— Good, she said, if I have told you once I have told you a thousand times to stop talking and shut up. For the love of God shut up.
— And another thing, he said.
— Shut up.
— But…
— Shut up.
He had it right. His testing process had succeeded.
It was an awful lot of work, but he had to teach Baldy Conscience a transdermal lesson. Other people rigged with better fists would have merely punched Baldy Conscience or kicked him in the arse down the stairs and out the front door. He had not that constitution. He had the hanging-around-the-post-box and waiting-on-a-shift constitution. He had the walking in circles and avoiding-the-gaze-of-those-who-were-clearly-out-to-get-him look, from the top of the academy to the men in manholes, all of whom were conspiring, he didn’t doubt, from the elbow-directing of Mr Baldy Conscience. To take him out would require taking out the whole planet, something he found 7 days in the week wasn’t enough to achieve. What could he control? He could control the language that wiped this man’s arse. Once he’d recovered from the shock and awfulness of finding his treasured Eurovision archive heading up the man’s bum, he replaced those precious papers with every depraved story published. Since there was a non-stop supply of them, he’d merely to collate and create a pile of papers that included them. Baldy Conscience was blithely tearing strips off the paper during his daily trips to the seat. He was going to blast the plumbing, this was clear, but that was a problem he’d accept for the newfound control he had.
The other problem was Martin John was going back upstairs again.
Back upstairs meant he was using the toilet again.
Back upstairs meant new danger.
She’d warned him.
And another thing,
Shut up, she’d said.
~ ~ ~
SHE
Remembers
How
he crawled across the carpet on his knees, like a strange creepy cat, and coiled his cold hand firmly round the top part of her leg, way up under her skirt. This is the motion she remembers.
That is why it was not a mistake. He did not hesitate. He said he didn’t remember.
Nobody saw.
When she told them they shook their heads and asked, was she sure?
She was sure until they asked.
Get off! She said.
He did not get off. He held on harder. Tighter. He had her by the leg. She was his.
More questions.
Until it was reduced to, So he only put his cold hand on your leg you are saying?
We’ve to be very careful accusing people in these situations.
Situations where nobody sees are complicated.
Witnesses, you need witnesses.
A report like this could ruin a person’s life.
Unless someone saw.
I saw.
He saw.
He says he doesn’t remember.
And she became confused about what was and was not meant to be. Until it was all reduced to, if he didn’t do anything other than put his hand on you was there any harm done?
Harm was done.
Harm was done and further harm would be done.
Get off, she repeated. She shook her encased leg hard. She kicked at him.
He did not get off.
He moved in with his other hand. Balled up into a fist. Punched her. Right there. In the vagina. Thunk.
Pain. Sharp pain.
Again. Harder. Stronger. He pounded. That balled-up right fist.
Smack. A hard hit to her pubic bone. It was as though he’d ironed that fist to achieve the perfect flat shape, to achieve the perfect hit.
He didn’t speak a word.
It hurt.
Soar.
Sore.
She roared.
The reception woman came around to see.
The reception woman definitely saw his fist up by her skirt because she shouted at him to stop it, let her go. Leave her alone.
The phone rang, which dragged her back to the window.
Did she, the girl, remember?
Because he didn’t remember and remember, if he didn’t remember, then how could they ascertain who did remember? And who would be more likely to remember? There was a thesaurus of vagueness about remembering. Between all the remembering she grew anxious, weary and retreated. Maybe she didn’t remember either? It was easier not to remember.
But now she remembers.
His mother’s visit.
The threats.
The hinted threat.
The hint beneath the threat.
The hinterland of threat.
That intra-land of threat.
How she has lived in it.
Today, a 32-year-old mum with two kids, she was still living in it. She was living in it as she put the washing on the line. As she picked up the phone at work. Once when she sent a text, it came to her. Who was this guy anyway? Who was this guy to be putting his hand on her leg? What the fuck was his hand doing there? 20 years later, as she is sending a text, she is still asking questions that may not be answered.
Whenever she is nervous for her children, she remembers.
She remembers when she is nervous for her children. Never lets them alone. Calculates each and every situation for potential. The presentation of a smidgen of opportunity never evades her. She sees it widescreen, close up, speculative and resolute. It’s never just a dismissed or shrugged-off possibility; it is an imminent, immediate probability.
She never lets her children sleep the night at any house, apartment, bunk bed but hers. This is how she remembers. It is within those decisions she remembers. Every person she comes into contact with she must assess for danger. This is how she remembers it. Within the cracks of possibility she remembers.
Her husband she chose for his gentleness. He does not inspire passion in her. But he is safe. Non-paroxysmal. (His name Mick.) He is exactly what her granny told her to look for in a partner. A nice man, she said. Find a nice, decent fella. No drink or drama, granny said.
She does not remember whether granny said that before or after the thing happened. She does not remember whether granny too asked if she remembered. She only remembers granny said nice, decent. Her husband never puts his hand on her ’til she invites him to. That’s why she chose him.
The pain revisits her like a phantom limb. Never quite gone.
Sound too.
She remembers that sound years beyond, high up under her skirt. The smacking thunk.
The way bone reverberates if you hit it with direct force. How pain shoos along it. And the way his other hand tightened around her right leg in victory.
It was in restraint he achieved his victory. It was his eyes. He wanted to be there and he wanted to do what he was doing, that was what she read in them. A sadistic spark. If eyes could laugh those eyes were smirking.
She still did not understand how he landed the punch. So specific, even though she had thrashed his force off. The precision — was that the worst? Or being pinned?
It came down to who remembered and when they remembered. He maintained he didn’t recall and then he began to recall and add perplexing details into the mix to throw them off the trail.
The girl, which one? There had been a few. A few complained. A few he was surprised didn’t complain, a few he knew would never complain. He became more adept at figuring out which girl belonged to which group. He became more adept at getting closer to them through anonymous means. You could bump up against them on the bus. You could rest your hand on places accidentally. Feet were good this way. He could move them close. Very close ’til they nearly touched. Then tap the stranger’s foot or leg and retract suddenly. It gave him a spritz. A buzz. It was a bite.