A World Apart and Other Stories Page 3

  Yes, yes, that’s it decided, then. A novel, in whatever genre. Oh, half past twelve. Time

  for lunch.

  IN SELF DEFENCE

  The chain saws came in three different sizes, but Juan reckoned the small one would be perfect for what he had in mind. It would be lighter, easier to hide, quicker to clean, and would have her cut up into manageable chunks in no time. He would also need an axe and a good kitchen knife. Ah, and a large pan. Then each little part of her, from her studded ears down to her stubby toes, could be stewed in tomato sauce, popped into bin bags and dumped one by one into rubbish containers all over the town. She would eventually end up scattered all over the municipal tip.

  ‘Juan. Could you help la señora, please, she needs six metres of garden hose.’

  There were so many tools to kill her with in the ironmonger's. Nails for her coffin, huge plastic pots in which her entrails could be mummified, spades for digging graves. Christ, I could even classify her and file her away according to weight and size. I could lure her here under some pretext or other, come on in, don't be afraid, and once inside, swish, and off with her head. The grim reaper.

  He showed his customer the different types of nozzle available as he continued to fantasise. There were wreaths of barbed wire hanging from nails banged into the wall, any number of scythes and knives and butcher's equipment, rope for hanging, lengths of metal for impaling, welders torches that would reduce her to ash in a matter of seconds.

  She chose the multifunction nozzle and asked if he would be kind enough to fix it onto the hose for her as her hands were not what they used to be.

  ‘Juan, when you've finished with la señora, there's a new delivery just arrived.’

  Or a sledge hammer, something blunt and effective. Because she'd be a difficult bitch to kill, would no doubt put up a tremendous fight. But the blood! There had to be a neater way.

  He had to be free of her somehow, but she would just not take no for an answer. How many times had he begged her to leave him alone, to steer clear of him and his family, to stay away from the shop? To no avail. Irene had pushed her way into his life and had decided that he was the chosen one, the one who would have to accompany her on her self destructive road to hell.

  It had all started innocently enough. He had met her at a concert, and that very night they had all but devoured each other. They had met again over the next few weeks, always with sex and passion as their common language. Then she had started to stalk him. She would phone twenty or thirty times a day; his mobile, work number, home number. She would be there as he came out of his flat in the morning, he would often see her pass the ironmonger's half a dozen times during working hours. He had asked her not to dog him, but she had told him, in tears, that it was because she loved him, adored him, and had realised that their destinies were interwoven. How could she possibly not want to be with him every minute of the day?

  He had tried to reason with her, to explain how he needed more time, more time, Irene, time to be alone, I need my own space. She had just pulled him closer and put his hands on her breasts. I love you, Juan. He had forbidden her to phone him at all hours, and she had promised, on her mother's deathbed, but after a couple of days she was back at it again. Don't be angry with me, Juan, just fuck me. So, hating his weakness, he did.

  But it was all becoming too oppressive, and he had decided that it was time to call it a day. He had told her so in the bar under her flat, and she had said nothing, just stared at the floor. The next afternoon she had turned up at the ironmonger's full of tears and begging forgiveness.

  ‘I need to speak to Juan. I need to speak to him now,’

  she had told the boss, who had not been very impressed.

  ‘I would rather die that live without you, Juan.’

  So he had tried to re-establish the relationship, this time with rules, rules that had to be respected. And for a few weeks she had complied, had been subdued and heavily passionate. She had given up phoning him at work and was nowhere to be seen when he returned home. He thought perhaps he had pushed the right button, that what she really needed and understood was a firm hand, his forceful, manly attitude.

  Until one night when she had decided it was time to meet his parents. The bell had rung, he had opened the door and there she had stood, flowers for the mother, wine for the father. She had been charming and correct, she had played with him under the table, she had been attractive and sensual to him whilst appearing perfectly presentable to his parents. But she had not been invited, and Juan had seen red.

  Down in the park by her flat he had refused to let her get close enough for her ploys to work. No, no, listen to me, Irene. It is time we split up, we can still be good friends, we can still maybe see each other every so often because the sex is fantastic, but there is no way we can carry on like this. It is stifling, it is obsessive, it is out of control.

  She had flown at him then, clawing at this face, kicking at his ankles and trying to bite his hands. He had tried to keep her at arm's length, but every so often she had managed to get in a blow or a scratch. What to do? Run.

  He had returned home, where thankfully his parents had already gone to bed. He had unhooked the phone, turned of his mobile, put the latch on the door and tried to get some sleep.

  The next morning, just as he was about to leave for work, the police had arrived and taken him in for questioning. He had been accused of attacking a young woman called Irene Vázquez Montilla. Marked by various cuts and bruises, she had been first to the hospital then to the police. His statement had been taken and he had been released with charges. His boss had not been impressed.

  He went out the back to sort out the delivery of chicken wire, taps and electrician's belts that had arrived a little earlier.

  She had lifted charges once he had promised not to abandon her ever again. She loved him, and her tight young body was his to do with as he would. Could I please cut it up into a thousand pieces and feed it to the dogs?

  There had to be a way to be free of her. Unfortunately she had won over his parents who had no idea just how persistent Irene could be. They thought he was exaggerating, that the poor girl was quite simply head over heels in love with him, which they saw as understandable given that their son was the apple of their eye. Patience, they advised, passion will give way to love.

  It was almost dark as he neared home, and on the patches of wasteland between the high rise blocks the setting sun tripped on pieces of smashed glass which glinted like sequins. He approached with caution and ….. shit! There she was, smoking, mounting guard and muttering four letter words under her breath.

  This is incredible, I can't even get into my own home. She is totally mad. Look at her, pacing up and down like a nazi. Every so often she would glance at her watch, the watch he had given her as a present in happier days. And then he saw it – a bandage. Her left wrist was wrapped in a fucking bandage! Oh, Irene, for heaven's sake, again? You are sick, really sick. Now what?

  What to do? The last thing he wanted was to confront her now. He was tired and dirty, he wanted to go home and shower, to relax, maybe watch a little TV. He certainly did not want a showdown with Irene, he did not feel up to that. He leant against the wall. What to do, then? Take refuge in a bar she would not think of looking in, hide behind the bushes until she tired of waiting for him? But she never gets tired of these scenes, not Irene, she was capable of staying there all fucking night, the mad bitch.

  So another suicide bid, another botched job. For fuck's sake, woman, if you're going to kill yourself, do it properly! Fill the sink with tepid water, take some sleeping pills, hold the razor blade tightly between your black painted nails and ….. Slice. Once and for all. Do us all a fucking favour and save me the trouble. But no, not our Irene, she cuts herself just deep enough to frighten the doctors, but never enough to really suffer, to run any real risk. It is childish, it is just a fucking scratch, a tiny plea for attention. Again. Hey everybody, look at me, Princess Irene, I'm bleed
ing for love. Fuck you, woman, one of these days I'll do the job for you, I swear.

  He was desperate, unable to go forward or backward, paralysed by indecision. The street lights came on one by one, in orderly fashion, like a counterbalance to his chaotic thoughts and feelings, as if they wanted to add an element of logic to his seething sentiments of hatred and frustration. He wanted to be strong, to believe that he controlled the situation, that in his worker's hands, his man's hands, and yes, why not, in his murderer's hands, lay the solution. Yet at the same time he wanted to cry, to implore, to reach out for his mother's embrace, like a child frightened by ghosts. Don't worry, my boy, look, the phantoms have flown.

  ‘ Juan! Come out of there! I can see you, you coward! Juan!’

  Shit, now she'd spotted him with her fucking x-ray eyes. Superbitch. Well it was just as well, he was tired of hiding anyway. And although he had no desire for yet another public spectacle he decided it was probably for the best. Get it over and done with, be firm, tell her straight, and put things in their place.

  ‘You were hiding, hiding like a coward.’

  ‘Don't be silly, I've only just got back from work. I thought you'd be waiting for me outside the shop, but no....’

  ‘You don't want me to be seen by them. I'm not good enough for you.’

  ‘Come on, you know it's only the boss. How are you?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  She let her shoulders droop. This was typical Irene, one minute a ferocious animal ready to attack, the next a beaten, broken rag doll. Then back again, combative, aggressive. Her moods were like the swish of windscreen wipers – attack, cry, attack, cry.

  ‘Why didn't you phone me at lunchtime?’

  ‘I couldn't get through, too much traffic on the line or something.’

  ‘You are a bastard’

  ‘It's true, but you don't have to believe me if you don't want to.’

  ‘I don't believe you, you are a bastard, you don't love me. You say you do, but you have no right to treat me like this.’

  He had deliberately not mentioned the bandaged, so she toyed with it visibly. They fell into a long silence. She had been crying and her make up had run forming a kind of robber's mask around her eyes. She resembled some kind of American animal, a skunk, or something like that. No, raccoon, yes, that was it, raccoon.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘About how pretty you are when you've been crying.’

  A twisted compliment, but strangely enough it worked.

  ‘Oh, Juan, hold me, I've been so sad!’

  ‘There there. Come to Juan. Of course I love you, you know that. Come on, Irene, I'll look after ‘you.

  He was proud of himself, he seemed to have calmed her down, and he had managed to avoid talking about the new 'suicide' attempt. He walked her home. Come on up, she had begged, and despite himself he had agreed. As they had fucked in the bathroom she had whispered 'don't ever leave me, Juan, don't ever leave me, never, never'. Frightening. Until death do us part.

  They had arranged to meet at nine in the bar on the corner, but he knew she would be late. Irene was a woman, and proud of it, and women had certain privileges. She would be systematically late, it was a gender statement. Nonetheless as each minute passed he was growing ever more angry, quite possibly on purpose, as it would then be easier to spit out what he had to say. It's over, Irene, finished. For good, this time, it's finito, kaput, dead. This time he was going to tell her straight. How do you want me to put it, eh? This is the end, the grand finale, it was nice knowing you, but good bye and good riddance! Love! Love? I've just about had enough of love for one lifetime, ok?

  Far from getting better things were worsening by the day. She would be at his house when he went home for lunch, helping his mother in the kitchen. Look, Juan, I've bought you a new T-shirt, do you like it? His mother would smile knowingly – such a sweet girl, and so in love! She would follow him to the bathroom and rub herself up against him. For heaven's sake, Irene, not here! Then she would pout, sulk, become sullen and short with him. After I bought you a present – you don't love me. If you loved me........... Fill in the gaps. It was true that she had stopped ringing him at work, which was a relief, but to compensate she would spring on him when he least expected it, making him feel that he could never be alone again, never be free of this torment.

  ‘Por favor, another beer.’

  Nine twenty. Come on, where are you now, slashing your wrists a bit, or down at the police station reporting me again? I'll give you some gender violence if that's what you're after, give you something worth telling the cops. He was deliberately winding himself up. How she exhibited herself in front of anyone, always hot and ready to go, the shouting matches, the tearful scenes, the cynical way she paraded herself in front of mum and dad, the good girl, so doting and domestic, the text messages, hundreds of them, unintelligible nonsense, the mood swings from love to hate and back again, always with a fuck in the middle.

  By the time she turned up at twenty five to ten he was beside himself. But Irene, who had guessed his urgent need for a date, had come prepared to get him back under her spell one way or the other. To start, high heeled ankle boots, black stockings, tight leather mini skirt. White blouse, unbuttoned generously, hair half up, half down, a sensual tousle which declared her intentions. She sat down and crossed her legs slowly.

  He refused to be taken in.

  ‘Thanks, thanks a million. I've been here since nine o'clock. Over half an hour waiting on you. Christ I've had enough, really. I'm sick of it, sick of it.’

  ‘Oh, Juan, forgive me, please. I know how you hate waiting on your own. ‘

  She touched his hand, but he refused to look at her, fixing his gaze instead on the bottles behind the bar.

  ‘I'm sorry, Juan. I'm sorry.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  He tried to pull his hand away, but she insisted, she had no intention of letting him go. Juan was furious and he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself much longer. He had to get out of the bar, he couldn't bear another scene in public.

  ‘How much is that?’

  Irene still clung to his hands, but she said nothing.

  ‘Let's get out of here. Come on. ‘

  He almost dragged her into the street.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  And he pulled himself free. Luckily outside was almost deserted. A bus passed by on the other side of the street, lit up in the dark, and stopped a few hundred metres off. When it started up again Juan shouted

  ‘It's over, Irene. I don't want to see you any more. I don't want to carry on with you. It's over.’

  ‘Juan, you're angry with me, I told you I'm sorry....’

  ‘It's finished, don't you understand that? Over. Full stop. ‘

  ‘Juan.’

  She tried to grab his hands again.

  ‘No, don't touch me. Do you hear me? Don't even try, I'm warning you.’

  ‘What are you on about, are you mad? I only want to hold you, my love, I only want to...’

  ‘Don't touch me!’

  ‘But Juan, I only want to....’

  She held out her arms to him but Juan, blind with rage........No, no, there is no need for this.......but Juan could no longer hold back........don't make me do it, please!...... in an attack of anger......I beg you, please, not this, no.....clenched his fist........ no..... clenched his fist and punched her as hard as he could in the face......No! Irene!.........She fell to the ground........you bastard!........... with blood pouring from her nose.......... enough! ..........whilst Juan turned and started to run, run, run.

  Sunday evening. Parents in bed, Juan lying on the sofa, the football results marking the end of the weekend. Tomorrow Monday, Monday morning, again, yet again. Juan closed his eyes and saw how the days stretched out before him as monotonous and predictable as a calendar. Days like government forms, always filled out the same way, always with the same boxes to tick, always with the same information, always.
Dull days, written in official terminology on off-white folios, signed, stamped, dated. He tried to imagine immaculate white sheets of paper with wide open spaces where poems could be written, he tried to imagine virgin canvases awaiting the imaginative brush strokes of an inspired artist, he tried to imagine a future full of light and hope and spring sunshine. But it all turned grey, the grey of the pavement, the pavement tinged with red, the red surrealistic drops on cold slabs of concrete, and Irene unconscious.

 

  On the television they repeated the highlights.

  Irene tries to grab Juan as if she has no intention of ever letting him go again, and that is how he feels; trapped, ensnared, his future already decided for him. She has unfathomable eyes, thin, ungenerous lips, with terse skin pulled too tight over her shoulders. She is strong, strong like a madwoman, her embrace a straight jacket. Juan cries for compassion, screams for his liberty. But she closes in nearer and nearer with her tempting tentacles. The bus glides past like an urban cruise ship, the windows of the high rise flats look down with blind eyes. There is an overwhelming desire to break loose of this madness, to run. To run from the insanity, the hidden forces of this narrowing world where words dance without rhythm to a machine-like, deafening beat. Her arms outstretched, menacing and imploring, a few tremulous incredible seconds, then Irene falls and Juan, like a rioting prisoner, scurries from yard to yard, savouring albeit for a handful of fleeting moments, his illusion of freedom.