Exit Management by Naomi Booth

Author:Naomi Booth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: exit management;naomi booth;dead ink
Publisher: Dead Ink
Published: 2020-08-26T17:33:32+00:00

There is a breeze, the faintest of breezes, prickling the skin of her arms. Shiver, the ghost of a shiver as she approaches on the Mews. So wonderful, this current of air, after another day of city heat, after a tube train filled with sweating bodies, the shared air hot and damp and dense. Sanitise. Need to sanitise. Antibacterial hand gel dispensed and worked across her hands on the way. And here now. Arriving. Breathe in. No.12. Callum’s house all lit up, all four of its large front windows filled with light. Anticipation of all sorts of good things fluttering inside her: Red wine. Bloody meat. Silk against her skin. Heritage wallpaper. Designer glassware. Ivory lace. A baby, a silent, eyes-closed baby, tucked into sleep in the upstairs room.

The door opens. It is not Callum. It is the old man. The coat hanger of a man. Smiling, moving back into the hall.

Come in, come in, please. I’m József.

The long hallway studded with pictures. Verbena, meat cooking, expensive cologne. He takes her jacket, leads her through to the living room.

It is such a pleasure to meet you, he says. I have heard so much about you. And, of course, you are even more beautiful than Callum led me to believe!

The man is smaller and more delicate than Callum. Dark-skinned and slightly stooped. Colossal white eyebrows. She can’t see any immediate resemblance between them.

Pleased to meet you. Lean in, kiss him lightly on both cheeks. She does not wish to touch this elderly man. Where is Cal? József is moving around the house with such ease. Such propriety. And his familiarity with her, his easy compliments—about her beauty and now about the wine she has brought—set her on edge. Overbearing. He’s in charge of all of this, setting the course of the evening, when it should be Cal. Where the fuck is Cal? Slight panic. Little stab of adrenaline. Is he even here?

József leaves the room to bring her wine, returns with something chilled; the colour of pear flesh.

I thought we would start with this. Callum says you enjoy wine? I have something very special for dessert. He’ll be through in a moment. He has been cooking for most of the afternoon, you know. We’re in for a real treat.

While he speaks, she’s checking for signs of weakness. He doesn’t look sick at all. He’s energetic, in fact: so much so that he seems unable to sit still. He’s up now, for instance, fiddling with the record player. His skin, though, is a little sallow: the colour of an old bruise. Looks like he would be tender to the touch.

How have you been feeling? Delicately put, but not gentle. I know things have been difficult. With your health issues.

Stiffening. The old man stiffening just a little.

Sip of wine: a sharp, cold, pleasant sensation.

How sweet of you to ask. Sing-song words, a tight smile. He speaks loudly, as though for an audience, so that Callum must now be able to hear his voice above the sound of spattering oil in the kitchen—if that is where Callum is.

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