Chapter 22 Now #2
“It’s just, I was watching everyone leave, and it looked like he did a weird thing with a glass after they went.
I wasn’t paying proper attention, but I noticed him pushing a glass across the table, and it wasn’t his own drink, and I’m pretty sure he was putting it back where it was, and I’m pretty sure where it was is where you were sitting. ”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, it’s so fucked-up. But also, maybe it’s nothing. And I didn’t want to report it and be wrong, so I thought I’d just come tell you and you can decide what to do. If you want to come join our table or if you want me to wait with you while you call a taxi, I’ll—”
“Actually, no. It’s okay.”
I’m thinking.
“You know what,” I continue, “I asked him if he wanted to try my drink before I got up. I think that’s all it is.”
Her relief is so palpable and complete that I don’t even feel bad for lying to her. Isn’t she happier now that I have?
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” She laughs, slaps a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank fuck for that. I’m so sorry to panic you.”
I give her a smile dripping with warmth and reassurance. “No, babe; you did the right thing. We’ve got to look out for each other. Thank you for looking out; I appreciate it.”
She nods, already inching toward the door. She wishes me a good night and disappears. I stare into the mirror and think about what to do next. Mr. Periphery has surprised me. Perhaps this night hasn’t been wasted after all.
When I return to the table, true to the stranger’s words, everyone else has already left. Mr. Periphery is still finishing his drink. I approach him.
“A girl goes to the toilet for five minutes and everyone vanishes,” I say, voice friendly and bright.
“Yeah, I think your friend Ama was worried about missing her train.”
“Which is wise. I should probably shoot off before I miss mine.”
He gestures at his glass. “Are you going to make me see this off on my own?”
“I dunno…It’s late—”
“You’ve hardly touched your cocktail! Seems wasteful to leave our drinks here. Join me, so I look like less of a loser?”
It’s easier than it should be to say “Sure.” I sit, smiling.
“Oh, but d’you mind grabbing me a napkin from the bar, please?
The bottom of my glass is dripping wet.” So is his.
Beads of condensation have clustered on the tall glasses, collecting in pools at their bases.
And Mr. Periphery is happy to oblige, leaping up from his seat.
The switch takes only a few moments. I trade our drinks, using the water jug to make sure his new one looks full enough. When he returns, napkins in hand, all looks as it did before.
“Bit cluttered on this table—you want to nip into one of those booths?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
And so we find ourselves tucked away into an almost-hidden corner of the bar, sitting opposite each other on sticky faux-leather seats.
He’s more talkative now that the others are gone, and I let him talk.
At the very least, talking seems to be thirsty business for him.
As he tells me about Suit 1’s performance improvement plan at work and how it’s hard to find trustworthy females who bring enough to the table for high-value men in modern relationships, his drink disappears.
Within ten minutes, I notice the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the occasional quizzical look that shades his face as his gut churns.
His words are slurred, and his body is hanging over the table.
It’s like there’s a very thin string between the wall and his back, keeping him upright.
It looks like it might snap at any moment.
Knowing that it’s only downhill for him from here and that I’m safe, I get up from my seat and squeeze into the seat beside him.
“You don’t look too good, angel.”
He looks at me, and in his eyes is a hazy challenge and understanding.
“Whurrrrr—”
“Hush, pet. Not much point trying to speak now.”
He slouches toward the wall, the effort of holding his body weight up no longer worth it.
“So this is what you wanted me to wind up like, huh?”
He groans. I feel sick. It’s all too easy to think of what he’d be doing to me right now had I drank my own drink, as he planned. My little monster is roaring—furious, white-hot anger. And it’s not so little now. It wants to clamp its jaws around this sick creep and feed.
I’m terrified of how angry I feel and can’t help the feeling that the anger has to go somewhere. That Mr. Periphery needs to be punished. That the world would be better off without him in it.
The thought feels alarmingly right and wrong at the same time.
I don’t want to do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.
But if it releases the anger, keeps James safe, our marriage intact, my future family a possible, if slim, prospect, then perhaps it’s worth sacrificing another corner of my soul.
I think about it. I think about taking a blade and pushing it into his carotid. The feeling it brings surprises me. I feel a little sick. It strikes me that perhaps my vision is too bloody, and a pillow stretched over his face would do instead. Still, I feel queasy.
It should be easy from here, no? Check his license for his address, or use his thumb to unlock his phone, where it’s sure to be nestled in his Uber or Maps history.
And what then? Splay him out on his kitchen table and set at him with his knife set?
Or simply leave him lying face up in bed, in the hopes he chokes on his own vomit at some point in the night?
But he might have a security camera at home.
What then? There’s many a steep stairwell in the narrow and twisting streets of London that he could take a tumble down.
The churning in my gut intensifies. I’ve not yet considered that the girl in the toilets saw me with him, as have most of the people in the bar, and his colleagues will definitely throw my name out if he’s discovered suddenly dead…
Shit.
I suddenly feel utterly powerless. What am I doing here? What am I doing? I don’t want to kill a man in cold blood—this is not who I am.
Mr. Periphery groans. Between the stretched, slipped, and skipped-over syllables, I can just about understand that he feels sick. He wants to go home.
And I have to let him.
It makes me angrier than I was before. Angrier than I was walking into this bar. But there’s no scenario here where I don’t end up fucked, albeit not in the way Mr. Periphery was planning.
The cocktail stick lying beside a saucer of olive pits taunts me. I’m so furious I can’t help myself. I grab it and press it against his crotch. He grunts. I pinch the tip tightly and drive it as hard as I can against the fabric. I feel it burst across the membrane.
He screams. Well, I say “screams.” He tries to.
It is a low, animal wail that thunders. I’ve not driven the splinter as deeply as I would have liked, but he is sure to feel this tomorrow.
For a while. I yank the stick out and toss it to the floor.
Just in time, too, as one of the bar staff rounds the corner, peering in.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
My expression is apologetic, earnest. “Yeah, I think he’s just had a bit too much to drink.”
“Right.” He gives me a sympathetic look.
“To be honest, I’m in a bit over my head, here. I only just met him tonight and I need to be getting home. Any chance you’d be able to help him sort a taxi? Sorry, I know it’s a lot to ask but—”
He’s skeptical. Who wants to be landed with a loaded suit to look after? “We close in half an hour.”
“And my last train home leaves in fifteen. Please.”
His shoulders relent before his mouth does, deflating in a long exhale. “Okay, love, get off home. We’ll sort it.”
“Thanks so much,” I say with my biggest, most grateful smile.
That smile remains fixed to my face, painted on with the uncanny quality of a porcelain doll’s. The moment the fresh night air hits me, it wipes it off. I want to cry. I want to hide and scream and rage. The whole point of tonight was to make me feel better, not worse, and yet now…
Somewhere in the distance a siren wails, a lamplight flickers overhead, and I try to pretend that I’m not a ticking bomb waiting to explode.