James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

He frowned. ‘Fuck you,’ he whispered, but he smiled when he said it. ‘You know I can’t be angry with you when you cry.’

She raised her hand up to her face and found that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t even realized she had cried.

He stroked her gently over her cheek. ‘I lied in there,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘When I said that I didn’t know when I fell in love with you.’

‘But . . .’

‘I already loved you the first time we saw each other. You had had a study group meeting and I was coming to pick up Julie, but instead we all decided to go to a café, and we wound up sitting beside each other. That’s where I fell for you. I tried not to, but it just got worse every time we met, and that was one of the reasons why it didn’t work out between me and Julie.’

‘Why have you never told me that?’

‘Because I felt so damn guilty about Julie, and that didn’t exactly make me stand out as the best boyfriend material.’

She laughed. ‘You might be right about that, but right now you’re Mr. Perfect compared to me.’

‘Yes, who would have thought it would come to this?’ he said and pulled her to him.

They remained standing like that until she dried her eyes and pulled loose. ‘What do you say? Shall we go in and throw that little brat out on his ass? Right now I don’t give a damn if he reports us to the police or his parents, whoever they are.’

He shook his head. ‘No, you had it right before. If we touch him, he’s won. We can only beat him by standing together. We’re behind on points, but I know we can do it.’

She kissed him. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but afterwards we trash the little bastard.’

The boy glowed like a sun when they sat down again.

‘Outstanding,’ he said. ‘That’s what I call fighting spirit. Shall we continue?’

‘Do your worst,’ she said.

‘Good. Tell me, what is your worst fear about each other?’

They exchanged glances.

‘That he doesn’t want to have children,’ she said.

‘That I love her more than she loves me,’ he said.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Interesting,’ the boy replied.

‘Did you say that because I just . . .’

‘No,’ he interrupted her. ‘I’ve felt it the whole time. Since we started going out, I’ve feared that one day you’d realize you can do better, so when you said that other thing a little earlier, you confirmed my worst suspicions.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘You have to forgive me, baby. That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But what do you mean that I don’t want to have children? There’s nothing I want more than to have a family with you.’

She threw up her hands. ‘It’s just that whenever we’re around children, I don’t get the impression that you’re wildly excited about them.’

‘In what way?’

‘You don’t really talk to them, and you’re not interested in what they do.’

‘They’re children. What should I talk to them about? Tax regulations? Teletubbies?’

‘That’s what I mean. You don’t even make the attempt. If you can’t do it with other people’s kids, what about our own?’

‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said. ‘Just because I don’t find our friends’ children intellectually stimulating, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be there 100% for our kids. And your brother’s girls and my sister’s boys seem happy with me.’

‘Yes, but I’ve also seen how when we babysit you can’t wait for them to be picked up again so we can be by ourselves. I don’t doubt that you love them, but you’d rather be with them in small doses.’

‘You yourself have to admit that it can be a little exhausting to be with them for a long time, and you said yourself that you felt totally worn out after we’d watched the boys for a whole weekend last time. They’re great kids, but you’d think they had Duracell batteries in their bloodstream.’

‘Your nieces aren’t much better. When they run amok, it’s like watching a children’s edition of Bridezillas ,’ she said.

‘Let me reiterate: they are not our children,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloody difference how one treats his own children and other people’s children. So you can’t just transfer my behavior and say that’s how I’d be as a father. If I did the same thing with you, I’d have good grounds for being seriously worried.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

He took his head in his hands. ‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘No, no,’ she said coolly. ‘Go on and say it. I’m really interested in hearing what opinions you have of my skills as a mother.’

‘Honey, nothing good is going to come of this.’ He looked over at the boy. ‘Can’t you see, we’re doing it again.’

Her eyes shot icicles. ‘The damage is already done, so come out with it.’

He rubbed his neck. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re a little too indulgent when you’re with kids. It’s probably me there’s something wrong with, but you let them get away with too much, and you let them run circles around you.’

‘Like you yourself said: there’s a difference between if it’s one’s own kids or someone else’s that one’s dealing with. I can’t start teaching good manners to kids that aren’t mine.’

‘You’re right, dear,’ he said. ‘Forget what I said. That was stupid of me.’

She snorted irritatedly. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you grow a pair of balls?’

‘What the hell?!’

‘Now it’s you who’s too indulgent.’

‘And is there something wrong with that?’

‘Yeah, who wants a pussy-­whipped man for a husband?’

‘There are apparently a lot of women who do. Just look at the sorry excuses for men some of your girlfriends have picked.’

She laughed. ‘You’re one to talk. Your brother-­in-­law can hardly walk three steps in a straight line because your sister has him grabbed so hard by the balls.’

‘Your brother . . .’ he began.

‘What about my brother?’ she said.

They stared at each other.

‘Fuck,’ he burst out and banged a clenched fist on the table­top so that it shook.

She smiled sadly. ‘This isn’t going so well, is it?’ she said.

‘No,’ he admitted.

The boy raised a finger.

‘Might I point out something?’ he said.

It happened so fast that he didn’t have time to react.

‘You,’ she sneered at the boy, and suddenly she had the bread knife in her hand and was standing behind him, with a firm grip on his hair and the serrated blade against his bare throat.

He gaped. ‘Dear, what the fuck are you doing?’

‘I swear,’ she said to the boy in a voice that no longer sounded like her own. ‘One more word from you, and I’ll cut your throat. Understood? Don’t say anything. Just nod.’

The boy nodded. The self-­assured attitude was all gone, and now he just looked like a scared little boy.

‘Honey.’ He got up slowly from his chair and reached his hand out. ‘Honey, give me the knife.’

She trembled. Not just her head, but her whole body, and he was afraid she’d wind up cutting the boy.

‘I . . . can’t . . . take . . . any . . . more,’ she said.

‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘But this isn’t the right way.’

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘One little slice, and the whole thing is over.’

The boy whined.

‘Quiet!’ she hissed and pressed the blade tighter against his skin.

‘Believe me, I’ve considered the possibility myself,’ he said. ‘But it will only do more harm than good. What would we do with the body? How do we get rid of it without the neighbors seeing it? What about all the blood?’