The Grahams
Mr and Mrs Graham sit on the big green couch in the lounge. Their faces flicker in the television’s sterile glow. Mr Graham sits with one leg crossed over the other and a newspaper held loosely in his hands; Mrs Graham’s gaze is fixed intently on the soap opera currently playing.
To her husband Mrs Graham says, ‘I always knew there was something shifty about him. Always. Didn’t I tell you, Larry? Didn’t I tell you that there was something shifty about him? I could tell right from the beginning. Something about the way he talked. And he’s always smiling. I notice things like that. It’s like an extra sense. I’m good at noticing little things like that, aren’t I, Larry?’
To his wife Mr Graham says, ‘Oh yes dear. Always have been. Regular psychic you are.’ He turns a page. His eyes are thick and heavy-lidded. By contrast Mrs Graham’s eyes are glittering and sharp.
‘There he goes again,’ says Mrs Graham. ‘ “There, there,” he says, “everything will be alright,” he tells her, and she doesn’t have a clue that it’s him who told everyone she’s been sleeping around, poor cow!’ Mrs Graham lets loose a high laugh. Mr Graham responds with an absently indulgent smile.
‘You know, he reminds of the other man, the one we saw on that show last night. The Russian. Was he Russian? No, Pole, wasn’t he, slimy little bugger, but then what do you expect? Anyway they’ve got the same eyes, narrow eyes they’ve got, moving around all the time. Did you notice that, Larry? Did you notice about the eyes?’
‘No, dear. You know that I never notice things like that. Not everyone is as clever as you, you know.’
Mrs Graham sits up straight and preens herself. Her smile is one of proud satisfaction. ‘Well, I don’t like to boast, but you must admit I have quite an eye for little things like that. I always have done. Now Margaret, she likes to think she’s so clever with her degree and her PhD and all her awards but would she ever notice something like that? I bet you a thousand pounds she wouldn’t. Go on, I bet you!’
Mr Graham strokes his wife’s shoulder without looking away from his newspaper. ‘I could never make that bet, dear. It would be like throwing the money away. You’re absolutely right.’
Mrs Graham laughs again. ‘Oh, look, she’s crying now, “everyone’s laughing at me,” she’s saying, and too right they are, serves her right for jumping into bed with any man who so much as gives her a glance!’
The lounge door eases open and Zachary steps in. He is pale and unhappy.
Mrs Graham looks up and her face stiffens. ‘What are you doing up? Don’t you know it’s past your bedtime? Go straight back downstairs you naughty boy.’
Zachary clutches at his pyjama top. ‘There’s something wrong in my room,’ he says.
‘What are you talking about? Stop this nonsense right away! Can’t you see I’m watching television?’
‘My mirror’s gone funny,’ says Zachary.
‘What does it matter about your mirror? What do you need a mirror for at this time of night? Tell him to go to bed, Larry.’
‘Go to bed, Zachary,’ says Mr Graham. He turns a page.
To Mrs Graham Zachary says, ‘I can hear my reflection. He’s talking to me. I don’t like it.’
‘That is it,’ says Mrs Graham. ‘No pocket money for a week.’
‘But Mum,’ says Zachary, holding out his hands in an imploring gesture. ‘I don’t like it, it’s scary.’
‘I am about to smack you Zachary, I really am. Go back downstairs right now or I’m calling Grandma and telling her you’re telling lies again.’
Zachary turns and leaves with his head hanging slackly. The door eases shut behind him. Mrs Graham says to Mr Graham, ‘How did we raise such a silly boy? Stories about mirrors. Well, I sorted him out anyway, he knows who’s boss in this household, he can’t just walk all over me like I’m a doormat, not like some of those other mothers you see at school, spoil their children silly they do, it’s disgusting.’
The television story continues. Mrs Graham reaches for her wine-glass and takes a gulp.
The door eases open again and Zachary steps in. His expression is one of terrified misery. ‘Mum, it’s saying things, the reflection’s saying things, bad things, I don’t like it, please please please can I stay up here?’
‘No pocket money for a month,’ says Mrs Graham. ‘How dare you disobey me you bad boy? Go back to bed right now.’
‘But Mum, it’s the reflection, it looks like me but it’s saying horrible things, like it’s going to break out of the mirror and come and get us, all of us, not just me, you and Dad as well, please can I stay up here with you? Or can we get rid of the mirror, lock it up or something, then it’ll be okay?’
‘That is quite enough!’ shouts Mrs Graham. ‘I have better things to do than listen to your silly stories!’
‘That’s right, Zachary,’ says Mr Graham. ‘Your mother’s right.’
Zachary looks from Mrs Graham to Mr Graham in silent desperation. ‘Please,’ he says. Mr and Mrs Graham ignore him. Zachary turns away and shuffles out of the room.
The only noise in the room is the confused babble of voices from the television set. A whisper of paper as Mr Graham turns a page of his newspaper.
From somewhere outside of the lounge comes a muffled thud. Then a soft scraping, as of something being dragged over a plush carpet. Then the scraping stops and there is the sound of smashing glass. A scream. Footsteps. More screaming. Then the screaming stops and there is just the noise of the television again.
Mrs Graham looks at Mr Graham. Mr Graham looks at Mrs Graham.
‘Now he’s broken something,’ says Mrs Graham. ‘We need to do something about that boy. You need to talk to the therapist again. See what he thinks of Zachary’s stories. Fancy him telling me there’s nothing wrong with Zachary, just wait until he hears this!’ She focuses on the television again then says to Mr Graham, ‘Go and see what he’s broken, Larry. And give him a good hard slap from me if it’s one of my ornaments. Tell him he’s paying for it out of his pocket money. That’ll keep him quiet.’
Mr Graham sets his newspaper to one side and pushes himself out of the sofa. He eases the door open and steps out of the lounge. The door eases shut behind him. There is the sound of his footsteps. Then they stop. There is a confused exclamation and then a formless yell. More footsteps, these ones hurried. Then the footsteps stop. There is another indistinct yell and then there is just the sound of the television.
‘What is it, Larry?’ calls Mrs Graham. ‘Has he broken one of my ornaments? Remember to tell him that it’s coming out of his pocket money! Tell him I’m calling his grandma to tell him what he’s done!’
There is no reply.
‘Larry, did you hear what I said?’ shouts Mrs Graham. ‘Tell him I’m calling his grandma! She’ll have a few words to say about this, don’t you worry!’
There is no reply. Only slow and deliberate footsteps that grow louder as they approach the lounge. The door eases open.
‘What was it, Larry?’ says Mrs Graham. ‘What did –’
Then Mrs Graham stops talking. She gets to her feet, slaps her hands to her face and screams. It is six seconds before her scream dissolves into a gurgle. Then there is a thump, as of a body crumpling to the floor.
The voices on the television stop. A second’s pause, then the theme music kicks in. The show is over.
You use the word 'ease' a lot. I'd recommend backing off of that a bit, just because of the redundancy.