CHARLES WINSTON RISES like a corpse from an open grave, shuffles across the room and disables the alarm clock. He knows what time it is, but he looks anyway — 05:45 — and sits down on the end of the bed. The downstairs light is on and provides a dim glow to the dark room. With difficulty, Charles puts on his socks. He has a gut like a watermelon and joints like tightropes. His fifty-three-year-old body is rotten to the core. But with his broad shoulders, barrel chest and thick biceps, he still projects the illusion of a bull.
He steps into his ironed trousers, careful to respect the crease; buttons his shirt to the collar; puts on his navy-blue V-neck jumper; then sits back down on the bed and with more difficulty ties the laces of his polished shoes. He turns on the light and checks himself in the dresser mirror. His face is puffy, like he’s just pulled his head out of a thriving beehive. His stubble is grey and prickly, but the hair on his head has remained stubbornly black. He fingers a touch of Vaseline into it and parts it on the left. Then he switches off the light and goes downstairs.
Jacqui Winston is standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway at the bottom, applying mascara to her eyelashes. Her nose is touching the glass. She is dressed in her work uniform and a new pair of black leather boots. Charles watches his wife from the bottom step, breathing slowly yet heavily through his nose. His wife shows him zero acknowledgement.
Charles steps forward, so that the tips of his toes are touching the side of his wife’s foot. His wife rolls her eyes and lets out a sigh.
“What do you want, Charles?” she says, refusing to look at him or his reflection.
“What do I want?” Charles says calmly, despite the rage bubbling inside him. “What do I want? You fucking slut.”
“I beg your pardon!” Jacqui snaps.
“You heard,” Charles says, still in calm voice. “You must think I was born yesterday. That what you do after he’s done fucking you, is it? Lie in his arms and laugh at my expense.”
Jacqui laughs mockingly. “What are you talking about now, you silly little man?” She squints in the mirror, applying the finishing touches of mascara.
“The thing that’s killing me,” Charles says slowly, “is not that you’re a whore. I’ve always known that. But that you lie to my face, like I’ve got the word CUNT stamped on my forehead in capital letters, even while you watch me slowly dying under your nose.”
Jacqui Winston screws the lid on the mascara and zips up her make-up bag. She knocks loudly on the closed bedroom door behind her, and walks down the hallway, shouting, “Get up, Dean! You’ll be late for your paper round!”
Charles follows his wife down the narrow hallway, muttering in her ear.
“I’ll slit his throat. Kill the pair of you. How can you do this to me, you bitch. That’s right, I know all about it. You’re not as clever as you think you are. In fact you’re stupid.”
“You need help!” Jacqui says, tapping her temple with a finger. “You ain’t all there!”
Charles pushes through the toilet door on the left, drops to his knees and heaves up the same concoction of bile, acid and blood that splashes from his gut into the bowl every morning. Straining the muscles in his abdomen, chest, neck. Making his neck and face red and bringing tears to his bloodshot eyes.
Once it’s all out, he pulls himself up with the help of the wall, wipes his mouth with toilet paper, brushes the knees of his trousers, and hears his son’s bike being wheeled out the front door and the front door closing. The inside of his mouth tastes sour. He leaves the toilet without flushing and locates his wife standing in the kitchen, drinking tea.
“So are you going to tell me who he is or just keep lying to me?”
Jacqui rinses her mug, puts it on the draining board, turns and faces her husband.
“Tell you who who is? There is no one! You’re a crazy old pisshead! Can’t you see it! You’ve lost your mind and you need help! We can’t go on like this!”
Charles stands in the doorframe. When Jacqui attempts to push past him, Charles puts his hand round his wife’s neck and pushes her backwards. Jacqui looks up at her husband with excited eyes. Charles notices the corners of her mouth twitching.
“Get out of the way, you stupid arse!” Jacqui says. “I’ve got things to do and you’ll miss your train.”
“Not until you tell me who the cunt is that you’re up at dawn putting make-up on for! The cunt you’re wearing those boots for! The cunt you’re wearing that perfume for! The cunt you didn’t want me to meet at your work Christmas party, that’s why you didn’t invite me!” Charles’s eyes are bulging. Spit flies from his mouth. “Who’s it for? Cos it ain’t for fucking me, is it!”
“Did you ever think,” Jacqui says serenely, “that it might be for me? That a woman might want to feel attractive for herself. Why should it be for a man? When was the last time you made me feel attractive or even loved? Now get out of the way, you ridiculous man!”
“Me make you feel attracted or loved!” Charles’s eyes fill with water. “When was the last time you touched me? Hugged me? Kissed me? Asked about my day? We sleep in separate beds! We don’t go out! You don’t invite me to parties! You don’t love me, admit it!”
“How can I invite you anywhere,” Jacqui says, “when all you do is get pissed and end up either picking a fight or doing something to humiliate me. You’re an alcoholic! I told you after what you did at your cousin’s birthday party that was the last time I was ever going anywhere with you! I still haven’t lived that down!”
“Oh, I see,” Charles says, “I’m an alcoholic…” He pauses for effect. Then says, “How many alcoholics do you know who get up at quarter to six every morning and go to work, never a day off sick, never late? Cos it don’t sound like any alcoholic I ever knew.”
He steps into the living room, takes his flask out of his work bag, fills it with vodka from the bottle under the kitchen sink, puts it in his bag, slings the bag over his shoulder and steps into the cold, damp morning air, and walks briskly down the hill to not miss the train.
Apologies for the abusive language in the dialogue. That's how that character speaks.
For a continuation of this piece, check out Paperboy:
Jesus, that’s dark! And yet not too dark to be implausible: anyone who’s been married a while will recognize the shocking levels of enmity that can take hold in a relationship if you’re not careful.
Grim. But propulsive, as ever.