Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (31 page)

He
saw her reflection glare at him in the mirror.

“
Do
what you like, Harry. I’m sick of this shit.”

She
turned and swept past him, her anger obvious. He grabbed her arm and
spun her around, unable to ignore the flicker of hate and revulsion
in her eyes. He let go of her and lowered his gaze.

“
Look,
Maggie, I’m sorry. I just worry about you. I know things have
been rough since we moved out here. I’ll put it right, ok?”

She
looked at him and nodded, but he could see in her eyes that it was a
token gesture. He felt a pang of sorrow deep inside, which hurt more
than he expected. Maggie smiled, leaning forward and kissing him on
the cheek.

“
Harry,
please don’t worry. There’s a whole bunch of us and I’ll
take a taxi back. I’ll be fine. But I meant what I said; you
really need to start getting out of here. It’s not good for you
to stay home all the time.”

He
looked down at the floor, scuffing his feet on the cheap carpet.

“
I’ve
been in a god-awful mood all day, and this business with the air
conditioning just sent me over the edge. I think I’ll make it
an early night and wake up in a better mood tomorrow. You go out and
have fun.”

She
kissed him again on the cheek, flashing him a smile.

“
No
need to wait up, I have a key. Get some rest. You look tired.”

He
sank into his chair and stared at the TV as she swept towards the
door. She opened it and looked back.

“
I
love you, Harry”

“
Love
you too,” he responded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the
television screen. She waited for a few seconds as if she were
thinking of something else to say, then left, leaving the smell of
her perfume hanging in the sticky heat of the apartment. He waited
for a full count of thirty before he switched off the TV and crossed
to the window. He watched the street below and waited for her to
appear. She left, walking unhurriedly away from their building and
towards the center of the town. He pulled on his jacket as a fresh
wave of anger flowed through him.

She’s
having an affair
.

Harry
had ignored the voice in his head for some time now, but found he
could no longer block it out.

Something
isn’t right, Harry.

“
No
shit, chief,” he mumbled to himself in response to his inner
voice.

You
had better find out what’s happening before she has a chance to
cover her tracks.

“
Yeah,
I know.”

B
esides,
it’s an excuse to get out of this apartment.

Harry
moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Say
again,” he mumbled to the empty room

I
said don’t forget the knife.

“
Knife?”

Just
in case you need it. For protection.

Harry
grunted and went to the kitchen. He selected a medium sized steak
knife, wrapping it in kitchen paper and slipping it into his pocket.
The voice inside spoke up again.

Ready?
Now let’s go.

Harry
opened the door and set off after his wife.

II

It
didn’t take long to confirm that his suspicions were more than
the paranoid delusions of a depressed husband. For the last half hour
he had followed her at a distance, and as he pushed his way through
the crowded streets, his heart sank. His initial curiosity and anger
had now given way to an overwhelming sense of sadness. For the first
time in years, he craved a cigarette.

Just
wait it out, Harry, old pal. Let’s wait and see what happens.

“
Shut
up,” he barked, drawing a few puzzled glances from the people
around him. Embarrassed, he pulled his collar tight around his neck,
even though it was still hot and humid. Shoving his way through the
humid streets, head aching and drenched with sweat, he felt a rage
boiling up within him. In a sudden shift, the anger melted away to
sadness when he thought about what would happen once he confronted
her.

He
had met her by chance in a bar back in Atlanta. It was a busy night
and the room was bustling and full. He noticed that the seat next to
her was free and had approached to ask if he could sit. She nodded
absently, her head buried in a notebook in which she was writing
furiously. He was mesmerized by her natural beauty. The way her nose
tilted upwards slightly at the tip and the way her mouth moved
silently as she wrote. He saw that her glass was empty and asked if
she would like another. She had smiled at him, and Harry sat and
plucked up the courage to engage conversation. He had told bad jokes
at his own expense and Maggie had laughed at him, gradually opening
up. When the discussion turned to her notebook, she told Harry that
she was a nurse by day, but also an aspiring novelist. She allowed
him to read a few pages and Harry fell in love with her style. Her
copy was punchy, the characters vivid and full of life.

Over
the next few weeks they continued to see each other, and their
relationship grew. The following summer they married. Their friends
thought it was way too soon, but Harry and Maggie had no doubts. They
wanted to be together, and for a while life was perfect for them.
Maggie’s writing was evolving in leaps and bounds, and Harry
continued to work hard so that she might leave her job and focus on
writing. It seemed the world was theirs for the taking. Things got
even better in the spring of 87’ when Maggie got pregnant.
Harry was over the moon and couldn’t believe the lucky hand
life had dealt him. But it was around this time that things began to
fall apart.

He
snapped back to the present, pushing his way through the throngs of
people walking the streets. The faces were a blur, insignificant
obstacles between him and his impending confrontation with his wife.
The only thing that was clear to him was the back of Maggie’s
head as she walked towards the seedier area of the town. The bars and
nightclubs were just as numerous, but the lights didn’t shine
quite as brightly, or penetrate as far into the recesses and darkened
corners of the street. This was where the locals spent their nights,
away from the tourists and within spitting distance of the Favelas.
They sat on doorsteps or stood in groups on street corners, smoking
huge acrid smelling cannabis joints that made Harry’s nose
wrinkle. He tried his best to ignore the icy stares as they watched
him. He knew he looked as out of place as he felt, and wondered if he
would even survive long enough to confront Maggie. Every fiber of his
being told him to run; to go back to the relative safety of his
overpriced sweatbox apartment and forget about this—just go on
living the lie. After all what good would it do to confront her? He
would only end up alone. If he went along with it she would probably
stay with him, and he would still have company at least. Besides, he
could have it wrong. There could be a perfectly reasonable
explanation; he had simply put two and two together and come up with
five.

Come
on, pal, you know the score here as well as I do. Just take a look.
She isn’t out with her friends, so she has already lied to you.
Who knows what else is on tonight’s agenda.

“
Shut
up,” he muttered again, this time under his breath so as not to
draw anymore needless attention. The voice inside responded with calm
patience, as if explaining something to a child.

I
just don’t want you to hold out hope. Let’s see where she
goes from here.

He
froze on the spot, his heart almost leaping into his mouth as it
skipped a beat. He hadn’t noticed that she had stopped ahead of
him to talk with two locals. To Harry’s horror, they seemed to
know her, the three of them laughing and joking. Maggie handed them a
roll of cash and was given a small plastic bag containing white
powder in return. Harry was in shock. Drugs? He couldn’t
believe what he was seeing. They had both smoked a little pot when
they were younger, but cocaine?

Aren’t
you glad you didn’t pussy out now, old buddy?

Harry
ignored his inner voice and kicked himself for not concentrating on
the task at hand. He looked around for somewhere to hide and ducked
into a ramshackle news stand, turning his back to her as he pretended
to browse the magazines. He kept a careful but watchful eye on her as
she said her goodbyes to the locals and set off walking again. Harry
relaxed, glancing at the wiry old man behind the news counter who was
looking back with a bemused and somewhat distrustful look on his
face.

“
Can
I help you, sir?” the storekeeper asked, the sketchy English
rolling uncomfortably from his tongue.

“
No,
no thanks.” Harry turned to leave, but stopped short.
“Actually, I’ll take a pack of Marlboros.”

On
her tail again, he saw her go into a bar a little way down the
street. Even from a distance, he could see how seedy it was. Its
windows were grimy and covered with posters.

COCKTAILS
2-4-1! FREE SHOT OF VODKA B4 11PM!

Proclaimed
the hand drawn poster board outside. A tired looking neon Budweiser
sign hung in the window, flickering intermittently. He fumbled with
the fresh pack of cigarettes, placing one in his mouth and then
realizing he had no means with which to light it. He shoved the pack
into his overcoat pocket, careful to make sure he didn’t catch
his hand on the knife. He took the cigarette from his lip and wedged
it behind his right ear, an old habit from before he’d quit.

Just
like riding a bike.

Harry
tried his best to peer through the grimy window, scanning the vague
forms within for his wife. Maybe it was just a pit stop, perhaps to
use the bathroom or the phone. His heart skipped as he saw her, the
body language unmistakable. She was at the bar, legs crossed
suggestively towards the man beside her. She was watching him speak,
a half smile on her lips as she ran her index finger slowly around
the rim of her wine glass. A succession of emotions overcame Harry:
anger, sorrow, rage, and once again that overwhelming sadness. His
eyes jealously scanned the man with her, watching him speak, his
unheard words holding her full attention. Although he couldn’t
see perfectly, Harry could tell the man was young. Maybe twenty-five,
certainly no older than thirty. He was wearing a pristine charcoal
suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. Harry watched him flash a smile
at her, before stealing a quick glance at her chest, which threatened
to spill from her dress every time she moved.

A
wave of nausea hit him as he turned away from the window. He couldn’t
decide what upset him the most, the fact that his suspicions had been
correct, or that she looked happier than she had in years. Unable to
hold back any longer, he vomited noisily, his vision dancing with
bright white spots as he tried to compose himself. People walked
around him eyeing him cautiously but keeping to themselves.

I
don’t want to say I told you so, but.... I told you so.

Harry
didn’t answer. He simply stared at the brown-yellow puddle of
liquid he’d just ejected.

So,
what are you going to do now?

He
stood upright and reached into his pocket, feeling the wrapped handle
of the knife still nestled there. The voice inside was silent, but
Harry knew it was smiling.

III

For
almost an hour, he waited across the street on a bench that was
partially shrouded by trees. As he sat amongst the filth his anger
grew. He was acutely aware of his stench, a heady combination of
stale sweat, vomit, and perhaps sadness. Does sadness have a smell?
He wondered.

If
it does, it smells like puke and wino piss, chief.

Ignoring
his inner voice, he wondered how he might look to the strangers
walking by. He suspected he no longer looked quite so out of place.
He felt tired. His brain had been working overtime, trying in vain to
rationalize events as they unfolded. He let his thoughts drift again
to the past. To a time before humid nights spent spying on his
adulterous wife, to a happier time long before all of this happened.
He let his mind roll back through the years, back to the day she told
him she was pregnant. He tried to recall the utter joy of that
moment, but over time it had been lost, eclipsed by the misery that
followed.

The
baby was a boy. He had Maggie’s eyes and Harry’s nose.
Maggie took a break from writing to try her hand at being a mother,
and she excelled at it. Harry himself, despite his initial struggles
with changing nappies and getting used to the broken sleep, had loved
every minute of being a father.

The
baby died at seven months.

He
could still remember every detail of that day. The way Maggie was
still sleeping beside him even though he had woken early, his
internal clock reminding him that a feed was overdue. He could recall
the way the sun warmed his face, the way that dust swirled around the
room, caught in the golden rays of the early morning. He remembered
going into the baby’s room to wake him, warm bottle of milk in
hand as he peered into the crib. He remembered the horror and fear of
being unable to move, unable to do anything. He remembered his
son—blue and lifeless, staring into oblivion. He remembered
screaming.