Fascinated Read online

  He tries again, concentrating on a line between the brass clock on the far wall and the base of the kitchen cupboards. This line is broken by the edge of Jessica’s naked foot. His attention is drawn by the curve of her foot, the curled buds of her toes. He stares at the knub of her ankle bone, the flexed calf, the pale slope of her thigh. An artery sews a seam down her throat. Her head, tilted over the table’s edge, seems suspended in a halo of hair.

  Bassett blinks and his body jerks free from the table top. He has seen the intruder at the door, felt the danger, shovels his body into a crouch. His open hands congeal into fists. His feet slap the floor. His glistening penis swings like a baton under his belly.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he barks in alarm.

  ‘I came home.’ Frank raises the cone of wilting roses. It sounds absurd. It sounds like an apology.

  Bassett, standing there, stark bollock naked, senses that Frank is stupid with shock and quickly starts working to seize the advantage. ‘What makes you think you can come home?’ he shouts. ‘You walked out, dammit! You can’t come walking back again!’ He scowls and slaps at his bristling chest, like a wrestler mocking his opponent.

  Jessica rises from the grave. She struggles to sit upright, straddles the table top, jumps to the floor. Her face is flushed. Her eyes are pebbles of dull blue glass. Her voice, when she finally works her mouth, sounds thick and slurred by sleep.

  ‘Oh, Christ! Frank, what are you doing here?’ She digs her fingers into her hair and then strokes her legs as if smoothing down an invisible skirt. She dare not look him in the eyes.

  Frank ignores the questions. He stares at his wife and glances again at Hastings Bassett.

  ‘Perhaps you should get dressed,’ he advises him quietly.

  Bassett smiles. He pulls back his shoulders, swaggers past Frank and strolls down the hall towards the living room.

  As soon as they are alone, Jessica starts moving around the kitchen, walking in circles, talking at him in nervous spurts. ‘You could have been dead! I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what was happening.’ She yanks open the fridge door, searches for nothing, kicks it shut. ‘Where the hell were you? Why are you doing this to me?’ She finds the cheese rind, picks it up and drops it on the plate with the sandwich crusts. ‘I was going to tell you, Frank. You never gave me a chance.’

  She stops talking and bites her lip. She is making it sound like a birthday surprise. She can’t find the words. She is trying to make him understand that, no matter how she screwed up her life, she wanted, at least, to spare his feelings. Despite everything that’s happened she didn’t want to hurt him. But even as she confronts this pain, she feels a surge of relief begin to rush through her own body. It’s finished. This is it. Everything she had dreaded for months has happened in the last few moments. It’s all here and it’s finished. She is going to survive.

  ‘I was going to tell you, Frank.’ Her voice cracks and breaks up in a snuffling gasp of misery. She begins sobbing, raising pink knuckles against her face, huddles behind her arms.

  ‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ he says softly, shaking his head as he looks around the familiar kitchen. His mouth tastes bitter, as if an aspirin had caught in his throat.

  ‘I don’t believe it either,’ she whispers. She finds a tea towel to mop her face and stands before him, a contrite and trembling child.

  He throws the gifts of flowers and pastries upon the table. The pastry box with its scarlet ribbon slithers across the polished surface and falls to the floor. There’s no reason to retrieve it. He stumbles towards Jessica, reaching out with his hands, trying to wrap her in his embrace, and is startled when she shrinks away with the quick suspicion of a cat. He realises, in a panic, that she feels self-conscious before him, is ashamed of her nakedness, as if they were suddenly strangers. What does she think is going to happen? Is she afraid that he’ll go berserk, burst his brains and hack her to death with a bread knife? He feels so hurt that he wants to punch her in the mouth.

  ‘I can’t find my fucking shoes!’ Bassett bellows from the living room.

  Frank turns, abandons his wife and goes in pursuit of Bassett who is sitting on the living-room carpet, sweeping the floor in search of his shoes. He is already dressed in his Savile Row suit and a slightly crumpled cotton shirt. Impossible now to think of him naked with his sour, grey skin and that ugly penis like a goose neck hanging from a bristle collar. He stands up when Frank walks into the room and straightens the sleeves of his jacket.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, Frank,’ he says mournfully, wagging his head. ‘You ought to look after that sweet little wife. You should have paid her more attention.’ His shoes are hidden behind the sofa. He creeps forward, takes them by surprise and spears them with his feet.

  ‘What are you?’ sneers Frank. ‘God’s gift to women?’

  A pair of Jessica’s soft silk panties are hanging from the shade of the lamp. The matching brassiere is spilled on the floor. Her dress, a wrinkled fan of dainty green and yellow flowers, has been thrown against the skirting-board.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ says Bassett. He sits down in a chair to tie his laces.

  ‘Get out!’ shouts Frank. He looks at Bassett sitting there in the chair, shoulders hunched, fat hands straining to touch his shoes, and he wants to kill the bastard, bring down his fists and break his neck.

  ‘Take it easy, Frank. I’m going.’

  Now Frank is aware of Jessica standing beside him, stooped forward, trying to dangle her breasts into the cups of her brassiere. She straightens up, hooks the straps together with a deft twist of her fingers. She patters about the room, collecting the rest of her clothes, while Frank and Bassett stare at each other, silent, frozen, not daring to peek at her while she’s half-dressed.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Bassett asks her as soon as she seems safely hooked and buttoned.

  ‘Yes. No. I need my coat,’ she says, frowning, raking her hair. She turns and hurries from the room, the thin dress flicking against her calves.

  ‘Don’t take it so hard, Frank,’ says Bassett as the two men stand together waiting for her return. ‘No one’s to blame.’ He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocks gently back and forth on his heels. ‘These things happen,’ he adds philosophically and purses his lips as if he’s about to whistle a tune.

  ‘How long?’ demands Frank.

  Bassett sucks a tooth and makes a big performance from a little mental arithmetic. ‘Remember the first time I came over here for supper? I don’t remember the exact date.’

  ‘The first time she saw you? Jesus Christ! The first time?’

  ‘Don’t blame Jessie. It’s my fault. Blame me. I should have stopped before it started getting serious. And then when you disappeared …’

  Frank flinches. Nobody calls her Jessie. They’re not talking about the same woman. Bassett is taunting him, hinting at pet names and lovers’ secrets. This bastard has been sitting down to supper with them, once a month for the past two years. Eating his food and fucking his wife. Guzzling wine, telling Frank pointless jokes while he fondled Jessica under the table. He can’t believe it. He doesn’t want to hear these confessions.

  ‘You should have stopped before it got started!’ he yells in a sudden explosion of anger.

  ‘Take it easy, Frank.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to take it easy, you bastard! Don’t tell me anything!’ He is shouting, chopping at the air with his hands. He must get away before he does Bassett some serious damage.

  He turns and narrowly escapes colliding with Jessica, dressed in her cashmere overcoat and clutching a heavy overnight bag. It’s the old scuffed bag of Spanish leather, the one she bought on their honeymoon. A glance at the bag tells Frank that she’s walking out on him.

  ‘I need some time to think, Frank,’ she says anxiously, wanting to make it easier for him. ‘I’ll phone you when I’m settled. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Where are you going to stay?’ He take
s a step forward and seems to stagger. The room shifts around him.

  Jessica shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ll find a hotel for tonight. You’ll find ham in the fridge and try to finish the tomatoes and we’ve still got eggs and mushrooms if you want an omelette and tins of stuff but you’ll have to buy some more bread …’

  ‘I’m not hungry!’ he blurts out impatiently, trying to stem this shopping list.

  ‘You have to eat,’ she says stubbornly.

  The three of them are moving gradually from the room, edging sideways as they talk, bracing themselves for separation.

  At the front door Jessica suddenly turns to face him, reaches across and pecks him lightly on the cheek. Her lips are cold. Her blue eyes bubble with tears.

  ‘Forget about me, Frank. I’m no good. You’ll find someone else,’ she whispers, smearing mascara with the back of her hand.

  Is that supposed to make a difference? Is that supposed to help? Christ, what a stupid thing to say when you’re walking out of someone’s life!

  Frank sags away, props himself against the wall. The front door opens in a draught of darkness and winter rain.

  As they step through the door Bassett pauses with Jessica beside him and nails Frank with a crafty grin.

  ‘Hey, Frank,’ he calls softly. ‘Do yourself a favour. Save yourself some embarrassment. Think about finding another job.’

  The door slams shut.

  It is midnight. Frank, wrapped in a blanket, slumped in a sofa, nursing an empty bottle of vodka, is master of nothing but dreams. He falls asleep in the cushions. The dreams are filled with blood.

  He bursts upon Bassett in the bath and strikes him down with a thunderbolt. Catch! The electric fire somersaults into the room and melts through Bassett’s soapy fingers. He screams. He vomits sparks. He sizzles as he starts to sink beneath the blue, fluorescent waves.

  He collars Bassett in the street, swings him against a plate-glass window. The glass cracks apart and falls like a whistling guillotine, taking Bassett’s head from his shoulders. The body slumps into Frank’s open arms. The head hits the pavement and rolls away in a wheel of bright blood.

  He breaks into Bassett’s office, topples the chair and overturns the tyrant’s desk. Bassett crawls away on his hands and knees, pleading for mercy, trying to hide in a crack in the floorboards. The axe splits his spine. He flounders like a butchered animal.

  He bombs Bassett’s car. The dynamite drives him through the roof, still clutching the stump of the steering wheel. He rockets into the sky, smoke belching from blazing buttocks. He flutters back to earth as flakes of white ash.

  The phone is ringing. The noise startles Frank from his scarlet sleep. He jerks himself from the cushions and plants his feet on the floor. The vodka bottle drops from his hand and plunges into the darkness. What’s the time? It must be late. The room is so cold that when he lurches from the sofa his breath is a soft explosion of steam.

  He grabs the phone in his fist, punches it against his skull.

  ‘Jessica?’

  The floor seems to tilt beneath him. He shuts his eyes, braces himself against the sofa as he feels the house begin to turn like an empty carousel.

  ‘Frank? This is Webster. Conrad asked me to call you. He wants to see you again …’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ raves Frank. ‘I don’t want to talk to him!’ The carousel spins, flinging him into a whirlpool of shadows and flying furniture.

  ‘Frank? He wants to talk business.’

  ‘Tell him to go to hell!’ Frank roars at his clenched fist. He jumps up, shrugging off the blanket, tugging the telephone from the table. The phone jangles as it hits the carpet and bounces back on its rubber coils, dragging the mouthpiece from his face. ‘Tell him I hope he rots in hell!’

  ‘Frank?’

  He throws the receiver at the wall and lashes out with his foot as the flex wraps around his leg. He tramples across the room, trailing the telephone like an anchor, and kicks at the table, making it jump and spill its tray of ornaments. How she loved cheap china ornaments! Cats wearing tail-coats. Geese in poke-bonnets. He stamps them into the carpet, crushing them down, rubbing them out until, sobbing and exhausted, he stumbles against the fallen table, picks it up in his arms and batters it against the wall.

  He turns, rushing from the room and finds his way upstairs to the bedroom. Her dressing gown hangs from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. The air is still sweet with her perfume. He storms her wardrobe in a rage, dragging open the doors and pulling down clothes from the rattling hangers. Jackets throw out their sleeves in alarm. Skirts and trousers fall at his feet. He flings her shoes across the carpet, pulls her pillows from the bed and sweeps the contents of the dressing table into the wickerwork laundry basket.

  The basket creaks beneath the weight as he drags it protesting across the room, raises it against his chest and tries to launch it from the window. But the frame is stubborn and he can’t force it open. The basket slips through his arms and rolls away. He follows it across the room, kicking it like a dog, making it splinter and skitter, casting its cargo over the floor.

  He comes to rest against the far wall, sweating and breathing hard. A silk slip is wrapped to his leg, clasping his foot as if pleading for mercy. Face powder hangs in the air like smoke. Tomorrow he’ll clear the room and scrub away the sorrows. Tomorrow he’ll set fire to the house. He trudges downstairs, falls back into the sofa and sleeps.

  When he opens his eyes again there is sunlight seeping through the curtains and the stale air is spiced with peppermint. He turns his head in the cushions and finds Webster staring back at him from the armchair beneath the window.

  Frank groans and rakes at his scalp.

  Webster grins and shakes out a fat bunch of skeleton keys. ‘It’s time you changed your locks, Frank,’ he says brightly.

  Frank struggles from the sofa, turns to the door and finds Valentine standing there, watching him. She is wearing a long black coat and holding a pair of evening gloves.

  ‘Is this really where you live?’ she asks in amazement, flicking at the wall with her gloves.

  Frank nods and wipes his face in his hands, suspecting that he might be a castaway in someone else’s dream.

  ‘Jesus!’ mutters Valentine, looking around at the broken table and the trail of shattered ornaments. ‘What happened?’

  It’s early in the morning when Frank is carried off to the jungle hothouse and thrown once more upon Conrad’s mercy. He’s obliged to describe the night’s events down to the smallest detail, including Jessica’s underwear and the colour of Bassett’s shoes.

  ‘We’ll have his guts for garters!’ says Conrad, rumbling with indignation. ‘I’ll ask Webster to skin him for you. We’ll have his scalp made into a purse with a string to hang from your belt.’ He tightens the cord of his dressing gown and pulls a bone-handled pruning knife from the trunk of a sago palm.

  Frank gulps at his coffee and sits down on a granite slab half-buried in trailing jasmine. ‘I’m in enough trouble. I don’t want to be charged with murder,’ he says quietly.

  ‘You’re too soft!’ grumbles Conrad. ‘This is a crime of passion. I’m surprised you don’t want to blow out his brains. Tip me a wink. I’ll make the arrangements.’ He swipes at the air with the knife, hacking the dripping undergrowth.

  ‘She wasn’t dragged away from me kicking and screaming,’ says Frank, trying to explain. ‘She walked out. She must have been thinking about it for weeks. And I couldn’t see it. I didn’t suspect. I didn’t pay her enough attention.’

  ‘You kept your nose to the grindstone!’ shouts Conrad. ‘You can’t expect to have eyes in your arse!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ grieves Frank. ‘I should have sensed that something was wrong …’ Women can do it. They have some kind of instinct. They can smell deception and cunning in men. They use the same instinct to measure the dangers of other women, guarding their own men from predators.

  ‘Family?’ asks Conrad.


  ‘We don’t have any children …’

  ‘That makes it easier. It’s always hard on the children, Frank. Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘My mother died five years ago. It scared my old man so much that he sold the house, cashed a couple of pension plans and disappeared.’

  ‘A death in the family – it tears your life apart,’ whispers Conrad.

  ‘The last time he wrote he was cleaning motel rooms in New Brunswick. Jessica never liked him.’

  ‘Is this the first time she’s played around?’

  ‘Yes!’ says Frank indignantly. She flirts when she’s drunk but he knows he’s supposed to shrug that off as high spirits.

  Conrad cannot be mollified. ‘It’s not natural. A woman doesn’t abandon her home. It’s against her nature. My wife would never have run away with the first little smarmy tosspot who slipped a cucumber into his pocket. And she had some admirers, Frank. She was a very beautiful woman …’

  He stops, his eyes blurred with pain, haunted by terrible memories. He cocks his head, harking to ghosts that seem to come whispering into his ear. He trembles. He blows through his nostrils and rolls his eyes like a wild horse. Then he turns abruptly and tramples into the undergrowth where, to Frank’s great alarm, he bursts into floods of tears.

  When he returns he wipes his face in his dressing gown and lets out a thick, phlegmatic bark before sitting down on the granite slab and staring at his carpet slippers.