Before Sleep by Charlotte Beeston / Fiction / Untitled Books

"You didn't knock. You opened the door and walked straight in. While the family watched TV downstairs, you couldn't stop yourself coming inside me, here, on my single bed."

Before Sleep by Charlotte Beeston

It's eight o'clock in the evening. I'm in bed. Dusk pokes round the edge of the curtains.
Earlier today, we spoke on the phone. You were busy at work. You couldn't get away.

'Not even for half an hour?' I said.

'No,' you said.

I wanted to see you even more then. To kiss the side of your neck. To feel you biting my shoulder. I like it when you do that, but I'm not allowed to do it back.

You said you wanted to take me on holiday. Not far, maybe Wales. A cottage near the Brecon Beacons. I thought of hills and valleys like painted landscapes. Wind rustling the trees. A lush countryside. Lying in bed with you, naked, all night.

Last week, I saw your wife. I went to your house with a recipe book she wanted to borrow, hoping to find you there. She's started putting black pencil around her eyes and it doesn't look good. I asked where you were. She said you were working overtime and glanced towards the ceiling. I thought of your bedroom directly above. The large bed, your fitness magazines, her gardening books, a window that looks out over the backs of houses.

'We haven't had a proper chat in a while,' your wife said, taking the book and leading me into the living room. 'I think perhaps we should.' She sat me on the sofa. It smelt of you.

I lie in bed now and try to remember your smell. Faint mildew - is that from your clothes? - and aftershave on your hands and face. The boys at school, with their baggy blazers and acne-studded foreheads, don't smell like you. They're so young. When I hear them talking about how sexually experienced they are, I laugh to myself.

Not long after we first kissed, you said you didn't mean for it to happen. That it is out of your control. Dad was helping mum in the bathroom and you pushed me up against our kitchen wall. It's not wrong, you said, over and over again. We're not blood relations.

In the dark of my room, I picture you leaning over me. You put your hand under my nightdress and tell me I am beautiful. You circle my hip bone with your finger. You can still feel it nudging through the skin above my thigh.

Although I'm tired, I cannot drift off. The TV is on downstairs and I can hear mum laughing. You don't have any family, any real family, you said once. No brothers, uncles, cousins, that sort of thing. Your parents are dead. It makes me feel sad for you.

You told me about my mum, when she was young. One evening, when everyone else had gone to bed and I stayed up late, listening to you. You said she used to have long hair. She wore it up most of the time, swept off her neck with tortoiseshell combs. She was happy and used to dance until her cheeks were red.

You told me about the time you went camping with mum and dad and your wife in the New Forest, a long time ago. The campsite was really a 'pitch and put' course and you put up the tent next to the eighth hole. People teed off around you. I didn't believe you at first. It's true, you said, it was really like that. The loos had push button showers that always stopped too quickly and signs that said, 'don't leave your pants on the floor'. Another family was staying with young children who shouted loudly in the mornings. You had a portable radio - people called it a ghetto blaster back then - and played your Duran Duran tapes noisily, late at night, to get them back.

You said mum loved the wild ponies. You took her on a walk to find them when dad was fixing the car, but you got lost. There were no mobile phones back then and you didn't have a map. After a while mum began to panic. When you found some ponies, mum wasn't concentrating and got too close to one of them. It bit her above the breastbone. Her skin swelled up into a blue and yellow lump that stayed for days.

This all happened before you were married, before I was born. I know that you drove mum to hospital when she was in labour with me. In the car you had at the time. A green Ford Capri. I laughed at the name, but you said they were popular back then.

Feeling for my mobile on the bedside table, I dial your number.

You pick up straight away. 'Are you okay?'

'Yes. I'm fine.'

'What do you want?'

'I wanted to hear your voice.'

You sigh.

'Did you mean it, about going away?' I say.

'Yes. Of course.'

'When?'

'As soon as I can find some time.'

'You used to have lots of time.'

'It's difficult at the moment. I've already told you that.'

I nod without saying anything.

'Oh, and by the way, don't text me later. She checks my phone.'

'I love you,' I say.

'That's nice. I know that. Look, I'm tired now, alright? I'll call you tomorrow.'

I hang up. The screen stays illuminated for a few seconds and then fades. I'm thirsty so I get out of bed and go downstairs for a glass of water. The hall still smells of the fish we had for dinner. As I pass the door to the lounge, I see mum's burgundy slippered feet on the bottom of her chair.

'Down again, Amy?' she calls out.

'Yes,' I say, standing in the doorway. 'Just for some water.'

Mum's watching Desperate Housewives on TV. Dad is snoozing with his head against the back of the sofa. His face looks purple under the tasselled wall light.

'You went to bed early,' she says, keeping her eyes on the TV. 'But then again, you did look tired.'

My dad stirs. 'I'm tired, too,' he says, sitting up straight. He reaches towards the glass of wine on the table in front of him.

'But she's young,' mum says, rolling her eyes. 'Perhaps it's this part-time job on top of school.' She glances at me then looks back at the TV. 'At least you're finally over that stomach bug.'

Dad goes to say something, but changes his mind and puts a hand on her shoulder. He tried her in the car again, the other day. He thought she might be okay this time, and she seemed alright when she was in it, but then she had bad dreams the same night and he realised he shouldn't have done it. That she still wasn't ready.

The doorbell goes. I shuffle over to the lounge window and pull back the curtains.

'It's Karen,' I say.

'Go on, then,' mum says, nudging dad. 'She's your sister.'

As dad passes me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and says: 'Don't go anywhere.'

I pull a face and look over at mum. She's turning up the TV with the remote.

'Here she is,' dad says, shouting over the TV, as he leads Karen into the lounge.

She stands by the door, her gaze drifting around the room, then fixes her eyes on me. She's wearing that bad eyeliner again. Does she dye her hair? It's so black, blue-black, like a raven.

'Hello, Amy.' She looks down at my pyjamas. 'Ready for bed?'

'Yes,' I mumble, letting my fringe fall forward. I start to back out of the room and dad glares at me.

'Don't go just yet,' she says, smiling. 'I've some news.'

Mum mutes the volume and stares at her expectantly. Dad motions his sister to the armchair by the window.

'I got the job I went for,' she says, sitting down. She flaps her hand as she talks and I notice a large, ugly ring on her finger, like a flat orange lozenge. It must be new.

'That's great,' dad says, leaning forwards. He looks at mum. 'Isn't that good news, Kate?'

'Mmm,' she says. 'I'm going to get a cup of tea.' On her way out of the room, she asks me if I want a drink and I shake my head.

When I was young, I saw mum slap your wife's face. I haven't told you that before. I was supposed to be in bed, but I heard loud voices below and I crept down the stairs to listen. I could see mum through the lounge door, standing close to your wife. She had her back to me. Suddenly Mum reached out her hand and I heard the smack on your wife's jaw and saw her head jolt sidewards. Then, without a word, mum turned and left the room and walked past me on the stairs as if I wasn't there. Your wife didn't cry. She just stood there with her hand to her face.

Dad smiles after mum's gone. 'That's really good news,' he says again, nodding encouragingly at his sister. 'It's been hard for you,' he adds, quietly.

'Yes,' she says, admiring her ring. 'It's been challenging.' She stares at my father pointedly. I know what she's talking about. Dad told mum who told me. I knew anyway from you. More IVF. Still no baby for her.

'Anyway, David's happy,' she says. 'It's taken him a while to realise how important this is for me.'

I try not to react at the mention of your name. I'm jealous of the past you share with her. Of the things that you did before I was born. The things you do with her now.

'Aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea?' she says to dad, hand on hips, pretending she's offended.

'Didn't she - ?' dad breaks off, looking in the direction of where mum went.

'I'll go,' I say, but dad motions me to stay put. He wants to check on mum anyway. We've got a special kettle that tips on a hinge, but she can still burn herself if she's not careful.

'Skimmed milk,' she calls out to dad as he leaves the room.

It's just your wife and me now. She goes over to the sofa and picks up the remote from the arm and mutes the TV. We stand in silence for a minute or so. It feels like a very long time.

'So, dad tells me you've stopped netball,' she says, eventually.

'Oh, yeah.' I shrug my shoulders. 'It's boring.' I can't tell her that jumping about makes me feel sick, sicker than I do normally.

'But you loved netball,' she says, walking towards me. I look over my shoulder to see where dad has got to.

'What was your position? Wing something or other - '

'Wing attack,' I say.

'Yes, that's right. Wing attack.' She goes to poke me in the ribs, but I move away from her before she can feel the curve of my stomach.

'What's the matter?' she says, peering at me. 'You look ever so frightened.' She draws in her lips and stops herself from smiling.

Her face is close to mine and I notice a red mark on her neck. It looks like a fresh bruise.

After a moment, she sits down on the sofa with her bag by her feet.

'You see, when I was your age, Amy, I was always out with friends. Netball wasn't my thing though, I used to go to the roller disco.'

I look at her chunky thighs splayed on the sofa. She's wearing navy ski pants with those stupid stirrups that fasten under her feet. If I were you, I would tell her those trousers went out ages ago. In fact, I don't know if they were ever in.

'I bet you can't believe that now, can you?' she says, smiling at me.

I shake my head.

She takes out a shiny black cartridge from her trouser pocket and slowly pulls off the lid. Lifting her head back, she starts putting on red lipstick, right over the edges of her shrunken lips, while breathing heavily through flared nostrils.

'You see. You're only young once. And of course, you'll misbehave. You'll be naughty.' She pauses and looks straight ahead. 'But then you'll see sense. You'll take the opportunity to make something of yourself.'

Just for a moment, I imagine it is her, not mum, in the car.

'Here we are,' dad says, coming into the room with a mug. He puts it on the table beside her. 'So, big changes for you, Karen.'

'Oh yes. I'm looking forward to being busy again,' she says, sighing softly, and then in the same breath asks after mum.

'Still the same,' dad says, gazing at the TV screen.

She reaches out a hand and grasps him by the wrist. 'You're a good man,' she says. 'A really good man.'

'It's going out dancing we miss the most,' he says. 'Funny that'.

'No regrets,' she says, patting him on the hand. 'That's my philosophy. That's how I live my life.' She looks over at me. 'Imagine not having Amy here to help. Imagine that.'

Dad nods slowly. He beckons me over to him and I sit down on the sofa, sandwiched between the two of them.

'I was just telling Amy how wonderful it is being young. Look how pretty she is.'

She pulls back my fringe and I lean away from her, even closer to dad.

'Do you have a new boyfriend? I only mention it because I thought I saw you with someone the other day. It must have been late because I was in the car, going to get David from work.'

Dad frowns for a moment then smiles at me. 'Oh Amy's always got boys after her, haven't you?' he says. His eyes turn glossy whenever someone gives me a compliment.

I laugh nervously and look over at the window. The curtains are pulled back from earlier and I can see your wife's profile reflected in the glass pane. She's still talking to me, but I'm so tired now, I can hardly listen.

'I'm going to bed,' I say.

'Before you go, Amy,' she says, peering into her bag. 'I've got a present for you.' She brings out a white box tied with blue ribbon. It looks expensive.

'What's this for?' I say.

'Oh, I'm just being friendly.'

'Isn't that kind?' dad says, admiring the wrapping.

I take the box from her and start to untie the bow. There's no card. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is a crochet rabbit.

'She's a bit old for that,' mum says, as she wheels herself back into the room.

'Oh, you're never too old for a cuddly toy,' Karen says, a fan of wrinkles opening at the corner of her eyes.

'Thanks,' I say, frowning.

Back in my room, I check my mobile for new messages. There's nothing. Last Christmas, you texted me and told me to go to my bedroom. You didn't knock. You opened the door and walked straight in. While the family watched TV downstairs, you couldn't stop yourself coming inside me, here, on my single bed. You let me bite you that one time, then sent me messages every day for a month.

I sit on the floor, holding the rabbit in my hands. It's goofy and childish with black button eyes and embroidered whiskers. The label says suitable for newborns. When I shake it, plastic beans jumble about inside the soft wool.

For a moment I think I'm going to cry - it must be the hormones - and I go over to the window and open it. The handle gives with a stiff clunk. Cold air flows into the room and lifts the edges of my Cheryl Cole poster. You said that I look like her. That I have her eyes. You told me that the first time we had sex together, when I said I was still a virgin and you said you were glad.

I stand at the window and look out. It's dark now. All the street lights have come on.

Someone closes the curtain in the upstairs room across the road.

After a while, the front door slams and I see your wife walking away. She takes her phone out of her bag. As I watch her go round the corner of the street, I dial your number and wait for it to ring. Your phone goes straight through to voicemail.

When I can no longer see her, I hurl the rabbit out of the window and onto the front lawn. Its white crotchet body sinks into the long grass and I leave it there, all night, in the cold, to become soaked with dew.

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Charlotte Beeston was born in 1976 in England and spent part of her childhood in the US. She practised law in the City for nine years, and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck College, University of London. She lives in London.

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Thursday, 24 February, 2011

In New voices

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Issue 44 / May 2012

"You didn't knock. You opened the door and walked straight in. While the family watched TV downstairs, you couldn't stop yourself coming inside me, here, on my single bed."