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Shit zeroed through two walls and into her ear, bloomed there like a bomb.

The way his voice could do that, just find her out: through precast concrete and pebbledash like a heat-seeking missile, just straight through solid structures. The windows not even open.

Shit
coming closer.

Then the door sprung off its catch and a blur of what had to be Callum shot by the back of the settee. She knew it had to be Callum because of the way the air displaced, shifting out his road. Also he spoke. It's only me jesus crying out loud there's birdshit all over the fucking car for godsake, he said. And door slammed back again, him outside, her in. The reverberation of his voice hung on, though. Palpable. Irene imagined if she sat very still, screwing her eyes up, she'd be able to see it: wee lines radiating from the space he had occupied then abandoned, like in a cartoon. She kept sitting, waiting till whatever the lines were made of melted then got off the settee. It was ok. It was always ok. Just Callum, that excitable way he got - in the cupboard and out of it before you even had time to turn round. He would be outside with a polishing cloth or something, quite the thing. She imagined him scouring, lifting the rag with wee daisies he'd made out an old sheet. He'd lift it up and glare at the wee daisies for not trying hard enough, then press them back down hard, scouring again till the windows gave in. Spotless, like they weren't really there. The way he liked them.
Irene? Five minutes ok?
A dunt at the door, feet on gravel, car locks freeing and slamming. He'd have a heart attack before he was thirty at this rate. She was never done telling him and he was never done kidding on he couldn't hear. Irene couldn't blame him. Nagging, you called it: what husbands gave in evidence they were Not Understood when they spoke to strange women in pubs, what they couldn't talk to other men about for fear they be thought less of. She lifted the empty glass on the coffee table, looked into it. If she didn't take it through, rinse it now, there would be a ring of dried-out sherry welded onto the bottom when they got back. Everything else was done: cases out, sockets switched off, doors pulled over, the curtain arranged so it looked not shut and not open at the same time. She glanced across at the kitchen, back down at the glass, then raised it, tilting her head back for a last drop that didn't come. What did was a clear picture of the corner of the ceiling. Those marks up there. They were definitely getting worse. Not just dots and maybe-not-there-at-all things but noticeable greynesses, widening out. A piece of wallpaper was lifting from the border as well, something blurry, fungal maybe, creeping out from underneath.
Irene? Cmon. It's now or never.
She put the glass down on the mantelpiece, reached for her bag, draped the strap over one shoulder without taking her eyes off the ceiling. The car horn sounded. Twice. Irene bounced the keys in her hand, still looking up. Then turned her heel quickly and opened the door.

Callum wasn't in the car. He was staring at the guttering and pointing.
Look at that, he said, Look.
The gutter was glutted with chicken bones.
Bloody dogs at the bin bags again, he said. You think folk would feed their own mutts. Look at it. Terrible. He rubbed his hands together and looked up then, smiling. We ready for the off?
Irene looked at him.
We got everything?
Callum, she said. She hoped it sounded irritated.
He looked back, blank. Not playing.
How come knowing whether we've got everything my area of expertise, exactly? Why's it my responsibility?
His eyebrows had sunk. He hadn't a clue what the matter was . Irene tilted her head to one side, sighing. There was no point forcing it.
Yes, she said. Yes. We've got everything.
He went back to the smiling, the mild abrasion of his palms. Irene poked her arse and one foot inside the car, keeping her knees as together as possible. The dress rode over her thighs anyway, a pale triangle of knicker showing through the crotch of her tights when she sat down but she said nothing. It was one thing being fed-up with the weeness of the MG but another being sarky about it. He was quite right: the so-called witticisms about sports cars and penile length were no longer funny. Besides, the frock wasn't his fault. He might well have suggested she wear the damn thing, said if he had the choice he would wear a dress now and again, but it was her that had put it on. Anyway, dresses were better for you. They didn't give you thrush and compression marks the way jeans did. He was right about that as well.
Hey look, he was saying. he was pointing at the floor. New rugs.
She saw things like red toilet seat surrounds, black letters chasing themselves under her feet. HERS. HERS HERS HERS HERS HERS in an endless loop. Callum's had their own railtrack of HIS HIS HIS HIS HIS.
Two for the price of one, he said. He was turning the ignition and looking over, thrilled to hell. They probably couldny shift them any other way haha.
He stroked her leg, laughing, his mouth wide open. Irene couldn't think the last time she'd seen him in this kind of mood. Laddish. Like a wee boy. It was more than the new rugs, more than the daftness he'd bought them for. He looked over at her then, his eyes shiny: a look that said she was a thing of beauty, a joy forever. It was the frock. It didn't matter how crabbit she was being, he was loving seeing her in the bloody thing. They were going on holiday and she was wearing a frock. Irene looked at the smile, at Callum behind it.
There's paper coming off the wall in the livingroom, she said. That bit near the skylight. I told you it needed redecorating.
He shook his head in a manner suggestive of astonishment, one side of the smile widening.
I don't know, he said. You're unreal, you. He shook his head again, good-natured, flicked the indicator switch. Irene Irene Irene what am I going to do with you eh? He laughed out loud. You're un-bloody-real.