Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  The young man looked around at the bar stool where the woman had been sitting, and, not seeing her, checked out the floor. Well, how about that. Lying on her side, she was making a comical kind of an effort to get to her feet, reaching into the air for something to grab a hold of. All three men looked down at her curiously, as if wondering who she was and what the fuck she was doing down there, for Chrissakes, but none of them moved to give her a hand.

  ‘My girlfriend?’ the young man said, rocking and rolling on his Blundstones. ‘Wha’ ya fuckin’ talkin’ abou’, fella? Tha’ fuckin’ scrag?’

  ‘She’s with you, isn’t she? She came in with you and she’s been drinking with you.’

  The man just shrugged, spilling some beer, and gave the barman a bemused, red-eyed stare. ‘Beats me, blue. You’re the fuckin’ boss, right.’

  One of his mates, a skinny, narrow-eyed customer with a hawk’s nose and wild hair, said, ‘She’s not havin’ another one o’ those, anyway, at four-fifty a fuckin’ pop. Fuck her, she can drink beer, and buy her fuckin’ own.’ The third man, who was an African or West Indian, around a hundred and twenty kilos’ worth with skin the colour of polished anthracite, informed the barman in a pissed, sing-song voice: ‘Tha’s his cunt, mon. His cooze. No’ his fuckin’ girlfriend, oh, nooo. He keeps tha’ one chained up a’ home in the fuckin’ shed, mon.’

  ‘Tha’s me fuckin’ dog, you fuckin’ rabid black cunt,’ came the amiable reply.

  ‘Whassa fuckin’ difference, mon,’ the black man howled back. They screamed and hooted and draped their arms around each other and launched into a song about a village harlot who had a cunt in the middle of her forehead and who had her brains fucked out every night by the local lads, and so on. That just broke them right up. They laughed so hard they would have fallen over except they were interlocked and supporting each other like a rugby scrum. Beer flew all over the place. Then they crashed against the bar as one, making the whole room rock, raising dust and grit from the carpet and dragging down the bar towel and whatever was on it. Patrons moved well away or vamoosed altogether. Like all such hooligan gangs these men had a natural ability to control the action wherever they were and to make plenty of space around themselves. They were all as blind drunk as they were entitled to be after a full day on the sauce, and in the confusion none of them noticed the barman putting in a quick call. Meantime, the woman on the floor made a huge, last try at getting up by grabbing a bar stool, which came crashing down on top of her. Bystanders made no attempt to interfere. No-one saw it happen except one man, drinking alone by the fireplace, who looked up from his form guide and chuckled, shaking his head. No-one else wanted to know. Finally she clawed her way up the bar, scrambled to her feet and lurched blindly away in the direction of the lavatories, bouncing from table to table like a human pinball.

  While she was gone a race started on Sky Channel, and when the horses made the turn down the home straight the three men roared and swore and punched the air, drowning out the commentary. ‘Ooh, you fuckin’ pussy! You fuckin’ weak cunt!’ the black man screamed at one of the horses coming in well behind the placegetters. Then he hurled his drink at the screen. The beer glass smashed, spraying drink all over the monitor but otherwise – miraculously – leaving it undamaged.

  And that was about when the two cops walked in.

  The hotel’s outside lavatories were reached via a covered breezeway of green fibreglass over a concrete path that ran alongside the building, in the style of many old pubs. There was no evidence of money having been spent here for many a year. Except for the introduction of gambling in the public bar, the Star of the Morning had wholly bypassed the renovation boom of the eighties and nineties. Even the restaurant, tucked away in the back, behind the saloon bar, was like a musty old guesthouse dining room from the fifties, in which patrons felt compelled to speak in hushed voices and nod, smiling, to strangers at adjoining tables. In the breezeway there were large plastic bins overflowing with kitchen rubbish next to a ratty flywire door, a rank gully trap, firewood stacked by the wall and, past the red-brick outhouses, a sort of beer garden containing rampant bamboo, some old wrought iron furniture, a family of tortoiseshell cats dozing and lolling in the spring sunshine and a retractable clothesline on which flapped skimpy knickers, pantyhose and men’s yellowed, baggy underpants.

  When Robert Curlewis came out of the men’s the last thing on his mind was someone else’s problems. Robert had had a bad bug in his system for some time now, the symptoms of which were hot and cold sweats, cramps, waves of nausea and bowel movements that consisted of thin jet streams of brown liquid. He put this down to every aspect of his life, which was rapidly falling in a heap. Robert knew he was going down for the count, but didn’t care. In fact, he warmly embraced the idea. Who gives a monkey’s toss was the credo close to his heart these days. Apart from the physical pain and discomfort involved he felt perversely vindicated, even triumphant, at the prospect of a sticky end – being found dead in a dirty lane, or in his flat, or in a pub lavatory. What a comedown. That would show the bastards.

  So, with his belly still aching from an attack of the runs, he wasn’t impressed at the sight of a young woman slumped against the wall of the breezeway, leaning on her forearm with her back to him. But since he had to go past her he could hardly ignore her, so he said, ‘You all right, love?’

  She didn’t answer. Well, it was a dumb question, but what else could Robert say? Great day, babe. The woman’s back shook violently. She was not so much breathing as heaving, and there was the thick, wet sound of sobs and a coughing that sounded like vomiting. He made to walk on, thinking, Sure is a shitty world, darling, best of British, then hesitated for some obscure reason. Perhaps the fact that there was no-one else around sparked in him a tiny flame of compassion for someone who was obviously a fellow reject. On the other hand it may simply have been that she was a helpless young female flung in his path by chance that gave him pause and made him mildly inquisitive. He looked more closely. Curtains of long brown hair concealed the sides of her face. She wore a summer cotton dress of lemony floral design and cheap white sandals that were cracked and scuffed.

  Robert said, ‘Can I help you at all?’ and that drew a shake of the head.

  ‘Hey. Come on. Can’t stay here, can you. Have you got friends inside?’ Having been drinking in the saloon bar prior to his urgent and prolonged visit to the lavatory, he was not aware of the tumultuous scenes that had followed her departure from the public bar.

  She turned around then, showing him her face. Not a pretty sight. That is to say, he couldn’t tell if she was pretty or not, so spoiled and distorted were her features by drunkenness, bruising, tears, bubbly mucus and a thickish fluid the colour of caramel which she had wiped over her chin and cheeks, and which was plastered on her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them wide and tried to focus on Robert, but her head would not stay still.

  ‘I arn’ go’ no friends,’ she mumbled, sniffing and sliding down the wall. Robert grabbed her arms, hauling her back up. She wobbled. Was this bird smashed up bad or what.

  ‘Well … where do you live?’

  No reply.

  ‘Have you got a name? What’s your name, love?’

  Nothing. The head swayed and drooped forward, festooned with lank bunches of hair.

  Holding her, Robert could feel her legs trembling, wanting to give out. And by now, having intervened to this extent, he knew he couldn’t just walk away.

  Fuck.

  Drawing breath, he slung one of her arms around his neck, gripped her around the waist and headed down the path, into the public bar. Someone there must know her.

  When he got through the door the first thing he saw was wreckage. The second was the barman, whose face had been suffused by rage into a deep purple. He righted a stool and shot Robert a foul look, and Robert knew he had managed to land himself in deep strife.

  ‘I found her out the back,’ he said. ‘Is she with anyone?’

&
nbsp; ‘They’re fuckin’ gone,’ the barman said, ‘and so is she. Get her out!’

  Robert looked around the bar. Patrons stared at him as they would a rat or some other form of low-life.

  ‘I’m just trying to help,’ he said. ‘I’m not with her, or anyone.’

  ‘Then help her out! They’re fuckin’ barred, and so is she! You’re all fuckin’ barred, you mongrels. Now move it, shithead!’

  Robert couldn’t believe this was happening. What had he blundered into? There’d obviously been a major disturbance, but he hadn’t been a part of it or done anything except play the good Samaritan. Yet the general feeling in the room was so powerfully against him that he actually felt guilty.

  ‘Can you at least phone a cab,’ he said reasonably.

  ‘Phone a cab? I’ll phone the fuckin’ cops again, arsehole.’ He went back behind the bar and started jabbing numbers, making the phone bounce with each stab of his finger.

  ‘All right, all right.’

  Robert pushed open the door, and they stumbled out into the bright spring sunshine. A few moments later the door opened again and a handbag was thrown out into the gutter.

  Shit. Now what?

  The first thing he did was sit her on the footpath with her back against the pub wall. Then he retrieved the bag. After that he got her upright again and looked for a cab to flag down. Soon enough one came. When it stopped, he opened the front door and said, ‘I don’t know where she lives, but there’s probably an address in the bag. Can you hang on a minute?’

  ‘No way, pal,’ the cabbie said. ‘No fuckin’ way. She’s all yours. Good luck.’ Then he burned rubber.

  Robert said, ‘Thank you so much. Catch something terminal soon. A brain tumour would be nice,’ at the rapidly disappearing car, then sat next to the woman and began picking through her possessions. There had to be a licence, or some fucking thing.

  There wasn’t. No money, either.

  ‘Hey,’ he said to her, very quietly. ‘What’s your name?’

  The face was slumped onto her chest. He brought it gently up and repeated, ‘Your name. You must have a name.’ Her head lolled as loosely as if her neck was broken.

  ‘Flo’ence,’ she murmured, as in a dream.

  ‘Florence. Right.’ Shit, there’s a start. ‘And where do you live, Florence? Florence?’ No dice.

  ‘Listen to me. The cab driver has to know where to take you. Do you understand?’ But she’d gone again. All right, you silly bitch. I’ll just leave you here.

  He pulled out a cigarette and smoked it, thinking the problem through. What were his options? One, he could do just that, walk away. Who could blame him? Who’d fuckin’ know? Florence sure wouldn’t, anyhow. Two …

  The barman reappeared, bursting through the door and looking as if he was going to kick Robert. ‘Go on, clear off!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t hang around here stinking the place up! Get going, you scum!’ Then he went back inside, swearing. Robert flicked the cigarette onto the road and rubbed his face.

  Two, he could take her home.

  Oh, shit and derision. Talk about the blind leading the fucking blind.

  It should have taken Robert fifteen minutes or so to reach his Richmond flat from the Star of the Morning, but the burden of Florence trebled the time, in addition to which he had to put up with the contemptuous stares of people in the street and the mocking abuse from passing motorists. Every so often he would have to stop for a spell, lowering Florence to the footpath while he used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. All his clothes stuck to his body and his unsound bowels had started gurgling again, so he had to keep moving. One of Florence’s sandals came off somewhere en route, which he did not realise until he’d gone some distance, and he seriously thought of leaving it there. But he went back, hoping that by some miracle Florence would come to her senses enough to wander off out of sight. No such luck. She was, however, more conscious than not. When he picked her up she mumbled, ‘Who’re you? Wha’ y’ doin’?’, but Robert was too buggered to bother answering.

  Finally he arrived home, slumped her on his moth-eaten couch and hurried to the bathroom. One thing he did have was a good supply of toilet paper. He moaned and groaned for a while on the can, then cleaned himself up, dried off with a grubby towel and leaned on the handbasin to recover some strength and wait for the pain to ebb. When he returned to the lounge room, Florence was still sprawled in the undignified posture in which he’d hastily dumped her. He raised her legs onto the couch, placed them together and removed the sandals. She was non compos.

  Robert went to the fridge, poured himself a cold glass of white wine from the cask inside, dropped onto a chair facing Florence and drank thirstily. He poured a second drink, this time bringing the cask with him and, when he’d had that, he lit up a smoke. Ash intermittently fell from the cigarette onto the carpet while he considered his position. So what are you going to do now, you fucking hero? There was nothing he could do except wait for her to sleep it off, then get her out the door as rapidly as possible. He sat there, drinking and smoking as the sun went down, filtering through the broken venetians and slashing his face with a harsh golden light. Christ, it was hot for this time of year. Occasionally Florence stirred, snorting, once or twice even opening her eyes, but always sinking back into sweet oblivion. Ah, oblivion. Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain. If only. The cask was nearly empty. He ripped out the silver bag and squeezed the dregs into his glass. By nightfall the cigarettes were gone too, obliging him to recycle the butts. Eventually he dozed off in his chair, sweating heavily and twitching while he drifted downwards into the welcoming arms of his regular closed loop of nightmares.

  He woke up with a gasp. He thought he had stopped breathing, a panicky sensation that was not new to him. His whole body hurt, especially his neck, which had been lying at an unnatural angle, and his mouth was so dry he could not swallow. He dragged himself out of the chair, went to the bathroom and drank copiously from the tap, and only then remembered his house guest. Was she still there? Fuck, let her be gone. Please. He went back out, switched on the light, and there was Florence. She had curled herself into an embryonic position and seemed perfectly at home. Robert leaned on the doorjamb and released a long, melancholy sigh. Not having a watch or a clock in the place he had no idea of the time, but he felt as if he’d been out of it for hours. Now he was wide awake and would remain so for the rest of the night, without even a drink to keep him going. Well, he had something better than a drink to fall back on, although he had been hoping to hang onto it for a bit longer. Bugger it.

  He found the makings secreted in a shoe box in the wardrobe and took them to the kitchen. There, he opened the small plastic sachet, carefully tapped the fine white grains into a blackened teaspoon, making sure none spilled, added a few drops of water, mixed it, then lit a match and held it under the spoon. When that one went out he lit another, repeating the process until the mixture bubbled slightly. Then he sucked the contents back into the disposable hyperdermic until he had a good fit. Next, into the bedroom where, lying on his bed, he placed the needle beside him, wrapped a length of rubber around his left bicep several times and gripped the end in his teeth, pulling hard and clenching his fist to bring the veins up. Then he took up the syringe, probed for the main vein running down the centre of his forearm and hesitated momentarily before emptying the ampoule into his bloodstream. When it was done he released the rubber strip, fell back and gave himself up to the first wave of pure bliss, which moved through his body like the loving hands of ministering angels. Goodnight, sweet prince. Goodnight, one and all. Goo’nigh’…

  When he woke up it was daylight and already hot in the flat. A north wind buffeted loose windows and rolled cans around outside. His face was awash. Not moving, he pieced together some of the fragments of his dreams, but the visions dissipated from his brain like shanks of lurid mist. He gazed down at his jeans and his holed socks and then at the length of rubber alongside him
. There was still a residual pain at the base of his neck from sleeping in the chair, but in general a feeling of calm and wellbeing enveloped him. He was still basking in the afterglow of the hit, fixing his eyes on various features in the room and listening to the empty beer cans rolling around and colliding in the car park. He closed his eyes to maximise the last moments of euphoria, which consisted of a light, tremulous singing sensation at the top of his head, and when he opened them again Florence was standing in the doorway looking at him.

  Remaining still, Robert gave her a bleary smile. The poor woman was clearly confused, disoriented and decidedly hungover. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, noticing the trappings of a bad habit lying about and trying to put it all together in the bombed-out remnants of her mind, maybe wondering: Shit, did I do that too? The silence in the room seemed to balloon for a long time, and then she mumbled, ‘Hello.’

  Still smiling, Robert said, ‘How d’you do.’

  She breathed out deeply and said, ‘What … what happened?’

  He said, ‘You made a bit of a mess of yourself in the pub. I brought you here.’ He added, ‘I just happened to be there. It’s all right, you weren’t ravished or anything.’

  She covered her face and then shuddered as the shame of it all came back to her. ‘Shit, I feel ugh … Oh.’

  Robert didn’t say anything. He still hadn’t moved a muscle.

  ‘So … who are you. Where is here,’ she said, taking her hands away and revealing the full horror of it all. He could see glimpses of lacerating recollections coming back bit by bit in her face, making it flush with shame. Robert thought she was going to cry any second.

  ‘My name’s Robert Curlewis. We’re in Richmond. Not too far from the pub in question. Which was the Star of the Morning, in case you didn’t know.’

  Florence’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked, and they tumbled down her face. She turned away and wiped her eyes with her arm.