Composite Creatures Read online

  Art looked up, and for a second, he was Mum looking back at me, how she would have looked at her last Christmas. Art and Mum looked absolutely nothing alike, but there was something in both their expressions that silently mourned something they’d lost and didn’t know how to get back. Art’s hands lay open across his thighs, palms up, as if still holding the book.

  “Come downstairs, husband-to-be.”

  Arm in arm, I helped him to stand and he swayed a little. He lifted lightly, no heavier than a child.

  We lay on the sofa together like a couple with nothing left to say. Art sat in front of me between my legs as if we were squished in a canoe or riding a horse. We half-watched The Muppet Christmas Carol, and then let the ads drift straight into The Nightmare Before Christmas. Art must have fallen asleep, as his chest began to rise and fall like waves on the sea. I wrapped my arms around him to keep him warm and kissed the top of that still-not-familiar head. His hair smelled musty, like the loft when we first opened it up a year ago. His trousers hug loosely around his legs, his knitted maroon jumper engulfing him entirely. Art looked like he was in the process of being swallowed.

  We went to bed together, hand-in-hand, and slept through the night, still clutching each other. Next year, I’d find more ways to touch him that he liked.

  On waking, it was a shock to find us skin-on-skin, our bodies sticking together. Art was still asleep, the hollows beneath his eyes smudged like burst blackberries. His lips were moving just a fraction but he looked peaceful so I rose, wrapped myself in a dressing gown, and peeked through the blinds at the white-washed street. No signs of life. The sky was heavy and white, lighting the street like a wide fluorescent lamp.

  I made sure the blinds were closed and then padded down to the kitchen. Nut was already there, her tail swishing behind her in excitement. She bounded over across the rug and I held her skull between my hands, rotating my fingertips behind her ears. Her cheekbones rose and she crooned a low, clucking mewl.

  “Merry Christmas, little girl.”

  I kissed her forehead and held my lips there, savouring the soft, fragrant woodsmoke of her skin, changed so much since her early sweet talcum days. I dropped some artificial salmon into a dish for her and set it on the dining table so that she had to stretch up and stand to eat.

  The kitchen was freezing, so I turned the heating on and set to scrambling some eggs for Art, brewing his favourite coffee on the side. Just as I was jostling our breakfast onto one vast tray Art appeared by the doorway, smiling that old warm smile, taking me back to the early days of party hats, of purple socks, of his old flat where he had seemed so exquisite.

  “I love you, Norah.”

  Something inside me cracked. I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t even know what I was crying for, but those few words had opened up some vault inside of me. We held each other in silence like we were the only two people in the world. And we may well have been – there’d be no one knocking at our door that day – but I felt like I didn’t care even if they did. Art. I had Art. I had him for life, and he had me, and he was fine with that. We would look after each other, and we’d have Nut. A little family of three. Nut was likely to be the only child I’d ever have, that we’d ever have. We could be happy, all three of us in love. This was what life was for, this was what it was all about. The three of us connected by more than ideas or ambition. This was biology.

  I raised my head from Art’s shoulder and looked deep into those wide blues. The lenses of his glasses distorted perspective, making them look further away than they actually were. He smiled.

  “Do you love me too?”

  I couldn’t speak, and lowered my head with a gentle nod. He kissed me on the lips and like the snow it felt clean, cold, and pure. Stifling a sob, I gestured to the living room so we could eat in there, perhaps cuddling together on the sofa like the night before. Art carried the tray for me and I followed with only a brief glance behind me at Nut, who was sitting on one of the dining room chairs, tugging absent-mindedly at her ear lobe.

  Art was quiet as we ate, and I couldn’t figure out whether he was just relaxed or whether he’d drifted back to his own Christmas ghostlands. I spooned my mouth full with egg. Premium eggs meant celebrations.

  “You chew with your mouth open, you know.”

  I laughed at that, and a gob of egg flew from my lips. He smirked and rubbed his ear. I bobbed my head to the rhythm of my chewing, and swallowed. “So do you.”

  “I know.”

  I ate the last few mouthfuls as delicately as I could manage and took the plates away. We hadn’t planned anything, apart from that we wouldn’t have plans. We huddled together under a blanket for most of the morning, only rising to bring more hot drinks, those little veggie sausages you get in a bucket, and other greasy nibbles from the overloaded fridge. I made sure Art kept eating, he needed it, but I avoided the unhealthiest snacks. I owed it to Nut to look after myself. Art nibbled on whatever I handed him and dozed, drifting away from me and back again, mumbling all the time under his breath.

  I couldn’t help him deal with this; he’d just have to see it through, like I had to. But despite how obviously wretched he felt, I relished the closeness of him, the way he’d fall asleep with his head on my shoulder like he’d known me for a hundred years. I held his hand and my insides bubbled. The air was warm and drowsy, a snug. I tucked his head in my neck, and jolted at any creak of a gate, or the shuffle of boots outside.

  We waited until the evening for our gift-giving. Never really having done this before, we both promised to keep how much we spent to a limit. At first we’d not wanted to show each other up, but the truth is that presents just didn’t seem so important anymore. Just having Art and Nut by my side made me feel stronger.

  I sat on the floor by the Christmas tree with three small gifts tucked between my knees. One was a box of abstract design socks that I knew he’d love, one for every day of the week. I’d also booked us a weekend away by the sea, staying in a little B&B in Cornwall. It was more extravagant than the gifts we’d promised to each other but it was a present for both of us. And other couples did these weekends all the time. Maybe we could even bring Nut, though we’d have to hide her while on the road, burying her beneath blankets or a tarp.

  Art came into the living room carrying two mugs of mulled wine, the steam curling behind him in question marks. He offered me the more colourful of the two. It was new, and painted with crude figures capped with corkscrew brown curls, all of them holding hands and dancing around the outer surface in a perpetual “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”. Each little figure was in the middle of a different activity. One was standing on what I supposed was grass, her ankles deep in weeds, one looking up at the sun overhead, and another was clad in black and white, which I think was meant to be a business suit.

  “I broke the birthday rule,” Art chuckled. Then he spluttered, the mulled wine catching his throat. All the little Norahs watched me with judging black eyes.

  “Thanks. It’s… weird.”

  “Think of it as an early birthday present. You can take it to your new job.”

  I mimed a “cheers” and raised my cup to him, smiling with all my gums.

  Next he handed me a silk pouch, tied with a gold cord. I jingled it by my ear. He looked down at the floor, and the skin near his hairline flushed.

  “Sorry it’s not wrapped…”

  He tailed off as I pulled open the bow and tipped the contents onto my palm. A little rock, partially polished, mounted on a pin. I was staring at it, trying to work out what to say, when Art said, “It’s an ammonite.”

  It wasn’t an ammonite. It was obvious that this was something else, definitely a fossil, but not an ammonite. My throat had constricted when I’d opened the pouch but it loosened a little when I realised that he’d got it wrong.

  Art seemed to sense that I didn’t know what to do. “It’s just a little thing, it’s fine if you don’t like it. The Grove said you’d appreciate it.”

  “I d
o,” I said, closing the pin in my fist and squeezing it tight. Art looked pleased.

  “But anyway,” Art leaned to the side, reaching into his pocket, “this is your main present. The others are crap.”

  He pulled out a velvet box. Like the pouch, it wasn’t wrapped. He offered it to me on the flat of his hand, his doe-eyes peering at me below heavy brows. I took it, and it weighed nothing at all. I could have tossed it in the air and expected it never to have come down again.

  The lid creaked open, and inside was planted a ring made of two loops – one gold and one silver, twisting around each other like rope. I didn’t understand.

  “It’s an eternity ring. I know it’s more usual to be married first, but we’re not normal, are we? We’re ultra-normal. And this is forever, isn’t it? We’re going to be together longer than any other couple we know. If that doesn’t mean eternity, I don’t know what does.”

  His eyes shone. He was either crying or just very, very tired. He wiped his eyes with one maroon cuff.

  “Wear it now, you don’t need to wait.”

  Art slipped it from the box and fed my ring-finger through its mouth. My heart was thudding in my chest, but if I closed my eyes I couldn’t even feel the difference on my finger. How did I feel, really? I don’t know. I was so happy that day with my head stuck deep in the sand, eating sand, drinking rainwater through the sand. Why was this ring, a symbol of love, now a shackle?

  I kissed him. It seemed like something I could always do to answer without an answer. A key unlocking our next scene. Art smiled without parting his lips at the socks, giving me a knowing glance and pulling on a pair. He responded to the weekend in Cornwall with a similarly silent kiss.

  By my knee there was one gift left, one little wrapped package tied with gold ribbon. Art clapped his hands together with a dull thump, both of them clad in another pair of fluorescent socks. “Oooh, one left for me, how exciting.”

  He pouted coyly, resting his pointed chin on his shoulder. I shook my head in defiance, holding my own chin aloft. “Well actually, no. This one is for Nut.”

  Art’s face became blank. He looked at the package and then at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I bought her a little present of her own. For Christmas.”

  Art stared at me, his jaw snapped to the side. Something had changed, shifted, as if I’d told a lie, or a lie had been exposed and we both had to face the shame. We were dancing around a gaping chasm, both looking away, lest we turn to stone.

  “Norah, what are you doing?”

  I couldn’t meet his eye. “What? How is this different to us buying her feed? Changing her litter tray?”

  Art shook his head. “It’s very different, you know it is. This isn’t just about the Grove finding out – this is about you now. You’re going too far.”

  “I’m doing things right.”

  “You’ve crossed so many lines, Norah. I’ve been protecting you, protecting us both. But at some point you’re going to have to stop. You’re going to drive yourself mad.” His mouth twisted with each word, and all I wanted to do was slap my hands over it. How could he still pretend to pursue the same old course, as if he hadn’t learned anything? As if he hadn’t said himself that he’d heard her voice in his head? Whatever he said out loud – I wasn’t alone in this. He was saying it for the sake of it, that’s all. But why? My breath caught in my throat, and it occurred to me that Easton Grove might have bugged the house. Might be listening to everything we were doing. Would Art let them do that to me? To Nut?

  I fingered the little parcel, wrapped lovingly in the iridescent silver paper I’d chosen because it looked like mackerel skin. I placed it between us on the floor.

  “It’s Christmas, and I was feeling giving. That’s all. It’s nothing really. She’ll like it.”

  “Will she? Should she?”

  “Yes!” I leaned towards him and brushed my lips against his ear. “She feels, she thinks. She thinks just like we do. She likes to be scratched behind the left ear and not the right. She hates the zest of lemons. She comes to us for warmth in the night.”

  Art leapt away, his eyes screwed shut. “Fuck. You can’t say that–”

  “I can. I see it all clearly, Arthur. You see that life in her too, don’t make out that you don’t. You’ve kept the den she made in your study. I saw it. Why shouldn’t I make her happy? She’s alive, alive now. Isn’t it our responsibility right now to make her content?”

  Art stared at the little package. As if she knew, Nut strolled through the open doorway and sidled up behind Art, scratching her flank on his back like a bear on bark.

  “Would you rather she was just miserable?”

  Art shook his head and covered his mouth with his fingers. “We need to be so careful now,” he whispered. “You’re skirting a fine line here.”

  “We are, Art. It’s both of us. We’re doing this together.” Art looked at the floor, so I lifted his chin and gave him a soft, entreating smile. “I am being careful. I’m looking after us, don’t worry.”

  Art took a deep breath and ran his hands over his scalp. I cast my lure. “Why don’t you give it to her, if you’re worried about me getting too close?”

  A half-truth. A pacifier and a spotlight, all at once. If he did this, he’d see her happy face. His own happy face. I wanted him to see her as I did. He picked up the box and Nut immediately pushed her face into it, her nose twitching as she inspected it from all angles. She batted at it gently with a child-like hand, and turned her face up questioningly at Art.

  “OK. I’ll do it.”

  He lay his hand on her back and with cruel force, pushed her down into a seated position. He chuckled.

  “I suppose it’s only fair that I give her it really. She gave me a present too.”

  Art grimaced widely, his lips rolling back to reveal something shining like a new pearl. Past his canines, quite eye-catching – a new, slightly too small, porcelain white tooth.

  I waited for Art to fall asleep on the sofa before suggesting that we head upstairs. Groggily, he succumbed, and dragged himself off to bed on heavy feet. As he headed up the stairs I called up to him that I’d turn all the downstairs lights off, and then follow him up. He might not have even heard me.

  I turned off the TV, lamps, and fairy lights, and headed into the kitchen. Nut was standing by the dining table, pressing her face into the table top, licking up fake turkey slivers, the bloody smears of cranberry sauce. I stroked her temples, already frightened. My breath came out in fragments.

  Wrapping my arms around her middle I tried to heave her frame on top of the table, but she was too long and too heavy, her skin too slippery. Every time I pulled she stretched out further like an accordion.

  So instead, I cut a slice from the grey lump meant to look like a turkey leg, and wafted it in front of her face. She immediately went cross-eyed as she focused on it flapping in front of her. I pulled it from her slowly, coaxing her into the centre of the table. Using one of the dining chairs for leverage, she heaved her body onto the table, the old legs creaking beneath her. She settled down onto her haunches and I fed her the leg, which she chewed slowly before swallowing with a loud gulp.

  I took a deep breath and stroked her cheeks with the heels of my hands. After a few moments, I pulled back the skin of her fleshy muzzle to expose her gums, moving slowly and gently so I didn’t frighten her.

  It only took me a second to find it, vast and black and horribly obvious. A gaping hole between her back molars. The gum stitched together neatly, and not quite yet healed.

  17

  I must have scrubbed every surface that could be scrubbed. The vacuum lay exhausted and steaming in the corner, its inner brush wrapped entirely in Nut’s cast-off fur. Flip the vacuum over and you’d be excused for thinking that a mangy rat had died inside.

  It was almost a year to the day since we’d last had people around to visit, and, again, it was entirely Art’s idea. It had been in the back of my mind as something I di
dn’t really need to worry about, almost like it’d been a dream I’d had. I was sure he’d forget or change his mind, but he’d actually perked up a little over the Christmas break. He had colour in his cheeks again, and even sometimes touched me like he used to. A finger on the neck, a hand on my waist. But these gestures were still intermittent. After Christmas Day, Art retreated to his study again, leaving me to down the leftover mulled wine and bin the increasingly stale pastries. Evenings were spent watching the TV with one hand holding my heart in, and the other spinning the eternity ring with my thumb.

  I hadn’t mentioned the tooth. I spent a little time massaging Nut’s cheeks to ease any pain, and crushed paracetamol into her bowl each night. I coaxed her onto the sofa and held her body in my arms, holding it together in one vital piece. She would fall asleep with her head on my breast, cooing softly, and when she awoke she’d peer up at me with such vulnerability that it’d make my ribs open like wings, my heart exposed to the air in its most raw form.

  That face.

  I looked, but didn’t look. I scooped as much of her up in my arms as I could to know her “wholeness”, but she just reminded me of my weakness. When I stroked the soft swelling of her jaw, my stomach pitched, and my tongue rolled back to taste my own back tooth – sharp with bitterness, the cold tang of iron.

  Though I needed to hold her, retell myself that I hadn’t failed her, that she was still complete, I couldn’t look at her without curling into the most fortified part of myself. She had the power to wind me with a single look, and when my turning away made her upset, she’d push against my thighs and clasp my ankles for love.

  Failure.

  Art emerged the evening before New Year’s Eve to tell me that Adam and Margo would be here at 7pm the following night. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I let him ramble on about what they might like to eat without really listening. When I realised that he was serious, I pretended that I’d forgotten and that I was just disappointed that we weren’t going to be spending the night together, just us two. Art waved his hand in mid-air as if swatting a fly, and then promised that New Year’s Day would be just for us. Well, after all the party clean-up, of course.