Short Story: Hideous Restraint

Hideous Restraint

BY PETER ALLEN

Four 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 coloured bruise spreading down to her cheekbone like a cracked egg, and kept quiet.

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.”

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.

She had been untouchable, impossible, and he had snuck tiny glimpses of her all evening.”

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.

When he first met her, she said she was going to be a writer. The years had silenced that ambition.”

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.

“You can come in,” she said, her eyes still closed.

He came inside and sat on the toilet. She hadn’t run very much water – it only came up to her ribs, leaving her breasts exposed. He wasn’t sure where to look. The rules had changed, four days ago. He wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. But he looked enough to notice the bruises on her chest, the scratches up her arms.

“It’s not very full,” he said, half dipping a hand into the water.

“I didn’t want to run up the water bill,” she replied. He turned the tap back on, and hot water rushed into the bath. She didn’t say a word. He waited till the water came up to her neck, and then turned it off again.

“Thank you for letting me use the bath.”

“That’s alright.”

“Did you close the shop?”

“I closed the shop.”

He yearned for a cigarette – the tin sat downstairs, on the shop counter.

“I feel like I should threaten to kill him,” he said, slowly.

She opened her eyes. “Why?”

“Because he hurt you.”

She didn’t say anything. The bath water was pale, and still.

“I’ll go get you that lavender stuff,” he said, his knees creaking as he stood. “Yeah?”

“That’d be nice,” she said. She opened her mouth to say something, and then bit her lip.

“What?”

She was silent for a moment. “Make us a cup of tea too, won’t you?” she said, eventually.

Ever since she had left, he had tried to picture this man, this Lover. He’d be a reader. Maybe a writer himself. Or a literary agent – someone offering her a leg up, a chance to be published, for the right price. He’d have facial hair – whether it be a pencil thin moustache, or sideburns, or both. And he’d smoke, too, but expensive cigarettes – he wouldn’t roll his own. And most importantly, he’d love her with the greatest delicacy, with the most tender words, the gentlest hands, the softest tongue.

He picked the lavender bath gel off the shelf, pocketing his green tin in the process. Upstairs, in the little kitchenette as small as a broom cupboard, he set the kettle boiling. It seemed to take a very long time. He kept feeling it with the back of his hand.

When it was ready, he took the tea and the gel into the bath. She was touching the puffy, dark space under her eye with her good hand. She didn’t look at him when he walked in, but she thanked him, quietly, for the tea. He poured half the gel into the bath – far too much – and it sunk like a dollop of margarine.

“Are you going to stay the night?” He asked eventually. It took him a lot of control to phrase the sentence as a question, not a request.

“I might,” she said, and shrugged. “I’ve got all afternoon to decide.”

Hate flashed across his eyes, then disappeared. He sat on the toilet and rolled a cigarette.

“I don’t want you to ask what happened,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Even if you do, I won’t tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Good. And I don’t want you to think…You know.” She closed her eyes. “I mean, you don’t even know. You don’t even know who did this to me.”

“Okay.”

“It could be anyone. I could have been mugged. I could have fallen down the stairs. So it’s like that – you’re not going to ask, and I’m not going to tell you.”

“Okay.”

He lit the wrinkled end of the cigarette. For a little while, all was quiet.

“I like watching the smoke,” she said, an ex-smoker for six years. “It’s nice.”

He nodded.

“Someone should write a poem about that.”

There had never been a day when he hadn’t woke up loving her. It was his morning ritual – wake up early, and drink in the sight of her as she lay there, in bed wrapped in those pale sheets. A morning ritual for 16 years. A ritual like that can take a lot of undoing.

He had been to the secret parts of her – the lonely parts, where nobody had even guessed at. He had read the poems she didn’t even submit to the magazines – the ones about her father, and her bad dreams. He had listened to her as she had described herself as a ‘perpetual victim’ – although he had no advice to offer her. When she had quit smoking, he had offered to smoke all of his cigarettes outside, out of her field of view, and to cut down himself. But she had dismissed that final offer, saying she’d miss the smell. And then she had held his arm, tightly, and kissed him on the mouth.

She raised her chin slightly out of the bath, and looked at him.

“You’ve had other women though, haven’t you?” she said, in a voice as quiet as a child’s. “Haven’t you?”

It was only then he realized that something had been lost – truly realized it, and realized that it would never come back. It was better to think of her as dead. This was only some ghost, some ghost lying in his bath and watching his cigarette smoke with gently flickering eyes. A ghost with a voice. No more.

“Yes. I’ve had other lovers.” he said, trying hard not to sound like he was lying. “Yes, I have.”

She visibly relaxed. “Good,” she said. “Make us another cup of tea, won’t you?”

And thus began the second phase of his life.