Taming the Beast

  Some days he had to work late and when he finally got home, he all but tore her apart in his frenzy; other days he was early home and bursting to tell her how much he missed her. On several occasions, he was late for work because he could not let her go, twice he cried as he was leaving; often he wrote her a list of tasks to complete that day and warned her that there would be consequences for unfinished chores.

  She liked his lists; along with Change bed linen and Clean bathroom he would write Have a midday nap or Eat a bar of chocolate. Sometimes he wrote Do whatever makes you smile. Once she purposely ignored his daily instructions, hoping he would punish her with his body, but it turned out the penalty for disobedience was to be barred from touching him for twenty-four hours. She always did as he asked after that.

  When Daniel was at work, Sarah experienced a loneliness of such intensity she almost wished he had never returned. Before he’d come back into her life she spent most of her time alone at her flat and never felt so bad about it. It was disconcerting that being in love felt lonelier than aloneness. It was disconcerting that every time she felt lonely she thought about Jamie. Most disconcerting of all was the fact that she had left messages for Jamie with every member of his family, every friend of his she could remember the name of, and with the receptionist at his work, and he had not called her back. She thought about sending him a letter, but he clearly wanted to be left alone.

  After three months, she accepted that Jamie was not going to fill the hollow that appeared in her chest every time Daniel left for work, and that was as it should be. Jamie was of the past, and the past had been no good anyway. She had Daniel now and he was everything, and if she had everything then there was nothing to miss.

  In the evenings, they took turns choosing books from Daniel’s extensive collection to read to each other. Sometimes it was like being back in his classroom, except now they both drank red wine and smoked while they talked, and when, inevitably, the book in question was discarded so love could be made, they could make as much noise as they liked.

  Sarah enjoyed provoking him by flaunting the knowledge she had gained and opinions she’d formed since he left her. Wuthering Heights was contentious: Daniel believed that it was the greatest love story ever written; Sarah was outraged.

  ‘That stupid Catherine wouldn’t know true love if it slapped her across the face, which I wish it would because that girl has a slapping coming to her. She says that she and Heathcliff share a soul or some such crap, but then she runs off and marries that Linton dweeb. If you want to talk great gothic love stories, Jane Eyre is where it’s at. Here’s a girl whose identity, whose very right to exist has been attacked her whole life, yet she not only retains her sense of self but she does so while winning the love of a difficult, dominant man. Far more romantic than stupid Catherine letting Heathcliff influence her to the point where she says she is him.’

  ‘But the love between Catherine and Heathcliff is unconditional,’ Daniel argued. ‘Jane can only give herself to Rochester once he’s been punished for his past. He’s blinded and burnt, humbled – pious even. But Catherine knows Heathcliff is a beast and loves him for it. She doesn’t want him de-clawed.’

  Sarah had to concede that his argument was a compelling one, but the discussion had been so much fun she intentionally picked texts which she knew they would disagree on. She argued bitterly against Heart of Darkness, which Daniel considered a masterpiece, and horrified him by declaring Sylvia Plath a more accomplished poet than Ted Hughes. For that, he tied her to a chair and refused to let her up until she had memorised every poem in Birthday Letters. A whole day and night he kept her there. She wet herself and begged for cigarettes and wept, but she did not ask to be set free. When he at last released her, she told him she hated Hughes more than ever, and Daniel laughed and called her a silly girl, but she could tell by his eyes that he was proud of her.

  Apart from the occasional trip to the shops or to dinner with Daniel, Sarah did not go out. Most days she spoke to no one but Daniel. She felt disconnected from the world and developed an obsession with the news. Everyday she would jog to the Pakistani grocer on the corner and buy the Telegraph and the Herald, as well as The Australian. Each week she read The Bulletin and Time from cover to cover.

  Daniel brought home Cosmopolitan as a joke. He said that she was so up on current events that he was beginning to feel stupid; he suggested she spend more time reading up on How to tell if he’s Mr Right or Mr Right Now. After hitting each other over the head with the rolled up magazine, Sarah and Daniel read it together, cackling at the tips to spice up a dull sex life.

  ‘Oh, apparently we’re doing it all wrong,’ Daniel said. ‘We should be taking more time with foreplay and investing in candles and sensual fabrics.’

  ‘Well, they do say that candlelight is flattering. Helps to conceal unsightly wrinkles.’

  ‘Hmm, we should definitely get some candles then. Your crow’s feet are terrible, Sarah.’

  Sarah flicked the page over with a disgusted snort. ‘I’ve never understood this sensual crap. I mean, if you want to fuck why not just do it?’

  ‘Some would say that is boring. Anyway, you’re hardly a flat on your back, stare at the ceiling covered in a sheet kind of girl. Thank God.’

  ‘That isn’t what I mean. Sex should be urgent and aggressive. It should be raw. If you know you want someone, why would you bother wasting time lighting candles?’

  ‘Because anticipation can be sweet. The history of our relationship should be proof enough. Don’t you value this more because we waited so long for it?’

  ‘Not at all. Don’t you mourn the time wasted when we should’ve been together?’

  ‘God, Sarah, yes. Every minute.’

  Sarah came out of the shower one night and found Daniel lying on the bed with the magazine open in front of him. From the doorway, she could see the bold print title of the article: Get your best ever beach bod! and the accompanying full page photograph: a close-up of a girl’s crotch, barely covered in a transparent white g-string, demonstrating the result of her ‘all off’ wax. Daniel didn’t know Sarah was there, that she could see his narrowed eyes and slack jaw. She silently backed out of the room, wondering if this was how his wife had felt when she’d caught him with Sarah’s pictures: revolted by his desire for smooth, young flesh and disgusted at herself for not providing him with what he needed.

  The next day, Sarah went to the Sydney salon mentioned in the article and felt nothing but determination as she stripped and had a man called Niki spread hot wax over her entire body.

  Back at the apartment, Sarah stood naked in front of the full-length mirror. She didn’t recognise herself. It wasn’t just the lack of hair; it was the months of staying inside, the months of barely eating and barely sleeping. No breasts to speak of, no hips or thighs. Without curves or hair she looked like a newborn baby or an alien. She was nothing but blue toned skin and too large eyes. She tried to see herself as Daniel would, tried to determine what it was about this vacuity that appealed to him. She thought she looked deformed and creepy. She couldn’t understand what it was that made him want this.

  That night, she got her answer. Daniel went crazy. He said she presented herself as a challenge to his decency and self-control; that the preparation of her body in this way was the mark of a whore, and so how did she expect him to treat her; that in posing as an adolescent she was begging him to father her, control her, punish her; that she was offering herself as a blank canvas and shouldn’t be surprised that he wanted to make an impression on it; that her unnatural smoothness would provoke unnatural violence; that she was cruel to incite him to acts he would regret; that she was contemptible for manipulating his desires in this way; that she was genius in knowing what he needed without being told; that her perception and generosity put him to shame; that she was miraculous, divine, impossibly perfect; that his love for her was beyond description.

  The next morning she could barely walk, but she managed to drag herself to
the mirror, where she stood smiling at herself until her face ached as much as the rest of her. Yesterday she’d been an arctic landscape: icy blankness, nothingness. Daniel had brought her to life. With teeth and nails, with belts and buckles, with matches and glass, he had given her texture and colour. His darkness, the worst of who he was, was written all over her. She was pleased to be so marked.

  4

  Then one Friday afternoon, Daniel did not come home from work. Not wanting to aggravate him if it turned out he had only forgotten to let her know about a late meeting, Sarah waited until seven o’clock before calling first his office and then his mobile phone. Both calls went through to his voicemail, as did the hundred or more calls she made during the next four and a half hours.

  At eleven-thirty, he walked through the front door, past the living room where she sat sobbing on the floor, and into the bathroom. Sarah ran after him, but the door was locked.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she called.

  There was no response. She stood and listened to the shower. When the water stopped she tried again. ‘Are you okay?’

  He opened the door and stepped out. ‘Fine.’ He walked around her and into the bedroom.

  Feeling more panicked than when he was gone, she followed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He sat on the bed, drying his feet. ‘Nothing at all, Sarah.’ He did not look at her.

  ‘I’ve been so worried. I couldn’t reach you and I didn’t know–’

  ‘I went out for a few quiet drinks. Quiet being the operative word. I simply could not tolerate the idea of coming home and having to listen to your incessant chatter all evening.’ He stood up and hung his towel over the bed head. ‘So do shut up or I’ll be forced to go back to the pub.’

  Sarah watched him pull back the covers and climb into bed. This morning he got carried away while saying goodbye and fucked her in the hallway with the front door wide open. When she came she bit him too hard, and he had to change his shirt because of the blood on the collar. Finally leaving, he said I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at you and not want to eat you up.

  Sarah undressed, turned off the light and slid in beside him. When she tried to kiss him he grunted and curled his body into a ball at the edge of the bed.

  ‘Daniel? Why are you being like this?’

  He sighed. ‘I told you.’

  ‘You’re annoyed by my incessant chattering?’

  ‘Yes, that and your pasty face and bony arse.’

  Sarah knew he used insults as a tool to deflect attention from what was truly wrong. This did not make it hurt any less. She took several deep breaths. ‘Would you like me to leave?’

  ‘Yes, good idea. Go and annoy one of your other lovers. I’m sure there’s at least one among the thousands who will put you up for the night.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough.’ Sarah turned on the bedside lamp, climbed over his body and squatted at the bedside, looking up at him. ‘Tell me what the fuck is wrong, Daniel, or I really will leave.’

  ‘Fine, Sarah. Come here.’ He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and held his hands out to her. Melting, she let him pull her up. She went to kiss him and he laughed, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the ground. ‘You just don’t know when to stop, do you?’

  He carried her out of the bedroom, through the hallway, past the kitchen and living room and along the entrance hall. Sarah kicked at him and cried, but he was unmoved. He opened the front door and dropped her. ‘Don’t–’ she started, but the door had closed.

  There was only one other apartment on this floor and it was vacant, but she was still in a common area and in clear, humiliating view if anyone should happen to press the wrong button on the elevator. She spent the night huddled against the door, naked and terrified.

  When morning came and Daniel opened the door, she was too exhausted to stand or speak. ‘Oh, Sarah,’ he said, and gathered her in his arms. He carried her to bed, where he cried into her stomach and begged her to forgive him.

  ‘Yesterday,’ he explained, ‘I was hauled in front of the board and given an official warning. Inappropriate behaviour and unsatisfactory performance, they said. I demanded they specify their complaints.’ He sobbed. ‘Inattentiveness. Lateness. Unkempt appearance, specifically–’ he sobbed again, ‘bruises and grazes on my face, giving me the appearance of having “frequent violent altercations.”’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We have to stop doing what we’ve been doing. You have to calm down.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She was already having trouble. His head on her stomach, his tears, his touch after that long, cold, terrible night were enough to make her want to tear open his chest.

  ‘I never used to be like this. I was married for twenty-five years without receiving a single facial wound. I certainly was never late for work because I couldn’t stop licking my wife’s arsehole.’

  ‘So it’s all my fault?’

  He sat up and held her face between his palms. ‘Not you, us. We’re out of control. God, this is why I left in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, well you’re not leaving this time. No fucking way. We will calm down, Daniel. I promise. I won’t bite you or scratch you, and I’ll make sure you get to bed nice and early so you can concentrate the next day. And I’ll keep my arsehole far away from your tongue in the mornings so you’ll never be late again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He kissed her lips, ran his hands down her spine. ‘How long until I have to be at work again?’

  ‘Forty-nine hours or so.’

  Daniel was inside her within seconds.

  On Monday morning, Sarah watched him attempt to cover the purple bruise on his cheek and the bloody gouges on his neck with her foundation. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said to his reflection. He left for work without saying goodbye.

  Daniel would not let her touch him; he growled and held up his hands if she so much as edged towards him. He spoke hardly at all, and when he did, it was to say shut up or keep away from me. She kept trying, though, because what else could she do?

  The Ancient Greeks believed that at the time of Creation every human being was made up of two separate people, joined together in body, heart and mind. Angry that these creatures were perfectly content within themselves and therefore had no time or deference for the gods, Zeus tore them apart, separating each whole into two halves. Ever since, human beings have been miserable and lonely, wandering the planet searching for their other half. Everybody feels dissatisfied and empty until they find the one person who completes them; once the match is made, they need nothing else. Not work. Not family. Not gods.

  Sarah didn’t believe in Greek gods anymore than she believed in the Christian one, but the essence of this story seemed to her to be perfectly true. Love was not about happiness or security. It had nothing to do with common interests and shared life goals. Respect, kindness, affection: irrelevant. Love was blood rushing through veins searching out its source. Flesh screaming to be joined with flesh. The bone deep understanding that there wasn’t anything else but this.

  Sarah tried for a week to make Daniel speak to her. She tried poetry, lectures, lingerie, nudity, begging, shouting, screaming and sobbing. He stayed out late every night and locked himself in the bedroom when he was at home. By the end of the week, the marks on his throat and face had faded but he looked to have aged ten years. The strain was showing under his eyes and across his forehead and in the way his shoulders slumped. His physical deterioration heartened her: he was dying without her touch.

  Then on Saturday night he did not come home at all. Sarah sat up all night, watching the door, dialling his number, telling herself he would be home any minute. In her mind she saw him passed out in a gutter, smashed up in a car wreck, mugged and beaten, in the arms of a woman who looked like his wife, being stroked by a prostitute with oversized breasts and no front teeth, sitting alone on a park bench, sobbing on the floor of his office, in a jail cell, floating face down in the harbour, extinguished.

>   At nine o’clock Sunday morning, his key turned in the lock and he stumbled into the apartment. He leant on the doorframe, struggled to get his wallet out of his pocket, dropped his keys, hit his head, swore and burped. Sarah’s insides liquefied and she was drowning in what she felt.

  He looked up as she ran at him, his face crumpled, as did his legs. He scrunched down into the corner, between the front door and the hall table. Sarah fell on him, and when he tried to push her away she beat him with her fists and ripped the hair from his head. He sobbed at her to leave him and she tore at his cheeks and nose and chin with her fingernails. She spat in his eye, and when he stopped fighting her, she grabbed his dropped keys and gouged at the flesh on his face. Her skull became a weapon, smashing up against his cheekbones and nose. His tears made it easier. His wet face produced a satisfying Splat when she slapped it. Her arms ached, her vision blurred, there was blood on her hands and in her mouth. She beat on.

  She thought she might kill him and was scared, but could not stop. All week he had frozen her out and now she was melting into an icy sea. Her elbows replaced her bruised hands and slammed fresh blood from his nose. She thrashed at him with her whole body. His eyes were half opened, watching her. She felt as though she was watching herself. Watching her bony elbows fly through the space between them and land on his face. She could hear herself screaming. She was so frightened. She couldn’t stop. She ripped open his bloody shirt and stabbed the keys into his stomach with as much force as she was capable of. He didn’t flinch. Sarah found the strength to push harder. Her biceps were quivering like a junkie without a fix. Concentrating on her hand she noticed that her knuckles were red raw from scraping against his weekend beard.

  In physicality there is honesty. Sarah had always been able to know the truth about a man through his body. The pale circle on the ring finger gave away a cheating husband. The labourer, masquerading as a stockbroker, couldn’t hide his sun freckled shoulders or his work worn hands. The bloke who told her he was into extreme sports made her laugh when later she touched his flabby buttocks and saw the moonlight reflecting off his lily white skin. And how many men claimed that they did not care about appearances and then proudly flexed their super sized biceps and mega-crunched abs at her in the bedroom? The surface holds the truth.