WHAT GOES AROUND
On a Sunday afternoon in late December, Stanley took his son Kyle to the cinema. They waited in the rain for the doors to open. Stanley smoked a cigarette and finished off his cold McDonald’s coffee. Kyle cupped his hands against one of the panes and peered in.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated, seven rows back from the screen, to the left of the aisle. There was popcorn and a bag of pick and mix. Stanley laid their coats on the seat beside him, took out his mobile phone, and switched it off.
When the trailers had finished, the audience settled down. The theatre was almost two-thirds full. The film was computer animated and very funny. Everyone seemed to laugh in all the right places. No one seemed to be throwing any popcorn. Kyle seemed to ask fewer questions than usual.
Two rows back, a couple sat with their noisy, restless toddler. Stanley looked back, and all he could make out in the darkness was white tracksuit tops and baseball caps, a folded pushchair, its rain cover reflecting a portion of the screen. The toddler was shouting out and standing on his seat. His mother called him a gobby little cunt.
When the whole palaver showed no signs of ending, Stanley went off to find a member of staff. He spoke to the woman at the popcorn stand downstairs. It was unfair that a child so young be allowed into the theatre. Nothing personal, you understand, but why should paying customers have their viewing spoilt?
Moments after he rejoined Kyle, there was a minor fracas two rows back. Stanley didn’t dare to look around. When a full five minutes had passed, he chanced a glance. The couple and their toddler were gone, and the rest of the film passed by without incident.
When they got outside, the daylight hurt their eyes. A man in a white tracksuit and baseball cap swiped Stanley’s face with something small and sharp. There was no pain. As the man ran off, Stanley reached up to his cheek. There was so much blood, it was like he had dipped his hand in a tin of red paint.
Kyle sobbed in the foyer, and the cinema staff called the emergency services. Stanley sat on the stairs with a thick wad of tissue pressed against his cheek. There was so much blood. The woman from the popcorn stand set a bin down beside him with several toilet rolls. There was so much blood. As each new wad became sodden, she would make another and pass it to him.
‘What goes around comes around,’ she said.
The police arrived before the ambulance. Statements were taken and Kyle’s mother was called to collect him. She was out of town and would go directly to the hospital. The female police officer was kind to Kyle, the male police officer candid with Stanley. There was no CCTV in this part of town. None of the cinema staff saw what happened. The police would do what they could, of course, but Stanley shouldn’t hold out too much hope.
‘And remember, what goes around comes around. Not much consolation, I know, but it’s better than nothing, right?’
At the hospital, Stanley was seen straight away. The Indian doctor was a pleasant chap, his hands smooth and dry, like earth baked for decades in the sun.
‘It is an irreducible fact,’ he said, ‘that people get their just desserts.’
When Kyle’s mother arrived, her eyes were filled with a compassion that Stanley couldn’t remember seeing before. She told him that what went around always came around. Heaven knew what this thing would do to Kyle.
Six months on, the scar had more or less healed. It would continue to fade, of course, but would never go away. The police did what they could, but the assailant was never caught. Whenever someone appeared at the edge of Stanley’s vision, his heart would hammer in his chest. He would sometimes dream that he was walking through town and the scar would suddenly open up. There would be a chill feeling in his cheek, and he would stop and look at his reflection in a shop window. The wound would be there, gaping wide, revealing an awful panorama of tongue and teeth. Wide and laughing, like a dog’s mouth seen in profile.
By late summer, his nerves in tatters, Stanley finally decided to get some counselling. The office was above a row of shops in a run-down part of town. As Stanley headed up the narrow staircase, his assailant was leaving the newsagent’s next door. In the counsellor’s office, Stanley wept for the first time in God knows how long. In a nearby flat, his assailant rubbed off the last of five scratch cards and scooped a hundred grand.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated, seven rows back from the screen, to the left of the aisle. There was popcorn and a bag of pick and mix. Stanley laid their coats on the seat beside him, took out his mobile phone, and switched it off.
When the trailers had finished, the audience settled down. The theatre was almost two-thirds full. The film was computer animated and very funny. Everyone seemed to laugh in all the right places. No one seemed to be throwing any popcorn. Kyle seemed to ask fewer questions than usual.
Two rows back, a couple sat with their noisy, restless toddler. Stanley looked back, and all he could make out in the darkness was white tracksuit tops and baseball caps, a folded pushchair, its rain cover reflecting a portion of the screen. The toddler was shouting out and standing on his seat. His mother called him a gobby little cunt.
When the whole palaver showed no signs of ending, Stanley went off to find a member of staff. He spoke to the woman at the popcorn stand downstairs. It was unfair that a child so young be allowed into the theatre. Nothing personal, you understand, but why should paying customers have their viewing spoilt?
Moments after he rejoined Kyle, there was a minor fracas two rows back. Stanley didn’t dare to look around. When a full five minutes had passed, he chanced a glance. The couple and their toddler were gone, and the rest of the film passed by without incident.
When they got outside, the daylight hurt their eyes. A man in a white tracksuit and baseball cap swiped Stanley’s face with something small and sharp. There was no pain. As the man ran off, Stanley reached up to his cheek. There was so much blood, it was like he had dipped his hand in a tin of red paint.
Kyle sobbed in the foyer, and the cinema staff called the emergency services. Stanley sat on the stairs with a thick wad of tissue pressed against his cheek. There was so much blood. The woman from the popcorn stand set a bin down beside him with several toilet rolls. There was so much blood. As each new wad became sodden, she would make another and pass it to him.
‘What goes around comes around,’ she said.
The police arrived before the ambulance. Statements were taken and Kyle’s mother was called to collect him. She was out of town and would go directly to the hospital. The female police officer was kind to Kyle, the male police officer candid with Stanley. There was no CCTV in this part of town. None of the cinema staff saw what happened. The police would do what they could, of course, but Stanley shouldn’t hold out too much hope.
‘And remember, what goes around comes around. Not much consolation, I know, but it’s better than nothing, right?’
At the hospital, Stanley was seen straight away. The Indian doctor was a pleasant chap, his hands smooth and dry, like earth baked for decades in the sun.
‘It is an irreducible fact,’ he said, ‘that people get their just desserts.’
When Kyle’s mother arrived, her eyes were filled with a compassion that Stanley couldn’t remember seeing before. She told him that what went around always came around. Heaven knew what this thing would do to Kyle.
Six months on, the scar had more or less healed. It would continue to fade, of course, but would never go away. The police did what they could, but the assailant was never caught. Whenever someone appeared at the edge of Stanley’s vision, his heart would hammer in his chest. He would sometimes dream that he was walking through town and the scar would suddenly open up. There would be a chill feeling in his cheek, and he would stop and look at his reflection in a shop window. The wound would be there, gaping wide, revealing an awful panorama of tongue and teeth. Wide and laughing, like a dog’s mouth seen in profile.
By late summer, his nerves in tatters, Stanley finally decided to get some counselling. The office was above a row of shops in a run-down part of town. As Stanley headed up the narrow staircase, his assailant was leaving the newsagent’s next door. In the counsellor’s office, Stanley wept for the first time in God knows how long. In a nearby flat, his assailant rubbed off the last of five scratch cards and scooped a hundred grand.
No comments have been added yet.
