It Knows Where You Live (9 page)

He climbed the stairs to bed long after midnight, relishing the fact that he’d stayed up past his usual allotted bedtime. Everything felt different at this hour—even the strange pelt of the carpet beneath his feet was like nothing he’d ever known before. His hands skimmed against the brittle walls, taking pleasure from the raised pattern of the wallpaper, a vivid design he’d not noticed until now.

When he went to the toilet it felt as if he were crapping a rainbow.

Once in his room, stationed like a sniper at the window, he stared at the old dining chair along the street. It was in exactly the same spot it had occupied the previous two nights, but this time something was different. Tonight, instead of retaining the rumour of a recent presence, the chair was occupied.

His mother sat motionless in her creased nightdress, spine held stiff and straight against the wooden back of the chair, as if held suspended in either the dull spotlight of the moon or the unflinching gaze of a streetlight. A mute performer upon a strange stage, awaiting direction; her hands were clasped, unmoving, in her narrow lap, and her arms were pressed tightly against the sides of her rigid body. She did not move. Even her feet remained flat on the ground, as if glued or nailed in place. The exposed skin of her forearms and legs was stippled with what looked like henna tattoos—thin black lines and splashes tracing the hidden routes of her veins.

If he allowed himself, Ben could imagine she was stuck there, lashed into a strict sitting position by invisible ropes; but he did not want to think such troubling thoughts. Instead, he simply watched his mother’s terrible baggy face, peered into the bottomless holes of her eyes, and watched her weep black tears for something held just out of reach—possibly by Ben’s father, or perhaps, he suddenly understood, even by Ben himself.

Quietly, patiently, Ben sat at the window, waiting to see what would happen when finally she tried to stand.

TRUTH HURTS

There were no sunrises for Cal, because every sunrise was another lie. It said today was a new day, and everything would be different. But there were no new days in Cal’s life; everything was the same, and each morning was just a continuation of the day before.

He was surrounded by lies and untruths; attacked from all sides by tiny dishonesties.

Like the way this woman, Barbara, thought he felt about her.

Cal looked at her across the table, paying close attention to her eyes. They were so clear, so untainted by lies that he knew he was making the right decision. He had to be honest with her, just as he had to be honest with everyone else. It was his burden, his penance for an unspecified crime: to be honest at all costs.

“Listen, Barbara. I need to tell you something.”

She smiled, took a sip of espresso, leaving a smear of dark red lipstick on the lip of the tiny white cup.

“You’re not going to like it, but I can only hope you appreciate me telling the truth.” It was a line he’d used before, many times; too many to count. Each word, every pause and nuance, was part of something so much bigger than them both.

“What is it, Cal? You know you can tell me anything.” That smile again, along with the flash of perfect white teeth, the way her cheeks dimpled near the edges of her mouth.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

The smile froze in place.

“This isn’t working for me. I like you, but I could never love you.” He heard the words but felt removed from them, like an actor reciting lines. “You have a lovely smile and a pleasant manner, but ultimately there’s nothing to you beyond the picture. I like the way you fuck and I could get used to those long legs wrapped around me, but other than that there’s no reason for us to continue.”

Her left arm twitched on the table top, catching a wineglass and sending it off on a short journey to the floor. Glass smashed. People stared, their quiet lunches interrupted by a sudden domestic drama.

“I just needed to be honest.”

Her face crumpled. That’s what it looked like: the bones softening, the skin sagging and falling inward on the failing structure.
 

He looked down at his hands: bitten fingernails, swollen knuckles. The pain in his side was manageable. Over the years, he had mastered it.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. To
me
.” She stood swiftly, the chair legs scraping the floorboards, and pushed herself away, heels clicking, lips curling into a silent snarl.
 

He looked up, offering her the only thing he could: his utter honesty.

She picked up the water jug and upended its contents over him, the water soaking his shirt and lap. Then she walked away, probably feeling stronger because she’d taken ownership of the moment.
 

Yet...there was something scripted about her actions, and her eyes, although set into a face reflecting hurt, seemed to glow in a way he’d never seen before. For the first time since he’d known her, Barbara seemed totally alive.
 

In that moment he considered for the first time that he might be capable of making a mistake.

Just as she reached the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. And she smiled.

Cal faltered. The waiter made a move to come over and tend to the mess, but he shook his head and opened his wallet. He laid out his money on a dry section of the table, calmly stood, and then headed for the toilets at the back of the room, allowing the waiter to move swiftly in his wake and clean up the mess. Other customers stared openly, whispering behind their hands or shaking their heads. He smiled at them all, trying not to think about the pain.

All he saw in their eyes was the reflection of a thousand lies.

In the toilet he stood before the mirror. His face was pale. His eyes were so dark they looked black. He untucked his shirt and rolled it up over his tight abdomen, turning slightly to the side so he could inspect the damaged area.

Faint hairline cracks had appeared in his china-white skin, forming a series of bluish parallel lines above the beltline. One of the lines became a fissure, opening up to reveal a slice of red. He winced, gritted his teeth. Turning on the tap, he leaned over the sink and cupped cold water into his hand, which he then slathered over the small wounds.

After tending to the cracks in his body, he wadded up toilet paper and applied the makeshift dressing to the affected area, then tucked his shirt back in to the waistband of his jeans.

He left the diner without looking at the table where he’d told her the truth. London was filled with such places: small, terrible geographies; the scenes of intimate crimes, of truths told and pain caused and relationships ended.

He took the tube to Archway and returned to his flat above the Givinchy Laundromat. The day outside was growing dull and dark; winter was approaching. The weather reports were promising snow. He spent the rest of the afternoon working on a project for a pub chain: his computer screen flashed images of pub signs and menus, random information he struggled to make into a cohesive image. Visual lies were the only ones he could deal with.

Later Cal phoned out for takeaway, but when the pizza arrived he was no longer hungry. He left the open box on a kitchen workbench and tried to read. The words on the page bled into smudges of black blood and his eyes ached.
 

His bed offered little comfort: the mattress beneath him had played host to the lovers he’d crippled with his truths, but now it felt barren. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, at the light bulb that kept flickering and threatening to go out. It was a long time before he got up, turned off the light, and slipped back beneath the covers.

That night he dreamed of a violet sky, orange trees, and creatures with bodies no earthly biology had created. When he woke, he wondered not for the first time if he were an alien. Had he been born on a different world and exiled or lost upon this one?

He ate cold pizza for breakfast and worked all day Saturday, finishing mock-ups of the menus and a decent blueprint of the pub sign. After emailing the files to his client, he surfed the net for a while before taking a shower.
 

When he padded naked from the bathroom, his skin wet from the shower, he stood before the full-length bedroom mirror and stared at the cracks in his side. They were fading now, healing; the pain was long gone.

He’d tried lying many times in his life, just like normal people. But each time he uttered a deceit, someone else suffered. Instead, when he told the truth, it was
he
who suffered. He was lying to protect them, to stop them from being hurt,
physically
hurt—couldn’t they see that?
 

In time, he had discovered he could no longer be dishonest.

Every little white lie, each dissembling notion, caused their bodies to be marked: thin cracks, like paper cuts, appeared across their skin. If he lapsed into a lie, someone else experienced the pain that belonged to him, so he chose to absorb it, to turn the truth into a laceration he could own.

For years when he was younger he had remained indoors, thinking he might protect himself and others simply by isolation. But that in itself was a lie, and whenever he spoke to someone on the phone—a salesman or cold-caller—his body opened up, splitting and cracking. No matter what he said, it didn’t help at all. So he went back out into the world, accepting that he must instead embrace the insanity of his condition.

And every day he told the truth, hurting the people around him mentally and causing his body physical damage. There was no other way; he even began to see it as his mission in life. He was a paladin of truth, a guardian of honesty.

It calmed him to think this way, and once, when he had spoken the words in a mirror, a shallow cut had appeared on his forehead, proving to him it was the truth.

When he was ready, he headed into town, catching a tube and making for a bar he knew. A quiet place where he could be left alone; where he could drink in peace and not have to risk telling the truth.

The place was dark as he descended into the basement bar. A few desultory drinkers were scattered among the stained tables and torn chairs. The lights were low, creating comforting patches of shadow against the walls. He ordered a pint of German beer and a whisky and slid into a booth. Music played softly on the jukebox; a skinny couple slow-danced in one corner, their hands wandering as the track faded to be replaced by another low tempo composition.

“Cal?”

He looked up at the sound of her voice. It was Barbara, back for more honesty.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Barbara. I
had
to be honest...you don’t understand.”

She sat down opposite. Her eyes shone in the low light and her skin was pale against the dark wooden cladding along the rear wall. “I haven’t come here for an apology.”

“Then what do you want?”

She blinked, licked her lips in a gesture Cal found strangely reptilian.

“Last night I dreamed of a violet sky and orange trees. I saw beasts I could not even name. I came back because something inside you called to me; a link happened between us, one I don’t fully understand. I think you might have what I need.”

Cal held his breath; the music stopped; the couple in the corner sat down, embracing.

“Who are you, Cal? I’ve known you for six weeks now and still I don’t
know
you.”

More music drifted in to fill the gaps. Cal could not speak.

“Tell me.”

“I can only tell the truth, but the truth hurts me. If I lie, you’ll suffer so much pain, your body will be mauled in such a strange way, that you’ll wish for death. I don’t know who I am, or where I came from. Sometimes I think I
am
the truth, the truth walking around on two legs.”

Her hand enclosed his on the damp table; the flesh was cold. She squeezed his fingers, pulled him towards her over a mile and mere inches of beer-sodden terrain.

He stared at her unmoving face. “What do you want?”

Her mouth opened and he saw something glisten between her teeth, like a nest of black worms writhing against the roof of her mouth. The sight lasted only a second or two, but it was enough to let him know he was not in the presence of a conventional woman.
 

“I want you:
your truth
. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. All everyone ever does is lie, but you speak the truth. I’ve been looking for someone like you—someone special and honest—all my life.”

“But what if the truth kills you? People want lies, they expect them. Nobody—no
normal
person—can survive under conditions of absolute honesty. Believe me, I know.”

Barbara shook her head. She blinked her eyes and he sensed a kind of avidity within her like nothing else he’d ever encountered. Perhaps she was as inhuman as him; maybe her hungers corresponded with his own, and were just as abnormal.

She stood, pulling him to his feet, and started moving towards the door.

He allowed himself to be led out of the bar and into a waiting taxi. The city blurred past the taxi windows and all he felt was her hand on his leg. His ears rang; blood rushed to his head; the world seemed to throb like a hidden heartbeat.

She took him home, back to his place, and beneath a failing light bulb they undressed and fell upon the bed. Her body temperature was first hot and then cold as the fluid in her veins fluctuated between extremes.

“I don’t love you,” he said, and felt a thin crack open up across his shoulder blade. “I can
never
love you.” Another dry wound curled from beneath his armpit and traced a red line across his pectoral, growing deeper than ever before.

The light flickered, causing strange sparks to skim across the room.

“This is all I want.” Her hands pressed the places where his skin was even now rupturing, her palms latching on to the cuts and cracks and slashes, drawing something from them. The light finally went out, casting them into darkness. “I want the truth, and nothing but. I’ll take all the honesty you can give, and still come back for more. I want it all, every drop. And then I want even more.”