A Shock Read online

  A Shock

  also by Keith Ridgway

  from New Directions

  •

  Hawthorn & Child

  Never Love a Gambler

  Copyright © 2021 by Keith Ridgway

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  A Shock is published by arrangement with RCW Literary Agency, London.

  Publisher’s Note: New Directions has retained throughout A Shock the London English preferred by its Irish author, and for American readers only adds here that the first floor in Britain is our second floor, that 30°C is hot (86°F), and that vests are what we would call sleeveless undershirts or tank tops.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First published as a New Directions Paperbook (ndp1506) in 2021

  Design by Erik Rieselbach

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ridgway, Keith, 1965– author.

  Title: A shock / Keith Ridgway.

  Description: First New Directions edition. |

  New York : New Directions Publishing, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021001827 | ISBN 9780811230858 (paperback) |

  ISBN 9780811230865 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR6068.I287 S56 2021 | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021001827

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

  “There is a wall between you and me. I can see you, I can speak to you, but you’re on the other side. What stops us from loving each other? It seems to me it was easier, once upon a time. In Hamburg.”

  “Yes,” said Ève sadly. Always Hamburg. He never spoke of their

  real past. Neither Ève nor he had been to Hamburg.

  —Jean-Paul Sartre, “The Bedroom”

  (translated by Andrew Brown)

  Contents

  The Party

  The Camera

  The Sweat

  The Joke

  The Story

  The Flat

  The Pigeon

  The Meeting

  The Song

  Acknowledgements

  Landmarks

  Cover

  The Party

  She fries an egg but leaves it then, lying in the pan until it is completely cold. She bites at her nails and glances repeatedly at the window, seeing nothing but her tiny empty garden and the tiny empty sky, until eventually she sighs and lowers the blind. She feeds the cat, though not with the egg which she seems to have forgotten. While wiping the table she stops suddenly and listens. There is silence but for the usual sounds of the house in the evening and a light breeze outside — no hint of rain — and the tick of the kitchen clock. Perhaps it was that. She resumes wiping, and brushes absolutely nothing into her cupped hand, which she examines briefly then slaps against her hip.

  Her neighbours had knocked on her door during the week, on Thursday, just as she was finishing her tea. Two boys. No, no. Men. They’re men, and it annoys her, the way a part (what part?) of her brain insists on them as boys. They aren’t boys. They are certainly men, and almost or perhaps even middle-aged men. Objectively. They are younger than her but they are not young. How could they be, buying a house? In fact they are probably the same age she was when she and . . . her husband had bought their house. Her house. So, thirty. About thirty. Probably they are older because it takes so long now to find the money. They are either older or richer. Probably both. To be able to buy, just the two of them, a house like this. It was exactly like her house, mirrored. When they walked through their front door they had everything on the right that she had on the left.

  A couple, full of smiles, loud friendly voices, one of them northern, bits of tattoos poking out from under collars and cuffs, earrings, nice boys, men, and there they were at her door, one of them with a bag and both speaking more or less at once, all smiles though, and they have never done this before, it’s always been chats over the wall in the summer, meeting out the front sometimes, the northern one calling over when they had a leak, worried that it would spread, but it didn’t, but she had never, she thought, had the two of them together like this, certainly not at her door, and she looked from one to the other and was baffled as to what was going on, what on earth they were saying or what they wanted. She invited them in.

  — It won’t be insane.

  — No, no, not at all, I mean it won’t even be, it certainly won’t be . . . oh this is lovely.

  — We’re keeping numbers down, oh it is lovely.

  — Is this bigger than ours? It looks . . .

  — It looks it doesn’t it? It’s lovely though. Much brighter, feels bigger doesn’t it? You have the sink under the window, that’s much better, ours is in that corner. Oh, well, that corner I suppose, ha, it’s confusing . . .

  — It’s a mirror image isn’t it?

  — Yes I know, the same but opposite.

  She nodded and smiled and motioned at chairs but they didn’t seem to notice and all three of them were just standing there, the two boys looking at her sideboards as if a little annoyed.

  — It was done, she said, ending a small silence that had risen like gas. Last year. The presses. I mean the cupboards. The floor, new taps, work, uh, work surfaces? All that.

  — So bright. Cheerful.

  — We should start saving.

  — We’ll add it to the list!

  — The infinite list!

  And they just stood there for a moment, smiling at her. The two young men, in her kitchen, with their faces and their hands and their necks.

  — Do you want to sit down? I can make some more tea?

  — No no no please don’t, no need for that at all, thanks very much.

  — We only wanted to let you know really.

  — As I said, we’re keeping the numbers down, and it’s not going to be a wild affair, we promise. We’re too old for that now.

  They both laughed loudly at this, which she didn’t really understand until she realised they weren’t laughing because they thought it was funny, they were laughing because they thought she was old, and the one who had said it had said it without thinking and he had laughed to cover his very slight embarrassment, and the other one was laughing at his boyfriend’s minute, barely felt discomfort, laughing at this small faux pas which he had stumbled into in this old woman’s kitchen, and the fact that both of them were laughing a little too much at this was making them laugh a little more, laughing at the fact of their laughing, and it was only when all this was going on that she fully understood that they were telling her they were going to have a party.

  She goes upstairs again, stepping into each room, looking around. It’s warm. She stares out of windows but the sky is clear and in the back bedroom she scowls at it, gives a pantomime shake of the fist. There’s never any rain. There hasn’t been rain in weeks. The cat follows for a while, complaining, then disappears. She can’t hear anything, but the cat is skittish. But maybe she is making the cat skittish because she is skittish. Skittish, she says out loud. Skitt. Ish.

  In her bedroom she closes the curtains almost completely, leaving a gap which she tests to make sure that it gives her a view of the front of their house. Imp
ossible to see the door. Just their patch of gravel next to her patch of gravel. And the bins, theirs and hers, back to back with the wall between them, the colours matching, green, blue and brown. Had they done that on purpose? Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe the bin men did it. She looks at her watch and the cat reappears, a living thing at her legs. A motorbike roars by. She sits on her bed and then lies on her bed, and then the cat joins her and she gets up.

  — No, she says.

  She goes to the wardrobe, deciding that she wants to change her clothes.

  They had offered her things. For the noise. Not that there would be much noise. It would not be very loud, they said. They hoped, they said, that it would not be very loud. They had just wanted to tell her in person, rather than sticking a note through her letterbox. Notes through letterboxes wasn’t very neighbourly, was it? Bit passive aggressive somehow said one of them, and Yes I suppose so said the other. So, they’d argued about that. One of them, that one, had said let’s just stick a note through the stupid old cow’s letterbox. Or something like that. Anyway, they said, we thought we’d just call around. Really sorry to interrupt your tea. And bring some things, said the other one.

  — What things?

  — Well, where are we, here we are, this is a

  He was pulling some sort of, what on earth, headphones? Big black things, with the big fat pads for the ears.

  — Headphones here, for this, which is this old

  A small . . . a phone?

  — An iPod. My old iPod. And I don’t know what you like obviously, or even if this is a stupid idea, you might not want to listen to anything at all, but there’s playlists on there, some easy-listening things, some pop stuff, and some classical as well, you can, will I show you what, will I show you how this works?

  — I know how an iPod works she said. I have an iPod.

  — Oh! Oh well there you go.

  He started to put it back into the bag, laughing again.

  — Well you’re all set for that already then, not that I think, you know, like we said, I really don’t think it’s going to be all that, well you never know, anyway, most likely just the music, the bass, and a bit of, ha, babble, and here are some earplugs as well

  He laughed and showed them to her. A little box from Boots. He put them down on the table.

  — It might get a bit loud at some point, said the other one. You know. And they, the earplugs I mean, might just let you get to sleep or whatever. Because you know the way these things go. They can go late sometimes, people won’t leave. So the earplugs might just

  — Well, ok. Thank you.

  She had her own earplugs. She didn’t have an iPod.

  — And this is in case none of that works said the other one. He was holding a bottle of wine. He laughed, put it on the table. It’s a nice red, well, we like it. In any case, that’s yours.

  — Thanks. There’s no need for that.

  — Well, it’ll do no harm. And here’s some chocolate mints, if you like that sort of thing. I love them. I could go through a whole box without even noticing.

  — He could, and he does.

  — Anyway, that’s the lot.

  She looked at what they’d brought for her. She pictured herself in the living room, in the armchair, her ears plugged with foam, drinking wine and eating the After Eights.

  — What time is your party?

  — Oh I don’t know. I imagine it won’t get going until after nine or something.

  They looked at each other.

  — Eight, nine. Whenever people show up I suppose. With the long evenings no one thinks it’s evening until the sun goes down. Especially if it’s a nice day, which is what’s forecast.

  — Saturday?

  — Yes, Saturday. This Saturday. You’ll be here?

  — Yes. Yes I’ll be here.

  Where else would she be? They all looked at each other.

  — That’s everything. I think.

  They moved towards the door, quieter now. She had not helped, she thought. She had been silent and they could see her face. She wanted to smile and laugh and joke with them. Tell them that it was fine, they weren’t to worry, they should have a nice night, make as much noise as they liked, she wouldn’t mind. But she did mind. She felt anger. She was angry. That, in any case, was what she told herself.

  — Such a lovely house.

  — So lovely.

  — Thank you.

  — Bye!

  — Bye!

  — Bye.

  She runs her hands over the wall as she goes downstairs. Over its peculiar bumps and mounds. She has put on a pair of pale cotton trousers which are too baggy but cool, and an ancient top that had been his. Hers. Hers then his now hers. It is difficult to explain. The cat is annoying her, following her, looking at her, making plaintive little noises.

  — I don’t know what you want.

  In the kitchen she runs her hands over the wall between the fridge and the cooker. Stares at it. Turns her head and rests her ear against its cool lumpy surface. Everything is quiet. Everything. Nothing. Her hand in front of her is wrinkled, its skin doesn’t look like her own. She lives less in her body now, she thinks. After all that. Her body is ceasing to be relevant, even to her. It has less and less to do with her. And it is healthy, it remains healthy, which is the strangest difference. It is like having an elderly friend who you rarely see.

  The paint on the wall is a very pale green. She has no interest in repainting anything. Ever, she thinks, childishly. Ancient. Lives are like buttons.

  She takes her head away from the wall and steps back and wonders if she’s got the day wrong. She glances at the clock, and at her watch. It’s far too early of course, but why aren’t they in their kitchen, making preparations? Perhaps they are very organised.

  She looks at the dent. It’s up near the top of the wall, out of her reach. A dent. She doesn’t know what happened. She thinks that it can’t have been there before he died because he would have fixed it. But she also thinks that he might have dented it — banged into it with a ladder or hit it with a stray hammer when he was doing something else, and that maybe he’d intended to fix it but died instead. His domestic life had been a cycle of breaking things then fixing them. Clocks, shelves, the boiler, himself. But maybe it had always been there. Always. An ancient indentation. Is that even the right word? A triangular bit of the plaster pushed in. A dark black upper edge to it — the start of a hole — that seemed wider now than it had been.

  In winter she imagines that a draft comes through it and thinks briefly, for the duration of a slightly colder breath of air across her shoulders, that she should fix it. On the one or two times when she has been aware of noise from next door, she has looked at it suspiciously, as if it is responsible. Perhaps it would be a good place to put her ear. They’d had a fight once. Couldn’t make it out. Except, perhaps, CUNT, very loudly, and a big, serious silence then. A door slammed. Maybe she was making that up, the door slam. She couldn’t remember if there had been anything else.

  The dent is a couple of inches long, like a corner peeled back on a yoghurt tub. No. Like a corner pushed in on something. The way you open a box of tissues. It was a year ago probably, the argument. It had embarrassed her more than anything. And there had been another time, not long after they moved in, when she had heard music and laughing and loud voices and had stood looking at the dent trying to make out what was going on. Maybe that had been a party as well. Maybe it had. And if so, perhaps this one would be the same. Not so bad in other words. Perhaps no one would turn up. Perhaps they were unpopular and no one would come. Perhaps it was too warm, perhaps it would rain, perhaps the world would end suddenly and without warning and the only remaining trace of humanity would be those robots, wandering through the cold empty universe like old women in empty houses.

  She laughs.

 
She goes out to the hall again. Another motorbike roar. Then voices. Outside. She stops where she is. It’s too early, surely. It is too early. They are just passers-by. Cars every few minutes. Sirens down on the main road. The rumbling planes. She thinks she might open the front door. She’s allowed to do that. She lives here. Open the front door. Go out to her gate. Stand there looking up and down the street. People do that. It’s a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Balmy evening. Neighbours, passers-by. Hello. Yes, how are you? She had wondered, quite often, if the CUNT was her. If they had been shouting so that she could hear. If they were drunk and they hated her and it hadn’t been an argument at all but rather a bout of abuse, a bout of neighbourly elder abuse, and she was the CUNT and they had shouted it so that she would have no doubt. She had thought all of this several times and knew it was simply not true, that it was a manifestation of paranoia engendered by her depression, by the feeling of loneliness, worthlessness, with which she had struggled since his death.

  So, whatever way you looked at it, it was her fault.

  She goes upstairs again and lies on the bed and falls asleep.

  When she wakes, the party has started and she cannot move. It takes her a little while to fully realise anything. The room is dim, as if forgotten. Her body has settled and failed. She is dead. Then she breathes and blinks her eyes and breathes again, and again. She has slept for far too long, a couple of hours maybe, and is confused and frightened, though she is also, as she begins to understand the situation, still alive, and still herself, and this is the room where she sleeps and has slept for most of her life. Various incorrect ideas about what is happening fall away from her and are immediately lost as she closes in on the truth, remembers who is dead, who lives next door now, who is having a party, that this is the party, that it has started, that what she is hearing is laughter and voices and they are not in her house they are next door, and that she cannot hear any music. She lies there, confused, still frightened, in a paralysed grip, the grip of everything which feels about to fall apart in her life, her diminishing life, and why is there no music? But she is not paralysed. She raises her head. The cat is curled up beside her but is also confused, and stares at her.