HE’S BEEN LOCKING ME UP IN THERE

She says, nodding to the cupboard under the stairs, where they keep the kid’s toys and the board games, lit by a 40w pull cord, midnight’s game of Risk arc-lit, unfinished and still laid out on the rug,  and as she moves closer the slower we move, 4:10 winks red a.m. with Pongo sleeping it off upstairs, and Grace out of it in the spare, leaving me and Mary with enough bottle to carry on, and she’s sad-drunk, and I’m fucked, unfucked, Because, she says, he gets mad jealous she says, and her lips taste of Smirnoff then she mutters But if...

YOU DON’T GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW! he says two weeks later after another all-dayer, and him crazy drunk and a sober Mary yelling GET OUT! from behind a self-locked bedroom door, and him slow-dancing jagged fuckoff bread-knife for a rose... SHE TOLD ME! SHE TOLD ME YOU’D TRIED IT!... I called it a night, went home, told Grace the whole fuckin thing.