He stands in my hallway stinking of piss and whisky. The collar of his parka is black, oily from the secretions of his skin. His beard is grey and sparse and alive with lice that crawl all over his chin. He must have let himself in with the key he took with him ten years ago. I never changed the locks.

Flesh sits comfortably on my bones now. My hair is short, and white strands have woven time into my scalp. I have frown lines. He stares at me like he can’t understand how I have changed so much and seems confused by the photo of our son’s graduation that hangs by the stairs. How long does he think he’s been gone?

I snatch his coat from him before he can hang it up and carry it at arm’s length through the kitchen to the utility room at the back of the house with a hand clamped over my mouth and nose, trying not to breath in the stench of ammonia. I empty the pockets. A decade of damp grit clings to everything. He has a little loose change, perhaps enough for a sandwich. Sweet wrappers. A lighter with ‘Blackpool’ printed on it. His empty wallet, fraying at the edges. A crusty pen knife.

As I shove the garment into the washing machine, I notice he has slipped off his shoes and followed me. He removes his jumper and holds it out with both hands. It is so ingrained with filth that I can’t tell what colour it might once have been. I get a black bin bag and hold it open. He hesitates, then drops the soiled fabric into it. He removes the rest of his clothes and drops each scrap in after the jumper. He stands there naked. He is a wraith. Each rib protrudes and his hip bones look like they might cut his skin as it stretches over his bones. Slowly, the smile slips from his face, and he covers his groin with his hands. I double bag his clothes and drop them in the outside bin.

I don’t want him upstairs, but he needs to shower. I lead the way, and he follows like a lamb, leaving a dark smudge on the banister. The bathroom has been refitted twice since he left. It is now a wet room, with glossy brown tiles that make it look like a hotel en-suite. I hand him a flannel and shower gel and soon the steam carries bergamot and lemon around the house.

Most of his belonging went to charity shops, split between ‘Save the Children’ and one for a local hospice. Some clothes were too tatty to give away. I kept them in a holdall on top of the wardrobe, pushed to the back, meaning to cut them into cleaning rags. I pull out a pair of jogging bottoms with a frayed cord and a T-shirt that has greyed in the wash. They will drown him.

Before he left, his favourite dish was shepherd’s pie. I was cooking it when he appeared, using the same recipe as always, adding Worcestershire sauce and topping it with tomato and grated cheese. Forking the top so the peaks of mashed potato catch and crisp in the oven. He always used to take a portion with two slices of tomato and smother it in gravy before saying, ‘That’s perfect Judy love. Just perfect.’

I pull the casserole dish from the oven and fight the urge to smash it on the floor.

***

I set a place for him like a guest, just to my right. The other end of the table seems too far away. On my own, I usually eat from a tray in front of the television in the lounge. I don’t want him making himself at home, sinking into the soft sofa, putting his feet up. Laughing at a sitcom. Having a beer.

Light from the hallway glows as he opens the door. He clutches the top of his trousers, trying to not let them slide down, gathering the fabric into a ball in his fist. He’s cut the mats from his hair and shaved off the beard and lice. He must have used the razor I use for my legs, and I want to say something, tell him not to touch my things without asking, but we are so fragile a sound might tear us apart. And I have no energy for a fight. I just want to get through dinner. After we eat, I’ll deal with the mess he’s left.

I’ve put the entire shepherd’s pie on the table with a jug of instant gravy. He doesn’t know it, but it is a test.

Taking his seat, he shuffles his chair forward, scraping the legs on the slate tiles, smiling at me like a grateful child. He leans over the meat and inhales the warm scent of seasoned lamb, half closing his eyes, shoulders relaxing. His dry, split lips drag into a smile. I think he glances at my empty plate before picking up the serving spoon and carving out a portion with two slices of tomato, letting it splat on his dish. Then he hands the dirty spoon to me and pours the thick gravy over his food. Everything is so hot that steam obscures his face, and I wonder how he doesn’t burn his tongue as he shovels in a forkful and chews with his half-toothed mouth.

“Perfect Judy love. Just perfect.”

BIO:

Jenny Hart is a writer from England and has recently had work published in ‘Frazzled Lit Mag’ and the ‘Cast of Wonders’ podcast. She lives across the road from a cemetery, with her two cats, Jason and Jeff.     

You can follow Jenny on Instagram, Threads and Twitter / X using @JennyHart2001