A/N; Hello, very sorry this is a late update. Thank you to those who have reviewed and read this story. Hope you are enjoying it.
Labyrinth
Grace was listening away to her music player, as she walked down the road. It was at least a fortnight later. She had made a few important decisions in those two weeks. The song she was listening to kept her spirits up, as she sauntered back home, after another art session. She was not yet on speaking terms with her friend Lisa, despite her best efforts. Lisa neglected to show up at the art sessions in those weeks. She occasionally spotted her in town or on campus, but it was hardly on her own or with her friends, she was always with Cormack. Grace tried to ignore it, she had fair confidence that Lisa would get over it eventually. She was not sure why she had that ounce of confidence in her, but it was sheer determination to keep 'buggering on' that stayed strong within her. She could think of her life as utterly wasted and useless, despite the high education she had received and was receiving, although others may deem it as unworthy. Such as Crane, yet his opinion was of no consequence to her. She had no contact with her parents in the past three and a half months; it was trailing into December now. She had lost contact with her only one really good friend at the University. Other people were mere acquaintances, and were not looking for the kind of friendship you looked for while as an undergraduate. A lot of students at postgraduate level had steady jobs going, or already had a circle of friends.
It was easy enough for Lisa, who was living with a bunch of 'freshers'- first year undergraduates. She tried, most days, to avoid thoughts of Crane. Often Grace spotted Dina walking around in her ghastly yellow trench coat, a coy smile on her face. Yet she ignored Grace immediately, especially if she was on the arm of Crane. He always appeared uncomfortable at her physical contact. She ignored them both, feeling glad to see Dina was not best friends with Lisa. She had been hurt and betrayed by Lisa attending to Dina's emotions, her silly, childish, girly emotions. She often hoped Crane would pull a real ugly stunt in front of Dina and scare her off forever. It was at that time of year, drawing near to Christmas, that Grace felt most at content with herself. She liked the cold air and the excitement of the atmosphere.
She loved picking out which scarf to wear, although she was desperate for a new coat. Her tartan woollen one was wearing thin. The cafes in town sold 'winter' drinks; spiced latte coffees, black forest hot chocolates….The shops were decorated with every assortment available, and everything she saw made her feel happy and giddy inside like a child once more. Yet simultaneously, she began to think of her family, of her mother in particular. Would her family ignore her this Christmas? Tears threatened to prick at her eyes, but she did her best to ignore them. She heard Christmas songs in each shop and café she went into, reminding her of her childhood. She had a very good childhood, despite the squabbles with her mother. She had never a sibling, but there were so many children in her neighbourhood at the time, it never dawned on her that she was missing a brother or sister. She began to look for a coat, in time, as well as pregnancy clothes. She had seen her GP as soon as possible two weeks ago. The thought of abortion simply disturbed her.
She had an appointment set. She was ready to go through with it. She went to the hospital, her palms sweaty. Yet everything around her was unsettling. She had read up every detail on abortion. And she simply could not go with it; it frightened her down to the core. It was not as simple as she had hoped; it was not as clean as she hoped. It would be traumatic. In the end, she walked out, and missed her appointment. She made several apologies on the phone. However, facing the actual birth of her potential child was much more frightening. It began to hit her steadily all over again as she rifled through the clothes rack in the pregnancy department of the clothes store. Marks and Spencer she had chosen. And it hit her all over again that the father was Jonathan Crane; he was the man she had slept with. She tried to imagine, painfully, how it came about. How they got each others clothes off. Why him of all people, she thought so desperately, yet it made perfect sense. He was her housemate. He appeared to loathe her, he was rude and hostile, he had threatened her, he had hit her round the face….Not quite a Mr. Darcy.
But she reckoned he secretly fancied her. Then she thought once more of his countenance and her cunning smile fell. She highly doubted that. But she highly doubted that sex was something he often participated in. She would have to be an extra special girl for him to….perhaps not. Perhaps he thought now he dominated her. Oh no, she mused. Hardly likely. She received a rather sour glare from the female cashier who served her, scanning the labels of the pregnancy clothes with haughty disdain. Grace tried to ignore her, but it bothered her all the same, and flounced off with her nose in the air. It seemed the world was entirely against her at this point.
As she walked home, instead of getting a taxi, she knew she would never keep the baby. It was not a point in her life where she was ready to raise a child. She knew nothing about children, and she hadn't the money to raise one either. She would be doing her baby an injustice; bringing an unwanted child into the world. Yet she was a coward. Adoption was the only thing she could think of, despite the fact it would be far difficult than an abortion. She bit her lip. Yet continual dreams at night were red-stained and tainted with her blood, and a tiny embryo lay on the floor beneath her, as she stared in horror. How could she put her body through abortion? How could she put her body through a birth, an unwanted one?
Another thought that came to mind was Crane. She thought briefly of a Friends episode. It would be a wonderful thing if it was accidentally taped on camera. Tell who came onto who, and if it was actually satisfactory. But she shook her head, laughing at the ludicrousness of it. She wondered, if she had actually enjoyed it. She had never thought of him as a sexual being, even when he had kissed her forcefully that night, which had been extremely unpleasant. Had he found it pleasant? Who lead on who, who initiated it? It drew her mad thinking about it; perhaps it was best to keep it at the back of her mind. It was near impossible, especially as she carried the evidence in her body. The ever horrible truth was present, constantly. He had marked her, permanently. She wondered how he would react when she told him the news; would she? A smile on her face formed. The other partner of a one-night stand never, in some circumstances liked hearing such news.
She would take utter pleasure in telling him the news. She would wait for a while, she pondered, as she made her way to the pharmacy. She had to pick up a few things that would help her through pregnancy. She couldn't believe she was preparing herself, it felt surreal. But a certain kind of numbness had overtaken her, and she began to do these things without any kind of preconception. She blocked, literally, thoughts out of her head, including those of Lisa. She had an ache when she remembered that Lisa had been her only good close friend and she had lost her. Yet, Lisa had been incredibly unfair and judgemental. She wasn't very tolerant of people such as Lisa who flew off the handle. She had to take it as a token of affection, in an odd way; Lisa was cross with her because she had slept with her tormentor.
Who had, in truth, been an officious prick. There were far better ways to describe his disposition, but she didn't want to waste her energy on it. So she walked down to the local pharmacy, in search of maternal pads, some vitamins, and some sleep aids. Grace entered the small shop, which had a certain smell that all pharmacies had, a plastic carpet-like smell. As her eyes skimmed over the various over-the-counter medicines, cough syrups and the like, she saw the usual rack of hair accessories and other knick-knacks she wasn't sure why pharmacies sold. It made her smile, as she twirled a pink headband in her head, made for little girls. She had a small perusal of the makeup, where she liked to dab various eyeshadows, lipsticks and foundations on the back of her hand, nose wrinkling at some, eyes twinkling at others. When she finally had the courage, seeing no one had been at the counter for the past ten minutes, she picked up all the things that were so obviously pregnancy related. As she turned the corner, something made her stop abruptly in her tracks. Her heart fluttered under her rib cage.
She chucked the maternity pads as far as she could into the room, and it landed ungraciously between the tampons and normal feminine pads. He had heard the noise immediately, looking up from his clipboard, and zoned in on her. His glassy eyes widened at first; there was a horrible deadness in them, which fixed her to her spot. Soon they narrowed. He stood at his usual six feet, white lab coat over his standard brown suit and pitiful sweater; whether it was sleeveless or not today she hadn't a care. Even from a distance was he considerably taller than her, as she took a chance to observe the future father of her child. She wasn't a short-arse as such, she mused, but she was at least a good six to seven inches smaller than him.
The shoulders of his suit were too large for his frame, making him look lanky in figure. Either that or he gave off a particular 1980's fashion hue. The sleeves of his sports coat were too short for his arms, she noticed under his lab coat. On the surface he was presented neatly, but as she carefully studied him, he had the dishevelled look of a scarecrow. The swept back oily hair sat as it normally did in the sunlight. It was coarse, almost the texture of straw. She wondered if she had run her hands through it, on that night. His hands were poised on the counter; he had placed his fountain pen beside the clipboard. Thin wrists, but long hands, the flesh of the skin a nasty pink and white. They had touched all over her at one point. Or perhaps they had not. Perhaps it was a wham-bam-thank you-m'am kind of situation. He finally acted; she wasn't reacting at all to him. She just fixed him with an expressionless stare. He swallowed.
"Grace." He smirked afterwards, and then licked his lips, unconsciously. He eyes trailed loosely over her. He could sense her discomfort, and she knew it, and straightened to her full height.
"I didn't know you worked here," she said flatly.
"Work experience and money," he replied in an equal tone. She didn't believe a word he said. He wanted chemicals and drugs and utensils. He probably thought she was stupid. His eyes drifted over her, in such a way that angered her. He analysed the things in her hands.
"Please don't look at me like that," she instructed him. Contrary to her word, she rather had a satisfied response at seeing him so agilely sweep those eyes of his over her.
"It's pleasurable to unnerve you in every sense of the word," he answered. She found she was grinding her jaw, and threw her things down on the countertop, grabbing a small packet of cough sweets. Her throat had become sore, she wasn't sure why. Probably all that shouting with Lisa. He didn't take his eyes off her, appraising her with a cold look.
"I assure you, that in every sense of the word, it was the alcohol talking. You are repulsive to me. Your selfish disdain of other's feelings is hardly a likeable feature, and I daresay many women have been repelled by that, if any at all." She half expected him to reach across and take her by the throat, but he simply did not react. He sold her the vitamins, and sleeping aids, analysing them more than necessary. She shoved the things in her bag, loathing him and his conceitedness. She was utterly ashamed, and almost regretted defending herself against Lisa's accusations. You are a terrible person, was the echo in her mind. She had never regretted sleeping with anyone as much as him, others in the past had made her widen her eyes and shake her head. But every particle of her body felt as if it was alight with mortification. As if her crotch was stained forever. As she turned away towards the exit, he spoke in a whisper.
"Afterwards, you took a bottle of vodka into the shower. You were crying. I knew exactly why, I hadn't spared you kindness. Yet I gave you what other men hadn't." He saw her shoulders slump and then she twisted back slowly to face him, her eyes watery. They were ready to burst, but no tears came, much to his chagrin. He liked to see her cry.
"Do you think because I am plain, scarred and distorted both in shape and mind, you think I am totally without feeling?" She then realised her statement and wrinkled her nose in disdain.
"Course you wouldn't," she snapped. In that moment, she decided, to wound his pride, to get the truth out of her, to let him know the ridiculous truth when he got home. She swallowed and inhaled a large amount of air.
"When do you finish work?" she asked. He just looked at her blankly, and then picked his pen back up, indicating he was no longer interested in conversing with her. She waited for a minute, and then sighing impatiently, he answered her shortly. Four hours time; she nodded. Good, that gave her time to muster up the courage she needed. If anything funny happened, she would have a weapon on guard, and her mobile phone in her pocket.
"Will you be back home after?" He looked up at her question and raised his eyebrows.
"Does this dreary questioning, a waste of my time, have any purpose, Miss Gilmartin?" he spoke idly. She was shocked, upon analysing and piecing together his behaviour in that moment. He had gone from dangerously mocking and playful to entirely disinterested, as if she was a bit of dirt on the bottom of his shoe, or a bothersome fly, buzzing around.
"Yeah it does, actually. In the kitchen, half past five." With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the pharmacy. There was a nestle of both apprehension and pride in her stomach. I gave you what other men hadn't. The very nerve! She was incensed with his words, as if he saw her as a common girl, nothing to satisfy her but the wild nights of sex and drug abuse. She walked home with her nose in the air, knowing he would not refuse her. She would view it as cowardly and fearing and she knew him all too well. Surely not would he be intimidated by her? She gave a satisfied smile, as she made her food back home.
When he arrived home, briefcase in hand, he would be lying if he told himself he was not intrigued. He shut the door quietly behind him, so the latch barely clicked. The hallway was shrouded in darkness, which give him satisfaction. Crane sucked the cold musty air through his nostrils. He preferred this time of the year, where it became dark as soon as the afternoon became late. In this country in particular, it became quite dark by four, which gave him all the more pleasure to relish the early darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly frowning. He heard her voice upstairs, and the water running. He had come home as soon as he could; it was ten past five. He went up the stairs slowly, all the while staring at the door of the bathroom, and placed his briefcase beside his bedroom door. He kept his eyes on the door. He could smell her shower gel, a cinnamon kind of smell. The thought of the other night came to him as he thought of her in the shower. Frowning, he shook it away.
He heard her, on occasion; sing out of tune in the shower. Whether she was oblivious to him or not, he did not know, but he was rather sure she could hear him about. She was always sung the same song, and he memorised each lyric until he searched it online. Lisa Loeb. Something about staying and missing someone. The woman's voice was high and sweet-sounding, but he despised such music. However, sometimes he played it, and the woman's voice almost melted into Grace's. Near impossible, as the woman hailed from his country, and hers was tinged with that common sounding dialect. He decided he would wait until she came out of the shower; he had not appreciated her sarky, impatient tone with him earlier on. He was displeased, almost, that she had forgotten the night, the earlier part of the night.
Only then would her impertinence would be crushed. How far would it take him? How far would he have to go in order to reach into the crevices of her soul and break her apart? He had physically abused her, he had verbally insulted her. She most likely thought him a dreadful ex-boyfriend, or some common thug who appeared like a respected man on the surface. He wondered what she had to say to him. What possible, importance could she have to say to him? There was only one way where he could properly break her, and he smirked to himself. His hands that hung down by his sides tensed, stretched into their full lengths and then balled into fists, as he slipped them casually into his trouser pockets. She stopped singing and showering five minutes ago; he had been so absorbed in his thoughts. Finally the door knob turned and the door clicked open. A large gust of steam blew out with her as she exited the room, and upon seeing him, having standing so close to the bathroom door jumped in fright. She put her hand on her chest, and he watched her carefully, his senses filling with a sadistic pleasure. It would please him when he'd finally finish his next batch and see her under its influence.
Gilmartin was quick to compose herself, and although she was wrapped in a long thick towel, she was indifferent to his intruding gaze. She had been uncomfortable to meet with him in the pharmacy; it had been the first time they had seen each other after his news. But she did not give any of her emotions away now, and fixed him with an inquisitive stare. He did not wait for her to speak, cutting her off.
"So what did you want to talk about, Grace? Why was it so urgent you needed my immediate presence at this time of day?" She ignored his and he could see her swallow, a small bump in her white smooth neck moving ever so slightly. She immediately picked up on his eyes drifting down at her neck and mouth, and a small twinge of discomfort erupted in her stomach. She was very sure he had done it on purpose though, the way he had kissed her neck when he told her the dreadful news. Or was it so dreadful. Sex is sex, she thought. And all the better for her, if she had not remembered it. He was repulsive in manner, was all surface and held no charm underneath. If he had any likeable qualities, at least he didn't go around wearing football shirts, holding a can of Fosters and making sexist crude jokes. She knew she was generalising. But at least he wasn't part of the obtrusive male student clan that so often found these days. Alcohol and sex mad.
"You wish to know it, on this landing?" she asked him, eyebrows raised. She gripped the towel around her as tightly as she possibly could. He stared at her blankly for a moment, as if processing the information; eyes alight in the darkness of the upper hallway. Her hair stuck out like knitting where the cats had got at it, giving her a slightly deranged, wild look. Grace remembered she had a dressing gown hung up in her room, the door right in front of her face. She tried to show indifference of his sudden presence and went into her room briefly to grab her dressing gown, but was nearly shocked further into cardiac arrest when he followed after her, the door catching in his hand. He stepped right into the room as she quickly wrapped the gown over her, as if protectively. He let the door slam behind him and fixed her with a poignant kind of stare, one that would burn on the back of her retinas, like a bright light. He flared his nostrils before he spoke, but kept his respective distance. Her cheeks were flushing, unbeknownst to her. He was becoming very impatient, his hands behind his back now.
"What could you possibly have to say to me that is of any importance?" he snapped at her. She was taken aback, and her heart began to pound very hard beneath her chest. She kept her composure, although her left hand fiddled with her hairbrush that was dumped on her bed earlier.
"Spare me the usual condescending verbal abuse," she retorted tiredly. "It's news in relation to that oh-so wonderful night we shared." If he had anything to say or think, he did not reveal it, he continued to stare at her, x-ray her down with his attentive eyes. She saw the usual bulge in his jaw. Teeth grinding, lips pursing slightly. She couldn't do it, as she glanced down at her hands. She couldn't do it. She stared down at her belly. Oh God, oh God. He saw her hands shaking as she fiddled with her hair-ridden hairbrush, she hadn't pulled hair from it in months. They were very badly shaking, worse than he had ever seen. He was astounded; he couldn't even imagine what she had to say about that night. His apathetic, callous mind could not imagine, other than verbally chide him, or confess something which would contribute to his satisfaction, or ego. It simply did not occur to him. She could not find it in her heart to tell him. How would he react, her mind chanted over and over.
She could not find any gusto to look at him in the eye, when he was so evidently staring her down with those chilling orbs of scornful mirth. He would have no sympathy, whatsoever, and it felt far too personal in her room. He was invading her space.
She saw he still kept his distance. Grace was utterly paralysed with dread. She tried to keep that strength she had felt in herself for the past fortnight since her life felt like it had taken a huge bump on the rocky road. There had been bumps before, but this was one that caused her to fall off her feet, with no one to help her. The strength was slowly crumbling away. At least she had people to help her when she suffered with her addiction, now she had nobody. He blinked expectantly at her, through is wide lenses, but his face was cold, unfeeling. She swallowed a huge lump at the back of her throat, not realising she was wringing her hands.
"Well do make haste, Gilmartin. I haven't got all day to wait around for you," he snapped. Clearly, he had no idea. For a supposed intelligent man of worth, what an ignorant being he was! Especially about women and reality! Grace tried not to scowl at him, but it was impossible. She blurted it out before her brain had time to fully register the consequences. She spoke the dirty words. I'm pregnant.
For a moment, it was as if Medusa had turned him into stone. He did not move an inch, and his incredible knack of being able to withstand blinking truly did wonders, as Grace watched him, terrified he'd lash out, and hit her. His hands were still in his trouser pockets, so casually, as if he had just been on a summer afternoon stroll. She didn't realise she was breathing loudly, which gave him such great satisfaction. In all good reality, he was drinking in her fear like a thirsty, starved animal. She didn't notice, due to his glasses, that behind him his eyes widened, pupils dilating as he took the sight of her wretched state in. She studied him, her eyes too unblinking, but she felt her heartbeat was visible through her clothes.
Large breath, take a deep, large breath, her mother would always say when anxiety struck high. But that was for exams. A classroom presentation. She looked at the ground for quite a long time, but decided that wasn't the attitude she wanted to present. She glanced back up at him and stared at him unblinkingly.
His mouth was hung open, ever so slightly, and she could see the whites of his bottom teeth. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he took a large swallow. He looked like he was the Grim Reaper; just sent from the depths of the earth, eyes caved in, large rings under them, cheeks sucked in, eyes horribly dark and sinister looking, a frightening contrast compared to those pale eyes he usually sported. She smirked at him and folded her arms.
"Yeah, nothing to say now have you? Can't give me one of your intelligent quips? Oh how I've learnt to love those!" She realised, in all of a sudden, she did not care for his reaction, or his opinion. She unfolded her arms, and picked up her tattered coat and her small black handbag. She threw it over her shoulder, and stormed to the door, looking at him in the eye as she went, but spoke nothing.
She half expected him to grab her roughly, or say something, but as Grace exited onto the landing, he did not say anything. It astounded her, beyond belief. She descended down the stairs, but he followed her immediately, unable to let her go. She did not have any time. She wasn't even sure where she was going, it wasn't as if Lisa was around anymore.
"Gilmartin-"
"I don't want to hear it!" she yelled. She was down the stairs quickly, tripping slightly on the last step. Crane stood in the middle of the stairs, gazing at her with that impenetrable mask. Grace didn't think and grabbed the nearest thing, it was the landline phone. It was not plugged in since they did not pay for the landline, and she chucked it as hard as she could across the hallway. It smacked straight into the opposite wall, and clattered on the ground, the handset had broken on impact, the cheap plastic now evident in the breakage. She thought she saw him smirk, but she barely left time for it, before leaving the house in a hurry.
Grace strode down the road as hastily as she could, paranoid he'd come after her. But he didn't, and she saw he slammed the front door of the house hard. She almost expected a flurry of tears to emerge from her dry eyes, but they didn't. She walked on and on, until she got to the town, and then began walking down the old country lanes. Old weather-beaten signposts signalled 'Woodland Walks' that ran for longer than ten miles. She glanced down at her feet, as she felt the lights drops of rain on her cheeks.
She was wearing her pink converses, the most comfortable pair of shoes she had ever owned. She entered the little side path that led off from the road, the bramble bushes brushing clean against her arms and legs. The wind drove hard against her, whipping her hair back, ruffling her clothes, screaming hoarsely in her ears. She felt like the only person left alone, in the world. A single-to-be-mother. A previous junkie and whore.
She could not fathom why he had not thought of such consequences! To think of using protection, when he fucked her. Perhaps he did, she did not remember of course. She had been on birth control for as long as she remembered, perhaps she told him. She stopped dead in her tracks, glancing at the barren hills of the Yorkshire moors. The sky was a blank slate of grey, promising no sun for many days to come. She had forgotten a pill. She always took them at night, before she went to bed. And she had gone home drunk, and rapped on Crane's door. Maybe he was starved for physical attention; she had seen him look at her in that certain way, that certain way of his. Maybe she had already started on him and he could not stop her.
On she drove against the wind, eyes strained against the stinging air that carried droplets with it. Her hands were balled into little fists as she walked against the wind, howling and howling away in her ears. She realised she wanted home. She wanted to call her parents, and talk to them. She had been so very close to her mother all her life. She picked up her phone, and realised already, that it was vibrating in her hand. Dad. Her heart leaped in her chest.
Her words kept running through his mind, but he was not fazed by it. He would not be fazed by such a deplorable, unworthy person such as her. Staring at him with those glassy light brown eyes, wounded, if she was concerned what his opinion was.
He sat upstairs, heavy duty chemical gloves on. He'd taken the care to get hold of some now. The skin on his hands was becoming far too flaky, dry and red. Before he would know, the skin would be gone, left only with dry bone and lumps of red, skinned skin.
He stared in concentration at the two solutions in his hand. He was getting there, he could feel it, yet it had taken months to amend, reworking it several times. In several moments, he had doubted his efforts, but he would not falter, thinking back to the weakness felt in those dark, olden days. How he would love to keep maintaining his sensations of revenge. He'd carried out his first mark of it when he was not yet seventeen. Dragging himself away from those memories, he thought back to the task at hand.
But it was difficult, especially with her, and her ridiculous words. Crane wasn't the first man or the last man, to admit that there had been a fault in his actions somewhere. But he was not going to admit that her news was going to make him hesitate. He was not dense; he had seen those birth control pills in her room. He disliked how she assumed he was so uneducated and ill-informed on certain situations within life. The ignorance of her! And how drunk he had been on power. How close he was to reaching for the old, comforting mask and the syringe that lay so close in his reach. But the overwhelming desire to exploit her weakness became the first thing he succumbed to. He did not want to dwell on such stupid, worthless things. Her feelings and her situation were of no consequence to him. He might tap into her feelings and make her dinner. Slip the right amount of chemical in, and the foetus would be drained out. Gone. He already knew what she would do, as he sat there, under the amber light of his study lamp. The girl was predictable as ever.
The rest of his room was swathed in darkness, despite the fact it was late afternoon. There was a faint whirring to the right of him. Below him on the stained furnished wooden table was a vast array of things; tweezers, a couple of empty syringes, a beaker full of a diluted substance…
She wasn't the most interesting case, as of yet. He had come across far more interesting test subjects, such as people with serious mental disorders. People who were traumatised. People who were disabled, legs missing, brain damaged. He had met incredibly bright students, ones with different ideas, although he always scoffed at them and their arrogance. Some whom he thought would be worthy subjects for his new batch, perhaps even his old batches. Although those were most unpleasant, and had always left such unpleasant physical and mental results…Some were left in a vegetative state, some had been paralysed physically. Some had ended up at Arkham.
That wasn't his fault, of course. The chemicals reacted well enough, they gave him what he wanted, but left significant evidence that he wasn't keen on. He only wanted specific evidence, especially if he'd given a full dosage. He wanted to be clean, neat, precise. How messy he had been in his younger days. Still there was plenty of time for improvement; it was just the matter of his patience. It was wearing thin. Gilmartin was nothing special, a girl with a dirty past. She was plain, common, ordinary. She even had the most common fear….the most primal of them all. Nevertheless it did intrigue him.
As far as he could tell, she was in tip-top shape. No sign of an impending breakdown for sure, which seemed to bother him. There been several hardships in her life, yet she took them on, as if driving her head hard against a torrent of wind. He frowned, blinking hard, eyes strained. He needed to get his lenses sharpened sometime.
The wind howled against the window panes, hungry for something. He liked hearing that merciless howl, it was comforting, in it's fearless racking against the window. He poured one liquid into another, watching the liquids merge. Nothing. If such a thing as a smile graced his lips, it did. Now he needed a good test subject. He thought back to her, but she had been gone for hours on end, she had not even returned to the house last night. Not that it concerned him in the slightest. He had been up all night, and his muscles ached from the position that they were reduced to. Whenever he moved, something clicked and popped in between his joints.
He poured the final result into a large beaker and capped it. He slipped the gloves off, chucking them to a side. He then slipped his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes hard, tiredly. Sleep was for the weak, and he had long ago resolved that sleep always brought him to unforgiving dreams and tosses and turns throughout the unbearable night. He'd always been a night owl, hating the day.
Some students of his passed remarks he always looked tired. Some fellow professors remarked he was putting himself under too much pressure. How he wanted to mock them! But only did he grin and bear it. He couldn't pull any more stunts in a University, he'd done that only once, no matter how much he wanted to frighten his students and slaughter his colleagues.
He thought back to that housemate of his, that dreadfully irritating housemate. He'd scared her, but not in the way he wanted to. It was a never-ending fight within himself, with her. He could not understand why she irked him so, but she did. Was it because she supposed to see straight through him? She knew nothing of him, not even remotely.
He grew angry as he sat there. He had years of experience, he could see straight through others constantly, as if they were sheets of glass. He could see her for what she was, yet there was something he couldn't claw his way into. He glanced at the misty colour of his liquid, which he had corked very tightly. He slipped the gloves back on, ignoring the ache in his back and shoulders. He placed a white mask over his mouth, and uncorked more liquids.
The following afternoon, she finally took a walk back home. She had stayed in some grotty bed and breakfast for the night. She was unable to go back to that terrible house, for fear of clawing his eyes out. Still, her spirits had lifted somewhat. Her father and herself had talked for over an hour on the phone, before she found the B&B and checked in. The sound of her father's baritone voice instilled a sense of reality and grittiness that she felt she had lost during her time in Feston.
Her father usually gave her the kick-up-the-arse kind of talking, and this time it could not have been better said. They mostly talked about what happened in their lives recently, mostly to do with either her or her mother. Her father seemed quite reserved about his wife's opinions on their daughter recent confession. Grace knew somewhere that her mother was terribly missing her, but she was stubborn, something that Grace unfortunately inherited.
Her father told her that her mother had been ill for a couple of weeks. She chatted mindlessly about her course work and the antics of her and Lisa, but it left her with a numbness that was somewhat deadening. Like she had sat on her leg for too long and all the blood had seeped away. She had been walking a county walk, along the moors of Yorkshire, the wind blowing as she spoke to her father. He talked about re-decorating her room for when she came back. She spoke about buying a bicycle and moving to York when she was finished. They were both avoiding such points and questions, but she knew her mother wasn't quite ready to forgive her. Her father had forgiven her, and that had given her hope. But it didn't stop the terrible anxiety she felt deep in her chest. She'd suffered from bouts of anxiety ever since her addiction days.
Dad, I'm pregnant. Dad, I'm living with a guy who has abused me and I'm carrying his child. Dad, this man who I've had dreams about each night since he told me the horrible news. Dad, I have plenty of money saved, and a roof over my head, but I have no friends. I am lonely, and I am sad. Tell Mum I'm sorry and that I love her and you with every inch of my heart and always will.
When she hung up, knowing with a certain kind of sense, she soon would be talking to her mother, she burst into tears. Luckily, she was in a country lane. They were only dog walkers about, or the lucky soul who had spare time. The clouds hung in the distance, with an impending doom, no promise of a blue sky. But they sat there, not even the harsh wind that rippled through her clothes could move their stone-like position. She slowly walked back, with a heavy dread, towards her student house.
Grace glanced briefly at other students who walked past her. Some in large groups, laughing. A couple, hand in hand. How she loathed them and yet how she wanted to escape into their lives! Her heart pounded as she approached the house, but perhaps it was time to forget about her fear of him. Perhaps she needed to speak to him with a kind of frankness, maybe he would understand, underneath that sinister cold exterior.
Her heart was all shuddery, her body trembling right down to her fingers. She entered the road her house resided in. Peckham Close. She hated to admit it to herself, about him. He had featured, in some way or other, in her dreams so frequently it was deeply unsettling. Never before had such things been evoked within her head during the night.
Grace arrived at the front door. The glass of the door reflected on her; her eyes were bright as if she was high on drugs, bright as a diamond. As she entered, there was no sign of him. She could not even hear him.
It was the same the following day. And the day after. The day after that. The day after that. He was gone for a fortnight.
It was blissful at first, for she had the house to herself, and no worry over-clouded her, like an unwanted stray cat wondering into the back garden, forever yowling. Her stomach felt like it was on fire. She had to scrub away at herself in the bath each time she thought of him. How thin he was. How his eyes just stared and stared, as if she was a subject for psychoanalysis. A song came to her head, as she lay in the bath for hours on end, each day. No confidence in Anna Freud.Had she enjoyed the feel of him? Had he been tender with her, or rough? She had felt nothing the next day. It wasn't difficult to tell when a man had been rough with you. She remembered the morning after she slept with her ex-boyfriend, on a stupidly drunken night. One bruise on her hip and her nether regions whenever she peed or walked, was like sandpaper. Rub, rub, rub.
She kept being sick also, and was convinced he'd poisoned her food in some way, or the water supply, while he was gone. She knew somehow it wasn't pregnancy sickness. Or perhaps it was. She was going mad. She didn't attend her lectures for one week, and tried to call Lisa when the week ended. But the girl hung up on her, and eventually Grace stopped trying when she found Lisa had her phone turned off constantly.
Grace thought her father had instilled a gritty reality into her, but it had only worked until she had stepped inside the door of the house. It was the house that drove her mad, made her want to curl up in a ball and close her eyes, go to sleep for the rest of her rotten life. She felt like the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper. She learnt to hate the wallpaper in that living room, although one day she managed to clean it. Yet not even cleaning could take her mind off him and the ever-present factor of their unborn child. She wanted to rip it clean out of her body, thinking of gruesome ways to rid herself of it.
She borrowed next door's hoover and sucked the living room dry of its dirt. She then dusted everything. A large bowl full of rotten pot-pourri sat on a worn-eaten oak chest, at the end of the living room, covering most of the bay window, blocking out the light if the curtains were ever opened. The place gave off pungent smell of old ladies and misfortune. Everywhere had a threadbare shabbiness to it, once expensive, now old and decrepit.
She dusted around the Edwardian fireplace, but left most of the dusting. It seemed a nesting house for every spider in Yorkshire. It was always freezing, as if the heating choose not to work in the specific room as well. But it did, as she touched the radiator beside the wall. She traced her fingers along the wallpaper of the room. Swirls, brown and blue, faded, once art-deco inspired. It looked like someone had projectile vomited all over it.
She thought she saw the pale colour of his eyes within the wallpaper. That was when she needed to take a long walk. She wasn't sure where, just anywhere. Away from that musty house and the thought of his whispered rasp, his sharp analysing gaze. She wanted to go, to leave. As if she never left a trace in the world.
She had been listening to The National as she sat in her bath, soaking. She'd been washing the dishes, when he finally stepped into the kitchen. The light of the bright kitchen lamp caught off his hair, oily as ever. So he'd returned. He looked like he had just recently shaved; she could smell his aftershave. Clean as a whistle. Perhaps it had been some sort of sinister trip he had undertaken over the past week, or a trip that was academic, but she didn't want to know. He stood there, awkwardly as ever, with his hands behind his back. He checked his watch, once, twice. She realised, surprised she hadn't before, how ill-fitting his suits always were. He looked like he had given his hair a comb recently, slicked back. He was dressed all in black, looking like he worked for the mafia.
She gave him a brief glance, breathed through her nose, and turned her head back to the soapy water. She picked up a blue bowl, and washed the remains of tomato soup away. Washing dishes always had a perverted kind of satisfaction to it. If it had been a week ago, her anxiety might have worsened as he entered the room, but she merely ignored whatever she felt in the past. She didn't care. She saw in the corner of her eye he jutted his chin out, looking down on her from his height. He looked like a tall black shadow next to her. Then, she thought she saw him smirk.
"I presume you've had an abortion," he began. His voice was so quiet, so soft. It sent a shudder down her spine. It was as if his words caressed her, cradled her in its arms. She tensed a little, but continued to wash the bowl, that had been left on the side for days on end.
"What makes you presume I would?" she replied. She imagined she could hear his teeth grinding.
"I'll start again; did you have an abortion?" She stopped at his condescending tone, and stared straight ahead at the yellow paint on the kitchen wall, the water sloshing beneath her hands. It was warm and comforting, gave her strength. She swallowed, and turned her head back down, to continue with her bowl washing.
"No, I did not," was her answer, straight and to the point. He was silent for a while. She could feel his eyes burning into her, but that was fairly usual, she mused to herself. He spoke softly, once again, watching her ever so carefully. A raspy whisper that ran straight through her bones.
"And why not, Gilmartin?"
"I don't want to get rid of it. But I will put it up for adoption." That was her final answer. As long as she was concerned, having two weeks to think on it, he had no say, whatsoever on her decision. A mother was always a mother, it was a biological fact; while, quoting Angela Carter, the father was always 'a moveable feast'.
He watched her, for a grand total of eight minutes. The previous look he had on his face had been near-unrecognisable; as if a wholly new person had overtaken him. But it was uncanny; there was a dead, stony look in his eyes that was threatening, that was frightening. She had counted herself, but she did her best to ignore him, trying to cut out any flashes of him she had in her dreams. She felt time ticking. The clock on the wall was very loud above her. She heard his voice, mutter. It rang through the air. Foolish, headstrong girl. She found herself fixing him with a glare, and then pulled the plug in the sink.
It was pouring with rain outside, but she could not stand to be in the house with him for much longer. She hated how almost attractive he seemed in a black shirt and suit. He appeared as if he was dressed for the occasion. She had terrible thoughts running through her head as she began to walk fast down the road, paranoid he was behind her.
How she'd like to stick a hand straight into her womb, and tear the wretched thing out. If only he was inhibited and pathetic, if only he was too reserved, let her stew in her pool of drunkenness. But no…he had to tear her up in all his vileness. His nasty mean mind. The way his eyes so coolly glided over, as if he saw straight through her, like seeing through glass. He looked like he wanted to shoot a knife into her stomach and twist it when she told him straight, just now. She wasn't sure what it was with him, whether it was a power thing or something psychological. He seemed to treat everyone around him as if a strange specimen for psychological analysis. Like he wanted to bind her up in a straightjacket and cut off her mouth, throw her in a room. Pick apart her mind with his hateful tweezers. She kept walking and walking until she got to the bed and breakfast again. She paid money for another two nights. She would return for her things later. She could not stand to be in the same house as him.
It was a day later. She lay on her bed. It was the first time in a while she hadn't felt nauseous. She lay on her side; lying on her stomach felt uncomfortable and almost always brought nausea on. She gazed at the swirls of the white ceiling. She hated herself, thinking about her past. What an understated girl she had been, back in school. Following everyone else around like sheep, always hopping on the bandwagon when opportunity called. She was the same at University, only by the time she stopped using, was she a changed person. She wasn't sure who she was anymore, and her insides felt the numb of it. She needed someone to cuddle her, very tightly, like her mother used to do. Used to do. As if her mother had packed her bags and left the circle that was her life.
The curtains of the little poky room were closed, just open a crack. It had been raining all day, but she had not moved from the bed. She had slept in until one in the afternoon. She stared and stared away at the ceiling. How she would like someone to cuddle with, just for a while. Perhaps have sex with after. She smoothed her hands over her chest, over one breast, pretending they were someone else's hands, just for a bit. She smoothed them slowly over her stomach, then over the tips of her thighs, breathing in slowly. Her eyes were closed. Slowly she slipped her fingers under her elasticised pyjama bottoms and touched her knickers, eyes still shut. She snapped them back open. The thought of him came to her, and it nearly made her shoot up, out of bed.
His hands on her. Smoothing over her belly…long spindly fingers working away…. She shut her eyes tight and buried her head under the pillow, trying to rid herself of the image.
One day, he will snap. She told herself with some kind of resilience, but dread settled in the pit of her heart like a beating drum. At the moment, he dislikes me, like an annoying fly. Something he has to bat away constantly. He is like the old man of the sea bearing down on the back of Sinbad the sailor. Trying to bear her down. He consumes everything in his path, like a locust. He makes flowers wilt with his stifling presence. One day he will wake up and hate me like none other.
She knew he felt that once, about his grandmother. She could picture his grandmother; a thin, frail, tight-lipped woman. She would have fish eyes. No expression. Her white hair curled into an elaborate tight bun, so tight the folds of her skin would tense. The other people he had taken his revenge on were only petty people whom he disliked. But with her, she was the girl who had stepped into his path with her foot and tripped him over.
She had to go back though; she had to complete her degree. What was it with her life – why did she always seem to attract bad luck? Why didn't she have two, three, four, five other housemates who were normal? Noisy, messy, moaned a lot, were lazy, or were absolutely lovely in all the right ways. She knew she was hiding away from him, from the truth. She absentmindedly stroked her stomach, her eyes trailing over the poky, stuffy room. She couldn't help but constantly ponder over him, like an image that was tacked in her mind; his rimless glasses, framing those chilling eyes, always analysing, always with the quasi-Freudian examination. He was by far, the strangest person she had ever met, and she had met quite a bunch of people in her twenty-four years of living.
Yet there was an unattainable matter about him; he had never felt more distant but close to her in this time. Like he had possessed her and poisoned her, found out about her, as much as he tried to, and now impregnated her; something in all her vivid dreams, she would not have imagined. Yet his behaviour was both unsurprising and astonishing. He was wholly indifferent about her situation. To presume she would have an abortion. Perhaps that was not such an unusual thing to think, but she wasn't a teenager anymore; maybe she needed this, a new child. She shook her head in shock – she wanted to study, to travel, to move out of her parents' house and find a job which would involve her in her passions.
Grace decided that moping in this poxy bed and breakfast room with a bad paintjob, brown frayed curtains that were too long and a rather cheap canvas with an enlarged red rose on it. She realised how lonely she was and not the normal lonely she might have felt at one point in the past; lonely for a boyfriend, homesick, lonely because she craved a bit of human contact. No; she had been utterly alone for the past few months. No contact with her parents. Lisa, who really had been her only friend at Feston University, had broken off all contact with her.
She packed all her things away, stuffing them into her holdall, and checked out of the place. She took a slow walk back, gazing at the pebbled ash of the grey student houses she passed, once she walked back from the centre of town. Most of the student houses had little bay windows, on both ground and first floor. Some had no curtains, and one desk was littered with papers and books. You could tell the unkempt messy front gardens with large black bags of rubbish belonged to students. Occasionally she saw an elderly woman come out of one house in her slippers, shuffling down the end of the road to the gleaming red post box. Grace decided she would keep walking, although she was unsure where. She was desperately behind on her work. She saw other students pass her by, so engrossed in their own lives. They were so happy. They had great social lives. They were having fun.
All she could think about was the embryo in her and him. How she wanted to reason with him! To talk some sense in him. She tried to remember anything of that night, how he might have felt against her, whether he was gentle with her, how he caressed her, if he did at all. The skies opened once again. She had done a large loop, and was heading back into the centre, along the outside road of the town. All around the town were the Yorkshire moors, deep and forbidding. She was soaked within minutes, but it was strangely refreshing to have the cool clothes stick to her skin, and the droplets of rain drip off her nose and trickle down her neck.
She realised, horribly, that she was craving contact with specifically him because he was the only one in her life right now, despite being the person he was. The fact that he was the father of her future child made all the more sense. She contemplated about sitting down with him, being frank with him. Would he see sense? He was an intelligent man. She had no doubt of that. Arrogant, but perhaps advanced intelligence in someone so scarred as him came with the territory; a sort of defence mechanism.
Grace almost stopped herself with a frown. She was pardoning him, the man who had bullied her since she had moved in. No matter what he had done to her, she found he had not greatly moved her, not like other people had done in her life. She knew this was a good thing, and would have to keep at it. She kept walking, facing the pavement; her hands snuggled in her coat pockets, her mind deep in thought. She was very much unaware of the world around her, until she noticed a car had stopped beside her, but she ignored it. It continued to drive slowly beside her. Irked, she turned her head, and realised it was his BMW. Her heart immediately began pounding, half tempted to keep walking on, but she had planted her feet firmly on the ground. He rolled down his window, gazing at her intensely. His eyes gave her the once-over.
"You're soaked, once more. Home is at least another twenty minutes away." She frowned at him, and began to walk slowly away.
"I'm quite fine walking on my own, I rather like it," she replied over her shoulder.
"You'll catch cold. And that coat is not doing you any favours." His tone was quite hard, although his words were meant to be caring and soft. She nearly smirked at the irony. What was this, bloody Jane Eyre? If she didn't know any better, he was trying to entice her into something, but his face was blank as ever. Her eyes flickered over to the backseat of his car, very purposely, he was watching her closely. The back of the car seemed to be cleared of the beakers and other equipment that seemed to clog the leather seats and space beneath them. She looked at his white hands resting on the steering wheel, as the rain pelted down.
Her heart hammered so firmly against the hollowness of her chest it was near difficult to regain her breath. She had to turn around and ignore him, not give him any kind of satisfaction, of bending her to his will. Even something disguised as kind like this. She knew he didn't really care that she was soaked, and might catch cold. It was his normal way of trying to submit his domination over her, instill fear into her. She gave him a direct look, straight eye contact, and climbed into the back. She didn't really want to walk all the way back soaked, really.
Grace sensed by climbing into the back she was giving him a great suspicion; she particularly wanted to see what he had hidden in the back. As soon as she slammed the door beside her, she hadn't a moment to strap herself in, and rolled to the side as he drove off the kerb. It was a brilliant move, for she could see a large black bag stuffed (rather hastily, it looked like) under the passenger seat. He had terrible driving skills. She saw he kept taking his foot off the accelerator every so often, and then pushing down on it, when he got past an old granny in a small Kia.
She shrugged herself awkwardly out of her damp coat, and plopped it on the seat beside her. It was very difficult not to catch his eyes in the rear view mirror, and she pretended to look deep in thought. After two nights away from him, it was almost easy to forget how intimidating he could be.
The eeriest thing was that he appeared completely normal on the outside, a rather haughty, cold-looking professor, but that was all. She frowned at the ground. To think, that she was contemplating sitting down with him and talking through her pregnancy decision with him. How it would have been simple with Charlie, even though he still lived in a fantasy land of beer, video games and heroin. I can make you a nice take, Grace. Wanna do it in the bath? How she used to love him. How she'd lick her thumb and wipe it on the inside of his elbow, once he pulled the needle away. He'd press his lips on hers, whisper softly to her. Her mind was carried away for a few minutes, briefly unaware of whose car she was riding in. The thoughts began to morph from Charlie into Crane.
She snapped her eyes open, making sure everything was still as it was. He had one hand on the steering wheel. He didn't even have the radio on. She watched the back of his head, looked at the creases in his grey suit. She glanced around the car slowly and surreptitiously. She saw the end of a shoe box poke out from the bottom of his seat, and she saw gauze bandages, thin, rusty scissors and a pair of powdered latex gloves. She saw some tweezers, and an empty tube. The outside package of the bandages had a few spots of brown dotted in several areas. Blood. Gauze bandages.
The word echoed through her mind. He'd burnt himself again…His chemicals. She leaned over a little, and saw his right hand was completely swathed in bandages. Only his fingers stuck out, the skin smooth and white. They were in good condition. She sucked her cheeks in, shocked. His voice rang out, startling her. The rain was very hard on the car, and he switched the windscreen wipers, so that they know flung themselves back and forwards over the windscreen.
"I have an important lecturers meeting, so I will have to drop you near the house." She didn't respond, but when the car finally pulled into a crescent, where there was what looked like to be a Doctor's Surgery, her eyes lit up angrily. She grabbed her coat heatedly and flung herself out of the car into the soaking rain once more. Grace was close to storming off, but she could not go without speaking to him. It was like a pulsating vein in her mind, edging her on. The fire in her chest had become lit at last. The back white lights of the beamer lit up, showing he was about to reverse, but she rapped hard on his window. So hard that her knuckles hurt. He opened his window down, confusion and irritation simultaneously spread across his features. She leaned in, looking at him between the eyes.
"Is this your subtle way of trying to do something about it?" she snapped. He raised his eyebrows.
"I don't have to repeat myself. You will save yourself dignity," he replied very coldly. It was cold but earnest in its delivery. Since when did he care about her dignity? She knew she had lost it several years ago. She knew he was preserving himself, trying to cover up the fact he'd slept with her. He was about to wind the window back up, but she slammed her fingers down on the ridge of the window. His eyes widened condescendingly, keeping his slim finger on the window button.
"You are wishing to lose your fingers in the process as well as your dignity?" he quipped. She rolled her eyes at him, but nodded at his bandaged hand.
"Seems you have managed to save yours," she replied. She saw his left, good hand tighten very hard on the steering wheel, and his lips pursed.
"Watch yourself, Grace." She leant back, feeling the strands of her hair stick to her scalp. It was a horrible feeling. She swore she could feel rain droplets trickle under her knickers to her arse. She felt like he was telling her off like a child, and although it certainly wasn't the first time, she became irritated by it all the same. She always got the feeling he chose his words extremely carefully.
"I'm not going to get it aborted. I can't go through with that. I don't know why I have to justify myself to you, as well, since you have not shown a single preference, or care. Your heart is made of ice. I do wonder how you will make it as a psychiatrist, being so indifferent," she spoke softly to him.
He stared at her for a very long time, almost two minutes, his mind ticking away behind those frames. Tick, tick, tick, she could almost hear the static coming from his processing mind. He was looking at her as if her decision was ridiculous, illogical. She saw him swallow in that thin neck of his. He drummed his long fingers on the steering wheel, it looked slightly menacing. He cleared his throat.
"Come with me, I think you need to see something." She watched him, frowning, unsure of how to react. He tilted his head, urging her, raising his eyebrows and waving his hand to the passenger seat. Her heart was pumping hard now, wondering what on earth he could show her; after all, he was going to a lecturer's meeting. Reluctantly, feeling like she was going to regret this, she trailed back around the car to the passenger seat on the right side, and climbed in, slamming the door behind her. He moved the gear stick back into reverse, and they turned out of the small cul-de-sac.
He drove fairly fast along the main road once they exited several smaller roads, coming out of busy junctions. Rain still plopped down on the windscreen. They stopped at a junction with traffic lights. The road was busy, and further down the road was a large, brick building that looked somewhat grim amidst the haze of the grey weather. She realised what she was letting herself into, and glanced over to look at him. Sucked-in cheeks, floppy greasy hair. This suit smelt of moth balls. She cascaded her eyes over his face.
"I've just realised I've let myself into something stupid. A dinner with your pretentious twats," she mused, turning to gaze back out the window. The car in front was being intolerably slow, and a fog of brownish smoke was chugging out the exhaust pipe. In the front of the car was a swinging ornament from the mirror. The woman in front was haggard with bushy white hair, but she held a cigarette in one hand. Her music Grace could hear from the air-conditioned BMW. Why did he always have the air con on? It blew a horrible chill on her feet, despite wearing her converses. He did nothing to respond; in fact she could hear nothing from him, not even breathing. He drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel. She was far from dressed for a potential formal dinner; all she had on was a thin camisole with her usual worn jeans; her usual attire.
"I'm not even dressed for it," she mumbled, as he pressed the accelerator down, and span the wheel around with the palm of his hand. He was just ignoring her, which unnerved her. It was as if he was preparing her for something, either that, or he had other things on his mind. He seemed distracted. It was a further ten minutes before they managed to get through the traffic and into the car park of the brown building.
She saw several lecturers, mostly men in suits, mostly in their fifties to sixties, walking up to the front of the building. The front doorway was arched and held up by columns. The windows were large and arched. The grass was well kept. Everything seemed to be in place. The branches of the trees were bare but even did they seem neat and well kept. It looked like a 1950's all boys public school. Grace began to get nervous, and she tightened her hands together; they were incredibly sweaty.
Crane found a parking space within minutes, and faffed around for a bit, leaving her to ponder on her nervousness. He was shuffled things around in his briefcase which oddly enough he kept concealed from her. Her heart was thumping. She felt like she was having a brief panic attack, and found herself seeing something in the hedge ahead of her. The dark green hedge, perfectly cut, dripping with rain droplets. She heard his shuffling, and pressed two fingers to her pulse. It steadied her a little. Before she knew it, almost lost in a world of her own, something soft and familiar smelling landed on her lap. She jumped at it, and almost thought she heard him snort. She glanced down at her lap, seeing a familiar green dress. Her brows knitted together immediately. He snapped his briefcase sharply with an incredibly loud click.
"I anticipated this evening. So the end to your problem of not being dressed properly," he spoke in that cold voice again. His voice seemed to be much colder than usual, if such a thing was possible. She snapped her head to look at him, a horrible choking lump at the back of her throat. It was as if she swallowed a fish bone and it ached each time she tried to swallow.
"Where'd you get it? Have you been sneaking into my room again?"
"You left it in my room…." She didn't want to hear it any longer, knowing instantly why and how. All her previous qualms had been washed away instantly in her sheer irritation with him. How she wanted to smack that smug look off his face whenever that blessed night had been mentioned. She slipped the straps of her camisole off and slipped her arms out rather expertly. She then gathered the dress in her hands and found a hole to pop her head through. He was speaking as she had her head full of fabric, hearing the constant pitter-patter of rain on the window.
"Grace, why are you doing it here?" he asked.
Was he embarrassed by her irrational behaviour? She heard he had opened the car door, and she instantly caught the smell of rain. It was her turn to ignore him, and off she slipped her jeans with ease, fully aware he was getting himself wet in the rain as he watched her with a careful eye. She rolled her clothes up into a ball and chucked them into the back of the car; yes, it would give her an excuse to faff around in the back later. Dig around in his things.
He spoke her name, warning her, but before she knew it, he had thrown a pair of her black shoes onto her lap. This time she knew he had definitely been in her room, and this time she knew this was going to be a most important meeting. He was already walking off to the shelter of the front entrance of the building and she shoved them on hastily. Grace darted after him, using her soggy coat to shelter her dry clothes. She heard a wren in the nearby bush, chirping away, warning its fellow birds. She drew her eyes back to him.
How dare he go in my room, how dare he, how dare he, how dare he, the smug, self-assured little…He waited for her patiently, staring at her. Those eyes could cut through glass, their sharp incisiveness unnerved her no end; especially not knowing what was in store for her.
She saw his bandage had become in the space she had seen it, more bloodied. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her arm, pinching it tightly as he led her into a marble-floored elongated hallway; the kind that echoed greatly. The ceiling was high and on either side were two arches into two different rather large rooms. Ahead, a white marble staircase, that led beyond her view. She felt, despite this grand building, her interest was not piqued just yet. He hated her, and disliked her company at all costs, but invited her to something she could potentially embarrass him at. He had even gone so far to pick up her dress that was still in his room and fetch some shoes for her; the nicer ones she owned as well. Shiny flat dolly shoes, the inside lined with leather. If he hated her so much, why did they end up sleeping together? That was a rhetorical question she thought; you didn't have to admire and love someone to have sex with them. It sent a horrible chill down her spine. It was about power to him, control, perhaps fear, seemingly his favourite.
She could hear the familiar sound of a large group of people chatting away, and it echoed off the walls around them. It didn't take her long to realise that Jonathan's bandage had soaked right through, and was beginning to drop blood. For a moment, as he checked in at the reception desk, she watched his scarlet blood drop slowly onto the white marble floor, tainting it. She let him sign in his name and the name for his guest, managing to spell her name exactly right. Most people spelt it with a couple of L's. When they were away from the desk and the throngs of people who now began to enter, their shoes clicking on the floors and echoing throughout the entrance hallway. She made a grab for his right hand. He was totally unaware of her and anyone else; his eyes were fixed on something else. She paid no attention to his sudden ice-like stare, and held his thin hand in hers.
"Jonathan…the bathroom. Your bandage needs changing." She tugged him down another marble-floored hallway, this time smaller, flanked by recently re-upholstered elegant 17th century chairs. She briefly glanced over at what he was staring at; a rather elderly man who was stood on the wide stairs, talking discreetly to a man younger than him. Despite his age, he held his posture well, and was dressed in an expensive suit. His eyes darted about warily. Crane only managed to snap himself out of his thoughts when he realised his irksome housemate was dragging him down a corridor, in the completely opposite direction to where they needed to be. She tugged him into a small kitchen that did not fit in whatsoever with the rest of the building; in fact it looked like a school kitchen, with its metal counters and Health and Safety warning signs in every corner.
"The meeting begins in less than fifteen minutes," he began waspishly, glancing around the kitchen with a wrinkled nose. His eyes caught the set of sharp knives that were stuck to the wall via a magnetic container. His eyes swivelled back to her; she had opened a green first aid kit and was rifling through its contents. She ignored him, and he was half tempted to leave the kitchen, when he spotted blobs of his blood on the pristine grey-tiled floor.
He realised his earlier idiocy now resulted in her meddling; she'd be questioning him about what he had done, her suspicions would be further drawn…Not that he cared. He'd deal with her for once and for all soon enough. He was ever so desperate to get her out of the way now. He had much bigger things on his mind, but this evening would prove beneficial to him, to her. He'd twist her round the bend. She seemed to be absorbed in the task at hand, as his eyes took in her face, analysing each aspect of it. Her face was thin.
She might have put on weight elsewhere after her addiction, but her face always had that drug-addict hollowness about it. The sunken murky eyes. Meanwhile, Grace was in a totally different world. Her hands began to shake; she was unsure why she was helping him. She carefully unwrapped the wound, but it took some effort to peel away the pad attached to the bandage away from the wound. She figured he probably wanted her to be quick with it, but pulling it quickly might risk further wounding him.
His hands for once were oddly warm beneath hers. She felt his gaze pierce through her, as if he was trying to read her thoughts from the outside, as if he could x-ray her. His hand was delicate in hers, bony and slim. She took the chance to analyse his fingernails. They had grown a bit, not usually worn down like she had first seen them as. The skin looked like it was suffering from eczema, but she knew it was far from something as simple as that. The nails were discoloured. The kind of discoloration if you wore nail varnish far too often without removing it frequently as well. She knew that wasn't the case either. His smallest fingernail was black underneath; as if he had caught it in the door or dropped something on it.
She drew his hand to the sink further, and managed to rip the pad from his skin as fast as she could. His hissed in pain, but did not move from her. The skin had been badly burned and was now leaking pus. At least it was healing, she thought. The pus ran down his wrist slowly, but she wiped it away with an alcohol wipe. She asked him softly to put his hand on the counter. Oddly enough, she began to find enjoyment in touching his hand. The hand began to cool from her cleaning of it. The burn was putrid. He had not bothered to look after it.
"What did you do, Jonathan," she spoke calmly. She cleaned the wound itself, and he gripped her forearm in warning, more than agony. She knew it was a chemical burn; it was that obvious. She wasn't stupid; she had a brief idea of what burns looked like. He was handling chemicals everyday, from the look of all his beakers, and his easy access to a pharmacy, seeing as he worked there. And the fact he was studying something that dealt with such things; but it was drugs he was dealing with. He wasn't working in some industrial factory handling toxic chemicals used.
He kept a firm grip on her forearm, pressing the pads of his fingers into the bone of her thin arm. He could easily snap it if he wanted. She was becoming rather harsh in her cleaning of the wound. There were a dozen bloody tissues and pads in the sink. The blood soaked through and began to drain down the plughole. He didn't answer her for several moments. The skin was gaping apart, frayed and pink, crinkled at the edges where the harsh chemical had eroded his delicate skin away. The blood didn't seem to stop running from the new found layer of flesh, not normally exposed to such air.
"This might need better medical attention," she spoke to him truthfully. The fact he was feeling it was good enough, but she still doubted her own efforts. He pulled her into him a little, making sure to catch her eye. She dropped the last bundle of tissues, suddenly nervous he was going to attack her; he had that look in his eye.
"Questions get you nowhere, Grace, you understand?" he spoke softly to her. She began to wrap a new bandage around his hand.
"The more you are less than willing to reveal it, the more suspicious I become," she retorted, staring at him right in the eye. He smirked a little, as if applauded her for her audacity to stand up to him. Then, the chest which was rising to inflate himself as if in defence, slowly deflated, and he let go of her arm slowly. He dragged the tips of his finger purposely along her skin, softly before letting go. He turned around to exit the kitchen, without another backward glance but he was talking. She quickly cleaned up the large bundle of bloodied tissues and threw them into the nearby metallic bin.
"My job requires handling many chemicals," was all that he explained. He seemed uninterested in her, and didn't even thank her for cleaning him up. She decided that retorting something would not be a good idea. She didn't believe him in the slightest, yet he was doing nothing to make his point seem genuine. Either he had something worse cooking for her, or he thought she was ignorant or stupid. She knew he thought low of her, but not that low, he definitely knew she was not dense.
She followed him back out into the busier hallway. She now had a clear view of the large archway which led to another room, very grand, but very bland. She couldn't be bothered to take in the large grandness of it all. Many tables were dotted all over the massive room, draped in fine silky table covers, embellished with candles, glinting silver cutlery and large bundles of flowers. Hideous, garish flowers, a badly chosen array of several kinds which she did not know the name of. At the front was a flat white wall, where a projector was set up. She read the title of the presentation, a rather long never-ending sentence with psychology in it. She cared nothing for the rest.
Crane slowed down, and took her by the elbow, steering her around the various tables, until he found his presumed table. Her eyes darted to the names on the table, there were to be eight of them seated.
Many of the attendees were middle-aged, male and presumably all professors and doctors of psychology. They all walked in lowly, greeting each other politely, wives on their arms. Grace spotted a few female professors. Satisfied, she turned to Crane, a 'what now?' look on her face. He smiled rather uncharacteristically at her, and drew her seat out for her. Warily she took her place on the comfy, antique chair. She had a rather precise view of the projected presentation that was about to commence in five minutes. One by one, two by two, did the tables fill up, including hers and Crane's.
The others greeted respectfully, but they did not appear to know each other. A couple of young-ish looking lecturers sauntered up to Crane rather meekly; she could tell that Crane by far intimidated them. He was rather blunt towards them, despite his civil words. They were served their dinners first. Grace was silent the whole way through, a couple of times, she had to explain she was there with Crane, and they smiled at her in that way. Ah, yeah, his girlfriend. It left a horrible stone-like feeling in her stomach. She rubbed her belly absentmindedly.
Crane barely touched his food, and occasionally responded dryly to whatever the man on his right was blathering on about. Grace unsurprisingly had a ravenous appetite, and ate whatever was on her plate. By the time the coffees after the puddings arrived, she was bored out of her mind. She sipped at her Irish coffee delicately, savouring the taste. She wondered what game Jonathan Crane was playing at. She was half tempted to lean and whisper in his ear, but he kept a stealthy hand on her kneecap. To a person watching them, it looked affectionate, soothing, a kind touch from a loving boyfriend. She nearly gagged at the thought.
Eventually, they were introduced by an ancient-old professor to the presentation, on a brand of psychology. Everyone clapped and Grace joined in, noticing Crane had his eyes trained on the projection very carefully. She was bored even before it started and began shuffling in her seat unconsciously, provoking the man on her left to frown in annoyance. Crane kept catching her eye. It almost made her catch her breath each time she made eye contact with him. She sipped more of her white wine, on her third glass. Her head buzzed, but she knew she'd be making an incredibly stupid mistake if she became drunk, especially around Crane.
It was half an hour before her ears pricked up at the new topic that flashed on the projected wall. The words were unknown to her, and she went back to playing with her napkin. Crane was straight-backed in his seat next to her. Yet her eyes glanced up in apprehension when she finally heard the word. False pregnancy. Frowning, Grace concentrated on the aged lecturer, standing in front of a podium, glancing back and forth between his papers and the screen. His voice was low, but loud, and stretched right across the humongous room.
"Pseudocyesis, more commonly known as a false pregnancy, have the symptoms that of a normal pregnancy. The characteristic of this psychological problem, that is common to all cases of the of affected patient is the conviction; that is, she is certain she is carrying an unborn foetus. Abdominal distension is the most common physical symptom, as the abdomen expands the same size as when the patient is pregnant. Menstrual irregularity is also a physical symptom. Many doctors are at one time deceived by the false pregnancy symptoms, as they are similar to that of a genuine pregnancy.
This phenomenon has only begun to be understood by doctors and psychologists alike. Psychological factors are at the root of most of the affected patients. Often women feel an intense desire to become pregnancy often through problems of miscarriage or infertility, hence her body producing signs which are not linked to an actual pregnancy. This in turn, leads the woman to misinterpret these symptoms as a real pregnancy. Many problems might play a role in Pseudocyesis, but researchers claim that having a false pregnancy is not the same as having delusions of pregnancy, such as patients with schizophrenia. However, the new research gathered by Doctor U. Vlautin here, brings a new light on this unusual mental…"
The words drifted away into the background. Grace sat there, her muscles frozen. Her mouth slowly fell open. What a clever little bastard, she thought. Her hands rubbed at her belly, and she was hit with a wave of paranoia. She did not want to hear any more, but her feet seemed glued to the ground. She glanced around at everyone; they seemed extremely interested in what they termed this 'phenomenon.' She'd never heard of it until now. Crane turned to look at her, watching her. His eyes pierced her; giving her a warning as if to say 'Don't you dare move.' His hand tightened on her leg, moving further up from her kneecap to keep her pinned to the chair. He'd moved his chair closer to hers than she realised.
Little clever….She put down her wine glass and put her hand atop his. She began to pry his hand from her leg that seemed to be nearly ripping her flimsy green dress. The more she struggled, the harder he gripped the skin on her leg. She wasn't wearing any tights, and their struggling caused her dress to ride up her thighs.
"Let me go, Jonathan," she whispered.
"No I think this is benefiting you, wouldn't you say?" Someone at their table heard them whispering and turned to look at them. Crane's hand didn't soften on her leg, but he pulled a rather poor smile at the person who had turned to look at the source of the interrupting noise. She did what she could; unfortunately it was his good hand. She pinched the thinnest piece of skin atop his left hand she could find, and he recoiled in pain without delay. She stood up quickly, and Crane, not wanting to cause attention, let her go. She weaved her way through the dinner tables. People gazed at her curiously. She bit her bottom lip, keeping her hands clasped together in front of her, blinking furiously. Bed and breakfast hotel again. Or maybe Lisa's. Tell her this entire situation was becoming out of control. Her nerves were fraught with anxiety as she exited the main room into the marbled hallway again.
She thought he couldn't get any worse, that he couldn't reach a more detestable point. But, he had managed to surprise her, once again. No one was around and she ran as fast as she could towards the exit. It was soaking wet with pouring rain outside, and she could smell the damp earth and grass as the cool air hit her. She rushed to the end of the car park, but didn't have time to stop and think where she was going before she felt his hands on her. It took all she had not to yell at him with all her frustration in a terrific outpour. If there was any way to get through to him, and not let him predict her like a fortune teller with a glass ball, it was to remain calm.
She let him turn her around, and almost let go of her again. He had both of his arms around her tightly, ready for her to struggle, but when she gave me no such thing, he let go immediately, almost as if he was burnt by her. She was no longer satisfied or enlightened by whatever meaningless affection or words he might possibly bestow on her. At one point she might have considered liking him, longing something from him that he is incapable of giving. She was in a desperate state. No friends. Her family were angry with her. God knows if her grandparents knew, but knowing her mother they probably didn't. She rarely saw any of her other family, most on her mother's side, which she disliked. How she longed for her grandmother, her father's mother.
Thinking back to him, he had never been consistent in his treatment of her, yet he had been consistent with his coldness. And all her shortcomings made her pay double for her sins. He made her feel weak, yet there was no one she could turn to for comfort anymore. She might have had that little clique in school, the everyday friends she could pretend to be happy with. The University friends whom she always got drunk with, or used with them. She could turn to her lousy boyfriend, her immature boyfriend who sat in front of the telly most days with a beer in his hand. Her old best friend had betrayed her, went out with him as soon as he broke it off. Left her heart trampled in the mud, and she had been unable to pick it up again. Just by looking at her elder housemate, there was something horribly twisted about him. He might appear normal from the outside, but his sharp incisive gaze, calculating words and withered hands spoke enough about him.
"Why don't you return to your meeting," she spat at him, but with a cool, calm voice. Her eyes did not waver from his. She was seething with rage; it took every inch of her body not to lash out at him, to rip the hair from his head, to bash his face in until it bled copiously, to strangle him with his own tie. He was making her paranoid, each time she thought back to his meeting now, to that horrible psychological term meaning false pregnancy, she wondered if she really was just delusional. His eyes, moved very quickly between hers, as if there was a ticking going behind them. A bomb was about to explode any moment.
"Do you not feel that it describes your situation most accurately?" he began at her, with a soft, raspy tone. The wind was blowing heavy rain into both of them. There were pearls of rain all over the lenses of his frames. His straggly dark hair was blown into his face, and as he lifted an arm to brush it away impatiently, she saw something strapped to his wrist, on his right bandaged hand. The tears poured out of her eyes, but thankfully it rained so hard, he would be unable to distinguish the difference.
"You little, mean-minded worm," was all that came out of her mouth.
"Yet, how it all matches up. It is clear, Grace. You are suffering from these delusions." He had to raise his voice above the harsh howling of the wind, and it sounded terrifying in the dark. No one else was around to hear them, or see them. She saw the harsh wind ruffle the trees in the background, the branches moving up and down, the leaves clinging and fluttering. Occasionally one leaf was lost, and swirled away into the darkness.
"I can go straight to the midwife, I can get a scan. I can get a proper test. I can prove you wrong," she shouted at him over the loud wind. The rain in the wind stung her cheeks, and her fingers felt stiff and numb from the cold.
"Haven't you felt it? That need to be close to someone? You chose me since you had no one else. Did you want me to be the good father? Is that why you fabricated such an idea? Romance Grace; it's the only way to distinguish people from animals. You so desperately want a normal life. I am not the man, my dear. I am not the man."
Her rage was over-boiling, she wanted to hit him. She had never felt the need to smack anyone, hurt anyone physically in her life, but with him, it was a horrible need, a horrible kind of feeling. She wanted him to feel pain.
"You are denying sleeping with me?" she yelled at him. He was satisfied, he was finally getting to her, he could see the tears that rolled down her cheeks.
"I'd never deny such a thing," he leered at her. "Yet you can't remember." He gave her that smirk, that infuriating smirk.
She was so bewildered, standing there, trying to understand him, seeing his pale eyes in the dark, the only thing that was bright around them, save the amber-coloured lighting coming from the streetlamps. She raised her hand to slap him as hard as she could, making sure it would be a slap he'd never forget. But he seemed to expect it and caught her wrist almost immediately. He held it in an iron grip and pulled her close to him. She was unable to bear his touch and tried to wriggle away from him, but if she did, it would be easy for him to snap the bones in her wrist.
"I'll give you a run for your money if you want to spar with me, Grace. I know just how much you dislike my touch, how you resent my behaviour," he seethes at her. She was shocked; she thought he would be sarky with her, try and make her feel worthless while he still kept that sneer on his face. "How you go sneaking behind my back. I know what you've been doing. You presume me to be ignorant. Sneaking into my office. I can sense your mere presence. How you change my bandages, fawning sympathy or concern, but really you're poking your nose into business that does not concern you."
She gave him a long stare, as he glanced back at her. He seemed gratified by something, despite the cool, anger in his eyes. It was calculating. She swallowed a large lump in her throat. It was her turn to smirk at him.
"Oh, go drink your ego-driven feast, you self-absorbed, insufferable miserable twat! Only a man with a weak constitution and something to compensate for would accuse me of such ridiculous delusions. How could I, be delusional? I have no history of mental illness!"
He wasn't letting go of her, the more she came back with an answer to him. He didn't like people standing up to him; she reckoned rarely anyone did so. She was almost proud of herself. Then he leant back, satisfied, and let go of her sore wrist. He had been angered, badly, for a brief moment, but now he had no interest in intimidating her any more than he had done so. Her words and her manner had angered him so far, he was tempted to release his toxin into her, his new first batch.
It had become that intense. Usually it would get so far he'd just want to bash her head in, or twist her self-esteem into a whimpering pile. He wanted her to be the first one to experience his first batch. His mind tells him to be patient, something he simultaneously was very good and very poor at. Be patient, Johnny, be patient…
She turned on her heel, not wanting to look at him for a moment longer. She almost gave him a chance, she almost longed for him…How she might have considered, for a mere fraction of a second, that she had an odd kind of feeling for him….How utterly ridiculous she was! How stupid to think he would be trustworthy. She had to move out; she didn't want to spend her degree with him. She wanted a new start, right at the beginning, but it had all fallen down from there. She wasn't how much more she could take of him. She needed reality back in her life again; she needed her studies, her lecturers, the bumbling of the campus, her father's moods, her mother's jabbering and Lisa's good humour.
His words got to her, began to sneak their way under her skin. She kept walking, trying to be rational, trying to get her mind together.