Page 39 of Crying in the Rain
Ade unlocked his front door, grabbed the notepad from the table in the hallway and copied a number from his phone. He ripped off the top page and gave it to his neighbour. “If anything happens to me, will you call this number?”
Mary pulled her glasses down from the top of her head and peered through them at what Ade had written. “Kris?”
“Yes. The friend…” Ade paused and rephrased. “He’s my date from last night—I’ll tell you all about it another time,” he said when Mary clutched her emergency call button in delight. “But if it…if it gets bad, no-one will know to tell him.”
“Oh, Ade. You’re not planning on doing something silly, are you?”
“No!” However low Fergus had driven him over the years, he’d never thought that was his only way out.
“Promise me.”
“I’m just going to tell him to leave me alone.”
“How many times have you told him before?”
“And then let him come crawling back, I know. Not this time.”
Mary nodded. “All right, I’ll call this Kris if…” She scurried away without saying it, but Ade heard Kris’s words from the night before.He could’ve killed you.Fergus was no murderer; he just got off on power and control. But when that red mist descended…
Ade fled inside his apartment, fumbling the key with shaking hands to lock the door behind him. He leaned back against it and took a minute to steady himself, as always on high alert, listening for signs of danger, but all was quiet.
Safe for now, he headed for the kitchen, thinking it would be the easiest place to start, and almost fell at the first hurdle. In his haste to meet Kris the previous day, he’d dumped the empty wine bottles on the side and ignored the pile of dishes in the sink. He could only assume Fergus had been juggling toast, as there were crumbs and smears of butter across every surface, and something plastic had melted onto the stove top—the rings froma four-pack of baked beans or beer, it didn’t matter which. It was just one more mess to clean up.
The action was automatic, reaching for his phone to make a list of jobs, and he had the app open before he talked himself out of it and instead grabbed the egg slice and set to work on removing the molten plastic mess. It was stuck fast. Swapping the useless egg slice for the butter knife, he jabbed at the least stuck edge. The knife slipped and took a strip of enamel off the stove.
That was when the tears started, but Ade wasn’t giving in yet. He’d leave the stove for later, deal with the things he could do.
Leave the wine bottles by the door to take out later. Check.
Wash the dishes. Check.
Wipe down the surfaces. Check.
He kept track in head—everyone did that, he was sure—and moved on to the living room, which wasn’t too bad, since he’d removed all the dirty dishes and cleaned up the glass yesterday. He sat on the sofa and picked up the two halves of the TV remote, flipping them and sliding them against each other, but the lugs had snapped and they wouldn’t stay together. He supposed it made no difference if Fergus was taking the TV anyway.
Leaning forward to put the remote on the table, he froze as a chill spread across his lower back. A literal chill.
“He’s pissed on the sofa.”
Ade leapt to his feet and stared at the dark circle on the seat cushion. It didn’t matter whether Fergus had done it on purpose or not, and he’d probably just been so drunk he wet himself; after a night of soaking in, the smell would never come out. Something else ruined. He yanked each cushion from its cover, his disgust at the sensation of the heavy, damp fabric dissolving into tears.
How foolish to imagine he could simply cast Fergus out and move forward as if they’d never met. It wasn’t just the physical reminders of piss stink and scratched cookers, scars and healed fractures. Even now, with so many people on the outskirts of his life prepared to go into battle for him, the years of anguish, of existing in constant fear of harm and humiliation formed animpossible barrier. He couldn’t accept their help, but he couldn’t do this on his own either. It was hopeless, futile. This was his lot.
Stuffing the cushion covers into the washing machine, he overfilled the detergent drawer and chose the hottest cycle, startling when water surged into the drum. He whipped his head around in panic even though he knew Fergus wasn’t there. Or not in body. He was always in Ade’s head, tearing to shreds everything he’d achieved, extinguishing every glimmer of hope, a noxious, bloated cloud suffocating everything that was good in his life.
Snot and tears itched his face as he whirled around the apartment like a dust devil, stirring up chaos. The patio chair was broken. There was a crack in the left pane of the French doors, a gouge in the frame. The more he tried to fix and clean and make it right, the weaker he became until he slumped, spineless and jelly-like, onto his bed.
How had he let Fergus do this to him? In high school, like Kris, Ade had been out and proud—a mouthy little shit, his sister used to call him, since the bullies he took on sought her out, expecting her to take him in hand. She’d stood up for him, of course, and a few years later, he’d been able to return the favour when the boyfriend she’d thought was The One had given her chlamydia and then had the audacity to ask Ade to talk her into giving him another chance. She almost did go back to him, even though their parents, Ade, her friends and colleagues all hated him. He was a pilot who worked for the same airline she had at the time, older, charismatic in a sleazy kind of way, and a terminal womaniser. Ade hadn’t held back in telling her he was making a fool of her.
He’d been so naïve, arrogant really, thinking he’d never ever fall into the trap she had, but men like that pilot and Fergus were master manipulators, emotional con artists who hit you at your weakest, like a tick you didn’t notice until they’d got a good firm grip and sucked half your life away. It was easy for others to sayjust pluck it out. That was what Ade had said before he was there,on the inside, losing himself to the ruggedly handsome Scotsman who’d offered his broad shoulders for Ade to cry on when his dad died and his family was so wracked with grief that no-one saw it until it was too late.
“How long do I have to put up with your stupid fucking self-indulgent whining. So your dad died. People die all the time. It’s pathetic.”
At the time, he’d convinced himself that Fergus was being cruel to be kind. Now he knew he was just being cruel, although ironically, it had got him through those first few months of bereavement, because he’d been so caught up in trying to figure out hownotto make Fergus angry that missing his dad became secondary. By the time Ade started to question whether he really was to blame for the arguments, and that was all they were back then, the acute grief had dissipated, but he was too drained to fight.
His every waking moment was filled with monitoring what he said and did, trying not to rock the boat, and nothing he ever did was right. He was too noisy, disturbing Fergus’s lie-in or early night or TV programme. He was creeping around because he was hiding something. He’d let himself go because he wasn’t showering enough. He was having an affair because he was showering morning and night. It didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do, it was a reason for Fergus to attack him, verbally and then physically. Then came the grovelling. Fergus didn’t mean it, he’d just lost his temper—he’d do anything for Ade, he loved him. Would he talk to a therapist about his anger? Yes, Fergus said, if you come with me. So Ade booked an appointment, briefly optimistic until Fergus lied through his teeth.
“I may have lashed out once or twice, but we talked it through, and we’re OK about it now, aren’t we, Adrian?”
