Forever After

4


He awoke in a sweat, breathless. His heart raced frantically inside his chest. He pushed himself up against the headboard and looked down at his naked body. The few hairs on his chest had matted together with the sweat; a glossy sheen covered his skin like oil. He could feel the sheets sticking to his legs, his stomach and his groin. He peeled them off and flung them to the floor, savouring the cool air that rushed over his body and cooled the moisture into a sticky dryness.

He took in a deep breath and tried to settle the rhythm of his runaway heart.

He’d had a dream, a nightmare. It was fading fast in his conscious but vivid parts of it were still fresh in his mind. Jessica was there, he was sure of it, but it wasn’t exactly her, at least not throughout the entirety of the dream. She had transformed into someone else, something else. Beautiful and elegant at first and then--

He shook his head and struck a palm to his temple. The images had vanished. He struggled to recall, feeling a pinprick headache developing at the base of his skull.

Were they in a car together? Was that it? Happily driving; happy in each other’s company, and then something unexpected, something terrible. He remembered seeing blood, seeing Jessica looking annoyed, seeing someone dead.

He shivered at the recall and tried to refresh it regardless, but the more he tried the quicker it faded.

When his heart had settled, his breath had been restored, the sweat on his body had dried and the chill under his flesh had ceased, he had forgotten every aspect of the dream. It was about Jessica, of that much he was sure, but he couldn’t remember anything else.

He had gone to sleep worrying about reaping the corpse of whichever girl he chose to spend his, or rather her, life with. That thought had clearly prayed on his subconscious during his sleep, festering inside his mind and throwing an assortment of morbid images and anxious feelings his way.

He dressed, showered, shaved and made his way downstairs for breakfast, which he usually shared with one or two guests in the spacious dining room.

A sullen looking business man sat on his lonesome in the corner, thinking deeply into a steaming cup of coffee whilst absently chewing a slice of toast. On the other side of the room, waiting for Michael with a smile on his face, was Samson. There were two cups of hot coffee on the table in front of him and he was gesturing for Michael to sit down.

“What are you doing here?” Michael sat impatiently. He liked Samson, he felt a paternal comfort in his presence, but his lack of support and his absence over the last year had annoyed him.

“That’s no way to greet the man who mentored you.”

Michael looked warily at the sullen man on the other side of the dining room, then back at the smiling face of his supposed mentor.

“You taught me f*ck all,” he spat with a hushed voice, fearful of alerting the other occupant to their conversation. “You left me in the shit; I barely know what the f*ck I’m doing.”

Samson shrugged casually. He reached out and took a small sachet of marmalade and a slice of toast from a steel toast-rack. “Want one?” he asked, pointing a slice of toasted wholemeal.

Michael glared impatiently.

“More for me,” Samson said as he slowly spread the marmalade over the toast and then took a bite from the corner, watching Michael silently as he chewed.

“What are you doing here?” Michael wanted to know. “Is this some part of my mentorship?” he asked with a mocking emphasis. “Are you finally going to help me?”

Samson slowly shook his head. He swallowed the chewed toast in his mouth and then calmly took another bite.

“What then?”

He lowered the food to the plate. Brushed his hands against one another, took a drink of coffee to wash down the morsels and -- eventually -- spoke.

“I’m here to...” he made a humming noise and stroked his chin with the width of his forefinger.

“Well?”

“To warn you, I suppose,” he said unsurely.

Michael perked up. He removed the disdain from his face, allowing an interested curiosity to take over.

“Warn me?”

“This girl you’re seeing. She is your first female since your…” Samson looked around the dining room, lowered his voice. “Departure. Right?”

He nodded. “So?”

“Have you thought this through?”

“What do you mean have I thought this through?” Michael was getting annoyed. He didn’t like the fact that Samson had ignored him when he needed him and he certainly didn’t like the fact that when he finally appeared he did so with a critique of his love life. “What has any of this got to do with you?” he asked with a raised voice. “Who told you anyway?”

Samson shrugged his shoulders. He lowered his head and took another bite of toast.

“Was it Mary and Joseph?”

He grinned wryly at the mention of their name -- thinking about something else entirely -- but shook his head.

“Then who?”

He put the toast down again, brushed his hands against a piece of napkin. “I know these things,” he said, the morsel slid around in his mouth as he spoke. “That’s not important though.” He met with Michael’s eyes; Michael thought he saw a glint of sympathy. “How is the intuition coming along?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “It isn’t,” he said blankly.

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“It’s a gradual process you--”

Michael interrupted, “So you’ve said.”

Samson stared at him deeply, his eyes unblinking as they cut through his thoughts and extinguished his anger.

“OK,” he said eventually, with an anti-climactic smile. “I better get going.”

“That’s it?” Michael snapped with surprise.

Samson shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He lolled his tongue around in his mouth, flicked a stray crumb out of a chipped wisdom tooth. “Pretty much,” he finalised with a nod.

He rose noisily and Michael stood with him. He wanted to demand answers; he wanted to tell Samson that he had questions that needed answers. His anger restrained him. He remained silent.

“It was good seeing you,” Samson declared, patting a friendly palm on his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

Michael nodded and sat down, relieved at the closing statement but concerned with what Samson’s definition of soon was.

Michael contemplated phoning Jessica all morning, he didn’t want to come across too keen but he also didn’t want her to think he had forgotten about her or wasn’t interested in her.

It had been over a year since he had phoned anyone to ask them on a date and a few years more since he had done it with someone he really liked.

At noon he dialled her number into his phone. He bit his lip, waited for it to ring twice and then hung up. He cursed himself, stamped an annoyed foot on the floor, hit redial and then hung up after three rings.

“Jesus Michael! Get your shit together,” he warned himself.

He hit redial again and pressed the phone to his ear. Jessica answered on the first ring, leaving no time for early hang-ups. She sounded a little annoyed.

“Jessica, it's Michael,” he announced. “From last night?” he added.

Her tone changed in an instant. The annoyance drifted away. She was happy to hear from him and told him so.

“Did you just ring me?” she added.

Michael hummed and hared over the question, telling her, as nonchalantly as he could: “yeah, bad connection, sorry about that.” Keen to divert the subject away from his phone-call jitters he quickly moved on, “I was wondering if you’d like to go and watch a movie, maybe get something to eat, a drink--”

“I’d love to,” Jessica replied almost immediately.

Michael deflated with relief, “Excellent,” he sighed enjoyably.

Michael didn’t drive, it seemed unnecessary. His job never left the town, never extended beyond the dozen square miles that encapsulated the hovel he had been required to call home. He also couldn’t afford a car or the driving lessons he would require should he ever decide to own one. They arranged to meet at a neutral location between the restaurant and their respective homes -- Michael at the B&B on one side of town; Jessica in rented accommodation on the other.

He waited for her outside the restaurant, a small family establishment. The food was strictly Italian but the family were Scottish. As a compliment to their British heritage they served most of their dishes with chips and offered side dishes of garlic mushrooms, drenched in thick oil that bled blackness onto the ceramic and deep fried frozen pizza, a batter-coated behemoth of heart attack proportions.

Jessica arrived by foot and greeted Michael with a smile and kiss on the cheek. Her previously tame red hair had been styled into a cornucopia of twirls and twists on her head, sticking out from all angles and increasing the volume of her head three times over. Michael caught the overpowering whiff of hairspray when she leaned in, but he didn’t mind, she looked great.

A thickset Glaswegian with a permanent scowl and a way of chewing his words before spitting them out took their order. She opted for the fresh seafood pasta. Michael choose lasagne and chips, after all, the sea was a two hour drive away.

“So, you never told me what you do for a living,” Jessica said when the first bottle of wine had been brought to the table with a basket of fresh bread.

Michael had been waiting for this, he was prepared. He had thought about telling her he had a job boring or obscure enough not to warrant further examination, like a trainee accountant. But he doubted he could fake it for very long and it also wouldn’t explain why he was living in practical poverty in the back room of a B&B. It had taken very little thought before he arrived at the simple conclusion.

“Nothing at the moment,” he told her.

She weighed this up with a simple smile and a tilt of her head. “Not to worry,” she declared. “I’m sure something will come up.”

She picked out a bread roll and broke it open, nipping a slice of crust from the top before applying generous portions of butter to the warm bread inside.

“What would you like to do?” she wanted to know. “What do you want to be?”

Michael stared blankly at her. He wanted to be alive. He wanted to be able to talk to his friends again, to see his family. He wanted to be able to contemplate the possibility of a normal existence and not one that revolved around being stuck at the bottom rung of society, cleaning up the mess with little to no chance of advancement. He wanted to be able to go on a date with a girl without keeping a sober eye on everything he did and said.

“A policeman,” he said eventually.

“Oh,” Jessica nodded her head slowly. She took a bite from the bread roll and stared across at him with a cheeky, apologetic smile as her hamster cheeks bulged with bread. “That’s honourable,” she said when she had finished chewing, licking away a few stray crumbs from her lips.

Michael nodded distantly. He didn’t want to be a policeman. He had never really cared for authority. Authority had a way of breeding feelings of superiority in the socially inferior individuals who possessed it. He didn’t know what he wanted to be, not now, not when he was alive, it was just the first thing that came to his head and was better than telling her he was hopeless as well as jobless.

There was only one other couple in the restaurant, sitting in the back. They were eating quietly under the shade of a globe which hung from the ceiling like a tacky disco ball; the boot-shaped land of Italy had been highlighted for those who needed reminding where pasta came from.

In the relative solitude, with the wine flowing and the food eaten, Michael and Jessica conversed boisterously. The topics of their lives left the conversation when the alcohol had relaxed them and they began to joke, laugh and tease.

They left the restaurant in high spirits. Michael was tipsy, having had the better part of two bottles of wine, he felt a dizzying warmth coursing through his blood stream and kicking out his stride, but Jessica, her slight build susceptible to the poisons of liquor, was on the verge of hysterics. She laughed at everything and stumbled carelessly as she walked.

Michael walked her home, cradling her in the crook of his arm and trying to keep his own feet steady whilst suffering the weight of hers. On the way home she told him she really liked him and that she thought he was special, then she suggested that he cut his hair and sort out his life before she promptly vomited in the gutter. Michael didn’t mind, he felt just as merry and he enjoyed supporting her as he cradled her to her doorstep. He felt human again.

She stopped at the front door, wobbled, supported herself against the frame and then threw a finger to her lips, suggesting Michael remain quiet whilst issuing a rather loud shh! noise. She dug around in her handbag, grumbled distastefully when she mistook her purse for her keys and then finally produced the dangling set, waving it proudly in front of Michael like a child showing their winner’s medal to their parents.

“Do you want to come inside for a night-cap?” she slurred with a wheezy smile.

Michael leant forward and planted a kiss on her forehead. When he pulled back she still had her eyes closed. She peeled them open slowly, looking a little disappointed at the length and position of the kiss.

“Maybe another time,” he said softly.

The remnants of a smile dripped off her face. “Oh,” she said sadly.

“I’m tired, we’re both drunk,” he explained. “I had a great time though,” he jumped in, sensing the swarm of alcoholic depression that cut across her features like a relentless blade. “I’d love to do it again sometime. Maybe we can have a nice quiet drink and dinner together,” he hinted.

Something sparked on Jessica’s face; she looked like she had just found the cure for the common cold. “Here!” she declared, throwing her arm around to indicate the house. “We can have dinner here. I have drinks. And food.”

“OK. It’s a date.”

She leant forward to kiss him, her eyes closed. Michael was forced backward as she fell into his arms. He placed a kiss on her lips; a spark seemed to connect him with her. He thought he felt something strange, tasted something obscene. Something flashed in his mind with an angry insistence, something quick; something unpleasant. It was her, but it wasn’t her. He pushed her gently away from him, her bare shoulders felt unnervingly cold in his hands. He held her there, staring into her face.

She slowly opened her eyes, a smile at first, then a perplexity, on her drunken face. “What’s wrong?” she asked with a wind of alcohol on her breath.

Michael felt his body twitch. He snapped out of a momentary fit and returned her bemusement with a warm smile. She looked OK; she smelled OK. He flexed his fingers, still clasped to her shoulders. She was warm, her skin was soft.

“Nothing,” he said unsurely.

She shook off the momentary strangeness, too drunk to linger. She fiddled with the lock for an indeterminable moment and stumbled into the house, grinning at Michael before closing the door on him.

He looked at his hands when she departed, turning them this way and that whilst cursing a muttering stream under his breath.

He heard some commotion on the other side of the door and recognised the obtrusive and quizzical voice of her friend and roommate Julia as she unleashed a barrage of questions. He heard a stumbled, mumbled reply, then listened to a pair of hesitant, cumbersome footsteps ascend the staircase.

He turned around to leave, saw the curtains in the main room flicker. Julia’s face popped out and glared at him disapprovingly. He gave her a little wave and then left, a skip in his step as he strolled the darkened streets.