Imperfect Strangers (27 page)

I hope I heard correctly, because as stars begin to swirl through the spin of the room
, I can sense that I’m going to pass out at any moment.

CHAPTER
38

I’ve never been punched in the face before, and what surprises me more than anything is the lack of pain. I’m light headed
, though, and feel as if I might pass out any moment. My limbs feel light yet heavy, as if weary from exercise, as if I’m not totally in control, like I’ve been treading water for hours. I may as well be out at sea. I’m drowning and about to be picked off by sharks. To add to the torment, I imagine I hear Steve’s voice in the distance, muffled as if by water, while the wooziness floats me to the edge of unconsciousness. A stomping sound, like someone is rushing up the stairs. A door crashes against a wall, sounding distant and yet close; it’s come from the bathroom maybe, or the spare bedroom.

“SAL!”

Steve’s here! He’s here, in the house. The realisation shakes me back to reality.

He sounds angry,
angrier than I’ve ever heard him sound before. Keith’s sitting on top of me and I feel the tension in his body. He leaps off, and with the weight gone its like I’ve been plucked from the water. Suddenly, I feel alert: first my hearing and then my vision come back to some sort of useable capacity. The door crashes open. Keith bends, stretching for the champagne bottle on the carpet, his eyes fixed on me. He smashes the bottle against the wall. Instinctively I shield my face as the bottle’s base and a myriad of tiny shards, are propelled to the ceiling in a rush of foam. Champagne rains back to the pillow, by the side of my head, its load of fizzing glass peppering my arms. Steve’s standing in the doorway, his face a picture of fury. Thank god, I think, but then Keith jumps back onto the bed, his hand gripping the neck of the bottle. His free hand slides behind my head, curls under my neck and settles on my throat, his finger and thumb threatening to close around my windpipe.

I had thought Steve standing there was the end of it
; that Keith would back down.

“Go away,” Keith orders
. “Sally’s happy here.” There’s a tone of uncertainty in his voice that implies he does not fully believe the statement himself. As he speaks, Keith jabs in Steve’s direction with the broken neck; cuts the air between them, the ragged edges grabbing the pink light of the room and forming from them highlights of cutting menace. I’ve always considered life to be like a vine climbing a wall. It can either struggle to climb, or quit its struggle and stay still. Occasionally it may find a ledge where it can rest, comfortably content with where it is. Stay too long though and the vine begins to decay. Ultimately, it has no choice. It has to climb or die. Breaking away from Steve had been somewhat like finding a ledge on which to rest.

Keith drags me further up the bed, turning the broken end to my face, closing his hand tighter on my throat. A serration of green glass fills my vision, beyond it, through the shards, I see Steve halt his
advance. Pete appears behind him.

A stalemate of silence has filled the room
; through it, I hear a third pair of feet clambering up the stairs. The footsteps are softer, lighter and in less of a rush than Steve and Pete’s had been. Kerry, is my first thought. What effect will she have on Keith? The glass glints in my vision as Keith plays it in a twisting motion.

“Keith?”

It’s not Kerry’s voice. The owner of the voice is still climbing the stairs, not yet in view. It is a woman, an elderly voice, sounding as though only two-thirds of the way up stairs and climbing slowly. “Is everything alright, Keith?”

“Don’t do anything daft,” Steve says, his vision locked on the bottle and my face, his eyes switching momentarily to Kieth.

“Yeh, keep calm,” Pete adds.

I look beyond Steve, to the landing and over the top of the white-painted balustrade, as the head of an elderly woman, tightly bound in curlers, looks into the room. Her eyes look huge behind large framed glasses. Little red riding hood, pops into my head
:
all the better to see you with my dear
, I expect her to say. With a slight internal chuckle, I realise what a horror most children’s nursery stories actually are.

“Everything’s fine
Mother.” Keith sounds unsure of himself, frightened even, as the elderly woman continues to climb. His grip on me tightens. For a moment, as the stairs take her to the far end of the landing, she goes out of view. His grip on me relaxes, though not enough for me to break free. He immediately tenses again, as she appears in the doorway.

“You his mum?” Pete enquires, turning to face her, his voice held low, as if too much volume might push this thing over the edge, as if his voice could be the
final flake that starts an avalanche of destruction, or the spark to a box of tinder, or the knife to the weakened sucker of a vine tendril.

I hear the subtleties in Pete’s words too: the implied: if you are then do something about the crazy bastard you’ve spawned.

The old woman – another lie, if it is his mum – moves past Pete as if she’s not even heard him speak. “No. I’m Mrs Sewell,” she finally answers, as she comes to a pause between Pete and Steve, as if she hasn’t the energy for speech and simultaneous movement. “His mum passed on three years back.”

Mrs
Sewell places a hand on Steve’s forearm as she takes another tentative step forward. Is it to support herself or to push Steve back? Whatever, Keith tightens his grip and everything goes green as he moves the broken glass closer to my face. I can feel the tension in his body, a tremble in his muscles. I feel pressure against my cheek, the hard, sharp edge of the glass. I hold my breath, desperately trying to suck myself inwards, my eye fixed on the cutting shards. Sharp edges. Disfiguring edges. Sharp life-ending edges.

“Why don’t you let that girl go, Keith
?”

I’m too focussed on the glass to see if Mrs
Sewell is still approaching, but I can feel Keith squeezing me tighter, and I know that whatever it is that she’s doing, Keith doesn’t like it. I try to control my breathing and my movement, not wanting to so much as flinch in case it causes a cut. Keith drags me across the pillow and I feel the chill of heat against my cheekbone. It stings. I feel blood trickling like a tear down my face.

“I didn’t do anything wrong
Mummy,” Keith whimpers, his voice sounding to be on the verge of crying. “She said I could touch. Please don’t tie my hands.”

His grip on me has relaxed slightly, and I feel almost that I could, if I acted quickly enough, get away from him, but then he draws me tight again with such aggression that it’s like he’s read my mind. His voice turns aggressive
also. “F
uck off, bitch!”
he yells. “I already killed you, once, mother. I’ll kill you again if I have too.”

He’s totally lost it. Oh, fuck. He’s going to kill me, I just know it.

“Come on, now, Keith.” My eyes flick to the voice of Mrs Sewell. The old woman hasn’t come any closer. Her hand is still rested on Steve’s forearm. She looks down to the floor slightly behind herself. “Look now, see, you’re upsetting Mrs Seaton.”

I let my eye fall to the spot Mrs
Sewell seemed to be looking at and hear the cat mew. The bed blocks my view, but I expect it to leap onto the bed any moment, at least I hope it will. With sudden clarity of mind, I begin formulating plans, thinking of likely scenarios. Maybe Keith will turn his attention to the cat. If so, I’ll break free, roll off of the bed. I might get cut as he lashes out, but it’ll be my arm or my back. It’ll give Steve the moments he needs to lunge forward. I could kick out at the cat. No. That might anger him.

Steve beats me to it. He reaches down and scoops the cat from the floor. Pete takes a quick step forward, his forward thinking only just quick enough to stop the old woman from falling.

“Let her go,” Steve demands, his voice firm but remarkably calm, considering.

I feel Keith alternate between holding me firmly and loosening his grip, as if considering releasi
ng me and grasping for the cat.

“Put her
down,” Keith says. “You’re... Y-You’re hurting her. She doesn’t like it.”

“Hurting it? I’ll fucking kill it if you don’t let Sally go.”

“Put her down. She doesn’t like being held tight.”

“Keith, let the young lady go. Then he’ll give Mrs Seaton to you.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her Mum. She told me I could touch. I didn’t like the cardboard. I didn’t want to go under. She made me... This way up. This way up. Ya... Ya, tie him in yonder tree. I didn’t make her. I didn’t. You won’t bleach me will you? Not the soap, please. I didn’t lie. Not the soap.”

“No, dear
, I won’t do any of those things.” Mrs Sewell turns back to face Pete. “I’m not his mum.”

Pete shrugs his shoulders. “He thinks you are,” Pete whispers. Pete could have shouted it for all the difference it would have made. Keith seems oblivious to
all that is happening in the room. “Maybe you ought to let him carry on thinking so,” Pete suggests.

“She said you could touch, didn’t she little Keith?
Heather said so, led us down the garden path. Under the card sheeting, she said. This way up.
Knickers. Knees. And torn cabbage leaves
. We didn’t lie and we didn’t spy.
Spy-ers are next to liars.
She only started screaming when her mum came down the garden. Her mum came, calling her for tea.
My mum’ll go mad
, she said, and started screaming. She told me to do it.
Knickers. Knees. And torn cabbage leaves
. Hang him in yonder tree. Heather said I had to do it. She didn’t want a baby. Little Keith didn’t want to. I didn’t. Don’t tie my wrists.”

“Let her go, you crazy fuck.”

Shut up, Steve, I silently scream. That isn’t going to help. He isn’t here right now, can’t you tell. He’s a young boy of his own past, pleading for his cruel mother not to punish him too harshly. He’s not listening to you at the moment. You don’t even exist, not at present. Maybe I don’t either; maybe, in his mind, I’m Heather.

“Keith, do as
Mummy says. Let go of the little girl. You’re frightening her.”

The shift in his posture, the grip on my throat, lets me know that the persona of the adult
Keith is back. “Go to bed Mother.”

The forceful command, while showing that the adult Keith is back, also demonstrates that he is not fully rational. He thinks Mrs
Sewell is his mum, so how can he be. The panic in his voice that came when Steve snatched Mrs Seaton is no longer present. I realise then that this is a third Keith, one I have not seen before. This is the Keith that decided he was no longer going to take any crap from his mother.

“And you, you put Mrs Seaton down,” this commanding Keith shouts. “Put her down now, or I’ll slice this bitch’s face right off the bone.”

Put her down Steve, I plead with my eyes, and look on as Steve raises the cat aloft, his hand under its chest, his free hand hovering over its head, making out as if to twist its neck.

“I’ll kill it, if you don’t let her go.”

Keith’s grip tightens on my neck. I fix my eyes on Steve’s; open them wide with pleading. The glass feels cold as it slides from my cheek to the vulnerable flesh under my jaw. Heat blooms in its wake, as a drop of blood trickles and splashes onto my shoulder. Another drop soon follows. This time I’ve been cut deeper. I imagined a deep gash, a scar if I survive, which will forever remind me how close I came to death.

The cat squeals and draws my focus back into the room. I see Steve’s hand closing, turning. Its legs claw at his arms leaving angry red tracks. Keith slackens his grip slightly. Steve has his best poker face on, and I’m the stake. It’s my best chance yet, while Keith’s distracted, before he raises his
bet. Squirming without trying to make it too obvious, I half escape his grasp, but it isn’t enough. He pulls me back into his chest.

“
Let her go!” Steve snarls. “I’ll break the fucker’s neck.”

“No.”

He’s more distracted this time. I sink my teeth into Keith’s hand. As I planned to earlier, I roll off the bed. Slipping over the edge, thinking I’ve got away, I feel his grip on my ankle. The first thought in my mind: not death, not injury, but how exposed I am. The wispy dress is as useless as damp tissue. How can I worry about such a thing in this situation, and yet all I can think is cover your self up woman. I glance at Pete. He’s averted his eyes. I twist trying to get my leg free from Keith’s grasp.

Steve steps forward
, the cat in his hand, but Keith swipes the broken glass like a sword. Steve then throws the cat at Keith. It screeches as it twists in mid air. In panic the cat lashes wildly with its claws. Finally I break free as Keith lets go to protect himself from the cat’s fury. I dart behind Steve, as he rushes forward and kicks Keith’s forearm, dislodging the glass weapon from his hand.

CHAPTER
39

Unsteadily
, I cross the floor, heading for the bathroom, brushing down the useless garment I’m wearing. I turn to see Keith roll into a ball, his thumb deep in his mouth being sucked like a baby’s. Pete hands me my clothes. Without looking down I take them, hold the jeans and top in a ball against my abdomen. Steve steps forward, his fist already raised. He grabs Keith’s hair, lifting up his head. Keith’s thumb drops from his mouth, dragging with it a string of saliva. His eyes, gushing with tears, look at me with longing.

“Sally, come back,” he manages between sobs, saliva dribbling down his chin. “Mummy,” he pleads, turning his eyes on Mrs
Sewell. “Mummy, he took my Sally.”

The commanding, dominant Keith has gone. His voice is a mix of the Keith I know and the child of his tormented past. Part of me wants Steve to smash Keith’s face in, but away from the false safety of the ledge, fighting now, climbing with Steve’s supporting strength, a sense of pity
overwhelms me.

“Don’t Steve
,” I say.

Steve turns to look at me. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t nod. I s
ee acknowledgement in his eyes.

“He’s sick
,” I say “Don’t hit him.” I have a feeling that Steve wasn’t going to, even before I asked him not to.

Steve lets go of Keith and looks around the room with an expression of puzzlement, as if he has only just noticed its similarity to the one he once shared with me. The one I have already determined he wi
ll share again, if he wants to.

When I return from the bathroom Steve and Pete are waiting like two sentries at either side of the bedroom door. Mrs
Sewell is sitting on the bed. Keith is curled up beside her. She strokes his hair and hums a melody of comfort, as a mother would to an upset child. Keith shudders with the occasional sob.

“It’s alright
, Mrs Sewell’s here. Mrs Sewell will make it all better.”

Mrs Seaton hops onto the bed, steps into the centre of Keith’s
foetal arc, and coils herself into a comfortable position. The situation looks too natural to have not occurred before. I feel Mrs Sewell has been here before, perhaps the circumstances were less violent, but Keith would have been in equal need of comfort. Many years ago, when Keith was a young boy, Mrs Sewell must have comforted him in this way. Rather than feel anger towards Keith, I find myself feeling anger at the mother that caused him to be this way. But then she must have been sick too. Every one needs a supporting wall. I determine that I’m going to keep mine.

“Mrs Seaton’s come to see you look.” Mrs
Sewell continues to brush Keith’s hair with the flat of her hand as she looks up at us. “I think it’d be best if you all went now.”

“We ought to call the police, mate.”

Before Steve can answer Pete’s suggestion, I say, “Just take me home, Steve.”

I look at Keith. I look at the blood on the sheet, most of it Keith’s. The cuts on my legs, I discovered in the bathroom, turned out to be mere scratches from his toenails. The glass must have dislodged in the struggle, making him bleed more profusely. Getting the police
involved only means more pain.

Finally I turn my eyes to Mrs
Sewell. “Will you be alright with him?”

“I’ll look after
Keith.” She nods, looks down at the pathetic figure, and then turns her large eyes back to me. “This is just like when his mum died. I’ll get the doctor round in the morning, put him back on the tablets.”

“The police need to be told,” Pete says, to me, not Steve. “Not for him to get into bother, but to make sure he gets the help he needs. So this doesn’t happen to anybody else.”

I nod.

“I’ll stay here,” Pete says, to Steve this time. “You take Sally home. The police can go and see her there if they want. Besides, you can tell her
about the other stuff on the way.”

The
other stuff, I think. What other stuff? I curl an arm around Steve’s middle and draw myself into him. “I’ve been a fool Steve,” I say, looking up into his eyes as he pulls me closer, his hand firm on my shoulder.

“It really was just a kiss,” he says, easing me away slightly, turning me to face him head on. “And she initi
ated it, not me. And them photos of me with the woman, they’re fakes.”

“I know
; I’ve already gathered that much. Look.” I point to the walls, at the framed prints. “That’s from our holiday in Florence. Keith did them, didn’t he?”

“No,
he didn’t. I’ll tell you on the way home.” Steve smiles as he nods at the Florence picture. “We should, perhaps go back there?” The smile I return broadens as he winks. “See if we can’t make a more permanent memory?”

“Yes. But just take me home for now.”

Pete is circling the room, gathering the pictures of me, pictures where Keith’s head is sitting upon Steve’s shoulders. He follows as we descend the stairs in silence. I hear Keith say to Mrs Sewell, “She will be back Mum, won’t she?”

“Course she will, love. Who wouldn’t want a pretty room like this?”

Me for one, I think, as we pass through the broken door, out into the cold morning air. The replica to that room, the one back at my own house, was not decorated for sharing. It was all me; it was all my own taste. In decorating it the way I did, I now realise, I had already been pushing Steve away. Out on the street, I glance over my shoulder, at the pink blush of light radiating from the window, the one lit window in a street-full of old terraced housing. The curtain is slightly drawn and a silhouette looks out.

“I want to re-decorate,” I say.

“Okay,” Steve agrees as we cross the street.

“So, where did the photo
s of you come from, if not Keith?”

“Pete’s boss did them.”

“What? Why?”

“Kerry was blackmailing him. Pete realised he was the only person who could have done it, and when Pete confronted him
over the phone, he confessed. She came across him in a gay bar, apparently, threatened to tell his wife. She told me and Pete she only did it to protect you.”

I wrap my arm tight around Steve’s waist. A thin
ribbon of crimson on the far horizon marks the start of a new day. “I love you, Steve,” I say, for the first time in my life truly feeling the emotion behind the words.

“I love you
too,” he says. “I always have.”

It’s the first time he’s actuall
y said it and I know it’s true. I always have.

“Oh! Kerry says to tell you that she’s sorry
about the other thing as well.”

I squeeze Steve’s hand, look
up at him and can’t help but smile. “You don’t mind if she lives with us for a while do you? Until she gets herself sorted.”

“Guess not, if that’s what you want. What’s she sorry for, anyway?”

“For not being perfect.”