by Carol Mckay

She unfastens the buckle of my belt and coaxes the button through the hole. My zip sticks at the rise and fall of the material. I wait for that first touch of her fingers on my skin, that makes my belly quiver. No: that makes my skin crawl.

I hit her hand away. "Get lost, Jillian."

"What is it with you?"

"I'm not interested."

I keep my eyes fixed on the television. Some crap about war, or Nebraska, or fuck knows what. I'm an arse, and I know I am. She walks off to the other room, and feeds the cat.

"I'm going to bed," she says, coming back in, and putting lights out. "Are you coming?"

"I'm watching this."

"I'll see you in the morning."

She'll be sleeping by the time I get upstairs. I need it that way.

Another day -

The phone rings. I let it ring. Other people can answer it. Jillian, or young Peter, or Eilidh. Some crap about War on Want, or New Bathrooms, or fuck knows what. I'm an arse, and I know I am. But I just can't cope with it.

Jillian's out for a night out. Eilidh gets it.

"Mum says, can you come and pick her up? She's at the station."

I hate getting the car out in daylight. Fucking summer. It's not so bad if I take the kids. I send them out first, with the keys. Eilidh unlocks the driver's side, and they get themselves in. I look round the house, close any windows, stretching out my arm from the side, behind the curtains. What a prick I am. What an arsehole.

In the car. Lock the doors. Crunch reverse.

Bitch does it on purpose. She knows I hate driving. The car was there - she didn't need to take the train. She didn't need to take a drink.

Another day -

"Jacky called today, Dad."

"Jacky? What did he want?"

"I don't know, it was Mum that spoke to him. Are you not going to the rugby any more, Dad?"

"No, son."

"How not, Dad?"

I look at the boy. His skin is like a girl's. How could I make him understand?

"I don't want to, son. Did he say anything to you? What did he say to your Mum?"

"No. I don't know. She did a lot of laughing."

Laughing. There's a sound you don't hear every day of the week. Jillian arrives.

"I hear Jacky called."

"Yeah. He hasn't heard from you in ages," she says. "Wondered how you were doing, if you wanted to go out or what. Maybe go out as a foursome with some other girl from work."

I scoff. A foursome. Protection.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Well why are you being like this?"

Silence.

"Why are you being like this?"

No answer.

"It's like living with a fucking zombie!"

I glare at her. She never used to swear, even when she was younger. Smoking dope. Sitting the way men do. One ankle on her knee, and her leg bent. Then she learned to wear power skirts, and cross her legs properly. When she started working with Jacky.

She tries a different approach.

"You should see a doctor."

"I don't need to see a doctor."

"You do, Peter. There's something wrong with you."

That makes me mad. That makes me really mad. Who's she to say there's something wrong with me? How would she know? With her power dressing, and Jacky on the phone to her. I feel the rage build up, my body ready to fragment and spit outwards, showering red, black and yellow in total obliteration. Total obliteration.

Total obliteration.

I can't stand the bitch. That's why I hit her. Trying to get total obliteration.

My work's good. It's the only good. If I can get absorbed in it, don't need to think, get no memories seeping in. It's physical. It's repetitive. I lean on the drill hard and think of Jacky.

Another day -

I wake with my legs trembling at the thud of boots powering towards me, pounding on the grass. Brace for the crush of bodies, forcing me to the ground but I won't give up to them. The ball's under my stomach and they want it but I won't give it up to them. They thump on me, gritty thighs split me from the back, ripping flesh but I won't give up to them. Suddenly I'm crying. You can't cry on the rugby field. It doesn't matter how it hurts, you can't cry like a child any more. You're a full grown man.

Another day -

Sometimes it gets quite hard to blot it out. Jillian gets dolled up for bed at night. She's taken to wearing silky things. Slinky. A bit of lace across the top, and two thin straps. The silk slides over the curves on her. It doesn't do a thing for me. Dead from the neck down, where she's concerned. She thinks it means she needs to try harder. Funny that. She gets into bed and strokes my chest, but my insides are set concrete. Sheet steel. The outside of me is soft, and it stays that way. I don't know when she last made anything move. Well, I do, of course, but she doesn't know it. She hasn't worked it out.

"You're only in your thirties, Peter! This shouldn't be happening. There must be something wrong!"

Oh there's something wrong alright. I look at her. Power dressing at night, too. Why doesn't she just ask Jacky. She sees him plenty. Power dressers both of them. What a perfect couple.

The weeks go by. It doesn't get better. There's grief in the house, grief in my sleep. I'm hitting them more. I know I shouldn't do it. Smirking faces - she's got the kids on her side now. Because they see me hit her. They don't see how I've been hurt.

My work's okay. Geordie picks me up, before anyone else is up. I go in the back of the van. At the site, I put on my goggles, put on the ear protectors. "Maybe it's white finger," she said to me once. White finger? Maybe Jacky'll get white finger, and his prick'll drop off. I can't stand the sight of him. He visits the site, wearing his suit, his hard hat and his wellingtons. So important with his clip board and his theodolite. Taking readings. Read my lips, bastard. Read my lips. I know all about you.

It's all to do with power politics.

I heard that on a talk show.

I can't bring myself to even look at Jacky.

Another day -

It's nearly Christmas. She went to the school fair with a black eye and sunglasses, holding the two children tightly by the hand. There's no way I could go. She wouldn't want me.

She met Jacky there. He's probably on the School Board, teaches them rugby. Keep away from my children.

"Jacky says, why don't we go to the Club Dance? It's for Christmas. Maybe we could try again?"

"I'm not going."

"Peter, maybe we should try again. I'm willing."

I don't say anything.

"I still want to."

I zap through the channels.

"Peter. I don't care what you've put me through. I still want to sort things out. Can't you look at me when I'm talking to you? You never look me in the eyes, Peter."

I can't look in her eyes. She would see into mine.

"I still love you."

Pause.

"What's wrong with you? Don't you want to try?"

December 18 th .

Last year I was in the club's bus heading for Swansea . Supposed to be. This year I'm in a taxi heading for a night out. The year swings round, like the driver's hand on the steering wheel. Yet everything's the same. We're still here. This time Jillian's beside me, all dressed up.

"It'll be great to see everyone again. I've missed coming out to the club. I still don't know why you stopped playing."

"Getting too old for it."

"You're not old."

"I'm ancient."

We stop at the rugby club. It's cold outside, but it's clear, and the darkness soothes like oblivion. There's music playing, loud, but muted, like through ear protectors. I pay the driver. Jillian holds my arm, skittering on the ice in high heels. I suppose I'm good for something.

I don't remember going through the doors last year. I'd gone through those doors so many times, it was an insignificant act. Tonight it's hot inside, thick and choking, walking in, with Jillian holding me.

"Relax Peter!" she looks concerned. "Your arm's solid!"

Like a steel rope;

like a concrete pillar;

like a thumping drill;

like an iron girder.

Jacky is at the bar: he buys us drink. He's not getting mine. Jacky insists. He puts one on the table in front of me when I'm not looking. Which is the one I bought? My throat is dry but I won't drink. I lick my lips. Jacky smirks at Jillian. She sits between us.

"Come and dance - remember this one!" She laughs excitedly.

I move away from Jacky, but watch him, sitting at the table. My drink is on the table. I have to see he won't touch it.

"Relax, Peter! It's just you and me!" she says, moving her hips against mine. She doesn't get an answer. "Don't be a pain in the arse, Peter! Loosen up a bit."

I stare past her, not taking my eyes off Jacky.

"Who are you looking at? Jacky? I'd be better off dancing with him. And he hates dancing! Especially with women!"

I look at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Jacky doesn't like dancing with women. Everybody knows that."

Jillian knows about Jacky. Maybe she's always known about Jacky. She's never been taken in by him, by the neat nails, and the power dressing. "I'm going to the toilet."

"Peter?"

I leave her standing. Maybe Jacky will come.

It's cooler in the toilet. I don't recognise the tiles. They must have changed them. I splashed my face here afterwards, when she thought we were in Swansea .

I look at my face in the mirror. Look into my eyes. Jillian knows about Jacky. Does she know about me? I see myself in my dark grey suit, my blue shirt and tie. Very neat. This all comes down to power politics. Dressing. And undressing.

Jillian doesn't have a clue about Jacky. He put something in my drink, and brought me here. He laid my face against the tiles. I felt him slide my belt from my trousers. I knew what he was doing, but I was powerless, as if I'd wakened on an operating table.

I reach into my jacket sleeve for the iron bar I've concealed in it. Total obliteration. I know what I'm going to do to that bastard.

© Carol McKay

Carol McKay worked for several years as a creative writing tutor in North and South Lanarkshire (including Hieton Writers' Group) but is now working as a specialist tutor on the Open University's new short course 'Start Writing Fiction'.

Her stories and poems have been published in a variety of literary magazines. In 2002 her story 'Unrestricted' was short-listed for the Macallan/Scotland on Sunday Short Story Competition and published in the anthology Shorts 5, by Polygon. Most recently her poem 'Transience' was published in the innovative anthology 'The Knuckle End'. She lives in Hamilton with her husband and three of her four daughters.