weak,â she cried, âbone weak. Your whole lifeâs been built up on weakness. You canât pit your will against the ordinary hard life of the everyday world.â
His hands pressed onto the heavy kitchen table. âThatâs what you always wanted, me going out to work every morning and bringing money in on Friday night, a nice steady husband with a nice steady job, an aspirin-wife and crispin-haired kids, a bungalow and little car. Iâve long suspected this.â
âItâs not true. I mean weak in a better way than that. The way I mean is just not in your consciousness. You donât know. Youâre of poor material. You never could understand, because youâre idle, unreliable, a liar â¦â
He reached her with clenched fist, brought it at her, then emptied the sink of dishes, a demon scattering all the confetti of Sheffield and the Potteries at wall and window. âGo on,â she cried. âWhat else can you do? This is the end, though, the end, I tell you.â
He spun like a windmill. Chairs shook and toppled, the table flew, drawers skimmed and blocked off the door. Deafness and blindness, the awful force of his own movements crushed him, caught him up so that he couldnât stop. âIâll never forgive you,â she wept. âNever, Never.â
âYouâve got absolutely what you wanted at last,â he said, sitting on the floor. âAre you satisfied?â
âWeâre done,â she said, in tears. âFinished.â
âFinished,â he said. âThatâs it, then.â
âI canât take this again.â
âYou wonât have to. All your so-called love isnât worth it. Nobodyâs going to possess me in that way.â
âNobody wants to, if only you could understand. Youâd better go then. Letâs get it over with.â
âIâm not leaving like a bloody lodger.â
âNeither am I,â she said. âItâs my house, remember. You got it in my name. You were too weak to get it for yourself. âI wonât be a property-owner,â you said. So Iâm not going.â
âNeither am I, I wonât be thrown out.â
âItâs my house,â she exulted.
âGet the police then, you turncoat bourgeoise slut. Youâd stoop to anything.â
From a sitting position his long thin body ricocheted across the room and caught her uplifted wrist. âLet go, or youâll break it.â
She put the plate in the sink. âIâll never give in,â she said. âNot even if you crawl.â
The idea of it made him laugh, brought a spark of humour into his black day. âThatâs what youâve wanted all your life, but thereâs less chance of it now than there ever was, and there was none then.â He drew back, in danger being so close, though not of blows flying. He refused all temptation to inspect his aching cut, or touch the congealing blood.
âI want nothing from you,â she said, holding a hand over one eye. âIf Iâd ever wanted anything we wouldnât have been together two minutes.â
âBut youâve had plenty. Iâm the sort of person who doesnât even know when he is giving.â
Her voice was quieter, more even in tone. âNot knowing when you give is the same as not giving.â
âYou can wrap those bloody semantic floorcloths around your aphoristic neck.â He couldnât hold back, in for the kill when he didnât want to kill, didnât need to, and when there was nothing to kill. She stayed quiet, knowing it had to stop, her own impetus gone. Choler sharpened his face, staring for a reply that never came.
The door opened, pushed the table a few inches into the room, and when he snapped around Mandy stood by the pot dresser â the only furniture still upright, apart from her parents. âYou two been arguing again?â
He was angered by her
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