Blasted Things

by Lesley Glaister

  Once he’s gone Vince pisses in the bucket then, rolled up in the blanket, lies back on the bench, pressing his itching head against the hardness of the wall. Swing for it. The words shoot through him . . . yet if he offers no defence, it’ll happen. And he won’t have to think. No more thinking. It’s like a weight lifting if he can see past it, past the actual moment . . . The weight of his life, money, face, work, love. It’s all too bloody hard.

  After

  39

  November 1920

  FLAT ON HIS back on his bench, Vince watches the glass grille of his cell. The condemned cell. Pete and Bob arrived a while ago to take over from the night shift. Two men watching him twenty-four hours a day in case he tries to top himself. Waste of bleeding time that is. Why not let him, and save themselves the bother?

  Apart from the lack of privacy, can’t grumble. Since the sentence they’ve treated him like royalty – if royalty was banged up in a cell, as royalty sometimes was back in the day. Warm blankets and a proper pillow, food worth eating, even a paper now and then. Bob’s the only one of the lot of them he really gets along with. They look at the horses together, study the form, gas about the football and the state of the world: the strikes, unemployment, poverty, the massive fucking mess of the country after all the bright hopes. Touch on nothing personal though, beyond a swap of war stories. Bob sent home after the first Somme, gas damage to his lungs, and true enough he does wheeze like a bloody great steam organ starting up.

  When they’re chatting Vince sometimes forgets where he is and what he’s waiting for. Sometimes, flat out, staring at the changing squares of light, he imagines he’s free; at a race say, listening to the drum of hooves, with all the lucky sods out there – a few quid in their pockets, a girl on their arm dolled up for the day, or the prospect of finding one, a good cold pint of ale.

  But at least he doesn’t have it weighing on him any more: the rest of his life. He never needs to earn another penny. Like flaming royalty!

  ‘Can you vanish yourself?’ that little girl asked in the hotel. And so did Kenny. All his tricks: the floating handkerchief, flying thimble and the rest. When he was a nipper he made himself a vanisher out of a biscuit tin with a secret compartment to disappear all manner of objects into. Always put on a show of a Christmas afternoon, mystified his mum and dad. Once he was invited to a kiddies’ party to do his conjuring, but one saw straight through the trick, made him a laughing stock. Still, what he wouldn’t do for a vanisher now, a bloody great vanisher, to step right into.

  There’s a bang on the door and Bob opens it to bring in his tray: a rasher of bacon, hunk of bread, tea, a couple of fags.

  ‘Get that down you.’ He puts the tray on the bench.

  ‘Last breakfast,’ Vincent says.

  Bob blanches. ‘Now, now, son. Light?’ Vince leans towards the flame and draws down the smoke. This time tomorrow he won’t be smoking.

  ‘Guvnor says any last requests? Within reason, of course.’

  Vince has been ready for this question and there’s only the one thing he wants. ‘Mrs Pepper . . . I’d like to see Doll.’ His voice goes croaky on her name.

  ‘She said no before,’ Bob points out.

  And it’s true, but this is different, surely? This is his last whole day; it isn’t possible to take it in, not really. His live mind can’t imagine being dead. How can he really believe that they’ll take him from the cell and hang him by the neck?

  ‘Try,’ he says, drawing so hard on the cigarette he can see it shrivel. Slow down, slow down. He sips the tea.

  ‘You could have a drink,’ Bob says. ‘Whisky? Pint? Bit of beefsteak? Saucy mag? Or is there anyone else, any family?’

  ‘Only Doll,’ Vince says. ‘See, if I could make my peace with her, then . . .’

  Bob sighs wheezily. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He goes to the door and summons another screw, gives him the message.

  Later, Vince is taken for a handcuffed walk along dim corridors to a small room where the prison doctor is to check him over.

  ‘Waste of bleeding time,’ Vince says, trying to keep it light. He looks at Bob, but his eyes are on his boots and no one’s smiling. The doctor’s short, neck pudgy and chafed against his wing collar, eyes bloodshot. He’s in worse shape than Vince, that’s for sure. Bob stands beside the door, silent and switched off, and a spotty assistant with bum fluff on his chin stands to attention beside the desk.

  ‘Lift your shirt,’ says the doctor, and when Vince does so, presses the cold metal of his stethoscope against his chest. ‘Deep breath.’

  When he’s finished he scribbles a note.

  ‘Fighting fit, am I?’ Vince says.

  ‘Step against the chart now. Evans . . .’

  The assistant steps forward and ushers Vince back against the wall, and he feels something touch the crown of his head. ‘Five foot eleven and nine-twelfths,’ Evans says. And the doctor writes this down. ‘Please step on the scales now. We’ll have that, if you please.’ He holds out his hand for the prosthesis.

  Vince freezes.

  ‘We need the weight exact.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Rules is rules. Wigs, specs, wooden legs, everything extraneous off.’ His palm remains outstretched. ‘And you hardly need it now, do you?’

  That he might lose his face has not occurred to Vince. He pinches the arms of the specs between his fingers. ‘No . . . please,’ he says. What if Doll says yes? What if she turns up? He couldn’t face her without it – how could he? ‘Please,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll get it off him,’ Evans says, taking a step forward, but the doctor shakes his head.

  ‘But you can’t wear it for . . .’ The doctor pauses.

  Vince stares at him.

  ‘There’s a hood,’ the doctor explains. ‘It won’t make a difference, on or off. Your face will be hidden.’

  ‘All right, but . . .’ Vince cannot let go of the arms of the specs, the thin metal biting his fingers; the rest of him has gone cold and rigid as metal too. ‘Let me keep it till then. Please.’

  The doctor harrumphs, shrugs, makes up his mind. ‘Can’t weigh more than a couple of ounces. I’ll calculate. Step on the scales.’

  Feeling a plunge inside, Vince hesitates, as if the scales themselves are dangerous.

  ‘Look lively,’ the doctor says, and Evans nudges Vince towards the steel contraption. He takes a breath as he steps up. It rattles and the needle flickers, eventually settles. ‘Ten stone, five pounds and three-eighths of an ounce,’ says Evans, and the doctor writes it down.

  ‘To calculate the drop,’ Evans says helpfully.

  ‘Now, now, Evans, no need for that,’ the doctor says. He looks, for the first time, into Vince’s face as if he is still a live human being. ‘We do want it all to go smoothly, you understand. Best for all parties concerned.’

  Vince steps off the scales and the rattling starts again. He turns and sees the needle settle back on zero. The drop.

  ‘Finished here,’ the doctor says to Bob, who’s been standing silently beside the door. ‘You can keep it till the end,’ he says to Vince, indicating the same area of his face. ‘I’ll have a word with the governor.’ He extends his hand. ‘Goodbye,’ he says.

  ‘Ta,’ Vince says and lets the doctor shake his hand; this little man looking up at him, a little man who can go out into whatever weather is happening outside and home to his missus no doubt. His hand is small and damp. One of the last hands I’ll touch, thinks Vince. None of this seems real. The doctor will see him tomorrow, see him afterwards, certify him dead. Rum old job, listening to a man’s chest one day, shaking his hand; certifying his death the next, ticking a box on a form. You must have to have a heart like bloody granite.

  Cuffing him, Bob takes him back to the cell. When he’s back in his cell Vince lies down, staring at the ceiling. God, bring Doll, he pleads silently. Please, God, bring Doll, please, God, make her come.

  After months of doing next to nothing there’s no blood
y peace today. First off, the chaplain arrives and tries to get him to pray, but he can’t pray, can’t even make a show of it. This bloke is young, feels sorry for Vince, and he can’t have that: someone not long out of short trousers pitying him, too young even to have served, all gawky limbs and startled eyes, like some kind of animal, a hare or fawn. Bob and Pete sit at their bench pretending to mind their own business. What a job, sitting on their arses all day. No job for a real man.

  ‘No, ta,’ says Vince. ‘Not a believer.’

  ‘But you’ll find, Mr Fortune, prayer to be the greatest comfort in this, your hour of need.’

  ‘Just get my girl to visit,’ he says. ‘That’s all the comfort I want. Just put in a word, will you, with the governor, or go higher up if you need to?’ He indicates heaven with his eyes and finds a laugh – or something like a laugh – burbling out, and it’s a rum old feeling after such a time.

  The chaplain shakes his head. He’s clutching a Bible, looks crestfallen. ‘I’ll see what I can do. If you change your mind, I can be summoned right up to the last’ – he hesitates, flushes – ‘the last . . .’

  ‘Moment?’ Vince supplies. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘God bless,’ the chaplain says, taking Vince’s hand and bowing his head in a moment of silent prayer before he’s let out of the cell. Vince imagines him bolting off down the corridor. He’ll be there tomorrow, waiting for a change of heart, praying for Vince, if not actually with him. Well, perhaps that’s some sort of comfort.

  In the afternoon there’s a knock on the door, another screw comes in and Bob leaves, saying nothing. Surely he wouldn’t go off without saying goodbye? His shift ends soon; the other two will be here, the ones who barely say a word, even to each other. Surely Bob wouldn’t leave like that? He’s a pal, the last pal Vince’s likely to have; the thought is shrivelling. Maybe he should have gone along with Mr Barry. Is it too late now? He could ask . . . but the thought of it makes him tired. What would face him if he did get off? Years banged up? And if not, turfed straight out into the world where no one wants him, job prospects zero, chance of love the same. He’d probably end up topping himself anyway, might as well get it done for free.

  When Bob returns there’s a grin on his face. ‘Well, surprise, surprise,’ he says.

  He can’t take it in at first. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Blimey!’ Bob raises his eyebrows at Pete, who snorts. ‘Who do you think? The Queen of bleeding Sheba?’

  Vince stares.

  ‘Mrs Pepper,’ Bob confirms.

  All the air’s squeezed out of Vince’s lungs; can’t catch his breath.

  ‘She’s waiting,’ Bob says. ‘Ten minutes you’ve got. No touching. No funny business, or visit curtailed pronto. Got that?’

  Vince can’t speak.

  ‘Got that?’ Bob repeats.

  Vince nods. Bob cuffs him and raps on the door for it to be unlocked. The awkward jerky walk, can’t get in step with Bob, heart beating right up in his bloody throat. Months since he’s seen her, not since that last day in court when the judge set the black square on his wig and sentenced him to death. It was all so solemn, like a play, and it seemed nothing to do with him at all. He’d wanted the reassurance of catching Doll’s eye but her face stayed turned away, hidden by the brim of her hat. And now she’s come to see him! She would, of course she would, big-hearted Doll, of course she bloody would.

  She’s already sitting at the table when Bob uncuffs him. She’s wearing her best alpaca suit – green, a little shiny, hideous, really, the one she wore to give her evidence in court – and a dark hat that does nothing for her. Looks like she’s put on weight and her cheeks are rouged too bright – but, still, it’s her, it’s her. She’s only gone and come!

  Bob stands against the wall; the other screw lurks with a face like a wet weekend – well, don’t look at his face, look at Doll’s.

  She doesn’t lift her eyes till he’s sitting opposite. Three foot of wooden table between them and, oh, how he yearns to touch her. Words aren’t coming and there’s only ten minutes. Christ, he can smell her, the mothball smell of her suit, a trace of L’Heure Bleue. That’ll still be the same bottle; she ekes it out, dabs a bit in her elbow creases, on her wrists, behind her ears, only on special occasions. Pulse points she calls them. It’s an honour that she’s put it on today, for him.

  ‘Well,’ she says at last. ‘How are you, Vince?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he says. ‘Well looked after, grub and that.’

  She nods. ‘Well, that’s good.’

  There’s no clock but still he can hear the seconds ticking away.

  ‘It’s good of you to come,’ he says.

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she says, ‘but then I thought, well, Doll, you might be sorry tomorrow if you don’t.’ She looks aghast at herself for saying, he supposes, ‘tomorrow’.

  ‘I wanted to tell you, Doll . . . I wanted to say . . . thank you . . . and I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need, dear.’

  ‘And I wanted to say . . .’ He steels himself; this is the only chance he’ll get. ‘I wanted to say how I’ve loved you.’ He darts a look at the guards but neither alters his expression.

  She adjusts the rim of her awful hat. There’s the creak of Bob’s boot as he shifts, and from far away the slamming of a door.

  ‘What’s it like out there?’ he says.

  ‘Drizzle,’ she says. ‘Leaves coming off all over the shop.’

  ‘Well, it’s that time of year.’

  They lapse into silence. He stares at her face, drinking in the heavy, smudgy lids, the eyes with their smile lines all round though she’s not smiling now, her soft cheeks. It’s murder to be so near and not be able to touch.

  ‘How’s Kenny?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s fine, dear.’

  ‘Getting on all right at school?’

  She nods and clears her throat. Vince can sense Bob shifting, impatient for them, he shouldn’t wonder. As if he’s read Vince’s mind Bob says, ‘Five minutes, Mrs Pepper, then I shall have to remove the prisoner.’

  Doll looks up at Vince, for the first time really looks at him. ‘I shan’t open up tomorrow,’ she says quickly.

  Something inside Vince lurches – the drop, the thought of that drop.

  ‘That’s good of you, Doll,’ he says. ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘Out of respect.’

  ‘Good of you.’

  ‘I had to tell the truth, dear,’ she says, leaning towards him, a plea in her eyes. She wants to be forgiven.

  ‘Course you did,’ he says.

  She’s fiddling with her buttons. He hears her stomach gurgle. She always had a noisy tum; he remembers the warmth of it, the luxury of her big soft body in the bed. That was true, those times – not many, but more than once, she gave herself to him, and no one can say that’s not true.

  ‘How’s business been?’ he says, despairing. He doesn’t care about the fucking business, but gratefully she tells him about the pub, how customers flocked in after the accident – bless her kind heart for calling it an accident – to have a good gawp at the place, but now it’s levelled off.

  ‘Time to say your farewells,’ said Bob. ‘Got to stick to timings, governor’s orders.’

  ‘Would you have married me?’ Vince says quickly. ‘If it wasn’t for . . . everything.’

  She presses her lips together. Lie, he wills her, lie. But there’s a fight going on inside her between kindness and truth, he can see it, and truth wins – of course it does, she’s honest to a fault.

  ‘I told you before, dear, I’ll not be tying the knot again. Why should I?’

  ‘Would you have married Ted?’ he says childishly, feels Bob’s attention sharpen.

  ‘Come on now,’ he says. ‘Time for fond farewells.’

  But Doll ignores him, snorts and shakes her head. ‘Not in a million years! What do you take me for?’ She laughs, herself at last, if just
for a moment, and relief flows through him. ‘I always said I’ve got my own business, my Kenny, why should I want to tie myself to a man?’

  ‘Love?’ he says.

  Bob has stepped behind him, clears his throat.

  She wrinkles her nose and her eyes go soft. ‘I only loved the once, you know that. I married him, he died fighting for his country. No one could ever fill his shoes.’ She tilts her head and smiles. ‘It’s nice of you to say you loved me though, dear. A bit of love never goes amiss, does it?’

  ‘Time’s up,’ says Bob. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pepper. Someone will come for you presently. Please wait here.’

  ‘But I did have a soft spot for you, dear – you do know that, don’t you?’

  Vince stands, and before he can be stopped he leans across the table and grasps Doll’s head, her hat between his hands, and pulls her towards him, kisses her hard on the mouth. And they grab him – of course they do – wrestle his arms behind him, cuff him; and all the time she watches, her open mouth a blur now, and he’s taken away, and on his lips a taste of her lipstick and on his hands something sticky. She must’ve touched up her hat with that black stuff from the chemist’s, she must’ve touched up her hat specially for him.

  All the clocks in their various places strike five, then six, then seven. She pretends to sleep as Dennis gets out of bed, yawns and stretches, slides and creaks into his clothes and goes downstairs humming. Humming. But, of course, he doesn’t know what day it is, is not aware.

  And what will he be doing now? Vincent. She should have gone to see him. But it was impossible. How would it have seemed? And to get herself involved at this stage would have been foolish, if not dangerous. But she does wish Vincent knew about the child. It might be a comfort for him – or perhaps quite the reverse.

  And in any case it could be Dennis’s baby, it could be. To all intents and purposes, it will be.

  As soon as he’s safely downstairs she gets up and pulls on her dressing gown, catching sight of her silhouette in the dressing-table mirror, the marvellous mound of her growing belly.