Graceful Abaddon

Tiananman Square (3)

8:05pm

Mr and Mrs Mathers are facing their first real fight since The Rise of Skywalker. That argument had been bad – Kimmy thought it was good, but Justin said she was no fan of Star Wars if she thought that. He threatened to walk out unless she agreed to watch an hour-long video on YouTube about how bad it was then take back her words. She ran to the kitchen and started savaging her gums with a fork, so he relented. Yes, that night was bad, and Justin still wasn't over it. But this, he fears, might be even worse.

Hunched inside their hired car, they are parked outside the Venky house. It lies in wait, a grim abode of darkened windows; walls of gritty pebbledash. The garden plot: a "before photo" of a fixer-upper, soon to be rendered unrecognisably beautiful.

The street is drolly uniform. Classic London middleclass. The very thing Justin hated growing up in England, but then missed with agonised nostalgia when he moved to Washington. Vehicles hog the curb both sides; Justin notes mentally to turn his mirrors inward before going inside. If he does ...

His gut feeling – it is never wrong – about this place is ominous. Discouraged since some hooded Negroes crossed the pedestrian walk, sneering at their idling car, he just keeps finding things to feed his disapproval. The rain, for one thing. Since landing at Heathrow, they have been blessed with a string of unprecedented mid-to-high twenties. Then today, two hours before dinner, the clouds decide to drop their load ... all these pent up tears suppressed in the atmosphere. It must mean something. Justin despises the notion of pareidolia. Sceptics are stupid.

"Kimmy," he sighs. "You know that I can't cancel on them now. Susan's made us a lovely meal. They're all waiting to see us. Susan told me she and Ivon are dying to meet you. I promise you, they're really nice".

"Susan this and Susan that," says Kimmy. Her voice is sulky and high. "It's you they wanna see, not me. I bet they just wanna see how ugly and fat I am. I bet they think you'll want to have sex with them".

"Now stop that," Justin says crossly. "You know I don't like you talking filth".

Kimmy seems about to push it. Justin waits indifferently.

He is familiar with her tactics. Likewise, he has also learned to shut them down. No, they hardly ever fought – not outwardly at any rate. But neither did the US and the Russians in the Cold War. The truth is harsh but unsurprising. Their marriage is anchored by a sloth reluctance on both sides to embrace certain ... "failings". That is how Justin classes his wife's perversions anyway.

Spiritually enlightened as they are, Justin harbours constant dread that Kimmy's troubled childhood affects her mind with such great force, one day she will relapse to her former vices – the nature of which he hates to remember.

"Just two hours. That's all I'm asking".

Kimmy digs her chin against her bulbous throat. "I have a bad feeling about that house, Justin," she says. "I told you, I dreamt about it last night, and it looks exactly like it did my dream. I will not go inside and you can't make me".

For a moment, Mathers thinks she does look fat and ugly. Just like a bloody child, kicking a tantrum cause she wants a chocolate.

Kimmy goes on: "Toki keeps telling me, Justin. Toki says there is a negative fooki in that house. If we go inside then we might get ... we might be ..."

"I thought we agreed," says Justin. "Toki stays in Brownsville. You said yourself: elephants are too heavy to ride on planes. You promised me you understood".

"I can still hear him, dummy. And eff you," Kimmy spits. "Effing you're a stupid idiot". Agitatedly, Kimmy readjusts herself. She snakes her hand down rolls of fat and clicks the seatbelt button. The rain upon the roof becomes a violent storm of finger-taps. Headlights, disembodied in the veiled mist, shoot past Justin's window.

Kimmy's face is pinched and angry. "Take me inside then. Do what you like!"

She starts kicking the floor. Justin sits there patiently, waiting for the inevitable storm.

"Everything my Justy wants," his wife continues. "Everything, effing bloody ... effing, big cunt, fat cunt, fuck, shit, asshole, cocksucker". Squirming like a fish having its guts pulled out by prying fingers. "Fucker, damn you, bastard, bitch! I'm going to kill myself!"

She yanks the door handle. Kicks it open. Struggles gruntingly to pull herself out. It is too hard for her. She is too large. She slams her foot up under the glovebox, shakes her chair and screams. Finally, mouth wet with spittle, she falls silent, breathing labouredly.

Justin waits a few more moments. On his face: a knowing smile.

Finally his wife bursts into tears.

Justin pats her shoulder. "I'll get the umbrella".