Gary McMahon: Nightsiders

“Who the hell are those people? And why did you attack that man? That’s not like you; you’re not a fighter.” She turned to him at last, her face soft and blurred by emotion. “He wanted you to hit him. You do realize that, don’t you? He was pushing you into it, and you responded exactly how he wanted you to.”

Robert looked down at his hands, at the frayed bedsheets. “I know. It’s just…I never want to fail you again. I need to protect you, and the kids, too.” He kept his head down, closed his eyes.

Her hand slipped into his, clasping it tightly. There should have been warmth there, in her touch, but all he felt was cold. A distance had crept between them, replacing the bond they had once shared. The attack back in London had wounded their relationship in ways that were only now becoming clear. The rape and beating had hurt so much more than her body; even the internal scars she carried were nothing compared to the wounds that had developed in their marriage.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely audible, less than a whisper. “This all feels so strange…like a bad dream.”

Robert looked up, at the side of her face. He could see the faint scars on her cheek, the pits and scratches were the attacker had cut her as he smashed his fist into her features. His gaze followed the crooked line of her nose—once as smooth and linear as a mountain slope—and down to her lips. She was his wife, but different; the attack had robbed her of something indefinable.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. All he could muster. He hoped it might just be enough.

Her grip on his hand tightened. Relaxed. Tightened again. At last he felt a familiar warmth.

“I’m hungry, but I also feel sick.” She smiled, her eyes shining at last. “What do you suggest?” Her hand travelled along his forearm, rubbing his skin. She leaned into him, her mouth opening, the lips parting and the tip of her tongue poking out to point at him.

“I don’t think it’s food I’m hungry for.”

The switch in her mood shocked him, but he was used to these extremes of emotion. Ever since the attack, she’d become unpredictable. He could never judge what she might do.

They embraced clumsily, like inexperienced lovers. Robert realized they had not made love for months, and the last time had been a cold, passionless fuck, as if Sarah were simply trying to reclaim her sexuality after the attack and was using him as a sex toy.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, just before her lips mashed against his mouth. It was all the answer he needed.

They pulled aside their clothing, not even bothering to undress. The heat of the moment carried them along, and it was as if they both realized they needed to act quickly, before it burned itself out.

He slipped inside her, making her gasp. She bit his ear; her tongue left a dab of saliva on his earlobe. The unreality of their current situation receded, replaced by the solidity of their relationship. Despite the damage, it was fundamentally sound.

It took a few moments to find their rhythm, but finally it happened. Robert felt distanced from the act, as if he were watching it on a screen—hotel pornography raised to the nth degree. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and decided it did not really matter if he looked into Sarah’s face or at the back of his own eyelids because her eyes were screwed tightly shut anyway. She whispered into the side of his neck, but he could not make out the words. It was her private language, a glossolalia of past hurts, and he wasn’t meant to decipher the message. All he had to do was accept what was happening.

Sarah’s legs tightened around his waist as she approached orgasm. He was a long distance from his own climax, but realized this was not about him, nor about her. It was about retaking control yet at the same time trying to lose themselves in the moment, and make it more real than anything else around them.

Sarah yelled, calling his name. He thrust into her, and kept going until she began to pull at his arms and shoulders. Finally, he reached his own shuddery climax and rolled off her, coming to rest on his back. The mattress was lumpy, but still it provided enough comfort.

Sarah was panting, breathless. Her hand groped for his across the sheets.

“I love you,” he said. She did not answer.

They were showered and changed by the time the children arrived back from their expedition. Molly burst into the room first, a look of irritation on her face.

“Tell him to stop winding me up!” she cried, slamming the door in her brother’s face.

“Come on, Connor. What’s all this about?” Robert moved across the room, giving Sarah’s hand a squeeze as he passed her: she looked up from her place in the chair by the window and gave him a distracted smile.

“Nothing, Dad. I’m just telling her about Sawney Bean, and the way his family would eat strangers when they came to town. And Leatherface, from those chain-saw films.” He grinned, enjoying his sister’s discomfort.

Molly sat heavily on the bed, drawing up her legs and propping her chin on her fists.

“Give me a break, eh?” Robert closed the door. “Okay, who’s for a little late lunch? I’m sure we can get something from a nearby café.”

“There’s a burger bar along the road…” Molly’s mood suddenly lifted, and she almost leapt to her feet.

“Yeah, please?” Connor grabbed Robert’s arm, squeezing it.

“Okay, we can have burgers just this once.” Sarah stood and went to Robert’s side, linking his arm with her own. It felt good; it felt right. For the first time in a very long time, they were as close as he thought a family should be.

“Where have you two been, anyway? Surely there’s nothing too exciting around here?”

Connor and Molly exchanged a glance Robert could not read, and then they both smiled. “Oh, nowhere. Just around,” said his daughter, and he knew in that instant she was lying, or at least holding back the truth.

Burger Byte was located on a corner not far from the hotel entrance. Molly led them there, her pace hurried and her long, dark hair trailing behind her as she jogged along the footpath. She reached the café first and stood in the doorway, urging the rest of the family to follow. Connor hung back, fiddling, as usual, with his PSP. His face was bathed in a greenish light that seemed, to Robert in that moment, like a harbinger of bad tidings.

They went inside and ordered burgers, chips and fizzy pop. Sarah had a side salad and a mineral water. The modernity of the place took Robert by surprise: along the side walls were computer terminals bolted to metal brackets. Only a few of these were occupied, and of the people who sat in the plastic chairs checking email accounts and surfing the Net for online baubles and trinkets, not one of them looked over the age of thirty and they all had coffee cups resting by their machines. The era of cyberspace had come limping into Battle, and its acolytes were made up of the young and the bored and the jobless.

Midway through their meal, Sergeant McMahon walked in. He nodded at Robert and said hello to Sarah. The children eyed him with suspicion; Molly acted openly hostile.

“Please, sit down,” said Robert, hoping for some positive news.

“Let me speak before you even think about asking any questions,” said the sergeant, taking off his helmet and placing it on the low, round table. “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.” The man fidgeted in his seat, clearly ill at ease. His cheeks held the faintest trace of red.

“Go on.” Robert put down his half-eaten burger, finally admitting it tasted like shit, and not even real shit—just some synthetic substitute. “We’re listening.”