by Richard C Elder
Barraquito (never stirred)
Pat and Aoife live in
a cul-de-sac of eighteen semi-detached houses in Belfast.
‘Piggin’ day,’
she says, staring at the monochrome view from her living room window. It’s 9.50
on the first Monday morning in January. The sky is an overturned grey bowl
clamping down on the frozen city. Leaning close to the glass she cranes her head
to the left to get a better view. Her breath fogs the pane; she pulls a crinkled
tissue from her cardigan cuff and wipes it clear. ‘Where are you?’
And then she appears, black and lustrous, patrolling
her territory. Aoife taps on the glass with a fingernail. The cat freezes
mid-stride, its ears swiveling to pinpoint the sound’s source. It looks at her
with unblinking hazel eyes. They stare at each other then the cat turns away and
trots across the frozen lawn, melting into deep shadow below the conifer at the
far corner of the garden. Aoife lifts a yellow duster from the arm of the settee
and Pat’s voice leaps into her head, “You wouldn’t stay in a mingin’ B&B.
Would you?”
She’s breathing too
fast. Light-headed she lands heavily on the toilet seat which skews sideways,
the hinges creaking. Forearms resting on her thighs she bows her head and takes
slow, deep breaths. Her skin is shrinking, squeezing her, threatening to
split.
‘Aoife!’
She stands and the room
swirls.
‘AOIFE!’
Stumbling on her way down
the carpeted stairs she saves herself by grabbing the varnished banister with
both hands.
Pat’s
standing on the concrete step with the kitchen door wide open. Cold air floods
the room. He’s wearing his usual expression: the frown, brown eyes boring into
hers, tight pale lips.
‘Sorry, I was in the
bathroom. What is it?’
‘Coffee?’
‘No problem. Give me five
minutes.’
He turns away and goes back
to his ‘workshop’ as he likes to call it. In reality it’s a draughty garage with
tools, heat, light and him in mucky dark-blue overalls.
‘Wee bastard,’ she mutters
through clenched teeth, angry with herself for apologising. Cutlery rattles like
a car crash when she rips open the drawer.
Months ago their GP advised
him to adopt a healthy diet, drink decaf and take some exercise or face the
possibility of an early death. Being a coward at heart, Pat ordered her to buy
decaf right away, insisted she cooked him better meals and told her to use
sweetener.
He
would balk at the plates of chips, sausages, fried chicken, black pudding,
pointing a stubby finger across the dinner table, interrogating her, ‘How’s this
good for me, eh? All this fried food. I told you what he said, about how
dangerous it is for me to eat crap.’
Resisting the urge to stab him in the face with her
fork, Aoife explained, ‘I’m usin’ olive oil in all my cookin’ now: Extra
virgin. Everybody knows how good it is. Look at those Italians; they’re
long-livers compared to us, use it on everythin’. Doctor told you to eat
healthy, that’s what you’re doin’, no problem.’
His protests faded and now the greedy little man
shoves anything and everything into his mouth. As for his coffee, it’s a full
strength Arabica, sweet enough to make her teeth wiggle, topped up with
full-cream milk.
She smiles to herself as she crosses the icy,
desolate gap between the house and the side door of the garage: every sip he
takes is a step closer to the heart attack or stroke - whatever - he
deserves.
Warm air
pours out when he opens the door, carrying with it the smell of sweat, hot metal
and grease. He takes the coffee. The door thunks closed, leaving her staring at
peeling turquoise paint.
Someday
I’ll take a hammer to your precious motorbikes, little man.
After a monosyllabic
lunch she walks to the supermarket fifteen minutes away on the main road. The
walk gives her time to look around, smell the air and breathe. Sometimes his
favourite newspaper has sold out by the time she gets there. Today is one of
those days so she buys ‘The Independent’ to wind him up. On the slow walk back a
cherry-red VW Beetle pulls alongside her and stops, the tyres throwing dirty
slush over the granite kerb stones. The passenger window whirrs down and the
driver leans across, asks, ‘Hey, Aoife, how’s things?’
Aoife crouches and smiles.
The smell of good perfume wafts from the car’s interior. Music machine-guns from
the sound system.
‘Great, Nikki. Sorry, miles
away.’
You look wretched.
‘No worries. Listen, I’m free this afternoon. Fancy coming in for a
catch-up?’
Aoife does a quick
calculation. He’s going on a parts run for his bikes. Leaving at 2.30, back at
5.15, thereabouts. And spending time with her friend will be a change from
afternoon TV.
‘Quarter to
three?’
Nikki winks and selects
first gear, saying, ‘Absolutely! Lift?’
‘Nah, need the exercise.
See you soon.’
The car
shoots away. She checks the time: it’s 2.20 so she walks fast. Turning into the
cul-de-sac she sees the Beetle parked in the driveway beside hers. Pat is
sitting on his three-wheel motorcycle waiting for her. Pale-grey fumes pulse
from the chromed twin exhausts. There’s a light tinkling from the matt-black
engine. He’s wearing tight black leathers, boots, gloves and a silver helmet
with its mirrored visor raised.
I hate you.
‘Thought you’d left the country.’
‘Sorry, long queue. You
goin’ for parts?’
'Behave
yourself.’
Aoife sets the table
for dinner then races upstairs to change. She pulls on a fresh tee-shirt and
jeans, brushes her hair and redoes her lipstick. Nine years younger than her
husband, she’s a good-looking woman, with shoulder-length red hair, green eyes
and an athletic build. She’s slightly taller than him, standing at five feet
seven inches in her bare feet. On her way out through the kitchen she grabs a
tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream from the freezer.
Nikki has two large
glasses of Pinot Noir and a plateful of nibbles waiting in the living room.
‘Deadlines and Commitments’ is bumping in the background. Strategically placed
table lamps and a log fire push back the gathering gloom to give the room a
cosy, intimate feel.
The women met eighteen months ago. Nikki is
forty-seven, unattached and works for Radio Belfast as well as doing some
voluntary work for a charity called ‘Bright Life’. Why she is still single is a
mystery to Aoife. The couple next door despise each other. Reason enough,
don’t you think? Grimacing, she swallows a mouthful of wine, sinks into the
deep leather settee and swallows another. The seat cushion swells and settles
when Nikki drops beside her. Neither woman speaks. Nikki holds the wine in her
mouth, savouring the heat and flavour of the grapes. Her head tilted back
against the cushion she lets it flow into her stomach, eager for the delicious
lightness to begin. Both of them have their reasons for letting the alcohol do
its work.
Nikki’s
father died a violent death and loneliness is killing her mother. She can tell
Aoife how she feels because both women have shared secrets and tears. And the
secrets have remained secret, the tears evidence of trust in one-another. It’s a
worn-out joke, but Aoife often tells her that her own life would be perfect if
it wasn’t for one small problem that rides a motorbike and hasn’t had an
accident yet.
Drawing her
legs under her, Aoife asks, ‘No man yet?’
Nikki raises her eyebrows,
takes a slurp of wine and says, ‘If there was he’d be in the kitchen making us
dinner, the lazy sod.’
Jabbing an index finger
into her friend’s side, Aoife tells her, ‘You’re a bad woman, Ferguson. Bad but
right. Hell with all of them.’
Sniggering, Nikki fetches a
fresh bottle from the kitchen. Dropping the screw top on the coffee table she
tops up their glasses. Leaning close to Aoife she whispers, ‘This itch hasn’t
been scratched in a while, girl. Just give me an opportunity.’
They laugh, snort and the
banter continues. These two women are good for each other because they’re both
lonely. Nikki pulls the curtains closed and adds wood to the fire. Setting the
dented spark-guard back in place she flops onto the settee. Both of them
squirrel into the cushions. Shimmering golden light plays on their faces and
hands.
‘How’s it going with
Pat?’
Aoife takes a swig and
empties the glass. Wiping her nose with a tissue she spits the words out, ‘Is
what it is. Fill me.’
Wine glugs,
the bottle clunks on the table. Resting her hand on Aoife’s knee, Nikki asks,
‘What’s happened?’
Aoife moves forward onto
the edge of the settee and checks her phone; it’s 4.25. ‘Have to go soon. He’ll
be home...’
Nikki mutes the music,
waiting.
A flickering diamond falls
from Aoife’s chin to the carpet. She sets her glass on the hearth, mumbling,
‘Water.’
Nikki follows her into the
kitchen. Aoife opens the tap and water bounces out of the tumbler, soaking her
hand, arm, the front of her tee shirt. It runs down the cupboard doors and
puddles on the cream floor tiles.
‘I’ll do it,’ says Nikki,
taking the glass. She gives it back half-filled, murmuring, ‘Take sips. There’s
no rush.’
Aoife’s body is a tuning
fork, quivering and taut. The water in the glass has miniature tsunamis
careering back and forward. She sips noisily. Her eyes are dull,
unfocussed.
‘Better?’
Aoife shakes her head, sets
the empty glass in the sink.
‘Tell me.’
Aoife groans and draws
fingers down her cheeks, stretching the skin.
‘What?’
The window is
a black mirror silently playing-out the scene in the room. Aoife presses her
mouth against Nikki’s cheek; her breath is hot and moist, heavy with the smell
of alcohol. ‘Can’t take any more of it,’ she cries, dissolving into
sobs.
‘Oh,
Aoife.’
Aoife’s head slumps against
Nikki’s shoulder. Her breath is lurching. ‘I’m wastin’ my life. I have to get
away from him.’
Nikki
sighs and embraces her. Aoife crushes her like a mother who finds the child she
thought was dead. The kitchen door flies all the way back to the wall. The
handle breaks a porcelain tile with a sound like bones being snapped as a
barrage of words explode in their ears, ‘WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS GOIN’ ON
HERE?’
Pat takes two fast steps
into the room, freezing air swirling in his wake. He catches hold of Aoife’s
hair in his left hand and shoves Nikki away with his right. Twisting his wife’s
head round he pulls her toward the open door, hissing in her ear, ‘So that’s
what you like, eh? Well we’ll see about that, you ungrateful
bitch.’
Nikki roars at him, her
every word a thunderclap, ‘LET HER GO!’
He stops, looks her up and
down then shakes his head, his words venomous, ‘You ugly, bony dyke. Stay away
from her, she’s mine.’
Her heart pounding, Nikki
takes a small step toward him. With quiet authority she says, ‘No. You let her
go. Let her go now.’ Releasing Aoife, he crosses the six feet of floor
between him and Nikki in an instant and punches her in the belly. Her breath
ooofs from her gaping mouth and she drops to the floor, dry-retching,
knees pulled up to her chest.
Panting,
Pat hunkers down and leans forward, dominating her. Rubbing his crotch, he tells
her, ‘Stay away, dyke, or I’ll come back. And next time you’ll really not like
what I’ll do to you.’
Then he clears his throat
and spits on her.
Aoife has
watched all this unfold, frozen by fear: until he spat. She is vibrating with
rage. Plucking the empty wine bottle from the draining board she disturbs a tea
spoon. Clink. He turns toward her, rising, but he is too late. Far too
late. Adrenalin supercharges her body. Muscles twitch in readiness. The last
thing she sees as she swings the bottle down is a wide and uncomprehending eye
staring back at her: it belongs to a beast in the slaughter house.
The
dark-green bottle strikes forward of the crown, smashing the skull and sending
sharp-edged bone fragments deep into his brain. Blood explodes from severed
vessels, spraying across cupboard doors and spattering floor tiles. He collapses
on Nikki, pinning her to the floor. His arms and legs jiggle like he’s plugged
into the mains. She wails and struggles beneath him; taut black leather groans
and squeaks. Nikki shrieks. Blood flies in all directions, like a meat rocket
exploding at a butchers’ convention. Then he slumps, crushing her. Punching,
twisting, heaving him to one side, she rolls out from under. And there he lies,
with his back against the sink unit cupboards and a fat pockmarked cheek on the
floor. Suspicious, Aoife stands over him, her makeshift club ready. You’re a
crafty bastard, always were. She kicks him in the gut but he doesn’t react.
Hooking his nose with her fingers she pulls his head off the floor then lets it
drop; blood oozes from a hair-choked nostril. Chuckling, she turns to Nikki,
saying, ‘Hope you’ve plenty of kitchen roll.’
Dark winter cold has turned
the kitchen into a meat locker. Aoife locks the door and pockets the key, pulls
down the blind. Nikki crawls away from the horror and sits shivering, leant
against the washing machine, thin legs straight out in front of her. She’s
rubbing both palms on her jeans leaving glistening dark stains on the faded
denim. The kitchen clock marks the seconds. Tickatickatick. Both women
look at each other through thickening, foetid air.
Aoife crouches beside Nikki and pushes sticky,
blood-splattered blonde hair back from her friend’s face. Desire surges like a
freak wave, its dark back a rippled monstrous hump lifting her toward the sky.
‘That’s that,’ she says, her scalp prickling. ‘And the rest...uh...the rest is
just gettin’ rid.’
Nikki’s breath whistles through pursed lips.
Swallowing, Aoife straddles her thighs; firm muscle trembles under her buttocks.
Looking Nikki straight in the eyes she murmurs, ‘It’ll be alright. It will.
We’ll bin bag him, move him into the workshop then give this place a good
clean.’
‘Leave me be.’
Aoife takes her face in both hands. Wiping at the
tears streaming down her blood-caked cheeks, she smiles and says, ‘You’re bloody
freezin’. Let’s you and me get in the shower, right now, wash this muck of us.
He’ll keep for an hour or two.’
Nikki winces, shakes her head.
Aoife moistens her lips, whispers, ‘Shhh, it’s
okay,’ before kissing Nikki who recoils in disgust. Thumbnails sharp as needles
dig into her cheeks when Aoife tightens her grip. Nikki grabs handfuls of red
hair and shoves with all her strength, locking her elbows to keep the madwoman
at arm’s length. Aoife snarls and seizes Nikki’s skull, pulling on it with such
force that Nikki feels sure her neck will snap. Two pairs of arms judder with
effort. Summer-blue eyes lock with reptilian-green: stalemate.
‘I
did what needed to be done,’ grunts Aoife, rose-pink sweat dripping from the tip of
her nose.
Nikki’s arms are burning, her shoulders molten. This
thing in front of her is a stone-cold psycho bitch. Get in the
shower? GET IN THE SHOWER? Get the cops is what I’ll
do.
‘You’re what? Thinkin’ I’m a fuckin’ nut? That
right, Nikki?’
Nikki croaks through dry lips, ‘He was a horrible
man...but we can’t cover this up...we’ve got to phone...’
‘NO WE DON’T!’ screams Aoife, locking bloody hands
around her throat.
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