Slow Burning Lies (4 page)

8

‘Did you say
“microwaves”
?’ Maggie Dolan said to the man opposite her.

The man nodded.

‘Microwave ovens gave him headaches?’

‘Yes.’

She flicked a finger back to the serving counter and the ovens beyond. ‘I work with microwave ovens every day.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t get headaches.’

The man looked all around the empty coffee shop, as if for eavesdroppers, then leaned in and whispered, ‘No. But you’re not Patrick, are you?’

Maggie took a swallow, then gave him a sideways glance. ‘And… are you?’

The man’s face seemed to sag a little more at the question. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Do you want me to continue?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course you do. We all have choices. You can listen and understand…’

Maggie waited, but the man’s cracked and slightly swollen lips stayed firmly shut.

‘Or what?’ she said.

‘Or you’ll never know.’

‘I was just asking why he got headaches is all.’

‘If you listen, that will become clear.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Pardon me for interrupting you. Please carry on.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. ‘I will.’

9

Within an hour of leaving Joni’s place Patrick was in his own bed, alone, and fell asleep a few seconds after turning the light out.

*

Jimmy Devereux convulsed as he coughed, just like he did these days for most of his hours, whether waking or sleeping ones. His skin whitened around the knuckles as he grasped the arms of the old wooden chair, a chair with more scratch than varnish.

The painted timberboard walls behind him had long since turned from white to a sickly yellow. His chair faced the front of the house, all the more to see the folks that walked and drove along the hay smattered mud track outside, straight past his shack of a house. Always straight past.

‘Did I ever tell you ‘bout my wife?’ Jimmy said, now merely spluttering.

‘Yes, but go ahead and tell me again if you want to.’

‘Well, she always told me that goddam place was bad for me.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Jimmy strained to reposition himself in his chair. ‘See, she always wanted the best. Can’t blame a woman for that, ‘course. But it had to be paid for, and I was willin’ to pay for it. Travelled from Maine to California, from Florida to Washington, with the refurb’ team, clearin’ out the shit other folks wouldn’t touch. I only did it ’cause I couldn’t get no work in Redridge County – leastways not anythin’ what paid so good. And, ‘course, we had ourselves three little girls by then – as cute as they was sweet.'

He cast a weary hand up to the solitary photo which hung crookedly on the wall. It was faded but still clearly showed Jimmy in younger days, proudly standing in front of his children.

‘You got kids?’ he said.

‘No. No, I don’t.’

‘Shame. You should. Anyhows, Marlene wanted the best for them – not that I didn’t, see – just that I’d rather have settled for less and seen more of them growin’ up. See, first I worked a month on, month off. Best years of my life, they was – leastways those alternate months. Happy as a jackrabbit in a warm spring.’

Jimmy started to cough uncontrollably, then flipped his hand to the oxygen cylinder that lay beside his chair like a loyal hound, as if beckoning it even closer.

‘Here, let me.’

Jimmy grabbed the mask the second it was within reach and clasped it to his ruddy face. His chest expanded, stuttering along the way, like a rubber balloon being blown up in stages. A few more laboured, gravelly breaths followed, then after a few minutes he removed the mask, but let it rest on his chest, pouring more pure oxygen into the environs of his face. ‘Thanks, sonny,’ he said.

‘That’s no problem, Mister Devereux. Shouldn’t I be getting your bank book now?’

‘You don’t wanna hear about my Marlene?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. Carry on.’

Jimmy settled back into his faithful old chair. ‘Well, like I was sayin’, I worked a month on, a month off – at first, leastways. ‘Course, soon Marlene wanted a better house, a better car, there was school fees, eksetra, eksetra. Anyhows, it soon became two months on, one month off, and before I knows it I’m working five months out of every six, travellin’ the country, dismantlin’ old buildings, rippin’ walls an’ stuff down. Lot of cheap insulation in them places, there was. ‘Course you had to wear protection – masks ‘n’ gloves ‘n’ stuff – leastways, we was
supposed
to.’ He gave a guttural breath, then coughed a few times. The mask was held up to his face for a few seconds. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Did you say you know where my bank books are?’

‘In the metal box under the loose floorboard in the spare bedroom.’

‘Oh. I see. I didn’t know you knew that.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Jimmy, but there’s going to come a time when you won’t be able to get to the bank yourself.’

‘Oh, I think my ticker’ll give up the ghost before I gets to that state. Now where was I?’

‘You were ripping buildings apart.’

‘Yeah. So I was. Anyhows, I’d had enough, told Marlene I was quittin’, comin’ home for good. She didn’t take it well, said what was we gonna do for money. But I said as how I was gettin’ too old for that sort of work, and how I missed seein’ the kids an’all. I said I’d find something.’

Another raucous coughing session came and went.

‘And did you find something?’

‘Well, I had a job all lined up – janitor at Pear Orchard School. I liked the idea of workin’ with kids, seein’ as how I’d missed so much of my own grown’ up. It was then I got that chesty cough. I didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time – doc said antibacs would shift it. He was wrong. They tried all sorts. Nothin’ worked.’

‘That must have been awful.’

‘You know something? I didn’t give a raccoon’s wet tail either way, because it was about that time Marlene said she’d fallen for another, a man that sold health insurance – now tell me, that ain’t kinda funny. Well, we tried to work things out between us, but we kept arguin’, and in the end she left me and took the girls with her. I guess she was stone in love with this man. I didn’t realize till much later she’d fallen for him two years earlier.’

Jimmy’s shaking hand grabbed the mask again and placed it over his mouth and nose. His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and he rocked back and forth slowly, as if in deep concentration, like he was meditating.

‘Look, Jimmy. Why don’t you stay here and I’ll go to the bank for you? You can just tell me how much cash to take out and what money you want transferred to where.’

Jimmy shook his head, took the mask off, and opened his mouth to speak. He let out a feeble gasp and put it back on.

‘You really should let me.’

For a few moments the silence was only broken by the hiss of the oxygen escaping from the cylinder. Then Jimmy reached out and slapped his hand on the valve, frantically tapping the controls.

‘You want it turned up?’

Jimmy nodded, and was soon soothed, a solitary tear dropping onto the mask. His rate of breathing slowed, and his body relaxed just a little. He took the mask off. ‘I ain’t got much in there – only my compensation money and I gotta be careful with that.’

‘I can be careful.’

‘No.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Anyhows, you don’t know my code number.’

‘You could tell me. I promise I won’t write it down or tell anyone.’

Jimmy listened to the silence of an empty house. A look of anguish drew itself on his face, his eyebrows looking more like the grey threadbare quiffs of a man twenty years older. ‘You… you sure you won’t tell anyone?’

‘Jimmy. You can trust me.’

The chest of Jimmy’s near-cadaver of a body sank and rose a few times, then he nodded. ‘I know. You’ve been good to me, helping me ‘round the house an’ all that of late. Thanks.’

‘So?’

Jimmy lifted his head and looked across to photo of his family on the wall. ‘The ages of my three girls when they left me. Eight, nine, eleven.’

‘Good. That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘No. I guess not.’ Jimmy started to gasp again, and his hand scrabbled around on his lap for his mask.

A hand held it down.

Within seconds Jimmy’s face had turned a blotchy matt purple. He gasped some more, his desperate breaths quickening as they became of little relief to his burning lungs. He glared down to where the hand held onto the mask – held it away from him, utterly overpowering his feeble attempts at a fight for life. Before long his eyes started to bulge, as if being pushed out by the now rigid muscles around the sockets, turning the rims of his eyes a watery pink.

As his breathing got louder and more desperate, and the pain in his ravaged lungs became clear from the grimace on his face, he gathered a final effort to let out a final few words.

‘Please… Patrick…
please
.’

*

The next thing Patrick heard was Joni shouting those same words, then, ‘Wake up, Patrick. Wake up!’

He roared as he roused, giving out a drawling wordless shout. He felt hands on his shoulders. Confused between the swirling mix of watching old Jimmy’s pitiful struggle for breath and thoughts of Joni trying to wake him – thoughts of what might have been had he stayed at her place – Patrick instinctively brought his arms up to defend himself, before relaxing and lowering them.

He was alone. He was breathless, soaked with perspiration, and all alone.

10

The next day Patrick settled into work glad of the distraction – of the way programming took his mind to a place of stability and certainty, where he controlled everything, where the compiled module did exactly what he’d programmed it to, be that good or bad.

If only he could stay awake.

Two hours into the morning he sensed a presence behind him, also the faint but distinctive perfume of woman-power. He was just about to transfer the two lines of code from his mind onto the keyboard when the presence moved into view and spoke.

‘You’re a quiet boy today, Patrick.’

‘I told him that earlier,’ Paulo said from the next desk. Beth’s glance halted his input into the conversation, and his face took on a sheepish expression, as if he’d just uttered some classic faux-pas. He peered into his PC screen, then turned away and buried his head in an instruction manual.

Beth turned her attentions back to Patrick, and her eyebrows repeated the question.

‘I’m just trying to get this scoring code completed,’ Patrick said, leaning back and pulling his hands away from the keyboard.

‘Heavy night last night?’

Patrick looked up. He didn’t need to look far; the trousers of Beth’s suit were pressing against the arm of his chair. Her hand rested on the top of the backrest. The only way she could get any closer would be to sit on top of him. That thought had briefly occurred to him the first time they’d met, but had been given a swift and deep burial.

‘Not really,’ he replied.

‘Gee, I bet a hunky guy like you could drink most of these skinny little boys under the table.’ She lifted her head to leave no doubt as to whom she was referring – essentially everyone else in the office.

Patrick took a sharp glance around. A few of the ‘skinny little boys’ must have heard what she’d said, but if they did they weren’t responding. If anything they ‘skinnied’ into their chairs just that little bit more.

‘I try not to drink too much,’ Patrick said.

‘Think you’ll have it completed by end-of-week?’

‘What?’

‘The scoring code for Zombie Stomper.’

‘Oh, sorry. Yes, yes. I think I’ll have it running on a QA server early next week.’

‘Okay, good. If you have any problems with server space you’ll let me know.’

‘Yes,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll do that.’

She leaned into him and whispered, ‘It wasn’t actually a question.’

‘Just your luck,’ Paulo said once Beth had reached the other end of the office.

‘What?’

‘You’ve been asleep most of the morning. The one time your eyes are stuck open she walks by.’

‘I had a bad night again,’ Patrick said.

‘Another? Bad how?’

Patrick hesitated to answer. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I just didn’t sleep very well.’

‘You
do
realize if she catches you while you’re giving your eyelids a heard earned siesta, she’ll put your dick on a chopping board?’

Patrick thought for a moment. Not for the first time the bad dreams were not only ruining his love life, but threatening his career. The secret had to be guarded, but he could dip a toe in the water, at least confide in someone that he was having bad dreams. He wouldn’t need to divulge details of just how bad they were.

‘Need a coffee?’ he said.

‘That’s a very kind offer,’ Paulo answered, tossing his pen onto the desk and giving his arms a stretch.

They talked as they walked.

‘You taking any medication?’ Paulo said.

Again, Patrick half-ignored the question. Telling girls about the pink pills for a little sympathy was one thing, but did he want a detailed conversation about it with some elder-statesman?

In the end Paulo plugged the gap of silence.

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,’ he said. ‘It’s private. It’s just that some drugs can interfere with your sleeping patterns. Not that I know much about the subject. I’m a constant seven hours kinda guy myself. In the sack at eleven, asleep at two minutes past, up with the birds and rest of the early morning commuters.’

Patrick pressed the button for the strongest coffee available, two sugars, no milk. ‘I get the feeling nothing really bothers you.’

‘That’s pretty much it. I come to work. I don’t exactly enjoy it after all these years, but I accept it. Then I go home and have a life of sorts. I don’t get myself worked up and don’t have any ambition to speak of.’

He took the cup Patrick handed to him. ‘Thanks, buddy. So what about you? What’s beefing you so much?’

‘What?’

‘Hey, come on. I know something is.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

Paulo put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘You don’t need to tell me. I can understand. I could tell from the other day you must miss your folks. Are you planning on taking a break anytime soon to see them?’

Should he tell Paulo about his family? And his dreams?

‘Perhaps you’re just missing that fine British tea of yours?’ Paulo said with a cheesy guffaw.

And that was when the moment – the opportunity for Patrick to tell someone – was lost.

They drank and talked of travel. Paulo spoke for way too long about where he took his family on vacations, and Patrick thought quickly and said most of his childhood holidays had been spent on the coastal resorts around northern England. Then they returned to their desks and resumed work.

That evening, Patrick went home, watched the news, then took a glass of water and took out his little brown bottle.

He tipped two tablets onto the table. He picked one of them up and held it up to the light. He held it close to his eyes and rotated it between his finger and thumb, but it was no good, there was no writing.

There was, however, a name on the bottle. He checked the name on the internet. They were painkillers – simple straightforward painkillers – exactly as his doctor had told him when he first came to America. It was like he’d told Joni; the tablets had been prescribed for the pains he’d been experiencing from the minor operations he’d had on his face as a child – something to do with a growth spurt in late adolescence putting strain on the small strips of scar tissue. The doctor suggested keeping him on a low dose and warned him against coming off them without consulting a physician.

Patrick spent forty minutes scouring the internet for more details of the drug, for any scare stories of side effects, particularly of sleep disturbances, but the only recorded contraindications were stomach problems – ranging from minor indigestion to bowel cancer when taken in large doses – and minor skin irritations in susceptible people. The irony of the latter put a flicker of a smile on Patrick’s face.

He took the tablets, which reminded him of his conversation with Paulo.

He’d made up the talk of holidays in the north of England. He’d had to. Jesus, for a moment he couldn’t remember his life before the dreams had started.

Then he did. Yes. Don’t be dumb, Patrick. He was at college, and before that he was back home in England, with Declan, in a foster home.

Declan. He had to contact Declan. Had to keep those ties alive. But it was too late in the evening now. He could call him another day.

Thoughts of back home reminded him of his favourite meal.

He cooked himself baked beans on toast, and then watched a documentary on rock music.

At the end of that he eyed his guitar – a Gibson Les Paul perched on a wooden stand in the corner of the room.

He carefully picked it up from its stand, and got comfortable with it. He slid the fingers of his left hand up and down the fretboard a few times, then poised a plectrum over the pickup.

His fingers tried a few combinations, and he spent some time simply admiring how the black edges faded into dark brown toward the middle of the body.

Somehow it just wasn’t coming.

He gave up trying and went to bed.

For the second night in a row he dreamed of nothing disturbing, moreover nothing he could even remember when he woke up.