Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories Page 31

  “Ouch. This late?”

  I check my watch. “It's only half eleven.”

  “So you'll be done in, what, twenty minutes?”

  Sighing, I make my way over to the desk and slump down. The screen is still waiting for me, with the cursor blinking at the end of the paragraph I wrote before dinner. I followed my own advice and stopped at a point where I was still eager to continue, so it should be easy to just buckle down and get the work done. As I sip from my wine glass and stare at the screen, however, I start to notice Bartleby sitting in the armchair opposite. Peering around the side of the laptop, I see that he's already helped himself to a glass. He's slumped with his back against one arm of the chair and his legs dangling over the other.

  “Don't mind me,” he says with a grin, taking a sip of wine that leaves his lips stained ruby red. “Why don't you get that work done, so we can have some fun?”

  “I don't think I'm going to be much fun tonight.”

  “Whatever. Type, man! Type!”

  Taking a deep breath, I look at the screen and re-read the last few paragraphs. They're not appalling, although they could do with jazzing up a little, just to bring a little more suspense to proceedings. I take another deep breath, waiting for the words to come, but after a moment I realize I can see Bartleby's legs swinging over the side of the armchair. No matter how hard I try to focus on the screen, there's no way I can work while he's sitting right opposite.

  “Don't mind me,” he says as I lean past the screen and look at him again. “Why don't you get that work done, so we can have some fun?”

  “You just said that,” I tell him. “Those exact words, just a moment ago.”

  “I did?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I'm right, aren't I? Five hundred words can't be that hard. Hell, I'm sure some of my shopping lists were longer, back in the day.” He leans his head back, until he's looking at my bookcase upside-down. “You sure have a lot of books. Have you read all of them?”

  “I have,” I mutter, focusing on the screen again.

  “All of them?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Which ones haven't you read?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Huh.”

  I try once again to focus on the screen, but after a moment I see Bartleby's arm reaching over toward the bookcase. He can't actually reach it from the armchair, but he's still trying, and as his hand grasps in the general direction of the books, I hear him letting out a few gasps.

  “Why don't you just get up and go over?” I ask, feeling the first stirring of irritation in the pit of my belly.

  “I can almost reach...”

  “You can't.”

  “Hang on.”

  I watch as he keeps trying, but he's still a few inches too short.

  “Bartleby...”

  “Am I annoying you?”

  “No, I just...”

  “Gah!” he splutters, as his arms drops. “I guess you're right.”

  Staring at the screen, I realize that the entire scene feels flat and boring. Something needs to happen, something that kick-starts things and turns the menace up a notch. This part of the book is in danger of just floating along, but I can't just scrap it entirely. Something nasty needs to happen in the basement.

  “How are the kids?” Bartleby asks.

  “They're fine,” I mutter.

  “And your lovely wife?”

  “She's fine too.”

  “They don't mind you sitting up like this, night after night, drinking wine all alone and talking to me?”

  “They don't.”

  “Huh. I'd have thought they would.”

  The armchair creaks as he gets to his feet and wanders over to the bookcase. After a moment he pulls out one of the books, a Herman Melville collection I think, and starts flipping through it. Figuring that I can maybe get some words done while he's busy, I set my fingers on the keyboard and stare at the Scrivener window, before realizing that my wine glass is empty. I sigh as I get up and take the glass to the cabinet, where I quickly top myself up.

  “I'm kind of stuck on this story,” I mutter, looking down at the glass once it's full. “It's not going anywhere. Usually by this stage I've cracked the main part of the narrative and I know roughly how things are gonna go down, but this one's pushing back at me. There's no momentum. I know something needs to change, but I'm not sure what.” After taking a long gulp of wine, I lick my lips, to make sure they don't get stained. “I know I'll fix it eventually,” I continue, “but I also know I need to hit my word count. Still, it's better to just get something, anything down. I can go back another day and make it better.” I take another gulp of wine, and now the glass is half empty again so I refill it. “I think tomorrow night when I stay up, I won't drink. That way I can get some quality work done.”

  I turn to him, only to see that he's gone. The Herman Melville book is resting on the table, but Bartleby has left the room. A moment later, I hear a creaking sound from the stairs.

  Hurrying to the hallway, I immediately spot him creeping up to the landing with his glass of wine.

  “Hey!” I hiss. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He stops and turns back to me. “I realized I was annoying you,” he whispers, “so I figured I'd get out of the way for a few minutes while you do those five hundred words. I just thought I could poke around a little.”

  “Rachel and the kids are asleep.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe you should stay down here.”

  “Nah, man,” he replies. “I'll be really quiet, I swear. Come on, you know me.”

  Sighing, I realize that the more I argue with him, the more he'll be determined to go up there.

  “Be quiet,” I tell him, “and don't go into their rooms, okay?”

  “You worry too much,” he replies, turning and heading up.

  Wandering back through to my office, I take another gulp of wine. The glass is almost empty now, so I go to the cabinet and give myself another refill, before making my way to the desk and dropping down exhausted in my chair. The screen is so bright and the cursor just keeps on blinking at me, waiting for me to type. I take a deep breath and then I sip from the glass, before realizing that I'm dragging this out way too long, just like I did last night and the night before that.

  And the night before that.

  These nights are getting longer, and I'm staying up later and later.

  Focus.

  I just need to focus.

  Setting the glass down, I lean forward and set my fingers on the keyboard, ready to type. And then, slowly, I start to realize that the house is completely silent. No matter how hard I try to focus on the screen, I can't help looking up at the ceiling and wondering what, exactly, Bartleby is doing up there.

  Three

  When I get to the top of the stairs, I look along the dark corridor and listen for a moment.

  Silence.

  All the doors that should be shut are still shut, and the doors that should be open are open. So far, so good. I head to the bathroom and peer through, but there's no-one in there, which means Bartleby must be somewhere else. Again I stop and listen, but the house is as quiet as the night itself, and I genuinely have no idea where he is or what he's doing up here.

  “Bartleby?” I whisper.

  Silence.

  “Bartleby? Which room are you in?”

  Silence.

  “Please just...” Sighing, I take a sip of wine as I creep along to the next door, which I push gently until it swings open. With a sigh of relief, I see my daughter Lucy sleeping in bed, her face picked out by the Winnie the Pooh nightlight. She looks so calm and peaceful, and I stop for a moment, just watching her as she sleeps. I really should try to make a little more time tomorrow, maybe take her to the park when she gets home from kindergarten, but I can only do that if I finish these five hundred words tonight.

  I step back and pull the door shut, before turning and looking along the corridor.<
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  Silence.

  “Bartleby?” I hiss, making my way along toward the next door. I peer into the spare room, Lucy's old nursery, but there's no sign of anyone, and that means...

  I turn and look toward the main bedroom.

  “Oh Jesus,” I mutter, stepping over to the door. I stop for a moment, filled with a sense of disappointment. I should have known, as soon as Bartleby showed up tonight, that this is how things would end up. I don't know why I always pretend that his visits will go differently, but as I take another sip of wine, I feel a sense of cold fear in the pit of my belly. Tomorrow night I won't let him in, but it's too late tonight. I don't really want to know what's going on in the bedroom, although I know I can't just turn and head downstairs. Finally, I turn the handle and slowly, cautiously push the door open.

  Bartleby is sitting on a stool next to the bed. Rachel is still fast asleep.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper. “Get out of here!”

  “I'd rather not,” he replies.

  “Bartleby, please! Let's go downstairs!”

  He stares at me, his features just about visible in the dark room.

  “Bartleby! Out!”

  “I'd rather not,” he says again.

  Taking another sip of wine, I creep over toward him. One of the floorboards creaks slightly, but fortunately Rachel doesn't stir. When I get to the side of the bed, I look down and see her sleeping face, and for a moment I feel a pang of regret. She deserves a better life than this.

  “I should have come to bed with her,” I say quietly. “I shouldn't keep staying up, night after night while she comes to bed alone.”

  “Gotta get those five hundred words done,” Bartleby points out.

  “I could've done them during the day. I barely wrote anything before lunch.”

  “Hungover?”

  I shake my head, not because he's wrong but because I don't want to admit that he's right. A moment later, Rachel rolls onto her back, but she's still fast asleep. Sometimes she uses pills to help her nod off, so I guess it'd take an earthquake to wake her right now.

  For a moment, I feel as if I want to say something else, something about how I know she's unhappy and that she misses falling asleep next to me, but the words won't come. Instead, I head over to the window and look out. The dark street is empty, waiting for morning to come and for people to spill out of their houses. For a moment, I imagine a lone figure staggering along the sidewalk, dripping blood and searching for a victim; a moment after that, the figure changes slightly and now he's carrying a dead woman in his arms, maybe to go hide her somewhere in a bush. Finally I remind myself that the street is empty, although I have no doubt that somewhere out there, maybe even in this city, someone is trying to hide someone's body. That's just the way the world works.

  Not here, though.

  Not in deepest, dullest suburbia.

  Turning, I see that Rachel is still asleep, but that Bartleby has pulled her t-shirt up. He's leaning close to her, looking at her bare belly, and the caesarian scar from Daniel's birth is particularly visible in moonlight.

  “Stop that,” I whisper.

  “Why?”

  “It's not...” I pause, before taking another sip of wine and finding that my glass is empty. I need a refill. “Just stop, Bartleby! It's not right!”

  “She's asleep!”

  “That's the -” Sighing, I make my way around the bed, but I stop a little short of pulling his arm away. “Please, Bartleby,” I continue, as he traces a fingertip across Rachel's belly. “Bartleby, don't do that. She'd hate it if she knew.”

  “She won't know!”

  “Bartleby!” I hiss, before realizing that I might accidentally wake Rachel. “I'm going to top up my wine,” I tell him, “and I want you to stop this immediately! You've got no right to just come in here and start...” I watch for a moment as he runs his fingertip across Rachel's belly and onto her chest, lingering for a moment between her breasts. “Stop,” I say firmly, “do you understand? Stop what you're doing and just... Stop!”

  I wait, but he's simply smiling at me, as if he finds my indignation amusing.

  Realizing that my anger is fueling him, I head out of the room and make my way downstairs. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do right now, but I hate the fact that this sort of thing happens sometimes after Rachel and the kids go to bed. Lately, Bartleby's been coming almost every night. By the time I reach my office and get to the drinks cabinet in the corner, I'm almost shaking with anger. I try to refill my glass, only to find that the bottle is almost empty, so I quickly drink the dregs and then open a bottle of Italian. Once my glass is full again, I turn and look toward the hallway, and I listen for some sign that Bartleby has obeyed my order and is coming downstairs.

  Silence.

  “Damn you,” I mutter, taking a sip of wine as I head back to the stairs and then up to the landing. Once I reach the door to the bedroom, however, I find that it's shut. I'm fairly sure I left it open, but a moment later as I grab the handle I realize I can hear a faint gasp coming from the other side.

  I pause for a moment.

  Another gasp, although now I realize it's more of a panting sound.

  God, no, not again.

  Why does he have to do this?

  Sighing, I turn and lean against the wall, before slowly sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. I take a sip of wine and stare straight ahead, listening to the sound of Bartleby's continued grunts as the bed squeaks and creaks. I don't need to open the door to know what he's doing in there, and I sure as hell don't want to actually witness him in action, not again. Even now, in the dark of the house, I can imagine him on top of Rachel in the moonlight, and I know that if I went in there I'd only encourage him. He's doing this to wind me up, to make me angry, and it's working. I close my eyes, but that only makes the image in my mind's eye stronger so I open them again and take another sip of wine.

  The bed is really creaking now, faster than before.

  I take a deep breath and sip some more wine. Damn it, the glass is already half empty again.

  For the next few minutes, all I can do is sit and listen to the creaks, groans, scratches and sighs coming from the other side of the bedroom door. At least they're not too loud, so they shouldn't wake Lucy, although there's always a chance. Still staring at the opposite wall, I try to ignore the sounds, and after a moment I find myself thinking about Daniel again. Sometimes, late at night, I wonder whether I might actually see him. Turning, I glance along the corridor, imagining the sight of him standing at the top of the stairs, staring at me. He'd be eight years old by now, so I imagine an eight-year-old; he'd probably have a doofy haircut, a real bowl job like the one I had at his age, so I imagine that too, although I'm careful not to make him look exactly like me. That'd be a little too creepy. Still, for a moment or two I really get a strong image of him, and I offer a faint smile as he watches me from the top of the stairs.

  And then I realize how dumb I'm being, so I make him go away. I take a sip of wine, and I listen to the sound of Bartleby still going at it in my bedroom.

  Finally, after a few more minutes, the creaking sound stops and silence returns to the house. I take a long, long gulp of wine, almost emptying the glass, and then I wait.

  I know what's going to happen next.

  It'll be the same as every night.

  Bartleby'll come out of the room with his glass still full, he'll gently close the door, and he'll stand over me, grinning with a sense of satisfaction, and then he'll make some kind of joke about how it's a good job that someone still fucks my wife.

  Four

  “Don't go in there!” I hiss as Bartleby turns the handle on Lucy's bedroom door. “I'm warning you, Bartleby! Do not go into my daughter's room!”

  “Oh, you're warning me now, are you?” he replies with a grin, pushing the door open. “Well crap, I just disobeyed, so now I guess you're gonna have to do something about it, huh? Big man gonna rugby-tackle me to the floor and drag m
e out?”

  I open my mouth to tell him I'm not joking, but no words come out. Instead, I simply freeze for a moment, genuinely not knowing what to do. I swear, I never know what to do when Bartleby starts playing his games.

  “How are those five hundred words coming along?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Why don't you go do them?”

  “In a minute.”

  “How much of that wine have you drunk?”

  “I can still write,” I tell him.

  “But will it be any good?”

  “I can edit it tomorrow.”

  “It won't be vintage, though, will it?”

  “I just -” I pause for a moment. “Wait, are we talking about the wine or the writing now?”

  He smiles. “I don't know. Are we?”

  “Who cares?” I continue. “I'll just get the words down tonight, and then I'll edit them and sort them all out in the morning.”

  “You will?”

  “I will.”

  “And that's your new routine?” He pauses. “Very... functional.”

  “It works for me,” I say firmly. “The creative process...” Sighing, I realize that I'm talking too loud. “Can you please just shut that door? Lucy's a kid, for Christ's sake. She needs her sleep.”

  He peers through into her room for a moment. “She still looks asleep to me.”

  “I don't want you to wake her up!”

  “I know. What you want is to write those five hundred words, so why don't you go downstairs and tap away at the keyboard until they're done? What time is it, anyway?”

  “It's almost one,” I point out.

  “That's late,” he mutters. “Geez, that sure is late, huh? It's been, what, two hours now since Rachel went to bed? You told her you'd just stay up a little while longer and then you'd join her, right? And now look at you, knocking about the place with a glass of wine in your hand. For a change.”

  I take a sip from the glass, which I refilled a few minutes ago.

  “I hope you're not going to blame me for those five hundred words not getting done,” he continues. “Come on, what's the problem? You're not getting writer's block, are you?”