Pigeon Variations - Ch 11 - Bring Out the Dead

The pain that people carried around with them was mind blowing. Anxiety. Depression. Paranoia. Phobias. Anger issues. Ever since Pyser was a boy, his temper had landed him in trouble. His mum said he could flip on a sixpence. Not that he’d ever seen a sixpence.

He came home after another boring day’s work to see Anne weeping. Her mascara was smudged. Panda eyes. He guessed he was going to get another lecture about him crashing at her place. It was coming up to nearly two months. She wasn’t happy when he was fired over the Thomas Pink affair either, but he found the housekeeping job quickly and that kept her off his back.

Not that she saw any of what he earned. He told her that he was saving money to move out. That he could move out sooner if she let him save. Each week went by and he was spending his wages on getting wasted. Cheating on her. Behaving like a total knob. Not saving much at all, hardly anything. Taking the almighty piss.

There was an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. She was into her first glass from a second bottle.

“Can I have some?” he said.

She nodded, vaguely registering his existence.

He poured a glass of white. It was warm. He forced himself to swallow. Warm white wine was rank. “You want some ice?” She shook her head. Miles away. In her own little universe. The window was open and he saw a pack of fags on the ledge and a lighter. Usually, she was super strict about no smoking in the flat and that included leaning out the window. She only ever allowed it when they came back from the pub late and were smashed. He noticed the shite music. It was Willy Nelson. People banged on about Willy fucking Nelson. He swore that people only liked Willy because the guy was a stoner. He was the musical equivalent of a bottle of Grolsch.

“It’s not Marcus, is it?” he said, going into the kitchen to see if there was ice in the freezer. He removed a tray and popped out cubes into the draining board. He dropped several into his own glass, hearing them crackle, and then walked into the lounge. She initially refused to let him put the cubes into her glass and then she changed her mind. People were always changing their minds. Saying one thing. Doing another. Dreaming of new careers. Lives. Breaking promises. Vows. 

“Is Marcus alright?” he said. It was funny how he had grown fond of her ex as the weeks went by. He enjoyed their chats. They understood each other. Swans made strangely good listeners.

He sat on the sofa. He had no feelings for her. When she was pissed and they were chatting drivel or lying in bed, she would tell him that she loved him. A lot of women were desperate to be in love, especially the older ones. "I love you," they’d say, normally during sex, gasping, in a whisper. They waited for him to say it too. Love only worked when the other person replied, otherwise the words hung in the air, alone and pathetic.

When Anne said it, he’d be thinking, you silly cow, don’t you see what I’m doing? Can’t you figure out how I’m using you? To me, you’re like a toothbrush that’s coming to the end of its days. No more. No less. This is a roof, free food, booze and some distinctly average sex. It made him resent her. It wasn’t unusual for him to start actively disliking a woman if they expressed feelings towards him. It made him look down on them.

“What’s the matter?” he said to Anne on the couch, stroking her hair. “You can tell me.”

Fake tenderness. He again felt himself split in two. A DJ spinning decks. Marcus style. He knew it was right to show kindness. That this was what he was supposed to do. But he didn’t give a fuck about her when all was said and done. And it was vile too. These echoes of sympathy. Bang out of order, acting like this. Leading her up the garden path. He couldn’t fucking explain it either.  

“Did you have a bad day at work?”

In a whisper, she said, “It’s the anniversary of my mum’s death.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“She died sixteen-years ago.”

Pyser put his arm around her shoulder and she started crying loudly. Sobbing. He felt the wetness of her tears through his t-shirt. Her father had died when she was eight and her mother a few years later. Both of bowel cancer. What were the odds on that? Whenever she was smashed, she started talking about them and how she missed them. Hearing a person drone on about bereavement soon became pretty boring. There was fuck all to say really. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling that they needed to get a grip and deal with it. Everyone had their special secret of suffering tattooed onto their heart. Nine times out of ten, it was to do with shit parents or family abuse of one sort or another. At least being an orphan freshened things up.

“I want her back,” she said, her voice faltering.

He squeezed her tightly. “We can visit her grave if you like,” he heard himself saying.

“I miss her. It hurts so much, Pyser – you can’t understand what it’s like.”

That's where she was wrong. Well and truly. He hadn't told her about his older brother getting stabbed. Never talked about it to anyone. Not really. Bringing out the dead for the sake of conversation was pointless. 

“Honestly, Anne," he said, "if you want to, we can go to her grave. You’ve mentioned that you haven’t been in years.”

She wiped her nose with a hand. There were streaks of snot over her face. He used his t-shirt to wipe it like a child.

“Urgh, that’s gross,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

She smiled at him and raised her feet onto the sofa to rest her head in his lap. “I’d do anything to have mum back in my life. She was everything to me and nothing’s been the same since she’s gone.”

He drank the wine and listened as she opened up, telling her story in the false hope it would ease the pain inside.

Trusting him.