strangers talked amongst themselves and when Ryan approached, they accused him of scratching their car when he had been moving boxes.

  Ryan thought he had done this but could not remember when.

  And then Anna was by his side. This time, it was his Anna, not the cold creature of yesterday. He tried to tell her that this was all wrong. That their house should not have two hangars let alone a basement filled with boxes. She smiled and held her finger to lips, and then pointed to the ceiling.

  A silver mobile hung, lonely and caked in dirt, from one of the hangar beams. It was tiny against the size of the roof, but as it turned, Ryan saw that it was made up of three circles, one inside the other inside the other. Underneath the grime, he saw a brief shard of light, as a pale sunbeam found a rare clean patch and gleamed.

  Ryan thought it was beautiful, and stared, as the three circles turned slowly and independently of each other, playing a little sparkling dance. And he forgot about the hangars and the basement and his wife. He watched the twinkling mobile.

  *

  The next morning Ryan woke up sober. It hurt.

  It was Saturday and he could hear cooking noises coming from the kitchen. Christopher was laughing and babbling. The clock read ten-thirteen. Footsteps on the stairs told him Anna was coming. Involuntarily he tensed. His wife appeared at the bedroom door.

  “Here you are.” She handed him a bacon sandwich with crispy rinds and brown sauce. Just the way he liked it. A cup of coffee was placed on the side cabinet. “What are you going to do today?” she continued.

  “Umm... I was going to carry on writing,” he replied, not meeting her eye.

  “Good, but I need you to take Christopher this afternoon.”

  “Ok. For how long?”

  “An hour. Maybe two.”

  “Why?” Anna’s face became impassive, and Ryan instantly regretted asking the question.

  “I have a job interview,” she replied, softening and then smiling.

  “On a Saturday? For what? And when did you apply for anything?” Ryan felt more confident now.

  Anna’s smiled faded. “There was an advert for a minicab controller in the local paper. I gave them a call, and they’ve invited me in.”

  Ryan wanted to ask what she knew about co-ordinating minicabs but thought better of it.

  “And besides,” she continued, “it is only just around the corner, which means I can keep an eye on you.”

  *

  Ryan played with Christopher for most the afternoon and marvelled at how much the child looked like his mother. The pale skin, slightly hooked nose, thin face, and that black-black hair that was already growing into his mothers’ style.

  His mind had returned to the events of the previous day, and he had briefly reflected on his feelings of fear in The George and the urge to get as far away from Anna as possible. Looking at Christopher, he knew that it would never happen. If he took the child, his wife would hunt him relentlessly. They could run and she would always find them. He would just die tired. And Ryan could not leave without the boy, even though he had been largely indifferent to his father all day.

  Anna was treating him like a pet. In some ways, it was better than before. But in others...

  The front door opened and then closed. Anna had returned. Ryan was not surprised when his wife brought the news that she had been offered the job on the spot, and it did little to assuage his growing sense of unease.

  *

  A semblance of normality returned to the house over the next few weeks. Jane picked the child up in the mornings, Anna left for the minicab office where she worked until six or seven, and Ryan returned to drinking.

  Anna was indifferent. When at home, her attention was wholly consumed with her child, and she took on the bulk of the household chores without comment or complaint. And yet Ryan felt that much was undone. Whatever changes his wife had been through that Friday was not over. It was still there, and he had the sense that even now, cogs were still turning, invisible and behind the scenes.

  Her mobile phone would ring at odd times of the day, and she would always take the call outside, speaking in low whispers that Ryan could not make out. When he asked her who it was, she casually told him it was just a friend, or work asking her to take an extra shift. A few times she told him to mind his own business.

  Ryan began to suspect that more was going on. That another man was involved. The voice of his black dog rose up again telling him that of course, Anna was looking to leave him.

  Who would want to stay with something as wretched as you? Who?

  One day, he went to the minicab office to check that his wife was really there. She saw him as soon as he walked through the door, a radio headpiece to her ear, clearly relaying instructions. She just stared at him, and he quickly left. That night she made no comment about his impromptu visit, and he did not repeat it.

  *

  It was a few days before Christmas when Anna came home unexpectedly early. Ryan had passed out on the sofa, his drinking having increased since the incident at the minicab office. She slapped him. No response. She slapped him again. Hard. Very hard. Ryan started, the taste of blood from his split lip already in his mouth.

  “Stand up,” the command was barked.

  Ryan shakily got his feet. The room was spinning but he knew that non-compliance would not be well received. He was feeling ashamed and embarrassed at having been caught.

  “I want to move.”

  Ryan frowned, trying to process her words. “Now?”

  “After the holidays. The second week of January. You will need to start packing boxes.”

  “Uh, where are we moving to?”

  “Fife.”

  “What... back to Scotland?” Ryan knew it was unwise to question her, but his mouth responded before his mind could apply its usual filter.

  “Yes.”

  “Where in Fife?” Bad idea Ryan, very bad idea.

  “Falkland. The company is expanding and wants me to run the office there.”

  Ryan wanted to protest. Did he want to question what minicab company went from London to Falkland? He had been walking there a few times with Anna when they had started dating. It was a cheap day out, but the village, such as it was, was no more than a few hundred people. A thousand at most. How could a minicab company operate with those numbers, especially when the majority would have their own transport?

  The words died on his lips.

  “What do you want to do with the house?” he asked eventually.

  “A woman at work will buy it. She will give us a very good price for it. Double what we paid. It will fund you and...” she looked at the nearly empty bottle of vodka by the side of the sofa, “... and your hobby.”
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  She doesn’t care, thought Ryan. She doesn’t care about the drinking. It had dawned on him how much he needed Anna to care. Even if it was unspoken, he needed to be needed. However, Anna’s ambivalence only served to reinforce how redundant he was in his own life.

  The black dog laughed.

  “Ok,” he said weakly and sat back down.

  *

  It was late February and Ryan was struggling to unpack boxes with one hand. His left hung limply by his side, the fingers taped together roughly. As he continued to unpack, Ryan had not realised until now how much rubbish they had. Old VHS cassettes when they had bought the DVD version only recently. Guitar tab books that had never been opened for albums they seldom played. Boxes of odd wires. A dusty bag of Drachmas and Francs. Ryan could not remember when they had last been legal tender. But Anna had been insistent that nothing was thrown away. So, dutifully, he had boxed everything, and one day, not long into the New Year, he had been presented papers to sign. He had not read them, but scrawled his name, and that was it. The house formally completed a week later.

  Events had moved with such speed that they had seemed to take on almost dream-like quality. They had left London, moving into a three bedroom house on Liquorstane Lane in Falkland - the irony of the name was not lost on him.

  Christmas had been spent without a tree, and what had once been a traditional dinner was a ready meal from the supermarket. More and more dinners had been like that of late, but Ryan had again not said anything.

  The truth was that violence had entered his marriage almost as casually as the alcohol had. What had started as a slap or a grab was now a well-aimed kick whenever Anna was displeased with him, and that was becoming increasingly frequent. He struggled to know what to do. It was not as if he could hit her back. And she had always been apologetic after. Apologetic in her own way.

  Do you see the things you make me do?

  It’s for your own good.

  I’m just trying to help you do it better.