Guthrie Allan

Call Me, I'm Dying

Allan Guthrie

Call Me, I'm Dying

7:15 p.m.

Every year on the fifth of June we pretend we’re married. This year is no different.

I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.

“I’ll get the soup,” he says, getting to his feet.

Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.

I don’t know, I’m guessing. I don’t cook. I don’t want to cook. I’m not paid to cook.

James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.

Doesn’t bother me.

I’m easy, so they say.

The food is a bonus.

Makes the sex easier.

* * * *

7:16 p.m.

“You need a hand?” I ask him, knowing how he’ll reply.

I’m dandy.

Sure enough. From the kitchen: “I’m dandy.”

He’s not that.

Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and he’s wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.

Could have made an effort.

We’ll shower later.

I always insist on that.

* * * *

7:17 p.m.

He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, I’d ladle it out in the kitchen.

It’s not me.

If it was me, I’d have passed on the appetizer, gone straight for the main course. Takeaway pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.

Each to his own, okay?

He places the pot on the table, takes off the oven gloves, removes the lid with a dramatic gesture and says, “Voila! French onion.”

Now there’s a surprise.

“Smells good,” I say. And I shouldn’t be harsh on him. It does smell good.

* * * *

7:18 p.m.

“There we are,” he says. “Shall we say Grace?”

I nod.

Then he hits me with thisyou orme thing, where he’s just being polite ‘cause we both know it’s not going to be me. I grew up with it, and look how I’ve turned out.

“On you go,” I say.

He nods, clears his throat, closes his eyes, adopts a tone somewhere between respectful and agonized. “For what we are about to receive,” he says, “may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

That’s it. Good.

I blink. Pretending I’ve had my eyes closed too.

He’s not fooled, but he joins in the game anyway.

It’s all a game.

I always win.

I don’t think he understands the rules. I’d ask him but I can’t be bothered. I just want to get this over with.

I have things I’d rather be doing.

I’m liable to yawn and I don’t want to upset him.

* * * *

7:19 p.m.

“Nice?” he asks.

I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Lovely.”

“The key is to use plenty of butter.”

That’s it.

I lower the spoon, let it rest in the bowl. I’m not taking another sip. Butter. Plenty of it.

Is he trying to kill me?

I smile.

He smiles back. His hand edges across towards me

“You don’t mind?” he says.

Intimacy. Yes, I do mind. But I let him hold my hand anyway.

* * * *

7:20 p.m.

“Your soup’s getting cold,” he says.

Fine by me.

“Not having any more?”

“Saving myself for the main course,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says, disappointed but understanding.

Makes me want to smack a frying pan off his jaw.

At least he’s let go of my hand.

I get a flash of him panting. In my ear. Sticky breath, getting faster and faster. I’m moaning, telling him he’s the best, oh, yeah, the fucking best.

He likes it when I swear.

He comes and then he cries.

Wets my hair.

Every time.

Every year.

After dessert.

* * * *

7:21 p.m.

He’s talking. He’s bought a boat. Not a fancy yacht, oh no. He laughs. Tells me about his boat.

I nod and smile, tuned out, wondering what I’m missing on TV.

White noise, his voice.

I smile from the heart, ‘cause that rhymes.

Get a smile back, bless him.

I wonder if he’ll be hard or if I’m going to have to play with him first.

* * * *

7:22 p.m.

So excited babbling about his new boat, he spills soup on himself.

I grab a napkin, dab at his chin.

He likes that.

I wonder what precedent I’ve just set.

He excuses himself, says he has to change his shirt.

At least he doesn’t ask me to do it for him.

I offer to clear the plates away.

He won’t let me.

Always the gentleman.

* * * *

7:25 p.m.

Back again wearing an almost identical shirt.

Took him long enough.

I heard the toilet flush, though. All that soup. Runs right through you.

Voila!

Must be the onions.

“You had enough?” he asks.

“Plenty,” I say, only just managing to keep my hand from patting my stomach. A false gesture if ever there was one and I’m a better actress than that.

“Sure you don’t want a hand?” I ask as he starts clearing away the plates.

“Just stay where you are,” he says. “Keep looking beautiful.”

* * * *

7:27 p.m.

Still smarting from that comment.

Beautiful.

Bastard.

* * * *

7:28 p.m.

The casserole dish is on the table, steaming.

Beef stew. Yep, same as last year.

Predictable, is our James the Sarcastic.

Smells good, though. I’m going to have to eat.

I don’t want to. I want to punish him.

He might like that.

“Shall I be mother?” he says.

We know he’s going to be mother. I don’t know why he asks. “Yeah,” I say. It’s a role that suits him.

He slops some of the stew onto my plate. “More?” he says.

I nod. I hate myself.

* * * *

7:29 p.m.

The beefs tender, melting into soft strings in my mouth. The sauce is sharp, peppery.

I swallow. Lick my teeth.

“Good, darling?”

Darling.

Have to play along. “Yes,dear,” I say.

He puts his hand on mine again.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he says.

“Lovely,” I tell him. Fuckwit.

* * * *

7:30 p.m.

The phone rings. It’s persistent.

He doesn’t move.

“Answer it,” I say.

“Not tonight,” he says. “This is a special night. We don’t want any interruptions.”

So maybe you should have turned off the ringer.

“It’s annoying,” I say. And it is. Least he could have done was set up his answer machine to take it. At home, four rings is all you get. If I don’t pick up by then, you’re on to the machine.

Still ringing.

“You don’t have an answerphone?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“So how come it hasn’t kicked in?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Takes a while.”

I lay down my knife and fork. “Go sort it,” I say. “Turn it off.”

He looks sheepish as he gets out of his seat. “May as well answer it, then,” he says.

Course, by the time he gets there, it’ll have stopped. I’d bet on it.

The phone’s at the other end of the room. Amazingly it’s still ringing when he picks it up.

“Hello,” he says. Then gives his number.

Doesn’t say anything else.

Just listens.

Then puts the phone down gently, like it’s hurting.

* * * *

7:31 p.m.

“Wrong number?” I ask.

He shakes his head, still standing there, hand on the receiver, receiver in its cradle.

“Not much of a conversationalist, then?” I say. “What did they say?”

He makes his way back to the table, silent.

“Well?” I say.

“You won’t believe me,” he says. He looks bemused, like a stranger just hit him with a fish.

“You’d be surprised,” I tell him.

“It was a man,” he says. “I didn’t recognize his voice.”

He stops. Bites his bottom lip.

“I don’t have all night,” I say. More to the point,he doesn’t have all night. He isn’t paying for that. Just till midnight.

“He said my name.” He looks at me. Looks away.

“And?” I make a circular motion with my fingers to try to speed him up.

“He told me I had thirty minutes to live.”

* * * *

7:32 p.m.

That’s weird, I have to admit.

“Why would anyone say that to you?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer, just sits at the table staring into his plate. He picks up his fork, holds it for a second, drops it. It clatters against the plate.

“Maybe it was a wrong number,” I say.

He says, “He said my name.”

“Maybe it was another James Twist,” I say.

He doesn’t bother to answer. We both know that’s unlikely.

“It’s a joke, then,” I say.

That piques his interest. “You think?”

“Sure,” I say. “A friend, a colleague.”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

I spread my fingers, palms up.Why?

“I don’t have any friends,” he says. “And I haven’t worked in ten years.”

* * * *

7:33 p.m.

Well, well.

“You’re not an architect?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“Were you ever an architect?”

He shakes his head again.

“What did you do? What was your last job?”

“Postman,” he says.

I can’t believe I’m angry at him, but I am.

“You’ve been lying to me for years,” I say.

“Sorry,” he tells me.

“How can you afford to buy a new boat?”

He doesn’t answer.

“That was a lie too?”

“Yes,” he says.

“What about this place?”

“My mum pays for it.”

“Oh,” I say. “She didn’t die when you were four?”

* * * *

7:34 p.m.

It can’t be helped, I suppose. The guy I didn’t like wasn’t the guy I thought he was.

Interesting.

“If it’s not a friend or colleague,” I say, “then maybe it’s a member of your family.”

“Just me and Mum,” he says.

“And it wasn’t her?”

“It was a man,” he says.

“What happened to your dad?”

He pulls a face.

For a second, I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. Then I realize it’s involuntary. A spasm. I’ve never seen him do that before.

He does it again, his eyes screwing up tight, lips curling.

Like he just sucked a grapefruit.

And then it’s gone.

“Your dad?” I remind him.

“He’s dead,” he says. Looks at me. “Honest.”

“I’m sorry.” I reach over and place my hand on his.

* * * *

7:35 p.m.

He moves his hand so it’s on top of mine. He squeezes.

We stare at our hands, don’t look at each other.

Time drags past.

He strokes my hand. Over and over and over again.

I’m intrigued by the phone call. And by what I’m finding out about James.

“Your mum have a boyfriend, maybe?” I say, at last.

He tears his hand away from mine, swipes his plate onto the floor.

Don’t fucking hit me. Don’t you fucking dare.

He doesn’t, although he looks at me like he wants to.

* * * *

7:38 p.m.

He picks up shards of broken plate, lays the pieces on the table.

“I don’t know why—” he says.

“I should leave.”

“Please don’t,” he says. He sits, wipes his fingers on his napkin. “That call, it’s thrown me.”

I shrug. “Not surprising,” I say.

“I’d like you to stay,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“All right,” I tell him. “But don’t get violent.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do,” I say, “I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

He grins. Doesn’t believe me.

He’s never been aggressive before. I try to avoid men who are. But I’ve learned to deal with them just in case.

I can look after myself.

I teach self-defense classes when I’m not working.

I’m not scared of James.

* * * *

7:39 p.m.

“We should clear up that mess,” I say. “The carpet’s a state.”

“Just leave it,” he says.

“It’ll stink.”

“That’s okay.”

“It’ll stain.”

He’s quiet.

“You don’t care if it stains?”

He shakes his head.

“Your Mum’s carpet anyway,” I say. “Her problem. That what you’re thinking?”

“No,” he says. “I have other things to think about.”

“Then let me do it,” I say.

“It’s our anniversary, Tina,” he says. “You can’t clean the floor tonight.”

I sigh. If I can’t clean the carpet, I might as well eat. “What’s for pudding?” I ask.

* * * *

7:40 p.m.

He thinks I’m joking.

I don’t push.

He already looks like he might cry and I don’t want to send him over the edge.

“Why did you stop working?” I ask him.

He looks at me, eyes dark and uncomprehending.

“You said you used to be a postman.”

He nods. That’s it, though,

I have to help him.

“Were you a postman for long?”

He plays with his fork again.

I anticipate another clatter.

“Five years,” he says.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what happened?”

“They let me go.”

Another topic I shouldn’t have introduced. I’m on a roll.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

“Me too,” he says.

And as I’m watching, he slams the fork into his hand.

Screams.

I scream too.

He wrenches the fork back out.

Blood’s leaking out of the four holes he’s made, running together, tracking down the back of his wrist.

“What the fuck?” I say. “What the fuck are you doing?”

His mouth’s open and he’s panting.

“He’s after me,” he says. “Don’t look at me like that. He is.”

“That’s maybe so, James,” I say. “But put the fork down and let’s see what you’ve done to your hand.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I feel better.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“It does,” he says. “But it takes a little pain to let the evil out.”

* * * *

7:42 p.m.

Holy shit.

I’m torn between legging it out of here and making sure James is okay. He needs to go to the hospital. Leave him here on his own and God knows what he’ll do to himself.

Between last year and now, he’s turned into a headcase.

Presumably there was nobody on the phone. He made all that up about somebody telling him he only had thirty minutes to live.

This guy who was after him was a figment of James’s fucked-up brain.

But the phone had rung. Someone had called.

I get to my feet.

* * * *

7:43 p.m.

“Where are you going?” he says. “Don’t leave me.”

He’s cradling his hand now.

“I’m going to check something out,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk over to the phone. Punch in the code to find out who just called.

And hear: You were called today at 7:30 p.m. The caller withheld their number.

So much for that theory.

* * * *

7:44 p.m.

“Let me take you to get your hand fixed,” I say.

“No.” He shakes his head hard.

“Then let me look at it.”

He thinks about it. Then relaxes. Holds his hand out to me.

It’s a bloody mess. The puncture wounds have coagulated, though. The blood’s stopped flowing.

Not that deep.

Good.

He’ll be okay.

“You got a first-aid kit?” I ask him.

“No,” he says.

“Antiseptic wipes? Plasters?”

He looks vague.

“A clean cloth? Water?”

He grins. “Of course.”

* * * *

7:46 p.m.

So I’ve got the stuff and I’m cleaning his hand.

He winces like I’m scraping my nails on his heart.

“How come you had to do that?” I ask him.

For a moment he forgets to act pained. “Huh?” he says.

“Stabbing yourself. Seems. extreme.”

He shrugs.

“You do that often?” I’ve never noticed any scars.

“My feet,” he says. “The soles of my feet.”

Ow.

“To let the evil out?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he says.

Thing is, I do.

I do.

Me and razor blades, we go way back. Not that I’m going to tell James, though. None of his business.

He’s my business, not the other way round.

I opt for, “You’d be surprised.”

He gives me a look, winces again.

“You said he was after you,” I say, dropping the cloth in the bowl of water.

“This is going to bruise.” He flexes his fingers.

“I expect so. Who’s after you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Maybe I can help,” I tell him.

* * * *

7:47 p.m.

His words come out slow and staggered. I’ll summarize.

Started about a year ago when James began to feel he was being followed every time he walked home. Never spotted anyone, but just had the sense someone was watching him. Heard footsteps but couldn’t swear they weren’t echoes of his own.

And then he felt he was being followed whenever he left the house, too.

He started taking the car.

A vehicle always followed him. Not always the same vehicle, though. So it was sometimes hard to spot.

I wanted to ask him if he had surveillance cameras under his fingernails, and transmitters implanted in his brain.

I held my tongue.

He carried on. Told me how he was being watched all the time now. His stalker was close. Maybe watching him now. Him and me.

I say, “But if this is true, why does injuring yourself help?”

A textbook case of paranoia.

“Because of what I’ve done,” he says.

Do I want to know?

“If you tell me,” I say, “will you have to kill me afterwards?”

* * * *

7:50 p.m.

“My uncle came back,” he says.

He has an uncle?

“I thought you had no family,” I say.

He says, “He’s not really an uncle. He. went out with my mum for a while.”

“Came back from where?” I ask.

“Disappeared a long time ago,” he says. “Went off to Brazil. Never heard from him again. You assume the worst after a while.”

“So you thought he was dead?”

He nods.

“And he’s not?”

He nods again.

“And you stabbed yourself in the hand because of that?”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s a lot more complicated.”

I expected so. I look at my watch.

“Maybe you better keep it simple,” I say. “According to your uncle, you only have ten minutes to live.”

A cheap shot, I know.

So I’m a bitch. What can you expect from a whore?

* * * *

7:51 p.m.

“It wasn’t him,” James says. “I’d have recognized his voice.”

“But you do think he’s behind it?”

“Yes,” he says. “No question. He’s made my life hell since he’s been back.”

He flexes his fingers, a pained expression scrawled across his face.

“He must have hired somebody to make the call,” he says.

“And why would he do that?”

“To scare me,” he says.

“You think the threat’s serious?”

“Definitely.”

“James,” I say. “What did you do to him?”

* * * *

7:52 p.m.

He tells me.

“It’s not that bad. Not the sort of thing you’d kill somebody for.

Listen:

“I torched his car.”

See?

“His dog was in it.”

Oh.

“But I didn’t know that.”

Still.

“And he said he’d have to leave the country or he’d kill me.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because of the dog.”

“No,” I say. “Why did you torch his car?”

“Because,” he says, and swallows. “He raped my mum.”

* * * *

7:53 p.m.

There’s not much more to it.

Uncle goes out with Mum. Mum calls it off after a few weeks. Uncle returns and rapes mum. She won’t go to the police, and who can blame her, the way we’re all made to feel like it’s our fucking fault.What were you wearing? As if that makes any fucking difference. Anyway, James torches dog and car. Uncle leaves country. Uncle returns several years later. Uncle’s still angry.

But there’s no way he’s still going to be murderously angry. Not after all that time.

I say, “He’s messing with you.”

James says, “No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Cause I know him. I know what he’s capable of.”

“Well,” I say, and I can’t think of anything to add, so I say, “well,” again and leave it at that. There’s only one way to prove to James that it’s all a hoax and that’s to sit it out with him. I owe him that.

After all, he’s paying for my time.

“I like dogs,” James says. “Honest.”

“I believe you,” I say.

* * * *

7:54 p.m.

Back in the sitting room, James keeps glancing towards the door.

He’s shaking all over, poor soul.

No, I do feel sorry for him. I do.

He did something he shouldn’t have. But he did it out of love. The dog was an accident.

But when I think about it, I can’t imagine a dog not barking. They’re territorial. A stranger approaches the car, close enough to set it alight, the dog would let him know it was there.

Wouldn’t it?

James is lying.

But why?

Is he lying about the whole event? Or is he just lying about the dog?

* * * *

7:55 p.m.

“You did it deliberately, right?”

“What?”

He knows what I mean.

I stare at him till he looks away.

He doesn’t deny it.

But I have to say it: “You killed the dog.”

He says, quietly, “It was an accident.”

“So why do you cut yourself? What evil is it you’re letting out?”

He makes that face again.

“Jesus,” I say. “How long ago was this?”

“I was seventeen.”

“Then it’s about time you forgave yourself,” I tell him.

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t, Tina.”

“Well,” I say. “I don’t blame you, really.”

“You don’t?”

He starts to cry. Before long these horrible wracking sobs are jerking his shoulders up and down.

I put my arms round him, let him rest his head against my neck. His tears drip onto my neck, but what the fuck. I’m used to that.

“Thank you,” he squeezes out between sobs.

“Shhh,” I say, like he’s a baby.

* * * *

7:56 p.m.

He stops as suddenly as he started.

“How long?” he asks, wiping his eyes.

I tell him.

“I have to lock the door,” he says.

He jumps to his feet, runs through to the hall where I can’t see him any longer.

I hear him scrabbling about.

Then I don’t hear anything.

For a while.

For too long.

I get worried.

* * * *

7:58 p.m.

There’s no sign of him anywhere.

He’s not in the hall.

Not in any of the bedrooms.

Not in the bathroom.

He’s gone.

Did he leave of his own accord?

If so, why didn’t he tell me he was leaving?

Did his uncle sneak in, grab him, steal him away?

Sounds dramatic, and I don’t believe a word of it.

I check the front door. It’s locked. There we go.

It’s crazy, I know, but I go back through all the bedrooms, look in the wardrobes, under the beds. I check everywhere, but he’s definitely not here.

I’m feeling uncomfortable.

I get my things together.

I’m not hanging around here.

I’m going home.

* * * *

8:00 p.m.

Outside, the traffic’s busy.

Across the road, I see a face I recognize.

James.

He’s wearing that screwed-up expression, the one I’d never seen until I mentioned his father.

He’s standing by the curb, an older man in a long raincoat by his side.

I raise my hand, wave.

James stares right through me.

I shout to him.

The man in the raincoat thinks I’m shouting at him.

I can’t say whether James is pushed in front of the bus, or whether he steps in front of it.

The impact is swift and brutal.

He never had a chance.

I wet myself.

After the shock passes, I remember the man in the raincoat.

But he’s gone.

The bus has stopped.

The street is silent.

Nobody moves.

We’re frozen like this, like a painting, and I wonder if James still has that expression on his face.

Content

Guthrie Allan Call Me, I'm Dying

Allan Guthrie Call Me, I'm Dying