The black hole of not knowing what “all of it” amounted to sucked me in. The light drained from the room into a dark place in my gut, where I could feel it gathering, fomenting. I dropped my head in submission, braced against my own ferocity, straining to keep it down. None of my thoughts had form beyond the pure energy that fueled rage. My mismatched hands, one a latex death pall and the other heaving with veins, gripped each other in my lap. I closed my eyes as white-hot fury shuddered up and over me in a rabid contraction, and I found that a metallic grating noise was my teeth grinding together.
The chaos passed. I was still there, sitting on the floor, holding myself. Everything was intact. I released my jaw, my breath, and my hands. In my lap, the palm of the latex glove flapped open like torn skin, shredded by my nails.
The laptop peeped a meek warning that it was shutting down now. Icons started to disappear, and I put my fingertip over the green LED as it flickered a couple more times in an irregular pulse. An hourglass turned. And then darkness. The light glowed for a while under my fingertip, but I knew it was gone. I had a last image of an action-man version of Julian, scaling fences to rescue his woman. I’ll get to you somehow! Although he obviously hadn’t fulfilled that promise, so “Rory” got a glimpse of what life would have been like as Julian’s partner and—the thought actually made me smile—at least they would start their new life in eternity with an almighty row.
The leather bag crashed into the wall as I threw it over the banisters to the hall below, taking a framed holiday photo and a mirror with it. I shrugged as the glass shattered into the carpet. I pulled my best running top out of the dirty linen basket and threw it down after the bag. It spread its long-armed wings and floated like a wraith down the stairs. Wading across the clothes-strewn carpet, I returned to the bed and grabbed my best pillow, which I lobbed in an overhead throw out the door and over the banister. “Whee,” I called out. I heard a thump and a tinkle of glass as it landed below. Finally, I went to my bedside drawer. Inside was the jewelry that I only ever wore on flights so it didn’t get lost in the luggage: my modest engagement ring, bought when we were just starting out, which got replaced by a garish eternity ring after I made both Charlie and a fortune; my mother’s huge brooch, whose provenance was assured by every single photo I had of her—always smiling without showing her teeth, beneath a broad sunhat draped with a scarf held in place by the jade. I wrapped everything into a soft fabric bag and tugged the drawstring tight, slipping it inside my pocket.
I went from kid’s room to kid’s room, pulling out clean clothes, shoes, weather-related kit. All of it went airborne to the ground floor. I grabbed from the airing cupboard towels and flannels and extra blankets and a bucket. I peered over the banister to see the pile below, which seemed to be crawling up the stairs to get back where it belonged. In the family bathroom, I stuffed a wash-bag with Band-Aids and bandages and toothpaste and disinfectant and DEET-formula bug spray and as many random medicines as I could find. Over the banister. From the sideboard in the hallway, I pulled out fleeces that we’d need if the weather turned, looking more stained and bobbled than when I’d packed them away, as though they’d started decomposing. In a drawer were hats and socks and gloves, but I couldn’t gather them all into one handful, so I dumped them back into the wooden drawer, pulled that out, and sent the whole thing sailing over the railing where it smashed onto the Minton tiles. I followed down the stairs, climbing across the mound of stuff to get to the kitchen door. I stood outside, pressed my forehead against the freshly painted wood, breathing hard. I listened to the buzz.
Trust him to die in the kitchen.
All the important stuff was in there. Pans and knives. Food. “We need to fucking eat, Julian,” I yelled, pounding at the door. The buzz swelled in reply, and the metallic sound needled my anger.
“Judas,” I hissed through the keyhole. “After fifteen years of bleeding me dry. Like a tick. All the shit-brained schemes. Pissing away your trust fund. You’ve not done a single thing in all that time. Not for us. Not for me. Not even for yourself. Not one thing.” I pounded the door three more times with my forehead. Not. One. Thing. The dull pain calmed me. “For fifteen years, Julian. How could you be such a—” I could hear the buzz receding. I pictured the flies, bloated and dopey. “Parasite.”
I slumped to the floor. Except, of course, for the first time, he had done something. He’d had an affair and decided to leave me. Finally, a decision—two whole decisions. “Well, you know what, Judas?”—I was back on my knees, spittling the keyhole—“I’m okay on my own. I’m fucking brilliant on my own. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” My hands fell from the doorknob as a swell of laughter doubled me over. “Oh, God, sorry, that came out wrong.” I punched my thighs. “That sounded really bad.” My ribs hurt. Pass that woman a corset; her sides are going to split. I held myself together with my arms until it passed. Wiped the tears from my eyes. Got to my feet. I gave the door one last petulant bang and turned back to face the hall.
Do we need all this stuff? Or none of it?
The tears had washed me out, like an enema for the heart. I was hollow. Light.
I didn’t want all this baggage. Into my leather weekender, I pushed medicine and clothes. All the food was trapped behind the kitchen door, contaminated, so I’d have to find some elsewhere. From the console I picked up the car keys and my silver Burmese Nat. I walked out the front door and didn’t bother locking it behind me.
We made quick progress along the high street, Horatio and I. I leapfrogged the speed bumps, weaved around traffic cones that failed to calm me, jumped the lights. As the road widened, I watched my speed dial reach “100 mph” and pushed the Beast into the red. I swept through a spill of rubbish, scattering bags and wrappers into the air; they flapped to the ground behind me, like old ladies waving their hands in disapproval.
When I turned my eyes back to the road, I hit the brakes hard, and the car fishtailed to a halt, but not before we ploughed through a gang of a dozen or so dogs sunning themselves on the warm asphalt. I caught flashes of movement in the side mirrors as they dashed out of the path of my steaming wheels. They yapped in protest, while I sat with my knuckles bulging round the steering wheel.