Love Me to Death Read online

  Mr Anderson shook his head. ‘I understand. It’s difficult.’

  Noreen’s eyes wet with tears before she smiled.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just… well, it can get to me. You only get one mother, don’t you? You know how they can be.’

  ‘I looked after mine to the end, but she went in the night. It wasn’t long ago.’

  Noreen put down the menu. ‘I’m so sorry. You didn’t say.’

  ‘Don’t be. She had a happy life. Gave me a happy life.’ He smiled. It amazed him how he could just do that now, lie so easily. It gave him pleasure that he could. It felt empowering. She just had no clue at all. She reminded him of a deer – brown eyes wide and oblivious before the cull.

  Noreen gave him a look that he hadn’t seen anyone give for a long time. Her pupils were the biggest black and as she stared into his eyes her eyelashes blinked away a tear.

  ‘I had no idea. I can see by your face what she meant to you. You talk about her like, well, like she’s still here.’

  Mr Anderson nodded. ‘To me she is. In here.’ He patted his chest.

  Noreen sighed. ‘It’s lovely to be able to talk to you properly. I knew you’d be like this,’ she told him.

  For a moment he thought she knew. That she’d found a way to burrow deep into his mind.

  ‘Like what?’ he snapped.

  ‘Kind. I knew you’d be kind,’ she said, sounding surprised.

  Mr Anderson smiled. It wasn’t a word that he used, certainly wasn’t a word that he would associate with himself. As she looked through the menu he thought back to his mother in her final days. She was still in control of him, even then. He would go downstairs to his mattress in the cellar while she slept upstairs, her chest rattling as her body faded. She was bedridden at the end, but he still didn’t dare leave the cellar at night. She’d trained him well enough not to.

  One night, as the clock upstairs clicked and chimed, he heard something from upstairs. Something like a thump or a shout that night. Instead of going to find out what it was, he pushed himself deeper into the blanket in case she’d somehow managed to drag herself out of the bed and was coming one last time with him.

  He was always grateful for the morning. When it came, he could see it through the crack of light in the door. It was a relief to get through the night and he didn’t know exactly why, but with her upstairs and sick it had gotten easier. He could see it in her pale little glassy eyes. A look of ice, and he knew that she’d be walking up and down the stairs, dragging the poker across the bricks to tease him if she could.

  This time when he went upstairs, she was lying in the bed, with one arm out the side. The glass of water he’d left for her was tipped over on the floor where it had fallen off the side cabinet. That happened sometimes before he’d got the pills right. He’d sat on the floor by the bedroom door and stared at her, in her pale pink nightdress, hair musty and flat, waiting for him to brush it as he had been doing. It was so quiet. That was what he remembered, the silence. He wanted that for Noreen too. He wanted to look after her the way that his mother had looked after him.

  ‘Kindness is important,’ he said.

  ‘It really is.’

  21

  Jacob Clarke’s pencil touched the white sketchbook. He had kept it with his other books in full view, slid in between the homework as though it was unimportant. He knew that this was the best way to keep it hidden.

  His stepmother went through his things; it had been going on for months, maybe even years. There was nothing that she wouldn’t find, so he kept his most precious possession out in full view. Sometimes it made the back of his neck twitch at the thought of her seeing his sketches, but he knew that she only wanted the hidden things. The only thing that mattered to her were the deepest things he had. She took pleasure in that. This was the only part of him that she didn’t own.

  This sketchbook was dedicated to Maggie. He loved the feel of the lead against the paper. The indent of the tip of the pencil just right, just the perfect amount worn down. The very sound of it against the paper sent him to a different place. As he drew the first line, the curve of her cheek, he grew bolder. The lines poured from the pencil, until she was there. It was her, looking back at him through a shaggy hairstyle with one eye behind the hair. He was lost in it. In those moments when it was him and his sketch pad there was nothing else that mattered. When he felt like he was nothing, when he stood back and wondered how it was that everyone else was living lives that he didn’t understand. This was something that made sense of it all. He might not be able to play football or join in with the conversations, but this was one thing he could do. Take a blank piece of paper and a pencil and he could go anywhere, bring anyone to him.

  Sometimes, when the lights were out and his head fell into his pillow, he thought about what it would be like to be an artist. He imagined himself in a huge room, with big glass windows and light that poured in from every side. There were pictures on every wall, his pictures, and in the middle, lying down on a white sheet, was the only girl who he thought about when the light faded. No matter who had walked past him that day or what he had seen, in those quiet moments before sleep came it was her face that he saw. The curve of her mouth and the paleness of her skin. He wondered if she ever thought of him as darkness surrounded her. If his face was the last one on her mind, ever. That would be too much to hope for though. That she would ever consider being with him. She didn’t look at him that way. He often thought of scenarios in his head to help her see him afresh. Not just the quiet boy she’d caught staring, but someone exciting. Someone who would run out in front of cars and save her, someone who would stop a man from taking her bag or protect her from danger. He wanted to be that person. He wanted to be anyone else, but the person he was.

  The next day, the brightness of the morning gave a hopeful glow to the world. Through the window the garden was wet with dew that glistened in the early morning sunshine and the sky was the deepest blue. Jacob Clarke made his way downstairs. The smell of bacon was in the air and the sound of fat popping in the frying pan came from the kitchen.

  ‘Breakfast?’ a voice asked, from behind the door. Paula had a way of doing that, of knowing that he was there before she’d seen him. He wasn’t sure how she did it. He tried to keep out of her way, but it didn’t make a difference, she always seemed to ‘know’ everything about him.

  The way she’d spoken made him sure that his dad was in there with her. She had a different tone to her voice when he wasn’t around. He never saw the other side to her like he did. In some ways he admired her for the way she walked through life fooling everyone around her. There was a doll he’d seen once. A fat little metal man in a bowler hat. One side of his face was smiling, but if you spun around his head, he was ugly, with a red painted mouth and spiked teeth, eyes narrow and intense. That was what she was. She could choose who saw both her sides and unluckily she’d chosen him.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He answered politely, for the sake of his dad.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied.

  He could hear the tension in her voice even when she tried to hide it. Sometimes he wondered why she hated him so much. He had thought, at first, it was because she was jealous of the time his dad spent with him, and so he’d retreated. Further away from the pair of them. He knew that that’s what she wanted. She was the one on the inside now and he was on the edge. She had bored her way into his family, burrowed down until she was firmly imbedded. There she stayed sucking the life out of them like a greedy tick and there was nothing he could do about it. His dad was enamoured. To him, she was beyond perfect. He couldn’t see through the lip gloss and the sickly smile. She had him exactly where she wanted.

  Sometimes he wondered what would happen if his dad didn’t come home one day. If he walked in front of a bus and that was the end of him. If there were just the three of them left, what would Jacob do then? Then she could do anything she wanted. Those were the days that the dark thoughts would come and he realised that he didn’t kn
ow himself. His thoughts could be as filthy cruel as she was – in fact on the darkest days they could be worse. He wanted only the worst things for her and he wondered what she’d turned him into.

  It was this house. He looked up at the wooden stair bannister that he used to slide down, laughing with his sister. The laughter was gone from this place. It was something else now. He couldn’t wait to leave.

  He walked back into the hall to get his shoes. Leaving behind the smell of bacon and the sound of their laughter from the kitchen as he opened the front door. He would get the 50 bus into town. Walk about until lunchtime and spend the day away from here.

  As he walked down Burnage Lane towards the bus stop the sound of music from one the houses made him think of his mum. He wondered where she used to go when the four walls started to close in around her. If she ever took the bus to Lyme Park and walked the fields and hills around the place where the old asylum stood. He imagined her long dark hair, flowing behind her like the string of a kite, catching and turning on the wind while the meadow grasses danced around her legs. He thought about the photo of a woman he’d seen in the book on the asylum, her blank expression and hollow eyes as he continued along the endless concrete pavements. He was used to being without her, but it was nice to remember. When his stepmother had come, he’d been made to forget. It started after she lost her job. She had stress lines on her forehead and all the smiles stopped. She didn’t joke around and make funny rhymes up like she did when she first moved in. Either she changed, or she stopped pretending.

  The first time he’d realised what she was like was at the shopping centre. One moment she was with him, and then she was gone. He’d asked if she’d got any money for sweets and she’d called him greedy. When he’d turned to look at the sweets she’d disappeared. He remembered it clearly – the red floor tiles of the shop and the smell of the penny sweets in the tubs so close to him and not knowing if he should wait or go.

  Looking back now, he wondered if she’d waited, watched him, or if she’d just gone. It felt like ages before she came back. When she did, there was a shop assistant with her and she’d acted as though she was worried. She’d even hugged him. When they were round the corner she’d spat on the floor.

  ‘You should have gone to play in traffic, like your mother.’

  He remembered the shock he’d felt at what she’d said and then the look of pleasure on her face – the sideways grin that grew wider by the second.

  That was the first day it started. It hadn’t stopped since. He’d grown used to it the way that a person gets used to an injury. He had learnt to adapt to it. Keep away from her and out of her way. He always knew that she wanted him gone so at least if he wasn’t around, she couldn’t hurt him.

  He had stopped expecting nice things to happen. Nice things didn’t happen to him anymore. The only nice thing he had was Maggie, and she was somewhere else.

  As Jacob waited at the bus stop he wondered why he didn’t just get on the next bus and keep going. He let his mind play these games sometimes. As though he had a choice in his life. As though she wasn’t in control. As her car came round the corner he knew that she was out looking for him. She did that sometimes, followed him to see where he was going. It wasn’t because she cared; it was to show him there was no escape. It was exhausting.

  22

  The restaurant was dimly lit. Noreen was wearing too much makeup and it looked odd on her face. Mr Anderson nodded without listening as she talked about the bus journey she’d taken. When she ordered something ‘without garlic’ he knew that she was hoping for a kiss. The thought was appalling.

  She talked about the job and Mr Anderson smiled without really listening. To stop himself from yawning, he counted backwards in sevens from two thousand.

  ‘The whole dating experience hasn’t been great for me in the past,’ Noreen told him and he nodded as though he understood. She must like me, he thought.

  Noreen leant over and brushed his shoulder and it surprised him. He couldn’t help but flinch. As he tried to laugh it off, he made odd noises from his mouth.

  ‘What was it, a fly? I don’t like them.’

  ‘Just a thread,’ she said. Mr Anderson realised that she looked sad, but had no idea how to make her happy. It wasn’t something he was ever good at. The foundation on her lip had bubbled with sweat and he decided that he needed to try out some of his practice lines. To treat her like the experiment that she was.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t had a date for so long,’ he said, ‘you’re far too good-looking to be on your own.’

  She shook her head as though she knew the words were a lie and he continued, ‘What I mean is, you seem like too nice a person.’

  She smiled as though she believed him, and he wondered if she was coming round as he poured another glass of wine. She stared at the glass as though she realised what he was doing.

  ‘Bread?’ he asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I said bread, not bed. This is a first date.’

  He hated this kind of talk. If his mother could hear him, she’d have left him in the cellar for a week. Noreen laughed and flicked her hair. Mr Anderson realised that he had never done this well with a woman before. He wasn’t sure what to say next, but she spoke before he had to think of anything.

  ‘When was your last date?’ she asked, and he tried not to look confused, not wanting her to know that he never dated. She swallowed as though she was uncomfortable and he wondered if she was trying to read him too.

  ‘This is my first in four years. I’m a loner.’

  She squinted her eyes, as though she was trying to work him out, before she smiled. He smiled back. She believed it.

  ‘I’ve not had great experiences with men,’ she told him.

  Her jumper didn’t fit properly. It gaped at the front and he wondered if it was second hand. ‘You surprise me,’ he replied.

  When she leant in towards him, she smelt like hand cream and lavender soap – the kind of smell that his mother would have approved of.

  ‘The last person I dated brought a pet mouse with him,’ she smirked, ‘in a box. Can you believe it?’

  She waited for him to reply, but he wasn’t sure how to answer. Was it meant to be funny or serious? Was he meant to feel angry? This was all out of his comfort zone.

  ‘What colour?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Mouse-coloured.’

  ‘I’ve never met one.’

  She laughed. ‘I like getting to know you better. You’re funny.’

  ‘I have lots of layers.’ He smiled and raised a finger. ‘Like an onion, but I’ll try not to make you cry.’

  She took it as a great joke. Noreen ate like she’d never eaten before while Mr Anderson slowly cut up his steak into tiny rectangles. She was greedy and his mother would have told her so.

  ‘What were you like as a kid?’ she asked.

  He knew he looked horrified. He couldn’t help it. What a question to ask.

  He found himself asking, ‘How’s the side salad?’

  ‘I had a pretty crappy childhood,’ she replied and stuck her fork into a tomato as though she was stabbing someone. ‘The salad’s OK though.’

  ‘No mice?’

  She put her fork down and laughed. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘The guitar music is giving me a headache,’ she said and the waiter winked at her as he went past. She didn’t wink back. ‘He thinks I’ll leave a big tip if he flirts.’

  ‘Right,’ Mr Anderson replied.

  ‘He might be right,’ she smiled.

  On the wall behind her was the head of a huge deer. Mr Anderson saw it and gasped.

  ‘Good God!’ he said. He couldn’t help himself.

  Noreen looked behind. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ She laughed, pointing up and shaking her head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just a joke.’

  Mr Anderson frowned as he stared at the deer. ‘A joke?’

  ‘It’s a bit ou
t of place, I suppose.’

  Once he’d seen it, he couldn’t keep his eyes off it and it didn’t take them long to finish and get the bill. Mr Anderson didn’t want to stay there with the waiter watching and listening to everything he had to say anyway. He had crushed up some of his mother’s pills ready in case she came back to the house and was keen to get moving.

  ‘That wine’s gone to my head,’ Noreen said, as she stood up. ‘I could murder a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Outside, a police siren screamed past. Noreen pulled her coat around her and looked up at the sky. She was drunk. The stained skin at the side of her lips, from the red wine, looked like a crooked smile. The wind had started to pick up outside and it blasted down the road, making Noreen’s hair curl and flip.

  ‘The clouds look like ink,’ she said, as she pointed towards the moon.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Anderson replied. They don’t, he thought.

  As soon as they started to walk, she linked her hand through his so that they were touching. He looked sideways at her in surprise, but she continued walking as though it was a natural thing to do. He could smell the alcohol on her and thought about the last woman he took out. The blonde teacher he met from the personal ads. She’d left before he’d even got the bill. Just walked out because he’d said something about the way she looked. He’d learnt not to be honest with people after that. It always got him in trouble. They couldn’t take it. They said they wanted someone they could trust, but when he told the truth they got upset. If she hadn’t wanted to know how she looked she shouldn’t have asked the question.

  ‘Don’t mind, do you?’ she said, as she pulled him closer. ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘No.’

  He hoped that no one would see them and chose the side streets instead of the main road. Her coat made a noise like creaking plastic as she walked. He wondered how to get her to come back with him, but she just walked alongside, and didn’t question where they were going.