SIX

Music.

6 p.m.

Pulsing out windows and Mary stands solid, listening.

She’s at the end of the garden, notes wind down the garden path

– soft at first, then louder, louder until –

I hear a bass line

throbbing

POUND

into my ear

and it’s driving

warring drums.

Charley’s voice, inside, her voice is tone-deaf.

Scratching into my ear.

Mary approaches the front door, swings it open, steps inside and Charley emerges from the next room, pushing up to me, with a face contorted: sadder than I’ve ever seen it, happier than I’ve ever seen it.

She comes to hug me, launches herself onto me, she smells moist – like her tears are damp, rising.

And I stay stiff, let her hug it out, her breath over me, closing in on my ear, snuggling in, and her singing stops.

It’s replaced by a soft voice – wobbling.

I’m sorry, M.

I’m sorry.

She says it like she knows what she’s apologising for.

And she hasn’t bothered to ask if I’m alright – I’ve gone out in the middle of a storm and she’s forgotten to ask if I’m alright.

I’m sorry, M.

Drips out her mouth.

I’ve been a miserable shit…

We’re all miserable shits, Charley, that’s the way it is, and if you think you’ve got to apologise for it, you’ve missed the point.

I don’t say that.

I smile at her, meek, I think it’s passive-aggressive – but apparently it’s smiley enough that Charley sees acceptance.

And she grabs my hands, lifts them up, gets me to dance.

She did this at our wedding.

She always misjudges.

I think, for a moment, she’s genuinely happy.

But I’m bitter, I’m boiling – my coat’s still on, the heating’s full blast and in my right pocket: the foot, weighing me down, heavy as a fucking really heavy brick.

It’s a black hole, sucking everything in.

I’m leaning off to the right, the foot’s dragging me to the floor, and Charley thinks I’m just trying to get out of dancing, so she goes

NO NO NO NO NO –

Up I come,

back to the dance,

and I’m trying to wriggle out from her grip, it’s hot, the coat is

hot and heavy, and Charley sees me sweating, sees me

uncomfortable, sees me leaning, blithering, so she does the one

thing she thinks will help.

And I see it coming – a flash in her eyes, a twinge in her body,

she grinds up on me.

She always misjudges.

Charley pulls Mary close to her, slobbers into Mary’s ear.

There are so many ways to fold you up round my tongue –

I wanna go through them all.

The music cuts.

And I feel sick.

–

I tell her I need to get changed first.

Then, head down, into the kitchen, right hand in my right pocket, fiddling.

Charley hasn’t turned off the stereo.

THUMP

after

THUMP

continues, and I’m in front of the freezer, figuring that it’s

probably better to freeze this foot than let it rot in my pocket.

There’s a bag of carrots, some chips, ice cream, more chips, and an old veggie lasagne – except we gave up rabbit food a decade ago.

And then, behind that, some peas.

My hand’s still in my pocket, fiddling with the bag – and inside that bag, that lump, of squidgy fat bones.

Mary pulls it out her pocket.

Mary opens up the bag, peers inside.

It’s almost fluorescent, I see a halo around it.

I let the freezer air spike my face.

One track comes to an end in the other room – I’m bracing myself for what comes next.

–

I’m thrown off, turn back to see what’s going on, the bag slips out my hand onto the floor, and in that moment –

M?

What are you up to?

You upstairs?

Shit.

–

Frozen.

Shit.

Uh.

Yeah?

You in the kitchen?

–

–

No.

–

Silence hangs and, quiet, I hear footsteps, Charley’s getting closer, I hear her stumble.

M?

Then my mind snaps back and I grab the bag, blue and red squiggles that make up the word Tesco, stuff it in the freezer behind the peas.

Charley’s at the kitchen door.

I slam the freezer door.

And I face away from her.

–

What are you up to, M?

Still face away from her.

M?

–

Then turn.

Big smile.

Happy face.

–

Hey.

Just –

What’s going on?

–

Charley’s question; Mary remains silent.

–

I’m just putting a child’s foot in the freezer, Charley, that’s all.

I reckon I shouldn’t say that…

I mutter something about looking for a snack.

Ice cream, I want ice cream.

Choc-chip.

And her look is opaque: so you don’t want to, you know, do stuff?

She mutters this, I think she’s disappointed, or maybe relieved we don’t have to bother fucking.

It wouldn’t have been worth it.

I just sort of twitch my head – non-committal.

I think she’s about to leave,

but she doesn’t, she takes a step forward.

She asks me where the ice cream is – if I want ice cream, why haven’t I taken it out?

I’m flicking through excuses, none of them sticking, all flushing through me.

I can’t shake the thing I want to explain to her.

Maybe I should just say it, something’s up, Charley, maybe

Miriam’s alive, there’s some massive sci-fi conspiracy down the hospital, we should team up, fucking sort it –

But I know she won’t listen, cos instead she’s great at telling me to calm down.

So I want to push all these thoughts down.

Get them out my brain, but there’s nothing else in my brain.

So I give into it.

–

Deep breath.

Let Charley know the words in my head.

–

I say it.

–

And I’m looking for a reaction.

But it’s like the sentence hasn’t even reached Charley’s ears, she just stares back at me.

Then she comes close, draws me in for a hug.

Squeeeezes.

Oh, M, M, you need sleep like nothing I’ve seen.

She’s right.

And I smile, nestle into her.

It feels safe.

–

You don’t really believe that, do you, M?

–

And tell her I don’t.

I’m tired, I’m tired and I know our child is gone, I know that, I just need sleep is all.

Sometimes my brain –

Sleep’ll straighten me out.

I smile and

I tell her that.

–

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