Nicola Barker - Wide Open

On the cooker was a pan of spaghetti hoops, but the hot plate was still cold under it. Ronny was sitting on the lino, close by, his legs stretched out in front of him. In the palm of one hand he held a small, frozen butter pat. In his other hand he held the clutch of letters. He was trying to read them but he could not. Why? His eyes? No. Fear! That was it. He simply couldn’t. He just couldn’t . Because suddenly he had a bad feeling about everything.

Too much energy. When there was too much energy, where the hell did he direct the excess? And a portion of it was always bad energy. A small portion. A purple-black energy. Like a bruise. Spreading. Poisoning. Bleeding. Creeping. Deep down inside and under his skin.

If anything happens to Monica, he kept thinking, how could I stand it? He felt a moment of panic. What if I’ve found my home at last but the door is closed already? What if I’ve found my home, finally, and the door is locked and barred to me?

There were two more letters. He hadn’t read them. Two more. The last one, very short. Just a few words. I need some money, he thought, I need some money. Then I won’t have to read. I can go out and I can find .

The butter pat was melting. Ronny stared at his watch. How long had that taken? In his palm. From freezing to melting? He calculated.

Then he turned the watch over. “To Big Ron, with love, your Elaine.”

For some unknown reason, he found himself shuddering.

Margery pushed the door open and walked inside.

“Nathan?”

She called out although she knew already that the flat would be empty. She shut the door behind her and leaned up against it. She held the note he’d written in her hand. It had not fooled her. Her eyes scanned the room. She breathed deeply. She could smell him. Hair oil. And another scent. Sandalwood.

She walked slowly around the room, touching things. The television. The back of the sofa, the bookshelf. It was a plain room. There was very little to feel in it. She noticed something on the carpet. A brown stain. Scuffed. Was that blood? She paused. She knelt down to inspect it more closely. Stop! she told herself. Stop looking for confirmation. Confirmation? Of what?

A paper clip and a little fragment of tissue were messing up the carpet near where she crouched. She picked them up, automatically, and threw them into the wastepaper bin.

She almost walked away and then…hang on…she peered inside the bin, reached out her hand — tentatively, fastidiously — and from its depths she withdrew a square of material: crisp and brown at its edges, moist and pink at its centre.

Like liver, she thought. Red and raw in the middle, brown-edged. Lamb’s liver. Calf’s liver. Liver. But of course this was simply Nathan’s hanky. And this was blood. Probably his. Nosebleed. She dropped the hankerchief and walked through to the kitchen to rinse her fingers.

Here she found another trail of red-brown spots leading from the sink unit to the refrigerator. The honey was out. Left open on the worktop. And the milk.

She picked up the carton, instinctively, to return it back to the fridge. But as she yanked at its door and registered the suck of its rubber seal, her mind screamed CRIME SCENE.

She put the milk back in anyway. She forced herself. But the police are such sticklers for detail, she thought furtively, and my prints are everywhere…

She returned to the living room. She blinked back the tears. Was this a betrayal or was this just life? It was neither. It was the end of love. This is the end of love, she told herself. This is the end of love. Without trust there is suspicion. And suspicion’s closest ally is contempt. And contempt? What relation could that ever bear to anything good?

Nathan’s life was so full of spaces. Margery felt too small to fill them, too mean to overlook them. Spaces. And now she would leave yet another one.

“So did Luke get what he was after?”

They were sitting at the kitchen table. Ronny was speaking.

“No. He wanted his cigarettes.”

“But you’d thrown them away.”

Jim glanced up from his meal of tinned spaghetti, minted peas and meatballs. “How did you know that?”

“I must’ve seen them. In the bin. Poor old Luke.” Ronny laughed. His mouth was half-full. It was like watching the interior of an inefficient Hotpoint struggling with its fast-coloureds programme.

He was eating at a quite remarkable speed and using both his hands. His fork, Jim observed, was held perfectly normally, but his knife was clutched in his clenched fist and was pointed, somewhat disconcertingly, directly towards his own chest.

While Ronny ate, he talked, intermittently, and he waved the knife, but not to emphasize anything of particular significance. He didn’t seem able to maintain a single train of thought from one moment to the next.

Jim, by contrast, as a kind of forced reaction, ate slowly, using his right hand only. He consumed just a tiny portion of the meal Ronny had prepared for them and then pushed his bowl away. He was the very epitome of simplicity and restraint. If I try hard enough, he thought desperately, maybe I can transform Ronny into his better self again through my own positive example.

Under the table, inside his pocket, his left hand rested limply upon the half-empty pill packet. Ronny was speaking. He was saying, “I collected three whole bags full of shells this afternoon. For the mural. You could come and help me with it after dinner if you wanted…”

Jim smiled, heartened. “I’d love to help you,” he said, “only first I promised Luke I’d go and fetch his car from the farm. For some reason he doesn’t want to go over there and pick it up himself…”

“The farm?”

Ronny stopped chewing and focused in on Jim’s smooth face. He was scowling. “What’s at the farm?”

For the briefest of moments, Jim’s mind was inexplicably filled with a vision of Connie. She stood before him, pale, in the waves, her small white hands shielding her little nipples.

“What’s at the farm?” Ronny reiterated, almost harshly. Jim blinked. “His car’s at the farm. Luke’s car.”

Ronny laid his knife down on the table. He stared at it morosely. There was suddenly a great chasm between them. Jim couldn’t fathom it. It was as if some kind of extraordinary betrayal had recently taken place. But on which side? And by whom?

“I’ve been considering what you said earlier,” he observed gently, “about needing money. There might be a way of aquir-ing some…”

Ronny just winced. “I can’t think of that now,” he said quietly. His eyes were flitting, like two anxious greenfinches, around the room.

“There’s some plaster in the cupboard under the sink,” Jim said, attempting to re-direct him again, “and there should be a trowel…” He glanced over towards the window, “but it’s already getting dark out, and it looks like rain.”

Ronny stood up, abruptly. “It’s only right that I should finish things,” he said, turning and yanking the cupboard door wide, “that I should complete the things I’ve started before moving on.”

With both hands he grabbed hold of the tub of plaster, the trowel and an old J-cloth. Jim remained seated, watching Ronny blankly, trying to figure out what he meant exactly. Moving on? Moving? Where?

Ronny headed outside, clutching his booty to his chest, his shoes squeaking and squelching as he walked through the lounge and then out into the grey.

Jim stared up at the ceiling and then down at the remains of his meal. He picked up the two bowls, the cutlery, with his right hand, piled them together and then took them over to the pedal bin to scrape them clean. He pushed the pedal with his foot and the lid sprang open. He leaned forward. But before he tipped, he paused. He peered.