Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

Tom glanced towards Helen’s room. The door had been left ajar. The handle looked like a weapon, but before he could puzzle over this thought and where it had come from, Eileen was speaking again. “She got a little paranoid.” She tightened her grip on the mug, wrapping her fingers around a faded comedy decal of Bugs Bunny dressed as a French Maid. “She seems to think that you’ve been doing something wrong, or visiting a place you shouldn’t.”

Tom’s stomach seemed to drop into his knees.

“I couldn’t really be sure what she meant. Her voice, her words. It was all just gibberish.” She smiled sadly.

Tom looked down at the floor, at his walking boots. Dried mud was spattered on the toughened toe caps. “I’ve been with a client. We went for a walk near where he lives, had lunch in a nice rural pub. There’s nothing else.” He felt like crying. He always felt like crying.

“I know that, Tom — God knows, you’ve been loyal to her, caring for her when a lot of men might have walked away. You’re a good man, a saint. I know how tough it must be for you.”

He felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and screaming into her startled face: I’m not a good man, I’m a bastard. I’ve been thinking about nothing else but fucking another woman all day!

He nodded. “Thank you, Eileen. I really appreciate that.”

She took a few steps closer and reached out, one hand still clutching the mug and the other grabbing his hand, groping it before finding purchase. “A very good man.” Her fingers were hot and clammy.

Tom could not raise his head; he was unable to look up, into her eyes. He knew that Eileen Danby had been attracted to him for years, and that attraction had grown since Helen’s injuries. She’d made a blatant pass one New Year’s Eve, about seven years ago. Her husband had left her the Christmas before, and she was feeling lonely and neglected. They’d been sitting on the steps at the back of her house, listening to the revellers inside — this was back when Helen was still willing to get around in her wheelchair, so even she was present at the party.

Eileen had placed her hand on his knee, moved it almost casually up his leg. Then, without uttering a word, she’d undone his zip and masturbated him. Right there on the doorstep, smelling of beer and cigarettes and staring away, across the garden, as if the act was separate from her, a part of something else she was thinking of.

And Tom had let her do it, enjoying being complicit in such a blatant act of sexuality.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispered. “Never was.”

Afterwards, when he was breathing hard and spots of light were scattered across his vision, Eileen had wiped her hand on a paper tissue she’d produced from the breast pocket of her blouse. She kissed him on the cheek, stood up and went back inside the house, all without speaking, without acknowledging in any way what she had done. Tom had sat there for another ten or fifteen minutes, drinking his beer and wondering what the hell had just happened.

They had not spoken of the event since, pretending that it had never happened. Those scant few moments on the back doorstep were like a shared wet dream, something that might vanish if they confronted its memory.

“You know where I am if you ever want to talk.” She pulled her hand away, placing it behind her back, as if to hide the evidence of her touch. She always said the same thing, and not once had he taken her up on the offer. But he knew it was there: he still felt the pressure of her grip on his penis, even all these years later, as if she had never really let go.

“I know, Eileen, and it’s really appreciated.” At last he raised his eyes from the floor, glancing at her. She had stepped back, and her face seemed unable to fix on a single expression. “Thanks.”

Eileen smiled, nodded, and then frowned. “She’s sleeping now. She slept most of the day, to be honest.” She put down her mug on the table near the stairs and grabbed her coat from the hook on the wall. “I’ll leave you to it. Tell her I’ll pop in on Tuesday, as usual, to see if she wants any shopping.”

Tom remained where he was as Eileen let herself out — she’d had a key for years now, and came and went as she pleased whenever Tom asked her to help out while he was away on business. She never overstepped the mark of their unspoken agreement, and had not once given him reason to think that she might have an ulterior motive for doing what she did. Eileen had been a good friend to Helen, despite that one slip at the New Year’s Eve party. She had also been invaluable to Tom whenever he needed support. She’d never again strayed beyond these personal boundaries, but the unspoken offer was out there, whether he wanted it or not.

“See you, Eileen.” The door slammed shut on his words.

He walked across the hallway and pushed open the door to Helen’s room. Every time he did this, stepped into her darkened room, he thought of that film, The Exorcist . The one with the possessed girl in an upstairs bedroom, strapped to a bed in the dark. The way the visiting priests’ breath misted in the icy air; the oppressive pressure of the silence in the room, apart from the ragged sound of her breathing.

“Helen? You awake, Helen?”

He could hear her breathing, just like the demonic teenager in that film. It was low, heavy, asthmatic, and punctuated by soft little snores.

“I’m home. Sorry it took longer than I thought, but the guy wanted a full report on how I’m planning to save him money on last year’s taxes.” He hated lying like this, but the demands of his accountancy work were a gilt-edged excuse. Helen knew he had to visit clients, to keep them sweet and reassure them about their money and investments, so she rarely questioned his motives when he left the house for a day, and she always enjoyed Eileen Danby’s company.

“No.” Her voice was thick; he could tell immediately that she was still asleep.

“It’s okay, pet. I’m here. I’m home. There’s no need to fret.” He approached the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. There was a jug of water by the bed, half full, and a crumb-covered plate containing half a slice of buttered toast and a folded chocolate biscuit wrapper. “No need to worry, now.”

The television at the foot of the bed was switched on, but there was no picture, just a silent screen filled with surging static.

The top of Helen’s head, along with part of her face, was visible above the covers. He could see the sweat glistening on her forehead like crushed ice. Her eyes were closed but her eyelids twitched, holding back a dream. The bedclothes covered her mouth, but he could see by the movement of the muscles in her jaw that she was grinding her teeth and mumbling in her sleep — something she often did when she was uneasy, when she was feeling disturbed or anxious.

He reached out and stroked her forehead. The skin was warm and wet; each furrow or crease was filled with greasy moisture. Tom held back a wave of nausea, feeling guilty for the way he disliked to touch his wife.

“What did you do?” Her voice was louder this time. The covers shifted down a few inches, exposing her open lips. Her teeth were large and discoloured. “What did you do with her?”

“Hush now, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong. I’m home…” He was running out of things to say, and knew that she probably couldn’t hear him anyway.

“Bastard!”

She did that too, sometimes: swore at him, abused him as she slept. Once he had fallen asleep beside her, curled up on the bed, and woken to find her hands around his neck, tightening, trying to choke him. It had been the last time he’d ever allowed himself to doze in her room. After that he made a point of heading upstairs as soon as he felt tired. Something else she had spoiled; another thing for him to feel guilty about, but on her behalf: a sense of guilt by proxy.