Painkiller (12 page)

I wake up…

… Huge black slugs are swimming across my eyes. There is pain, and there is carpet…

And I am a stupid, stupid woman. Why did I even try to do that? What did I achieve?
 

… and there are footsteps downstairs, heavy, clumping footsteps.

He’s in the house now.

I try to call out ‘hello’, but my face is flattened, I’m drooling on the carpet because my cheeks are pushed together, and my lips can’t move. What emerges from my throat is a tiny dry croak, devoid of consonants.

‘Harrar? Harrar? Whovair? Whooivair?’

Clomp clomp clomp. Clomp.
 

They don’t sound like Dominic’s tatty desert boots. They don’t sound like anyone I know. Moaning and rolling, moaning and rolling, back to the bed I go, slowly, slowly. Below me, the
clomp clomp
of boots becomes
thud thud
as the footsteps encounter carpet, and whoever-it-is is coming up the stairs.

Three thuds.
 

Six thuds.
 

Nine thuds.
 

Whoever it is, he or she is in no hurry.

I flail an arm, trying to grab the telephone cord, and it jerks to the edge of the table. Thankfully it misses me as it descends, but the receiver lands above my head and my arms can’t move; one is trapped under my body and the other can’t stretch above my shoulder. I am waggling my extremities like a seal on pack ice, trying to escape the men wielding their clubs.

And the door opens, and the footsteps come into the room.

‘Hurrruh,’ I say.
I’m sure ‘hello’ is a stupid thing to say to a knife-wielding burglar, but if I’m polite and I look helpless then perhaps whoever-it-is won’t hurt me or worse
…

‘Oh heck!’ screams Dominic. His knees fall to the carpet, in my line of vision, and his face swims close to mine.

‘What are you doing on the floor?’

‘Tryn’ t’ ge’ huk!’

His hands slide under me, and I moan with fear, as I know what’s going to happen next.

‘Nhhhhhh! Oh God! Oh God!’

‘Come on, darling…’ he says through gritted teeth. He is straining very hard. ‘Back to bed we go…’

He rolls me back on the bed, and I’m staring at the ceiling again. ‘Ooh!’ I gasp. ‘Are we going to bed now?’

Dominic is gasping too. The effort to pick me up has nearly crippled him. He sits down heavily on the stool by the dressing table. ‘What… just… What… were you doing down there? Damn, you scared me!’

‘I scared you? You scared me! What are you doing clumping around downstairs? I got out of bed to see what the noise was.’

‘That was stupid.’

I don’t answer. I know it’s stupid. I crane my head up and he scurries to put a pillow behind me. I look at his clothes and, sure enough, he’s wearing his garden boots. ‘You’re in your boots. Your filthy gardening boots.’

He looks down and frowns, as if noticing for the first time. ‘Sorry.’

In my life, there are lots of ‘sorry’s, like raindrops. One or two, and you feel them. If they fall on you in the thousands, they wash you like a shower, you just have to ignore them and walk on.

‘Were you gardening?’

‘No.’ His hand crosses his forehead wearily and I realise he’s very tired. He stayed up far too late, watching me, reading to me, looking after me. He’s tired, and he’s trying not to make me feel guilty. ‘I did take a bag of rubbish out, about half an hour ago.’

‘I heard a big clatter. Like someone was fooling around with the bin.’

‘Yes,’ he says without missing a beat. ‘I was. The wind had blown it over again. Bloody bins. I miss the old metal ones; they were a lot sturdier than those plastic things.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. I know what I saw, but what I saw was a lot of multicoloured blobs having a dance. I thought I saw someone pulling something out from under the bin, not in it, but it could easily have been Dominic sorting out the bin and making it more secure.

It’s too hard to think. There’s too much of my Angry Friend in my head, and he stretches out like an annoying passenger in a crowded train carriage, elbowing out everything else. I can’t find words to say, and Dominic takes this as some form of disapproval, some suppressed anger.

At last he says: ‘I hope you understand what I said last night. About the treatment.’

I say nothing.

‘It’s not that I don’t want you to get better. I just… I don’t want to see you hurt again. If I was certain… If we were absolutely certain that the effects would work for ever…’

I still say nothing.

‘I know how disappointment affects you. And it does, mentally and physically. You know that.’

There are so many things I can say at this point. Too many.

(
Who gives a shit if I’m hurt again? What’s that got to do with you, you fat STUPID little man? How dare you tell me the limits of how I can feel?
)

But I feel the coffin-shaped invitation in my hand, under the covers.

I must keep calm. I can’t get angry. I can’t get him angry. Last night I wandered into a full-blown argument, and it’s going to put me in bed for days. I can’t risk a flare-up. I want to go to Angelina’s show. Please, Mr Angry Friend, let me go to Angelina’s show.
 

Instead I say: ‘I suppose you’re right. I suppose I wouldn’t know how I could cope if I lost the pain and it returned.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ll cancel the appointment.’

‘Good.’ He moves to the door and then hangs there, sensing unfinished business, looking for something else to say.

‘You do know I love you,’ he says at last.

‘I know.’

‘I do hope you understand.’

‘I understand.’

‘OK. Good. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

He’s still at the door.

‘Love you lots?’

‘No, love
you
lots.’

‘You hang up.’

‘No
you
hang up.’

‘No
you
hang up.’

‘No you —’

‘Brrrrrrrrr.’

I ring up and confirm the appointment.

I wake up…

… Not too bad today.

There’s always that split second before I realise how things are.

When I was sixteen I had my first love, Nigel Cope. I really thought that he was The One, and that we would be together until we both died of old age, dribbling and incontinent, sitting in our wheelchairs.

When Nigel dumped me for Charlotte Redding three months later, I thought my world had ended, and my subconscious mind refused to accept it. I dreamed endlessly that we were still together. When I woke up there was that split second of believing that he was still with me, before reality flooded in, and I cried again.

It’s the same now. That split second of the body fooling you that everything is normal, that there’s no pain, before the reality floods into every nerve ending.

But really, not too bad today.

I realise I am in our bed, and that I am alone. Dominic has let me sleep. He has left a Post-it note on his pillow with the words ‘No YOU hang up!’

Fuck you
, I think.

I sink back into the pillows. I’m lying there, and I’m thinking of that tiny moment before reality floods in, and my thoughts turn to what I can do while I’m alone.

My hands fiddle with the elastic of my pyjamas. They sneak under it, like prisoners of war under barbed wire, and creep bellow my belly button.

I think of my husband making love to me, but the sight of him just makes me angry. Around him, flickering in and out, unbidden, like ghosts, are others. Nigel Cope, Martin Hemsworth from my RADA course, Stephano who I met during that time InterRailing to Venice and, yes, there is Niall Stewart.

That’s the other tiny moment when the pain disappears. Endorphins flood my body, they drown out the nerve pain, and for those glorious seconds, those few glorious glorious seconds, I am a normal woman again, a woman who does not feel pain, only pleasure, only the orgasm, and then I am lying back and the only ripples I experience are ripples of joy, and I am a woman, and I lie back and there I am, experiencing a beautiful beautiful womanly thing.

And then reality floods in.

I get dressed and I’m at the computer now, it’s been nearly a week since I got out of bed and I can feel the muscles and shoulders fusing together like ice cubes. I have to see Niall. I remember the fleeting vision of Niall as I fought my way to a climax, and I feel guilty.
I’m sorry, darling Dominic, but at the moment this is all I have left to pin my fantasies on.

I’ve wasted enough time in bed. I have to get back to work. I have some phone calls to make. My email inbox has given me some exciting news.

The phone rings once before it’s answered and I hear noise, laughing, shouting, the distant roar of a music system as it belts out Robbie Williams. I’m ringing 50 per cent of my clientele; the one who isn’t the stunt-granny.

‘Morning, Sunflower , how are you, my darling?’

‘Hello, Larry.’

‘Just a mo, I’m going into the kitchen. We’re getting ready for a bit of a family barbecue before the afternoon match. The final.’ He doesn’t elaborate on which match it is, what league, what final, even what sport. He knows better than to think I would be interested, or patronise me by explaining stuff I don’t want to know.

Larry’s voice is deep and rough, coated with malt whisky and nicotine. I’m one of the very few people who know that he had cancer a few years ago, and that’s what made him decide to stretch himself as an actor, and not just bump along the bottom playing thugs and hoodlums in soaps.

‘Larry. I am going to make your day.’

‘Every time you ring me it makes my day, Sunflower.’

‘You silver-tongued devil.’

There is a rattling cough and a ‘Huh-huh-huh’ laugh. The man has the laugh of a pantomime giant. ‘Don’t let Jill hear you say that, she’ll snap me like a twig.’

Jill is Larry’s wife, one of the tiniest women I’ve ever met, as diminutive as a garden gnome. By complete contrast, Larry is one of the biggest men I’ve ever met, built like a wall. When he comes to visit I’m amazed he can force his way through my doors. When I see them together it is impossible not to imagine how they might have sex.

Hold on to your hat, Larry…’

‘No…’

‘Yes. Sir Peter Stiles says yes.’

I’ve been lobbying for years to get Larry into the National, and now one of the most respected directors in the country, and one currently residing at the National Theatre, has finally agreed to have Larry in his production.

There is a pause from the other end of the phone. All I can hear is Larry’s stentorian breathing. Then he finally says, ‘Wow.’

He shouts across the room. ‘Jill! JILL! JILL! JILL! Monica’s got Sir Peter Stiles to say yes.’

‘That’s nice, Pumpkin. Good for you!’ squeaks a tiny voice in the distance.

Then there’s a ‘huh-huh-huh’ close to the receiver again. ‘She doesn’t know Sir Peter Stiles from Peter Andre, but she’ll be dead chuffed when I explain who he is. Really? He said OK? Seriously?’

‘Absolutely. He was very impressed with your audition.’

‘You mean my interview.’

‘Thank you, Larry. He was very impressed with your “interview”. Hideous term.’

Another big chuckle rolls out of the phone towards me.

‘Anyway, he’s always been interested in you. Big fan of your telly work. And the “interview” clinched it.’

‘Oh wow. Me getting to play the National… When Jill realises what this means… God, she’ll just wet herself.’

‘Bring her along. Get in as many of your mates as you can. Get them in the front row, and get them to laugh like drains.’

‘At
Twelfth Night
? You don’t know my mates.’

‘You’ll be surprised.’

‘Well… I dunno…’

‘You’re just playing a pissed-up man larking about with his chums and playing tricks on some posho whoopsie. I’m sure they’ll find something about it to laugh at.’

There goes that ‘huh-huh-huh’ again. ‘I s’pose you’re right.
Sir
Peter Stiles. Thanks, Sunflower, this is amazing. Top work. I’ll do something for you one day.’

My ‘sunflower’ nickname goes back a long way. Back many years when I had my office in Soho, and he came to me for representation. I was wearing sunflower earrings and he noticed them almost immediately and commented on how lovely they were.

I was taken aback; I’d worn them for the first time that morning, and even Dominic never registered I was wearing them; even when he provided me with a quickie in the kitchen before he left for work.

When I took him on, he sent me a bunch of sunflowers that I put proudly in my little window overlooking Greek Street. When I got him his first job, and every job after that, whether I got it for him or he found it himself, he sent me sunflowers. He doesn’t send them any more, because I work from home. But I know in the unlikely event I drag my wounded carcass to his first night, he’ll be there with a bouquet for me, embedded tightly in his huge fist.

Larry told me later he always notices jewellery first when he meets new people, and my mind instantly made the connection to his murky and extremely not-very-legal past growing up in Catford. I immediately felt guilty about thinking it. Like many men of his age, Larry is a true gentlemen; when arriving at any premiere or first night he is always first to the bar with a fifty in his hand, and when leaving he is always first to drape your coat over your shoulders. I imagine little Jill must feel like a princess.

Of course he noticed the jewellery, just like he notices a woman without an umbrella, or a drink in her hand.

‘Cheers, Sunflower. You’re a miracle worker.’

With a final ‘huh-huh-huh’ he is gone.

I’m sure it was his innate chivalry that prompted him to return to me when I came back to the business. No one like Larry would leave a lady in distress.

My computer screen has long since gone dark, and when I push on the mouse it lights up. It has gone back to the little icons that denote my side of computer (a little picture of a sunflower), and Dominic’s side (a little photo of a tiger).

I go straight to my icon and when I try to click on it, I get another bloody spasm. My hand jerks and the cursor jumps onto Dominic’s photo. I’ve clicked on him by accident. Up comes the empty box where his password is supposed to go.

Now I remember.

Peck peck peck peck.
 

Four pecks.

When Dominic accessed his side of the computer to read the article on capsaicin he did four little pecks on the keyboard. Not six. He didn’t type in ‘Monica’. M-O-N-I-C-A. Six pecks.
We always use each other’s names for our passwords
; that way we can easily access each other’s stuff in emergencies.

I wonder why there weren’t six pecks.

(
Go on, try it
)

No.
 

(
You’re afraid. You coward
)

No.
 

(Hiding. That’s all you do. Hiding from people. Hiding from the truth. That’s all you do. I’m ashamed to call myself you. Just do it)
 

For once in your life
…
 

I type in the word ‘Monica’.

The little box shakes. Nope.

Stupidly, I type in the word ‘Dominic’, even though I heard four pecks.

Nope.

Peck peck peck peck.
 

It’s our surname. That’s what he’s used. Just another name. Peck peck peck peck. Surname instead of first name.
 

I type in the word ‘Wood’.

Nope.

The box shakes again, like my hands as they hover over the keyboard.

His father’s name. Even though he’s always been ‘David’ it could be
…
 

‘Dave’?

Nope.

I type ‘Name’.

Nope.

I type ‘Pass’.

Nope.

I type ‘Word’.

Nope.

I type ‘Note’.

Nope.

I’m shocked that I can’t get it after a dozen attempts
. This is our own personal computer in our own house
, I think it through,
so there’s no reason to pick an obscure password.

(
Why the change?
)

I mean, we have no secrets from each other.
 

(
Have we?
)

Don’t be stupid. The drugs make you paranoid.
 

Just forget about it.
 

I don’t know why I’m doing this. He’s my husband. He stands by me. He’s always stood by me. He researched my condition. He found out all the things I deserved: my allowance as a disabled person; his allowances as a carer. He found out about the new drugs.
 

He loves me.
 

I move the cursor up to the box, and my fingers hover over the keys.

I type in the street where we live ‘Webb’.

The little box shakes. Nope.

I type in Dominic’s mother’s name. ‘Jane’.

The little box shakes. Nope.

I give up and leave. Or I try to. A wave of nausea overcomes me, and I sink back down in the swivel chair, which lurches and nearly sends me crashing back down on the carpet
.

Can I move without fainting?
Not really. Not now.
Don’t take the risk. Remember Angelina’s exhibition. Don’t take risks now.

I decide to wait it out. I put my head on the desk and stare at the empty password box, working up the energy to walk.

Then I have a nasty feeling.

I think of a possible word. I try to frame it in my mind. It’s only four letters long, but I have to concentrate on the correct spelling.

My hand reaches out. I press ‘P’.

Do I really want to do this?
I ask myself.

I press ‘A’.

Is this just going to open every can of worms in the fishing shop?
 

I press ‘I’.

If he used this word, it would tell me beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dominic is trying to keep things from me. He knows that I would shy away from it. Using that word is like using it as weapon against me.

I press ‘N’, and I press return.

Nothing. Computer says ‘no’.

I sigh with relief, and then I realise I’ve knocked the caps lock on.

I put the word in, in lower case, and the computer screen turns blue, and up swims Dominic’s screen wallpaper, a picture of Alec Guinness from
The Ladykillers
.

Oh, Dominic. Why? You used that word to hide from me. You just betrayed me.
 

The tension of the moment encourages my body to stab me in the leg, pain swims into my vision, and I put my head on the table until the ripples subside. Five minutes later, and I’m ready to carry on.

All right, Dominic, why? Why the password? Are you hiding something from me?
 

My fingers dance across the keyboard, looking in Word files, PDFs, JPEGs. I find Christmas card lists, abandoned novels, old letters to parents, but nothing that he could want to possibly keep from me.

‘Meeses Moaneeka?’

Agnieszka is in the house. She must have let herself in.

‘Meeses Moaneeka?’

‘I’m here. In the office.’

She pops her head around the door, and her lilac smell fills the tiny office. ‘Hello. I am here. I do usual?’

‘Yes, usual.’

‘Bedsheets today?’

‘No, not this week.’

‘OK. I start polish floor in kitchen.’

I watch her through the open door as she gets the hoover out and it erupts with noise.

She realises that I’m staring at her. She switches off the hoover and smiles. ‘You want for me to make cup of tea for you?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I fine for moment.’

Could I carry on looking through Dominic’s files? Will she notice? Of course she won’t realise what I’m doing. Anyway, she’s at the far end of the kitchen now. She’s finished with the hoover, and now she’s uncoiling the cable of the floor polisher. Soon a throaty whine fills the air.

Reassured, I go back to the computer and I look at his wallpaper; there are things saved on the home screen.

I open one up and it fills the screen, it’s a picture of a white blur. I see it’s a film, because there are play and pause signs under the picture.