The Beard (2 page)

Tom’s intermittently deep sleep was savagely disturbed by the shrill tone of his phone ringing by his head. The reverberations from the pulsating device felt as if they were pneumatically drilling into his skull. He groaned and turned, desperate to ignore the intruder and return to something approaching a meaningful slumber. However, the caller’s persistence ensured that, no matter how many pillows and duvets Tom piled around his head to muffle the sound, there was no escape.

A distasteful, quasi-toxic air of stale alcohol fumes accompanied the ache of every muscle. Tom’s semi-naked frame rolled from side to side in his bed, like a fishing boat in turbulent waters, petulantly resisting the call to rise.

From within his feathered womb of comfort, an arm snaked out to retrieve the aggressive and unwanted attention-seeker. Drawing the damned device within, Tom pushed it reluctantly to his ear – if only to discover who his new least-favourite human was. 

“What?” he croaked to whoever was calling.

“You have to help me!” came the shrill warble at the other end of the phone.

The quilted igloo Tom was attempting to hibernate in muffled the piercing message. The searing heat therein created an inferno of carbon dioxide and body odour, not assisted by the apparent work of a chorus of beating drums.

“Sod off, Amy,” he mumbled into the phone, before thumb-fumbling to disconnect the call.

“This is serious,” came the assured reply.

“No, it isn’t,” Tom shot back. “It never is.” Rolling his tongue around his mouth in pursuit of some saliva, he hoped that his movements would be enough to kickstart his various bodily functions into action.

Amy wasn’t amused. “Are you still in bed?” she enquired with a degree of incredulity. “It’s 10am, you know!”

Tom was torn between escaping the suffocating heat of the duvet pyramid or surrendering to its paralysing warmth. “What do you want?” he managed, all the moisture having evaporated from his body.

He threw his duvet to one side and lay there uncovered. The resulting
sensation was akin to being plunged into a barrel of freezing water following a sauna. He sat up abruptly, the drummers in his brain accompanying his sudden movement with a rousing chorus of unadulterated percussion.

With his spare hand, he searched for a pint glass of water that he suspected would be close by. No matter how drunk he became, he could always be trusted to do three things: 1. Lock the front door. 2. Take out his contact lenses, and 3. Ensure that a pint glass of water was within reach.

Shuffling across the bed, kicking his duvet away as he went, he located the glass, only to discover that it had been consumed throughout the night. It was the most depressing, bone-marrow-sapping news that he could imagine. It meant that he’d have to get up. He’d been ignoring the pleading from his bladder to be set free for some time, but this would mean a physical reaction.

He slumped back onto the bed, his head hitting the pillow with some resignation.

“I need your help, and no excuses this time,” continued the voice at the other end of the phone. “You’re my boyfriend and you’re coming to a work function in a few weeks. End. Of.”

Tom took a mental note of the determination in Amy’s voice, and of the command being issued, but felt unable to protest – unable and unmoved.

“Hmm,” he managed without any conviction.

“Is that a yes?” came the clipped reply. It wasn’t a question that required a response. It was her way of telling him that it was a yes.

Tom lay there, mentally calculating the journey to the nearest source of fresh water. He plotted the walk to the bathroom sink and calculated how much energy would be required to complete this seemingly simple task. He wondered why, when he was evidently dehydrated on an Olympic scale, he still needed the toilet. He attempted to deduce how long he could defer becoming upright and heading to the bathroom, but the journey seemed increasingly imminent.

“I said…
” came a terse tone.

“I heard! I heard! Yes… whatever, yes!” Tom said, knowing that he was in no state to argue. He also knew that he had little say in the matter. If he played his cards well, however, come the day of said party, he could just feign work or illness and dodge the bullet.

There was a distinct tut at the end of the phone. “And don’t think you’re going to feign illness or cite work, my lad. You’re coming,” Amy said with resolution and experience.

“I just said I would, didn’t I?” Tom batted back unconvincingly. As anyone knew, such a sketchy commitment made through the haze of a hangover wasn’t legally or ethically binding. As such, he was sure that his commitment wouldn’t be held in perpetuity.

“Are you hungover?” questioned Amy, getting irritated by the stilted conversation they were having. “Were you out again last night?”

“I’m not hungover,” Tom lied. “Just tired. Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why couldn’t you sleep?” came the response, delivered with a precision that afforded little time for face-saving waffle.

“Because I lay awake thinking of you,” Tom said with faux tenderness. It was an old favourite of his and he was fairly sure it would end matters.

Amy pondered the reply for a few seconds. “I see,” she said suspiciously. “And what time did you get to bed?”

Tom knew at once that he’d been rumbled. He also knew that he simply didn’t have the energy or imagination to talk his way out of the situation – honesty was going to be the best policy.

“I didn’t get to bed until four – OK?”

“FOUR?” came the bellowing reply.

“Look,” Tom protested, hauling himself to his feet and making his way to the bathroom, down the hallway strewn with his previous evening’s clothes. “Ash was feeling low, so we went out for a few beers. That’s all.”

“A few beers? A few beers don’t last until 4am!”

“Yeah,” Tom countered, matter of fact. To his mind, he’d just had a few, but given that he couldn’t remember how many exactly, Amy may have had a point. “We were just up late, talking and stuff. We left the bar at midnight.” It was the best he could do under the circumstances.

“And when did you leave Ash’s?” came the shrewd and inquisitive reply.

Tom racked his brains. He had no idea what time he’d left or, indeed, if he’d even gone back there. He only knew that he’d gone to bed at 4am, as he’d knocked his bedside clock off the table, leaving it at the time the act had occurred. Desperately searching for any recollection of the previous evening, all he found was a hazy blank.

“Can’t remember,” he offered meekly.

“I’m coming round,” said Amy, determined to view the damage for herself.

“I’m champion,” said Tom, clumsily pushing his boxer shorts down to make his first attempt at urination. He’d momentarily contemplated sitting down for both stability and accuracy, but had ruled that out as being inappropriate, considering the fact that he was talking.

“Are you taking a piss?” Amy asked waspishly. Her tone was laced with withering disdain. She was within her rights, Tom thought. He was also annoyed at himself, as he’d aimed for the side of the bowl so as not to make a sound and arouse suspicion. He’d been sure he’d got away with it.

“No!” he protested, with as much offence as he could muster while mid-flow, and struggling to decide which of the two toilets in front of him he should aim for. “I’m filling the kettle,” he added with triumph.

“Yeah, right,” came the disbelieving reply.

“
Now, look what you’ve made me do – it’s gone all over my hand. Oh, and down my pants.”

There was a momentary pause as both conversationalists allowed the event to sink in.

“I’m coming round,” Amy declared again, adding with a degree of implored disdain, “and make sure you’ve showered – at the very least.”

Tom nodded meekly, as if she could see him doing so.

“Oh, and clean that toilet before I arrive,” came the command with a note of matronly stricture.

“OK,” Tom whispered, before switching off the phone and dropping it onto the floor. He hovered momentarily before lurching forwards to violently recycle the previous night’s alcohol consumption into the musty yellow water of the toilet bowl.

Amy was in no mood for accommodating Tom’s “medical condition”. She’d seen it all too often before. Not only that, but she couldn’t comprehend why Tom, like so many men, got themselves into such a mess in the name of having a good time. Surely, this pernicious state of being was reason enough to moderate future behaviour?

Yet here he was again, perched precariously on the edge of a chair, slowly bobbing and nodding, his eyes flickering between open and closed. His bloodshot gaze fixed upon the hot drink in his hand, his pallid skin drained of any humanity.

“You look like shit,” was Amy’s accurately frank assessment.

“Yeah, well, you’ve put on weight,” came the foolhardy, defensive reply. The comment was met with a withering stare, which bounced acrimoniously off the top of Tom’s sunken head. “I felt that,” he added, daring himself to take a sip of the coffee. As he pulled the mug closer to his face, it erupted plumes of caffeine-scented steam, like a nauseating facial.

Amy cast her eye over Tom’s kitchen. All things considered, it was tidier than she’d expected. Given the state of the man, she assumed that the state of his home would be infinitely worse.

Tom lived in a small Victorian terraced house. It had been sold to him some years ago as a quaint, historic cottage. Essentially, it was a very small house with crumbling brickwork. It was slowly being renovated with plain white paint and accentuated with striking (but portable) colours throughout – a task of stunning simplicity that had seemingly been beyond the previous generations of owners.

The house had a clean, minimalist feel, which leant itself more to Tom’s sanguine approach to housework than any vision for interior design. The kitchen was a box, with traditional wooden units running along two walls. A door to the outside and a door to the dining room occupied the lion’s share of the remaining wall space, but left sufficient room for a small table and three folding chairs. The view through the window, over the Belfast sink, fell out onto a small walled courtyard, coloured by a wealth of untended climbing roses and unidentified flowering plants.

The kitchen itself was made from oak and had been bequeathed to Tom by the previous occupants. Although of solid and formidable construction, it darkened the small room, meaning that the glare of three ceiling-mounted spotlights was usually needed, whatever the weather. On this occasion, however, the natural sallow light bouncing across the external brick and into the kitchen was all the illumination Tom could tolerate.

He continued to cradle his drink and attempted to discard the outside world by closing his eyes slowly.

“You’re coming,” Amy declared, denying him a moment of deep and reassuring meditation.

“Fine,” Tom mumbled, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to attend, whatever it was she was talking about. “Oh no!” he suddenly exclaimed, before thumping the mug of coffee down onto the ageing, uneven tabletop and fleeing at speed upstairs. Amy followed, clambering up the narrow, creaking stairs. Each step had been painted white as a cost-saving measure, after the lurid carpet had been removed. As a result, each trip upstairs had a loud, tap-dance feel to it.

Tom vanished into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Through the closed wooden door, Amy could hear occasional wretching and groans.

“And this is your idea of a good time?” she asked breezily. Amy tutted and shook her head, leaning against the doorframe as she did. She listened carefully to the harrowing proceedings and waited for sufficient silence that would suggest a break in hostilities.

“Besides, it won’t be that bad. There’s a free bar!” she extolled, just before her sales pitch was ruined by yet another bout of intense vocal stomach exercises. “Sorry,” she added sheepishly. “It’s at the Palace Hotel. You been?”

“No,” Tom managed, as his eyeballs became the screens onto which exciting shapes and colours were projected. He wondered who the internal jester was who managed such displays as he crouched on all fours over the toilet.

“There’ll be a three-course meal, drinks, dancing… I’m not saying I think it’ll be fun – in fact, I think it’ll be pretty tedious – but I have to go and so, by extension, do you.”

The door swung open to reveal Tom, looking even bleaker than before, using the sleeve of his rugby shirt to wipe away spittle from his mouth. His cheeks were spotted red, his skin was a dull grey and his eyes were watering. He looked like he’d wandered in from a winter’s stroll along a windswept beach.

“Go back and flush,” Amy said, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around.

“I want to go back to bed,” Tom protested like a petulant teenager.

Amy surveyed the wreck of broken humanity in front of her. She was moderately moved by the ailing frame, the hangdog eyes and the slumped shoulders, but ultimately offered no comfort. “You said we were going shopping today. You said you’d take me out to lunch. You said we could do what I wanted today if you went out last night. Well…” she held out her hands and gestured up and down Tom’s frail frame – all six foot of it. “You went out, so we’re going shopping. You went out, so we’re having lunch. So I’m going downstairs to grab myself a coffee while you shower, again, because there’s no way I’m going out with you looking like a monster from
Fraggle Rock.”