SHORT STORY
P Peter Allen is a
Melbourne-based writer. He wrote Hideous Restraint six years ago. Since then, he has been re-writing sections of the story obsessively. “I couldn’t let it go,” he explains.“It’s been strangely cathartic in a lot of ways.”
Hideous R est raint BY P E T E R A L L E N
F
our days after she announced she was leaving him, she returned, with a black eye, and three fingers on her left hand in a splint. It was the middle of the day, and he was behind the counter, flipping through the paper.
He had considered putting up the handwritten CLOSED sign on the front door – since she had gone, he hadn’t much felt like talking to people. But the days were so long. And with the door open, at least the breeze could circulate, the sounds of the street could seep in. That way, he didn’t feel like he was collecting dust. He was looking at the sports column when she came in. It was as though every word he had ever been taught escaped him, all at once, like a shop full of birds freed. He looked at her, up and down, took in the splint, the nasty colored bruise spreading down to her cheekbone like a cracked egg, and kept quiet. She shrugged. It was a painfully hot day – hot in that mean-spirited, vindictive way – and there was a film of sweat, up on her forehead. She looked tired, on top of everything. “Hello,” she said. “Do you mind if I have a bath?” He thought for some time, and then nodded, mechanically. It was as though she had risen from the grave. He had only just come to terms with the possibility that he would never see her again, and here she was, smelling only slightly sour, her pale skin flushed from the heat, and her journey. She mumbled some words of thanks, and then walked behind the counter, limping, ever so slightly, over to the set of stairs that led up to his flat. He stayed where he was, and listened to her make her way upstairs, step by step. The shop went still again. The heat filled the space where she was, expanding. He thought a little, then rose, and stuck the CLOSED sign to the door with a piece of yellowing tape. The shop was now his again, closed to the public. He rolled a cigarette from a little green tin under the counter, and then lit it, taking in short, burning puffs. The store would stink for hours. It no longer mattered. He had met her 16 years ago, at a University pub. He wasn’t studying. She was. He was there with some mates, one of whom was close to finishing his honors in Philosophy (what was his name? Derek? Mark?). She had been leaning at the bar, surrounded by her little flock of friends, as close knit as a barbed wire fence. She had been untouchable, impossible, and he had snuck tiny glimpses of her all evening (there she was, flirting with the barman. There she was making a joke – her friends burst into cackles of laughter. There she was, pushing the hair out of her eyes. There she was, not looking at him.) After as many beers as it took to unsteady him, he was up on his feet, and standing next to her, trying very hard to keep his eyes met with hers. Someone peered into the shop window, their hands cupped against their eyes. He shook his head at them through the glass; made some flippant gesture with his hand. Upstairs, he heard her turn on the tap. The pipes gurgled and clunked loudly, through the wood of the roof. Exercising some hideous restraint, he stayed where he was.
No kids. They’d never even tried. That was something that her bitchy friends found intolerable – as though they were announcing they planned to maim and torture orphans. He’d never been interested. While sober, she refused to give a reason, when drunk, she quoted some poem he’d never heard of – the one that started “they fuck you up, your parents do.” No, no kids. What did being childless mean? That they weren’t a real couple? That they weren’t serious about each other? He’d always been serious about her. Serious in a way he’d never been about anything else. As a child, and then a teenager, nothing had ever really appealed to him in life. Not sports – although he was strong, his muscles tight across his chest – not food – not University – not books. Drinking, some, but that wasn’t something you could build a life around. It was a godsend that the shop and its upstairs flat had caught his attention at all – just some advert in the real estate pages that he’d stumbled upon. It made sense. With the shop, he could keep pretty normal hours, make his living, and devote himself entirely to his true passion: her.
“The shop went still again. The heat filled the space where she was, expanding.” When he first met her, she said she was going to be a writer. The years had silenced that ambition. She got so many rejection letters for her short stories that she could have papered a wall in their bedroom if she had wanted to. She still went to a book club every month – still read obsessively – but between the few hours she put in ordering the stock, and the occasional babysitting jobs she picked up, she did very little. Just sat in the bath, mostly, soaking in the bottles of lavender bath gel she took from the shop. Upstairs, the pipes clunked again – the bath had been turned off. But she hadn’t been unhappy. No. You can pick an unhappy woman a mile away – but she showed none of the signs. She was chatty – she cooked for him, nightly – showed an interest in their joint finance account – talked to him about the phone bill, about the news, about the books he had never read. She talked, for God’s sake, and silence is the first sign that a woman’s going to leave you. That’s what the past had taught him, anyway. But then she had announced that she was leaving him, and after a few tortured hours of tears, toppled bookcases, and screams, she had revealed that yes, there was another man. And that there had been for years. He thought about rolling another cigarette, but his cough was getting worse these days, and besides, he was sick thinking about her, imagining her up there in the bath, nursing her wounds. Very slowly, he rose, and climbed the creaking stairs. The door to the bathroom was open. She lay in the tub, her eyes closed, and for a split second, it looked like she was about to cry. He hovered back from the door. Her jaw tightened.
“He was looking at the sports column when she came in. It was as though every word he had ever been taught escaped him, all at once, like a shop full of birds freed.” 52 :: BRAG :: 741 :: 05:09:18
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