The Last House on Needless Street(67)

Two people enter the bathroom. Their movements and words have furry edges, they’re very drunk – this is obvious even to me.

‘They belonged to my uncle,’ a voice says. ‘And were my grandfather’s before that. And his father’s. And his father wore them in the War of Northern Aggression. So just give them back, man. The sleeve-links, I mean cufflinks. I can’t replace them. And they were red and silver, my favourite colours.’

‘I didn’t take anything from you,’ a voice says. It’s familiar. The tone sets my sluggish synapses firing. There is an idea in my brain but I can’t seem to have it. ‘And you know I didn’t. You’re just trying to make me give you money. I see straight through you.’

‘You were sitting beside me at the bar,’ the cufflinks guy says, ‘I took them off for just a second. And then they were gone. That’s a fact.’

‘You’re unstable,’ the familiar voice says, sympathetic. ‘I understand that you don’t want to believe you lost those cufflinks. You want someone to blame. I understand. But deep down, you know I’m not responsible.’

The other man starts crying. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘You know it’s not right.’

‘Please stop visiting your delusions on me. Go find someone else.’

There’s a thud and a crack. Someone just hit the tile. I am curious by now, and that feeling is cutting through the drunk. Plus, I am nearly certain that I know who the second voice belongs to.

I push open the stall door and the two men look at me, startled. One has his fist pulled back, about to hit the other, who lies on the floor. They look like the cover of a Hardy Boys book or a poster for an old movie. I can’t help laughing.

The bug man blinks up at me. He has a smear of dirt across his nose. I hope it’s dirt, anyway. ‘Hi, Ted,’ he says.

‘Hey,’ I say. I give him my hand. The guy who lost his cufflinks and knocked him down is already out the door. Sometimes, very occasionally, my size works in my favour.

I help the bug man off the floor. The back of his shirt is slick and brown. ‘Ugh,’ he says, resigned. ‘Maybe we should go. I think he’ll be back, maybe with friends. He seems to have those, inexplicably.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

The road is a tunnel of amber light. I can’t remember which way my house is and it doesn’t seem very important. ‘What shall we do?’ I ask.

‘I want to drink some more,’ the bug man says. We walk towards a lighted sign in the distance. It seems to advance and recede as we approach but in the end we get there – it is a gas station, which sells beer, so we buy some from the sleepy man who minds the store. Then we sit at the table on the roadside, by the pumps. It’s quiet. Only the occasional car goes by.

I give the bug man a paper napkin. ‘There’s something on your face,’ I say. He cleans himself up without comment.

‘We’re having a beer together,’ I say. ‘It is so weird!’

‘I guess that’s right,’ he says. ‘This kind of thing is not supposed to happen between therapist and client, obviously. Are you going to keep coming to see me, Ted?’

‘Yes,’ I say. Of course I’m not.

‘Good. I was going to bring this up at our next session, but you should give me your real address, you know. For our files. I checked and the one you gave me isn’t even a house. It’s a 7-Eleven.’

‘Made a mistake,’ I say. ‘I get numbers wrong sometimes.’

He just waves a hand as if it’s not important.

‘Where do you live?’ I ask.

‘That’s not how it works,’ he says curtly.

‘Why did that guy think you had his cufflinks?’

‘I’m not sure. Can you imagine me stealing them?’

‘No,’ I say, because I really can’t. ‘Why did you pick your job? Isn’t it boring, listening to people for hours and hours?’

‘Sometimes,’ he says. ‘But I’m hoping it’s about to get much more interesting.’

We drink together for a time, I don’t know how long. We say things but they’re all lost in the ether after that. Occasionally the lights of cars sweep white across our faces. I feel very fond of him.

He leans in close. ‘Lots of people saw us leave together, tonight. The guy in the gas station is looking at us right now. He’d remember you. You’re pretty memorable.’

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘So let’s talk honestly,’ he says. ‘For once. Why did you stop coming to see me?’

‘You cured me,’ I say, giggling.

‘That was quite some stunt, impaling yourself with that pen.’

‘I have a high pain threshold, I guess.’

He hiccups, gently. ‘You were pretty shaken up. You left in a hurry. So you didn’t notice that I followed. You like to keep your home private, don’t you? But it’s harder to muffle sound. Children’s voices are so penetrating.’

The darkness is shot through with a hectic red. The bug man suddenly doesn’t seem as drunk as before. A terrible feeling begins in me.

‘She’s not really your daughter, is she?’ he asks. ‘Just as your cat isn’t really a cat. You thought you were so subtle, leading me onto dissociative identity disorder. But I read people for a living, Ted. You can’t fool me. DID is caused by trauma. Abuse. Tell me, what’s the real reason Lauren – or Olivia, if you prefer – doesn’t leave the house?’