Black Static Horror Magazine #2 Page 17

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  HOLDING PATTERN—Andrew Humphrey

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Andy has twice had stories published in both The Third Alternative and Crimewave. His second short story collection, Other Voices, will be published by Elastic Press early in 2008.

  * * * *

  Douglas had just finished shaving when it first happened. It was a Tuesday morning. Early. Ordinary. Gayle was stumbling around in the semi-darkness behind him. He was a morning person, she wasn't. He caught her reflection in the mirror. She wore only a beige slip. She was in her early fifties, her face puffy and naked, her hair spectacularly unregulated, and yet his heart quickened at the sight of her. He smiled, revealing a last dot of foam hiding in a dimple. He smoothed it off with a finger. A fraction of a second later his reflection did the same. He frowned and again it took a heartbeat, maybe two, for the face in the mirror to catch up.

  "Gayle,” he said.

  "Where are my tights?"

  "Did you see that?"

  She was behind him, her hand cool on his shoulder. “I can't see anything without my glasses."

  "My face."

  "Oh, it's not so bad. All things considered."

  "I mean, my reflection..."

  She moved away from him. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I can't find my tights. Have you cut yourself shaving?"

  "What? No..."

  "Are you wearing your contacts?"

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps you need new ones. You should make an appointment. No, I'll make you an appointment. You'll only forget.” She was halfway down the stairs. “Do you want toast or cereal?"

  "Toast,” Douglas said. His reflection said the same thing at the same time, which he found reassuring.

  * * * *

  On Saturday morning he played squash with Richard. He was on the point of losing the second game and was chasing down an evil lob to his backhand when the ball and Richard, who had claimed the ‘T’ in textbook fashion and was waiting for the kill, both stuttered then froze for a second, maybe two. Douglas was momentarily aware of his heartbeat and the exaggerated sound of his breathing as his shoes squeaked on the wooden flooring. His racquet continued its movement towards where he believed the ball to be heading before it become becalmed in still air. Naturally he completed his shot too soon and when the laws of physics kicked in again the ball dropped lamely over his racquet, rebounded off the back wall and hit him on the left thigh.

  "Jesus, Douglas. That was poor, even for you."

  "Didn't you see that, Richard? Didn't you feel anything?"

  Richard regarded him quizzically. “I think the expression you are looking for is four-love. My serve."

  He held his hand out. Douglas tossed him the ball, watching its flight carefully. He saw that Richard wasn't even sweating. The bastard. “Seriously..."

  "No excuses. I want to get this whitewash completed before our time runs out."

  He was serving already. Douglas’ forehand reply limped into the tin.

  "You could at least try,” Richard said, turning and preparing to serve again.

  Douglas didn't win another point.

  After the game they drank orange juice in the club bar. Richard looked slim and tanned and younger than he had any right to, Douglas thought. Gayle once said that he resembled his namesake, Mr Gere. She had a dreamy, faraway look on her face at the time that Douglas didn't appreciate.

  Richard talked. Douglas was usually good at pretending to listen but today he was distracted and he felt his façade of interest crumble.

  Richard finally stopped in mid-flow, leant forward and said, “Douglas? Are you all right man?"

  "You're asking about me? My goodness."

  "What?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You're as white as a sheet."

  Douglas hesitated. Who else could he tell? Nominally, Richard was his best friend. In reality this meant nothing. The only person he loved, needed, would ever need, was Gayle. Which meant that sometimes she was the last person he could talk to. Richard on the other hand ... he didn't care at all what Richard thought of him.

  He told him about the incident in front of the shaving mirror and what had happened on court a little earlier.

  Richard nodded and tried to look thoughtful. “It could be a tumour,” he said.

  "Well, thanks."

  "That or The Matrix was, in fact, a documentary."

  "The Matrix?"

  Richard sighed and adopted a heavily patronising tone that he thought Douglas found amusing. He was wrong. “It was a popular motion picture, Douglas. I'm astonished it escaped your notice."

  "I'm only four years older than you."

  "Hard to believe, isn't it? I take it you've heard of Keanu Reeves?"

  Douglas said nothing. The only reason he'd heard of Richard Gere was because Gayle tended to drool over him.

  Richard sighed again then précised the plot of The Matrix and its sequels.

  "I must be missing the point,” Douglas said.

  "No shit,” Richard said. Douglas looked blank. Richard said, “Don't worry about it. I think we can safely assume that reality isn't fracturing. Something up with your eyes, old boy, that's all. You're at that age, aren't you? It's not a big deal. I don't know what you're making such a fuss about."

  "Hardly a fuss, Richard. I just thought I'd mention it."

  "I suppose in a world as serene and perfect as yours you notice the tiny flaws. How is Gayle?"

  "Still beautiful. Have you heard from the twins?"

  Richard angled his face towards the bar. His voice was dry. “Since last week? No. It's been six years, after all."

  Douglas nodded. He and Richard had worked for the same engineering firm for the best part of a decade. Richard left to form a new company with a senior colleague. The venture bombed after eighteen months, leaving Richard at the brink of bankruptcy. His wife, with the money, the lifestyle gone, no longer tolerated his affairs and left taking their twin daughters with her. Contact was fitful, then nonexistent. Richard's tendency towards being an arrogant prick meant that none of his former colleagues kept in touch. Except Douglas. They had remained friends in spite of Richard's bitterness and jealousy and the fact that they didn't actually like each other.

  But Richard preferred not be reminded of his failure as a father and husband. Douglas asked after his ex-family every time they met; solicitously, as a friend would.

  Douglas said, “She's a cold one, that Serena."

  "Yes,” Richard said. Something in his voice made Douglas look at him more closely. Richard's expression was almost comically bereft, and Douglas realised he was close to tears. “Douglas, I've got to tell you something."

  Douglas stood. Richard was displaying genuine emotion. Was on the point of unloading it onto Douglas. Who was appalled. This wasn't part of the contract. “Richard, look ... the time. I've got to go. Now. I'm sorry."

  Richard stood as well. Douglas stiffened. People were watching. Richard said, “Please..."

  Douglas thought, shit, shit, shit. He said, “The time. God, didn't realise.” He shot Richard a stupid, sideways grin. “It's Gayle.” He said her name twice more in a sing-song voice, all the time backing towards the door.

  Richard watched him, his hands tucked into the waistband of his shorts, his expression bewildered and hurt.

  * * * *

  As Douglas drove home a thunderhead formed with alarming speed in the east. It had been a benign April day but by the time he pulled into the drive of his detached house the sky was pewter-coloured and swollen. Thunder was rumbling like the hunger pangs of a wild animal. Rain snapped out of the low sky and instantly became all embracing. Douglas stepped out his BMW and the force of the water hitting his scalp and shoulders cowed him, held his breath in abeyance as he scuttled crab-like to the door. He flung it open, shouted, “Jesus Christ,” as he crossed the threshold.

  "What?” Gayle said, the living room door bangin
g behind her, her face creased with impatience, or concern, or both.

  Douglas was still hunched, his hands bunched over his head. He realised suddenly that his hair was dry, as was his shirt, his face. He glanced through the open front door. The sun was shining. The air was still and blue.

  "What on earth is wrong, Douglas?” Impatience was winning now. Understandably, perhaps.

  He straightened. “Nothing. Just a pain, that's all. I'm fine now."

  Her voice softened. “What sort of pain?"

  He leant towards her, let her arms take him, pressed a smile into her hair and skin. “Old war wound, I reckon. Sorry I shouted."

  "Silly old bear,” she said. “Is it your head? Did you get your eyes checked?"

  As long as she was squeezed against him everything was fine. “Too old for squash, that's all."

  She stepped back from him. “Did Richard beat you again?"

  "Narrowly."

  "How is he?"

  "Fantastic. You know Richard."

  Gayle wandered towards the kitchen. Douglas followed. “I haven't seen him for ages."

  "He's such a busy man. It's a shame."

  "Did you give him my love?"

  "As always."

  Gayle made him a cup of strong tea.

  He looked out of the window. “Had any rain?"

  "What?” Gayle said.

  "I thought it clouded over earlier."

  "Hardly. It's as clear as a bell. Thought we could get out into the garden later.” She put a hand on his brow. “If you're up to it."

  "I'm fine."

  "Do you want me to cancel tonight?"

  Tonight, Douglas thought. Shit. Dinner party. Four of Gayle's old teacher friends. She'd retired four years earlier. Missed it every day, she said. “Cancel? God, no. Can't wait.” Gayle rewarded the lie with a sweet smile that made his heart skip.

  * * * *

  The evening passed without incident. The last of the guests left a little before one.

  "You look tired,” Douglas said. “Go to bed. I'll clear up."

  "You are a sweetheart,” Gayle said, kissing his cheek. “Clarissa is always telling me how lucky I am."

  "Such a perceptive woman."

  Gayle hesitated in the doorway, appraising him. She wore a raspberry-coloured woollen dress and her hair was down. She looked so beautiful Douglas ached. “Did you have a good time? You seemed distracted."

  No more than usual, Douglas thought. The irony was that he was popular with Gayle's friends. They considered him a thoughtful host and an excellent listener. They found him reflective and intelligent. In reality he barely heard a word they spoke. He had no interest in their lives or opinions. He had trained himself to smile or chuckle at the appropriate time. If he spoke at all it was merely to encourage or flatter. It was enough. It kept Gayle happy and that was the point of it all. For over thirty years every ounce of his charm and charisma and talent had been focused on her happiness. On being the husband she wanted, needed. He had worked hard at a job he didn't particularly enjoy, genuflected to men he despised, to provide for her materially. He was no longer aware of his own needs. They were there somewhere, he supposed, circling deep and distant. It didn't matter. “It was, as ever, a triumph. Your cooking just gets better and better, I swear it does."

  Gayle's smile deepened. Then her eyes left his and fixed on a spot above his head. The smile shrank, her expression emptied.

  "Gayle?"

  Her face was white and waxy. Her mouth fell open, shaped as though to scream, although no sound came out.

  "Gayle?” he said again. His voice was shrill, bird-like. He tried to move towards her but a hand, several hands, pinned him in place. They were made of metal, it seemed, and invisible.

  Now her face was deeply lined, aging visibly, shrinking in on itself. Douglas watched it implode. The raspberry dress emptied, fluttered to the floor. Dust settled on it.

  The hands released him. He fell to his knees. The knowledge that this couldn't be real didn't help at all. His screams were as thin and reedy as a child's. He longed for unconsciousness. Then something huge struck him in the small of the back and the floor rushed up to meet him, granting his wish.

  * * * *

  Douglas woke to the sound of music. The radio was on. Classic FM. It wasn't tuned properly but he was pretty sure it was something by Bach. His face was gummed to the floor. He freed it, straightened, wincing at the shaft of pain between his shoulder blades. He turned the radio off and glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten past three. He walked to the doorway. No dress lay on the floor, no dust, no body parts. No trace of Gayle at all, apart from her scent and Douglas could smell that anywhere, at any time.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach the top of the stairs. Gayle was asleep in bed, laying on her side, snoring quietly, prettily. Douglas nearly wept with relief.

  He went to the bathroom, tried to urinate, but couldn't. He drank some water from the tap then braced his arms on the wash-basin and stared at his reflection in the shaving mirror.

  "You started it,” he said in a whisper.

  He gazed back at himself implacably. He half-expected things to change again; for his face to melt, perhaps, or for something large to emerge from the shadows behind him. But the night ticked on, silent, without comment. A tumour, Richard had said. Maybe he was right.

  Douglas briefly considered consulting his GP. He didn't even remember the man's name, it had been so long since he'd seen him. But he rejected the idea immediately. To do so would mean facing things, taking action. Illness meant weakness. If he was weak he might lose Gayle.

  To Douglas, truth was an interesting concept. The previous evening—it already seemed years distant—Clarissa had said something about valuing the truth above all else. He couldn't remember the context. He'd smiled and nodded. He thought it was the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

  * * * *

  Richard finally caught up with him ten days later. Douglas had cancelled their squash game at the weekend, leaving a message on Richard's mobile. For Douglas the days had passed slowly, but without incident. It seemed that normality was reasserting itself. He was wary, though. He moved with an odd sense of deliberation that puzzled and irritated Gayle. He believed that if he braced himself for the unexpected it was less likely to happen. He couldn't explain this to Gayle though, as that would mean dwelling on the previous incidents. To her he simply appeared to be acting strangely. He also phoned in sick for two days, something he hadn't done for twenty-five years. This irritated Gayle further. Douglas was hurt. He thought she might like having him around, but she seemed disproportionately put out and he ended up driving to the park and walking away an afternoon.

  The day he cancelled the squash game was the first Saturday of the month and that evening he and Gayle made love as usual. Except it wasn't as usual. He was tense, as he thought this was an obvious time for reality to distort again. He found it difficult to get an erection and when he did he was reluctant to let himself ejaculate. Finally, fifteen minutes after Gayle had come, or at least pretended to, he grunted and rolled off her, onto his back.

  "Have you finished?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I think I know..."

  She put her hand on him. His head fell back onto the pillow. “Why lie about it, Douglas?"

  "It's just..."

  "Is it me?” She sat up in bed. Her voice had a quality to it, a brittleness that he'd worked all his life to avoid hearing.

  "Of course not. I'm just tired."

  He didn't like the silence that followed. He thought he could hear her thinking. Finally she said, “It's just..."

  He waited but she didn't go on. Her voice had changed again, though. It was thicker, clotted. It scared Douglas. He didn't want her to continue speaking. It would only be of regrets, recriminations. If they were never voiced he could believe they didn't exist.

  To his relief she just lay back in the darkness and said, “Go to sleep."
r />   Eventually, he did.

  * * * *

  On Wednesday evening he found Richard waiting for him outside his office. “They seek him here, they seek him there,” he said.

  "I've been meaning to call,” Douglas said. He kept walking towards his car.

  Richard fell into step beside him. “Really?"

  "I've not been well."

  "I didn't think you'd been ill a day in your life."

  They reached the BMW. Douglas opened the door. “I must go. I've got an appointment."

  "I've got to talk to you. It's about Gayle."

  Douglas stopped, stood in silence for a moment. “What could you possibly have to tell me about Gayle?"

  Richard turned his head away. A breeze was getting up and it flicked a strand of Richard's hair across his face. “This is so hard. I could hardly believe it myself."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Not here."

  Douglas gestured at the passenger door. “Get in."

  They found a pub nearby. It was a new place, or at least Douglas had never noticed it before. It was horribly trendy, all blond wood and muted lighting. It was almost empty. They got their drinks and found a corner seat. Douglas hadn't spoken since Richard had got in the car.

  "You mustn't shoot the messenger, Douglas,” Richard said. He kept his eyes cast down. Douglas said nothing. “You've heard of Internet dating?” Douglas looked at him. “I mean, you know what the Internet is, right? I know what an old Luddite you are.” The grin was off-centre and brief.

  "Just tell me,” Douglas said.

  "About the Internet?"

  Douglas closed his eyes. “About Gayle.” He almost left then. Just walked away. He didn't have to listen to this. But, actually, he did.

  "I've been on a few singles sites since Serena left. They're quite respectable these days. Nothing to be ashamed of..."

  "I'm not interested in judging you. Just tell me if you've slept with my wife."

  "What?” His eyes were wide with indignation. “Of course not. What kind of man do you take me for?"

  Douglas didn't want to answer that. Didn't want to do anything. “What, then?"

  Richard visibly braced himself. “Gayle's on one of the sites."