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Dead Easy by Emefa Adzoa Tsekpo "Where the fuck have you been?" The voice was all too familiar; the tone was nothing new either. Grace sat up in bed, pushed her tangled hair out of her sleepy brown eyes, and groped for the bedside lamp. "Christ, Jamie! Do you know what time it is?" "I asked you a question, Grace. I want to know where you've been and why you haven't been answering your phone for the past two weeks! Do you know how many messages I've left on your voicemail, I need to…" What you need to do is accept the fact that I'm through with you. Bye Jamie, it's been a pleasure. Grace flipped the phone shut and tossed it onto the pile next to the overflowing laundry basket in the far corner of the room. She turned off the lamp and snuggled back under the duvet. It felt like only a few minutes had passed before she was woken again by the loud pop music coming from the clock radio. She left the radio on while she was in the bathroom so it wasn't until after she'd put on her coat and was looking for her keys that she realised someone was knocking on the door. "Well, it's about time! I've been standing here for over ten minutes." "Good morning, Frau Niemeyer," said Grace. "Good afternoon, Frau Jackson," replied Grace's elderly neighbour, eyes wandering with ill-concealed disapproval from the kitten-heeled black suede boots, up the designer jeans and red cashmere jumper, peeking out from underneath a hastily-buttoned beige trench coat, to the bird's nest of wavy black hair sloppily pinned up with what appeared to be a fountain pen with a green glass cap. What was the point of wearing expensive clothes if you couldn't even be bothered to comb your hair, she thought. "Perhaps you could start by explaining to me why your friend finds it necessary to sleep in front of our building. This sort of behaviour may be common where you come from, but that's not the way we do things here." "What? He's outside?" Sod it! The window on the second-floor landing didn't allow a view of the front of the building, so Grace walked across into her neighbour's flat and drew back the gauze at the kitchen window. True enough, there was the battered army surplus jacket and baggy Levis she thought she'd finally seen the last of. Shit! Now she'd never make it to bloody Aloise's on time. The day was getting crappier by the minute. "How dare you just walk into my home like that! Who do you think you are anyway? I'm going to report this to the housing association." The fury in her eyes didn't leave Grace any doubt that she would, but she had more important things to worry about. Muttering an apology she didn't mean, she bolted out of Frau Niemeyer's flat and down the stairs, almost catching the strap of her handbag on the doorknob as she went. The baggy jeans and the army jacket, which hadn't been very clean to begin with, weren't looking their best for having been slept in; an old navy scarf and biker boots completed the ensemble. The lanky figure uncrossed its long legs and rose to its feet, the jacket's hood falling back to reveal dishevelled dark-blond hair and a haggard face (still rather handsome, if truth be told) and Grace was staring down into the bloodshot blue eyes of her ex-boyfriend. "You gonna let me come up? I need to talk to you." "We have nothing more to talk about," said Grace, pulling the front door shut behind her, starting down the five steps that separated her from what she dreaded but knew was coming. She turned right on the pavement but had barely gone a few metres when his hand grabbed her by her left upper arm and spun her around. "We're going to talk!" he said, his face just centimetres from hers. She couldn't smell alcohol on his breath and this frightened her. She could handle him when he was pissed: he never did anything that left any scars and she could give as good as she got. The pills were something else altogether; the last time she'd been around him when he was high, she'd had to tell everyone she'd slipped in the bath. Her left wrist began to throb dully with the memory. "Please Jamie, I'm late for work," Grace said. She knew she must be though she didn't dare look at her watch. She knew the rules. "Five minutes, Grace. You owe me that much." His grip was unrelenting as he leaned in closer. The throbbing was getting worse. Grace felt a migraine coming on and wished she'd stayed in bed. "Where's your cell?" "In my bag." "Call them. Tell them you're not coming." "What? I can't just cancel at the last minute, I'll get the sack! You know how busy we are on Saturdays." "So? It's not as if you need the money, now is it?" replied Jamie, smiling in that way he did when things were about to get ugly, and moving in even closer until Grace's back was pressed into the building and he was looming over her, one hand on her arm the other now flat against the wall, fencing her in. "You wanna call them?" Jamie said, like this was really a question. She hesitated a second too long and the grip on her arm tightened till she thought she would cry out. The long calloused fingers - that knew all her ticklish spots - wrenched her handbag off her shoulder and held it out of her reach while he rummaged through it looking for her mobile. He dialled and held the phone to her ear. Eight minutes later, in the No. 20 bus on their way to the music café Jamie patronised - you never knew who you might bump into in a place like that - Grace wondered for the umpteenth time how things had ever got so out of hand. The news Jamie had been so eager to share with her was obviously not a topic to be broached on a crowded bus. Several times, Grace began to speak and Jamie, seated on her right blocking her access to the aisle, squeezed her right hand, held in both of his large dirty ones, until she was silent again. Grace leaned against the window and focused on the traffic going by in the opposite direction; the people rushing frantically up and down the Hamburg streets. The Pauliana was always busy on a Saturday afternoon, even on a mild early autumn day when people should have been enjoying the last dregs of summer, but if you were acquainted with most of the regulars - as Jamie was - you could count on being invited to share a table; after the usual exchange of pleasantries one could devote oneself entirely to one's own guests. Seated in the corner with her back to the wall, a party of rowdy football supporters on one side and Jamie on the other, Grace didn't feel inclined to have anything, but when the waitress brought his plate of chips and a medium draught, a glass of orange juice was placed in front of her. "You wanted to talk. Let's talk," said Grace. Her pluck surprised her and she sipped her drink to have something to do with her hands. Jamie hated it when she twirled her hair. She needn't have bothered: he was wolfing down his food. When he'd cleaned his plate he took a large slug of his beer and leaned over, closing the gap between them. "It's like this, Grace," he began. "The guy I was telling you about? The one who used to work for BMG? Well, he says Silverfish is looking for a new rhythm guitarist. Benno Rehlinger's missed three gigs in a row now and then there's that whole business with the amphetamines they found in his cousin's apartment last Christmas. Turns out he had a lot more to do with that shit than he let on at the time. Anyway, their new label's threatening to revoke the deal if they don't get rid of him pronto and this buddy of mine thinks he could get me in." These tidings imparted, Jamie leaned back beaming and waited for her reaction. He didn't have to wait very long. "Well, that's nice for you, I'm sure," Grace said, "but what does any of this have to do with me?" The smile died on his lips as Jamie sat bolt upright. "Now, wait just one minute Grace! You said you would help me. You said I could count on you!" "And I have helped you, Jamie, haven't I? Just how much help do you reckon you've squeezed out of me over the last five years? And for all the help I've given you, you're still the same pathetic nobody you'll always be!" "If I'm such a loser, why are you still with me?" "Those drugs must be starting to affect your memory. I am no longer 'with you'. I stopped being 'with you' when we broke up two weeks ago!" "I never said I wanted to break up, Grace!" Jamie's raised voice was now attracting attention. "I just wanted to give you some space so you'd stop being so irrational. And those drugs are as much your fault as they are mine. Don't play the fucking innocent now!" Grace lost it. "I'm the one being irrational? You've been nursing this pipe dream of yours for fifteen years, Jamie! FIFTEEN! Did it even occur to you that you're NEVER going to be anything more than just a wannabe rock star? Did it? How much longer are you going to keep deluding yourself? You're almost thirty, for God's sake! Wake up, Jamie! These big plans of yours aren't going anywhere and I'm sick to death of financing your…" Jamie slapped her, hard, cutting off her tirade in mid flow. Grace gave his left shin a powerful kick with the heel of one boot. The waitress arrived to ask them to leave but both parties were giving each other such evil looks that she turned and left without saying a word. Grace knocked her glass over, sending rivulets of juice into Jamie's lap. He reached over to grab a handful of serviettes from the table next to theirs; she darted past him and ran out into the street. The bus was just pulling out when Grace, panting with exertion, got to the bus stop; the next one wasn't due for another twelve minutes. There was an underground station a few streets away, but she didn't feel like going there. Come to think of it, she didn't feel like doing much at all. Going to work now wasn't an option after what she'd done this morning, going home was hardly better; she was loath to hide out in a cinema and someone she knew might see her if she went into the city. It dawned on her that there was a park not too far away. Maybe a few hours of peace and quiet would help her figure out what her next step should be. Grace hadn't been to the park in over a year and was rather let down by the unkempt grass that bordered the path, the debris that had accumulated there. A bluish-grey sock - probably light blue at some point in time - clung to the heel of her left shoe and Grace kicked it aside into the brush as she headed for the pond. Their pond. Or at least, it had been once. There was now a grassy knoll in its place, but the little grove was still there and she made herself comfortable in a patch of sunlight - back propped up against an oak, knees drawn up so she could rest her chin on them - and weighed up her mother's offer. Would going back now really be so bad? What had she got to show for all the time she'd been here? All her former classmates were getting settled into their professions and she hadn't even seen the inside of a university. Did she really want to muck about in a boutique for the rest of her life? Did she really want to end up like Jamie? A motorcycle-booted foot came out and gave her a swift kick just under her left breast. Grunting in shock and pain, Grace lost her balance and fell sideways onto the stump of a tree, scraping her right cheek against its bark. He barely had time to savour the expression on her face, to see what he'd done to her, before she was propelling herself upwards and was upon him in a flurry of nails, hair and teeth. He saw her mouth draw close like it had the last time they'd kissed, only now her lips weren't softly puckered but spread back wide, so wide that he could see all of her even white teeth, the teeth bestowed upon her by her rich mother and a skilled orthodontist. Her mouth brushed past his, so close that he could smell her orangey breath, and those dazzling white teeth fastened on his right earlobe. The pain in her left side catalysing her, Grace bit down hard. They fell backwards into a pile of leaves and her hair came down over his face like a veil. The breath whooshed out of his body as it absorbed the impact of their fall and simultaneously cushioned hers from the hard ground. She was now lying prone on top of him and he couldn't see or feel anything. This is not quite how Jamie had imagined he'd be spending his afternoon. The ringing in his ears made him think about dying and wonder if this is what it felt like. Then she let go of his earlobe, sat astride him and struck him a resounding blow on the same ear. The combination of the blood flowing back into the afflicted part and the pressure on his eardrum made Jamie scream, a sound he only heard with his right ear and the realisation of what she'd done inflamed him like nothing before. He formed a first with his right hand and punched her square in the face. There was the satisfying crunch of breaking cartilage and a fine red mist sprayed everything within a one-metre radius. Grace was on her back now, blubbering, arms flailing around her, legs scissoring as she tried to move backwards and lever herself up into a sitting position. He was too quick for her. His hands clamped around her throat before she'd even managed to get up onto her elbows. And then he was on top of her, squeezing so hard he could see the veins standing out on her forehead. Her lips turned blue and her eyes darted about as she struggled to catch her breath. She slapped at his hands while trying, in vain, to wriggle out from underneath him. Grace knew she was fading. This was really not how she'd imagined spending her afternoon. It briefly crossed her mind that she should keep fighting, but it all seemed so futile now; she was so tired. She stopped resisting and let her hands fall to her sides. Her head lolled to the right, blood trickling out of her nose and mouth, and her glazed-over eyes were drawn to a star lying half-buried under a pile of leaves about a hand's-breadth away from her right hand. The twinkling star grew and shrank as she gazed fascinated at it. There was something about it that made her want to reach out and grasp it, and she found that if she spread her fingers as wide as they could go she could almost touch it. The pressure on her neck eased off and suddenly Grace no longer felt like she was drowning, although she wouldn't have cared if she had been: she had her full attention on the sparkling object, now barely centimetres away, and as her hand edged closer and the star took on a familiar shape beneath her fingers, something akin to an electric current ran through her whole body. Jamie, his rage abated and at a loss for what to do next, had turned away from her. He was starting to get up when a green and silver streak flashed across his line of vision and exploded in his left eye. His mouth was open, but there was no sound coming out of it. Lying on his back, spreadeagled in the leaves, like a child making angels in the snow, he should have been screaming: his face was frozen in a grimace that was both terrifying and thrilling to behold. Grace leaned over him, gazing down into one blue eye as she slowly drew all 15 centimetres of her grandmother's sterling silver and emerald hairpin out of the other. A shudder coursed though him, causing a muscle in the outside corner of his right eye to twitch so that he appeared to be winking at her. Our little secret, Grace. This isn't how it's supposed to end, Grace thought as she slowly got to her feet. Deep down, she'd always known it would end one day, but had never imagined she'd be the one to do it, had never imagined that she would leave him. But she hadn't just 'left him', had she? Oh, sweet Jesus! A spasm gripped her; she doubled over and was sick, again and again, until it was only a dry heaving that made her feel as though her insides were being torn apart. Jamie's scarf was lying curled up at the foot of a tree stump a few metres away. Shaking off the dirt as she picked it up, she wound it around her neck. Its coolness alleviated the throbbing somewhat and its smell comforted her. Her bag was lying open a little further off. One of its buckles was a bit scratched, but the leather seemed fine. She snatched it up and ran. The bus stop was closer, but it was the underground she headed for. No one paid much attention: this wasn't a part of town where a woman running down a street at dusk - even a woman with wild hair, her clothes in disarray and a frenzied look in her eyes - was anything they hadn't seen before. Grace was on the U-Bahn platform before she noticed she was still clutching the pin. She wiped it on the scarf and put it in her bag. Three minutes to the next train. She had to get home. She had to think. She'd be able to think when she got home. Her whole body ached. She became aware of wetness on her upper lip and gasped with pain when she tried to wipe her nose. The tissue came away bloody. "You alright?" He smiled as he said it. Grace almost smiled back, force of habit. "I'm fine," she said, wondering what she must look like to this well-dressed stranger in his grey Burberry duffle and JFK junior haircut. Good-looking men didn't tend to scare her, but there was something odd about this one… "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?" John John's doppelgänger continued to smile at her. The train arrived a couple of seconds later and Grace dashed through its sliding doors. Three teenage girls a few seats away were engrossed in a video one of them had on her mobile, a young couple argued in hushed tones and, in one corner of the carriage, a decrepit elderly man took intermittent swigs out of a bottle of supermarket brandy. Grace turned her face away from the platform and caught sight of her reflection in the window. Her nose had started up again. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry and wasn't aware she'd made a sound till she felt eyes upon her, and looked up to see one of the girls whisper something to the others. They all fell about laughing. What have you done?…Think! Think, damn you!...Call the police, tell them what he did. Self defence isn't a crime…No, it's too late for that. They'll know you didn't go for help right right away. They'll know you ran…But you've got to tell them. You'll only make it worse if you don't. Grace felt about in her handbag for her phone. She would do it, she'd make the call. Only thing was: the mobile didn't seem to be there. She took everything out, an item at a time, and soon had the contents of her bag on the seat next to her: a packet of Tempo tissues, a large antique silver hairpin, a bunch of keys on an Esprit keychain with a miniature torch, a tube of Labello's cherry lip balm, a nubuck leather purse and an unopened pack of Wrigley's Freshmint chewing gum. At the next station, her sole thought as she rushed through the tunnels, up escalators and out onto the street was what she would do if she was too late. If someone got there before she did. If someone was already there. She entered the park through its less-popular southern gate. It was darker in here than it had been on the street: there weren't as many streetlamps and they were set further apart. She flitted in and out of the semi-darkness as she moved from one patch of light to the next, not daring to think of what she might or might not find. Then, she was back at their spot. The lamps here weren't too bad, but her torch helped. On her hands and knees she began scanning the area, careful to only let the light shine where she needed it and not on what - who? - was lying just a short distance away. It took forever (or maybe it was only half an hour) but then she had it and she tucked it back where it belonged. Something rustled in a nearby bush and Grace stood, moments before a high-powered beam was aimed at her face. "Hello," said a voice behind the light, "It's nice to see you again." Hands shielding her eyes, Grace tried to get her bearings, but the light continued to dazzle her no matter which way she moved. "Stop shining that thing in my face!" "You don't remember me, do you? You were in a terrible hurry when we last met. I didn't think we'd be seeing each other again so soon." It was a friendly voice, it sounded like he was smiling. That voice! "Who are you? What do you think you're doing?" He had followed her. A strange man had followed her into a deserted park, at night, and was now blinding her with a torch. Grace was pretty sure she knew what he thought he was doing. "Take your clothes off." "No," Grace replied. "No?" "No!" repeated Grace, "I'm not taking my clothes off and you're going to fuck off and leave me in peace. I've had the shittiest day and you are not making things any better." He lowered the torch and approached her. "See this?" He wasn't wearing his coat anymore, just a pair of dark trousers and a black pullover. She noticed his cologne - Drakkar Noir - she'd given it to her dad for his birthday once. She also noticed the knife he held in his right hand. "Now," he was still smiling, though not as broadly as before "I want you to get undressed." Grace had run out of patience; she took a deep breath. "What is it about you men that makes you think you can just have whatever you want? No, really. I'd like to know. Is it something you're born with? Some kind of gene we don't have? Or do they take you aside at school and tell you it's your right to have things your own way and to hell with anyone who disagrees? Take him for example, he was forever telling me what he wanted, it was always 'Me, me, me' with that bastard! Ask Grace what she wants? Nah, who gives a monkey's what Grace wants, the stupid cow! Five whole years of him and his never-ending demands. A person can only take so much, you know? I mean, I'm human, too. What about what I want?" He wasn't smiling now. He'd looked in the direction she'd indicated and thought he'd seen something. He had. He drew closer and there was no mistaking what it was. "Is he…? "What's it look like?" "And you…?" he licked his lips, "Did you…?" Grace just stared at him for a long time. She smiled. He took a step back, then another and another, his eyes on her the whole time, till he reached the bushes. He vanished into them and she was alone. It was time to end this. Grace pulled her mobile out of her bag, dialled 110 and prepared to take charge of her life. END
Adzoa was born in Romania, grew up in Zambia and Botswana and studied in South Africa and Germany. She's been making up stories for as long as she can remember and is delighted that she can now do this without fear of punishment. She lives in Hamburg with her muse and works in advertising when she isn't reading, writing or playing the guitar. This is her first published story. |
Tarts . .
Stories . .
Mom's . .
Man/Woman We Love . .
Route 66 . .
Studio . .