Me 

LiteraryFiction 

Trained to Hurt

Two hours later, Frank lay on top of his unmade bed, fully clothed but with his shirt and trousers unbuttoned. He had his shoes on his feet, his head propped against a sweat-stained pillow, and his hand fixed around a bottle of stout. A small Hitachi system on the floor filled the room with a Porcupine Tree track, reminiscent of old Genesis, Yes and Camel. Frank was exhausted, yet sleep refused to take him. It was the same every night. A shadeless, fifteen-watt bulb on the bedside lamp leaked meagre light across the room. Drab, dingy curtains, permanently drawn, hid smeared glass and peeling paintwork while the pattern on the threadbare carpet lay hidden beneath old newspaper cuttings and crumpled clothes. In one corner, by the wardrobe, there was a mountain of empty beer bottles, most of them upright, covered by a thickening layer of dust; the cleaner ones were nearer the bed. Once honourable intentions of recycling now only a distant memory.

He had to be up and out in three hours – less than – but the horrific image of Betty’s mutilated body would not leave him. He tipped the bottle of Murphy’s back and swallowed, placed it back on the bedside table. 

Edwards was beginning to figure things out. What was it he’d said in the car, driving home?

‘It’s not as though you could have done anything to stop it happening, sir. You’ve no reason to feel responsible.’

No reason to feel responsible. Edwards was no fool – a bright lad. He’d go far. It was only a matter of time before he saw the connections.

Betty had told him that she’d wanted to retire in two year’s time. Retire! Could you retire from a life of prostitution? Really retire? Maybe so, if you were careful with the money you made. Some of the girls made more than he did; they were the exceptions though. Most struggled to make ends meet, especially if they were financing a habit as well.

He took another swallow. If anything could stave off the hangover, it was the Murphy’s. The headache would still kick in later, just before dinner, though that could be dealt with in The Queens, on West Street. He would meet George, his friend, tell him what had happened tonight. George knew that, of all the girls, Betty held a special place in Frank’s heart, mainly because of the trouble she’d caused him; but then, that was only through the trouble the police had caused her. 

Even Margaret had liked Betty. 

He drank again as his wife’s face replaced Betty’s. Should he get another bottle or should he try to snatch a couple of hours? 

He looked around the room – his and Margaret’s room. That’s how he still thought of it. There was a photograph on the chest of drawers, almost obscured by bottles. It was the two of them in the Lake District, holding hands, smiling. It had been four years now since they’d been in the same room. He missed Margaret, missed her a lot. He didn’t miss the rows though. They’d been too hard and too often. She was better off now she was out of it; away from him. 

*  *  *  *  *

‘If you don’t like it here then why don’t you just piss off!’ 

‘It isn’t here, Frank. It isn’t this house that I don’t like. It’s you that I find so unbearable.’

She’d been up since seven, made her face up lightly and brushed her shoulder- length, curly, chestnut hair, and then dressed in a plain, slim-fitting, dark blue dress. She was worried about the case of the Bagshaw family whose father believed that having a good time meant drinking until he was barely conscious then beating his wife and abusing his twelve year old daughter. Margaret, in her capacity as senior social worker, was to confront the man later that day and hadn’t had much sleep. She had neither the stomach nor the energy for another row with Frank. Nevertheless, she couldn’t let it go. Her dark, almost black eyes blazed at him from the cooker. 

‘Christ, Frank! you’re only in for a few hours a day, and in that time you create absolute havoc.’ She turned and treated the frying pan to an angry stir. ‘Your temper’s getting worse and you still refuse to get any help or even talk to someone. It’s time it stopped.’

‘It’s time I wasn’t here,’ Frank mumbled. 

‘You just refuse to face up to it. Why don’t you let me make you an appointment, just with the doctor for now, see what he has to say? You need help, Frank.’

‘I don’t need help!’ He threw his arms wide as if to prove the point - to himself, Margaret thought. ‘I’ve had all the help I will ever need from my well meaning friends and colleagues. I wish they’d all take their fucking help and shove it!’ Frank emphasised the last two words by grabbing his coffee cup and smashing it down onto the saucer. Pieces of off-white and silver grey china flew across the kitchen as thick, black coffee spread slow as blood across the table top, recapturing the exclamation-mark splashes.

‘You’re an ungrateful man, you know that? People care. Not everyone’s like you, you know: interested only in number one. You’ve had your fair share of attention, compassion – even from work. Christ, yes, even the police supported you. But who helped me, eh? Who helped carry me along?’

Frank could smell the eggs burning. They’ll be inedible, he thought, and the pan will be buggered. He knew where this was heading and he had to be at the station in twenty minutes. Black coffee dripped from the table and splashed onto the pale yellow, tiled floor. 

Margaret took a cloth from the sink, collected the biggest of the broken shards into a pile and then wiped up the majority of the spilled coffee. She wrung out the cloth and moved to the opposite end of the table, holding back tears. ‘It’s nearly three years now, Frank. Three years since Tommy’s death. It’s time you started to put it behind you…’

She gasped as Frank shot up from his chair, shoving the end of the table hard into her stomach. 

‘I will not have his name mentioned in the context of some dumb fucking row!’ He slapped his palms hard onto the table. ‘This is not about Tommy, this is about us trying to live under the same roof. Everyone changes, everyone, and we are on different planets at the moment.’ 

They stayed facing each other across the table in silence, Frank breathing heavily, Margaret holding herself where the table had hit. ‘You’ve hurt me,’ she said. 

Frank lurched across the kitchen. Put his face into hers. ‘That’s not hurting,’ he spat. ‘I know how to hurt far more than that. I’ve been trained to hurt.’ 

Margaret tried to stand upright – to face up to him. ‘You wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me,’ she said, ashamed of the fear in her voice. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Just don’t push it,’ he said. He managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds but then had to drop his eyes. He backed away and sat down. Stared at the surface of the table. 

Margaret watched him for a moment, then moved over to the cooker and turned the gas off from under the frying pan. She put the cloth back in the sink, grabbed the cafetiére and a cup and came to sit opposite him. Very slowly she poured thick, black coffee, sipped at it and eyed him, thoughtfully, through the steam. She decided that if he shut up now then she wouldn’t pursue it any further. She’d let it die, she thought, like all the other arguments they’d had. Leave it to rot and stink in some foul dark corner of their relationship’s attic. 

Frank looked up and saw her watching him. ‘It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Just some bloody game that you’ve learned, probably from one of those crap American pieces of shit you watch. And I know,’ he added quickly, ‘I’ve said crap and shit in the same sentence so don’t go accusing me of being some thick copper that mixes his vernaculars or whatever irritating fucking rule I’ve broken.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything…’ she said. She blew the coffee and sipped. ‘But you mean tautology.’

‘You see, you can’t resist it, can you?’ he sneered. ‘Any opportunity to take the piss out of me can’t be missed.’

‘Don’t be childish, Frank.’ 

‘I’m not being childish. I’m pointing out a fact: you thrive on picking me up on little details. It’s like being back at school.’

‘Look, Frank, I’ve a lot on today. I didn’t want to argue with you this morning but …’

‘But, yeah, but,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s always but isn’t it? Well done, Frank, that was great, but…  No, Frank, everything’s alright, but…  Thank-you, that’s just how I wanted it, but… I’m sick of buts, Margaret. I want life to be normal, how it’s supposed to be: without any fucking buts.’

Now it was Margaret’s turn to shake her head. ‘Frank, it can’t ever be normal until you acknowledge what happened three years ago and deal with it. You can’t keep getting angry and then running away. You’ll go mad.’

‘Mad? I’m already mad. I’ve always been mad, been mad for fucking years. And now it’s over, I don’t need no more education, I’ve had self-control up to here. I don’t want to be part of the machine a moment longer and, as far as I’m concerned, it’s time to get comfortably numb, so where’s the fucking bar, John?’ Frank pushed his chair out again, less viciously this time, stamped over to the fridge and yanked the door open. He ripped the top off a can of Boddingtons and swallowed hard. 

‘How can you do that?’ Margaret slapped her hand onto the table then, making her own coffee cup rattle. 

Finally got through to her, Frank thought. Finally got her mad. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Watch a while longer and I’ll drink another.’

‘No, not that. Not drinking. I know you’re an expert at drinking nowadays. I’m on about that whole talking in riddles thing. You get wound up to the point where you’re smashing the place up but can still base your argument on some pathetic old pop lyric. You’re not well, Frank.’

Frank put the can on the table and sat down again. He looked at his wife and hated her for being able to deal with life better than he could. He felt his anger begin to dissolve. He wouldn’t admit, even to himself, that it was the beer doing that.

‘They’re not pop lyrics, Margaret, and I’m not basing my argument on them. They’re just familiar sentiments and they seem to fit sometimes.’ He sat for a while feeling angry and stupid, not wanting to look back up, knowing that, now he’d started to calm down, there would be compassion for him in the face opposite. That wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t what he needed. 

‘I’m sorry I broke the cup, Margaret.’

‘That’s okay. It’s one your Mother bought for us when we were married. I hate them. Break them all.’

‘That’s not the point. Things just get to me now and then. I need more time I suppose.’ 

‘You’ve had three years, Frank. It’s help you need, not time.’ Margaret got up and wiped the last of the broken shards of china away and put them in the waste bin. Another memory on its way to the rubbish tip, she thought. Soon there won’t be any left in the house. 

‘You’d better be getting off, Frank. The eggs are ruined, so’s the pan. You’ll have to get something on the way. Give me the can, you can’t go in smelling of beer.’

Frank tipped it back and swallowed the rest. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, crushing it in his fist and throwing it into the sink. ‘The pissed-up chuffs that I work with will still be too hung over from last night to notice my breath. Toilets stink of curry and vomit most of the time anyway.’

They stood facing each other, the few feet between them a pathetic representation of the chasm that existed.

‘We’ll talk about it some more when you get home,’ Margaret said. 

‘No, we won’t. We’ll watch a film and have a drink, otherwise we’ll end up having another row.’

‘We haven’t had a row, Frank.’

‘No? I have. I’ll see you later.’ He marched into the hall, grabbed his jacket off the newel post and went outside to wait for his lift. 

*  *  *  *  *

Frank tipped the bottle and swallowed the last dregs of stout. He wondered, if Margaret had stayed, just how violent would their relationship have become? How low might he have sunk?

He flopped his hand over the edge of the bed and let the bottle fall. It chinked as it hit another. A lonely, hollow sound.

This was stupid, wallowing in his own misery. Things would look much better in the morning – once he got back to work and had something positive to occupy himself with. He lay back, listened to the music, and tried to relax.

 After a while, his body exhausted, his eyes closed and he fell into a shallow, dream-filled sleep where he wandered down line upon line of young women, trying to decide which one of them should die next.

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