Kate Farrell

Consider please, the theory of chaos: a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan, and here in London your lover tries to kill you.

Alex and I had been living together for four years. We were a handsome couple, both tall and fair, with strong profiles, as if we belonged on a coin and, like monarchs, we believed in never complain, and never explain. We were occasionally taken for brother and sister, and as the idea of incest amused us, we would sometimes gently torture strangers with the notion that perhaps our relationship was not what it appeared. Our work was tolerable, our mortgage bearable, our friends genial, our families scattered. Child bearing and rearing was not yet an option, but we would consider the possibility and toy with names. I recall Clovis and Rapunzel were favourites for a while; more of a parlour game than a serious declaration of intent. Everything was nearly perfect. Perfection: define it. A state of grace? Perhaps, but that seems too Catholic. Is perfection the absence of badness or the presence of goodness? Goodness: define it. It would be possible, but not in the least desirable, to play these futile word games forever, or to become the armchair philosopher. The truth is that I find myself in a very strange place; I cannot recall how I arrived, but the ticket seems to have no return portion. That was extremely careless of me.

Our home, our redoubt, was a split-level apartment in a converted warehouse, and sublimely ill-equipped to deal with children. There was a terrace, which overlooked the canal in this part of west London, and in the cooler weather the smell from the water was barely perceptible. We loved the large windows, the oak floors, the soundproofed space where we could laugh, scream, twist and shout to our hearts’ content, as the need arose. Most of all, we loved ourselves; or so I thought.  

Some months ago, Alex was holding the lift door open. It was an elderly but effective device with an interior concertina door, and as I entered, the door closed on my fingers. The pain, for a split second, was like having teeth drilled without anaesthetic, my nerve endings were laid bare, and I thought I might faint. Alex looked at me or through me, I couldn’t decide which, but the pain had scrambled my vision. The next thing I recall was holding my hand under an ice cold running tap, with a suitably concerned Alex ministering to my needs. “Sorry, the door just slipped…” was the only explanation proffered, but I was in no mood to care.

I went to work next day, fingers swollen and taped up, and was reminded by the doom merchants that those old–fashioned lifts, though wonderfully Hitchcockian and atmospheric, can be a death trap. I let some of the girls fuss over me, but didn’t reveal how the door had actually slipped.

Alex cooked a superb meal by way of an apology, but it seemed better not to discuss the incident; incidents do happen, as surely as accidents. Neither of us cared much for soul searching, or angst-ridden post mortems. And the food was to die for.

Some time later, fingers healed, incident all but forgotten, I mentioned that a work colleague had invited me to play in a mixed doubles event at their tennis club. Alex hates tennis with a passion, so I had accepted the invitation without conferring. We would occasionally go our separate ways socially, as not all our interests were mutual. In fact that seemed to be one of the great strengths of our relationship.

“Sam Ryan’s asked me to play in a mixed doubles thing at the club on Saturday.”

Alex followed a piece of Roquefort round the plate, pushed the plate away, eyed me.

“Ah, the lovely Sam. Am I invited too?”

“Christ no, you’d hate it, you hate tennis.”

“I see.” A sip from the wineglass. “So, you and Sam, and who else…?”

“Don’t know. I’ve not played with him before…”

“As it were,” said my lover.

I hate these cheap shots, so it was my turn to eye Alex; petty I know, but there is always room for small-mindedness, even in the grandest passion.

“So…?” I thought it worth continuing.

Alex stabbed at the cheese; what had it done to provoke such a mauling?

“I thought we were going to start work on the back bedroom?”

I held my ground, unaware of the shifting sands.

“We’ve been threatening to do that since Christmas, one more weekend won’t make much difference. Anyway, I think I quite fancy the exercise.”

The poor cheese was subjected to another slash.

“Alright, you go and have your fun with Sam; you spend all week at work with him, beats me why you’d want to spend the weekend too, but it’s your choice. I’ll start the room on my own.”

I loved Alex dearly, but interior decoration was not what you might call a strength; plenty of enthusiasm, but little finesse. I had designed our home with some care and flair with Alex as an adequate labourer, fetcher of brew and biscuits, and masseur of stiff shoulders. Foolish, but I snorted with derision.

“Er, I don’t think so…”

At that point, Alex stabbed the cheese knife into the back of my hand.

Hindsight is not a benefit; it is a curse. Should I have been kinder, more appreciative, less impatient? Should I have been taller, shorter, older, younger, fatter, thinner? Can I recall a time I was aware of that subtle shift, which would later herald the tsunami? Was I that self-absorbed that Alex’s needs were a poor second to mine? All these questions are moot and pointless now. The situation was beyond any control, the spiral was downward. Was it all my fault? Yes, it must have been. I hadn’t willingly or knowingly transgressed, I thought I had been charming, helpful, supportive, loving. I thought I had. With the benefit of this thing called hindsight would I have acted differently at any time? I don’t think so. There was no tennis that weekend.

At Christmas, I had been the reluctant recipient of a Caithness paperweight, a gift from Alex’s purblind mother. One Sunday, I was sitting reading the papers, or rather trying to. Alex had been overlooked for a promotion at work the previous week and eggshells replaced the reclaimed floorboards in the flat. I was aware of constant movement as I took cover behind the Sunday Times; pacing, swearing, endless cups of coffee. Suddenly, Alex said, “Catch!” and threw this paperweight at me, a large glass ball, decorated with something that resembled a dead sea anemone preserved in aspic. I was in mid fold of the property section, both hands were in play, and I didn’t catch the weight, but arrested its progress with my left ear. There was some bruising and some swelling, both of which ultimately healed, but a strange ringing continued in the ear, which my doctor thought might well be permanent.

After all these incidents there was remorse, a perfect meal or a carefully chosen gift by way of apology, and a promise of no repetition of the event. Doctors inspected injuries; we fabricated stories, and returned home to our halogen lit battlefield. I loved Alex quite horribly, I wished to create no possibility of friction, I did the best I could to keep our relationship on an even keel, but each time I quizzed myself: what have I done to provoke these attacks? I remembered birthdays, and anniversaries; I enquired after Alex’s harridan of a mother; I was punctual; I praised when necessary; I showed proper concern; I shared. It must have been something so subtle, some transgression that was almost imperceptible to any other than Alex’s keen eye. The fault must have been mine, and yet I was so frightened of further destabilising the fragility of the relationship that I did not dare ask. Life with these minor incidents was preferable to life without Alex.

Though the accidents were some weeks apart, friends and work colleagues were beginning to ask slightly awkward questions, which I fielded as best I could. Strangely, I felt no need to unburden myself to anyone, and gradually, I found the only consolation I required was from Alex. I closed the blinds on the giant windows as if I was closing my eyes to the situation, and we settled to our life of disharmony without the disapproval or pity of outsiders. Last month, for instance, Alex and I were attempting to pass each other on the staircase when I carelessly lost my footing and slipped backwards down the last few stairs; it seemed simpler to take a few days off work, rather than explain my arm in a sling, and I was even able to make light of it, while being driven to hospital for what transpired to be only a slight dislocation.

“They’ll be asking if I shouldn’t get a season ticket,” I said. Alex was not so amused, and no meal or gift, by way of apology, was forthcoming. In fact, I apologised to Alex; it seemed a wiser course.

It could have continued; I refused to whine or indulge in bouts of self-pity, and I was ready to acknowledge that the fault was mine, and Alex’s actions were a result of my provocation. It could have continued, but I made the mistake of standing in the way when Alex was reversing the Audi, and I was rather stupidly standing next to a pillar in the underground car park, thinking about theatre tickets I had reserved, a small apology for the incident on the stairs. Yes, I was aware of the car backing towards me, while Alex attempted a precarious manoeuvre in the confined space, and of course I did not assist matters by being so blatantly in the way, but nothing, nothing at all, could have prepared me for the sensation as the bumper crushed my legs against the pillar, and then the boot pushed and crashed against my chest as I fell forwards. There was a moment of respite in that dimly lit car park, when Alex must have realised the mistake, and drove forward, releasing me, but then perhaps there was a fault with the gears, and the car reversed again, while I was still doubled over from the first impact. No, nothing could have prepared me for that. I was mashed – there is no other word for it – against the pillar again, my legs, my wrists, my forearms turned to liquid, and my ribs were reduced to splinters. My chest no longer seemed able to provide the wherewithal to breathe, which was baffling. One moment I was standing imagining Alex’s delight when I produced the theatre tickets, and the next there was nothing but pain. The colour of pain is white.

Now I have plenty of time to contemplate the events that brought me to this place. What did I do wrong? It’s a simple enough question, but one I was never brave enough to ask.

I lie here, dressed in my favourite Armani suit; it hides the devastation done to my body, which was broken beyond repair; one really is full of admiration for these funeral directors; theirs is a sadly unheralded art form, but they reassembled the pile of sticks and mush that had been my torso, to make me fit for viewing. Fortunately my face was unmarked, so Alex, my lovely Alexandra was able to bend over and kiss me goodbye, and it was as if I was pretending to be asleep.