| HAPPY CHRISTMAS – THE PARTY’S
OVER
By Tracey McNaughtan
A bitter wind presses persistently through badly fitting sash windows;
their cords worn and frayed, splattered with yellowing crusted paint.
The incessant rattling of the frames like some demented person desperate
to enter. A small plastic lamp glows wearily in the corner. Somewhere
in the shadows a man sits huddled, his head resting heavily in his hands.
Empty beer cans, and a pack of paracetamol, litter the filthy carpet.
Rising occasionally, he methodically expels smoke through a small cracked
pane of glass. A No Smoking sign glares from above the doorway. Yesterday’s
clothes lie lifeless, heaped in a pyramid; he reaches for crumpled cashmere
trousers, over balances and falls face first into a bulging ashtray. Cigarette
butts cascade to the floor. There is no air. This room is suffocating
him.
Outside it is crisp and clear, his cheeks begin to tingle and glow –
there is a slight chance the throbbing in his head might clear if he can
just keep walking; somewhere deep inside there is a heart needing to find
its rhythm. He stops, turns, looks back over his shoulder. The house is
nearly in darkness, a sign swings slowly like a pendulum, a hastily attached
piece of paper reads No Vacancies. A lump rises in his throat. ‘This
is not my home.’ Wearily he draws a thin black jacket tightly around
his shoulders and trails after his feet back towards the glaring lights
and his office.
‘Good evening Mr Parkes. I wasn’t expecting anyone this evening.’
‘Good evening Barry, I’ve … er … left a few things
in my office … there’s a report I need to take a look at …
I … er … thought I’d come over tonight …’
‘Very good Sir, I was just locking up, would you like me to stay
on?’
‘No, off you go Barry, I’ll see to everything ... Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas to you too!’
The words hit him like a sharp slap. Christmas tree lights flicker On
and Off; a few hours ago they had looked startlingly beautiful, now the
repetitive blinking, cold and harsh, flashing in his eyes like an interrogation.
The lift opens on the Tenth Floor and he makes his way quickly down the
corridor, deep carpet muffling his footfall, a streak of contemporary
art flashes past as he blindly sweeps open the doors to his office. The
leather chair comforting, wrapping around his shoulders, offering support.
Looking out over the river, the London Eye lit like a giant sparkler;
party boats pulsating with drunken revellers, life rotating as usual;
unaware – uncaring of his predicament. The river like pewter, he
stares – dazed and confused. A haunted reflection peers back at
him - the ghost of a man who stood here just a few hours ago. He reaches
for the photo on his desk; tears slide in tiny silver droplets and hang
like baubles from the stubble on his cheek. A sob forms in the back of
his throat and is launched vociferously at walls crowding in on him like
a cage, reverberating loudly.
He had first noticed her standing by the Christmas tree in reception,
the soft glow from the lights reflected in the sheen of her silken hair
and across her beautiful face. Eyes cut like two perfect jewels sparkled
brilliantly. He didn’t usually notice the junior staff, but this
girl was groomed – expensive; there was more than a flicker of interest,
he was immediately drawn to her and needed to know more.
‘There you are Mike, I know you hate these little gatherings, but
I must introduce you to Sarah Bright who will be joining us in January;
I insisted she come along for our Christmas drinks!’ He stood there
shaking her hand, feeling the softness of her skin, tiny almond shaped
nails grazed his palm. He gulped loudly from his champagne glass, in an
effort to hide his embarrassment: he had held her hand just a little too
long. He was amazed she was having such a profound effect on him; it was
as if every tiny detail of her were magnified a thousand times. He sensed
her staring at him, devouring him with those extraordinary eyes.
Later that night they had sat side by side laughing and talking; absorbing
the magnificent view over the river. Every building had been touched by
light; cranes and scaffolding transformed into modern art, things of beauty.
Another bottle of champagne sat chilling on his desk. The staff had gone
home, the building was empty. It was a party for two now … and yet,
he knew he should be going home.
He had slowly, painfully opened his eyes, it felt as though someone had
inserted a knitting needle into his scalp. There was just a sliver of
daylight creeping in through a crack in the curtains. He reached out to
check the time, but the clock had gone. The sheets felt different, thicker
and softer, he flung them back. The carpet under his feet, deep and luxurious;
the room unfamiliar. Then he saw her. His heart pounded in his chest,
he could hardly breath. What was she doing here? This wasn’t meant
to have happened. Long black hair cascaded over the pillow, her body hidden
under the duvet, only a slender hand visible, lolling over the side of
the bed. He was totally disorientated. Tripping over an ice bucket, an
empty bottle of champagne clanged loudly, piercing the stillness of the
room; water sloped over his foot and onto the carpet, forming an icy puddle.
Stumbling into the bathroom, water splashed again and again, slapping
against his skin, he was desperate to cleanse himself, wash it all away.
Avoiding the mirror, he buried his face in a soft white towel. What had
they done? He ground his fist to the side of his head, pressing knuckles
hard into his skull. Idiot! You stupid idiot. He couldn’t remember
what had happened – they had been drinking all evening and into
the night. She lay motionless. He needed to talk to her, to explain: he
didn’t do this sort of thing; he was acutely embarrassed. As he
drew nearer he noticed a small patch of blood on the pillow – long
clumps of hair were strewn on the floor like streamers; two delicate fingernails
were ripped and torn; blood had seeped between her fingers and dotted
the sheet. He turned away in horror; his stomach weak, hating the sight
of blood. What the hell was going on? ‘Wake up. Wake up!’
He gently shook her shoulder, afraid of physical contact and knew instinctively
by the chill of her flesh that she was dead.
The door closed silently behind him. Flipping the card to ‘Do Not
Disturb’ he made his way out of the hotel and onto the Strand. How
long he had, he didn’t know, but the urge to get away, clear his
head, was overwhelming. Crossing the road he took a left towards the Piazza
at Covent Garden, comforted by the swarming mass hunting for last minute
Christmas gifts. He lost himself wandering amongst gaily lit market stalls
decorated with softly glinting tinsel and fairy lights; the excitement
and bustle heartbreaking. He was alone, withering and dying inside.
Reaching for his mobile phone, he switched it on ignoring a stream of
text messages beeping wildly for attention. ‘Got probs with a client,
am sorting will b in touch later. M .’ It was totally inadequate,
but all he could manage – he stabbed it off again.
Walking for hours, a blur of shops ablaze with festive colour, restaurants
and bars bulging with ruddy, cheerful faces – he needed more time:
time to think. Distancing himself from the crowds, he crossed the river
and made his way onto the south bank following narrowing, cobbled streets.
He stood at the front door of a shabby looking terraced house, a yellowing
piece of card stuck to the window stated ‘Vacancy’ –
the door bell hung limply from its wires, he banged on the door and entered.
He set down a carrier bag of beer and cigarettes on the threadbare carpet,
shut the door to the room, took off his clothes and lay on the floor;
his thoughts as bleak as the surroundings. Closing his eyes he slept –
a distant carol echoing in a dream abruptly stopped.
He is crying so hard the photo frame slips from his hand, falls crashing
to the floor, cracking into tiny glistening shards. He is on his knees
scrabbling to grasp the photo, ripping it from the shattered frame, holding
it with exhausted shaking hands. He stares imploringly into his wife’s
eyes, searching for forgiveness. She smiles back at him surrounded by
their two children – there is solidarity, he can feel their strength
coursing through him and begins to believe, to have faith, that he can
get through this.
It is Christmas Eve, he sees the flashing of blue lights parked outside
the building, Barry is already on his way up to the Tenth Floor. There
is a gentle knock at the door.
|
