Alice Through the Plastic Sheet (5 page)

“Bobby went to bed hours ago,” said Alice. “Hey. You did it. You big, bad, bold man. You’ve been husband to me, and father to our boy. You’ve protected your family, you’ve kept us safe.”

And for only the second time since he’d known her, she tore into him. She ripped off his tie, his jacket, her hands were all over him, her lips too. “I want you so much,” she said, “I
love
you so much,” and she pulled him down on to the bed—“Oh, okay,” said Alan—and, oh God, she was everywhere, how was she doing that, when she only had two hands, and she was in him and now he was in her and that last bit was pretty unexpected—“I love you!” she shouted, and he wanted her to hush, Bobby would hear, the neighbours would hear—and it was all so silent out there, there was no music at all, and Alan could picture them maybe as a family sitting around the contents of the envelope soberly, “Well, I guess we learned our lesson,”—and Alan wished the music was back, just a bit of it, just to give him a bit of rhythm, it had been a long time since he’d done anything like this. “I love you,” cried Alice, “Alan, why did we ever stop? Why did we ever stop loving each other?”
And Alan didn’t know.

Alan was woken by Alice with a kiss.

“I have to go to work,” he said.

“Couldn’t you just stay here with me?”

“Not really,” he said.

“Okay.”

There was still no sound from next door, and Alan supposed that was a good thing.

Alan phoned Alice from work. He never did that.

It was late morning, he wanted to hear her voice.

“I love you,” he said.

“That’s nice,” she replied. “Will you be home at the usual time?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“Good.”

He phoned her again later in the afternoon, but this time there was no answer.

When he got home at last he was surprised to see the dog was waiting for him.

The fur had fallen out, every last hair of it. But the dog didn’t seem too distressed by this. His face was etched into one big doggy grin, tongue lolling out. He waddled towards Alan on those shiny smooth paws of his.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Good dog. Good boy.”

He stroked at his off-beige skin, and it was a little sticky to the touch.

Bobby was playing on his Xbox.

“Hello, champ,” said Alan. “What about Sparky, then? Sparky pulled through!”

Bobby didn’t look up; he was too absorbed in his game. Alice came in from the kitchen.

“Bobby,” she said. “That dog of yours needs feeding.” Bobby’s body twitched in irritation. “Now, come on,” she said. “He’s your responsibility.”

“Hello,” said Alan. “I love you.”

“Now, Bobby,” insisted Alice.

So Bobby tottered to his feet. Then tottered to the kitchen, fetched a can of dog food. He tottered back to the dog, who all this time had gazed after his young master in utter adoration. Bobby scooped some of the food out of the tin with his fingers. He bent down towards his dog. And then, very carefully, he smeared it all over the dog’s face. He smeared it in good and hard, so that the jellied meat stuck there firm—some of it went into the mouth, and a little on to that hanging tongue, but the majority hung off the face and gave Sparky an impromptu beard.

The Bobby sat down again, picked up his Xbox joystick. He squeezed the controls hard, and the remains of dog food oozed out from his fist.

Alan watched, appalled. “What’s wrong with Bobby?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Bobby,” said his wife. “Bobby’s got his dog back. Bobby’s happy, the dog’s happy, everybody’s happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course I’m happy. Come into the kitchen. I want to talk to you privately.” He followed her, and she smiled as she closed the door.

“What is it?”

“You should sit down.”

He did.

“I’m having an affair,” smiled Alice.

Alan didn’t know what to say. “What?” And then, “Why?” And, “But you said you were happy . . .”

“I am happy. I’m happy
because
I’m having an affair.”

“Oh,” said Alan. He supposed he ought to have felt angry. Was that what she wanted? But he had no anger left. He’d used it all up, wasted it on loud music and garden rubbish.

“Don’t look glum, Alan. I’m not glum. We’re going to sort this out. Let me explain how.”

“Okay.” And Alan felt strangely reassured, actually; Alice always sorted everything out.

She explained how she could keep everything she wanted. And how he could get the same thing in return. That way everything would carry on as normal. It’d just be a
different
normal. A better normal.

He said, very quietly, “Can I have time to think?”

She was very polite. “Of course you can, darling.” He’d been staring down at the kitchen table as she coolly told him what she wanted from him, how she saw their marriage surviving, what her conditions were. And now he looked up at her. She was staring at him closely, and there was still that smile, and her head was fixed to one side for the best angle, and he shuddered for the briefest moment. “Oh, Alan,” she said. “When we first met, I remember. Trying to work out whether we ought to have just been friends. I think, darling, that we lost our way. I think we could have been such good friends.”

“And last night?”

Alice turned her head to the other side, narrowed her eyes, frowned. “What about it?”

That night Alan stayed on the sofa. He played on Bobby’s Xbox. He played as Tiger Woods. He beat the computer once.

He went to work. The roads were filled with motorists who’d found love. Old Man Ellis called him in for another emergency meeting, and this time Ellis told him he was a disgrace, and threatened him with redundancy, and Ellis was a short ugly man and body odour clung to him like a limpet, but he’d found love, he’d found Mrs Ellis, he’d made it work, and Alan wanted to ask him what the secret was. Waiting on his desk when Alan came out was an unsigned note calling him ‘Wanker.’ The man who’d called him a wanker was probably in love too.

He thought about calling Alice. He didn’t dare.

He didn’t go straight home. He went to the pub. He sat on his own. He drank lager and ate crisps.

By the time he reached the house, Alice was already in bed. He undressed in the dark, and climbed in beside her. She didn’t move, not a muscle. He couldn’t tell whether she were asleep or awake. Alive or dead. Human or. Or. He wanted to rub against her. In the moonlight her skin looked so smooth.

There was still no sound from next door, and the silence, the desperate silence, began to hurt.

“All right,” he said, out loud. “I’ll do what you want.”

Alan hadn’t been on a date in years, and didn’t know how to dress. So Alice took him to the wardrobe and picked out a tie, a jacket, a shirt, shoes. She inspected the results critically. “You look good enough to eat.” Alice herself was immaculate, she’d never lost the knack, who’d have thought?

“Maybe we don’t have to do this then,” said Alan. “If this is what you like.”

She chewed her lip, just for a second, then laughed. “Come on,” she said, and plucked him by the sleeve, and took him downstairs.

Bobby was playing golf with his new friend. “Hello, champ,” said Alan. “Hello,
champs
.” He thought the boy on the right was Bobby, because that was Tiger Woods.

“Don’t wait up!” Alice told the two children gaily.

They stood on the welcome mat. The mat read, “Nostra Casa” and “A Very Happy Family Lives Here!” and “Home Sweet Home Sweet Home Sweet Home Sweet Home.” Alan raised the knocker, but at his touch the door swung open.

“We’re expected,” Alice assured him.

The house was pretty. Everything was clean and ordered and there was the smell of recent polish—or was it something besides? On a shelf with the telephone directory Alan saw his padded envelope, still sealed. “DOG KILLER,” it said, and that accusation seemed so spiteful now. We’re all good neighbours, aren’t we, good friends. Next to it, he saw, there were other envelopes, similarly sized—“Cat Poisoner” read one. “Murderer” said another. Still more: “Child Abuser.” “Rapist.” “Killer.” “Rapist.” “Killer.”

On a shelf beneath, a cup filled to the very brim with sugar.

“But where are they?” said Alan.

“They’ll be in the dining room,” said Alice. Her eyes were shining with excitement. “Let’s see what they’ve got for us!”

They’d cooked pasta. Lasagne, fettuccini.

Barbara had really made an effort. Alan had never seen her with her clothes on before, and she looked beautiful, she’d done a really good job. Barbara smiled, a little demurely Alan thought. “Doesn’t she look wonderful, Alan?” Alice cooed. “Good enough to eat!”

Eric’s smile had no shyness to it, and he flashed it throughout the whole meal. He was wearing a suit. His tie was pure black. Alan thought it made his own striped one look wrong and silly. Eric looked so good he could have got away with a striped tie; even the Santa hat perched on the side of his head looked smart and chic.

The small talk was very small, but Alice laughed a lot at it, and Alan had almost forgotten what her laughter sounded like. In the background, playing very subtly, was a selection of festive favourites. But there was nothing cheesy about them, they were performed by famous opera singers, and the orchestra was one of the Philharmonics.

It was time for the dessert. “Allow me,” said Alice, “you two have worked so hard already,” and she fetched it from the brand new refrigerator. “Tiramisu!” she said. “It’s my favourite! Oh, how did you know?” And she sat down, kissed Eric gratefully upon the lips.

“Tiramisu, yum yum,” said Alan.

Alice scooped a fistful of tiramisu from the bowl. She looked straight at Alan. And her eyes never leaving his, she smeared it slowly over her face. She massaged it into her cheeks, her lips and chin—then rubbing lower, down on to the neck, thick cream and chocolate peeping over the top of her cleavage.

Alan winced. Alice’s eyes flashed for a moment.

“If you don’t like it,” she said, “why don’t you come over here and wipe it off me? Come on. Lick it off. Lick it off me, if you dare.”

Eric grinned at that, Barbara smiled so demurely. Alan didn’t move.

And Alice smiled such a polite smile from beneath her mask of soft dessert. “I think it’s time we left you two lovebirds alone.” And so saying, she got to her feet. She picked up Eric from the waist, she tucked him under her arm. And they left the room.

Alan couldn’t be sure, but he thought as he left that Eric may have winked at him.

“Well,” said Alan. He looked at Barbara, who was still smiling, but was it really demure, was she perhaps just as embarrassed as he was? “Well,” said Alan. “What do we do now? Just the two of us.”

He reached across the table, and took hold of Barbara’s hand. It felt like the skin of his dead dog.

Alan said, “I hope we can be friends.”

He closed his eyes. He concentrated hard. As if through thought alone he could make that hand warm to his touch, make it take hold of his in turn. As if, by wanting it enough, he could make Barbara love him.

He heard the sound of bedsprings, of his wife shrill and noisy, her screams of pleasure as she reached orgasm. He kept his eyes squeezed tight, and tried to block out all the noise, all the noise there was in the world.

Robert Shearman has worked as a writer for television, radio and the stage. He was appointed resident dramatist at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter and has received several international awards for his theatrical work, including the Sunday Times Playwriting Award and the Guinness Award for Ingenuity, in association with the Royal National Theatre. His plays have been regularly produced by Alan Ayckbourn, and on BBC Radio by Martin Jarvis. His two series of
The Chain Gang
, his short story and interactive drama series for the BBC, both won the Sony Award.

However, he is probably best known as a writer for
Doctor Who
, reintroducing the Daleks for its BAFTA-winning first series, in an episode nominated for a Hugo Award.

His collections of short stories are
Tiny Deaths
,
Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical
, and
Everyone’s Just So So Special
. Collectively they have won the World Fantasy Award, the British Fantasy Award, the Edge Hill Short Story Readers Prize, and the Shirley Jackson Award, celebrating “outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror, and the dark fantastic.”

Several stories in this collection have been compiled in annual anthologies as diverse as
Best New Horror
and
Best British Short Stories
. “Damned if You Don’t” and “Alice Through the Plastic Sheet” were shortlisted for a World Fantasy Award; “Roadkill,” “Alice Through the Plastic Sheet,” and “George Clooney’s Moustache” all for the British Fantasy Award. Robert has also been nominated for the Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Award, the most highly prized award for the form in the world.

ALICE THROUGH THE PLASTIC SHEET © 2011. First published in
A Book of Horrors
, edited by Stephen Jones, published by Jo Fletcher Books, shortlisted for a British Fantasy Award and World Fantasy Award.