Tormentor by William Meikle Page A

were to my friends down south, thanking them for the Christmas invitations, but turning them down with a vague promise to meet up in the coming year. It was a promise I had little intention of keeping, for the house had its hold on me—the house, and Beth.
    Our conversations were getting longer—at least on my side of them. I’d stand at the easel, ostensibly busy painting, with nary a brushstroke made in an hour as I called back to mind a trip to her favorite pizza place, or a night spent by the riverside watching the lights of the city twinkle on the Thames. She didn’t reply, but I was coming to think I could hear a whisper, just at the edge of hearing, soft and sibilant, like her breathing in my ear.
    I began to hear the beat everywhere—in the tapping of the sparrows on the windows, in the drumming of rain against the roof, in the lap of waves on the shore. At nights before sleeping, I’d listen to my heart pound in my ears and imagine it matching the rhythm my fingers drummed out on the sheets.
    When Christmas Eve came round, I rang up Alan, intending to plead illness and cancel—I felt like I would be abandoning Beth. But he would hear none of it.
    “Listen, I’m not taking the flak from my mother—she’ll have been slaving away in the kitchen all day today. And if you don’t turn up, she’ll just make me eat even more. It could get messy. There could be an explosion. We’ll see you at one. Don’t be late. Okay?”
    Even then I almost didn’t leave the next morning—partly because of the house, and partly through embarrassment that I had totally failed to buy a present. In a moment of madness, I took the abstract painting off the easel, wrapped it up in some brown paper I had kept from the move, and took it with me across the island.
    The wheel noise on the wet road surface kept time with my fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
    No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
    * * *
    The family thanked me for the painting—Alan’s mum was most effusive about the gift, at least until it was unwrapped. Several things showed in their expressions when they saw the work—confusion mainly, and also just a hint of disgust. They were too polite to mention it but I had a feeling the fruits of my autumn spent painting was destined for the back of a cupboard never to be spoken of again.
    Fortunately that was the only sour note in what turned out to be a Christmas as good as any I remembered from my childhood. Alan’s mum did us all proud with a feast fit for the chiefs of Dunvegan, while his dad kept our glasses topped up with fine local ales and some heady Australian wine. I was quite relaxed by the time we left the table, and even put up with a game of charades where I did not know half of the shows or personalities Alan’s parents played out.
    Alan surprised me by taking to the piano and belting out some standards before leading us in carols that even I knew the words to sing along to. Then we did indeed have a snooze while a Bond movie played on the television, before heading out into a cold night for the shindig at the George Hotel.
    The promised dance turned out to be more of a full-scale party to which it seemed everyone in town had been invited. Local lasses whirled Alan and I around the floor, songs were sung, games were played and everybody had a high old time.
    Somewhere around midnight, I went outside for some air. I spotted the old woman and her son immediately. They stood in the corner of the car park, as if they had been there all along, waiting for me.
    I walked, rather more unsteadily than I would have wished, towards them.
    “You’re drunk,” the man said.
    “Yes, and you’re ugly, but I’ll be sober in the morning.”
    The ancient joke went completely over his head. The old woman didn’t seem too amused either. She stared into my eyes, then took my left hand in both of hers. My fingers twitched, seemingly eager to beat the rhythm. She dropped