Our Kind of Cruelty(53)

I stood at this. I hadn’t drawn the curtains again and the moonlight had cast the room silver.

V was crying. ‘I’m calling a taxi now, Mike. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Promise me you won’t open the door to him.’

‘Why shouldn’t I? We might as well have the discussion now.’

‘No,’ she shouted. ‘He’s drunk and I know how strong you are. Mike, please promise me. I don’t want either of you getting hurt.’

‘No one’s getting hurt. We can discuss it like adults and sort it out.’

‘Oh God, Mike.’ Her tone had risen even higher. ‘You don’t understand. Don’t open the fucking door.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK.’

I stood still for a minute. V was coming home. It was actually happening. Within the hour she and I would be enclosed in our warm, safe space and Angus Metcalf would be making his sorry, solo way back to his house. It had almost been too easy, too perfect. I quickly straightened the cushions on the sofa and took the empty bottle of wine to the recycling in the kitchen, rinsing and then drying my wine glass, before replacing it on the rack. Even in the moonlight the garden swayed in the breeze and I was so pleased with myself for making every detail perfect for V.

There was a loud knock on the front door, a fist pounding heavily on the wood. I stayed standing in the kitchen, looking out at the plants whose names I couldn’t quite remember.

I heard the metallic twang of my letter box flip open and made a mental note to buy one of those letter-catching boxes I’d seen at Angus’s house.

‘Open the fucking door,’ Angus shouted and V was right, he was drunk, his words slurring into each other.

I leant against the sink, my arms tensing so I could feel my muscles curling round my bones.

‘You fucking coward,’ Angus shouted. ‘You don’t get to come to my house, then not let me into yours.’

My fingers were turning white against the porcelain of the sink as the blood stopped flowing to them and I wondered how long you would have to stand like this before they died.

The banging increased, as did the shouting. Angus’s entitled voice telling me what to do, demanding my attention. ‘What are you scared of?’

‘Nothing,’ I said to the sink. ‘Nothing that you could ever do.’

I walked down my hall towards the banging. It was not enough to simply walk away with her this time.

I opened the door and Angus barrelled into me, his arms flailing and his eyes wide and wild. He had spittle at the corner of his mouth and he used his feet to kick at my shins. I teetered backwards, taking a minute to recover my strength and meet his punches. I didn’t want to hit him back, but I wanted to stop him and I held my arm over my face.

‘You fucking animal,’ he was shouting, ‘you fucking waste of a human being. You disgusting, repulsive excuse of a man.’ I could smell whisky on his breath and could feel the weakness in his punches.

‘Stop it, Angus,’ I shouted. ‘There’s no point in this.’

‘There’s every fucking point,’ he screamed. ‘You cowardly fuck. You useless cunt.’

I let him go on hitting me while the insults poured over me. I thought of V and how she would stop me with a kiss at the end of a Crave. I tried to feel her hand on my arm as it twitched to lay waste to the loser who’d just tried to kiss her. But V wasn’t there and Angus had done more than that; he’d kissed her and his hands had covered her body. And I’d heard his words before: they’d been screamed in my face by other people, other people who were with us now, looking through the window, laughing at my passivity.

How many times can you be told you are useless? A. Useless. Fucking. Cunt. Excuse. Of. A. Person? How many times can you be punched and stay quiet? How many times can you sneak back to your mattress and hide under your threadbare duvet? How many times can you go on believing life is a rehearsal and not the real thing?

I threw open my arms, which made Angus’s hands spin away from him, knocking him off balance so he stumbled backwards. He had blood on his hands and down his shirt that I knew was mine. I hate men like Angus. But then again I hate men in general. Angus might as well have been George or even Logan or any of the other fuckers who’ve waded through my life. Angus had broken the rules of the Crave; he had gone on where others had been made to stop.

I walked towards him, clenching my hand and drawing back my arm so it was level with my chin. He flinched as I threw my fist through the air and into his face. It connected with a force which sent him spinning backwards, his legs flying from under him. I felt the crack of his bone, the tear of his muscles, the dislodging of his teeth. I saw the final terror in his eyes as he fell through the air. But it wasn’t enough. I followed his fall with my body, my fist pumping into his face, pushing him ever further back into himself, rubbing out the fact that he had ever been here at all.

I don’t know how long I went on hitting him for, but I became aware of noise and someone pulling on my arm and I looked up to see V. I stopped immediately because it was all right now she was home. I sat back, my legs inexplicably skidding on the wet floor. V folded her body over Angus, a strange moaning sound coming from her.

I needed to calm my breathing, so I did my meditation exercises, breathing into my toes and working up through my body. Angus twitched once, his hand grasping for nothing. And then I couldn’t bear the thought of what V was doing, how Angus’s blood was drenching her, contaminating her. I stood and pulled at her shoulder, so she looked up at me, her eyes huge and miserable. I held out my hand, but she hesitated.