The Need for Control

The house, his house, sits brooding in the shadows of dusk. Shadows trace across the back lawn running the hedges that hunch over the thick wet grass where the sunken pool lies. There, beside the pool crazy paving weaves and tufts of weeds grasp upward like broken fingers.

Inside the house is cold. The minutes drag by. But he does not notice the cold and she does not mention his failure. In the atmosphere they strive to live and to love each other.

Phillip turns away, his neck artery pulsing thick and bold in the pale dusk light. From outside the light hiss of rain touches the grass, its delicate fingers pattering against the windowpane. Phillip's face, his hollow carved eyes bloodshot and weary, turns. His clean shaved chin taunt while his teeth grind against each other and the smallest flicker of an eyelash.

He slams the plate down in the bowl. An explosion of water and suds fly upward and the sound of shattering china split the air. He spins around, tearing off the gloves and without a word slams past Liz and stomps up the stairs.

Silence.

An explosion of noise as the typewriter erupts into life; each letter punched out in pure furry.

Downstairs Liz stands, staring at the suds slowly sliding back down into the bowl while the rain patters gently against the window.

She never understands, never feels the burning pain that writhes inside him. The hollowness that eats away at him, gnawing at his mind. Endless screaming blind white moments of pain broken by the cold drizzle of his tears. She never understands.

Sitting staring at the typewriter he sees his fingers work at the keys, recognises the motion but can not understand it. It is as if some fluid device is controlling his fingers. But he feels the anger, the frustration flying out of his subconscious as he thumps the keys down.

His fingers stop, a buzzing sensation flooding his brain as they hover above the keys.

Slowly his eyes begin their work, greedily consuming the words, embracing them to as they drag him deeper into his fantasy world.

The words end there, trailing off to the blank sheet of paper, waiting for Phillip to begin typing again. Liz held frozen in time by his words. Slowly Phillip draws his hand across his mouth leaving a long line of saliva on his chin. Hardly aware of his grin he touches his fingers back down on the keys and they continue to type.

Liz slams the bin lid shut, pulls the back door to behind her and looks up to the clock. Ten to eight. Soon they are supposed to be going out. They have to visit Ann and Michael and ‘coo’ and ‘Oooo’ over their new house.

God dammed selfish bastard! Two years now, two years since his mother passed on and he still. . . He still is the way he is.

Still writing.

At first it had seemed good. He'd bought an old typewriter and she'd enjoyed telling her friends her friend was a blooming author. It had taken his anger out of him, made him a calmer more relaxed man. Someone she could understand, someone she liked living with-

Someone she could happily have children and settle down. With the possibility of his promotion she could afford to leave teaching for a few years. They could have a house on Park Lane and. . And everything would be fine.

But; that old but. Of course things couldn't go smoothly, after all this is Phillip, the man who worried about the interest charge on her store card. Phillip the horror writer. Even the words seem alien to her. Phillip, the tall London born, Birmingham bred accountant whose favourite comedian was Mr. Bean and who thought a night out ended at eleven o'clock. A horror writer.

‘You ready?’

Liz wheels round almost dropping the tea towel.

Phillip is in the hall, wearing his coat and shoes smiling at her. He stands in the shadow of the hall; the kitchen light casting a puddle of light on his pale face but the rest of him seems to merge into the blackness.

‘Well are you ready?’ he asks again, his voice calm and controlled.

‘W-What?’ stammers Liz.

‘Ann and Michael's', or have you forgotten?’ he coos gently.

‘Of course not!’ she snaps back, ‘And you not going to wear that tie are you?’

Phillip steps back as if stung; his face falls. It seems to shift under the light, to ripple like that of a disturbed puddle. Slowly his face sinks back into the shadows and he replies despondently, ‘I suppose not.’

‘Well get a move on and get the car out!’

Phillip turns and resignedly goes back to the bedroom.

Phillip stares at the MD, daring him to look back, willing him to look his way. Grinning Phillip wonders what the MD truly would look like naked, sitting his fat bulk of flesh in the soft black leather of the executive chair.

‘So have you considered our offer?’ asks Mr Davis with a slightly rueful smile.

Phillip nods. This is where he grins and says in a casual way that contrasts his quiet bookish looks those words, those great words that screw the MD right up. While the words sink in, as the MD sits gaping at him, farting silently under the desk Phillip will slam a fist

‘So I assume you will take the position?’

Phillip opens his mouth to start the words. To start to push the bolder crashing over his life, down the hill at a speed that is beautifully wildly out of control, crushing Mr. Davies first, smearing his mother against a boulder till there is nothing left but a jam spread of blood and guts, then finally coming crashing down on Liz, burying her high-pitched whining voice forever.

But he can not do it.

Can not bring himself to break that line, to turn away, to burn and destroy all he has worked for. To destroy Liz's expectancy, he has to. . . Yet he can not. Forever trapped by his needs and the world's expectancy of him.

‘Yes of course, it would be an honour,’ he says grinning.

Mr Davies merely nods and farts again, after all, it was the expected reply.

Liz slumps on the kitchen floor in a state of shock, still holding the broken vase in her hand her cheek stinging. From upstairs she hears the first dreaded rumble of Phillip's typewriter. Still she stands, the News blaring out of the kitchen radio, the announcer telling the still room that inflation rates are set to steadily rise before the budget. Slowly Liz lowers the broken vase and wipes a hand across her face.

He had come in, slammed the front door and barked for her.

She'd ignored him.

He'd come in looking for her, reeking of whisky and cigarettes.

She'd ignored him.

He'd boasted about his promotion, told her it was a great step forward and that it meant he was finally making progress, really going to become a success, something his mother would have been proud of.

She'd told him he was drunk.

He'd hit her. Slammed her face with the back of his hand then stood giggling at her, grinning stupidly and then-

Then. . .

At first the shock had been too great, too much. Now slumped on the kitchen floor it seems an impossibility, something that never could have happened in their happy marriage. Not between her and Phillip.

Still giggling he'd left her, thumped up the stairs to the study where only the typewriter and his world existed. Leaving Liz slumped on the kitchen floor with blood on her hands and the Six O'clock News still blaring.

Phillip stares at the window, daring it to move.

It had, he'd seen the glass quiver, just a shiver that had made his eyes blink, but it had moved.

He can hear them the voices, whispering in the shadows. Faces drifting from depths from where there was no return. Faces old and young, ever changing, shifting with the sands of time yet their voices always say the same.

‘NO!’ bellows Phillip and slams down hard on the keys. Slowly the world fades away, the pain slips out of his mind and slowly, slowly he sinks into the darkness. . . Into his world. . .

Slowly Liz turns and shuts the front door. Her heart has no regrets, just a burning anger. She has to leave, has to teach him a lesson. She walks down the steps, opens her car door and drops her over night bag onto the back seat. Even now, standing on the driveway, a cold wind ruffling her hair and in the distance the mournful wail of an ambulance, she can still hear the machine gun rattle of the typewriter.

Shaking her head she climbs into her car.

She has gone, left him.Settling into the darkness now that he has become accustomed to, he sits, his fingers resting on the keys. Even as he stares at the words, feeling their power, knowing it, understanding them, he can feel no joy. His Liz has escaped, gone to. . . Where? But as with most things in life he has no answer to that question.

Slowly his index finger presses down on the ‘dash’ key and watches as the hammer head rises and strikes the paper with a satisfying smack then falls limply back down. His fingers nudge another key, ‘T’ and another.

He should be going after her, ‘ the space bar.’ Chasing her down, ‘w’ bringing her home. . . ‘h e r’ Bringing her home to where.

‘-To where she belongs. Grinning Phillip draws himself up, leaving the typewriter nestling in darkness, surrounded by the clutter of paper, but it is anything but clutter to Phillip; a master piece is what rests in this jumble of paper.

But first he has work to do; first he has to prepare for when Liz comes back, for she will come back. He has no doubt about that. And when she does come back she will learn what she needs from him. Oh yes she will take her medicine. . .’

Phillip's fingers fly on, drilling the keys down, his hand reaches up and snatches another sheet of paper as the page is finished and thrusts another in, unaware of the passing of time. Heedless of the darkness that draws so tightly around him now. Oblivious of the cold.

‘He really has to apologise,’ says Ann.

Liz nods, holding the mug of tea tightly in her hands wondering when this interminable conversation will end. All she wants is a room for the night. She supposes she should be grateful that Ann cares, that Ann is concerned but all she really wants to do is to rest her head in some dark room and dream of the blissful future that Phillip and her will have with his new promotion. She knows he will apologise. The idea of Phillip actually sticking to his guns and defying her is unthinkable. It will be just like that stag night, except this tantrum will cost him a little more than a night on the couch.

Suddenly she realises Ann is touching her, her cool hands are stroking Liz's gently almost tentatively, murmuring, ‘It's all right. . .’

Liz snatches them away, ‘Of course he will apologise. He must do after all. . . What's he going to do? Phillip's not the violent type, this was just. . .’

‘I really think you should go to the police-’

‘Don't be silly. This was an argument, he never meant to hurt me, besides it's just a slap, nothing at all.’

Ann looks up to Liz's face and sighs. The red bruises on her cheek certainly look more than a slap to her and the purple mark just above the chin knuckles? A fist? She scans Liz, noticing her hands on her ribs. Was that all that happened in the kitchen? A slap and a broken vase?

‘Maybe I should call him, tell him how upset you are?’

‘Certainty not!’

‘But-’

‘No buts Ann,’ Liz forces a weary smile and pats Ann's hand in a gesture of reassurance that brings a smile from Ann. Liz stands up and stretches wearily. ‘Now I really have to get some sleep I've got a blinding head ache.’

‘Okay.’

Liz slowly shuffles away, puts her cup back in the kitchen with a clink of porcelain on stainless steel.

‘Liz?’

‘Yes?’

‘You will let me come back with you tomorrow, see you all right?’

‘No need.’

‘Well at least call me when you've sorted everything out.’

‘Okay then, but there's no need to worry, everything will be fine.’

The wild darkness fills the house.

From the study the single lamp burns brightly. The rhythmic thud of the typewriter drones on. Phillip sits, grease and sweat mounted on his back so that his thin white shirt clings to him. Grinning he pauses and takes a long swig from a Vodka bottle and lets out a wracking cough.

If any one had seen him, hunched over the typewriter, hurling his hatred down in bold black ink they would have had a hard time recognising him as the bookish accountant. He sits, slumped across the typewriter, his eyes ringed blood red. His work ravaging the wilds of his minds, plundering the innocence of his youth and destroying his notion of humanity with his words . . . It is not so much that he is writing, more words pouring from him like some vile excrement that spreads itself over the paper till a pattern.

Ann busied herself all day long, washing the sheets, vacuuming downstairs and watching a little TV. Her mind however is always on the clock. Liz left at nine, leaving with a smile and kiss on Ann's cold cheek, promising to call before twelve.

Now at five Ann finds herself picking the phone up and dialling Liz's number, worry draining her energy.

‘Hello?’ snaps a brisk male voice, Phillip's.

‘Oh hello, it's Ann.’

Silence.

‘Is Liz there, she said she was coming home-’

‘Oh yes she came home all right.’

‘Oh, right, could I speak to her?’

Silence.

‘Phillip? Could I speak to her?’

‘Why? Why do you want to interfere? Liz is fine-’

‘I just want to-’

‘She can't come to the phone right now, she washing her hair right now.’

‘Can you get her to call me back?’

‘Sure, bye then.’

The phone clicks dead. ‘I'm so sorry to call you out, it's just. . . Oh you know I'm worried,’ says Ann.

‘That's all right Madam, I'm sure everything will be okay,’ replies Sergeant Wallace. He smiles at her a little nervously and glances back to his companion who loiters at the end of the path. He reaches up and raps hard on the glass of the front door.

The door swings open to his touch.

‘Hello? Hello anyone home. . ?’

The gloom of the house seems to settle around them; a damp unhealthy smell hangs in the air.

‘Hello?’

Nothing, just the thick dust of silence.

‘Allow me to go first madam,’ whispers Sergeant Wallace, his face knotted in tension. With a glance back to his companion he enters the house his soft voice calling out, ‘Hello? Hello anyone there?’

A sound, like that of cuckoos choking, the sound babbling up from the back of the house and echoing through the still house. The sound of someone crying, weeping.

Suddenly Wallace's step becomes firm, he sweeps through the hall shouting, ‘Is there anyone there? This is the police! Is there anyone there?’ He wheels into the kitchen and-

Stops.

Sitting at the kitchen table is Liz, tied up to the back of the chair, her head lolling backwards, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling, a dribble of cereal mixing in with the thick matting of blood that covers her scalp.

At the table by her is Phillip, bowl of cereals on the table, Corn flakes. In his hand he holds out a spoon of milk and cereal, ‘Will you not even eat your cereals for me? Will you not just do this one thing for me? Please Liz?’ Tears are flowing down his cheeks, out of his throat come the heart wrenching sobs that fill the room.

Paul Ward has been writing for a number of years and has had over two dozen stories published in the last year.

Email: Paul Ward

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