III
Oh I'm scared of the middle place
Between life and nowhere
I don't want to be the one
Left in there, left in there.
- Antony & The Johnsons "Hope There's Someone"
………………………………………………………………………………
Ryan padded from the bathroom, cradling the bowl and towel. Kirsten was still there and he paused, his heart hammering. Was it relief he felt, that she hadn't fled, or regret?
She lay curled upon the bed where he'd placed her, a foetal reminder of his savagery. Her ruined gown had become a shroud, draping her stiff, still form and he mourned his senseless killing of trust. Placing the bowl on the nightstand, he lowered himself onto the bed and tentatively touched her thigh. She flinched. Damn. He guessed he deserved that, but it made it no easier to bear.
'Kirsten? I … you … I need to take off your gown,' he stammered, trying not to sound like a complete monster.
She made no answer and, sighing, he reached down and lifted her into a sitting position, sliding the robe from her shoulders and shucking up the gown. Like an automaton, she lifted her arms up and he peeled the silk from her body, tossing it aside. Then, ever so gently, he lowered her again so that she lay exposed to his gaze. Again, there was no sign of untoward modesty, no protestations. Her arms lay limply by her side and she stared at the ceiling, much as he had done earlier. Maybe now was a good time to talk paint colours? He shook his head. Enough with the jokes, asshole.
Dipping a corner of the towel into the bowl of soapy water, he began to clean her face, wiping away every vestige of his blood and sweat. Her ear lobe throbbed red where he had bitten it, and he'd punctured her lower lip, so that her blood mingled with his. Tenderly, he held the wet cloth to it, as if to miraculously heal the broken skin. She made no sound, no movement. The room was clammy and stank of sweat and sour sex, yet her skin was as ice. Except for the pulse in her neck and her open eyes, dark with some unfathomable emotion, she might have been dead. He dipped the towel again, this time sponging her neck, her shoulders and, almost hesitantly, her breasts. And so it went. Dip. Squeeze. Sponge. Dip. Squeeze. Sponge. The water dirtied to a sickly pink, blushing with guilt. Keeping his expression shuttered, he parted her legs and washed between them, removing the evidence of their coupling.
He hadn't used a condom. Who thought of condoms when possessed by rage? Who could stop and fiddle with fucking foil wrappers when seized by an urge so basic it was positively primeval? Did animals bother with condoms? That's what he was. A fucking animal. He stifled a sob. Shit! He hadn't used a condom!
Rolling her onto her side, he recoiled in horror. Her hips were already discolouring where his hands had gripped her and he could clearly see where his teeth had grazed her shoulder and spine in his frenzy to possess her. Ryan swallowed the acrid bile that threatened to choke him. With trembling hands he resumed his ministrations, wishing with each stroke of the towel that he could undo what he had done. The water was beyond pink now. It steamed red, not bright, but dark; the colour of death.
Quietly, he finished purging her of his filth. Quietly, he pulled the sheet up over her body, as though the thin cotton might shield her from further harm. Quietly, he picked up the bowl and moved away.
…………………………………………………………………………..
Kirsten watched the man-who-was-not-a-man slouch against the open door, his profile bowed under the weight of invisible demons. She hated that he was smoking. She could hear every exhalation; smell the staleness of every breath. She saw the muscles bunch in his arm each time he lifted his hand to his mouth, watched his chest expand as he drew the smoke into his body. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and she could see, faintly, the fuzz of hair that curled above the waistband, a shadowy mist against the house lights.
He flicked the butt out into the garden, uncaring, and its bright arc was as a shooting star, brilliant, brief, intangible; a thing to be wished upon. Except wishes never come true, she thought sadly. And if they did, their imagined fantasy never played out as it should. Wishes were for children, but there were no children here.
He turned then and walked across the room. She was not afraid of him, only of herself, of what she had revealed in those moments of surrender. And when he had bathed her, his large hands that had earlier been so cruel, had become gentle, and she had not trusted herself to speak or even look at him, lest she betray herself further.
She could see the thin scratches upon his chest, where her nails had raked him. They had already crusted and she was pleased that she had scarred him, that he might bear the memory of her upon his body. He had clumsily bandaged his hands, but hadn't washed himself and she could smell him, could smell the salty stench of their misdeeds that he wore like tarnished armour; it was as though he knew that no amount of scrubbing might remove his transgression. He was gilded with guilt.
Silently, she watched as he pulled his trademark wife-beater over his head. Wife-beater. What a terrible word, Kirsten thought suddenly, its implications making her shudder. It might have been appropriate, except that she wasn't his wife and he hadn't beaten her. No, he hadn't done that.
The bed jarred as he slung a carry-all onto the mattress. She hoped this meant he would leave soon, abandon his outdated sense of honour and slink away to relative safety. But she knew her hopes, like her wishes, would not be granted. Any one else might have run, but this one was different. Hadn't she always known that?
Through half-closed eyes she watched him gather his meager belongings, unhurried but purposeful. The shadows cast upon his face, and in his eyes, lent him the air of one that is doomed.
This boy-who-was-not-a-boy was already in exile.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Ryan knew she was watching him. He had felt her eyes follow him around the room, had felt them settle upon his skin, chilling him. He pushed the last of his belongings into the carry-all and zipped it up. Three years in Newport and he was taking no more than he'd brought. He hoisted the bag and dropped it at the door where it lay across the threshold, dark and misshapen; Cerberus guarding the gates of hell.
He turned and wandered back to the bed. Kirsten blinked her eyes, clearly exhausted but struggling to stay alert. She hugged the sheet to her and her tousled hair fanned across his pillow. Ryan bent over the nightstand and opened the drawer, pulling out two strips of leather and he felt her gaze upon him as he tightened the chocker around his neck and strapped the thicker band around his wrist. It was stupid, but he felt whole again. He glanced at Kirsten and knew she understood.
Grasping the neck of the whisky bottle, Ryan paused before splashing its contents into an empty tumbler. She watched him warily. He held it out to her.
'Drink it,' he urged.
She shook her head, feigning outrage. 'I don't drink anymore.'
'C'mon, Kirsten, I know you drink on the quiet,' he said. She glanced at him sharply, but there was no accusation in his eyes, only sadness. Sighing, he thrust the glass at her. 'Just drink it, okay? It'll help you sleep.'
Lifting herself onto one elbow, she took the glass, a little too eagerly. Her fingers brushed his and when she held the tumbler to her mouth, her hand was shaking. The liquid burned her throat. She coughed and gave it back to him.
He shook his head. 'All of it.'
Too quickly, she drained the tumbler and only then did he take it back. She should leave, she thought suddenly. Return to the house, to solitude, to safety. But her limbs ignored her, as if they already knew what her brain was denying: that in this room she had absolute sanctuary. She sank back onto the mattress and Ryan switched off the lamp. In the darkness, she saw him walk to the chair and settle in it, black against a backdrop of shadows. The alcohol slowly warmed her and as her eyes reluctantly closed on his lonely vigil she was reminded of a condemned prisoner awaiting execution.
Her dreams were filled with tears.
……………………………………………………………………………...
Ryan watched her sleep.
There were so many things he wanted to say but probably never would. She had stayed, at least, and it was relief that he felt, he was sure of that now. Light from the main house filtered through the doors and he could see her easily from his shadowed corner. More than twice his age, yet her pale and fragile beauty gave the illusion of one much younger. Apart from the occasional murmur and a fitful toss of her head, she slept quietly, with the same grace accorded her during daylight hours. She was dreaming and he wondered impassively if she dreamed of him.
He considered the woman who lay before him, this woman who for three years had controlled his life. Oh sure, it was Sandy who'd brought him here, but it was Kirsten who'd subsequently banished him. Later, after his retrieval from prison, it was she who'd acquiesced and allowed him to stay. She had manipulated his quasi-acceptance by the Newport crowd; she had pushed for his entry into Harbour; she had masterminded whom he saw and, when it didn't suit her, whom he didn't. She had accused him, she had exonerated him and she had loved him. Kirsten was the power behind the throne and Sandy, with his crooked grin and his crown askew, had little inkling that his role had been usurped.
Sandy. Oh God! Ryan's breath caught and he squeezed his eyes tight, trying to block out the older man's affable visage. All that trust; obliterated in a moment's frenzy. All that love; gone. And Seth? How was he going to explain to his friend that his act had been one of exigency, not retribution? It had, right? His fucking Kirsten hadn't been planned. He hadn't known it would happen, right? Except … except … he had. He'd known it a week ago, when he'd seen her in that damned towel. He'd known then that every wrong could be made right, every hurt healed, if he could only get inside her. Pre-meditative. That was the word, wasn't it? A single word that separated the unlucky from the unhinged.
If he was honest – and if any moment called for honesty, it was now – he wasn't sorry for what he'd done. Only for how he'd done it. He was not given to self-pity, or untoward blame. He'd always faced very adversary head-on, taken every blow on the chin. He would face this too. He would clean up this fucking mess and then he would leave. For good.
He watched as Kirsten moaned in her sleep, her legs thrashing the sheets. But if he felt no pity for himself, he wondered, then why, oh why, did he pity her?
………………………………………………………………………………
Kirsten scrubbed and scrubbed. Her hands were raw, but no matter how hard she rubbed the silk, the blood wouldn't shift. If anything, the stains grew brighter, scarlet. Someone coughed, and she looked up then to find herself in a large, brightly-lit room. A sea of faces stared at her and she realized she was naked but when she tried to pull the gown from the water to cover herself, it wouldn't budge. She stood utterly exposed.
'Kirsten Cohen,' a voice above her rumbled. She looked up and saw her father wearing a white curly wig and wielding an enormous gavel. The centre of his chest was torn open. And where his heart should have been there was nothing.
'Dad?' Kirsten whispered.
His head swiveled in her direction and he frowned. 'Kirsten Cohen,' he repeated. 'You stand before this court accused of a most heinous crime. How do you plead?'
'Dad, it's me, Kirsten-'
'Quiet!' Caleb thundered and brought the gavel down upon the bench. The room shook.
'Oh, she's guilty Your Honour.'
Kirsten turned to see Sandy striding across the room, his upper lip frothed with cream cheese and bagel crumbs littering his shirt front. He was wearing a bow-tie and glasses and flicking a giant cigar. He looked like Groucho Marx in drag.
'Oh, Sandy,' Kirsten sighed with relief. 'Thank God you're here.'
He flicked his cigar at her and waggled his eyebrows. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, I present … Exhibit A!'
He seized the gown and, without effort, pulled it dripping from the bowl. The water had turned dark amber and Kirsten realized it was whisky. She was suddenly thirsty.
'Is this not the gown I gave you last year?' Sandy demanded, holding it up for the court to see. 'And is this not the same gown you were wearing when you had sex with the victim? Is this not his blood that you have been trying to wash off? Know what I mean? Know what I mean?' Flick. Flick.
The crowd leaned closer, leering. She could hear them hissing:
I knew it!
Kirsten Cohen's nothing but a whore!
Leading that poor boy on …
What a waste of a young life …
If you ask me, he had it coming. Kirsten recognized that voice and looked across to see Julie buffing her nails and clearly bored.
Dawn stepped forward and waggled a fat finger at Kirsten. 'You promised you'd take care of him!'
Theresa, clutching a tow-haired baby to her breast, gazed at her sadly. 'He's gone, thanks to you. We'll never get him back now …'
Other faces swam in the crowd: Marissa, Seth, Jimmy, Lindsay …
'Sandy?' Kirsten clutched at her husband but he shook her off.
'Call your first witness,' Caleb ordered.
Carter materialized before the bench.
'Did you have an affair with the accused?' Sandy asked. Flick. Waggle.
Carter shook his head regretfully. The crowd sighed with disappointment. 'But I wanted to,' he added brightly and the crowd cheered.
'And did the accused also want to have an affair?' Sandy probed. Waggle. Flick.
Kirsten shook her head.
'Absolutely!' Carter affirmed, puffing out his chest. The crowd went wild.
'Thank you. Thank you. Next witness!' Sandy shouted. Carter vanished and Jimmy appeared, dressed in a sailor suit and sporting a beard. He leaned upon a golfing iron.
Sandy clapped Jimmy on the back. 'How's the golf? … Got that handicap down yet? … know what I mean?' Flick. Waggle. Flick.
'Can we get on with this?' Caleb snapped. 'I'm late for a lunch meeting with a very important client.'
'Yes, of course, Your Honour,' Sandy said and turned to Jimmy. 'Now, take your time and in your own words, please tell the court what transpired in your apartment two years ago.'
'You mean when we kissed?' Jimmy asked. The court booed and hissed.
'You kissed her?' Sandy shot a how-could-you glance at his wife. Jimmy nodded eagerly.
'And she kissed you back?' Jimmy nodded again, his head bobbing up and down so fast Kirsten feared it would fall off..
'He's lying!' Kirsten cried. 'This is all a terrible misunderstanding!'
'Silence!' Caleb thumped the bench again. 'I will have order in my court!'
'Bring in the victim,' Sandy ordered with theatrical aplomb. 'Your Honour, I present Exhibit B!'
The huge double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open and the crowd parted before a floating open coffin. Kirsten was higher now, above the crowd and she could see Ryan, his eyes closed, his skin grey and flaccid. The sweatpants and wife-beater were gone and he was clad in nothing but a towel - her towel. The scratches she had left upon his chest had festered and split and maggots were crawling in them, eating him from within. The crowd hushed reverently.
Jimmy elbowed Carter and whispered, 'Poor bastard. That could have been one of us, you know.'
'What are the coroner's findings?' Caleb asked impatiently.
The crowd surged forward, everyone an expert.
'He died of neglect!' Marissa cried.
'He died of loneliness,' wept Dawn.
'Frustration,' Seth pronounced.
'A broken heart,' Lindsay replied.
'Stupidity,' said Julie.
'Hey, he died a fucking hero!' Trey accused.
Nooooo! screamed Kirsten. Ryan's not dead! He's not dead! He's not dead! But no words came out. She was balanced on a precipice, overlooking the courtroom. And it was cold. So cold.
Caleb yawned. 'What say you, the jury? And for God's sake, make it snappy.'
The crowd suddenly materialized behind her and shouted as one, 'Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!'
They moved towards her, prodding her with accusations and bony fingers. Kirsten backed desperately away from their wrath, until she could go no further. With a cry she slipped over the edge and was falling, falling, falling down to the lonely coffin below. And as Kirsten tumbled towards it, Ryan opened sightless eyes, grinning cadaverously as his arms spread to receive her.
She screamed.
………………………………………………………………………………
She was settling now. Her first screams had chilled him, but gradually they'd subsided. She hadn't woken, at least not fully, and Ryan had held her close, cradling her against his body, until she slipped back from the threshold. She still trembled and he could feel her heart racing. Must have been some nightmare, and he wondered briefly if he was to blame for that too. Probably. He soothed her, stroking her hair until even her moans ceased.
He bent and kissed her forehead. Once. Twice. She was in that place between sleep and wakefulness and he rocked her gently so that she might drift away again. He inched down the bed and pulled her into him. Then, closing his eyes he drifted with her feeling, for the first time, some semblance of peace.
tbc