Novel Treatments / The Imitation Chapter 1 - DRAFT
THE IMITATION
PART ONE : INTROIT
1. MORNING HAS BROKEN
Everyone who met Dominic Davenport knew him as a happy man. He had a job he enjoyed, he loved his wife, and he and Jenni were expecting their first child. She was blossoming towards the due date with few, if any, problems, and their generally unruffled relationship was a great source of support and of joy. If it could be said of anyone, it was true of Dominic : his life had everything a person could want.
Dominic was aware of all this, too, and an easy sense of his own abundant pleasures had lately pervaded him. This state of wellbeing was not unduly smug or comfortable, however, for it had its own dynamic, energetic, purposeful qualities.
Of course, it was only with careful guidance, and a fair amount of hard work, that he was starting to get things in his life to go where he wanted them to : though he had little doubt that – so long as he kept on top of the situation – events would continue to point the right way. Meanwhile, he could allow himself to wallow in the indubitable satisfactions of his own constructive activity.
Very little seemed to stand in his way. He had his health, a promising career at an advertising and design consultancy, a small house not far from Keighley, and a great relationship with a wonderful young primary teacher. They had been married two years, been together for five, and there was every promise that the next few years would be at least as satisfying and stimulating as the last. Yes indeed, at the age of thirty-two, his pipe-and-slipper days were still a long way off !
Those winter mornings, after driving Jenni to work in his brightly-turtle-waxed red Peugeot 106 Turbo Hatchback, he would look out of its automatic windows at the humdrum bustle of the little Yorkshire town where she had come to work, composing “status reports” like these in his head. How lucky he was ! Turning the new Pioneer cassette deck up loud, and fiddling habitually with the 8-band graphic equaliser, he would drown out the cold outdoors with guitars and harmony.
As he passed the pinch-faced old women with their half-empty supermarket carriers, and the drunkards gathered on the Keighley war memorial steps, he would look out on the obdurate limestone of the rainy Northern streets, and whistle along to his favourite old Simon and Garfunkel tape. He had a particular soft spot for “Kathy’s Song”, which always felt minor-key and maudlin : suitably, sweetly, in tune with his thoughts : “I hear the drizzle of the rain – like a memory it falls … ,” right through to that wonderfully, achingly poignant closing line, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Ah ! It was so tender, so good !
Never heartless, he had a covenant and a monthly standing order organised for the causes he cared about. Greenpeace and Oxfam were currently the main beneficiaries of his donations (always slightly more than he could really afford). A nice balance between concern for people and the planet, he felt. His spare change often rattled discreetly into plastic collecting boxes, and he could rarely pass the buskers by the town market entrance without relieving himself of a pound coin or two.
Naturally, the local alcoholics, homeless druggies and young crusties had come to know him as a soft touch, and although their attentions could sometimes be inconvenient, Dominic consoled himself with the idea that this was evidence that mean-ness – and the lack of it – would always show. As a result of his relaxed benevolence and good humour, he was sure he had no enemies.
That January weekend had been a good one. The first ante natal class on Friday evening had been a real eye-opener, for both him and Jenni, on the life-changing events they had already, rather enjoyably, set in motion … and they were certainly going to participate in some dramas !
The assembled expectant parents had compiled a list of things they felt they would need to talk about, and had given it to Elspeth, the ante natal teacher (“though think of me more as a facilitator”, she had insisted, with an enormous toothy grin). Some of the issues that had cropped up had definitely been alarming.
For a start, he hadn’t thought much before about Jenni’s Mum’s role in it all, and yet everybody else there seemed to be obsessed with how to get their parents more involved – or keep them away, for that matter.
Of course, it didn’t apply to him as such, not any more, but … Well, the thing was, when it came to his mother-in-law, he had to confess he inclined more towards the latter, the keeping-away tactics, what with her phoning every day, visiting every other one … God, her behaviour was downright obsessive ! Why she had ever decided to move so close he had no idea. He supposed it showed she cared, but … And then there was all the stuff about “emergency caesarians,” too – that had left him feeling a bit pale – shaken him more than Jenni, in fact. What a nightmare !
Afterwards, he and Jenni had talked about it all sensibly and calmly, which they were both rather good at doing. The way they gently assuaged each other’s worries reminded him comfortingly of how he had taken to massaging the ever-tightening hemisphere of her belly. And he did love to do that : his sensitive fingertips anointing her with natural moisturiser, relishing the intimate sensuality of it, and delighted at the tiny squirms and random kicks of the creature beneath the surface.
On Saturday, Dominic’s brother Jeremy and his wife Susan had come over, belatedly celebrating their New Year by taking a rare trip up North without the kids. They’d exchanged their Christmas gifts at last – some interesting looking books and a Black and Decker power drill for Dominic (“No idea what I’ll ever do with this,” he’d grinned. “I guess this must be part of some kind of a conspiracy to get me into D.I.Y., eh ? But seriously, guys, thanks all the same.”)
Following this, Dominic had rustled up an authentic-looking Italian dinner, they had polished off a couple of bottles of Jacob’s Creek, and before Jeremy and Susan left for their guesthouse in Lothersdale, they had all ended up in front of the T.V. for a late showing of “Casablanca.”
Sunday had offered a deliciously lazy lie-in and a fresh, frosty walk on the craggy, heather-bound hills above nearby Cowling village. They had clambered up to the ridge at the top of the hill, with its twin “salt and pepper pot” monuments, and had paused a moment to admire the view. Their skin had been smarting slightly from the chill breeze, so that they’d had to squint while looking out towards the clearly-etched double-points of Flasby Fell.
They had just been starting to make out the Dales proper in the distance beyond, comparing what they saw with an Ordnance Survey 50000:1 scale map, when they had startled a hare.
It had bounded out of a hedge before their magic-struck eyes, and dashed across the black rocks and brown-fringed bilberry clumps of the moor. They had watched the animal, silhouetted against the open and cold-whitened field below, finally losing sight of it in the cover of the outbuildings of a small farm.
Home in the warm, he and Jenni had turned the central heating down and lit a fire in their new energy-efficient Swedish wood-burning stove, cuddling cosily together on the sofa with the television on. They had had an early, quite sexy, night and he had slept well, with vague, unmemorable dreams, deep under the snug down covers.
-—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—--
The alarm clock rang. His mind groped its way from these events towards its Monday morning mode. As usual, he reached out to bat the alarm off, and it was then that he experienced an unfamiliar sensation.
Something was trickling down his right arm, from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. It felt cold and unpleasant in the chilly morning air.
Curious, and still half-asleep, he touched his forearm with the end of his nose, and felt a familiar stickiness. He sniffed. A fresh, iron scent. He thought he could identify it : blood.
Dozily thinking he must have caught his hand on something, Dominic gingerly flicked on the bedside lamp, taking care not to smudge or to stain it.
In the middle of his wrist, gaping like a great obscene mouth, was a deep hole. Blood welled at the brim and oozed lazily out.
Squinting, he held the hand up in front of his face, and a scarlet bead trickled out onto his still-tanned forearm. He tried to focus on the hole, absentmindedly calculating that it must have been a good centimetre in diameter.
A spidery sensation tickled the dark hairs by the wristbone, and a lesser trickle dribbled onto the corner of the novel he’d been reading.
The blood sat on the cover of the book, dark and unmoving. It was a brand new copy of “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting” – one of the Christmas gifts from Jeremy. He hadn’t even started it.
Dominic blinked, shook his head, as if to wish away a mirage.
The tiny puddle on the book’s cover began to seep over, staining the edge of the pages.
He moved to pick it up, then looked at his wrist instead.
“Christ !” he choked. He felt wide awake now, and his mind was racing to understand. What should he do ? First aid ? Was it one cut ? Or two ? How had it happened ? Perhaps there was a sharp object in the bed ? What about hospital ? Was it (it couldn’t be) ... all the way through ?
“Oh My God, Jenni !” He cursed, remembering her. Remembering the baby. The kicks. The squirms. He must wake her ! Spikes in the bed ? Heavens ! Was she alright ? The hospital ! They must get to the hospital !
Another rivulet pulsed out of that horrible mouth. That eye, staring at him. Staring. He was staring. It stared back. Stark staring. Was he ? Mad ? Hallucinating ? He must wake her, straight away !
Holding his right hand carefully aloft, and feeling faintly ridiculous, Dominic clumsily lurched himself around and gave her a gentle shove with his left.
“What is it ?” she murmured, furry with sleep.
“I …” He trailed off. There was a crimson handprint on her clean white Katherine Hammett tee shirt. His left wrist, too, was stained a bright and ghastly red. Blood, everywhere !
“Oh my God !”
“What now ?” grumbled Jenni, turning half-heartedly towards him.
“Look !” he blurted. “Look look look look look !”
He held his gory hands aloft, half a magician, half a surrendering soldier.
She blinked, and then her head jerked up abruptly. Her lower lip hung half-open and her hazel eyes were wide. She stayed silent, contemplating his ghoulish wounds, as the trails surged down his arms and dripped onto the expensive Scandinavian duvet. (“How will we ever get it clean ?” he wondered, half-smiling at the absurd clarity of his thought. The smile went. “What if I die ?”)
“Sweet Jesus, man, what have you done ?” Jenni pushed her weight up into sitting position, muttering, slowly, almost as if to herself.
She seemed lost in thought, mesmerised, locked inside herself, and
this irritated him. It made him afraid.
“I don’t want to die.” The pleading voice seemed to come from outside of himself, from a small child. It wasn’t his at all.
“What have you done ?” she murmured, again. Her voice was still measured, controlled, but it had a greater urgency in it. Despite herself, she was feeling angry at this pitiful figure, feeling grumpy and confused. It wasn’t her husband, it couldn’t be. Not Dominic.
“Jenni ?” He was pleased to find that he could master that child’s voice. It had been stupid, disturbing, humiliating. Action was needed, and fast ! “Jenni ? Take me to hospital.”
She scrabbled out from under the covers. “I think we’d better get dressed.”
“But my hands,” he answered, sheepishly. She looked at him, his drenched hands high, pathetically immobilised. He wished he’d worn some clothes to bed, at least.
She pulled back the covers on his side of the bed, briskly, efficiently, trying to assume a sort of matronly air. Dominic rolled out of bed, wobbled unsteadily, and then stood there, incapacitated, hands held high, bollock-naked on the bedroom carpet.
Pity and bleak mirth mingled in her mind. Dominic, confident Dominic, her husband, looked as impotent and helpless as an invalid or a baby, like one of her kids in a fix.
She drew a mask over these images and tried to think straight, to look at the situation objectively.
What on earth had he done ? How ? And why ? The appalling implications of the last question utterly confused her.
Why, when things were all going so well ? What had he been thinking of ? And him ! Did she know him at all ? Had he had always had some strange, destructive streak ? Something she’d never spotted before ? Not in five years ? Like her Dad ? Some gross male thing ? Perhaps …
“I’m dripping on the carpet.” The mournful voice drew her back to him. Blood was sticking in his armpits, running down his sides, onto his slight paunch, and crawling gradually towards his dangling genitals and hairy, stocky thighs. The cold morning air was making him shiver. “Do something !” he begged.
“What do you expect me to do ?” she snapped, suddenly angry at him, at having to be the one to sort this out. Again, like Mum and Dad. She felt heavy and pregnant, and still in need of sleep. “Christ Almighty, you’re the one who got into this bloody mess !”
“Bloody mess is about it,” he interpolated, stupidly, with a theatrical air of resignation.
“You prick, this is no time for puns.” His jokes were feeble at the best of times. But they mustn’t start an argument. Not now.
Trying to concentrate her attention, she looked around and her eyes lit on one of the pillowcases. Liberty, 14-99. Oh well ! Impetuously, she expelled the pillow from it, then ripped it straight down the middle.
“Tourniquet,” she explained, grunting at the effort. “To stop … the flow. Never mind the … bloody carpet, you could … bleed to death at this … this rate.”
“Bloody carpet,” he echoed, futilely, looking at his feet. An unpatterned Axminster, and all. He knew they should never have gone for those light colours. A chilly trickle of blood was now meandering over his scrotum.
“Ha ! That’s it !” Jenni ripped off a strip of pastel-shaded pillowcase and began to tie it around his left bicep, pulling so tight that he screwed his face up.
She knotted a second neatly on the right arm, and stepped back to look at the results. Nice colours, even now – nothing but the best for them.
“Yes, yes, very good.” He didn’t mean to sound so exasperated. “Come on, Jenni ! We need to go.”
“Okay. okay ! I’ll get us both dressed, but we’d better get you cleaned up first.”
“Clean ?” Dominic shrieked. “I might be about to fucking die and you want me clean !”
“Don’t curse, it’ll only take a moment,” she replied primly, “So just wait there.”
“Don’t you worry : I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay, just a second.” She went out of the door, snatching a pair of grey lycra leggings on the way.
Silence. His head felt empty, almost serene, his sharp out-breaths cloudy in the chilly air. He watched them, wishing he’d turned the central heating back up before going to bed. The sound of running water came from the adjoining bathroom.
Dominic swung his arms about tentatively, feeling like some grotesque Christmas decoration – the tight bandages were beginning to make them throb painfully. How degrading ! Still, while he could feel pain, he was still conscious … alive … so maybe he wasn’t about to bleed to death. He’d heard it said that it only took a few seconds. And he was past that already. Apart from feeling like a complete prat, in fact, he felt fine in himself. Fine.
A warm drip splashed onto his bare foot. The wounds were still bleeding. He looked at his hands. Blood was trickling as copiously as before.
“Jenni !” he bawled. “Hurry !”
“Coming !”
She retied the bloodied strips around his wrists, washed him down hastily with a warm wet flannel (it reminded him of childhood : his father, his hanky, a splash of spit), and then dressed him hurriedly.
She asked him which shirt he’d like – as if it mattered ! – which trousers, chided him for wanting to wear the old boxer shorts she’d asked him to throw out (Next, circa 1980). It was all so normal, so practical : he had to admire her for it. In the right circumstances, he might even have begun to relish this attention, enjoy being mothered by her.
She finished throwing on her own clothes, still trying to stay efficient and calm, although her head was in a flat spin, only held together by the tasks in hand.
Why had he done it ? Why Dominic ? Why them ? Was it something she’d said or done ? Was it the baby ? Didn’t he want the baby, after all ? Maybe it was work ? Was he having an affair ? “A lot of them do that when their wives get pregnant”, someone had told her.
Nonsense ! There was always so much meddling talk ! Mum, school, ante-natal, the lot of them – full of their bloody advice ! As if being pregnant made her public property ! As if they knew Dom ! No, she had been good to him, and anyway their relationship … well, there was last night, for a start … And , anyway, what chance did he have for an affair ? He was always out working or else he was at home. With her. No, it couldn’t be that. But what ? Why now ? Why ?
She kept the grim smile pasted on her face, grabbed the car keys off the dressing table, and helped him tread cautiously down the stairs. His balance was unsteady and he looked extremely pale, but he seemed cheerful enough, else. Not at all about to die. Still, she might have done a first aid course or two, but she definitely didn’t know enough to handle this.
It was beyond her. This scene was unreal, something seen on T.V., in a script, in a fictional life, some scene out of Casualty. Unreal, all right ! Her, there, pregnant and anxious, leading this shaky, bandaged man down the hallway. It really wasn’t them in this situation. It certainly couldn’t be Dominic !
She got him to sit in the car, and adjusted the driver’s seat, pulling the seatbelt out over her belly. Dominic seemed to have surrendered all his responsibility. Suddenly. Just like that ! Like her father in one of his helpless drunken stupors ! She looked in the mirror at him, at the way he sat there, all obedient in the passenger’s seat – more like a human labrador, in fact.
There were none of his interfering comments as she over-revved the engine with her nervous foot. What had got into him ?
No, it wasn’t unreal at all. It was real enough. She had seen this before. Her thoughts flitted back from Dominic to her father, then back again. She hadn’t wanted to believe that. either, though he’d gone, right enough. But why ? She pumped the throttle hard to the rhythm of her thoughts.
“Why ? Why ? Why ?” She clumsily screamed the gears into reverse and the car lurched backwards down the driveway.
“Why on earth ? And why didn’t she have the guts to ask him ?”
He turned the radio up loud, blasting out her anguish with music.
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Could this be a puplishable story….Sure. Very creative. Imagine, a man wakes to the stigmatta. But it needs a complete re-write. Focus less on the name dropping of products. It’s a worn out and …cheap way of defining economic status. The morning scene was pretty good. The couple was becoming more defined as they dealt with this wierdness they woke to. Does it make me want to read more….It’s like this….The first half did not make me want to read the second but the second half was beginning to make me want to turn a page…tentively.
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