Ashley Taggart was born in Belfast, and has published short fiction both in
Ireland and the UK. He has also written screenplays (the last to be
produced, a 30 minute fiction entitled "The Way Ahead" in 2004) and plays
(commissioned in 2005 to write 5 short films for the Gaiety School of
Acting). He is currently living in Dublin.
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He lay in the bath looking down
at the tired contours of his torso as the steam rose in dense clouds. The narrow cage of the ribs.
The twin outcrops of his knees breaking the surface in a bobbing motion as he shifted his weight
in the water.
He let out a sigh that seemed to go on forever.
He had woken early, then, aware of some indefinable dread hanging over
him, had fallen asleep again, resetting the alarm. His sleep had been haunted by scenes, which evaded
him when he finally opened his eyes, but which left behind a sedimentary disquiet. For long minutes,
blinking on the pillow, he tried, unsuccessfully, to re-inhabit these dreams, in the hope of freeing
himself from them.
It was only later, when he staggered up, that it came to him.
On his way to the kitchen, he looked at the calendar for unnecessary
confirmation then shook his head. Monday, February the 11th. Of course. The day his divorce papers
had come through. Marion.
He opened the coffee jar, scooped out two full measures into the
cafetiere, then poured on steaming water, sniffing the smoky acidity and wondering, as so often,
why it never tasted as good as it smelled.
There had been a time, not so many years ago, when he believed it
was merely a matter of finding the right mixture of beans. He had piously courted Arabica and
shunned Robusta. He had sampled single-estate varietals and organic Mexican co-operatives;
rich roasts and smooth blends, high hopes and low ebbs.
Now, he bought the supermarket’s own-name brand, pre-packed
in garish blue with a "sta-fresh" seal.
He looked at the greasy face of the clock on the cooker, saw that it
had stopped, rapped it once, twice, hard with his index finger, then considered, for a few long
moments the possibility of resetting it. Jesus. Why was he so sluggish this morning? He`d only
roused himself for the second time because the radio alarm was set on LW by mistake and the morning
service had begun. The Reverend Horton Thomas from St. Cuthbert`s, Ledbury. "And he that was dead
came forth, bound hand and foot with grave clothes…" Of all things.
He reached down to the fridge to get some milk. On the outside,
fixed by a crocodile magnet, was one of Emma`s paintings given to him last time she came--a
stick-like vision of him hovering over a Hansel-and-Gretel forest. He smiled. She`d be in school.
In class. Standing there in his windowless cell of a kitchen, he stared at the wall and imagined
her painting something - houses perhaps - in a high-ceilinged room suffused with sunlight and the
noise of small, scuffling feet. Her black hair hung round her face as she bent over the page.
Frowning with concentration, she dabbed the brush into a jam-jar of murky water and swept it
delicately across an ingot of lemon yellow paint, before applying it to the coarse greyish paper.
He began to pour the coffee, imagining he saw something else on
Emma`s desk, a blue velvet… scrunchy. Scrungy. Of course. Every morning Marion pulled the hair
back from Emma`s scowling face. Why did she bother? They both knew Emma got rid of the damn
thing as soon as she was out of sight.
The coffee welled over the lip of the mug, ran down the formica
surface, and began to drip onto the floor. When he lifted a cloth from the sink, it smelled
of sulphurous cauliflower.
Three and a half years. That`s how long he`d been living here,
in this basement flat. His decree nisi came through a year ago, slid under the door--there
was no letter box.
Perhaps pondering this or in some feeble attempt to dispel
his lethargy, he carried on wiping at the coffee-stain long after it had gone.
| "There had been a time, not so many years ago, when he believed
it was merely a matter of finding the right mixture of beans. He had piously courted Arabica and shunned
Robusta. He had sampled single-estate varietals and organic Mexican co-operatives; rich roasts and smooth
blends, high hopes and low ebbs." |
Wandering into the bathroom, he put the plug in the bath and turned
on the taps. This place was a stop-gap. That`s what he had said to himself when he left Marion.
He needed a stop gap. And now? He shook his head at the rising steam. It wasn`t that the flat
was so bad. It had "condensation problems", as Mrs Koenig had warned him. He remembered her even
gaze when he`d turned up on her front step, that Tuesday evening. "This is not, I think, the
place for a man such as yourself."
"I`d like to see it.”
“It has no central heating.”
“I don`t mind.”
She shrugged, then simply brushed her way past.
"Of course, I am anxious to rent it out.", she said, in the tone
of a woman who has never known a moment`s anxiety in her life.
He had followed her then, down the narrow steps, in silence.
Mrs Koenig moved with surprising deftness. At the front door, muttering to herself, she
bent down to put a key in the lock, then straightened and leaned on the door, which, as
it opened, snagged, in a series of juddering halts on the tiles beneath. The place was
in darkness. They turned left through another doorway. Here, the sound of their feet
on wooden boards spoke of a large, empty space.
"It has been recently redecorated. The workmen were",
she paused, "cretins". She pronounced it Crete - ans. Swaddled in darkness, he smiled.
"Of course, it is impossible in this country to get workmen who are not cretins."
"Mmm," he said.
"You agree?"
"Well..."
"Or you just pretend, to get the flat? I must warn you, it is not
a…comfortable place. I lived here for a time myself", she made a little hiss of disbelief. "See."
She lifted something from a sideboard, and squeezed it in her hand. With a whirr, it sent a wan
light into the surrounding gloom before fading. A dynamo torch. She squeezed it again, pointing
in a different direction. "The walls have been re-plastered, the floor repaired. But there is
no central heating, just that." Another squeeze revealed an ancient gas fire against one wall.
This time he noticed the carmine nails gripping the torch handle. “It is long past time”, she
said, “that gas contraption was ripped out. It could well be dangerous.”
"No it`s fine, I`m sure", he said, then, a little self-consciously,
"Fine."
They turned back, towards the kitchen. "Here, there was very
little we could do." A vaulted ceiling of crumbling brick had been clumsily painted white.
"And there is the bathroom. You would have to remember to bend your head", she gestured
towards the low lintel, "a man your height could decapitate himself". The light from the
torch died once more, and this time she did not renew it. For a moment in the blackness
he could hear their breathing, like beasts in a stall. "There is another small room. It
is not of use, except for storage. There was a vent - onto the street, you understand--and
someone blocked it up. With concrete." She snorted derisively. "So naturally, we have
problems with condensation."
On the way back up the stairs, he ventured some comment about
his work, then, when this was ignored, asked about hers. “Me? I am a Luftmensch, Mr Gilvray.
You know this term?” “Yes”, he lied. She shot him a glance before continuing, “No, I am,
for my sins, a therapist. I practice from home. My father is housebound.” They had arrived
at the door to the upstairs apartments. She faced him. “Here”, she said. Two keys lay in
the palm of her hand. “If you are quite certain you are ready to make this move, you will
need these. And no, I do not want a deposit. You will not damage the flat, or become I
think a…squatter. Oh, and you should have this.”, she held out a square of cardboard.
In the half-light he did not immediately recognise it. It was a carbon monoxide warning
patch. “I have been meaning to put it up myself”, she smiled, “it changes colour if
there’s any problem.” She began to close the door, then added, as if in afterthought,
“Send me a cheque for the first month’s rent when you get the time.”
Three and a half years. Each winter, he vowed that he`d
be gone for the next one. By now, he knew the pattern of his intent, its numbing periodicity.
A day would come, sometime in the aftermath of Christmas, where he`d even comb the "To Let"
columns with frail enthusiasm, red pen in hand. But then, come spring, with new light
streaming through the barred windows of the main room, the place just didn`t seem so
bad any more.
He would buy himself a new yucca, vowing to water it this
time; a bookcase, a framed print of Fauvist or Blaue Reiter garishness, even repaint the
bathroom with mildrew-resistant emulsion. Over a matter of months, the credibility of the
move, its brooding immanence, would quietly seep away, until it no longer troubled him at all.
And now here he lay, in the massive enamel bath, wallowing.
“Luftmensch - (Ger) n one who lives on air - one with no appreciable means of support.”
He had never forgotten the word but was still no wiser as
to why she had ventured it. And what sort of a person would find therapeutic solace
with the likes of Mrs Koenig? It was beyond him. He`d even, once, feeling slightly
guilty, looked her up in Yellow pages under “Therapists”, but had found nothing.
The bathwater was cooler than body temperature. He told
himself to move, but didn`t. He really wasn`t himself, he thought. Perhaps he was coming
down with something. Days like this were enough to make him think of leaving London,
returning to the drumlins and desperation of his so-called "home".
Then suddenly he was upright, out of there, dried and gowned,
and hurrying barefoot through the kitchen. That was when he saw the envelope. Half-way
under the door, in Mrs Koening`s imperious scrawl: Mr Gilvray, underlined twice. On the
few occasions she wrote to him, it was always in black fountain pen. He frowned, setting
the note on the sideboard while he dressed himself. Only then did he retrieve it. Why
would she write to him? Even though she occupied the top of the house, he rarely saw
the woman, and never her clients, entering or leaving.
“Mr Gilvray. I would be the first to admit that I have had small
cause for complaint. You have been, in all significant respects,
a model tenant. I can only assume, therefore, that there has
been some misunderstanding with your bank, since I regret
to inform you that the cheque you sent me last week has failed
to clear.
In the certainty of a prompt response.
Ever,
M. T. Koenig (Mrs)
He read this communique twice, then once more to focus his growing
irritation. “small cause”, “all significant respects”. Who did she think she was?
He would get to the bottom of this straight away. There should
have been enough in his account to cover the rent. He lifted the phone, jabbed in the phone number
of the bank.
* * *
The rest of the morning was spent in the main room, brushing the
floor and reordering his few pieces of furniture. He even began to alphabetise his books, but
gave up after half an hour or so, poring, duster in hand, over once-favourite novels and forgotten
flyleaf inscriptions of undying love, lust and birthday cheer. Then he turned his attention to
the desk, filling a black plastic bin-bag with letters, invoices, bills, credit-card solicitations,
theatre mail-shots, charity requests, take-away menus, pools ads: “Mr Gilvray, up to £100,000 to
give away! You are this month`s lucky winner!!! Simply return this form to redeem your allotted
cash prize within the next 12 days.”
This was good, this purge; it gave him a sense of control, tearing
up old photos with a firm hand, binning the last of Marion`s billets-doux. It had the effect of
settling him. Yes he was, he thought smugly, putting his affairs in order.
By twelve thirty, when his mind would ordinarily have turned to
lunch and the one o`clock news, he had no appetite for either, instead deciding to tackle the
bathroom, a task he had been deferring for so long it had almost ceased to trouble him.
The bathroom had suffered most from the incessant condensation. Partly because of this,
and partly due to age, the plywood skirting round the base of the bath had rotted underneath
its varnish. It needed to be ripped off and replaced.
He stood in the doorway, contemplating the task ahead, before
deciding to begin at the near end of the bath under the taps. Kneeling, he pushed a screwdriver
under the edge of the wood panel and began to lever it off. A small patch came away with a sound
like the tearing of damp cardboard. He peered blindly into this hole, then prized off the rest.
Now the murk below the rusted underbelly of the bath lay open to his gaze. The entire area was
a seething mass of slugs; their spasmodic bodies sometimes two-deep near the edges of the skirting.
Close to him, he watched as one of the larger animals retracted its glistening antennae with
terrible slowness. He quickly shoved the panel back, but it was broken now. He jabbed at it,
feeling a rush of saliva in his mouth, then backed away, fighting an image of slick corpulence
writhing in its own exudations.
He went to the main room and paced around, trying to think of
anything else. It didn`t work. There were gaps around the bottom of the broken panel. The
slugs, contained for so long in their dank prison, would surely strive for the light. Did
they do that, slugs? The way today was going, he knew they did that. He would have to act
before he could think about it.
His eyes drifted into the corner, where the sky-blue duvet lay
rumpled. That`s what he would do. He would make the bed.
Instead, he found himself lying dead still on the mattress.
The ceiling with its broken plaster rose seemed very far above him. What was it about today?
Why was he so freighted with inertia? If Emma was here, somehow it would all be different,
he felt. Somehow, it would all come alive.
When he woke some time later, it was with this thought: he
would go in and get rid of the slugs, march upstairs to Mrs Koenig, and tell her in no
uncertain terms the state of her flat. Yes, in reality it was good, this business with
the bath, it meant he could take the initiative.
He walked to the bathroom in good heart. His mood even
survived plucking the first few escapees from the wall and hurling them into a carrier-bag,
but, by the time he began to scoop up the oozing remainder using the dustpan and brush, the
sight of squirming bodies lodged in the bristles drained him of his original sense of mission.
Nevertheless, he persisted until the slugs were a heavy mass in the bottom of the plastic bag,
tied the top, and hoisted it outside to the bin.
It was not quite dark, but the sky had slipped.
If ever, this was the moment to face Mrs K.
He glanced back towards his flat, his eyes scrutinising the
barred window as if it was that of an unknown house, harbouring an unknown tenant.
Mrs K would always be upstairs. Waiting. There was no rush,
after all. He took a step closer to the pane of glass, noticing how the rain had made a minute
pattern, like repeated tears, in the dirt there.
Then, leaning in towards his own shadow, he looked beyond, to
the interior of the room. To the left was the pine cupboard. Right, the antique chest of
drawers. Against the wall, impassive, lay the bookshelves, and further away, the bed. All
as before, perfectly, silently, inoffensive. The accoutrements of a life.
There was something, though - he struggled
| "He walked to the bathroom in good heart. His mood even survived
plucking the first few escapees from the wall and hurling them into a carrier-bag, but, by the time he began
to scoop up the oozing remainder using the dustpan and brush, the sight of squirming bodies lodged in the
bristles drained him of his original sense of mission." |
to focus his growing
unease - about the bed. The more he stared at it--this bed, his bed, the more it appeared to
him as if he could actually see himself lying there, a lump under the duvet, as if he had never
roused himself this morning at all. Standing there in the sly dusk, his right hand clasping
and unclasping the keys in his pocket, he told himself this was an illusion, a trick of light
and shade and the disarray of the bedclothes, but the mollifying words came to him dimly, as
though through a locked door.
He averted his eyes, then looked back. Yes, there could be
no doubt. There he lay, under the blue duvet, curled on his right side, unmoving. Entirely,
irrevocably still. Lost to the routine consolation of chairs and cupboards.
He turned then, and ran up the steps to the front door, pressing
the button of the intercom. There was a faint fistling noise. He strained to hear above the
sound of the traffic.
“Hello?” he said.
A pause, then, “About time.”
The door clicked and he opened it. He groped upwards through
the gloom of the stairwell. On the top floor the entrance to Mrs K`s flat lay slightly ajar,
releasing a wedge of light onto a charcoal carpet.
“Yes. Yes.” Her voice from within--two falling notes--beckoned
him to a large room where she reclined on a leather sofa. Opposite where she lay, two brass
storm-lamps flanked a black stone mantelpiece. A huge Persian rug filled the middle of
the floor.
Mrs Koenig sat with her feet curled up beneath her. Her
stockings were double ply across the toes. Behind her hung a large rectangular painting,
a still life; three watermelons on an oak table, each with a segment cut from it. “You
will forgive me for not getting up.”
“I've been in contact with the bank…”
"What?" She said.
"The bank". She waved at him to sit and he did so, in a
wing-backed armchair which seemed to rise and envelop him.
“This is the room I use to see my patients--most irregular."
"They said the cheque will clear now," he said.
She took a sip of red wine, waved an admonishing finger at herself.
"No, you do not understand. The therapist should be a cypher.” She nodded. “A cypher.”
“Right.” He wondered whether she was drunk. How could you
ever tell?
“You would like a drink.” In one motion, she drained her glass,
lifted it, and left the room. He looked around. On a bureau in the corner, photos of long
dead relatives stared out of their silver frames with faded gravitas.
Then he heard it. A strangled sound: loud, close-by. He
gave a start. The noise continued, becoming a welter of plosives, stuttering, urgent.
He peered up at what seemed to be its source and saw a tiny black speaker on the wall.
“My Father`s house has many mansions.” Mrs Koenig had
materialised beside him, smiling. “He`s upstairs. Says he wants me to tell him who is
visiting.” She set down his glass, sipped from hers. “I have few visitors outside my
business hours.”
The speaker barked again, this time more abruptly. She
returned to the sofa. “He gets frustrated. No-one else can understand him. A massive
stroke.”, she paused, “It`s just as well I can practice from home. Sometimes my clients
get a shock. We are in the middle of discussing some…trauma and he starts up.” She
sipped her wine. “Despite what you may think, I am classically trained. I do not
go in for Jungian fables, or nonsensical notions of re-birthing.” She laughed
loudly, the wine swinging in her glass. “Re-birthing”, she echoed.
It was high time he spoke. “I just wanted you to know…”
“You have come up because of my note? I apologise if
I have hurt your feelings.”
“No, you haven’t hurt my feelings.”
“No? Then I withdraw my apology. Before you came up,
I was looking at these.” She pulled out a bundle of papers from behind the arm of
the sofa and handed them to him.
For a shocking moment he was looking at paintings by
Emma--childish daubs in green and blue: trees, aeroplanes, cars, bushes, fish.
“That`s what he does these days. That's what he is
reduced to.”
“I`m…sorry to hear that.”
“How can you be?”
“Hmmm?” This wine was strong - he could feel it.
“Sorry. How can you be sorry? Have you met my father?
Do you know of my father by repute?”
“No – I – “
“Do not, then, lie about what you are feeling. It
is pointless.” He detected a sinking sensation at the back of his skull, as if he
was ascending rapidly in a lift. To keep himself steady, he focused on the
intricate border of the Persian rug.
“You come up here to complain. But you forget, I
warned you against the flat in the first place. You had every opportunity to
live elsewhere.”
“The bank…” he said.
“It hardly matters now.” She waved her hand in a
dismissive gesture. “Are you aware that every Persian carpet has to contain a
deliberate flaw, on the principle that only God can be perfect? Hah!” She stood.
“You’ll have another glass. A bird can’t fly on one wing.”
Suddenly the speaker gave a peremptory cough.
Mrs Koenig, standing by his right shoulder, gave it a little nod of acknowledgement.
“Yes.”, she responded, “you’re right. It is time.” She secured his empty glass with
her plump white fingers. “Now.”, she released a long sigh, “You may like to look at
the warning card I gave you when you moved in. Carbon Monoxide? At this moment you
have it in your back pocket.” She stepped back, staring at him like a photographer
sizing up a subject. “Or perhaps…perhaps you wouldn’t like to do that in the least."
She bent down and picked up his glass, even though some wine remained there. "You see,
today is a special day for you. You sensed it, did you not? From the moment you awoke?"
He forced himself to meet her stare above him and saw,
for the first time, eyes of an infinite grey. "Sometimes people need to be told what
they already know. In many ways, that’s my job: telling people what they already know.
A thankless profession." She smiled. "You see, people have good reason for their
little acts of subterfuge. Just as you do. The last thing you want to see is what
the card will tell you--that your flat was filled with poisonous gas overnight, and
that the sleep from which you found it so hard to awake was a sleep from which you
have never arisen -" She reached out her hand and ran it with agonising softness
across his cheek. "…will never arise. The events of today, such as they are,
constitute a period of adjustment, what we in the profession call "displacement
activity"." She paused. "Of course, even now, I do not expect to be believed,
and that is why, when you are ready, we will go down to your bed for a viewing
of the remains." She took a single step backwards, turned and walked to the door.
“Did you know, Mr Gilvray, that my father was once
a painter of some renown? The canvas above my sofa, for example.” She nodded
slightly towards it, “Of course, he created portraits also, but was best known
for his still lifes.” She inclined her head slightly, like a child facing a
difficult problem. “Do you say “lifes” or “lives”?”
“Lives, I mean lifes” he said.
* * *
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