The Way Out Read online

  I’m on the third bag and it’s started to rain. Not enough to wash the stuff off me. Just enough to plaster it on worse. The front of my coat is all stuck with scraggy feathers and crap, the combination of the wet and the dust making a kind of gluey soup. This lot is going straight in the machine, soon as I’m in the door. Boil wash. Just have to hope the old man’s still down the pub when I get back.

  It’s not right though. I know fine nobody asked for three bags of chicken shit. Probably the farmer doesn’t even know I’m in his field. For all I know he could come along and shoot me for nicking his shit. I shouldn’t have to take this. But the third bag is almost full. I’ll finish it. I’ll fill these fucking bags and take them over and dump them and that’ll be an end to it. And I’ll tell him as much.

  I have to take them one at a time. The wet plastic is hard to get a grip on and I have to hug them close in to my body, stuff falling out over my chest, some down the neck of my t-shirt. A car horn sounds as I cross the road, not looking, too busy thinking about what I’m going to say. I am going to say something. What’s he going to do? I don’t reckon he wants to go back to the jail. Arthur’s watching me from a distance, smiling and nodding. His white t-shirt is tight across his chest, tucked into his faded blue jeans. He looks deliberately clean, glowing like a washing powder advert. I’m on my way back for the third bag when it occurs to me that maybe the jail is exactly what he wants. Maybe he’s too much of a coward to face up to life on the outside. Maybe his wife and all the dirty stuff he claims she wants him to do makes him sick and he wants to get back to his quiet life inside. Provoking one of us enough to set him off. That’ll be his plan. Mad ginger bastard. Well I’ll not give him the satisfaction. No way. He can go whistle for it.

  I’ve got all three over the road now and there’s Arthur standing with his hands on his hips, grinning like a pit bull. His eyes rake up and down over me. He licks his lips and winks. You’ve done a rare job there, he says. Good work. But there’s been a change of plan. Farmer’s changed his mind and we’ve to put it all back again. Guess who drew the short straw?

  Eddie’s in the background with the other two and they’re all sniggering, scared to look me in the eye but watching all the same. Watching to see if I’ll snap, if I’ll say something. But I just pick one of the bags up, turn and start back, saying nothing, getting the job done.

  The rest of the day is quiet. The smell coming off my clothes is disgusting. All I can think about is getting home and getting clean. So when knocking-off time comes and Arthur gives me a look and says, You’re not getting in my car in that state, I’m about ready to lose it. But I don’t. Fine, I say, no bother, and I start walking. There’s no way I’ll get home before the old man now.

  Five minutes up the road and I can hear him coming up behind me, Born to Run fighting with the noise of his engine revving. It’s winding up and up like one of those Hot Wheels cars you drag backwards on the carpet two-three times before letting it blast off into a wall or a chair leg. I don’t even turn round, just keep walking. The rain has come on serious now. I stick my chin out and let it run down my face. He crawls up next to me, the engine noise dropping to a growl, and shouts for me to get in. I look round and see he’s split open some plastic bags and laid them over the passenger seat. Come on, he says, don’t be a dick, it’s pissing down. A trickle of rain runs from my hair down the neck of my jacket. It’s about four miles home, no buses. I think about it, think about how badly I want to be clean and try to weigh that against how much I don’t want to be doing anything else today just because Arthur tells me to. He revs his engine again, flings the passenger door open, nails me with a look then pins it to the plastic-covered seat. I get in, say nothing. He drives, slapping his hand against the steering wheel, turns to look at me when we stop at the lights and shakes his head. Jesus, he says, the state of you. Then he turns Bruce up so loud there’s no room for anyone else.

  When we get to the bottom of my street he doesn’t stop, just keeps going right past. You can’t go home like that, he says. But he doesn’t give a reason. And I realise, him not saying means he must know. He’s heard it from one of the others, that the old man gets a bit handy sometimes. Right enough, walking in looking like a massive chicken’s arse would be bound to set him off.

  He keeps driving till we get to his house. It looks newer and neater than home, the front garden mono-blocked over to make a driveway for his car. Inside, it’s all swirly carpets and velour furniture and there’s no one else there. Thank fuck, no sign of that wife of his. I couldn’t look her in the eye, the stuff Arthur’s told me. Arthur seems different here, smaller, quieter. He shows me the shower, puts clean clothes out for me and leaves me to it. I’m not worried he’s planning one of his jokes cos here it’s like he’s a normal person, almost.

  I can’t get my gear off quick enough. The only bad part is pulling my top over my head, getting the stink of it right in my face again. When I get in the shower, the warm water meets me and I lean into it and stand there letting it drill on the top of my head and pour down my body. Then I scrub and scrub till my skin’s raw and new, soap myself with some lavender-smelling stuff I find in the shower tray, nearly choke letting the hot water run up inside my nose. But it’s worth it, getting every last speck of that stuff off me.

  I’m drying myself down, dizzy with the relief, when Arthur comes in and starts stripping off. He does it like it’s a normal thing to do, like he does it all the time, so I try to act normal too, try not to stare. His body is all white knuckles of muscle and his hair is as orange down there as it is on top of his head. I try not to notice his long white cock, the way it swings when he pulls his t-shirt over his head. I’m holding my towel in front of me, keeping my own problem hidden, trying to will it back down. Arthur slaps me on the back, standing there with his nipples pale and rough-looking, like wild strawberries.

  That’s right, he says, you feel better now don’t you? Even his voice sounds different here. He’s not the same man he is at work. I nod. It’s all I can do. His handprint burns on my back. And then his face is right in close, and he grabs the back of my neck in one hand and pulls me forward, pushes his mouth onto mine, forcing it open, tongue pushing past my teeth, stubble rasping against my skin. Just as our tongues meet, he pulls away and grins, his lips wet. Then before I can even breathe he pulls my towel away and looks down at me, sees what I’ve been trying to hide. Christ, he says, the state of you. And he laughs. He laughs loud.

  He turns away, gets into the shower and closes the door. I can see his outline through the fogged up glass. He’s singing, gargling Baby we were boh-orn to ruuun, lashing the soapy water over his shoulders. I start to shake. The room’s full of steam and my head feels like it’s going to burst. I see myself opening the shower door, stepping in, pinning Arthur hard up against the tiles, him pretending to struggle but not too much, me grabbing a fistful of wet orange curls. That’s what he wants. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Then I see myself spinning him round and punching him hard, so hard, right in the face. I see myself watching as he crumples down into the shower tray spraying blood and teeth, waiting for him to get up but he never does.

  I don’t do either of those things.

  I put the clean clothes on. They’re far too big for me but I don’t care. I find my crusty trainers in the hall and I’m out the door and running. I’m going so fast it makes my eyes water. My breath tears in my throat and the chicken-shit taste is up in my mouth again, this time mixed with soapy lavender. I spit but it’s no use. Even if I manage to get that taste out of my mouth, I’ll never get it out of my head.

  I’m heading fast towards home and I realise, for the first time, I’m hoping the old man is in, and that he’s had a few. Just let him have a go at me today. Just let him.

  Odd Sympathy

  Two pendulums when mounted on the same beam will end up swinging in exactly opposite directions, regardless of their respective individual motion, demonstrating ‘an odd kind of sympathy.
’

  Christiaan Huygens in a letter to the Royal Society, 27 February 1665

  I’ve been waiting for Kate at our table at the back of Viviani’s for half a lifetime. My glass is almost empty and the ice cubes in her customary spritzer have eroded to smooth pebbles. Two waxy white flowers lean away from each other in a vase on the table. I’m not sure if they’re real or fake and am fighting the urge to touch when the waiter interrupts.

  ‘Would you like another?’ He nods at my glass and smiles, showing straight white teeth.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say automatically. I shouldn’t. I’ll be half-cut by the time Kate gets here. But then, so what if I am? ‘Yes, actually, yes. Thanks.’ The waiter removes my empty glass and raises one eyebrow enough to indicate that ordering by the glass will be indulged, but isn’t fooling anyone.

  I’ve been meeting Kate here regularly for years since we left university and she is always late. By my watch she’s half an hour late already. I don’t trust the new clock on the wall. I don’t even like to look at it.

  Time in Viviani’s used to be measured out by the heavy tick-tock of an antique wooden clock. Today, without warning, an imposter hangs on the wall. Not clockwork, no checks and balances nestle within its casing. A quartz crystal machine of glass and stainless steel, hands driven by a cold vibrating light, it clicks with sterile precision. The disc at the end of its pendulum moves, unnaturally weightless, from side to side, scything the seconds away to fall in a heap on the floor.

  Everything else is as it’s always been: white tablecloths, scarlet fanned napkins, framed black and white prints of Roman architecture on dusky wallpaper, round backed chairs, the happy hum of couples and families, smells of fresh bread, basil and garlic blowing in from the kitchen like good news from home. Several generations of a large family talk over each other while the two youngest children, perfectly matched girls of about five, whisper over their spaghetti, small dark heads close together. At a table for two, a couple touch hands. Everything is the same, apart from the clock. The clock and me.

  ‘Hey, Ali. Sorry I’m late,’ Kate lands heavily in the seat opposite. ‘Not kept you waiting too long though,’ she adds hopefully, ‘your glass is still half full.’ I raise my glass and toast her, smiling, playing along.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I think my watch is running fast, so I’m probably early.’

  Her smile falters a little. After so many years of knowing someone, the investment in each others’ lives accrues interest and becomes a debt not easily written off.

  Kate takes small sips from her spritzer and asks the waiter for a jug of tap water and another glass. We nibble breadsticks and look at the menu. We talk about her job in marketing and my sporadic supply teaching, the weather, the traffic, anything that doesn’t really matter.

  It wasn’t always like this. We’ve known each other forever. Born on the same day, in the same hospital, it turned out our families lived in the same street. Growing up together, we used to pretend we were twins. We’d wear the same clothes and have our mums do our hair the same way. When one of us lost a tooth, the other would wobble and tug at their matching tooth until it came free as well, whether it was ready or not. Or maybe that was just me. I remember the dizzy elation of success as a miniature white trophy tore out, pinched between my fingers, the hot, metallic taste of blood filling my mouth, the tender hole in my gum that I couldn’t keep my tongue out of for days afterwards.

  No one could accuse us of being twins now. Kate is glossy, her long chestnut hair, swinging in thick waves down her back, matches her dark eyes and her skin glows. I lack the shine, the lustre. She is an abundant autumn harvest to my bleak midwinter. I am brittle and dry as an old twig.

  The waiter takes our orders and Kate absently rubs her stomach as he moves off. She’s definitely put weight on over these last few months, while I have gone from slim, to thin, to bony. She notices me looking and colours uncharacteristically, looks away, then back.

  ‘How are you doing, Ali? I mean, really? Are you coping? You don’t look at all well.’

  ‘I’m just tired.’ This is not a lie. I don’t sleep well and sometimes doubt I ever will again. ‘Actually, I’m doing great. Really. Fine. I’m just getting on with things. What else is there to do?’ This is a good and kind lie but does not satisfy Kate. There is more to come, I’m sure of it and equally sure I don’t want to hear it. Our food arrives and, taking advantage of the interruption, I move the conversation on to her husband and that keeps her distracted for a while.

  The girls from the family at the long table are giggling and posing for a plump aunt armed with a camera. ‘That’s it, girls. Oh, aren’t you two just adorable?’ The girls grin perfect white rows of still-intact baby teeth. Neither of them blinks when the camera flash goes off.

  Kate is still talking, waving her fork in the air, but I’m remembering one day when we were five or six, walking along our street, holding hands and keeping step with each other. Mrs Breck from up the road went by pushing an enormous pram. Everyone knew Mrs Breck had had two babies but mum said they were ‘far too early and she lost them both within the week, the poor, poor woman.’ When we saw her with the pram that day, we thought she’d found them again.

  As we ran towards her, she smiled at us in a hungry way that made Kate squeeze my hand and pull back, but I wanted to see the babies so dragged her with me to peek inside the pram.

  The two identical occupants were wearing matching frilly white bonnets, tucked up tight together, wild-eyed and panting, their little pink tongues hanging out over white needle teeth, their dark, furry faces twisting from side to side. ‘Look, Katie!’ I gasped.

  Mrs Breck tucked a scrabbling paw back under the white blanket. ‘Aren’t you two just adorable?’ she asked her dog-babies. Kate nearly hauled me off my feet as we ran away. We never played twins again after that.

  Kate is touching my hand and looking at me, head tilted to the side. ‘Ali,’ she sighs, removes her hand from mine and dabs the corners of her mouth with a scarlet napkin. She drops it, crumpled, onto the white tablecloth and I watch as it uncurls itself there, red spreading over white, like blood on hospital sheets.

  ‘Look, I’ve got something to tell you and I don’t know how to say it. It’s supposed to be good news but what with… what happened, it’s not the easiest thing. I wasn’t going to tell you at all, but you have to know sooner or later, so…’

  ‘Kate. What is it?’ I ask, although I’m pretty sure I already know.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’ She looks at me hopefully, waiting for the excited shriek of congratulation. When I fail to deliver, she continues as if I haven’t heard her. ‘I’m going to have a—’

  ‘I know what pregnant means, Kate.’ I force out a little laugh, but she’s still deflated.

  ‘Can’t you be happy for me? I know it’s not the best time for you, but you know we’ve been trying for ages and, well, it just happened. At last!’

  I take a deep breath and give her what she needs. I do owe her that. ‘Of course I’m happy for you. It’s great! Really. Wonderful! I’m thrilled for you. How far along are you?’

  ‘Four months now. I think it must have happened when we were in Rome for that week, so that would have been…’

  Of course, Kate has forgotten. Why on earth should she remember? She wasn’t there. ‘April. That would have been April.’

  ‘Of course – April, yes, I… Oh! Ali, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think, I’m… Oh, this is all so hard! Everything I say is wrong.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I tell her lightly. ‘You’re being hormonal. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m really, really happy for you.’ I say it with feeling and I mean it. If only she had stopped right there.

  ‘I wish I could do something. It must be horrible. But…’ She seems to be gathering herself. ‘I know this might sound a bit harsh, but if it does, I’m only being cruel to be kind. You do have to pull yourself together at some point. You can try again. The doctors said there was n
o reason you couldn’t. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with you. You were just unlucky.’

  I could almost forgive her, even that.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ she says.

  I can’t look at her. Can’t bear to see her face. Don’t want her to see mine. If I look at her right now, she might burst into flames. I concentrate on the tablecloth. The hum of conversation around us drops and all I can hear is the relentless click of the empty clock. I stare at my plate and the breadstick I’m holding breaks in half.

  She doesn’t know. No one knows.

  You lived for precisely one hour. That your eyes were the deepest navy. You were, for those sixty minutes, every one of those three thousand and six hundred seconds, the most perfect child the universe had ever witnessed before your small life flickered and went out. Like your mother, you arrived too early, but unlike your mother, you couldn’t wait around. The sensation of my own heart continuing to beat in my chest has sickened me ever since I felt yours stop.

  Instead, I take a large gulp of wine and try to keep my voice steady. ‘I know. Unlucky, that’s all. I need to move on. I will. I am.’ I smile and knock back the rest, catching the waiter’s attention for another refill. He notches his eyebrow up to the next setting but brings me another without comment.

  For the rest of the time, I spoon-feed Kate the expected leading questions about names, colour schemes and people carriers and she happily chews over her pending domestic dilemmas. Eventually, my supply of questions begins to run dry and arid patches of silence open up.

  ‘Oh god, I’m late.’ Kate looks at her watch. ‘I really have to run. I’ve got an antenatal appointment in half an hour.’ I wave her away with a smile and she leaves, her meal hardly touched.

  I push my own pasta around the plate. The girls at the long table giggle and feed each other ice cream with raspberry sauce from long silver spoons. Above my head, the wall clock’s pendulum continues to scythe the seconds away. Our flowers are drooping and as I watch, one curled petal falls to the table and rocks from side to side.