by C. J. Skuse
‘You laughing at me, bitch?’ says Vanda.
‘No,’ I say, bundling Room 34’s sheets into the bag. ‘Not at all.’
‘You will not laugh at me. I kick you down them fucking stairs.’
‘I’m not laughing at you, Vanda. I’m just happy today, that’s all.’
‘Why?’ she spits. It didn’t know you could spit saying Why.
‘I’m…’ She’s waiting. I feel like she’ll wait all day. ‘I’m in love.’
And it is like a force field around me. She can’t touch me. Nobody can. I’m shielded. That’s what true love is. I can feel it climbing all over me.
Her eyebrow rises. ‘More bullshit, I expect.’
‘No, he’s real and he’s beautiful and he’s mine. His name is Kaden.’
‘What is he, your blow up doll? To match your plastic kid? Don’t think we haven’t always known that’s a doll you carry around. Kimberley says it’s your “human right” to carry around a doll and we had to go along with it. Always too shit-scared of tribunals. I used to feel sorry for you but you’re pathetic. First a plastic baby, now a plastic boyfriend. He got a little inflatable pecker for you to suck too?’
‘He’s real,’ I say again, brushing off the humiliation I feel knowing that they’ve always known about Emily, and removing my phone from my apron. I show her my screensaver. She snatches the phone and looks at the picture. And then laughs.
‘What?’ My heart thumps. It’s like the corridor is getting longer behind them. The lift is getting further away. There’s no way out.
‘You are going out with him? Sabrina? Sabrina, come look…’
Sabrina’s coming out of her service lifts with her cart and leaves it parked outside Room 31, scurrying over to Vanda like an obedient mouse. ‘Ooh, he’s nice.’
‘He’s her new boyfriend,’ says Vanda.
I stand between them, chest clenched tight, going hotter in the face.
Sabrina laughs. ‘Oh, right. He’s the doll’s father, is he?’
I snatch my phone out of her hand. ‘No.’
‘You took that from a staff picture at the gym,’ says Sabrina. ‘I’ve seen him when I take my kids for Little Swimmers.’ She returns to her trolley to rearrange her mints. ‘You were right, Vand. She couldn’t tell the truth if her arse depended on it.’
‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ says Vanda. ‘You sad little girl.’
My heart races. I click off my phone and fumble it back into my apron pocket only I miss and it falls to the carpet. I pick it up and run after her. ‘Vanda, he is my boyfriend now. He lives in the flat upstairs. Last night we kissed.’
She’s looking at me the way you’d look at a chicken to see whether or not it’s defrosted. ‘You lie again. You lie about all things. We know your name not Genevieve.’
I follow her into the service lift with her cart and she presses the button for the Ground Floor. ‘I’m not a liar. I swear.’
‘What’s your real name then?’
‘J-Joanne.’
‘And when that turns out to be bullshit as well, what name will you say then?’
My face could not be more hot. My heart could not be more sore.
‘If you can’t have kids of your own that’s one thing. But to pretend that a dolly is your baby? To have days off work because your dolly has a “bug”?’ She does the speech marks around the word bug and her long red nails scratch the air. But she’s not finished. And when I get back down to the staff office, Madge and Claire have heard about the argument and they start on me as well.
‘The first week you started here, you told us your name was Genevieve Syson. That you knew Meghan Markle at school and you played Olympic hockey. Then Trevor looks at your papers and finds your name is actually Joanne Haynes. Claire heard you at the doughnut shack on the seafront, claiming to be writing a novel. Your fifth novel. So who the bloody hell are you?’
Claire chips in. ‘My husband said he saw you in the dentist’s waiting room the other week, with your stomach all blown out like you were pregnant. And he said you gave your name as Ruth.’
Madge shakes her head. ‘And your hair’s not really that colour. You’ve got red regrowth. How did you expect to get away with so many lies in such a small town?’
‘I don’t know,’ I mumble.
‘Who the hell are you then?’ yells Claire.
‘I don’t know that either.’
Every good thought about Kaden has scurried away like frightened rabbits down deep burrows. I continue cleaning with a silent head, the lights going off in all the little rooms I have built for us to be together. It’s the throwaway manner of their attack that gets me the most: they know I lie and they let me do it. They’re watching me, wherever I go. I can’t be anyone but Joanne Haynes. Whoever she is.
As I clock out and get my coat and bag, I pass all of them in the staff office – Vanda, Trevor, Sabrina, Claire and the concierge, Benito. I’m afforded a brief glance from Benito who nods politely before they continue with their conversation and a trail of sniggering follows me into the bar area. I catch one word: ‘Pathetic.’
I don’t look up as I walk through the restaurant but the noise is overwhelming. It’s a cacophony of barking dogs, screaming children, clattering cutlery and people ordering food. But then I catch a face looking at me from one of the tables in the rotunda. A table for three but it’s a man on his own – straw-coloured hair. A leather bomber jacket draped over the chair opposite. A wallet and keys next to a glass at the table setting beside him.
A straw-haired man looking at a menu. Alone.
Cold electricity shivers up and down my back. It’s him. Laughing Man. He’s found me. He raped and killed Tessa Sharpe and he knows now he got the wrong girl. If he sees me, I’m dead. My red roots are showing. The redness of Ellis, the one he’s looking for. Right then, I have nothing to lose.
Buoyed by the myriad witnesses around me, I march towards his table and I stand there, waiting for him to look up from the menu. Chest pounding. Sweat forming on my forehead. It’s so hot in here. So noisy.
‘Sir?’
He doesn’t hear me at first.
‘SIR?’
‘Uh, yes, I’ll have the salmon terrine and the monkfish to follow. They’ll have the whitebait and two steaks medium rare, thanks.’
‘NO.’
He puts down the menu, takes a slow glance upwards. He doesn’t seem to twig. Gesturing towards the two empty spaces he says, ‘They’re on a nicotine break.’
We lock eyes – his are craggy and lined. I know that face. I know him from TV. And then my anger tips over into something else. A feeling I don’t recognise right then.
He frowns. ‘Sorry, what’s going on?’ And I’m about to open my mouth when he sort of jumps in realisation. ‘Oh, I thought you were a waitress.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver pen. He clicks it on and holds out his hand. ‘My apologies. What did you want me to sign, my lovely?’
I don’t understand at all. ‘Stop following me,’ I tell him.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Stop following me, leave me alone or I will call the police.’
‘What on earth?’ He’s looking around for someone, anyone.
A member of staff scurries over to our table in a black suit and white blouse. Kimberley Forbes, General Manager, brown ponytail sharp to a point down her back. ‘Is everything alright for you, Mr Whittle?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ he says, with a frown and a wry laugh. That laugh. ‘This lady thinks I’ve been following her.’ Tears fall down my cheeks.
Kimberley looks at me with daggers in her eyes. ‘Genevieve, what’s going on?’
The two men – the brunette without the bomber jacket and The Tank return on a waft of cigarettes and stand behind the straw-haired man. ‘Everything alright?’ says the brunette.
‘Yes, this young lady thinks I’ve been following her.’
‘You’ve ALL been following me,’ I cry and it’s onl
y then I realise I’m crying. Proper tears down both cheeks. ‘I’m not afraid any more. You want to kill me, you do it here, where there’s witnesses. I can’t run anymore. I can’t do it.’
And I collapse. I’m on the floor in the middle of the rotunda, surrounded by metal chair legs and crumbs and squashed chips and napkins. There’s a commotion above me and someone grabs me under my arms and drags me to my feet. I’m screaming. It’s a wail. It’s pain in vocal form. I can still hear that laugh ringing out.
‘Come on, ’adda girl, let’s get you home.’
I don’t realise who’s talking until I’m outside, sobbing to the point of water blindness, and being walked across the front lawns of the hotel.
‘Trevor, let go of me. I want them to kill me.’
‘What are you talking about? Are you off your meds or something? Why on earth would you think Ken Whittle would want to kill you?’
‘Ken who?’
‘Ken Whittle. The comedian. On at the Winter Gardens all month. Look.’
I follow his pointed finger towards a telegraph pole on the pavement.
Ken Whittle Live! Cockney funny man back with his sell-out one man show!
Please note: Snowflakes will melt.
There’s a picture above the writing of Ken Whittle giving two thumbs up and wearing a white Fedora and a few coats of fake tan.
‘He wasn’t wearing all that fake tan in the restaurant.’
‘Yeah well he’s not on stage tonight, is he?’ says Trevor, hands on his hips. ‘Bloody hell. What’s going on with you?’
‘Who were those other men?’
‘His manager and bodyguard, I think. Who’d you think they were?’
‘The Three Little Pigs.’
‘There’s no pigs here, love.’ I look at Trevor and I know that face – alarm. Pure alarm. He thinks I’m crackers. I want to tell him I’m not but how can I? When everything I do or say supports the fact that I am?
‘I heard that laugh,’ I mumble. ‘I heard it as I was lying there. They chained me up. And they killed my dad—’
And it all comes flooding back. The laugh rang out as they placed me down on the stretcher. He was a big star then, eighteen years ago. Ken Whittle’s Superstar Roadshow. Ken Whittle’s Comedy Hour. I remember them. He’d been there alright – in the corner when my dad was dying. He’d been laughing his head off.
On the TV.
‘Is there anyone I can call for you, Joanne? Anyone who can come and pick you up? I don’t think you should be on your own.’
‘No,’ I answer. And it’s the truth.
Trevor disappears, leaving me for five whole minutes on my knees on the pavement, staring at the Ken Whittle poster. He returns with my coat and bag. ‘Here you go, kid.’ He helps me stand up and into my coat and puts the bag over my head and across my body so it’s safe. He buttons me up, like Dad used to. ‘You take it easy, okay?’
I walk with no direction, buffered by the wind. I stare out towards the wetlands and the pier beyond. I wish I had the courage to walk out into the sea. To drown myself, or whoever the hell this person is meant to be. I HATE Joanne Haynes. I don’t want this to be my life. I’m an actress in a TV show that never ends. I need someone to pull me back. I’m not strong enough on my own anymore. I need Kaden.
11
I walk and walk until I find him – in Training Room 3. He’s tidying away the crash mats after his Fight Klub class.
‘Hey,’ he smiles, locking up the storage room. ‘I thought you were going to come along tonight?’
‘Didn’t feel like it.’
‘Oh, okay. I was going to show you some self-defence moves, wasn’t I?’
‘Yeah. But it’s alright. You don’t have to. I just wanted to see you.’
He smiles at me kindly. It’s all I need.
‘Stay there,’ he says, marching to the storage room he’s just locked and retrieving one large blue crash mat. He brings it to the middle of the floor.
‘Okay, on the mat.’
‘Huh?’
‘On the mat. I’m going to show you what to do if you’re pinned to the floor.’
I can’t think of an argument so I do as he asks. I lie down flat on the mat.
‘No, I meant stand on the mat.’
I stand up. He stands in front of me. Sweat trickles slowly and silently down his face, the whole way, under his chin. Down into the pool of his neck.
‘Okay,’ he says, placing his hands loosely but hotly around my neck. ‘So say I’ve come to your door and I’ve got my hands around you like this. What do you do?’
Kiss you, is my first thought but I snap out pretty quick and say, ‘Scream?’
‘Screaming’s good,’ he says, much to my surprise. His hands are still there on my skin. ‘Anything to set a boundary is good. How do you get out of the hold?’
‘Smack your arms away?’
‘Go on then.’ I try and smack his arms but they won’t move. I yank and tug and pull but he’s too strong. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’re too strong for me.’
‘Right. And he will be too. So what you’re gonna do is bring the tension into your neck to loosen the grip, bow slightly forwards and then duck straight backwards out of it. Try it.’
And I do, though I get it wrong on the first few tries but then I’ve got it. There’s no real note of congratulation in his voice though. He says ‘Good job’ like he would to all his other personal training clients, I guess.
‘Okay, next one – say you’re walking along the street at night and you don’t see or hear me coming. First thing you know, my arm is around your neck like this.’
And he does it. He comes up behind me and his arm is around my neck so my chin is in his elbow crease. I can smell his sweat now. It’s all I can do to not stick my tongue in it.
‘He’s trying to drag you away, what are you going to do?’
‘Scream again?’
‘Can’t scream, my arm’s constricting your throat. Come on, I’m dragging you to the bushes, what you gonna do?’
I yank at his arm but it gets tighter around me. I can’t breathe. I yank harder.
‘Step forward on the strong leg, back out away from me, away from the choke, slip that shoulder and push me away.’
He talks me through it a few times until I do it perfectly. Another ‘Good job’.
‘What about if he’s pushed me down?’ I say. ‘What do I do then?’
‘On the floor?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’ I lie down flat on the mat. ‘What if I’m lying down on my back and he’s on top of me? Pinning me down?’
Kaden stands there for a second, looking around. ‘Okay, so if you’ve shouted at the guy and pushed him away and you’ve got out of the choke but he’s somehow managed to push you down, then he’s going to try and overpower you on the floor.’
‘Right,’ I say, breathless.
‘I’m going to walk you through it, okay? If you feel uncomfortable at any point, yell “STOP” and I’ll jump right off.’
‘Right,’ I say again.
‘Okay, knees up with feet flat on the mat.’ I do as he says. And then he mounts me, his thighs either side of my stomach, towering above me. But I’m not scared. Because it’s him. Because he’s warned me.
‘So I’m going to show you what to do if you’re ever attacked to the point where you’re on your back and you feel like there’s no way out. We’re gonna show that bastard what you can do, alright?’ He winks at me, like the doughnut man winks at me but with Kaden I’m absolutely powerless over my body as a result.
‘Okay,’ comes my breathy reply. If I squint I can imagine he’s wearing chain mail and holding a large jousting stick at his side – my Saturday Knight, defending me against enemies who’ve stormed the castle.
‘Right, so everybody in this situation thinks the right thing to do is punch the guy in the nuts, but what happens then?’
‘I don’t know.’ All rational thought has left me. What if hi
s winky brushes up against me. What will I do?
‘You’re in shock because you’re not expecting this, but I’m pumping with adrenaline so I’m going to be ready for it, and I’m going to hit you back, probably knock you unconscious and then you’ve had it, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So what you’ll need to do is get your elbows nice and firm by your ribs to lock your position. Get your right hand over to my left wrist and grip it tight. Get the left hand on my tricep so my arm can’t move. Elbows in, let your back do the work.’
I do as he says until we’re tangled together in a Twister knot of arms and legs and in one swift movement I’ve pushed him off me with my hips and wrestled him over onto his back. I’m free. I’m the one on top of him. Straddling him. Wanting to kiss him.
‘Now you can do what you need to,’ he says. ‘You’re the one in charge. Good job, Joanne. Well done.’ He wriggles free and sits up beside me. He then tells me about all the Last Resort tactics I can try. And even though he’s sitting there talking about how to head-butt without causing myself too much injury, eye-gouging, stabbing with keys, jaw-breaking, temple-punching, chinning and kidney kicks, it’s wonderful. So romantic in a really unromantic way.
He checks his watch. ‘Do you want to go through anything again?’
‘No,’ I say, catching my breath. ‘I want to kiss you again.’
But as I lean forward, he rears away. ‘No, sorry. We can’t do that again.’
It’s sucked the life-force from me. It hurts all over, this rejection. His baulking away, like I’m disgusting all of a sudden. ‘We did last night. Is it cos I’m all bruised today? But that’ll go.’
‘I know but—’
‘Is it cos we’re at your work? Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Has Vanda got to you?’
‘Who’s Vanda?’
‘Russian woman, blonde hair. Absolute ogre.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Vanda. Joanne, we can’t do that anymore. I’m sorry. I just thought you wanted to know some self-defence moves.’
‘You kissed me last night. You said you thought you were falling for me?’
And I do hear myself, so desperate. And I know it’s so needy and weak and there’s no sign of Feminist Frida anywhere in sight, but right then I’m so confused and disorientated. It’s like he’s a different person today. ‘Did I dream that?’