23
Some low cloud and mistiness, turning foggy later with drizzle possible
NED IS WATCHING Dancing on Ice: The Dance Off. He is chewing monkey nuts and dropping the shells where they fall. His foot is on the coffee table, inserted inside a bag of frozen sweetcorn. The night before last I returned from the pub to discover, in my absence, he had conducted an impromptu experiment that involved seeing how close his ski socks could get to the fire before they caught alight. Now he knows. Cheers, Ned. Home insurance policy anyone? Only one sock caught before the experiment was declared officially over.
You knob. I sign.
Knobs is us, he signs.
Mess, I sign him. Look.
F*ck you, thank you. He signs back, smiling.
Mess. You make pig. Clean.
He scoops a handful of shells and flings them in my direction. They roll and scatter; one bounces off my shoe.
Very good, Gog. Hoover Hoover.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a sense of humour same as the next man, but. He pushes his. He push push f*cking pushes.
I thump him hard on the side of the head. He yells, thrashes.
Shells, nuts, ice, sweetcorn. Arrivederci todos. He’s on his feet. He throws his fists, one after the other, while I jag to the side. He misses, misses, misses.
Ha! Arsehole! Come on! Here we are at last, communicating. Come on! I sign. Come on! He comes. Lunging, flailing. I duck away, stamping shells, nuts, sweetcorn. I am quick as. I run rings round him. Where’d I go?
Missed!
I attack from behind. Wallop. Buenos dias!
He’s angry now. Gets me back with a chop to my arm. For f*cks.
I grab his shirt, drag him across the room. We stagger, thumping, blocking, swinging. I land another: a mighty smack on the gob, a wild one. Knuckles on teeth. Crack. He goes down.
The pain hammers me into the floor. I double up. One knobhead, two knobhead, three. I reckon I might kick him as he lies there. I do. Free kick from the corner. Whap. He is silent, aka a foul. Penalty kick from the box. Don’t mind if I do. I swing a belter into his thigh.
There it is. Thin at first. Boo-hoo. A little girl’s noise. Little Bo Baa has lost her sheep. Sniff sniff. Same old. Same old. I slam the back door.
He is not of this world, never was. Touched by genius, she said. Trouble is some div’s got to clean up after. Same old div, as per. I am at the mast in seconds. I don’t stop. Glad there is a wind to walk against, it takes my breath away. Gracias. Walking walking. Where to? Nowhere, that’s where. Around in circles. Day after day after.
It was Ned who sprayed Lee Hart is a knobhead on the inside of the bus shelter. Cheers. He still thinks I don’t know. I didn’t at first. Never thought he had the initiative. Not just the bus shelter: a parking bay at the library, the wall by the Coinwash and a skip opposite the Somerfield car park. He carried on till he’d used up a whole can of blue paint.
Not everyone could handle it. Lucky I am the sort of person who can turn the other cheek.
When he tips backwards through his bedroom window, he’s only thinking of the buzz, like a kid. Not to begrudge him, I’m just saying. The trampoline always catches him, but one day. And whose fault will that be? Everything changes in the spring. It always does.
There is a note on the draining board.
Gog. How goes? Potatoes in the oven. Yum. Cheers! Ned.
I turn slowly, half expecting to find him on the ceiling. What’s he up to? What the. All the dishes are put away. The floor is clean. I move quickly through and find the lounge is tidy, spotless, Hoovered.
Ned?
I run upstairs. What the hell is going. The bedrooms are empty. I try the bathroom. He is lying in a full bath, no bubbles, one sponge.
Ned?
I wait. For whatever. Blood, electricity, monkey nuts. His hands come up talking from under the water.
Gog! How goes? Hungry? One minute. OK?
Drip drip drip.
I wait nervously downstairs. I try to think who he might have insulted, bothered, murdered. Whether the police have been round. What is missing, stolen, sold? Think. A clink of ice. I turn. Ned offers a tumbler of Lester’s old Jameson’s with ice. Service with a smile.
I take it.
Ta, his hand reminds me.
Ta, I sign. Cheers, mate.
Cheers! he signs. He breathes through his mouth, strolls across the rug, hands on his hips. I scan for more clues. His hair is combed into straight wet sections, his ears poke out. His skin, teeth, appear to be clean. Unusual. He looks carefully at me, winks, nods. What the. Drink drink, he signs. I wonder if it’s poisoned.
Good days, he signs.
Good days. Yeah.
Hungry?
He sprints for the kitchen. Something is seriously.
He lunges back in.
Welcome! Food is ready, he signs.
We eat together at the table. Nothing is wrong that I can tell, not yet, maybe not at all. He slurps, smacks, burps, as per. Grins at me. He touches my arm.
Why can’t it always be like this? he signs.
After dinner we watch the ten o’clock news. He is watching it for my sake. He’d rather watch Britain’s Next Top Model or Tool Academy, something with pretty girls.
Nighty night night, he signs at the end and disappears to bed.
Something is seriously up. I take the cushion, throw it in front of him. He turns.
What’s all this? I sign.
What?
You dinner cook, tidy, clean, weird.
So? What?
Why?
Never mind what what what. Say thank you, Ned. Ta. He drops his hands.
Ta, Ned, I sign. Very nice.
Very welcome, Gog. Night night.
I have been sitting with her while the sun goes down on the field. I cannot tell if she is here. You are supposed to tell, I think, if they are around. I can’t. I wait. I close my eyes. Nothing. I don’t say her name, no point.
I walk back. The air is purple, a spot of pink over the flyover. I check my latest text.
v sorry 2 hear ur news re work. c u l8er. L.
I stroll, thinking on. About Lorelle, about the timing of my next move. She seems genuinely concerned. A chill in the ground, in the air. The birds have roosted.
A clack. I stop. Another. Clack. Something hits the fence post. Dack. A stone. Like a stone. Now I know what it is. I know exactly. Might’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. I run towards the house. The light is gone but I know my way.
Clack. Something hits the ground beside me. I zag to the side.
I see him now. He is aiming through my bedroom window. He must’ve clocked me there a hundred times. The landing light is on, so he’s backlit. Stupid arse. I see the .22 on his shoulder, his cheek on the stock, like he’s falling asleep. I run for the back door.
We sit at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil. The .22 on the table. I’m not in the mood for a fight.
I slapped him and then I thought, that’s it. I’m too tired.
Apologise you. Yes? Hello?
Very sorry, Gog. His hands drop, fold. The end.
I look at our reflection in the dark kitchen window. I see myself slumped. I see my head turn away, turn back to him.
You any thing say me? I sign.
Teach you me shoot?
The barrel of his finger points. His eyebrows are high. He looks hopeful. For f*cks.
I get up to do the teas.
I don’t think he meant to hurt me. Scare me, yes, show me he could. Nick me in the leg, maybe. He wanted to impress. I could be wrong, it has been known. I should be angrier, but.