Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
You
’
ve seen them? Those shots of me?
’
‘
Not me, love, him.
’
The wife was nodding at her husband.
‘
Made a
bit of a name for yourself round here. The lads couldn
’
t stop talking
about it. Old boy like him. Young girl like you.
’
She looked me up and
down.
‘
Still, no accounting for taste, eh?
’
Her husband had opened the front door. He wanted me out before
his wife made things even worse.
‘
Take no notice,
’
he told me as we stepped into the street.
‘
She
’
s only
jealous.
’
Back home, I mopped up in the kitchen. The walls were wet again, the
stuff running down behind the
cupboards
. I was almost glad when I
heard the bell at the front. Brendan was waiting for me on the
doorstep. He was swaying slightly and it took me several seconds to
realise that he was drunk. Not just drunk but paralytic.
‘
Cracked it,
’
he beamed at me.
‘
Fucking cracked it.
’
I stepped aside. How he
’
d got the Mercedes round here in one piece
was beyond me. I guided him along the hall and into the flat. The door
to the front room was open. He headed for the sofa but missed. I
helped him to his feet and he clung to me a moment, swaying again.
Jaywick, I thought. The roles reversed. Brendan drowning. Me there
to help.
I made him tea. He wanted Scotch. I had none.
‘
What happened?
’
‘
Got pissed.
’
‘
I
can see that. Tell me why.
’
He was lying full-length on the sofa, hi
s Burberry still on. Every time
he tried to focus, his head fell forward a
nd it took him an age to get it
up again. I wondered whether he was go
ing to be sick but decided that
appearing with a bowl might be premature.
‘
I
love you,
’
he muttered at last.
‘
The rest of it is shit.
’
He lifted an
arm and made a floppy, encircling gesture.
‘
Shit,
’
he repeated.
I tried to make him drink the tea. He
wouldn
’
t. He
’
d come to tell me
he loved me, tell me he was crazy about me, tell m
e he
’
d changed, tell
me everything would be all right.
‘
It
’
s fine,
’
I said as gently as I could.
‘
You
’
ll be better in the morning.
’
‘
I
’
m better now. Much better.
’
‘
You
’
ve been drinking.
’
‘
You
’
re right.
’
‘
Something must have happened.
’
‘
It
’
s all happened. Everyt
hing
’
s happened. Everything
’
s
…
’
with an
effort, he sat up,
‘
…
total
shit.
’
He ran a hand over his face then peered at it as if it belonged to
someone else. The sale of Doubleact had gone through. He was a rich
man. And he was out from under.
‘
Mother hen,
’
he giggled.
‘
Who?
’
‘
Sandie.
’
It was the first time I
’
d ever heard him call his wife Sandie. It
sounded like someone else, someone I didn
’
t know. Brendan was
trying to stand up. I didn
’
t think that was such a great idea. The
moment I touched him, he collapsed backwards onto the sofa, his
hands reaching up for me, exactly the wa
y he
’
d fallen off the
windsurf board
.
He
’
d upset the tea. He watched blearily while I cleaned it up.
‘
I don
’
t care,
’
he said very carefully,
‘
about the mo
ney.
’
‘
Of course you do.
’
‘
No I fucking don
’
t.
’
He waved an admonishing finger very slowly in
front of my face.
‘
And I don
’
t care about the baby, either. I just
care
…
’
he frowned, trying to concentrate,
’
…
about us. I mean you.
You down there. Missus.
’
I ignored the comment. Getting him out of here wasn
’
t going to be
easy but I was buggered if I was going to listen to this all night. I went
to the kitchen to fetch a cloth and bowl of cold water for the carpet.
When I turned the taps off I became awar
e of a dripping noise. I looked
up. The stain was spreading in front
of my eyes, water running down
from the ceiling. I watched, wonde
ring quite where to start, then
Brendan appeared in the doorway.
He was clutching the door jamb
very tightly, like a man contemplati
ng a long jump. When he finally
got the words out, it occurred to me he was trying to say sorry.
‘
It
’
s no problem.
’
I gestured at the bowl of cold water.
‘
It
’
ll wash
out.
’
‘
I
meant the baby
…
all that.
’
‘
Ah.
’
That was something no amount of scrubbing in the world was going
to shift. Soon enough there
’
d be two of us.
‘
Three,
’
Brendan insisted.
‘
Three.
’
I began to shake my head but I knew there was no point. He was
beyond argument. I tried to change the subject.
‘
I
’
ve got a problem,
’
I pointed at the wet patch on the ceiling.
‘
As you
can probably see.
’
Brendan nodded, emphatic. His eyes never left my face.
‘
And
l love you too.
’
He gave me a lop-sided smile and then took a little half-step
forward, abandoning the door jamb. For a moment, he wavered.
Then, with a long sigh he collapsed face down, asleep at once, his face
cradled in the towel I
’
d used to mop the walls. Hours later, when I
finally tracked down the key to my bedroom door, he was still there,
snoring gently, oblivious to the soft drip of water through the ceiling.
By the time I woke up next morning, he
’
d gone. A note on the gas stove
told me how much he loved me. Ins
tead of the usual sign-off, the
distinctive
‘
B
’
he always used,
he
’
d scrawled a single kiss.
I phoned the water board at eight o
’
clock, as soon as the office
opened. I explained about the leak, and about my neighbour being
away, and when I mentioned how pregnant I was, they promised to get
someone round straight away. I stayed in all morning, waiting. At
noon, the phone rang. I thought it might be the water board. It wasn
’
t.
It was Tom.
‘
How
’
s tricks?
’
‘
Bloody awful.
’
‘
Why?
’
I told him about Brendan staying the night, about the state he
’
d
been
in, about the things he
’
d said. I had to
get it off my chest and telling
Tom was oddly risk-free, like phoning o
ne of those help organisations.
Nikki, bless her, would have insisted
on coming round and just now I
didn
’
t want that.
‘
He
’
s gone?
’
‘
Who?
’
‘
That Brendan chap?
’
‘
Oh yes, he went hours ago, before I even got up.
’
I explained about him passing out. He
’
d spent the night on the
kitchen floor, I said, unconscious.
‘
When
’
s he coming back ?
’
‘
He
’
s not.
’
‘
Just as well, old thing. Best forgotten, eh?
’
I heard him laughing. Then, without saying goodbye, he hung up. I
returned to the kitchen, mystified. Why the interest? Why the
questions? I shook my head, bewildered. My eyes kept straying to the
damp patch on the ceiling. It was like a spot I couldn
’
t leave alone. It
represented decay, things falling apart. I felt completely powerless,
utterly vulnerable, waiting for an engineer who never came, fielding
calls on the phone from the wrong people, answering my door to an
ex-lover who
’
d probably be back within hours. It was a nervy, out-of-
control feeling, horribly close to panic.
I was on the point of returning to th
e front room and shaking up the
water board with another phone call when there was a
huge crash. I
heard myself screaming. It was so loud, th
e noise, so physically close, I
thought the ceiling had collapse
d. There was dust everywhere. I
looked up, my hand to my mouth, cough
ing. The ceiling was intact but
where the cupboards had been there
was nothing but bare plaster,
scabby and pitted around the holes dri
lled for the supporting screws.
The cupboards had been full of crockery
- plates, cups, saucers - and I
reached for the table, supporting mys
elf, staring down at the wreck
age.
There were shards of china, much of it my mother
’
s, all over the
floor. I backed slowly towards the door, feeling behind me for the
handle, swaying on my feet, trying to k
eep the room in focus. My pulse
was beginning to slow again but I felt physically sick. The smel
l, quite
suddenly, was overpowering.
In the bathroom, I bent over the toile
t bowl, retching. Then I turned
round, lowering myself onto the s
eat, forcing my head between my
knees. This was far from comfortable bu
t it was the best I could do. I
was close to fainting, and I knew it
. Minutes passed while I fought
fresh waves of panic. What had hap
pened? What had I done? Why was
everything disintegrating?