RUNNING OUT OF ROAD

My mother called me ugly. She looked into my sloe shaped eyes and called them slits. She slapped me and shouted at me to leave her alone. Aged ten I fled from her presence to cry continuously in my room, clutching my faceless rag doll for comfort. ‘Ugly slit eyes,’ she screamed at me more than once. Aged fifteen, I slapped her back. The shock was palpable. She pushed her hand to her reddened cheek. ‘No child of mine,’ she began but I had already walked from the room. She did not slap me again.

My husband calls me handsome. I remember thinking it was a word for a man, not a woman and certainly not a girl. Barely nineteen, I had long since left my mother behind. While she was sober she hated me. When drunk she was pitiful. No longer a figure of terror, the ties were easily cut.

My husband is the owner of the pub where I work. He is much older and chain smokes. I tell him to smoke up as I am only interested in his life insurance. His response is to grab a part me; a leg, an arm, a breast and squeeze. ‘There’s life in the old dog yet,’ he growls.

Sex with my husband is all squeezing. His large hands manhandle me. Sometimes it is very good. He might grab my buttocks and shape me into him. His kisses are hard and nicotine laden. The hardness of his kiss travels down through his body and when I am in the mood, it feels good and strong.

Three years married and it works after a fashion. I work it because it pleases me, mostly.

My lover calls me beautiful. His doe eyes are soft and full of gentle love. His hands are light, trembling as they cover my body. He is only nineteen and I am his first. His kisses are sweet and melodious. I do not love him but I love his loving me.

I sometimes make people uncomfortable. I know I do. I don’t flinch away from eye contact. I say what I think. I don’t give a fuck if people don’t like me. I am who I am. I do what I do. Fuck them if they can’t handle that. My lover is my secret though. The line between bravery and foolhardiness is very thin. My husband Brent does not suffer fools gladly. I am not scared of him but I do not provoke him all the same. Let him smoke on!

I join the protest at the old post office. Why not? It gives me an excuse to leave the pub and meet my lover Liam. His father is the main ringleader in the protest. He is a very wealthy man and he leers at me, unbeknownst to Liam. Once, while half cut in the pub, he felt my breast while passing. I stopped and told him to ‘stop the fuck grabbing me’. He feigned an accidental fall to show that it was all a mistake and I could tell he was fearful Brent would discover. That night in bed Brent, while thrusting into me, gasped ‘what did Tom do to you?’ I slowly shook my head from side to side. No answer would suffice. Brent, I could tell was turned on by the incident. Arrogant old goat my husband; likes to think that every man is jealous of his wife. Likes to think that every woman wonders what it is that got him his young, sloe eyed bride. If I told them it was my mother’s fault, they might not believe me. And neither would I.

In a different, parallel universe Liam and I might have been school chums. I wonder what that might have been like. To go to school, to sit exams, maybe even to go onto college. I could say that I played truant but that implies I rebelled against authority. In fact, most days my mother kept me home. It didn’t matter what the social workers said or did. If the pressure got too hot, we just moved. We didn’t have possessions as such. Our meagre belongings would fit into a couple of plastic bin bags. She claimed I had asthma or was ill or was missing. Never her fault. Over time, I leant to play along. I reached a point where going to school was plain pointless. I agreed with her on this one thing.

I meet Liam at the demonstration today. Looking both ways, in constant terror of Brent, he greets me. Liam can never greet me in public without looking like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights. I am surprised that no one has twigged we are bonking like rabbits! I like to wind him up. Today, I pat him on the bum as I say hello. He nearly leaps ten feet in the air. ‘Bella,’ he gasps. ‘Don’t.’

I smile at Liam and he smiles back, he is putty in my hands. But then my hands are pretty good with putty.

It is the most boring protest I have ever had the misfortune to attend. Where are the rotten tomatoes? The linked supporters. The chains that bind us together – lord. The chanted slogans and banners. Instead, we have fucking boring letch Tom Durley wanking on about the history of the village. He has borrowed the local councillor’s canvassing car and microphone. And so he stands up in the open car roof space, advertising ‘Cormac Brennan, Your Caring Councillor’. Can he not see how stupid he looks? The concerned and caring villagers are all nodding. I am nodding off.

‘Come on, Liam.’ I squeeze his hand and walk purposefully back to the car park. There is a children’s playground to the left and behind that a patch of scrub land, flanked on three sides with trees. We make our way to the scrub land. Me; unconcerned and swinging my arms. Liam; fearful and scampering beside me like a dog. No one is watching us. They are all watching boring Tom Durley, who at this moment has his uses.

Out of view, I pull the quarter bottle of whiskey out of my jacket and open it. It tastes good. Hot on the back of the throat and fiery down my neck. I watch Liam and he is waiting his turn. For all his shyness and timidity, he likes his booze. I think he is an incipient alcoholic. I do it for the pleasure but I think he does it for the need. That or just being with me makes Liam nervous.

As he throws back his head to drink, I start to pull at his belt. ‘Not yet,’ he yelps. But I am already reaching down his trousers. I know Liam likes me being assertive. He says he prefers romantic fires and hand holding but alfresco sex blows his mind. Today I blow him and he comes in a very short time. I haven’t even lost the taste of the whiskey. He kisses me after, which is kind of him, especially when he knows where my tongue has been!

We only just make it back in time to see the demolition begin. Without thinking I cheer when the ball crashes into the old wall and it crumples like paper. I am not sure why I cheered. I liked the old post office. Liam and I met there many times and even lit a fire once. It was not a good idea; the smoke drove us out. Mary Crogan looks at me in distain. ‘Have you changed sides?’ she asks.

I laugh and move away. Fecking old busy body. She is married to the village school teacher and thinks her station is elevated. She is still staring at me as I bump into someone. I turn and it is Mr Celebrity Chef. He was in the pub last night and recognises me. He was funny last night and very drunk by closing. Funny and gently lecherous.

‘Ah Bella,’ he coos all friendly bonhomie. He places his hands on my shoulders and pulls me towards him. Instead of the Dublin 4 air kiss on either cheek, he lands one bang on my smacker! How kind of him and he surely didn’t know where my mouth had been before!