Remember Why You Fear Me (32 page)

“Ssh,” she said. “What was that?”

He strained to hear. And yes, there it was again. A sort of scream, not too loud, but eerie, inhuman. And after that, an all too human one.

“Christ, what now?” muttered Gillian, and went to see. He followed her.

“What the fuck is
that
?” Denise from Marketing was standing in the sitting room, pointing at his heart. It was shrieking in what could only be pain, high-pitched and plaintive. And it was glowing so brightly, with a fierce white light that lit the whole room—he saw moths dancing about in the spotlight beam. He had to get close, and shield his eyes, to take a closer look. The bone had spread again, and the remaining patches of pink were straining against it, bulging, livid.

“I don’t need this,” said Denise from Marketing. “I’ve got fucking work in the morning. I don’t need to be woken up by someone’s fucking heart.”

“Sorry, Denise,” said Gillian.

“Hello, Denise,” he said, and wished that he was wearing some clothes.

“I want you out of my flat,” said Denise from Marketing. “Both of you,” she added, indicating the still wailing heart.

The rain hadn’t yet eased off, but he didn’t think Denise from Marketing would let him wait for a cab. As he walked the darkened streets, lit only by the heart’s unearthly glow, its occasional cries sounded particularly loud, and passers-by would cross the road to avoid him. It was as he was getting into a taxi that his heart, which had behaved itself for ten minutes and done more dramatic than hushed quivering, let out a shriek so agonized and despairing that the driver took off without him. He slipped off his coat, wrapped it round the tortured muscle—at first just to muffle the sound of its screams, but as he held it close to his chest, the chest from which it should never have been ripped, he believed it was more to give it as much warmth as he could. The heavens opened; his clothes stuck sodden to his skin. And all he’d say is “ssh” and “it’s all right” and “nearly there,” and give little noises he hoped were comforting.

By the time he reached home, and opened out his bundle on to the kitchen table, the heart had almost completely ossified. There was one small streak of pink tissue, trying its utmost in spite of all to do its job and pump blood and oxygen around his body. “It’s all right,” he said softly, “you don’t have to try so hard. It’s all right, I’ll stay with you, I’m jolly well staying with you.” Within an hour it was dead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I’m sorry,” although he really couldn’t see what else he could have done. “Sorry,” but it hadn’t been his bloody responsibility, had it? He left it, no longer gleaming, just a bony off-white, even the moths weren’t interested anymore. He decided what to do with it in the morning. He slept particularly well that night.

The next day at work a nervous Gillian approached his cubicle.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said. “But I want you to know I really like you, and I’d love to try again . . .”

“I think,” he said, coolly, looking up from his work for the first time, “I can do a bit better, don’t you?”

And so he could. He soon realized that the worst a woman could do was to say no—and it’s true that some
did
say no, but a lot didn’t, and fewer said no the more said yes. He didn’t give a toss if they were married; if they broke their husbands’ hearts, that was their lookout. He lost a bit of weight. He got himself a little stud earring—and, truth be told, it did make him look a bit stupid, but not very stupid, and, more importantly, not stupid
enough
. “We shouldn’t go back to mine,” said Denise from Marketing. “Why?” he smirked, and so they did, and as they were humping away he liked to imagine the crying he heard in the room next door was something to do with him.

Three months later his wife came back. She was waiting for him on the doorstep when he got in from work.

“You could have phoned,” he said.

“You told me I could come around whenever I liked.”

“Not bloody likely. Anyone could be here.” He opened the door. “You can come in for a bit.”

“Good news,” she said. “My pangs have stopped.”

“Great news,” he said, and lit a cigarette. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“I made a terrible mistake,” she said. “Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe I
had
to go away for a while. Just to realize that I love you, that I only love you. Maybe I had to put myself through that, put us both through that, just so I’d know for sure. Do you think?”

He just stared and smoked.

“All right,” she said. “I admit, I did find someone else. He didn’t treat me right. I tried to give him my heart, but it wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t beat for him at all, it just lay there like a dead weight. And he said it smelt funny.” She fetched it from her bag, held it out for him to take.

“It does smell funny,” he said.

“I know.”

She continued to hold it out. He continued not to take it. At last she put it down on the table, between them, as a compromise.

“I’ve nowhere to go,” she said.

“There’s the spare room. You can have it for one night. Just one night.”

She nodded. Waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she nodded once more, then went upstairs.

He opened a bottle of wine. After he’d finished his second glass, he supposed he ought to see how she was getting on. Whether she wanted some dinner, he suddenly thought, maybe she was hungry. And he was surprised to feel some concern, where had that come from?

He went into the spare room. She’d been through the cupboards, there was debris all over the bed. From an empty shoebox she’d found his heart. She was holding it in one palm—he’d forgotten how, in death, it had grown so small and wizened.

“Put that back,” he said. “That isn’t yours anymore.”

“Look,” she said softly. “Look.” And she began to stroke it. She blew on it gently.

“It’s not yours,” he said, uselessly.

And as he watched, the rock cracked. Pink tissue broke through the stone and bone. “Look,” she said again. It was struggling, and then it managed a beat, and once it had managed one, it seemed all too happy to beat again. “Look,” she said, and kissed it. The last of the rock crumbled away at her touch. “I love you,” she said. “Look. I love you. Look how much.” And she offered his heart out to him, as good to new.

Dazedly he reached for it. She smiled, nodded. He took hold of it. Looked at it, as it swelled with new life. And then he dug his fingernails in, dug them in deep, dug ’til it bled. “No,” she said. And began squeezing hard, so that one of the ventricles bulged then burst. “No, stop!” And ripped it apart, tearing at it, pulling off gobbets of it, showering them on to the spare room carpet.

“I told you,” he said. “It isn’t yours. You gave it back.”

And his wife began to cry. He looked away in disgust.

“One night only,” he said, “and then you find somewhere else to stay.” He wiped his hands on his shirt, then left, closing the door behind him.

“I’ll get you back,” she said softly. “It’ll take time, but I’ll get you.” And she looked down at the bloody chunks strewn all over the floor. And saw that, in spite of all the damage that he’d inflicted on it—all the damage they’d both done—the shattered heart still, stubbornly, beat.

Andrew Kaplan was coming home, at last, and it’d be for a
real
holiday, not like that time last August when the company called him back to work after only four days’ leave, they’d guaranteed he wouldn’t be needed in until January 5th, that would very nearly give him two weeks. “Great,” his wife had said, when he’d phoned her and told her the good news, and Andrew asked whether his daughter would be excited too, and his wife assured him that she would be. The flight from Boston was packed with British people who’d be getting to see their families, and there was a revelry in the air, nothing too outspoken, nothing drunken or boisterous, they were respectable denizens of middle management—but there were polite smiles everywhere, everyone seemed to be sporting a smile, and the stewardesses were wearing tinsel on their name badges, it all seemed very festive.

The aeroplane took off half an hour late, but Andrew wasn’t too worried, he knew that nine times out of ten any delay is made good in transit. But when the pilot came over the intercom and apologized once again that they were going to have to circle Heathrow for the fourth time—“The runways are all full, everyone wants to get back for Christmas!”—Andrew began to worry about his connecting flight from London to Edinburgh. By the time all the passengers had filed off the plane and made their way to baggage claim, no one was smiling anymore. Andrew was almost resigned to the idea that he’d missed the connection, but then he dazedly realized that his suitcase was the first on to the conveyor belt—and that never happened!—and if he
ran
he might just make it to the check-in desk on time; and so that’s what he did, he
ran
, and his case was heavy, laden down with so many special presents for his family, but he didn’t let that stop him—he raced down the travelator from terminal three to terminal two, apologizing as he pushed other passengers to one side—and it was going to be okay, if he kept up this pace he was going to make it with
minutes
to spare, and he burst into the departures hall and looked up at the monitors for his flight details—and there they were, it hadn’t taken off yet!—and there was a word in red right beside it, and the word was ‘cancelled.’

And for a moment he felt quite relieved, because it meant he had no reason to run anymore, and he’d done his best, hadn’t he? And for another moment he was quite angry. And then he just didn’t feel anything very much, he was just so tired.

No more flights to Scotland tonight. Sorry. Yes, the inconvenience is highly regrettable. There will, of course, be compensation, and somewhere for Mr Kaplan to rest until service resumed in the morning. But Andrew didn’t want an airport hotel, or, God knows, did they just mean some sort of darkened lounge he could sit in?—it’s all he had thought about on the flight over, that after three months away he was going
home
. He remembered what his wife had said, one of those last times he’d managed to get through to her on the phone—”We’ve never been apart so long before.” He’d asked her whether his daughter was looking forward to Christmas, and his wife had said, “Of course she is, she’s five years old, Christmas is all she thinks about!” And she’d explained that they had already decorated the tree together, and sent out the cards, and been carol singing—all the things they’d always done as a family, and this time he’d been away for them, and she didn’t press that point, she didn’t try to make him feel guilty—but then, she didn’t need to. And Andrew stood in the airport terminal and fumed; by rights he should be flying home right now, by rights he should be somewhere in the air over Birmingham. “I need to get back,” he said to the woman behind the counter, “I need to get back tonight, whatever it takes.” It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, he needed to know that when his daughter woke up on Christmas Eve her father would be there ready for her.

He was told there was a last train to Edinburgh, leaving from King’s Cross station within the hour. He joined the queue for a taxi, then pleaded with the people in front to let him go first, then paid them all ten pounds each. The taxi fare cost him fifty quid, but by this stage of the proceedings Andrew didn’t care about money anymore—on the radio there was playing a non-stop medley of Christmas hits, and Andrew wasn’t in the mood for them, and the driver seemed quite put out when Andrew told him to turn them off. Andrew apologized with a healthy tip that used up all his spare cash. Andrew tried to call his wife to tell her he’d be late home, but his mobile phone was confused, it was still hunting for a signal from an American network provider. He asked the taxi driver whether he could use his phone. The taxi driver refused.

He bought a ticket with his credit card. The train was already filling up. He dragged his suitcase down the platform, and carriage after carriage he couldn’t spot an empty seat. He was starting to despair—and there, at the very last compartment, there were seats galore, the train was almost deserted. He couldn’t see why, he looked for a sign that said it was a different class, or required special reservation, but no, nothing. He climbed aboard, heaved his case into the empty luggage rack, plopped himself down wearily into a seat. He had a whole table to himself. He smiled at the people around him—”Pretty lucky!” he said, but they didn’t reply. There were a couple of businessmen sitting together, a young mother with a girl, an elderly mother reading a magazine, a middle-aged man who was asleep. Andrew decided to take his cue from this last passenger; he closed his eyes, and by the time the train pulled out of the station Andrew was snoring gently.

“Bang!”

And Andrew was awake, and there was the little girl, and she was leaning over his table as if she owned it, and she was pointing a gun at him, except it wasn’t a gun, it was two fingers, with a third wiggling underneath as a trigger. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Andrew wasn’t sure whether to respond or not. With his own daughter he tried to play along as much as possible, no matter what strange pretending game she flung at him, that was what a daddy was supposed to do. But this wasn’t his daughter, and he didn’t know whether he should encourage her, frankly he didn’t know whether he should be talking to her at all. So he sort of half went for it; he clutched at his chest, he said, “Ugh!” quietly, as if he’d been shot, as if he were dying, but it was all a bit pathetic, and even as he did it, Andrew could feel himself blushing red with embarrassment.

The little girl didn’t seem to mind. She looked delighted by this unexpected piece of playacting. “Bang! Bang!” she went, she shot him twice more for good measure, and Andrew didn’t know what he was supposed to do this time, he was already dead, wasn’t he? And she laughed out loud, and then, with a scream, turned and ran down the aisle to the other end of the carriage. She didn’t shoot at any of the other passengers, and Andrew didn’t know how he felt about that, whether he was annoyed or just a little bit proud.