Wives

The sergeant flicked his cigarette away, ran a hand over his stubbled face and sighed. It was a long, sad sigh that tailed off in an asthmatic wheeze. Striaghtening his garda uniform, he stepped over the smoking porch and surveyed the scene. Everything was charred. He was stood in what used to be the hallway. The stairs had collapsed and the roof had burned half away, leaving the rain to extinguish the flames. 

“Lucky that we live in such a pissy fucking place,” he mumbled, only half-audibly.

His colleague had followed him and was whistling with surprise as he looked at the destruction before him.

“Holy fuck! This place is fucking ruined. Shame really - lovely old place like this used to be.”

“Seán?”

“Yes, Liam?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, Liam.”

Seán walked past him and gingerly made a tour of the downstairs of the house. Liam waited for him to return. He didn’t imagine that anybody was in here, not after what those crazy bitches outside had told him, but one had to do one’s due diligence. Seán appeared at his shoulder.

“Well, there’s nobody downstairs anyway. You want me to have a sconce upstairs?”

Liam nodded, then changed his mind.

“Let the fire brigade do it. They’re the fucking heroes.”

“Right you are.”

*********

Jim woke with a start, launching himself upright from the couch. It was an action that he instantly regretted as his hangover urgently informed him that he should sit back down as soon as possible. He did so, head in hands. 

“Fuck me! I feel fucking awful. I need a drink.”

He stood up, with greater care this time, and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass. Finally, he lurched into motion and made for the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he enjoyed the cool on his face for a second, before scanning the shelves for a beer. He needed a nice cold one just to ease him into sobriety. Tucked at the back of the top shelf, he found a lonely can of ‘Red Stripe’ and reached for it gratefully. The hissing click heralded a stream of delicious beer down his parched throat. He drained the can in two long swallows. Once again, he went dizzy and breathed deeply until his wayward senses were back under some semblance of control. Then he erupted - a long gaseous expulsion from his mouth - full of timbre and alcoholic staleness. 

“That’s fucking better.”

He turned and returned to the sitting room. He tripped over a side table and plummeted face first onto the carpet. In his hungover state, he didn’t have the wherewithal to put his hands up to take the impact of the fall. He bled on the carpet while his anger grew. This promised to be a tantrum of record proportions. He screwed his eyes tight and thought about all the useless shit that she had brought into this house. That fucking dresser with all those pointless cups that you couldn’t even drink from. That fucking occasional table, ridiculous name, what fucking occasion would it be used for? All her knick-knacks and little bits of crap that she’d inherited from dead people. He fucking hated it all. 

He sniffed mightily, inhaling a salty, slick gob of blood. He spat it all over the couch and watched for a while as it soaked into the cream upholstery, spreading like a chromatography experiment that he’d done at school. This wasn’t helping though, the rage was still building. Finally, he succumbed. He let it wash over him; he pushed himself upright and jerkily exited the room. Some time later, he returned dragging a sledgehammer behind him. Three minutes of ferocious destruction followed, during which he managed to smash a dining table and six matching chairs, the loathsome occasional table, the dresser full of redundant dead people’s china and the innocuous sofa. As he stood resting on the hammer,  panting from the effort, he decided that he regretted the decision to have destroyed his erstwhile resting place. This was quickly banished from his mind. The nausea he had been feeling since he awoke made its appearance with gusto and he bent over double, retching until nothing more came up. Straightening, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and reached for his cigarettes. He shook one out of the packet and lit it, inhaling appreciatively.

“That’s fucking better.”

*********

Millie pushed the door open and struggled with the shopping bags. She paused for a rest and to steal herself to deal with whatever met her when she went through the door. She paused in the middle of peeling off her wet coat and sniffed the air cautiously. The unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke wafted from the living room. 

“That little cunt. How many fucking times have I asked him to not smoke indoors? But no, that little fucking cunt never pays me any heed. I’ve fucking had it.”

She found herself at the door reaching for the handle. She breathed deeply in an effort to compose herself and stem the guiltily pleasing stream of profanity. Eventually, she allowed herself to proceed, she pushed the door open and swept into the room. Her imperious entrance was ruined by the groan of horror that escaped her when she was confronted by the remnants of her living room. Each piece of destroyed furniture brought a fresh utterance of pain. She looked from her late aunt’s bone china cups and searched for the culprit. He was stood in the bay windows, leaning on his sledgehammer and smoking a cigarette. At her expressions of anguish, he had half-turned to look at her. He was serenely examining her reaction when her eyes met his. They were ablaze with fury and the shock of the raging power of that gaze caused him to shift his weight uncomfortably.

“Hello, dear!” He called merrily.

“What in all mother of holy fuck possibly possessed you to do this, you fucking gaping thundercunt?”

He waved his hands about him, searching for a means of explaining what had led to this destruction.

“All this shit..” he paused for a moment, before continuing. “All your shit made me feel claustrophobic.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, you lesion. Get the fuck out before I cut your dick off and feed it to the pigs! I swear to fuck if you don’t get out of my sight this very instant...”

“I think you are aware that I own this house? You have no right to throw me out of my own home.”

“This was never your home. I made this place a home after you inherited it from your mother, you spineless little shit. GET THE FUCK OUT!” 

So saying, she grabbed a letter opener from amidst the debris and stalked towards him purposefully. Seeing that intent startled him and, by studiously keeping bits of destroyed furniture between him and her, he managed to edge his way around the room and out the door.

*********

Eimear made an effort to steady her nerves, before pushing the door and entering the pub. It was the first time in six years that she had ventured out alone as a single person. The very prospect of launching herself into the social ordeal left her mouth dry and her palms moist. Projecting an outer calm which belied her inner turmoil, she aimed for a vacant bar stool. The barman nodded at her, registering her presence while he served somebody else.

“What can I do you for?” The barman asked with a lazy grin. 

She found herself stuttering over her order. Eventually, she managed to make herself understood. He returned with her large white wine and she took a sour slug of it to placate her roiling stomach. Finally, she dared to scan the bar and view the other occupants. It was a Tuesday, so there were few people out. It was early too - barely six o’clock. In another few minutes, the swell of the after work crowd would enter and the relative peace would be disturbed. 

Two old men argued back and forth about the merits of some sports player or other. The discussion seemed to follow a circuitous route, never quite reaching resolution. The only other drinker was a sad looking fellow, wearing a greatcoat, who was sat at a table almost directly behind her. Her surreptitious scrutiny finished, she found herself at a loss as to what to do to occupy her time. She spied a discarded paper at the sad guy’s table, and, after dithering for a second, went over to the table.

“Would you mind, if I stole your paper? That is, if you’ve finished with it.”

“Yep, if you must - go for it!”

She smiled her thanks and repaired to the bar. As she gained her stool again, the door swung open and a crowd of boisterous suits entered, slamming the door back on its hinges. They were laughing over-emphatically at something, as if by sheer force, they could maintain the pretence of camaraderie. The ten or so members fanned out against the bar, shouting at one another and the barman. One of their number approached a space near her stool. Over the top of the paper, she watched him come and registered with some disgust the supercilious once over that he gave her. Obviously, she hadn’t measured up, for he switched his attention back to the bar.

Within fifteen minutes of this initial intrusion, the bar was packed with one pint wonders. They jostled and pushed their way past her. She looked about her desperately as she realised that her position was becoming untenable. All the tables were occupied by now. The only remaining space surrounded the man, who had given her the paper. Seemingly, his pervasive sadness repelled any high spirits and he sat in an oasis of misery.

Before she had properly thought it through, she had crossed the pub and was standing over him. He looked up, eyebrows raised. She did a little dance of uncertainty and began to stumble over her words.

“Would you mind, if I joined you? I... It’s a bit busy at the bar.”

To her surprise, he smiled welcomingly and waved her to a seat beside him. 

*********

Eoghan shuffled his papers. He felt good today - important in a way that he hadn’t for some time. He smiled at the thought. It crumpled quickly as he looked across his cluttered desk towards his client. She waited expectantly, twisting a soggy handkerchief in her hands. 

He couldn’t believe that the institution of marriage still held so much sway in this country. Take this case as an example! He shook his head incredulously. He couldn’t even understand how it had come about in the first place. For so many officials to have made so many clerical errors - it smacked of gross incompetence and laziness. Bigamy! He chuckled with delight. Once again, he caught himself and the inappropriateness of his behaviour. The widow was looking decidedly angry now. He smiled in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner.

“Mrs. O’Callaghan..” He paused, cleared his throat and searched for the right words. “Erm. The fact is, aagh, well, the problem here lies in the fact that, well, I don’t have a better way of saying it..”

“Just spit it out.” She snapped, her hands tightening around the handkerchief, which looked on the point of tearing.

“Very well. Your husband was a bigamist.”

He watched nervously as her face slowly registered his words. The slow crumble of pursed anger into slack-jawed shock was disturbing. Eoghan, of course, was completely on her side with this one, she had cared for that layabout for 10 years uncomplainingly, even after he had had a stroke. Absentmindedly, he made a sign of the cross. He shuffled the already neat pile of papers. 

“I cannot tell you how awful I feel for you. If you had come to me for your legal requirements, I’m sure you would never have been put in this situation. Alas..!”

He spread his hands regretfully. Inside, he felt like wriggling with glee. The juiciness of it. He could taste the scandal and couldn’t wait to tell his cronies down the pub. All attention would be turned on him, for once. He let his mind fantasize for a moment. He’d make them drag it out of him thread by thread, until they could put it together for themselves. He couldn’t tell them directly - that would breach the terms of confidentiality. But, if they guessed themselves from the crumbs that he let fall, well, he could hardly be blamed, could he? He looked apprehensively across at his victim and waited for some reaction. Her face remained unchanged, she was still stupid with shock. He decided to press on.

“He did, however, make a will. It turns out he had quite a substantial estate, including an old house in Clare and you are the sole beneficiary of this will. So, that’s good news. Must soften the blow a bit, eh?”

To his surprize, she launched at him, scratching his face wildly, messing all his documents. When she discovered that the desk was in the way, she remedied that with a feat of herculean proportions. She gripped it’s heavy, ornate leg and overturned it completely. For a brief moment, Eoghan was too stunned to speak, clutching his cheek and mouth hanging loosely. She stepped in close and smacked him, closed fist, square on the nose. He bled on his pristine shirt, as she stalked out of the room.

*********

Millie answered the door and glared suspiciously at the transgressor. The echo of the antique bell still rattled around the hallway. On the front steps, a mousey woman stood brandishing a document, held at arm’s length. She looked nervous, but resolute. Millie looked from the document to the woman’s face.

“What?”

“Read it! It pertains to you.” Eimear attempted to maintain her dignity, despite her voice having cracked during the delivery.

“What the fuck is that? Just tell me why you are here, at my house, of a Saturday, fucking me off?”

Eimear looked at this caustic woman with her wild mop of grey hair and murderously steely eyes and wondered how to proceed. It had taken her all her courage, aided by the shameful sting of the gossip of her parish, to make the journey here. But here she was and she was damned, if she was going to be turned back by this virago. 

“Were you married to a man named Jim O’Callaghan?”

The woman stared at her and said nothing. Eimear took a deep breath and continued.

“Come on now! I know you were. He was also married to me.”

To her surprise, the woman’s face cracked into an evil grin. She began to laugh. It lasted an uncomfortably long amount of time. Eimear felt the control swinging away from her. 

“So now he’s a bigamist, as well as being a drunk and a cunt. Ha! I hope he treated you well, my dear.” 

Still laughing, she went to close the door. Eimear hurriedly slammed her palm against it and shoved her foot in the narrowing gap. The wild woman looked at her foot; her gaze slid threateningly up the full length of her body, coming to rest on her face. Eimear smiled apologetically.

“Please! You need to read this. It’s his will.” 

Eimear proffered her the paper and took a step back to a respectful distance, contemplating her toes which were wriggling through the fabric of her shoes. The woman removed the paper from it’s plastic sheath. It was a photocopy of one page of his grubby, untidy scrawl. The two of them looked at it and shivered with remembered disgust. Eimear watched her eyes flicker back and forth as she read each line. When finished, she looked up and stared at Eimear appraisingly, then started to re-read it more carefully.

Eimear waited until she had read it a second time. The grey haired woman seemed to grow old before her eyes. Her hands shook as she stuffed the will back into the plastic. She held it out with distaste and Eimear took it off her. Once done, she retracted her hand and slammed the door. Eimear stood and waited, uncertain as to what was coming next.

*********

Millie leaned against the door. Slowly, the strength left her small frame and she crumpled at the knees and, back still straight, slid down the length of the door until her buttocks hit the floor. Then the sobs came. Her shoulders shivered with the strength of her useless anger. Panic overwhelmed her and she cried silently into the sleeve of her house dress. A headache appeared at her temples and spread to her forehead. Suddenly her skull felt too large for the constraints of its skin prison. Outside, she could still sense the woman’s presence. And, as if to reinforce the feeling, a gentle knock came at her front door. The timidity of that rap acted to galvanise her into action. She clenched her jaw, hushed her snivelling. The headache faded as quickly as it had come.

“If I can’t have it, then I’m fucked if anybody else will either.”

Steeled by this resolve, she stood and walked to the kitchen, passed through it and out into the back yard. The old stables were decrepit and threatened to crumble at any stage, yet she had never found the time to clear out all the shit that Jim had left in there. She was looking for something that she had glimpsed in a memory and it had taken hold there. As she scouted about for it, she took care to make as little sound as possible, lest that woman come around the back and discover her. Finally, she found it: an old jerry can, rusty with age, but still sealed tight. She raised it and sloshed it. There must have been about a quarter of a gallon still in there. With all her might, she carried it, banging painfully against her thigh. 

She set it down in the hallway and returned to the kitchen. Beside the stove, the box of matches sat in their normal place. She snatched them and dropped them in the pocket of her dress. She sat on the first step of the stairs and looked about this house that she loved so much. For a while, she thought about rescuing some of her more cherished items. In the end, she decided that she had neither the energy nor the time to think about making the choice between what should stay and what should go. Wearily, Millie raised herself and went to the can, bent and picked it up with a grunt. Her fingers gripped the lid and she twisted as hard as she could. For a moment, she panicked that she wouldn’t have the strength, but it came loose with a pop and tapped merrily against the side, tethered by a small chain. 

Methodically, she moved from room to room, leaving a trail of petrol behind her. She crisscrossed the house until she returned to the front door. The can was now empty. She laid it gently on the floor and went back to the stove. Flicking the switch on the gas canister, she turned on each hob as far as it would go. The pungent stench washed over her and she stared at the shimmering rush. Shaking herself to stiffen her resolve, she trudged back to the front door, donned her coat and slipped the front door keys into the pocket. 

She took one more look at the hallway, smiling in remembrance at the home that it had been. Her face darkened slightly, as she recalled his miserable face. Taking the matches out, she skipped a match along the box and inhaled the pleasant smell, as it ignited. The flame steadied and she dropped it. Trails of fire scorched away from her hungrily. Turning to leave, she mouthed one word:

“Fucker.”

*********

Eimear straightened when she heard the latch go. She turned to face it and waited for the woman to appear. The door swung open and Millie exited, closing and locking it quickly behind her and marched straight past her without looking. Eimear stared after, somewhat confused as to what to do or say. She trotted to catch her up. As she drew abreast, she searched the woman’s face. It was strangely serene, if tinged with a little sadness. Millie drew out a box of cigarettes and lit one with a match, inhaling deeply before letting it stream in twin trails from her nose. When they reached the edge of the lawn, she abruptly stopped and the other woman carried on a few steps before doing the same. The two of them turned back to look at the old house. 

“I’ll miss my home.” Millie said simply.

“I’m sorry. This must have been a shock for you. I didn’t want to take it from you, I just had to get away from that place. God! When they found out that I had married a man who was already married. It was like wildfire, it spread so quickly. I needed another place to stay. I hoped to maybe rest here a while before I went back.”

Eimear stopped looking at her feet and raised her gaze to the other woman’s face, which was now wide-eyed with shock.

“Well, I wish you’d fucking told me that earlier.”

A distant “whoomp” was heard and the front windows blew out with a crash of exhaled air. Glass rained down onto the gravel of the driveway. Eimear flinched and saw the flames for the first time. Beside her, the woman had sat down and her shoulders jerked rhythmically. The cigarette was raised shakily and another ragged stream of smoke appeared. She sat down too and threw an arm around her. Millie swayed towards her. Eimear saw that she was laughing through her tears. A sympathetic giggle escaped her lips. It was infectious. The two of them collapsed, laughing until their sides hurt, swaying and bouncing against each other as the hysteria overtook them.

Later, as they watched the flames really take hold of their home, after the fire engines had arrived, they shared the pack of fags. All around them, men in uniforms bustled with importance but the women just sat and smoked and smiled serenely, if a little uncomprehendingly, whenever anybody talked to them.

*********