House of Sticks (32 page)

‘Him?' Suzanne laughed. ‘He was always at work. He did nothing —
nothing
— to help with you children. Oh' — she flapped a hand — ‘he read your stories, at bedtime, when he got home from work. Once I'd fed you and bathed you and got you all ready.'

There was a pause. No sound from Jess, sleeping in her room. Bonnie stared down at the scuffed toes of her boots. The warmth of her father's giant body, the smell of his clothes — like newspapers, and pencil shavings — the rumble of his voice, the vibration of it as she rested against him. She felt her mouth twist, the swim of angry tears. She couldn't look up at Suzanne. How unfair, that this vision of her father was so readily available, so alive and full and easy, when if she tried to summon the mother of her childhood all she got was impressions: a blurred figure always moving; a weary voice pleading
Hurry up
; impatient hands busy and full; a turned back.

‘You're much luckier,' said Suzanne after a while. ‘You've got Pete.'

‘Now,' said Suzanne, the next morning, when Bonnie got back from dropping the twins at kinder. ‘I've got bridge tonight …'

‘That's fine, Mum.' She spooned mashed banana into Jess's mouth.

‘And I was thinking, it's at Marg's, all the way over in Hampton, and afterwards — I mean, you won't need me anyway, because the kids'll be in bed.'

Bonnie looked across at her. Nothing showed of yesterday's cracked, raw face. Suzanne's make-up was in place again, her expression contained.

‘So,' Suzanne went on, ‘I thought perhaps it would make more sense if I just went home.'

The thin winter light in the room, the two of them there, trapped together in this, whatever it was, this unwilling union, this stasis.
Neither of us wants this
, thought Bonnie.

‘It's fine, Mum.' She scraped creamy dribble from Jess's chin. ‘That sounds fine. And I think you should go back to work tomorrow. I'll be okay.'

Suzanne sipped her tea. She leaned forward in her chair, opened her mouth. Sat back, closed it. Came forward again. ‘But Bonnie, what —'

‘It's up to me, Mum.' Bonnie was surprised at how firm her own voice was. ‘It's my problem.'

That night she walked around the hushed house. Stood in the bedroom doorways, listening to the breathing of the children.

The couch cushions smelled of Suzanne — floral perfume and expensive hand cream. Bonnie turned the television on and sat down. Then she turned it off and stood up again.

She paced emptily. What could she do? What could she say to Pete, to convince him? How long should she leave it for, let him be like this, silent, cut-off? How long before it was up to her to force something, some confrontation? She stood in their bedroom looking at his row of shoes against the wall, a jumper hung over the back of the chair. How could she do it anyway? If he didn't call her or answer his phone how could she find out where he was? She tried to picture herself staking out the pub across the road from the supermarket, following them back to Doug's flat or wherever it was they were staying. Banging on the door, the demanding woman, the shrew. Their two faces, side-by-side, safe in their calm allegiance.

She was brushing her teeth when someone knocked on the front door. A long, hard hammering, and then what sounded like a voice. She jumped. Went into the hallway.
Pete?
She started towards the door, but the knock came again, a shuffling and a bump.

‘Anybody ho-ome?' came the voice, quiet, almost sing-song.

She froze. It wasn't Pete.

Another knock, insistent at first, and then slowing, petering out. ‘Mis-sus Bon-nie,' came the sing-song voice.

Bonnie stood a few paces from the door, body tense with fear. She put her hands over her mouth and waited.
Go away
.

‘Hul-lo-o?' The knocking again, another shuffle. ‘Come on, Missus Bonnie, let us in.' A long inhalation of breath, audible through the door. ‘I need to talk to you.' A clink, like glass against wood, and the voice lowered for a moment, guttural, slurred. ‘It's about Pete.'

He's drunk
, she thought. The fright swelled. What about Pete? A series of ugly scenarios flipped through her mind. Pete had left town. Pete was moving in with Doug permanently and he'd sent Doug to get more of his things. Pete wanted to see the kids, and he'd sent Doug to mediate.

‘Mis-sus Bon-nie!'

She shrank at the volume of his voice. What time was it? Ten-thirty? Eleven o'clock? What was he doing, turning up like this, making such a racket?

‘Yoo-hoo!' More hammering.

She moved closer to the door, cringing.
He's going to wake the kids
.

‘Yoo-hoo!'

Fuck!

‘Mis-sus Bon-nie!'

She took two quick steps, wrenched open the door. Doug fell in, stumbling past her. His shoulder grazed her face, and she felt the cold outside air on his jacket, breathed smoke and booze and his dank smell.

He stayed on his feet, lurched round to face her. He was holding two stubbies of beer — Coronas — and he raised one. ‘For you.'

She didn't answer. She couldn't even open her mouth. Her rage roared so strongly she couldn't keep still. She trembled on the spot, speechless with it, opening and closing her hands.

Doug waved the bottle at her, head back. ‘Peace offering,' he said, but his eyes were wandering upwards, as if inspecting the ceiling for cracks. He took a couple of staggering steps backwards.

She drew in breath, struggled for words. ‘What …?'

But his head snapped back down into position. ‘Now when is this going to stop?' He eyed her sternly. ‘Eh?'

Bonnie stared.

‘This — this' — Doug brandished the bottle — ‘rubbish you two're going on with.' His eyes had lost their focus again.

She tried not to look at his mouth as it hung open, waiting for the words.

The words obviously didn't come. ‘I need a drink,' he said at last, swinging round. ‘Where's your bottle opener?'

He headed off towards the kitchen, and it took a moment for Bonnie to gather herself and follow.
What's wrong with you?
She felt slow and bulky, dragging her anger.
Just kick him out, for fuck's sake
.

When she came into the room he was around the other side of the bench, going through the cutlery drawer.

Bonnie stood in the doorway. ‘What're you …?' She couldn't seem to raise her voice above a weak bleat.

‘Ah-ha!' Doug ignored her, came over to the table with the bottle opener held aloft. Bent and levered the top off one of the beers, then the other, sending the bottle tops flipping and bouncing across the table. Pushed one bottle towards her and seized the other. ‘That's the way.' He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, took a moment to balance one ankle on the other knee and raised the bottle. ‘Cheers,' he said, and drank.

Bonnie looked down at the floor. The rage was like a black hole in her vision, quivering, liquid. Who did he think he was, coming here like this, in the middle of the night, making so much noise? Stomping through the house as if he owned it, rummaging through the drawers? She tried to breathe evenly, to calm herself enough to think, to decide what to do.

‘He won't listen to me,' said Doug, looking at his beer. He might have been at his own table, musing to himself. ‘I've tried.' He shook his head. ‘He's wallowing — that's what he's doing. Starting to get a bit sick of it actually.'

Slowly Bonnie opened her mouth, slowly she raised her head, fighting the dumb weight of the anger.

‘Boring,' said Doug. ‘That's what it is.' He sipped meditatively, tipped his chair back on two legs. ‘Getting a bit boring now.'

She gaped. She blinked at him. She felt her head shake, heard herself give a broken laugh.
He's sitting here, in our house, in the middle of the night, complaining that Pete's boring, that our break-up is boring — that this thing, the worst, most terrible thing that's ever happened to us, that's ripped our lives apart, is boring, is a drag for him, getting in his way
.

Doug seemed to notice her then. He slid his lips back in a smile. ‘I know you don't like me, Missus Bonnie. But the thing is —'

The numbness went. The anger ruptured, blew open. Bonnie shot across the room, seized the back of his seat and tipped it forward. ‘
Get out
,' she hissed. ‘Get up out of my fucking chair and get the fuck out of my house.'

Doug stumbled but recovered himself, swayed upright, knees bent, arms raised, the bottle still in his hand. Beer flicked up the wall. ‘Easy,' he said loudly.

‘
Shut up
,' she hissed. She felt huge with rage. ‘
Get out!
'

‘Easy, easy,' went Doug, hands still raised as if in protest. But he was moving, unsteadily, in bursts, like a dodgem car. Over the floor, through the doorway, out into the hall.

Past the darkened rooms of the sleeping children they went, Bonnie behind him, fists at the ready.

He wavered for a moment, and her throat stung with the force of her whisper. ‘
Move.
' She had an urge to lift her foot and kick him.

‘I'm going,' said Doug. ‘All right — I'm going, settle down.'

Teeth clenched, she followed him to the front door.

He stopped there again, slouched against the wall, grinning at her as if it was all a joke.

‘You're all right, Missus Bonnie.' He sucked at the foam that was erupting from the shaken beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You're my favourite tough lady.'

Bonnie opened the door. ‘Get out.'

‘All right, all right.' He pushed himself up off the wall, groaning like someone getting up out of a comfortable chair. ‘Not the first time I've been kicked out of a party.' Out on the porch at last he faced her and lifted the bottle again. ‘Well, cheers, Missus Bonnie. To you. And to Pete, the stupid cunt who doesn't know his own luck.' He drank, swaying as his head went back.

Bonnie shut the door. She stood listening. She could hear him breathing, the shift of his weight as he turned towards the street. She heard him laugh softly, and then sigh. His feet across the porch to the steps, then a sudden scraping sound and a thud. The muffled scrunch of breaking glass.

Shit
. She stood with her hand on the lock.

Silence.

Shit
. Bonnie opened the door again. She could see the shape of him at the bottom of the steps, dark against the concrete path. She saw his head come up, and his shoulders, and then he was kneeling, his back to her.

‘Doug?' She stayed in the doorway. ‘You all right?'

He didn't answer.

‘Doug?'

He mumbled something, tried to get up, but fell back into a squat. She heard the crunch and skitter of the broken beer bottle on the concrete.

‘Doug?' She reached back inside the door and switched on the porch light, and he came properly into view, in colour, his hair, his jacket, worn at the elbows, the backs of his ears. ‘Doug? You okay?' She went across the porch and started down the steps.

‘Uh-oh,' he said suddenly, and gave a pale version of one of his titters.

She came down behind him. She could see the broken glass on the concrete, and bubble-edged splashes of beer, and — rich and dark — blood. A little trickle of it moving downhill, making for the edge of the path. Her heart started to hammer. Doug's knees sticking out sharp in front, his shoulders hunched, him swaying and bobbing like some giant injured bird. She edged round him.

‘Aw, me new shoes,' croaked Doug.

She stared at the shoes. She hadn't noticed them before. They were awful, both cheap-looking and ostentatious, long and shiny, pale grey. There was blood on one of the toes.
Funny
, she thought, distantly, behind the pounding of her heart.
Why would you buy only those crazy shoes, and still keep on wearing the same crap old clothes?

Doug made a noise, a kind of half-laugh, half-whimper, and she yanked her gaze away at last from the mess and the shoes and saw the hand he was holding out between his knees, palm up. It was bright and wet with blood, covered, slick, and Bonnie could see small pieces of glass sticking out of it. But the blood was coming from further up, from the wrist, where a cut — not big, but deep, like a miniature toothless mouth — was spewing in regular pulses. She drew in breath hard between her teeth. Too much blood. She could hear the busy drip of it on the path, see the puddle spreading between his ugly shoes.

Doug raised his face then, his skin drained and waxy under the light. ‘Shit, sorry, Missus Bonnie,' he said, and moved his lips in an awful faint smile. ‘I've done meself a bit of a …'