Due in at ten-forty, the train is eleven minutes late when
it reaches the outskirts of the town. Martin Seare checks
his watch and wipes his wet palms on his trousers. He doesn't
really know what he's doing here. At thirty-five he has
pretty much everything most people require for contentment:
a loving partner, three great kids, a reasonably fulfilling
job. His debts are manageable, his pleasures are simple,
his health—
His health should give him no cause for concern. He’s
not overweight, he drinks in moderation and hasn't smoked
- save for the occasional joint - for nearly seven years.
There’s no particular family history of heart disease
or cancer. His mother is still alive and well, although
his father died in a road accident three years ago, at the
age of fifty-eight.
The train glides through suburbs of boxy houses with mean
rectangular gardens. Washing sways on slow-turning rotary
lines. A boy in a sandpit stands and waves, but is gone
before Martin can respond. His eyes settle on the No Smoking
sign and he reflects that today, ironically, might be just
the day to resume the habit.
His father died on a Friday, April fourth. The same April
fourth that on previous years he’d studied plans and
laid bricks, or clambered over roof trusses, or perhaps
played golf and sat in the clubhouse with a brandy, never
suspecting that April fourth held a terrible secret, that
a future April fourth lay in wait, its claws poised over
his heart.
Martin knows the date of his father's death only too well.
What he hopes to discover today is the date of his own.
The train shudders as it launches screeching into the air.
A valley opens below him, with precarious wooded sides and
a river running rampant to the sea. Martin lets out a breath
and grins. He’d forgotten about the vast red brick
viaduct. And the squealing is just the brakes. He can feel
the train slowing. He is only two minutes away from the
station, from a cigarette, from his destiny. His date.
The railway line crosses a bridge over a busy dual carriageway;
in the outside lane a Ford Escort brakes thoughtlessly while
driver and passenger study a road-sign. The driver behind
blasts his horn, but Bridget Calderwood is too preoccupied
to notice.
Bridget is thirty-one but looks much older. Thin and frumpy,
her face is lined with an anxiety that Prozac can barely
suppress, a fear of the world that has prevented her from
working for nearly two years, since the death of her second
child. She began losing weight when her husband left, and
the skin hangs loosely over her neck and cheeks. Her clothes
seem intended for an older, plumper woman: perhaps for the
grandmother she will never become. She is here on a mission
to find peace.
The woman with her is a former colleague, the only one to
stay in touch when tragedy struck again. She is good-natured
and supportive, if a little dubious about the purpose of
today's journey. And Bridget's driving is making her nervous.
The friend's name is... Annabelle. No. Annmarie. Ann Marie.
Spelt separately. But she shouldn’t be here. Bridget
was instructed to come alone. I was quite specific about
that. And she is too early.
They are desperate for my help. They beg to be seen. And
yet they can’t bring themselves to comply with a few
simple conditions. It disappoints me. Worse than that, it
threatens to disrupt my plan.
It's my own fault, I suppose, for agreeing to see them both,
but the irony of Martin's obsession struck a chord with
me. I thought he would be safely on his way home before
Bridget arrived.
She'll just have to wait, I decide, and return to Martin.
He’s stopped at a kiosk on the station concourse,
buying cigarettes and a box of matches. He takes out a letter
with my address and asks directions. The vendor, who once
masturbated in front of a schoolgirl and served three months
for it, responds gruffly before turning to his next customer.
Blushing slightly, Martin hurries away. Out of the station,
he lights a cigarette and inhales with equal measures of
greed and guilt. He squints in the bright sunshine, looking
for the road he needs. Doubts crowd in on him, telling him
he’s crazy, telling him to get back on the train while
he still can. But he takes a deep breath and sets off towards
my home.
He’s still about twenty minutes away. I close my eyes
and search for Bridget. I find her parked outside a small
parade of shops, only a few minutes from me. She too is
having her doubts, and Ann Marie has suggested they stop
for a drink. Good idea, Ann Marie.
I relax a little. Next door to them, at Rayz Cutz, Ray thumbs
a quick text to his new girlfriend while his customer shifts
impatiently in his chair. Two years ago Ray was first on
the scene of a fatal road accident but couldn’t bring
himself to stop and call for help. The guilt destroyed his
marriage.
Bridget and Ann Marie study the menu. Ann Marie intends
to settle her nerves with a cup of tea and a chocolate muffin.
Bridget cannot bring herself to eat, and settles for coffee.
It is served by the proprietor, Marion Jones, who came to
me when she suspected her husband was being unfaithful.
She thought I wouldn't know about her own indiscretion with
Clare, the young single mother who helps out part-time for
cash. The two women once made love in the stockroom late
on a Saturday afternoon, an experience so liberating for
Marion that she wondered just what she and her husband had
been doing all these years.
For a long time I couldn’t understand why so many
secrets were related in some way to sex. I had no idea why
it held such crippling, dangerous control over people who
in other respects were cautious, intelligent, kind-hearted.
Of course no one had ever touched me erotically, or kissed
me with any sort of passion.
Finally I hired a prostitute. After some discussion about
what was feasible, we agreed on what she called "a
hand-job with extras". The extras included a striptease,
and I was also allowed to touch her body. The moment she
pressed my fingers against her breasts, I understood everything.
It was the most extraordinary sensation, and it spoke directly
to my genitals, bypassing my brain entirely.
What I also saw was that she had been raped, that she lived
in continual fear, that she had a daughter and dreaded her
one day ending up on the game. I was aware of her repulsion,
of course, and her hatred of men. Before she flinched from
my gaze I saw how one day she would be raped again, and
almost killed.
But I didn't know when, or by whom, so there was no point
in telling her. I might have convinced her to give up prostitution,
only for her attacker to be her boss at a supermarket, or
a man who sees her one day on a bus, or even her boyfriend.
And that is what I live with. Information like white noise,
a barrage I can barely control. The effort to focus, to
sift and make sense of it, takes more from me than anyone
could understand. Shutting out the extraneous data is like
holding back a landslide. Suffice to say, the last person
to describe my facility as ‘a gift’ fled tearfully
from the room at the tone of my laughter.
Not that running in tears is uncommon. I believe the midwife
was the first to react in this way, and no doubt my mother
would have followed her had she been able to. My father
was away at the time, speaking at a scientific conference
in Vancouver where he first seduced the research assistant
with whom he later eloped. He didn’t see me until
I was a week old, by which time medical opinion had firmly
stated I would be dead.
Apparently he blanched and left the hospital without saying
a word. That was the last we saw of him.
There have been many attempts to categorize precisely what
is wrong with me, and some very distinguished people have
exhibited a rather unprofessional petulance when a clear
diagnosis proves elusive. Not quite cerebral palsy, not
spina bifida, not Duchenne's dystrophy, not hydrocephalus;
but elements of them all and more besides. The facial deformity
is an utter mystery, lately attributed to some malicious
gene that lay dormant for perhaps a dozen generations. Without
that, without a skull that looks like it’s been used
as a football by two particularly brutal teams, I might
have had a chance of partial integration into society.
But no matter. I have at least exceeded my original life
expectancy by twenty-eight years. I can breathe unaided
for most of the day. I can operate my wheelchair, my telescope
and my computer using two fingers of my left hand, and I
can swallow liquidized food. As I think I mentioned earlier,
I can achieve an erection although I cannot do much with
it. I have good vision and hearing, and an IQ in the upper
average range. Stephen Hawking I am not, but I do know something
of the universe. I know that Time is not linear, that it
twists and folds back on itself, and sometimes, to those
who possess the right sensitivity, it can yield information
about the future, and indeed the past.
Martin is nearer now, his thoughts becoming easier to read,
little snippets of his life floating towards me. His daughter
has her first swimming lesson today: he’ll hear all
about it when he gets home. He intends to have his favourite
Chinese takeaway tonight, regardless of what I tell him.
And now Bridget breaks in, fretting to her friend about
parking in my street. She absolutely refuses to parallel
park, and doesn't take kindly to Ann Marie's offer of help.
There is a little parcel of hate slowly unwrapping in her
guts: her gift to the world. She is even more appalling
than I expected, which I find oddly satisfying.
My mother died when I was nineteen. By now my father had
a new family and wanted nothing to do with me. Arrangements
were made to provide me with a home, and constant care from
a team of nurses. Nowadays I make do with just two, each
working part-time, and a housekeeper. In physical terms
I lead a solitary existence, but I am never alone with my
thoughts.
And now they are here. Blast it. Ignoring the sign which
says ‘Residents Only’, Bridget's car skews across
the driveway. Martin pauses to wipe his face with his handkerchief.
I hear the buzz of the intercom and press the appropriate
button on my keyboard. "Mithith Collingwood," I
say, struggling with the sibilance. The misshapen palate
and missing teeth can make certain words a challenge. It
takes an extra effort on my part to be comprehensible to
strangers.
Bridget makes no mention of her companion, so I have to
stress that she must enter on her own.
"But my friend's come all this way. She wants to--"
"That wasn't the arrangement, Mrs. Collingwood. Please
ask her to wait in the car."
There is a grumbling between the two women that stops abruptly
when Martin appears at their shoulders and asks if he has
the correct address. A snort of annoyance from Bridget,
who still has her finger on the intercom.
"And that is Martin Searle, no doubt? You and Mrs.
Collingwood are welcome to come in. Up the stairs, third
door on the
right. I'll see you first, Martin."
More grumbling from Bridget. Ann Marie shrugs and walks
back to the car, glad to be away from her friend. I release
the lock and Martin pushes the front door open, then steps
back to let Bridget enter.
"Hope I'm doing the right thing," she mutters.
Martin smiles nervously and says nothing.
After the experience with the prostitute, I resolved never
again to succumb to such weakness. My curiosity had been
satisfied but my desire had not, and never could be. Any
woman forced to engage with me would always feel repulsed,
and I would experience that repulsion just as keenly, destroying
any prospect of pleasure. With that understanding came a
narrowing of my attitudes.
These people I see, I have little or no concern for them.
I don't feel obliged to help them. In truth, they are mostly
to be despised. I see them because they clamour to be seen,
because by word of mouth they have learnt that I can offer
them hope. Ultimately, I see them because it entertains
me. It passes the time.
Martin won't understand that, of course. They never do.
He enters the room furtively, his expression carefully prepared
for something grotesque. After a few seconds he lets out
a breath and relaxes, as if to say: yes, this creature won't
turn my stomach. But at least he meets my eye, which is
rare enough.
"Thanks for agreeing to this," he begins. "I
know my problem must seem pretty odd..."
"Not really." Pointless, I might have said.
"It's just, ever since Dad died, so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
He thought he had all those years ahead of him, always making
plans for the future, booking up his holidays a year or
two in advance. In the end, none of that time was there
for him."
“But would he have been happier, do you think, if
he'd known?"
Martin doesn't ponder on this. He laughs, and it is a laugh
that acknowledges his own madness. "No. He wouldn't.
Rationally I can see it would be terrible to know. And yet
I can't stop thinking about it. I've seen doctors and shrinks
and hypnotists. Every crackpot you can name, but I can't
get it out of my head. First thing I think when I wake up:
is it today I'll die? Last thing before I get to sleep:
is it tomorrow?" Another nervous laugh. "And as
for what I go through at three in the morning…"
There is a glitter of good humour in my eyes. I’m
very well acquainted with the unrestrained anxiety of the
early hours.
Martin continues: "You're my last hope. I have to know
what my date is. I have to know."
There is a muffled thump from outside. Whilst trying to
eavesdrop, Bridget has bumped her hip against the door.
It hurts, but not enough for my liking.
"I appreciate that,” I say, “but I must
explain that even if I wanted to give you an answer, in
this case
I don't think I can."
Martin is incredulous. "You brought me here to tell
me that?"
"I've brought you nowhere. You pleaded with me to come.
And if I had told you on the phone I couldn't help, would
that
have satisfied you?"
He doesn't answer for a long time, and when he speaks all
he does say, quietly and to himself, is that I am a fraud.
I've been called worse, but today isn't the day.
"I'm sorry," I tell him. "But you know yourself,
it won't help. You'll be just as tormented."
He looks at me in a new way, with cunning, with malice. "You
do know, don't you? You know and you won't tell me. What
is it you're after, you fucking spastic? Money? You want
to see the cash before you'll spill the beans, eh?"
There is spittle in the corners of his mouth, sweat gleaming
on his forehead. His fists are clenched, and it’s
quite possible he’ll use them. He’s making it
clear that he won't leave without an answer.
And it isn't as though I care one way or the other.
"November twenty-fourth."
He looks at me, searching my face for a lie. He doesn't
see one. His mouth is almost too dry to speak. "What...
what year?"
"I don't know the year."
"What year?"
"I don't know the year. That's why I said I couldn't
help you."
He goes on staring, then slowly sinks to his knees and covers
his face. He stays like this for a long time. Outside Bridget
cannot keep still. She badly needs to pee, but even more
she needs to know what’s happening in here.
By the time he stands up, I know Martin won't become violent
towards me. All he wants now is to get the hell out of here,
away from the sick crippled bastard, and go back home to
his kids. Tonight he’ll get horribly drunk and have
clumsy but restorative sex with his wife. In time he'll
tell himself it was no more than a scam, a fairground con
like tarot or palm reading.
In an odd way I’ve cured him of his obsession, or
at least prompted him to cure himself. Every year on the
twenty-third of November he'll remember and get a little
nervous. Every November twenty-fifth he'll wake up and privately
celebrate.
Until the last twenty-fourth of November. Whenever that
will be.
He throws open the door and almost bumps into Bridget. She
watches him blunder down the stairs and wonders if he’s
on drugs. Then she peers into the room as if into a demons’ lair.
I call to her: "Come in, Mrs. Collingwood." And
suddenly I realise I am very tired.
Bridget does nothing to disguise her horror at the sight
of me. She would like to run away, but she won't be made
to look a fool in front of Ann Marie. She steadies herself,
preparing the mask that will accompany her story.
I have no time for that. I don't want to hear about the
two darling children she lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
I don't want her tearful reminiscing or her pleas for reassurance
that her little darlings are happy with the angels. Because
the person who recommended me didn't explain himself very
well, and Bridget has come here believing I'm a medium:
a blue-rinsed, softly-spoken Doris or Betty aiming to send
the punters away happy.
In fact, she’s here because she is useful to me. No
other reason. But that's not to say I can't have a little
fun with her.
"You're very troubled, Bridget," I tell her. "I
can sense that."
She looks impressed. She nods. Takes a few brave steps closer.
"You’ve been in great pain over the loss of your
children."
A sob sticks in her throat. She nods again.
"You’ve come here for the truth."
Another theatrical sob. "Yes."
"The truth is that you smothered Tom because you couldn't
stand his constant crying. The attention you received as
a bereaved mother was the most thrilling experience of your
life. From the moment Ryan was born, you knew you had to
do it again. And you did.”
She doesn't say a word. She's stunned, because I've just
demonstrated that I'm not a phony, which deep down is what
she believed, and what she wanted. Now she's calculating
the odds. Who else knows? Who have I told?
Already a little boldness creeps back. Can he prove it?
Of course not. The babies were cremated. And in the current
climate, no one would dare try and prosecute.
Anyway, look at him. He's a freak. A monster. Who’d
listen to him....?
"There's something I want from you,” I tell her, “in
return for silence."
I want silence.
The diagnosis of cancer was confirmed only a month ago,
but I've known for much longer: ever since I felt the first
corrupted cell divide. Indifferent to my deformities and
my unique ability, it fully intends to destroy me, slowly
consuming me from the inside out.
There is a course of treatment they could try, but even
the consultant happily agreed it would probably kill me
more unpleasantly than the cancer. And so I set about planning
my own important date. June tenth.
Today.
It doesn't take me long to explain. At first she’s
doubtful, then suspicious. She really is a tiresome woman,
and I'm glad now that Ann Marie is waiting outside. At least
she can be trusted to testify that Martin departed long
before her friend emerged from the house. It isn't beyond
Bridget to claim she simply discovered my body.
"You're joking?" she says when I tell her the
method. She glances at the chair in the corner. Now that
she knows,
she can see the cushion doesn't belong there. I invented
some spurious reason for the housekeeper to bring it up
before sending her home early.
I watch Bridget weighing the odds. She protests, but in
her heart she knows it would be easy. She hates me far more
than she ever hated her children.
At last she picks up the cushion. When she turns to me I
can still see doubt in her eyes, but by then I already know
whether she'll do it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Harrison's first novel, SINS OF THE FATHER, was published in
the UK in April 2006 by Creme de la Crime. His short fiction has recently
appeared in Flashing in the Gutters and SHOTS magazine. He lives with
his family in Brighton, on the south coast of England. His website
is at http://www.david-harrison.info
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