Jeremy
by Nik Perring
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Jeremy sat on the red leather seat of his old wooden stool, hunched over as if winded, gazing dreamily into his mirror. He breathed awkwardly, each breath seemed broken. Jeremy almost fought for air.
His reflection was a worry. Although every sensible fibre in his body assured him that it was indeed him, Jeremy was all but convinced that the face staring back was that of another person. Dark, charcoal eyes, and a mouth carved into a sick clown's unhappy smile stared back, dangerous and unflinching. This could be the face of a demon. Maybe even the devil himself. Ugly, crooked, tortured and unrelentingly merciless.
Jeremy lit a cigarette. He always liked the sound that dried tobacco makes when it first catches fire; half crackling and half cracking. He drew on the cigarette hard, managing a smile as he sucked the toxic fumes deep into his lungs. The smile did not last long. Moments later Jeremy was coughing. It hurt to cough. Jesus Christ, it hurt to breath. His ribs were bruised, or bound. Jeremy chose not to give up. A lesser or better man might have, but not Jeremy, not today. With solid determination he put the cigarette to his mouth once again, pulling harder this time. A perverse smile cracked over his lips. He was coughing again, almost drowning in his own mucus, but the coughing fit was a trophy. His own mini Everest. The third drag was easier, the passages had widened, and the smoke could crawl through without obstacles.
Jeremy glanced upwards again, cringing awkwardly as his reflection caught his eye. It was ugly, and hollow. Beneath the darkness of his eyes, his cheeks gave a polar contrast; bright red and grazed, blood still caked on, in a trail leading almost to his ear. He squinted at the ugliness, making a face to mock it. But that hurt. Old wounds cracked and Jeremy could feel the blood trickle down his right cheek, down to his jaw, and then drip, drip, onto his collar.
He didn't deserve this. He wanted to stand up and throw the mirror against the wall. He would laugh uncontrollably as a million fragments of glass would tinkle as they hit the boards. He could smash up his bed-side cabinet. He had never really liked it. It was a product of his mother's over caring nature. She convinced him that he needed it; a girl's bed side cabinet. The sort where they would sit and apply make up to dolls. Not the place where a man of thirty-seven would sit and examine his repulsive, contorted face.
Jeremy decided against taking the aggressive route with the furniture. If it hurt this much to breath, he rasped to himself, it would be unbearable to even stand up; let alone picking up or throwing around anything heavy. He would have to wait to vent his frustration. But waiting, he knew too well, would only make the frustration and the aggression and the rage grow. The pressure would be unbearable. Like a cancer or some kind of parasite: the less you do to counter it, the more it grows and the more unbearable it becomes. The more it saps your energy and chews your soul like the cud. Like a bastard child, who's mother tears him away from a father who loved him, just because he loved alcohol as well, and forces him to pay every last penny he earns to provide for the selfish son of a bitch. Just like Jeremy.
It wasn't his fault he was an alcoholic. It wasn't his fault that Grace had torn his only son away from him. Jeremy had decided long ago that he was the victim of peculiarly cruel circumstance.
When he had first met Grace, he knew that they would be together for a long time. They were the same sort of person, cut from the same ragged cloth. They both had needs. Hers was to be loved, constantly. His, Jeremy winced again, his ribs still sore, was alcohol. No problem there then, as long as he had his drink and she had the attention, everything would be fine. But one lapse in concentration cost him more than any amount of money he could spend on brandy and beer; one act of carelessness, a path chosen in the hope that it would bring an easier life, would backfire terminally.
Jeremy had been with Grace for a few months. Things weren't particularly serious. They were two loners who had found each other and decided to be alone together. Jeremy was reasonably content; he was getting laid and getting drunk. Grace appeared happy, probably too happy; probably too secure. She asked, when the happy couple were staggering home one chilly Autumn night, whether he loved her. Too drunk to consider the repercussions, and to polite to offend, Jeremy said yes. What a mistake. A twenty-two year old man, with a whole lifetime of opportunities ahead of him, had chosen to sentence himself. All hope of freedom was removed in one second and one word. Not that he realised at the time. Jeremy assumed that it would make Grace happy, something he wouldn?t have dreamed of knowingly denying her. Foolishly he had thought that it would have been a throw away comment, one that didn't really actually truly mean anything. Indeed, he didn't mean anything by it.
Grace saw things differently. With this confession she knew that she could do whatever she wanted and he would have to go along with it. She wasn't nasty. She didn't sleep around,(maybe that would have been better), she didn't use or steal from him; she didn't even really shout at him. She simply had the upper hand.
After a year, (a reasonably happy one) Grace decided that they wanted to get married. Again, not wanting to upset the apple cart, Jeremy agreed. It would be unfair to suggest that Jeremy was adverse to the idea of wedlock. If he had minded that much, then he would most likely have said something at the time. Like "no". But he didn't. He carried on, doing what Grace wanted him to do, believing her when she told him that he was enjoying it.
"It's what we've always wanted." She would proclaim. This, was only half true.
The next logical step after a happy wedded life is children. Hard as he thought, Jeremy could not remember ever agreeing to this. In fact, he would tell you now, that having children wasn't even discussed. The couple had sex. That was not unusual; and as far as Jeremy was concerned (and aware) his wife was on the pill. Jeremy did not know what, or even why, but something rather significant changed.
At parties, which the happy couple had starting to go to more frequently (because they enjoyed it), Grace would tell fellow guests how happy they were when they discovered her pregnancy. Now, many years on and with the benefit of hindsight, Jeremy admitted ashamedly, that he wasn't. Shocked, possibly; and scared. But Grace told him that he was happy, and he believed her. Why wouldn't he? It didn't really matter anyway, he still got drunk, and he still enjoyed it. So things weren't really a problem.
Things, well probably everything changed when Andrew was born. It turned out that Grace had been right all along: Jeremy really was over the moon at having a baby. His little boy. Things were fantastic. Years drifted by, not that Jeremy cared or even noticed. Birthdays and Christmases and trips to the park and to school; and to parent's evenings and holidays. There was hardly any time for himself now. Grace reassured him that things had never been so good. Looking back, maybe she was right, but at the time, Jeremy was starting to doubt it. He had a four year old, walking, talking, miracle of a son, but there were some weeks when he would not get drunk once. That was what he enjoyed doing. That was what he had always enjoyed doing. It had never been a problem before; he was sure that as a couple, they enjoyed it. But very suddenly it was a problem. Very suddenly they didn't like it, and very soon Jeremy didn't care. At no point over the previous five and a half years had he ever said, or even hinted, that he would ever give up drinking. They enjoyed it. He enjoyed it. Why now was it a problem? Why now, after so much, was it enough of a problem for Grace to want a divorce? Why did she not want him to see his son anymore? Why did she want him to hurt? He had been a fool, but he had always assumed that he had done what Grace wanted.
A month later and Grace had gone. She was on the other side of the country, with their child. Maybe if they hadn't argued, and if he hadn't fallen asleep drunk, maybe then she would have stayed. But he had got drunk, after they had argued again, and she had gone, in the middle of the night.
That was the last Jeremy saw of his family for ten years. Grace organised the divorce from her new home, with her new lover. Jeremy continued to get drunk. In many ways, things were the same as they always were. On the other hand, Jeremy felt that there was more of a purpose in getting drunk. Not so much pleasant now, more essential. After a bottle or two of brandy, Jeremy found that he could almost forget about Andrew.
Over the years Jeremy sent money to his son. He had to, but he probably would have done anyway. Andrew, it is fair to say, was the one thing he had ever truly loved. He was his own flesh and blood, his own making and his own responsibility. That didn't matter now. In spite of the thousands of pounds that Jeremy had sent to his son, he never had a thanks. In fact, he never had anything. Not a word in ten years. Ten long, lonely years.
Jeremy knew that he had already missed a hell of a lot. A year in a child's life is worth decades of an adult's. The amount of change that can happen in a month is potentially massive. Ten years was worse than an eternity. It seemed a curse lasting longer than an age.
Jeremy felt a drip. He licked his lips and tasted the salt and iron of the cocktail of tears and blood. He sighed, long and painful, and decided on another cigarette. The effects were not quite as obvious as the first; less relief and less painful. He breathed out a long, linear train of second had smoke, and ached all over.
Grace had moved back into town four months ago. He only found out when he received a letter politely instructing him to forward his money to a different address. For thirty-four days and nights he resisted the temptation to go round. He could have done, quite easily. Grace's new family home was a fifteen minute walk away; not too far from a favoured boozer. He decided not to. They wouldn't like it. A few times he was convinced of catching a glimpse of his grown up son; around town, or on a train. He couldn't be sure though. Ten years had certainly changed the way he looked. His memory was not quite what it was.
And then a funny thing happened. Jeremy hadn't meant it to. He didn't realise exactly what he had done. He was having trouble sleeping, more trouble than usual, and so had spent more money on drink and cigarettes. The cheque that he had diligently sent to 12 Park Way, and reached its destination, and bounced. The bank sent him a letter explaining things. Jeremy was embarrassed, and deeply upset. He would have to put things right, he could not be seen to be neglecting his only child. So, he grovelled to his boss at the Bowling Ally, and had managed to get an advance of eighty pounds. The rest of his wage would come the following week.
In the early evening chill, Jeremy walked for forty minutes, with the cash rolled tight in his right hand. He considered, but eventually decided against knocking on the door, instead he would post it through the letter box, and then disappear back into the night.
He arrived at nine twenty-three, frozen to the bone. It had really been snowing hard that night. When he arrived at number 12, he discovered that there was no letterbox, he would have to knock. Panic and excitement battled in his belly, he may catch a glimpse of his Andrew.
The door opened slowly. He recognized Grace straight away. She looked well, he had said as he handed her Andrew's money, if not a little thinner, a bit gaunt. Andrew's new dad was big, lean and nasty. Grace had probably told him that they didn't like Jeremy. He, and a well built lad, probably in his twenties came outside to meet Jeremy in the cold. They struck quickly and with power. Jeremy thought he must have been on the ground for five minutes before they (the new dad and his son) went back into the warmth. Andrew would be better inside. They left after turning the snow red. Jeremy didn't know what they hit him with, but he knew it had hurt. He knew it had broken him.
It took him a while to get up. His sides burned as though they were lining Hell; his face felt like a numb pulp. He did manage to get home though, eventually. Maybe he had broken his leg, probably his nose as well.
In the warmth of his own flat, the one he used to share with Andrew and Grace, he drank some brandy from the bottle; passing out after many burning gulps. He woke slowly, wondering where and why he was. Slowly he pulled himself off the floor and into his bedroom. Jeremy sat on the red leather seat of his old wooden stool, gazing dreamily into his mirror.
©2005 By Nik Perring.