The Dance of the Dead
The Anniversary
The musky room lay in shades of solitude: the curtains drawn and the house silent. There was a small table lamp lighting the far corner next to the armchair where Tom Mills sat. He was thinking deeply about what was soon to be.
He rarely moved from the tatty armchair in the evenings. He would just sit there and endure his terrible curse, and then he would wake the next morning, perched in the chair, stiff-backed and sore, in time for work.
But tonight was special: this time last year his wife, Jane, would be having her last minutes of life before being brutally killed. In five minutes, Tom was expecting a performance of a lifetime from his late wife who was always on time.
For the past year he had been privy to his wife’s phantom death scenes. From his shabby vigil, he would see it re-enacted in all of its splendid brutality. He was the only thing missing from the scene, but that didn’t stop his wife from putting on a dammed good show. He would see her running through the door and tripping like in some cheesy horror film. He could remember that he followed her, feeling clumsy and arrogant – a combination that’s exclusive to the drunk.
First Meeting
He walked through the multicoloured membrane of lights towards the bar. She was the prettiest little thing he had ever seen. He had left his friend Dave by the cigarette machine to watch his progress.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he shouted over the loud music.
‘Maybe if you tell me your name . . .’ she said.
‘My name’s Tom. And yours?’
‘I’m Jane, and yes, I s’pose you can buy me a drink.’
‘Well that was easier than I thought.’ The bar was crowded: plenty of time for conversation.
‘I only said you could buy me a drink.’ She raised her eyebrow and smirked. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a silky wave that Tom thought would smell sweet and fresh if not for the looming clouds of cigarette smoke that filled his local pub.
‘I’m just wondering why I’ve never seen you before – I come in here all the time.’
‘That was a nice variation of an old, well-used line.’ She giggled and Tom noticed how her hand crept to her mouth as she did so.
‘It’s “old” and “well-used” for a reason,’ he replied, starting to feel a little more confident since she had shown humour and a cheeky attitude that made him want her more.
‘What you having?’
‘Whatever’s dearest,’ she said with her eyes sparkling from the disco lights.
‘Half a lager it is then!’
After getting the drinks (it ended up being a pint of lager for him, and a vodka and lemonade for her), Tom weaved his way through the crowd of drinkers, leaving a wake for Jane to follow. He found the only free seats in the place, nicely secluded in a small corner decorated by the bland paintings in the style of Courier and Ives.
Tom could see Dave over the other side of the pub, smirking and nodding – get in there my son, it seemed to say. It made Tom feel bad that he had deserted his friend. ‘So, who are you out with?’
‘Just my friend, Jean. I don’t know where she’s gone or what she’s up to though. I feel a bit bad for leaving her.’ She started to look around, her eyes searching for the friend that Tom had unwittingly guided her away from.
‘Tell you what,’ Tom said, ‘why don’t you go and find her – I’m in a similar situation and think that maybe it would work if we set our friends up. What d’you think?
‘Sounds like a plan!’ she said. She had one final sip of her drink, drawing Tom’s attention to her full lips, and then went off to find her friend whose name Tom had already forgotten. He watched her walk across the dance floor, weaving in and out of the drunken crowd with a grace that made him feel slightly besotted.
When she came back, he decided he would ask her to dance.
The Anniversary
Over the nights of watching this, Tom began to think of it as a dance of some kind. The movements of his wife – her head thrown back by invisible fists – were getting to the point of being graceful in his outlook. A dance . . . where he led and she followed. He could remember his steps, how every punch justified the movement of his wife’s body, how every bite led to the blood appearing on her phantom neck. But he couldn’t remember what had made him turn so viciously on her. He did know one thing: he was steam-rolling drunk that night, but never before had it made him aggressive . . . and never since.
She would not be long in delivering. Soon she would be gliding into the room, reciting her greatest moment.
The Honeymoon
‘Storm’s comin’,’ he said, looking at the thunderheads that were marching toward them.
‘We better go in then,’ his wife said.
‘We’ve got time yet.’
The sun was still beating a path along the ocean before heading for the other side of the world. The wind had picked up, but it was warm and sweet, smelling of spicy foods and salt from the ocean that lapped at the rocks not four feet from the newlyweds. And apart from the black clouds that threatened rain, the sky was a bright blue, even for the late hour.
Tom had always imagined his honeymoon, and had always thought that it would be exactly like this: sat by the sea with his beautiful wife, watching the sunset, feeling more content than he ever thought possible. ‘I love you.’
Jane’s eyes glimmered. ‘I love you, too,’ she replied. Then she took his hand and kissed his cheek so softly that it almost tickled him. ‘Do you think married life will always be so peaceful?’
Tom laughed. ‘I’m sure there’ll be bumps in the road, but we love each other, so we’ll always hit the smooth ground soon enough.’
They sat there, the spray from the sea getting thicker as the wind picked up and the sky darkened. They held each other until the sun sank into the blue depths of the ocean, then they kissed again.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and have something to eat.’
‘Christ! I’m gonna be the size of a whale by the time we get home.’
Tom looked in her eyes and smiled.
The thunderheads moved closer.
The Anniversary
Tom couldn’t think of a time when she had ever looked so beautiful than on the night of her death – her swelling breasts pushing against her silk nightgown, her smooth legs glistening with her florescent blood, and the look of knowledge on her face when she realised it was the end. Now the wraith that came was a mere shadow of her, her flesh rotten and her eyes dead.
As each second ticked quickly by in the electric silence, Tom’s tension grew. His fingers dug into the threadbare armrests, making his dry knuckles turn white with strain. The time was getting closer, the air turning thick. The second hand on his watch was eagerly doing laps . . . but his heart was beating faster.
His eyes scanned the room, taking in the last remnants of peace before the macabre home movie played again. His cigarette had distributed a cloud of smoke across the living room, and he knew that when his wife performed she would not disturb it. The rest of the room looked like it usually did: clean, yet untidy.
His eyes focused in on the picture of his wife, which was standing on his corner desk. Her smile on the—
Tick-tick-tick
—picture was its usual pretty self, but the for some reason Tom imagined that tonight that smile had more meaning.
Nothing happened. The time had arrived; his wife had not.
Normally she would be in and performing by now, so eager to act out her end of the blows. It normally happened in a burst as though she had been waiting impatiently for her cue to centre stage. Had he survived all that she could offer? Had he been able to live through the punishment? Had his curse lifted?
He had been sick with fear deep down in the dark pit of his stomach. He had become familiar, almost, with the nightly shows; the night of her anniversary had loomed in his mind.
Now it was here . . . seemingly void of any sign of her, his wife.
He had lasted the year, and now it seemed his punishment had ended. He could live once more, and stop dwelling on the dead. Celebration was in order. It was time to call some old friends.
You did a great job with the pacing and the switch back and forth from past to present wasn't hard to follow at all. Very nice!
