The Unravelling

I wasn’t surprised when they told me Danny had vanished from sight at the retreat. It felt inevitable ever since he embraced meditation to escape his everyday existence. Sure, life can be tough, but I felt forsaken, jettisoned like cargo from a sinking vessel. Christie had spotted the signs and suggested we kept diaries during my pregnancy. Trust me, darling, she’d said, knitting her brow. Journaling will keep you both sane. As a mother of four, Christie said it had saved her marriage time and time again. 

* * *

I discovered Danny’s diary amongst the belongings they’d recovered from his room. His entries were extensive, full of heartfelt observations about our life together and his attempts to reconnect. He’d scrawled his final entry in pencil and it had the desperate air of a rant. He’d written about how the hearts of long dead stars had created the ingredients of life and assembled into temporary sentient structures, and how everything will decay into darkness. He'd outlined his preparations for realigning himself with the transformative power of universal flow. God only knows what had happened to him after that concluding voyage of self-discovery. 

* * *

Danny graduated five years ago with a top Engineering Degree and, like so many of his high-flying contemporaries, entered London’s glittering financial sector. However, his impressive career trajectory halted when Stratton, his line manager, put the team on gardening leave with a year’s mandatory ‘non-compete’ clause. It wasn’t Stratton’s fault, per se. Omega Capital’s head office was relocating to Hamburg, and it made sense to employ the local talent. 

It took six-months of unemployment and over three hundred mail-shots of his C.V. before I noticed any change in Danny. I recall waddling upstairs one evening and discovering him on the edge of our bed. He was staring at the bedroom wall, as if pondering an enigmatic Rothko canvas in a deserted art gallery. I sat beside him, nursing my baby bump, and stroked his cheek with the back of my hand. You could do with a shave, Dan, I said. What? Oh, right, he said, shaking his head. There’s a mixed leaf salad and grilled salmon downstairs. Sure, love, he said, flashing a brief smile. Danny looked bleary-eyed, as if I’d disturbed his hibernation and that devilish twinkle had faded. I’ll be right down, he said, dilating his nostrils. The fish had congealed, and the salad was lifeless by the time he joined me. You look awful, Dan. You’re too kind, he said. Is there anything I can---? No, love, he said, biting his lip. I’m not myself, but it’ll pass. 

* * *

My maternity leave should have been straightforward; a leisurely year of kicking back and nest-building. However, it didn’t work out as planned. Both Danny’s elderly parents died within a month of his redundancy, and with one thing and another, life conspired against us. Perhaps if we’d both had full-time work, we’d have been too busy to worry, but who knows? 

I muddled through, but Danny began creaking like a neglected old bicycle. The lack of routine impacted on his motivation and he piled on the pounds, snacking between meals. We’d always enjoyed exercising outside, but Danny’s jogging shoes gathered a conspicuous layer of dust and he found other ways to distract himself at home. Fair enough, I couldn’t go for a run, but it was irksome seeing him fritter away his time.

* * *

I could use some help around here, Dan, I said, leaning against the door frame in my scruffy denims. It’s not a self-cleaning flat, and the nursery needs a lick of paint.

The fumes always catch my throat and make me nauseous, love—-. You’re joking, right? Well, you know what I mean. What? Not complex enough for you, mister clever-clogs? Give me a break, he said, turning back to his laptop. 

I guessed pregnancy was going to be tough, but not this tough….

* * *

Doctor McGregor, our local G.P., was an enterprising Scot who’d exchanged a surgery of oil-riggers in Inverness for the discerning residents of affluent West London. He was a no-nonsense chap who told it like it is, which amused our well-healed neighbours in Chiswick. Despite his brusque manner, the old curmudgeon winced in pain when I disclosed both my miscarriage and Danny’s mental health issues. He offered helpful advice and suggested joining a women’s support network for companionship. Danny went into a sharp decline after our loss and I arranged an appointment for him, thinking he needed help. However, Doctor McGregor held no truck for Danny’s lack of physical ailments, and his request for medication left him testy and irascible. Pull yourself together, man, he’d said, crumbling amber leaf-tobacco into his pipe. Is there nothing I can take, Doc? We’d assumed a course of antidepressants would work, but he refused Danny’s request, preferring a self-help program and a hefty dose of tough-love. Grab yourself a pair of boots, he’d said, drawing pungent fumes from his smouldering cauldron. What you need is lots of fresh air and a dog to exercise every morning. There was no further discussion. We looked at each other, aghast. We’re done here, he said. Next!

* * *

The day we rescued a dog from the animal sanctuary changed our home-life forever. It took a quick call and fifteen minutes to register interest and explain our circumstances. Did we have enough space at home? Yes, and we live next to a park. Did we have any small children? No, alas. Could we re-home a dog in seven days? Yes, that’d be perfect. 

Warren Brough, our re-homing manager, visited us within forty-eight hours, and before we knew it, we’d adopted a bull terrier named Bobbie. I admit it wasn’t our first choice of breed, however, the encounter at the dogs’ home was both amusing and unforgettable. Bobbie’s enthusiastic tail wagged like a metronome set to three-hundred beats per minute. How could we resist that package of pure joy or the rough-velvet tongue that licked our astonished faces? Warren emphasised Bobbie’s friendly nature, his unique coat with its brown, beige and white camouflage markings, and the winning smile that went from ear to ear.

Was Bobbie’s arrival a catalyst that changed Danny’s life or did it just coincide with an inexorable sea-change? I’ll never know for sure. Danny’s demeanour changed from the first day they walked round Gunnersbury Park. Bobbie dragged him out of the house every day, which elevated Danny’s spirits, however there was something awry. Between excursions, he’d wander upstairs and drift off into an unresponsive state at his desk. I’d call out to Danny, wait in vain for a response, and discover him in a stupor, listening to whale sounds with Bobbie curled up between his feet. 

If I hear any more ambient music, I’m going to lose it, Danny! 

Don’t be like that, love. I’m just trying to relax.

You need to get a grip. You’re falling apart. 

I’m fine, love, he said. Take it easy. 

Actually, you’re not fine. 

Later, Danny muttered his apologies and claimed he was decluttering his thoughts and experiencing the moment. The reclusive behaviour, he put down to changing his ethos. I’m resetting my mind, he said. Doctor McGregor disclosed Danny had fretted about his missed career opportunities and worried about future employment prospects. I need to destress and accept I’m enough, Danny said. We both need to appreciate that we have enough. Enough is enough, I told him. You need to focus on our relationship before it falls apart. 

* * *

Danny engaged with Doctor McGregor’s exercise regime and it improved his mood. Bobbie would fetch his lead from the shelf by the front door and off they’d trot. As the weeks went by, I noticed their walks extended in duration. In fact, they went for such lengthy walks that I suspected an affair. Maybe dog-walking was a cover story and exercising Bobbie was an excuse for a tryst? I remember scribbling my suspicions in my diary and wrote about an imaginary love-bombing yummy-mummy leading him astray. We’d never had problems we couldn’t discuss with candour, so I reasoned there must be some other explanation. 

 * * *

Danny’s flirtation with mindfulness concerned me more than anything else. I found the idea of living in the moment an alien concept and suspected it was Danny’s way of abdicating responsibility for household chores and utility bills. Rather than pacing around London’s parks, perhaps Danny needed an interest nearer to home? Maybe a venue where I could keep a watchful eye on his antics? My old friend Christie suggested Celia’s yoga and meditation class. You’ve no idea how relaxing it is, she said. You have to try it, darling. 

* * *

A week later, I drove Danny and Bobbie to the Portobello Fitness Centre where they were greeted by their instructor’s hooded eyelids and careworn smile. Celia Palace? Danny asked, clutching Bobbie’s lead. You’re just in time, she said, ushering them inside with a leathery hand and a forearm inscribed with inky-blue symbols from esoteric jungle retreats and pilgrimages to hill top temples shrouded in clouds.

* * *

Celia tied back her thick grey locks and rolled out a couple of mats for them with a mild caveat. We don’t want any distractions this evening, she said, stroking Bobbie’s forehead. Clearing our minds of worldly matters requires a concerted effort. Celia needn’t have worried. Christie told me that Bobbie was a well-behaved and a soothing presence, adored by all. His bright little eyes sparkled as he watched the Lycra-clad students contorting their limbs and pretended to ignore Danny decanting the contents of his fractured mind. 

Jenny said that Danny had coped well with the exercise routine and followed all of Celia’s commands. Her only concern occurred at the end of the cool-down period as everyone listened to the ambient tones rippling over their resting limbs. Danny had closed his eyes as instructed and appeared to lose consciousness. He remained motionless as his fellow pupils departed to Bobbie’s concern. He padded over to Danny after some enthusiastic sniffs, revived him with rough tongue slurps. Wow, said Celia. You’re lucky to have your companion on hand. I was preparing for mouth to mouth back there. I don’t know what happened to me, Danny said. One moment I was awake and then I imagined falling through space and dissolving into a giant supernova. We all originate from exploding stars, she said. It’s all about letting go and allowing your body to reach out for its singularity. That sounds ominous. You’ll understand everything once you’ve been there, Danny. That’s not possible—-? Being there is believing, Danny, she said. But don’t take my word for it. Celia plucked a card from her bum-bag. Call Ellis on this number. What’s an astral projectionist---? Ellis runs an institute for out-of-body experiences. It’s a retreat---? You’ll achieve your singularity and take the ultimate step on the journey to realising transcendental harmony.

* * *

Danny returned from his yoga class in a trancelike state. I couldn’t get a word out of him as we drove home. He plodded upstairs, with Bobbie tiptoeing behind, and flopped down on our mattress. Danny wasn’t floating away from life as much as relinquishing his threadbare moorings. It was like watching an untethered hot-air balloon succumb to a gentle updraught and ascend in silence while its negligent crew remained asleep.

* * *

The next morning, he told me about the retreat Celia had recommended. What do you reckon, love? Well, I don’t fancy it myself, so it’s up to you. It might help me relax. In that case, go. Danny hugged me like a three-year-old child on Christmas Day and said I was very understanding. He couldn’t contain himself and called the institute to plan a weekend break. It was like having the old Danny back again. However, I couldn’t share his enthusiasm. I’d had my fill of ambient tracks and wind-chimes, thank you very much, and I had serious misgivings. In a universe where entropy dictates eventual outcomes, a weekend discovering the art of falling apart didn’t sound like a perfect place to unwind. I wasn’t honest about my feelings, however, I didn’t object. I hoped he'd learn from his mistake, come home to me and forget about his obsession. Of course, now I wished I’d said, No, Danny. Don’t go.

* * *

When I drove Danny and Bobbie to the retreat last week, I never thought I’d return in a panic to collect a box of his belongings and our dejected dog. Ellis, the manager, greeted me at the front gate with a sale-man’s broad smile and proffered a soft, clammy handshake. He invited into his oak panelled office and gestured towards a deep tufted settee, asking if I was thirsty. I requested a black coffee and sank into the antique leather as he perched on his solid oak desk and barked an order into a grey plastic intercom.

Before I forget, he said, holding a chewed-up dog collar and chain at arm’s length. You’ll need this for your delightful bull terrier. He wouldn’t let us touch your husband’s suitcase and went berserk when my assistant picked up his shoes. 

That doesn’t sound like Bobbie. 

I can assure you he put up quite a fight before the vet sedated him. 

That’s all very well I said, frowning as he handed me the leash. But where’s my husband? Where’s Danny now?

Danny isn’t on the premises at the moment. 

On the phone, you said he was missing as if he’d gone for a walk. 

Well, yes, Ellis said, choosing his words. Gone astray is an apt description. 

Dsnny mentioned something about out-of-body practices?

Didn’t he tell you we’re an astral projection institute? 

In that case, where can I find my husband’s body?

It’s not simple to contain an empty body, my dear…

You don’t know, then?

Not exactly, but don’t worry. 

I’m not worried. I didn’t lose him.

I promise you, he’ll wander home. 

You’ve got to be joking, right?

Lost souls have an acute sense of self-preservation…

* * *

I crunched my way across the driveway to our vehicle, carrying a box of Danny’s belongings and the battered suitcase. Ellis muttered vague promises about reporting the incident to the authorities and keeping me in the loop. I still couldn’t believe what he’d told me as his assistant placed Bobbie, asleep in his wicker basket, on the back seat. When the hefty cast-iron gates clanked shut behind me, I imagined there’d be no recourse to a lawyer. What could I say? My husband paid to get lost. I’m sure they’d laugh and say ‘it serves him right’ or ‘he got his money’s worth’.

* * *

The phone didn’t ring and there was no sign of Danny, despite praying for positive news. There was work to do in the house and I distracted myself by giving our home a spring clean. The whole incident was upsetting, and I felt isolated from our friends and remaining family. Christie was beside herself with guilt for suggesting Celia’s class, and Celia was stoic. She shrugged off the outcome. What was meant to be would happen for the best, she said, nodding. That’s helpful, I said, biting my lip. I heard nothing from either Ellis or the authorities as the days trickled past until the following weekend. 

* * *

On the Sunday evening, a week after Danny’s departure, I heard a rattling noise downstairs just after turning in for the night. I clutched my mug of hot chocolate with both hands in the half-light and held my breath. I heard Bobbie’s claws scurry across the floorboards towards the front door. His distinctive whine reminded me he needed a walk first thing, but then I heard his chain rattling as he tossed it back and forth between his jaws. He whined again, then I heard him scratching the front door’s wooden panelling. The poor beast must be imagining things, I thought. Then I heard him scamper across the wooden flooring and leap into the front room below. 

A bead of sweat ran down my cold forehead. 

Silence reigned like a vengeful tyrant.

I strained to hear Bobbie.

All was quiet again.

I placed my drink on the bedside table without a sound and pulled my quilt to one side. Tight-lipped and holding my breath, I swung my legs to one side. My bare feet settled on the carpet and I skulked towards the open bedroom door. Apart from a few canine snuffles, there was no sound coming from the lounge. I assumed Bobbie had found a comfy spot and recovered from his mad moment. I continued my path until I could lean over the banister rail and get a glimpse of him. Sure enough, Bobbie was asleep and curled round Danny’s shoes beside the sofa. However, it wasn’t Bobbie that caused me to catch my breath. Danny was lying on one side in his boxers and his regular breathing suggested a peaceful slumber. He was there all right, but covered in scratches, muddy smears and bruises as if he’d been running blindfold through a forest at night. Other than the obvious superficial marks, he looked no different. Same old Danny. Typical! I thought, listening to him snore. He comes back when all the work’s done…

The End