The first thing I am aware of, even before I open my eyes, is the warmth of her perfume. For a single, blissful moment, nothing is wrong. Everything is the way it should be. Then, the familiar dull ache starts in my belly and begins to grow in waves, until I can feel it from my bowels to my sinuses. She is gone and I should not be able to smell her perfume.
I hear: “You’re awake.”
I smile. It’s good to hear her voice again.
My eyes open widely. I lean forward, up onto my elbows and look wildly around the room. I hear a flutter of laughter but can’t see where it comes from. “Hello?” I say, out loud, and then immediately feel like a fool. I sink back to the sheets, and screw my eyes shut.
“Silly Scruff.” She says. And then the aroma of roses is gone from the room.
It has been two months since her funeral. Family and friends, permanent fixtures in the flat for weeks after, are now noticeable by their absence.
Thank God.
I have no wish to continue with my dispassionate, stoic facade, listening to those who were close telling me that I should be angry with her for leaving like that. Taking the easy way out.
Not for one moment did I ever consider what she did was easy.
I am angry though, but not for the reason that they think. I am angry because she gave me no warning, no explanation. I kissed her goodbye in the morning and by the evening she was gone. No cry for help, no histrionics. Simple, effective. Permanent. It left me completely empty. I didn’t have the forgiveness in me to shed a single tear.
Sitting by the window, gazing into nothing, I hear my laptop ping as an email arrives. It is from Sophie. A friend that stopped visiting some time ago, checking in to see if I am OK.
“I think she wants a little lovin’” I hear from behind me.
Roses.
I smile, “Is that jealousy?” I ask. turning to see if she is there.
She is not. The roses are gone.
We meet at lunchtime in the park, Sophie and I, and share a sandwich as the sun shines down. She wants to know if I am OK. I tell her that I am, and that Cathy and I still talk. She stops, mid munch and looks at me with an alarmed look on her face. I laugh it off and tell her that it helps sometimes to have conversations with her. She starts chewing slowly again, the look not quite leaving her face. I shrug it off. I’m not going to tell her the truth. The time passes pleasantly, I finish eating and tell Sophie it was nice to see her. She smiles and asks if we can meet again, she would like to cook me something. I shrug and say, “OK.”
I am standing naked in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom, our bedroom, trying to reconcile the gaunt figure staring back as me. I have lost weight; my hair needs a good wash and I haven’t shaved in what feels like forever. I drag myself into the shower to put some of those things right. I find her shampoo, still where she left it. I use it and put in back on the shower rack as I lose myself in pillows of steam. I close my eyes and she says, “You always did scrub up nicely.”
“Are you real?” I sigh. “And this isn’t a date.”
Her voice weaves in and out of the falling water. “One of you thinks it is.”
My eyes are gritty, my skin itches and I go through the motions of making myself clean again. “I want to know.” I say as I look for the bottle of shampoo. It has moved from the shelf to balance on the taps in front of me.
“Rinse and repeat.” She whispers. And then is silent.
I want to wear something of hers. Something subtle and look for her small gold St. Christopher on a chain. It was a gift from her family, and she loved it. As I push her small collection of rings, pendants, and chains from one side of her jewellery box to the other I feel a stabbing pain in my chest as I remember that she was buried with it fixed around her neck.
Sophie stands at the top of the brick steps that lead to the front door exactly when she said she would, clutching a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.
“I thought a chicken salad might do the trick.” She says as she walks through the front door with a smile on her face. “Nothing too fancy.”
I am irritated as she clears up the ancient remains of takeaways and coffee mugs that have accumulated on every surface of the kitchen. I should be grateful, but find myself standing outside of the back door, smoking.
She is talking, a lot, trying to catch me up on the comings and goings of various friends. Jim has moved to here; Rachel has a new job and so on. I am not paying the slightest attention when I hear a scream and then sobbing from the kitchen. I look through the door to find Sophie clutching her hand, which is dripping a lot of blood onto the floor. Initially with her back to me, she turns, and I can see a terrified look on her face.
“What was that?” I ask.
“The knife…” She starts, “Where…?” Her eyes dart around the kitchen as she starts to back away from me.
“What’s going on?” I ask, louder this time. She plunges her hand under the running tap and then binds the cut with a tea towel.
“Here,” I say, “let’s get you to a hospital, it might need stitches.”
“No.” She spits back, “I’ll… I’ll go on my own.” And the door slams as she hurries out of the house.
Perfume fills my nostrils. “You never did like salad.”
“Did you do that?” I ask softly.
“It’s not a date now, is it?” She replies.
She tells me to sleep. I crawl upstairs, shed my clothes, and climb into bed. What feels like seconds later my eyes open to bright sunlight streaming in through the net curtains. I feel amazing, rested, the aches in my knees and armpits are gone. I don’t think I’ve slept like that for weeks, months even. I decide that I should phone Sophie to make sure she’s OK and then laugh softly to myself about what a turnaround that is. Thinking about how Sophie needed to clean the kitchen before cooking makes me realise that I need to take better care of myself. So, I make clearing up the kitchen number two on my mental to do list.
Except when I walk into the kitchen it is spotless. Everything washed, dried and put away, surfaces scrubbed, windows open to let the warm weather sweep away the darkness of this hovel.
Laughter escapes. I cannot hold it in. “You are the worst poltergeist ever!” I shout. “You’re supposed to fuck things up, not put them away.” I look through the door into the front room. Spotless. Dusted, vacuumed, clean. “You were never this house proud when you were here.” I cry out. I pause for a response. The only one I get is a rap at the front door.
It is Jim. Red faced and obviously wishing he was somewhere else.
“Hello mate.” I say when I open the door.
“Hello Sam.” He says. I step back, to let him in, but he hesitates. He does not want to come into the house. “How are you?” He asks.
“I feel great.” I say, hoping that I looked it. “I haven’t seen you since…” I stop.
“The funeral, yeah.” He looks at his feet and starts to pick at the handle of Cathy’s favourite purple umbrella, leaning against the wall, under the coats. “Mate, Sophie asked me to come round.”
“I was just about to phone her, see if she’s OK.”
“Fuck me, really? That’s cold.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Sam, she’s not going to press charges, but what you did was not OK.”
“Press charges?” I blink. My mouth is open. I am not sure what to say. “She cut herself making chicken.” Is about all I can manage. “I offered to take her to A&E.”
“Look, we’re all really sorry about what happened, and a little worried, but you need to get some help. You look like shit.” He steps into the hallway; he is bigger than me. He is trying to look imposing. “Get yourself some help.” He jabs a thick finger at me and leans in. “And don’t talk to Sophie.”
The hallway fills with a sickly miasma of summer flowers, and I take a step back from the short hallway into the kitchen. The door slams between us and at the same time I hear a violent crash. There is a muffled cry immediately followed by a piercing shriek from outside on the street. I barge through the two doors and stand at the top of the steps. Jim is lying on the pavement, blood across his face, eyes closed. The purple umbrella open at his feet. A woman is looking at him in horror, shielding a small child. She looks up at me, her eyes wide. Before she can say a word, I am back in the hall, leaning against the closed front door, panting heavily.
“I never liked Jim all that much.” She says. “He was always following Sophie around like a lap dog.”
“Why are you doing this?” I cry out. “What’s going on?” Tears spring into my dry eyes. I look around the kitchen frantically trying to see. Blinking to clear my vision. “This has to stop.” I shout. “Make it go away.” The scream seems to start from all of the black slime that used to be my insides and rips its way from my throat as I feel my neck and torso vibrate with the eruption of all of the hate, anger and now, fear, that I didn’t know was still there. I scream again and again, pausing only to fill my lungs to propel whatever is left inside out. My wracking sobs shake through every muscle as I fall to the cold, tiled floor, head to one side, gazing into nothing, tears flowing freely down my face.
Roses.
“I will always take care of you.” She says.
I am quiet. I close my eyes. And the roses are no more.
#
Now I am lying on my back in a room that feels wrong. I can hear a voice. No, two. I keep my eyes closed to listen.
“Attacks on two people.”
I breath in the sharp, artificial tang of disinfectant, overwhelming me.
“Danger to himself.”
I keep my eyes closed and without thinking, try to shift my weight slightly but find that my arms and legs are bound somehow.
“No next of kin.”
Afraid that I have somehow given away that I am awake, I freeze, not allowing a single muscle to move. I feel the need to urinate.
“Suicide, about two months ago.”
I crack open an eyelid, just a fraction, to see two white coated people talking with their backs to me.
“Pressing charges.”
The heady warm smell of her perfume wraps itself around my face and I feel her breath against my ear.
“I made you a promise.” She says.
I gasp and one of the figures turns suddenly and catches me looking at him.
“Good morning Mr. Baxter. We’ll let you wake up properly and then, I’m afraid, we need to ask you some questions.”
I clench my fists and feel pain in my right palm. As the man turns away, I crane my head to look at what I am holding. It is a small gold St. Christopher on a chain.
“I will always take care of you.”
