Remember Why You Fear Me (44 page)

As they were walking down the street to the restaurant, Alice suddenly stopped. It caught Alan up short, right in the middle of some smart observation he’d been making about the weather.

“Have you forgotten something?” he asked.

“Yes. No. Oh,” she said, “oh.” And looked him up and down again, and chewed at her lip. She looked quite distressed for a moment, and Alan felt a sudden desire to protect her, to assure her that everything would be okay. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she said.

“No, no . . .”

“But. Your tie.”

“My tie?”

“It’s just wrong. It doesn’t go with that jacket at all.”

“Oh,” he said. And then, somewhat lamely, “It’s my best tie.”

“Would you mind?” she asked. “I’m sorry. Would you mind if? We went back? I have ties. I have a better tie for you.”

“Oh. Well. If you’d prefer.”

“I would.”

“If it means that much to you.”

“It does.”

“All right then.” And they turned around and walked back to the house. Alan resumed his weather remark from where he’d left off, but he soon stopped, his heart really wasn’t in it.

“You wait down here,” Alice said. “Make yourself at home. I won’t be a moment.” And she went upstairs. Alan looked around the sitting room. It was pretty. The wallpaper was a woman’s wallpaper, but quite nice. Everything was clean and ordered and well vacuumed, and there was the smell of recent polish, and Alan thought to himself that he could get used to that.

“Here,” said Alice. And she was smiling, and it was proper smiling this time, there was a warmth to it. “Try this one.” She held out to him a tie, quite formally, draped over her arm. It was pure black. Alan put it on, taking off his own tie with stripes. Alice gave him an inspection.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Oh. Oh. Just wait,” and then she went back upstairs. This time she came down with a jacket, and a shirt, and some shoes. “Try these,” she said, “these will go with the tie.” And she was smiling all over now, her face was one big beaming smile, and Alan couldn’t help but beam back, and he did as he was told.

“Why do you have all these clothes?” he asked, and she stopped smiling, and gave a sort of shrug.

She didn’t smile again for the rest of the evening. The moment had been lost. He had lasagne, she fettuccini. The lasagne took longer to cook than the fettuccini, and that kept her waiting, and he felt a bit guilty. She didn’t respond to his conversation; his small talk was too small, he realized, and he longed suddenly for Sandra with whom he could have talked about
anything
, even if there sometimes had been shouting and swearing included, and though the restaurant was quite busy and the tables squashed too close together Alan felt desperately lonely. He didn’t expect Alice would want dessert. She did. She ordered tiramisu. Alan was so surprised that he ordered tiramisu as well, even though he didn’t like tiramisu.

And when she had devoured the tiramisu, after she had consumed it deliberately and precisely, Alice laid down her dessert spoon and examined Alan quite intently. She chewed her lip. “I cannot decide,” she said, at last. “Whether we’re going to be friends or not. I can’t work you out.”

And Alan said something about how he hoped they’d be friends, and she laughed at that, shook her head.

He paid for the meal; she let him. He walked her home, and neither of them said a word. He pretended they were both enjoying the still of the night. “You’d better come in,” she said. He supposed this was so he could retrieve his own clothes. But as soon as the front door was closed behind them she tore into him, she ripped off his tie, his jacket, began to unbutton his shirt. Then she grabbed at the trousers, and Alan suddenly thought, the trousers are
mine
, she’s at last touching something that’s
me
.

And he knew then that she would look after him. That she’d make sure he looked good for the office and wore the right things, that she cared, she actually
cared
about him, that somebody out in the whole wide world was prepared to do that. She proposed to him on their fourth date, and he could see no reason to refuse. He asked Tony to be his best man, and Tony said yes, and although asking Tony was a good career move it wasn’t just that, Alan genuinely felt quite grateful his boss had played matchmaker. It was during the best man speech that Tony announced Alan’s promotion. Alan and Alice had a son called Bobby, and the way he was conceived wasn’t especially romantic either, but Alan admired the way Alice took all those vitamins and boosters to facilitate the chances of pregnancy once she’d decided it was time they had a baby. And they all moved to a bigger house, and the neighbours were nice and quiet and elderly. And Bobby was bought a dog when he was deemed old enough to take care of it. And the sex between Alan and Alice swiftly became more sober, more manageable, and ultimately more for special occasions, and that was a good thing, a Good Thing, and Alan only very rarely thought of Sandra at all. And Tony, Tony was long dead, Tony had died years ago, Alan took his job and the power that went with it, Alan very rarely now thought of Tony either.

By the time Alan got home from work he was already in a bad mood. Sales were down, and that of course was nonsense; there were more and more people in the world, and people needed more and more Stuff, and Stuff just happened to be what they were selling. Impressing upon his workers the logic of this had exhausted him. As
de facto
head, he felt responsible for their incompetence.

“They’re having a party,” said Alice, the moment he closed the door.

“Who’s having a party?”

“The neighbours. Housewarming, I bet. And they didn’t invite us.”

Alan began to reply to that, but Alice shushed him. She raised a finger for silence. “Listen,” she mouthed. So he did. And yes, he supposed it was true, he could hear the beat of distant music.

“Why would they invite us? They don’t know us.”

“That’s right, Alan, take their side. All I know is . . . that what they’re doing is
invasive
. I feel
invaded
. How long’s this music going on for? What if we can’t sleep?”

“It isn’t very loud,” said Alan.

“What if Bobby can’t sleep?”

“I’ll be able to sleep,” said Bobby, cheerfully.

“It’s like an
invasion
,” said Alice. “And I think you should go over there, and ask them to turn it down.”

“It’s still early,” said Alan. “If the music is still playing later. Then. Then we’ll see.”

The family ate their dinner in silence. Silence, except for the bass thumping from next door. Alice deliberately didn’t mention it, but Alan was annoyed to hear she was right, it
was
getting louder, and it
was
invasive. There was a snatch of something familiar about the music, but he couldn’t place it, the melody was smothered by the thump. Alan tried to talk, he hoped that some dinner conversation would drown out the neighbours, or at the very least distract him a bit. He would have liked to have told his family about his day, about the slump in sales, but he knew they wouldn’t be interested. “What did you learn at school today, Bobby?” he asked at last—”Give me one fact you learned,” and Bobby promptly gave him the date for the Battle of Naseby. There wasn’t much to add to that. “Hey, good boy,” said Alan, relieved to see the dog slouch past the open doorway, “hey, come here, come here, boy.” The dog trotted closer, but when he saw that Alan had no intention of feeding him anything, turned right round and trotted away again.

“I bet the music will be off by nine o’clock,” said Alan. “That’s the watershed. Everyone knows that.”

Bobby did the washing-up, and so as a treat was allowed to be Tiger Woods ’til bedtime. Alan enjoyed concentrating on golf for a while; he almost persuaded himself he couldn’t hear the beat of music getting louder and thicker and uglier, couldn’t hear the pointed sighs of despair from his wife.

“It’s gone nine o’clock,” Alice said at last. “You said they’d have stopped by now.”

“I said they might have.”

“Bobby has to go to bed. Bobby, will you need ear plugs?”

“I don’t need ear plugs,” said Bobby. “I’m fine. I kind of like it. Night, Mummy. Night, Daddy.”

Alan and Alice watched television for a while.

“There’s a child here trying to sleep!” Alice suddenly cried, and she didn’t even wait for a commercial break. “That’s what I don’t understand! How they can just ignore that!”

“They don’t know we’ve got a child,” said Alan.

“They didn’t bother to ask. It’s gone ten o’clock.”

“I know.”

“Next, it’ll be eleven. Eleven!”

“Yes, I know.”

The music never stopped. There was never a pause when one song ended, and another waited to begin. Alan idly wondered how they managed to do that. Was it just lots of little songs mashed into one unending paste, or were his neighbours simply playing the longest song in the world?

At last Alan and Alice went to bed. Alice used the bathroom first. Alan got undressed in the bedroom. At first he thought the music was quieter in the bedroom, and that was good, that was a relief. But then he realized it wasn’t quieter, it was just different—and this different, if anything, was louder. He heard Alice spit out her toothpaste, and she really spat, she really went for it. They swapped positions, bedroom out, bathroom in, and he brushed his teeth as well. He thought he saw the mirror reverberate to the sound of the beat, but he had to really stare at it to check, and he wasn’t sure whether it was just the effect of his head moving as he breathed. He got into bed beside Alice. She had her eyes screwed up tight, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to let in the world. He turned off the light.

As soon as the red neon of the clock radio turned midnight, that very second, Alice said, “That’s enough.”

“Yes.”

“You have to do something now.”

“All right.” Alan turned on the bedside lamp. He put on his dressing gown, his slippers.

“Tell me what you’re going to say to them,” said Alice.

“Um. Please turn the music down?”

“Ask them to turn the music
off
.”

“I will.”

“Down isn’t good enough.”

“All right.”

“And be firm.”

“Yes.” He went towards the door.

“You can’t go out like that,” she said. “Not in your pyjamas.”

“But I’ve just been woken up . . .”

“It sends entirely the wrong message,” said Alice. “It robs you of any authority. You should look smart, formal even. Wait. Wait.” She got up, looked through the wardrobe. She handed him a jacket, a freshly ironed shirt. “This will do,” she said. She smiled as he put the clothes on, she was enjoying this. “Now, go. And whilst you’re there, get me my cup back.”

He stepped outside into the night. The air was still so clammy, but there was a welcome breeze to it, and Alan closed his eyes and drank it in and
enjoyed
it; he wished he was still wearing his pyjamas, he’d have loved to have felt it properly against his skin. He could feel the sweat already beginning to pool behind the layers of his suit, and rebelliously he loosened his tie—

And listened. Because he could now hear what the music was, and it wasn’t aggressive, it posed no threat, it was charming, charming. And he felt the urge to go back inside, go and fetch Alice—yes, and Bobby too, wake him up, wake him and the dog, bring them all out for this. How much we take it for granted, thought Alan, when it plays on every television ad, when it’s pumped into every department store, when it’s allowed to define just one little month of the year, when it sells
stuff
—you get sick of it, or you screen it out—but now,
here
, in the middle of a July heat wave, how incongruous it sounds, how
nostalgic
. Memories of days long ago, when he was a child, when his mother was still alive, when his father still talked to him—and he felt his eyes pricking with happy tears, he should rush inside, get his family whilst the music lasted, this was a treat. But he didn’t go back inside. He didn’t want his family there. He didn’t want them, and the thought of that surprised him, and hurt him a bit, and somehow made him lighter too. And he stood on his porch, and listened, and basked in the little breeze he could feel, basked in the sound of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ as it segued seamlessly into ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town.’

But he knew Alice would be watching him. She’d be watching from behind the curtains. Watching and waiting. So he set his face into the proper authoritative pose, he straightened his tie again. And he marched down the garden path, out on to the pavement, through the next door gate, into strangers’ territory.

There was no light visible from the house. All the curtains were closed. It looked as if everyone had gone to bed—no, more than that, it looked as if the house were deserted, as if it had been long ago abandoned and no one had lived in there for years and no one ever would again. It looked like a dead place. And he nearly turned back—not out of fear, Good God, no—but because it was ridiculous to think that such music could be coming out of a house like that. But it was, it was.

The mat in front of the house said ‘Welcome’ upon it. Alan stood to one side of it; he didn’t want to be accused of accepting even the smallest part of their hospitality. He knocked on the door—gently, very gently, because he didn’t want to wake the household up. Then he realized how stupid that was; he lifted the knocker high, he let it swing.