The Thing with Neema (Part III)
A novella by Nicholas Penrake
Neema opens the door with a welcoming smile. She’s in ordinary house clothes, no make-up or jewellery.
Hey, come in...
He picks up a distracted air about her – maybe the whole thing’s off.
Kiss on the lips.
I’ll get Natalya.
OK, sure.
Neema disappears, leaving him to drift into a small, tidy kitchen with a tall fridge. No sign of food on the go.
He hears voices. Something charming about this unfamiliar blend of African accent and Russian accent.
Neema reappears, her flatmate trailing behind. She’s wearing torn blue jeans and a casual white shirt, shoulder-length hair that doesn’t seem to have seen a brush for a few days. Given the circumstances, it’s like Neema’s taken on the role of a madame bringing out her best girl for his appraisal.
Natalya approaches him with a focused gaze, as if to greet her new mentor. He’s seen her photo – and she’s no prettier in the flesh, but he warms easily to her air of independence and quiet confidence.
She extends her hand, quite formal.
Sean, he says and steps up to her, taking her hand and leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She smiles, grateful that he’s made the move to break the ice this early on. She says she’s been really looking forward to meeting him.
You must talk to me about all these documentaries you made, the books you wrote, all these stories you told to Neema.
Oh, God, all that’s from years ago...
Having a fan is flattering, of course, but strangely anachronistic – it reminds him of their age gap.
He pulls from his rucksack the bottle of wine he brought along.
In that drawer, Neema says, pointing, you’ll find a corkscrew.
So, what’s the plan? he asks them both. Are we cooking here, or...
Maybe, I don’t know... Neema looks at him as if waiting for him to decide. The thing is, I have a slight problem.
What’s that?
I have to do some babysitting?
Now? Really?
I think it’s just a couple of hours. I’m so sorry, she says to them both, touching Natalya’s arm. This woman, she called me last minute, she has to go and see her mum who’s in hospital and she’s begging me to come. And I feel I can’t say no. Their house is nearby so I think I can get back soon.
OK, well, um... He’s not sure what to say to that. Looks like the whole thing is falling to pieces already. Just as well he brought his own wine, at least.
So, maybe you can cook together, and I join you later? Neema says. I have food, plenty of food... He tells me he’s a good cook, she says, turning to Natalya, who smiles like someone trying to keep up with the rules of the game.
Neema opens the fridge and starts pulling out a selection of meat and vegetables, mushrooms.
Cook whatever you want... spices in here, plates... she says, opening wall-cupboard doors. And then I see you later.
Do I cook for you as well?
No, I think I’ll have something there. Her phone rings and she takes the call, drifting from the room.
Sean casts Natalya a sort of WTF kind of look.
Bit crazy, he says.
It's OK.
Never mind, he thinks to himself. Thrown a curveball, you improvise, right? Always a good way to get to know someone, cooking together.
A few minutes later, Neema is waving goodbye and wishing them a fun time.
Sean hands Natalya a glass of wine.
Shall we make a start? he says.
He gives her the task of chopping up some mushrooms.
How does she cook with these blunt knives? he says, hacking away at a chicken thigh.
Oh, I think you can find a tool in this drawer... No, that one, she says, pointing to the drawer below.
He gets to work.
She loves the wine, she says. One of my favourites, he says. Schiava. It's from Alto Adige in the north of Italy. Nice and light, clean finish...
She agrees.
And so, they get chatting about wines from around the world. Sean the connoisseur, Natalya the student. Doesn’t smile much, does she, but maybe that’s because he's talking too fast, although her English appears to be pretty good. Or maybe she’s a bit confused by Neema’s last minute arrangement.
From grapes to Gaza, expressing instant horror about the humanitarian situation there.
And now this genocide, he continues, throwing diced chicken into a sizzling wok.
He finds her switched on and well informed, more discerning than Neema, unafraid to delve into emotionally complex topics.
Ukraine is next. In just a few minutes she reveals she is worried that her brother may be called up and sent to fight. Her parents are trying to get him out of the country.
As for her, she’s still at university, about to start an MA in literature later in the year.
She’s delighted to hear he’s read Russian authors like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. You are first Englishman I meet who has read Dostoevsky. He is so important to me, she adds, placing both hands across her heart, perhaps wanting to show him her country was capable of producing more than weapons and paranoia.
Are you OK with chili? he asks.
Yes, I like spicy food. Neema always cooks with chilli and garlic. My tongue is different since I live with her.
She waggles her tongue as if it were on fire. He laughs. A sense of humour is beginning to emerge. Nice.
They take their steaming plates to the living room. He sits on the sofa, recently occupied by a traveler who responded to one of Neema’s ads. She sits in an armchair opposite.
It’s delicious, she says after her first mouthful. Have you always been such a good cook? You can’t get such ingredients in Russia.
He asks her about Neema. She’s been very kind to her. She refers vaguely to a boyfriend, who is kind of an ex, she’s not sure really if the relationship will continue when she returns home. For one thing, he’s in the army now. She hasn’t spoken to him in several weeks.
He has a sense that the war is just a new normality to her now, bad weather you somehow adapt to. You didn’t worry, you didn’t cry, you just kind of blanked it out, taking life day-to-day. Almost without knowing it, you practiced the art of implying things rather than saying them directly; ambiguity was your friend and protector.
His experience of Russian women till now has been quite different. These women, admittedly ten or fifteen years older than Natalya, were defined by an elevated cynicism, wary of being taken advantage of, or underpriced in the marketplace. If they ever gave you a glimpse of their vulnerability, they would quickly cover it up in schadenfreude. Natalya, on the other hand, speaks with humility and deference, has a look in her eyes that expresses an unassuming eagerness to learn from him, and people like him.
What’s your city? he asks.
St. Petersburg, yes. It’s very beautiful, so European. Some days you walk through the old city, along the canals, and you can almost forget about this war, and how bad things have become. But then, you know, you see the ‘Z’ symbols, or you hear some stupid men saying Putin will sort it all out, or you try to buy something but now it's gone from the shelves, or it costs three times as before, and you just...
She trails off... gives a shrug of her shoulders.
And the war? How is that affecting your family?
So, my parents… they’re artists, they hate Putin, for sure, but they can’t say much, of course, it’s too dangerous. My dad says, it’s like he wears a... this thing, for dogs, on the mouth?
A muzzle?
Yes, he says it’s like this, wearing a muzzle, all day. We lose the mask for Covid, but we still have the muzzle. It is worse now, in fact. And the sad thing is, they sort of give up to think of something better. My mum says, she and my dad want me to travel so I can be someplace where I can speak what I think, without fear to get arrested for like a comment on Facebook, Putin you liar. She pauses. It’s a strange thing: to love your country and to be so afraid of what it has become, you know? What do you feel when you hear I am Russian? You see me as enemy maybe?
No. Quite the reverse actually. I prefer to think that, because you’re here, you are our best hope: that one day people like you will return to Russia, and with the help of others like you, somehow convince the brainwashed population that it’s time for Russia to shrug off its paranoia and engage with the rest of the world.
I see, she says thoughtfully. That’s interesting. That would be nice, of course. I don’t think it’s going to happen, though. When I’m old lady maybe!
She breaks into a round of embarrassed laughter, as if she can hardly imagine something so improbable.
He knocks back the last of his wine and sets down the glass.
Let me just check my phone... It’s already 10.30. Shall I give her a call?
Yes, OK.
He puts his phone to his ear. Neema comes on with the sounds of a baby’s crying in the background.
Hello, yes, I’m sorry, I’m still waiting for the woman to call me. I should know in about half an hour. Are you two OK?
Yeah, we’re fine. We were just wondering when we could expect you.
It’s OK, you don’t have to wait for me. It might be midnight before I can leave.
At the end of the call, he reports back to Natalya. She seems not the least bit troubled being alone with him in Neema’s flat.
They resume talking. Now expressing joint dismay over Trump’s sucking up to Putin – yet another topic that is hardly the norm for a first date, never mind a night you’ve booked to have a threesome. Topping up their glasses – Might as well finish off the bottle – it occurs to him he hasn’t spent more than five seconds determining whether he’s physically attracted Natalya, or whether she might be attracted to him. But how refreshing is that.
At 11.40, his phone rings. It’s Neema. The mother still hasn’t returned. She’s asked her to stay the night. She says she’s so sorry to have screwed up their plans.
Do you like her? she asks.
Yes, very good, he says, conscious that Natalya is sitting within a few feet of him, now idly scrolling through her phone.
If you want, you can use my bed, Neema says, and maybe I can join you at around three or four in the morning.
Are you sure?
Yes. Otherwise, there is no other time. She leaves tomorrow midday.
OK. Well, hopefully we see you a bit later.
Yeah, maybe. I’m glad you like her.
Hanging up, he tells Natalya Neema is stuck and won’t be back till later. Do you want to go to bed now?
She thinks about this and nods. They get to their feet. Now the question appears. They stand there in the low light just looking at each other, as if calmly looking into a mirror. He takes a step forward. The answer seems so inevitable and simple.
As he goes to kiss her, she moves to kiss him. The lustful thrust of her tongue surprises him, in stark contrast to her quiet and thoughtful way of holding a conversation.
She leads him to Neema’s room – piles of clothes on a chair, thin mattress propped against a wall, a scattering of footwear in another corner, boxes atop a wardrobe. Without speaking they start to undress as if they were about to slip into a silent pool together.
Naked, they sort of swim from the sides to the centre of the bed, Neema’s bed, with no Neema in it. Natalya’s figure is more attractive than he’d expected – long and athletic, yet feminine.
Not a stumble, not a glitch, as they explore each other’s bodies with hands and feet, as if long ago schooled by the same choreographer The yawning gap in years between them shrinks quickly to a little crack of nothing.
Their first time, and it’s intense, him climaxing seconds after her.
Their dance over, he rolls onto his back and remembers Neema, although his mind is swimming in bliss now, impregnable to anxious questions.
Natalya is looking at him, spent, deeply impassive, perhaps waiting for him to say something to help her, them both, make sense of what just happened.
When you slept with Neema, he starts up, did she ask you to put your hand on her throat and suffocate her?
One time, yeah.
Did you find it weird?
Her lips turn down at the corners, doubtful. Not, really. It was only gentle.
Did she do it to you?
A bit, yeah. You don’t like? Or you want to try?
He begins to chuckle, no taste for it. To be honest, I’m still a bit out of breath. I’m not sure if I’d last very long.
She smiles, amused by his wit.
That was so good, he says casting his eyes back to the ceiling again.
Yes. Very good.
Just breathing, being for a while. Together. Naked stranger, already a good friend. Who would have thought it possible? So easily you have space for one more woman. Not even guilt – but why would there be, given Neema arranged it all.
Sex is like being melted down to liquid, he thinks.
As he cools and returns to flesh and bone, he finds Natalya’s question hanging in the air like a cobweb, tickled by the slightest breeze. He rolls the question around in his mind, unable to come to a conclusion.
Natalya sits up and reaches behind her to pick up a bottle of mineral water resting on the nightstand. She takes a couple of mouthfuls and offers it to him. He sits up and takes the bottle from her, drinks like a younger man, and hands it back to her.
He beckons her closer. Goes to kiss her... and, as she parts her lips, he ejects his second mouthful of cool water into her mouth. If he thought she would enjoy this he hadn’t reckoned on her appetite. Was it him or just fucking she was so into? He can hardly keep up.
Are you OK? she asks, after he’s broken away to catch his breath.
Yeah, good.
Lie back, she says. He does. She swings her leg the other side of his shoulder lowering her bottom to his face, like it’s a bowl of ice cream he’s been eyeing all night and now she's giving him permission to lick it all up.
You like that? knowing he does, knowing most men do, a woman so young.
Me on her, her on me. Why is this sucking of each other such a turn-on, such an absurd feast? The wetness, the folds, the ridiculous positioning of one to the other.
As soon as he’s hard, she rolls down his belly and slides his cock into the bowl of ice cream he’s not quite finished and starts to ride him, faster and faster. He closes his eyes again, riding on through another Russian storm.
He’s woken in the middle of the night, by a hand sliding between his legs... He turns expecting to see Neema standing there, her teeth white in the dark. It’s Natalya. Her mouth finds his and her tongue plunges in before he can make a sound. Her hand cups his balls, skilled at playing with them, long fingers running up and down his aching hard cock. She can’t be serious. Punishing him for daring to take her on...
I don’t know if I can, he hears himself say.
But how can he not try?
Her hands didn’t hear him, her hips, her mouth. Now he understands her Dostoevskian obsession. He pictures Russian officers shooting recruits that turn away from the Ukrainian army, outmatched in skill, Putin’s smirk, women in groups demanding to see their sons again,
her fingers clawing his back, her hips bucking so hard he must hold onto the under sheet, she pulls him back, clamouring for more, going beyond beyond.
Can you come? he says hotly into her ear. It’s less a question than a cry of entreaty.
Yes, yes, nearly...
Her idea of nearly is desperately short of his idea. He swears to himself he must do more exercise on the bike he bought during Covid, recently gathering dust during this horrendous period of business breakdown.
Oh, good, finally, she’s reaching a peak – two fish trashing in the water, faster and faster, his stomach muscles threatening to rip – Oh, fuck, a guttural roar so like his own.
Car crash, war, death, spin back, animal cries leaping from their chests. Actually in pain, gasping for air. Spasms still coming, like he’s fallen into a pool of water with a broken live wire.
Are you OK?
His breath stops catching and comes back to him. Incredulous laughter bubbles up and overflows.
She asks him what’s funny?
I nearly died, he tells her, still laughing.
One final exhale and he can be liquid again.
Is it always like this for you?
This woman’s voice in the dark. My girlfriend’s bed, no girlfriend here. How has life got so jumbled up. And yet, how grateful he feels. He can’t even begin to tell her. He rolls over to embrace her and kisses her tenderly on the lips.
Thank you, he whispers.
His eyes open inches form her naked back. Daylight has arrived. Doesn’t she feel the draft? He snuggles up to her. Her warmth against his naked belly, so deeply comforting. He feels sad all of a sudden, knowing this will be over in a matter of hours.
He hears a sound, someone moving in the corridor – clank, clatter, clunk... footsteps. He rolls onto his back to see Neema arrive, still in her coat, smiling at them both, like mama returning home to see her kids still lazing about in bed.
Oh, I’m so sorry! she cries, laughing. I couldn’t get back! Did you have a good time?
The love birds stir from their post-sex cocoon to ask her what happened.
I can’t believe I missed all the fun! Neema cries, still in mama mode.
This does feel a bit weird, my current girlfriend, lover, whatever the label is, returning home to find you in her bed with a naked woman and grinning at you like she missed out on a deli pizza with chocolate toffee cake for dessert.
The lovers put on some clothes and join Neema in the kitchen for some coffee.
They sit around talking – about Neema’s duties with the young kids she was looking after, not the amazing sex he had with Natalya, who by the way looks as shattered as he does, which is strangely gratifying, given the age difference.
Natalya excuses herself to go make her final preparations. While she's in the bathroom brushing her teeth, he comes up behind Neema, now rinsing out the mugs, kisses her on the neck. I missed you, he says, just above a whisper.
But you like her, right? She gives him a saucy look.
She’s nice, yeah, I enjoyed, thank you. I just feel bad you weren’t able to get away, and didn’t even get to be part of it. So how about you and I... when she’s gone...
Do you have the energy, though? Stifling a giggle.
Well, right now, no. He feels conscious he shouldn’t look too happy. But how about I make us some lunch, or brunch or whatever the time is, and after...
OK. If you want to.... she says doubtfully.
Of course I want to.
He can't tell whether she’s disappointed that he fucked her friend without her, even though it was her suggestion he go ahead, or the fact her last-minute babysitting job ended up dashing her plans.
It’s time. Natalya wheels her case into the hallway. Hello, goodbye. So fleeting, so intense. Stay in touch, email, WhatsApp. Good luck with this, good luck with that.
He still has a pressing question to ask her, but suspects he never will: Where did that commitment come from, a force more fierce than everyday lust? Like an animal gorging on meat knowing that it faces days of icy weather and deprivation once it returns to a land at war.
==
I feel bad that you missed out, he says again, almost the minute departed.
It’s OK. Neema gives him a smile that says she can imagine how good it was – because she’s experienced it for herself already.
Can I make us some breakfast?
You have the time?
I have time.
He’s not sure why he’s having to say this again.
She purses her lips and lowers her eyelids, opens her eyes and smiles likes it's a deal.
I have eggs, I have bread... maybe you need a full English breakfast? Giggling again. You looked so wiped out when I came home and I see you there in my bed. So wiped out!
Good to see her laughing again.
Well yeah, I was, he concedes, blushing a little. You should have warned me.
They laugh together and whatever it was that she was not quite happy about seems to lift.
==
Around midday, he slips under the covers to lie beside her. A sense of unfinished business, needing to make up, reassure, hangs over him.
Neema’s kissing is soft and languorous, low key, as if she’s decided she isn’t even going to try and compete with Natalya’s performance. She’s agreed to this more for his sake, so he doesn’t have to feel bad that he had fun while she was minding someone else’s children. Even their climax together lacks urgency, more like a sneeze than an expression of passion.
Sitting up in bed, she asks him what he liked about Natalya. She seems genuinely curious, delighted even that he likes the same things as she does.
And then her smile fades and he asks her, What’s up? He senses he’s missed something
– something she wants to get off her chest.
Her eyes, as they look up at him, show naked disappointment. OK, now she wants to break up with you.
You know, I feel I do lots of things for you, she starts up, her tone gentle, almost forlorn. But, you know, the way we met, on the site, I was thinking maybe you could show, like, more caring of me.
Caring? he queries.
Yeah, like if you came with a gift sometimes. To show me you care.
That last word arrives like a slap in the face.
A gift? He hears a thin trace of indignation in his voice. I’ve been paying for the hotels, the meals, he points out, switching to lawyer mode. Are those not gifts?
We go to hotels because we can’t go to your place.
OK, but we haven’t been able to come to this place, either, until today – and yet, I’m the one paying for the hotels and the fine dining.
He could almost choke as he reflects on the stupid amount of money he has been spending on their good times together, not even a whirlwind romance, at a time when he’s so flat broke.
Yes, OK, but don’t you think, if you put yourself on a website like this one where you found me, you should treat a woman in other ways, so I feel wanted? Like romantic things?
Gifts, he says again, as if struggling to paint a picture, even grasp the concept.
Yes. Like flowers, perfume... You don’t do this with your previous girlfriends?
No, I did. I did. Sometimes, sure.
But not with me. She’s sulky now. I don’t ask you to pay for my rent like some of these women do, just, you know, some token, something... her hand lifts off the sheets and drops pathetically.
He doesn’t know what to say. Admit that he’s broke? That’s bound to register as a lame excuse, open to being interpreted as an unintended confession that he’s spending his money on another woman. He’s tempted to reach for his phone, tap on his bank apps and show her the statements, the damage he’s been dealing with.
Am I worth this much to you?
Her question turns his stomach over, forcing him to consider whether he has in fact taken her for granted without ever having meant to? It would appear he’s been a little naive reading her ironic smile to mean she shared his view of the Sugar Daddy/Sugar Babe concept as merely a marketing gimmick, not a real-life contract.
Feeling a chill in the air, he reaches for his shirt. The warmth falling over his shoulders gives him courage and says: OK, so, how about I take you shopping?
Just like that, pretending he’s already the person he is trying to be – with the same bank balance as he had this time last year. She’s right: she deserves to be happy, not when things improve for him, but right now. The last thing he can bear is for her to think he’s just an opportunist, a shameless fake.
She pulls a face, as if to say, now he’s making her feel a little cheap – like he let her win the argument a little too easily.
Really? she says.
He wonders if this is how things started with the ex who kept her in a golden cage. Gifts upon gifts till she said yes. But why on earth would you want anything like that again? Were people just so wired into repeating their history, believing this time it’ll be different?
Well, not this minute, he says. The next time we meet.
Only if you want to. I don’t want you to feel –
Yes, I do, I do want to.
His voice sounded sincere, even heartfelt, to his ears, although he still felt the afterburn of resentment from being delivered a thinly veiled ultimatum.
Because I mention it, she says, and you feel pressure now.
The truth is – OK, he thinks, just fucking spit it out and be done with – the pressure I’ve been feeling isn’t around us, it’s my business. I’ve lost a bunch of clients and I’ve been distracted and, well, broke, basically.
She studies him for a moment. Like a painting that’s slipped off its hook.
Why did you go on this website then?
When you wrote to me, I forgot I even had a profile up on there – from two years ago.
But if you’re broke –
When we met, I wasn’t broke, I was fine. This is very recent. Since Trump’s inauguration almost to the date.
She shrugs, sceptical.
Like you’re a crypto trader or something?
I tried that, got burnt – but that was four years ago. No, this is my consulting business. Some of my clients got burnt and their pain got passed on to me.
Her expression shows signs of cutting him some slack. I don’t want to be on this stupid site, either, she says. I don’t want to be on any dating app. But it’s not easy meeting English people. Black guys maybe, but they look at me and they just want to fuck and disappear.
Hey, come here.
He slides towards her on his knees, puts his arms around her shoulders. A kiss to make up, reassure. Fuck knows where he’ll find a couple of hundred pounds for a gift, but if it would make her happy...
They get dressed talking about food shopping now. Hungry, like being her age again. He offers to run an errand for her. She sends a list to his WhatsApp. What time is it? Already 5 o’clock. Red or white wine? he asks. Red, she says. OK. She gives him her spare set of keys so he can let himself in. Off he goes, a good little boy once again.
Well, maybe that cleared the air, he thinks to himself, running his eyes down a rack of Italian wines under ten pounds. Standing in a queue, he feels a vibration in his pocket:
I hope I didn't piss you off. X
Not at all x he sends back.
He would write more, but it’s his turn to move to one of the self-service tills.
He taps the card reader. Not approved. He tries again. Same rejection. He tries the PIN. Fuck. Must have hit the overdraft limit. He takes out the other card. The guy waiting behind him growing impatient. This one goes through. He loads up his rucksack and leaves the shop.
Nice to be cooking together for a change, he thinks, walking up to her block of flats.
He lets himself in and takes the stairs. Slots in the key. Turns the lock and steps inside. As he goes to close the door, he hears a scuffling sound, a catch of breath, a tortured cry. His first thought is this must be from outside the flat. He closes the door, quietly. It's definitely inside this flat.
He casts his eye around the kitchen and living room. Empty. Must be the bedroom or bathroom.
He slips the straps of his rucksack off his shoulders and walks swiftly but quietly to the bedroom. He finds Neema grappling with a black guy by the side of the bed, the man’s back towards him.
He’s trying to strangle her. For real.
His first thought is he must have come to the wrong apartment. But of course that can’t be true, because he has her keys.
Why’re you standing here watching this, not a film, not a dream, actually fucking happening.
He still can’t move. It’s fear. Like when he was a boy unable to get into the unheated swimming pool, because he was so much skinnier than all the rest.
You just have to jump.
Neema falls onto the bed. The man has his hands round her throat. An invisible leash drops from Sean's throat, his legs launch across the room, his body slams into the man, arms wrapping around the man’s back. Sean knees the man’s thigh. Now the man seems to notice there’s someone else involved. Sean gets his arm around the man’s throat, pulls hard to get him off her. Strong smell of sweat, redolent of bananas, rotting fruit, stale cologne. More muscle on him than you have. Neema below choking, free at least, kicking the man, sometimes you, by mistake.
The man works free of him. A sharp elbow into Sean’s face. Then a punch, no time to block it. Your nose turning to mush. A second punch on the cheek, just below the eye.
Angry now, he punches back, furious, fearless, technique coming back to him in a flash, as if his last kung fu class was last week not 25 years ago. Breaking through the man’s arms, taking more punches, landing a few.
No time to make sense of anything. Neema running from the room. Who is this cunt.
In the blizzard of punches and kicks he makes out a man in his forties or fifties, a similar age to him, except you just know this is what he does on a regular basis. Neema’s man in the cafe. Has to be. She wasn’t imagining it.
Thrown on to the bed, Sean raises his arms to block the man’s fork-like arms and hands diving for his throat. He’s got you. Fuck. Grip like a robot. Nothing sexual about this. Christ. Eyes could pop out of my sockets. So strong this man’s hands.
He hears a thud, a second thud. The grip around his throat slackens and the hands fall away. Choking, you look up to see Neema wielding her wok – it comes down again on the man’s head. Man bumping against the bed, rolling onto the floor with a thump.
Still choking, Sean pulls himself to his feet, eyes on the man crumpled on the floor beside the bed. Her wok in both hands, raised above her head, Neema goes in for the kill.
Neema, stop stop! Stop! It’s enough.
Standing between her and her fallen attacker, his hands up to block her, he hardly recognises this face a contorted mask of extreme anger and revenge, fear and loathing, cheeks streaked with tears, like warrior paint, her bleeding mouth baring its teeth in preparation for the killing blow
It’s OK, it’s OK.
Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps as if stapling the air with fear.
She lets him take the wok from her hands. He remembers the first time he picked it up, remarking to Natalya it was quite a weighty piece. Lifesaver, he might one day joke in the future.
Sean turns around to check on their assailant. I think you knocked him out, he says. He drops to his haunches, staying alert. Blood in the man's short hair, quite a nasty gash, difficult to tell how serious it is.
Do you have any rope, or some tape, thick tape?
She doesn’t seem to comprehend.
Neema, tape, do you have any tape?
She shakes her head.
OK, um, go to my rucksack – yeah? – in the kitchen, take out all the shopping and you’ll find a roll of duct tape at the bottom.
Rucksack.
Yeah, you know the one? Grey canvas, with straps. I’ll stay here in case he wakes up.
She leaves the room. He stands over the man, his right hand clenched forming a fist. He grows aware of blood running from his semi numb nose, lots of it, dripping onto his shoes, the carpet.
He takes a tissue from his pocket, tear off a bit and stuff it up there. Forms a fist again. Taking no chances. Heart still racing.
Rustle of plastic in the next room. Footsteps headed back to him. Neema enters the room. She holds out the roll of duct tape, as if passing a baton.
You get to work. Wrap this up. Literally. Ha ha. Starting with the man’s wrists, limp now, finally limp. Get those strong arms pinned behind his back. Now the feet. Pair of old loafers, brown. Still no movement. What if he’s dead or dying?
He tears off the tape. Job done. He feels for a pulse about the man’s neck.
Nothing. Fuck... No, yes, there is one, faint.
He looks at Neema. She’s begun trembling. He drops the tape on the bed and takes her in his arms. Questions. No, not yet. Tissue not holding, fuck, blood dripping all over her, hair, clothes.
Hang on, sorry...
He peels away. Hands on her shoulders, guides her to the bed, so she can sit. Still trembling.
Can you give me a sec? he says. I just need to check my face.
He enters her bathroom. The mirror gets quite a shock. Already swelling up – purple, red, blue, yellow. Like a toffee someone had a chew at. At least the nose feels a lot worse than it looks.
Still having to breathe through his mouth, he turns on the tap. Cold water. Stings, refreshing, though.
He wraps some of the toilet roll around his fingers aching from contact with the man’s face and dabs his face.
He returns to the bedroom. Love scene now a crime scene in just under an hour.
Neema hasn’t moved. State of shock.
Are you OK? he asks.
She doesn’t answer. He takes out his phone. What do you say? They record these calls, you know.
He gives his name and describes what happened as an attempted murder. The female voice on the other end doesn’t exclaim, remains super calm throughout, as if listening to a description of a problem with his internet. She advises him to call an ambulance. Some officers will be with him in just a few minutes.
The whole time he’s on the phone to the hospital, he stares at the man, beginning to worry, the man might never wake up.
He hangs up. His own hand shaking now. He tells Neema they think they’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.
He hears a groan coming from the floor. It’s the man, not dead at least. His eyes barely open. Can feel every muscle in his body tensing up again, even though the man’s tied up, can’t possibly get out of that.
The groaning ends. No further sounds. Like someone woken by voices then returning to sleep.
Suddenly overcome by a strong desire to leave the room, remove himself from this monster’s presence, but he’s seen the movies, the bad guy knocked out somehow coming round, escaping his binds and coming again at the hero.
Is that what you are? A hero?
He sits beside Neema on the bed. Rests his hand on hers. Counts three red knuckles, skin chafed, smeared in blood, mostly his own. You don’t see Mum in these hands. These are Dad’s hands. You have mum’s eyes. But your dad's hands probably never hit anyone, much less strangled anyone. They were the gentlest hands. But Grandpa had a temper. Maybe it was that bit of your DNA that saved you just now.
Is he that guy you saw, in the café?
She doesn’t answer. He hardly had to ask. She sniffs, clears her throat.
Yeah. It’s him.
Exhausted, but he can’t switch off. He must do something. Photos. Yes. His phone. Pocket.
We should take photos, now, while the bruising is still fresh. She regards him as if he just told her a sick joke.
Really?
Well, I think so, yeah.
Reluctantly she agrees. Now you, he says, handing her his phone. A day to remember. Post them on Instagram. Not even funny.
==
Two paramedics arrive and the world becomes busy again. It’s difficult to process the questions, the back and forth. Like hearing voices with your ears under the line of the bathwater.
They check on the man tied up on the floor, groaning, awake again. His sounds like those of a man who deserves pity. Makes you feel sick.
The male paramedic says he’ll look at Sean’s nose in just a minute. His female partner kneels beside the man on the floor, asking him in a friendly northern accent where it hurts, can he see her finger, etc., her sweet voice trained to treat everyone, even people like him, equally.
Don’t untie him please, Sean cuts in. He tried to kill us. His voice sounds strange to his ears, the tone more fitting for a complaint about an obstreperous neighbour.
OK. Let's have a look at that nose of yours... The male paramedic comes over. He gives Sean’s nose a gentle feel with his rubber gloves. I can see it's a nasty punch, but I don’t think that’s broken.
He sounds uncertain. Everything, Sean feels instinctively, is going to feel uncertain from this point on. For who knows how long.
Two police officers arrive. Polite and courteous, eyes alert, taking in the details, every hint of a tell. Everyone in the room now talking in reasonable tones as if reporting on a strange landing from outer space.
The officers politely instruct Neema and Sean to move into the next room. This is a crime scene now. Heard that one before, but only on TV.
They sit at the kitchen table. Away from the man, a different world almost.
We’ll get this sorted first, the female officer explains to them both, and then we’ll take you down to the station where we can take your statement. Is that alright? Sean nods. He reaches for Neema’s hand. She seems to be slowly emerging from the worst of her state of shock. At least that.
Neema and Sean emerge from the police station as the sun is slowly disappearing behind the horizon. The same sun, but different somehow. Part of a different universe that will wake upon a trial and who knows what else. They were offered a lift home. Sean looked at Neema. She said she'd prefer to walk. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.
They start walking, aimlessly for a few minutes, as if having nowhere to go. People passing stare at them, aliens from space. Crusty blood blocking your nose, the tongue playing with the open wounds to the mouth, throats sore, but able to breathe at least. Should take her hand, but need space for now, her too, he senses.
Their attacker in hospital with a fractured skull, not critical, they were told. Interpol checking the man’s history, also wanted in Belgium. Forensics were busy while they were being interviewed, gone now. They can return to the flat. He tries to picture them both in her kitchen laughing about it all over a glass of wine. The picture fails to materialise.
So shattered, it’s an effort reading his Maps application. He stops. To think.
He sees there’s a recent WhatsApp message he’s missed. It’s from Natalya. He opens it. Sean, hello, I’m in Moscow now. I wanted to tell you i so enjoyed our evening together. It was very special for me. I hope it was for you. X
He feels tears welling up, wipes his left eye with the back of his hand. He can’t think what to write back. She’ll have noticed he’s read her message. He can’t ignore something as sweet as that.
For me too, Natalya. Big hug. S x
Are you lost? Neema asks.
Sorry, no. I was thinking, um... if that guy who tried to kill you, if he, if it was your ex who sent him out here, that means he knows where you live. So how about we go back to yours, pick up a few things and you come back with me, to mine?
She makes this funny twitching movement with her lips, like she might be on the points of crying. He hopes not.
What about your ex? she asks.
I’ll ask her to stay round her boyfriend’s for a few days.
Really? I cause you so many problems already.
Honestly, it's fine.
Thank you.
Sure. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?
No. I love cats. And don’t make me smile – my lip is so sore.
You can sleep on the sofa.
She gives him a surprised dirty look. He grins. Fuck, he says, wincing. Me too.
Do I get to meet your kids?
You do.
Look at that smile, he thinks. As if this was really the only gift she ever wanted from him – kindness.