Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

“No thanks.” Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

“I really am trying my best, you know. I want you back… I want us back together, with the baby. It’s the only life I see ahead of me, the only viable option. If I don’t have that, I have nothing.”

Her eyes gleamed beneath the kitchen lights. He wasn’t sure if she was crying or if the bulbs were too bright.

“I am trying.” It seemed pathetic that this was all he had: a promise, one that was only partially true. Words, empty reassurances, like pleading for forgiveness. He felt the Crawl upon his flesh, making him shudder. His skin prickled, his shoulders began to tense. He thought of those black leaves on the ground outside, a charred pathway to oblivion.

“Eat up,” she said, picking up her spoon. “It’ll go cold.”

Royle couldn’t help reading too much into her statement. Did she simply mean the casserole, or her love for him? Might that also go cold if he couldn’t pull himself together in time? Was she trying to say that there was a finite time span on this separation, and if they couldn’t get past these current obstacles he would lose her forever? Her and the baby…

He ate his casserole, but it was tasteless now.

After dinner he washed the dishes and she dried and put them away. They stood side by side at the sink, their hips occasionally touching, their hands moving in some kind of pattern designed to achieve a common goal.

“We could have used the dishwasher, you know.”

He glanced sideways, catching her profile. She was smiling.

“This is better,” he said. “This is much better.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

When the dishes had been put away, they went back into the living room and sat together on the sofa. He had a glass of orange juice and she was drinking herbal tea. The television was on; they stared at the screen without watching what was playing. Some old film: Paul Newman and Natalie Wood.

Royle wanted to reach out his hand and place it on her thigh, but it was too soon for such an intimate gesture. Instead he tried to be content with the minimal contact: thighs touching, breath mingling, feet resting side by side on the same low footstool.

“Oh…”

He turned, putting down his glass. “What’s wrong?”

Her face looked shiny, as if she were sweating. Her eyes were huge, glowing. “I think… I think baby’s kicking.” She grinned.

“You said it had been restless all day.”

“Yes, I did. Maybe excited about you coming…” She was still smiling, but he could tell that she was in pain.

“What can I do?” He swivelled his body on the sofa, ready to get up and fetch whatever it was she needed.

“Give me your hand.”

He wasn’t expecting that; he needed an errand to run, a task to perform. He always worked better if he had a specific job to do, a problem to solve.

“Come on.” She reached out and opened her fingers.

He slipped his hand into hers, shaking, feeling as if this was a pivotal moment, that it meant something in a way that no other moment in his life ever had.

“Gently…” She slowly pulled his hand towards her body. She placed the tips of his fingers against her belly. “Don’t be scared.” She’d never done this before. Here was progress, at last. She was warming to him again, forgetting about the pain he’d caused, remembering that they’d created this life together, out of the raw material of love.

He opened his hand and pressed the palm flat against her belly. Even through the thin cotton of the maternity dress, her body was hot, as if a fire burned somewhere under her skin. He waited for some movement, holding his breath, perched on the edge of a miracle.

The baby kicked. It happened once, a sharp little prod, as if it was trying to hit his hand.

“Did you feel it?”

He was unable to speak. He nodded, feeling the heat of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks.

“This is what you’re fighting for. Keep it up, stay off the drink, forget about the job and the stress… fight for us, Craig. For us : all three of us. We’re a family, and that’s how I want it to stay.”

“Can I… can I listen?”

She nodded. “Yes, if you like.”

He slid off the sofa and got down on his knees in front of her, a supplicant before this goddess, this carrier of immense power and promise. When she clasped his head in her hands and drew him in towards her, he remembered all the times she’d carried out the same movement before, but for a different reason. He tasted a ghost of the tang of her sex on his tongue, smelled the musk of her juices. He ached for her; every part of him, each single cell, wanted to be with this woman.

He placed the side of his head against her swollen belly, his hands going up, and his arms slipping around her widened waist. He closed his eyes and he listened; he listened for the heartbeat of his saviour, the answer to his pathetic secular prayers. At first he could hear nothing, and then he began to detect her heartbeat… and beneath that, or alongside it, he swore that he could hear a second frail rhythm. It was the heartbeat of his son or daughter; the only sound in the world that really mattered.

Then, he heard something else.

It began softly at first, and he thought it might be the droning of a distant motorbike disturbing the moment as it raced along the empty village streets. Then he realised that the sound was coming from inside Vanessa. It was originating from the same place as those two heartbeats.

A faint clicking sound, like castanets muffled by a pillow. It grew slightly louder, clearer, and then began to wane. The sound didn’t last long — just a couple of seconds — but as he listened, the Crawl seemed to answer its song. His entire body went cold; gooseflesh rose on his skin; he started to shake, to tremble like a frightened child.

He pulled away from Vanessa, stumbling across the floor and falling onto his backside.

“What’s wrong?” Her face went slack. Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to see the distrust in her face, not again, not now.

“Nothing.” He stood, running a hand through his hair. “I just… it was the emotion. I was overwhelmed. That was a heartbeat. I heard its fucking heart beating.”

Vanessa relaxed, reaching out to pat the sofa beside her. “Come and sit by me, Craig.”

He moved to the sofa and sat down. He was cold. He tried not to shiver.

She clasped his hand, squeezing his fingers. Her skin was warm; it took away the chill.

“I’d like you to stay the night,” she said.

He turned to face her but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the television, her face serious. Paul Newman was standing in the street, looking up at the sky.

“I don’t want you to go, not tonight.”

“I…”

“No, wait. Just hear me out.” Finally she looked at him, and her eyes were hard, like chips of ice. “I’ve had this feeling all day… a feeling that something’s on its way and it won’t be good for you. For us. I’m scared. It’s probably just hormones, but the fact is… the fact is, I’m scared. I want you to stay. I want you to sleep beside me, in our bed. I don’t know what this means in terms of us, but I think it says a lot that I want you close to me, I want you holding me in the night.”

His lips were dry, but he was no longer cold.

“You can say something now.” A flicker of humour crossed her face.

“Of course I’ll stay. There’s nothing I’d like better.”

She looked down at her knees. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper.

She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, desperate not to break the fragile connection.

They stayed that way for a little while longer, holding on to each other yet still maintaining a short distance between their questioning bodies; intimate strangers waiting for some kind of sign or signal. Then, when the film ended, they went wordlessly upstairs to bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.