Imperfect Strangers (9 page)

What an idiot to think she had no man in her life, just because she had a picture of a dog and not a boyfriend on her desk.

Idiot. Whodjathinkyar?

But wait!

She looks angry, angry and not at all pleased to have the man by her side. In fact she looks like she’s trying to outpace him. Whoever he is, boyfriend or not, he isn’t welcome.

“Piss off, Steve,” I hear her shout. I never thought to hear such a word pass her lips. I’m rather shocked, but it at least confirms that she is angry
with the man:
Steve
, apparently.

I have a feeling that things are going to work out just fine. Steve lurches forward and I gasp with fright as he grabs Sally’s arm and swings her round to face him. Her coat almost falls from her bag, but she catches it with her free hand and it sweeps around her like a matador’s cape. I should do something. She stands before Steve with her head held high, like she is about to put an end to a bull. I imagine the sound of castanets, the stamp of f
lamenco, the snort of the bull.

Sally and I could take a trip. Maybe go to Spain.

“Let go,” she says, much more calmly than I would have expected. He doesn’t, and she reaffirms the demand, more forcefully. “I said, let go.”

Even from the safety of my corner, I shrink at her imperative. The man before her though, Steve, he stands defiantly, still gripping her arm. They are both doing the very thing I can’t.

“Sal, how many times do I have to tell you? It was just a kiss.”

It seems
then that he was her boyfriend but isn’t anymore because of kissing some other woman. What a fool, to have the love of a girl like Sally and throw it away.

“You. Are. Hurting. My. Arm.”

Hurting
! She sounds a little troubled now. I should go over there. That wasn’t the plan though. Maybe it would be better than the plan. I don’t know.

“Sal, I was drunk. It was just a kiss.”

“Let. Go. Of. My. Arm. Ow! You bastard, that really hurt.”

“You did it yourself, stop pulling away, and listen.”

Right, she must be in real pain to have said a word like that. Something comes over me, and for the first time in my life, striding across the tarmac, I know what they mean by red-mist.

“Steve, let go and I’ll–”

“L– L–” Damn. Concentrate “Let go of her. L– Leave her alone, Sh– She, sh– she...”

Standing in front of this Steve
, I suddenly feel less of a man than usual, smaller still when Sally and Steve wrench their eyes from each other and turn them on me. It had been quickly formed, as changes of plan usually are, but it had seemed a good idea to go to Sally’s rescue.

“Push off mate!”

The word
mate
, is drawn longer
than any monosyllable has a right to be drawn, not a wordsnake, but a long-sword of a word sliding from its scabbard, its steel edge ringing with metallic-menace. I’m not the most intuitive, but even I can tell the word has a less than subtle implication.
F off
, it says,
before I smash your teeth in.
But I can’t. I’ve made a commitment now; I can’t have Sally see me back down.

“She said you’re hur-hurting her.”

“I’ve warned you Maaaayyte!”

“It’s alright Keith. I’m al
l right. Just go.”

Sally smiles at me as she says my name. The hairs on my arms prickle
, and the thrill of it trembles deep within me. My adrenaline surges, and I just know that anything is possible. Mothers fuelled by adrenaline have lifted cars to save their children, so why shouldn’t I take this Steve on? He will probably half kill me, but I don’t care, not if I’m protecting Sally. Kick me the length of the street if you like. I’ve had worse.

Steve looks
to be angrier with Sally than at me though. His upper lip curls with something like revulsion as he looks into her eyes. “What? You know this clown?” He laughs, but it’s not a laugh that says something is funny, and now isn’t the time for me to work out what it signifies.

“From work, that’s all. He’s the night-security guard.”

Steve lets go of Sally with such force that she staggers. He steps up to me then, with bull-like menace – I half expect him to stamp and scrape the ground with his foot. He shoves me on the shoulder. “Push off,” he demands, turning to face Sally, sideways on to me.

Still staggering from his shove, I reach into my bag, pull out
Father’s fishing flask and wave it like a club.

“Steve, stop it,” Sally pleads as he looks back at me. She looks extremely worried which does little to boost my confidence.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement, so I answer by lifting my arm higher to show him I mean business. I’m not kidding; I’m quite serious.

Snorting with contempt, Steve advances, slamming my shoulder with the flat of his hand, forcing me to back-step along the pavement. “You fuckin’ her?” I have no answer to that, but he doesn’t wait for one and swivels back to face Sally, “You doin’ him
? This the type of man you mean, is it? Prefer this type to me? Thought you’d got taste.”

“I have.”

“Really?”

“
Yes. That’s why I’ve done with you.”

He’s underestimated my resolve, and
, knowing I won’t get a better chance, I strike out with the flask. The aim is surprisingly accurate. But time seems to slow as it heads for the back of Steve’s skull. Did I hold back? Time can’t actually slow, so I must have. Perhaps I hesitated. Whatever, it’s given Steve the opportunity to turn, to react, and to block the swipe with his forearm. The flask clatters to the ground as I stumble back. I slip on the kerb edge, and my ankle twists with a sharp stabbing pain, and I crash to the ground like the useless lummox that mother always said I was. I’m sitting in a gutter brimming with the compost of wet-leaf-mould, and for all the spirit I can muster I may as well be dead. Bitter wetness soaks into my trousers, and I can only watch, a lump in my throat, as Steve raises his foot and brings it crashing down onto Father’s flask. He then launches his foot into my gut. I can’t breathe, and it hurts something awful, but not as much as the sight of father’s ruptured flask.

Maybe it’s the upset, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen as I struggle to draw breath
, but everything before me seems to be one swirling smudge of mixing colour. Lungs tight. Sally’s yelling something, but I can’t make out the words. Rolling onto my knees. I try to draw air. My lungs refuse to expand and manage to suck no more than small gulps. Maybe I will die. Good, I think, after failing so miserably in front of Sally. Good, as long as it’s quick. Snap, like an overwound spring. Better that than to uncoil slowly, miserably, without having her to love.

The swirling mass slows to a blurry image
, and I’m aware of Sally crouching on the ground, shielding me. “
He’s just a friend
,” she screams. “Leave him alone.”

“Oh, sod it,” Steve shouts back at her, globs of spit flying with his words. “You’re not worth it.”

Yes she is. If you really think she isn’t, then you’re a fool.

He pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket, separates one from the rest, and throws it to the pavement before turning and storming down the avenue.

“Put my stuff in a taxi,” he shouts back. He doesn’t even turn his head for one last look at her. “Send it to Pete’s.”

Were I him
I wouldn’t have given up so easy.

CHAPTER
12

“You okay, Keith?” I ask, still not quite believing he curled into the
foetal position and put his thumb in his mouth when Steve kicked him. I cup a hand under his elbow as he gets to his feet, and sort of cringe when I realise there’s even less flesh on him than I’d thought. He’s struggling to draw breath and doesn’t answer. Rather than ask him again, I give him a moment as I watch Steve tramping down the avenue. What the hell happened? I had been about to tell Steve,
let go and I’ll give you ten minutes
. Perhaps I would have even invited him back for a coffee, what a mistake that would have been. I think Keith may have just saved me from myself.

“I’m b- better... than... my… f- flask.”

Still finding it difficult to draw breath, Keith indicates the twisted casing, between sucks of air. The regular lines and squares of its tartan pattern now converge into a sharp dent. It’s ruined, without a doubt, but who has a tartan-patterned flask these days anyway? The cup that popped off when Steve crushed it is yellowed with age, as is the lid; the exposed metal top of the flask is flecked with rust. You’d risk lockjaw just touching it.

“Shame,” I lie. “It looked nice.”

I realise I’m grimacing while looking at the smudge of leaf slime on Keith’s knee. I think there’s also an ochre-coloured smear of dog-doo on the hem.

“Sor
ry.”

What’s he apologising for, me not liking the look of the dirt on his trousers or
for the fact that he appeared from nowhere like some sort of phantom?

“Oh, no problem, Keith.” I don’t know what I’m saying
no problem
too, any more than I know what he apologised for. Cripes, this feels awkward. Maybe I should thank him, after all his heart was in the right place. Instead, I give him a half-hearted smile and hand him a tissue from my bag to wipe away the mess.

“Not much of a weapon, was it?” I laugh
self-consciously. It must be infectious because Keith laughs too, before blowing his nose on the tissue and thrusting it in his pocket.

“I meant for you to..
. Oh, never mind.”

Keith picks up the flask and shakes from it a samba mix of sloshing broken gl
ass.

“Did you mean it?” he asks me.

“Mean what?”

“What you said…
About me being a friend?”

I don’t respond, not straight away, which I realise is an answer in itself. I mean, if you consider someone a friend and they ask you right out, you don’t need to think about it do you? The breeze robs reddish leaves from the tree overhead, and as they float down in the air between us I feel him study my face. Could I even consider being a friend to somebody like him? What a bitch
I must be to even ask myself the question. He begins to smile, broadly. His teeth are crossed slightly: Snaggle-toothed: kind of cute, in a way. Am I really so shallow? No, I’m not; I refuse to be.

“Er, I guess,” I say, way to
o late to sound genuine. “So... You on your way to work? You’re not going to be late are you?”

The light is fading, and Keith glances at his watch. “Maybe? I’ve never been late for work. Oh, once I was. That w-wasn’t my fault, though, n-not really. Arthur, he-he he’s always late. Something about his wife being ill. So he can-
can cover for me for once.”

Keith looks up into the Park, and I watch as he watches a squirrel bound across the entrance. “I like to watch the squirrels, too.” It’s true, of course
, but I only tell Keith because of the awkward silence that’s once more enveloped us.

“I could walk you. Just in
c-case. If he comes back, I m-mean.”

No! I yell, thankfully in my head. Verbally I don’t respond at all and look up into the park at the cavorting squirrels. He silently stands there
, beside me, a little too close, and I don’t know whether to turn and look at him or keep watching the squirrels and hope he will get the message and leave.

“I don’t want to make you late for work. And Steve’ll not hurt me. Not really. Even if he does come back, that is. Which I don’t think he will. I think he got the message.”

“Ten minutes won’t hurt.”

Christ, what am I supposed to say now, other than something completely rude like,
sod off Keith your starting to creep me out
.

Hoping he’ll take the hint, I just start to walk, which Keith seemingly takes to mean:
Yes, Keith, I’d love you to walk me home. Come in for a coffee if you like
, because he falls into step with me. Actually, he’s a full half of a step behind me, which is kind of worse than if he were right by my side.
That’s not true though, it turns out, because with a couple of big steps he’s right there in my side vision, and I’m sure his arm comes out as if he’s going to take hold of my hand. It might look obvious, but I don’t care; I pull my hand out of reach and pretend to be adjusting the way my coat is hanging from my bag. He reaches into his coat pocket, and takes out the tissue to blow his nose. Phew, I got it wrong.

“You live round here then?” I ask, fixing my eyes on an imaginary far distant horizon.

“No. I, er. I just go this way sometimes. I catch the bus, part of the way, but I get off earlier than I need to, because I like to walk through the park…”

He stops speaking in a way that makes me think he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t. I’m just about to fill the silence with a random comment when he suddenly
revs up with a fresh string of words.

“
The way they go up and down when they run reminds me of waves,” he blurts.

What’s he on about? “The way
what
goes up and down?” Crap, that sounded a bit harsh.

“The squir-
r-r. The squir-r-r...”

“Squirrels?”

“Yes. You said you like to w-watch them.”

Now I feel really bad. I read somewhere that stammerers,
is that right?
People that stammer don’t like you to finish words for them. And it was likely my harsh tone that made him nervous. And I call Kerry a bitch.

“It looks like waves, w-when they run.” Keith makes a wave-like motion with his hand and smiles at me
with his crossed teeth, like I’ve nothing at all to feel bad about, which sort of makes me feel ten times worse.

“Yes, I suppose they do look a bit like waves.
” And they do, I think, quite impressed with the observation. “Surprised I’ve not bumped into you before. If you often go through the park, I mean.”

I had thought that was the start of a conversation that would take us less awkwardly to my door, but Keith’s gone silent again.

“Today’s my birthday!” he blurts with sudden enthusiasm, throwing the words at me, as if delivering the answer to a difficult question that he’s been pondering for some time.

“Oh! Right..
. Many happy returns, and all that.” Strangely random. “Do anything special?” I questioningly twist my mouth as though I’m pushing at a toffee stuck on a rear molar. My ugly question face, Steve calls it, quickly followed by,
joke
, no really I love it, the way your nose scrunches and all. We’re crossing the junction closest to the park’s entrance now, and I deliberately slow my pace.

“Not really, no,” Keith continues, turning and taking a step back towards me. “Started a jigsaw, but I didn’t get much of it completed.”

I turn my head slowly towards him, expecting to see his cheeks spread with an ironic grin. Nothing. Deadpan. He’s serious, and I hope that the pity doesn’t show in my eyes.

“Well, never mind.” I smile, but it’s only a slight smile, the kind of smile I’d give when told someone is really ill but is making the most of the time they have left. “S’pose you’ll go out with friends at the weekend?”

Keith drags his foot through a pile of leaves. I watch them tumble over each other and one gets trapped under the tongue of his right shoe. He inhales deeply, a kind of sigh in reverse. A musty mushroom smell rises from the lower leaves that have rotted quickly in the absence of light. He bends to take the leaf from his shoe and drops it to the pile at his feet and looks for what seems an age at the spot where it lands. “No,” he finally answers.

“Oh...!”

Another silence follows, a long one that sticks like glue.

“Well, this’ll do I s’pose.” I manage to force a smile, but my lips kind of bunch into a half grimace. “I live just down there, where the houses back onto the park.”

“It’s nice isn’t it, w-walking through the park?”

“Ye-es
s.” I don’t seem to be able to let go of the word. “The park is nice...”

Keith looks toward the park gates. Go on then, I urge, on your way. I look at my house, longingly
, over my shoulder. I just want to be in there, shoes kicked off, cuddling a cup of coffee, feet up on the sofa: my ritualistic routine after a hard day at work.

“Only I’m on my own see, since mum died.” He looks down and shuffles the pile of leaves.

When he looks up our eyes snag. “Would you like to borrow a flask?” It’s a gesture born of guilt, but all the same. I tip my head in the direction of my house. “Least I can do,” being as my ex smashed yours.”
To be honest it looked fit for the trash anyway
.

Keith
nods, then with a look of regret tosses the damaged flask into a nearby bin and follows me. The gesture must have made me feel good about myself, because suddenly I feel less awkward, lighter on my feet even. You’ve put a spring in your step, I tell myself.

“So, you live alone, Keith?”

“There’s Mrs Seaton, but she goes out in the day... when I’m in bed.”

No stammer. It must get worse when he’s nervous. “S’pect she gets lonely, eh? Does she visit friends?”

“Er... Mrs Sewell next door. She has lunch with her sometimes. Especially on Fridays, if she’s having fish. Mostly though she passes her day sitting on the pavement, singing.”

“Really?” When
Keith glances across, I realise my eyebrows have risen, matching the elevated pitch of my voice.

“That’s why I make her go
out.”

“You make her go out
?”

“Well I have to. No choice, really. If I don’t she sits on the landing and sings.”

“Does she?”

“Yes. And I can’t get any sleep.”

“And then she sits on the pavement and sings?”

“Mostly, she does that, yes.”

“Well, she’s not very considerate, is she? What with you working nights and all. Sounds to me like she does it on purpose.”

Keith rolls his lower lip. A contemplative furrow forms on his brow as if he’s confused. “Still, kicking her out al
l day seems a bit harsh, too... Then again, if she won’t let you sleep I suppose you have little choice. Have you tried talking to her about it?”

Keith takes a moment to answer as if he’s giving my suggestion serious t
hought. “I don’t think it would–”

Don’t go silent again, I want to say, but I don’t want to make him nervous again. He hasn’t stammered for ages now so he must be feeling more comfortable, and that makes me feel more comfortable. “It would what?” In attempting to be mild, I realise that I spoke
with the tone of voice a nursery school teacher would adopt when addressing a three year old.

“It wasn’t a problem when mum was alive. They kept each other company.”

Good, he hasn’t even noticed. “Good friends were they?”

“
I suppose they were.”

“All the same..
.” I realise a note of pity has filtered into my voice, which doesn’t seem to be necessary because Keith doesn’t seem to be bothered about living with this old lady. “Now your mum’s passed away you shouldn’t really feel obliged to have your mum’s companion living with you.”

“I shouldn’t?”

“No. You ought to get out Keith.” He looks at me as if I’ve not finished my sentence, a kind of raised eyebrow expression that says,
and
? “You should get yourself a life. Not sit in with this Mrs Seaton of a night doing jigsaws.”

“I did think of putting her in a shelter,
when mother first, you know... passed on. But I kind of got used to having her around.”

“Sheltered accommodation! Cripes. How old is she?”

“Not sure.” In deep thought for a moment, he looks skyward and rubs at his temple. Flakes of dandruff fall to his shoulder and stand in stark contrast to the stiff black material of his uniform jacket. “She must be getting on. She’s getting a lot of grey hair lately. Especially on her chin.”

I have to turn away and shield my mouth. He must be able to tell I’m smi
rking despite only seeing the side of my face. When I finally manage to control myself, I lower my hand and laughingly try to cover it up by nodding at my house: a newly built terrace of which I am tremendously proud – wonderful view of the park from the back.

I believe a house says a lot about the person who lives there. I like to think mine reflects who I am anyway. The bricks are clean, sharp-edged, with pastel-grey mortar. The small garden has a low wall topped with a white picket fence lending it a quaint-cottage feel. The small square of ground between the fence and the house is covered with white quartz (representing snow) that sparkles under the illumination of a small lam
ppost that reminds me of one of my favourite childhood stories.