Fly in the Ointment (4 page)

The arms kept flailing. The girl was in such a tantrum she could have been trying to push whoever it was who had made her so furious into the river. Was it because the sheer frustration fuelling her rage brought back so many memories of scenes with Malachy that I suddenly thought, ‘My God! That could be some poor child that she's attacking!' And I leaned over the bridge as far as I dared, to check on the victim.

It was my own son.

I FOLLOWED THEM
at least a mile along the canal path. The young woman kept on screeching. I was too far behind to get the gist of it, but it was clear that she was one of those people on whom anger works like a pump. Each step she took, she sounded louder and shriller.

Suddenly she parked herself down on a bench. I hurried to hide behind some huge and hideous sign detailing the natural beauties to be seen across the water. The sign was made in sections, like a dressing-table mirror, and through the gaps I watched the furious young woman toss back her raggedy hair and light a cigarette. It must have done something to calm her because after a moment my Malachy dared put out a hand to ask for his share of it. He pulled a couple of deep drags down into his own lungs and
the two of them stayed there, seemingly without speaking, until she tossed the cigarette away and they set off again. The stub was still leaking its thin acrid trail when I trod over it a moment later.

At the next bridge they climbed the steps to the road. I walked past the shops on the other side, keeping behind till they suddenly parked themselves on a bench by a bus stop. At once I darted into a place called Body and Soul and wandered round among the essences and lotions, keeping my eye on them through the shop window until a bus drew up between us.

When it moved off, the two of them had vanished.

I hurried out to check the number on the back. 18A. Forth Hill and Danbury – neither of them estates on which you'd want to hang about. I watched the bus sail over the rise and vanish. It had been a shock to see my son take that sort of abuse – even from a young woman as angry as this one – and not fight back. He'd always seemed to know how to defend himself when he'd had grief from me.

But then again, he wouldn't be the first man in the world to think that if he was having sex with a woman he was obliged to put up with almost anything.
Could
he be sleeping with her? She had looked noticeably older than him, but that could be at least in part due to her harshly dyed hair. In her grotesquely garish shoes
she'd looked a bit of a slag, and it was hard to imagine Malachy climbing into bed and actually
wanting
her. But then again, he wasn't much of a catch himself. Over the last couple of years his skin had worsened and he'd started slumping. The drugs had drained the freshness out of him until at times he looked, even to his mother, a bit like a teenage pensioner.

That night I did what I had promised myself I'd never have to do again, and phoned Mrs Kuperschmidt. She did her best to console me. Her wash of statistics swept on, but only into one ear and straight out of the other, for there was nothing about Malachy to give me reason to believe he might be one of the lucky ones she kept on mentioning who would bounce back again some day, as right as rain.

But I was comforted by her insistence that there was nothing I could do. ‘And, Lois, never forget that there are
degrees
of losing a child. Right now, you and Stuart must be at about your lowest ebb with Malachy.'

You and Stuart?
I realized suddenly I hadn't mentioned he had left the house. For some daft reason it seemed important to finish the call before she cottoned on and started to attribute my son's freshly destructive surge to recent strains in our marriage. Instantly I stopped trawling for comfort and tried to convince her that she'd done the
business. ‘Sarah, I know you're right. I suppose I simply needed to hear it one more time from a professional. Malachy's the only one who can deal with his problem.'

‘That's right. Until he actually asks for help—'

We parted with the old remembered flurries of ‘Thanks so much' and ‘Any time at all.' I put the phone down. Almost at once it rang again and, thinking that one last snippet of advice might have occurred to Mrs Kuperschmidt, I felt obliged to answer.

A voice so rough that I could barely make out the words snarled a threat. ‘You tell that fucking son of yours that Wilbur wants his money.
Now
.'

All the old terrors flooded back. I slammed the phone down. It rang again. I picked it up. Before the viper at the other end could spit out a single word, I shouted, ‘Just you listen to me! My son hasn't lived here for
months
. I don't even know where he is. So don't ring this number again.'

I slammed down the phone. It rang again and again, till I unplugged it. Of course I couldn't sleep. At three in the morning, making a pot of tea, I plugged the phone back in its socket. Less than an hour later its shrill insistent ring began again. God help me, this time, as I pulled the plug out of the socket, I thought back to the scene under the bridge
and wished with all my heart that Malachy's tarty and vile-tempered companion had put her body weight behind the hitting business properly, and pushed that little bastard, my own son, in the canal to drown.

AND SO BEGAN
a week of jumping at shadows, sensing footsteps behind me wherever I went, and noticing every car that stayed behind me for more than a single turning. I caught men's eyes in the street and felt cold waves of paranoia. Could this be some friend of Wilbur's? Even Wilbur himself?

On Saturday night I looked out to see a scruffy young man leaning against the fence across the street, staring my way. Without stopping to think, I rang the local police for the first time since I'd thrown Malachy out. They took the usual age to answer, and the desk officer wasted another half a minute introducing himself before starting his bored litany.

‘So do you recognize this person you say is watching your house?'

‘No.'

‘Has he knocked on your door?'

‘No.'

‘Made no approaches at all?'

‘Well, no. He's just sort of standing there in a threatening fashion. You see, just over a week ago—'

But PC Wood wasn't interested in what had happened a week ago. ‘Is this man carrying a weapon?'

I lost my patience. ‘How am
I
supposed to know? And if he is, he'd surely have more sense than to wave it about on a suburban street!'

There came the trained pause as I was given a couple of moments to collect myself. I waited for the next question, but by then PC Wood had evidently taken the opportunity of the short break to reckon he'd put in enough of the groundwork to move on to excuses. ‘The thing is, Mrs Henderson, we're rather short-staffed at the moment. You see, Saturday's a busy night. So before we pull one of our patrol cars away from the usual troublespots—'

‘You mean, interrupt your mates eating chips in some quiet lay-by?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

I dropped a finger to cut off the call before I lost my temper. The scruffy young man was still watching the house. I looked at my watch. Eight-thirty. There
might be hours more of this – another sleepless night.

I rang the Tallentires next door. Their teenage daughter Tansy picked up the phone. ‘For heaven's
sake
! I'm
com
—Oh. Hi, Lois.'

‘Tansy, I'm after a quick favour.'

She was already being interrupted by a voice in the background. ‘Is that Lois? Tell her I'll have that ladder back to them first thing in the morning.'

For just a second I wondered if her father's choice of phrasing – ‘back to
them
' – was born of tact, or cheering confirmation that I wasn't the only person to fail to notice my husband had walked out. But the lout on the street was still glowering my way in an intimidating fashion, so I came back to the matter at hand. ‘Tansy, could you and your dad come out and watch my back for me while I clear off some nasty piece of work who's standing across the street, trying to threaten me?'

Not even giving her the chance to plead some gripping moment in their favourite soap, I put down the phone, flung open my front door and stormed out towards my tormentor.

‘You haven't long,' I warned. ‘The police are on their way. I just want to tell you that if I ever see you on this street again I'll get a stalking order slapped on you. And don't bother with any more of the
threatening calls either, because as from tonight my phone will be on a police trace.'

Even before I'd finished, Tansy had come up behind. ‘Lois –'

The young man turned towards her. ‘What the
fuck
?'

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Tansy's father. ‘Lois –'

I shook it off. ‘No, really, Martin. I'm fine. I'm simply making it clear to this young man that I never want to see or hear from him again. His sordid druggy affairs are nothing to do with me.'

‘My
what
?' Again the young man turned to Tansy. ‘For God's sake! Tell the stupid cow that I don't even
smoke
.'

Martin's hand was back on my shoulder. ‘Lois, I really do think –'

Only then did I realize. ‘Oh, God! Is he just standing here waiting to go out with Tansy?' I turned back. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I was quite sure you were a drug-dealer.'

‘Well, thanks a bunch!'

‘I'm sorry, Lois,' Martin said. His look was one of deepest sympathy. ‘I never realized Malachy was back with you.'

‘He's not!' I snapped. ‘I just assumed this fellow thought he was.'

Nobody spoke after that. I think they all thought I'd taken leave of my senses. After a moment Tansy turned back to the house, presumably to finish her primping. Taking no chances, her boyfriend promptly followed. Once they were safely inside, I found Martin steering me firmly back up the path towards my own doorway. ‘Good night, Lois.'

‘Good night, Martin. Sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Thanks for being so nice about it.'

‘That's all right, Lois. Better get back in, though. Isn't that your phone?'

I went inside and crumpled. On my slide down to the floor I glowered at the wedding photo I'd lifted down on my first Stuart-cleansing trawl but then put back because the little pale patch on the wall had so annoyed me. This time there would be no reprieve. Each careless glance its way was a reminder that my husband had taken advantage of
for better
, then let me down when Malachy and his druggy entourage had turned our life together into
for worse
.

I'm finished too, now. I found myself thinking the words as clearly as if I'd spoken them aloud. If we had married in church, I might well have agreed to stick with you for richer, for poorer and even in sickness and in health. But no one in her right mind would promise to stick things out through silence and deception.

The phone cut off, then started to ring again. Still, I felt stronger, knowing that first thing on Monday morning I'd start proceedings for divorce. It meant I'd have to deal with the terrifying fallout from Malachy's indebtedness all by myself. But when had Stuart ever been a help with things like that? I could fit extra door locks, check the window catches – even phone back and ask PC Wood if I could put in one of those alarms that ring straight through to the station. No doubt the damn things cost the earth, but never mind. How long did dealers persecute the kids they snared? Weeks? Months? Or would this added nightmare, like Malachy's miserable addiction, go on for years?

And then it struck – the thought that brought my calculations to a halt. Where was the rule that said that only one person in a marriage could disappear? Stuart had shown the way. He'd slid out of job and home without a trace. If I in turn wanted to rid myself of the miasma of trouble that clung to Malachy, what better way of doing it than vanishing myself?

WITHIN A WEEK
I had embarked on three new ventures. I'd been in touch with a solicitor to file for a divorce. I'd started looking for a brand new job. And I'd arranged for the house to be put on the market.

I told the estate agent my husband worked abroad. (‘But he's left all the paperwork I need to sign for the sale.') She didn't appear to think it strange that I wanted no signs outside the house, or advertisements in the papers. Indeed, she implied that slipping the word only to parties she thought might take a real interest in a property of this sort might work in my favour.

And so it seemed. Martin leaned over the fence a couple of times to tell me, ‘Jan says that woman with the red Renault let herself into your house again today, Lois. She had an elderly couple with her this time.'

I had become as glib a liar as my son. ‘Showing her parents round, I expect. I take it Jan told you I'm renting out one of the bedrooms?'

‘A good idea. I'm sure you could do with the company.' (Ah, so the Tallentires had realized I was now alone.) From Martin's tone I grasped the hidden message: ‘That might keep you sane,' and once again the certainty that talk of my frenzied attack on Tansy's boyfriend was running up and down the street set my stomach a-squirm. So I took little urging when, in an astonishingly short time, an offer for the house lay on the table. (‘Go on,' the estate agent said to me cheerfully. ‘You never know how long it will be till the next one. So take it. Move on.') The couple bought the curtains and the carpets, and threw in such a low offer for the dining table and chairs that they were astonished when I accepted that as well.

But I'd stopped worrying about money. Only the day before, I'd started a proper accounting job with a small family firm, Hanley & Hanley, run by a somewhat tottery but sharp old fellow and his engaging son. The hours were longer and the shared room drab, with lighting that made everyone look sallow. But I consoled myself with the good salary, telling myself that now that the house sale was agreed, I could look for a smaller place – a neat sunny flat
with a balcony. If I chose well, I could get rid of most of my commitments and take my time to look for a more pleasant workplace.