by Shelley Day
‘I’m sorry’, she manages to say. ‘Yes, yes, I’m Stella.’ She holds out a damp, cold hand.
Chapter Twelve
Stella and Gareth are sitting in Mark Toney’s in Grainger Street. He’s bought two milky coffees and produced an open packet of Garibaldis from his bashed leather briefcase. He’s been over the road to buy cigarettes for Stella. He came back with twenty B&H, the classy kind. Stella is smoking. Gareth is eating biscuits, leaning back politely.
Sometimes Stella has trouble speaking, the words don’t or won’t come – it’s just how she is. Today is one of those days. Five minutes after she’s sat down with the Probation Officer, all thoughts have congealed inside her, like old gravy. She’s stuck in the day her grandfather died, like he’s claimed her and is not letting go.
Sitting in Mark Toney’s on the plastic padded bench seat, warming her hands round the coffee mug, Stella has given up trying to talk. Strangely, the Gareth man seems not to mind. Is he nice? He seems to be. At least it’s warm and dry in the café and he’s paid for the coffees. He brought biscuits. Is that why men have briefcases, to carry their Garibaldis? Stella can’t eat those. The currants are like dead flies.
Gareth is saying he’ll get Stella somewhere to stay, but not to expect too much, it won’t be a hotel, and it’s not going to be easy. He says it like he’s making some kind of a sacrifice, like it’s got nothing to do with his job. He’s smiling along with it, like making sacrifices is just something you do, like he’s happy to do it. Is Stella supposed to feel grateful? Does he expect her to bestow a ton of grateful thanks? Stella looks at Gareth’s face over the rim of her coffee mug. He’s not too sure of himself. He keeps rubbing the side of his nose with his knuckle. He bites his finger nails. He can’t be that much older than Stella.
The YWCA won’t have Stella. They said they were full up, which is not what they said to the Clara woman when Stella phoned. They must have realised who she is. Backed off. Don’t want a murderer.
‘You can’t blame them,’ Gareth says, smiling. ‘They’re just full up. Don’t take it personal.’ He’s trying to be kind. He’s eaten all the Garibaldis, and puts the empty packet back in his briefcase.
‘Mustn’t think like that,’ Marcia says. ‘No-one’s out to get you.’
People who tell you how to think, they mean it kindly. They’re trying to help. They don’t think about what it’s like to be told how to think, how not to think and what to think. When.
Muriel put thoughts in Stella’s head. There’s her lipsticked mouth, set tight, her lips all but disappeared, only the twin peaks of the scarlet bow showing: you’re not paid to think. When I want you to think, I’ll let you know. Muriel hisses. Muriel’s script.
Stella sips at her coffee. Gareth is shuffling papers. He looks like he’s been saying something, something consequential. Stella looks round the room. The smell of coffee and damp people, the clink and clatter of cups on saucers, the scrape of chairs on the floorboards. Too many people; couples, friends, people who belong, others who come and go. The Italian man behind the counter, whistling through his teeth as he rubs the insides of coffee cups with his tea towel and hangs them up on little hooks. They chink and sway. A little line of coffee cups, making music, dancing above the Italian man’s head.
Gareth is asking questions. He doodles on a spiral pad and waits for Stella to nod or shake her head. Her gaze remains fixed on him. When he looks up she is staring into his eyes. He looks away. He makes notes, underlines things and scrawls heavy circles around something he’s written. Stella, still waiting for the words to come back, come back and fill the spaces in.
‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ Gareth says. He pushes his pad to one side and pulls a pile of forms out of his briefcase. They’re crumpled at the edges and he flattens them out with the side of his hand. He fills in boxes with his biro. He’s left-handed and has to sort of curl his hand back on itself to get the flow. He seems to know what to put where.
‘Can you sign here?’ Gareth smiles and pushes a piece of paper towards Stella, handing her the biro and points to where she is to put her name.
Can she sign? It’s as though he expects all she can manage will be a cross, an anonymous generic cross, which he will then witness as the genuine mark of Stella Moon. Maybe she will put a cross, a giant X, right across the page, corner to corner to corner to corner. She’ll do it again and again and again, pressing in harder and harder till the biro digs through the paper. But no, Stella promised Marcia. No wallowing, no acting out and no destroying for the sake of destroying. Dignity. Remember. Dignity. Stella opens her own little case and lifts out the fountain pen, the one Marcia’s given her, the dark green Parker Lady, exactly like the pen Stella had at school. She must have told Marcia about it. Marcia must have remembered. Stella removes the cap from the pen, slowly and with purpose, and she signs her name in the box on the form in her finest copperplate.
‘Great,’ Gareth says, picking up the form and blowing on the ink.
Is he surprised that she can write? That she owns a fountain pen? That she has rather nice handwriting for a specimen of the underclass?
Gareth puts the form to the back of the pile and takes out the next one, fills out some boxes and chews on the already very chewed end of his biro.
‘Address?’ he says.
Stella looks at him and laughs, almost spitting out a mouthful of coffee and has to put her hand over her mouth. Gareth laughs as well.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he says, sounding like he means it. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking of.’
Gareth has a lilty Welsh accent. Stella likes it. It’s musical. His eyes are very blue, and they crinkle up when he smiles; thick black lashes and white even teeth. And Stella is suddenly self-conscious, aware of her dirty wild hair, her grubby nails, the browning nicotine stain on her middle finger, her tatty misfit clothes that aren’t even hers. One time these clothes looked so elegant on Muriel – but she could have worn a coal sack and looked lovely.
Stella is not Muriel. Stella is Stella. As Marcia says, Stella, you’re different altogether. And thank the Lord for that.
A wave of nausea, a tightening in her chest: it’s too hot in the café, there’s no air. Stella stubs out her cigarette half-smoked, pushes her half-empty coffee mug to one side and wishes she could just get up and walk away and keep on walking, walking, walking.
‘It says here,’ Gareth is talking, pointing at the page with the biro, ‘former address?’ He smiles, a genuine kind of smile. ‘These forms aren’t made with people like you in mind!’ He laughs the kind of laugh like he wants Stella to join him, to agree the whole system is ridiculous, like they’re conspirators, in this together. Stella smiles back, a tight, closed-mouth smile. She needs to get a toothbrush.
People like you. Stella is a certain kind of person now. The kind of person the YWCA doesn’t want. Yet they’re known for taking down-and-outs, winos and junkies. But no place for Stella Moon. No room at the inn.
‘It should be alright,’ Gareth is saying, draining the last of his coffee. ‘I’ll just put “care of the Probation Office”, if that’s alright with you?’
Stella nods, shrugs.
‘I just need some financial information, then I can get this form in, and you’ll be up for council accommodation. They’ll put you in one of those half way places to begin with, but only temporary. With my recommendation, you’ll be up the top of that list in no time.’ Gareth stands up and picks up the empty cups. ‘Another coffee?’ he says, going over to the counter. ‘You sure you’re not hungry?’
Financial information? Stella tips her purse up on the table so all the money she has comes out.
‘That’s what I’ve got,’ she manages to say when Gareth comes back with two coffees and two Danish pastries with apricots and custard in. Gareth stops, the tray still in his hands, and looks at her.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘That�
�s really good. Thanks a lot, Stella.’
He’s thanking her for talking. They’ve probably taught him how to deal with people like her at college.
Gareth takes Stella to get her signed on for social security. He puts her address again as c/o the Probation Office. He waits with her and speaks when she can’t. He doesn’t ask why she doesn’t or can’t or won’t talk. He looks over the forms the social security woman fills out and indicates when it’s OK to sign. Each time Stella signs her name with her own fountain pen. Gareth must think she’s worthless, useless, a waste of space, just another one of those, straight out of prison and hasn’t got a clue. She does the copperplate signature more painstakingly and more perfect each time. Gareth negotiates an emergency payment on Stella’s behalf. Stella gathers it up, stuffs it in her purse and nods thanks to the woman behind the unshatterable glass. Gareth touches her elbow as they cross the road. He walks with her to the housing office, the forms in his hand. The office is closed. Gareth looks at his watch. Ten past five.
‘Dammo,’ he says, ‘It’s closed. We missed it. I’m sorry.’
Stella shrugs. She doesn’t know what this means, what anything means.
‘It’s my fault,’ Gareth is saying. ‘We should have come here first, instead of going to the Social. But I knew you’d be needing money.’
‘No, it‘s alright, it’s OK. I’m OK, really,’ Stella finds herself saying, words now pouring out. ‘No, it’s my fault, I should have come earlier, I shouldn’t have waited so long to do things the proper way, I shouldn’t have messed around with Frank Fanshaw, I shouldn’t have got off the bus…’ Stella, suddenly lost in a torrent of words. ‘I can go back to the boarding house, Chillingham Road, I’ll get the bus. I’ve got the key…’ She opens the purse, pulls out the key on the dirty bit of string and holds it up for Gareth to see.
‘Messed around with who?’ Gareth asks. ‘What did you say just then?’
‘Nobody. Well…Frank…just Frank Fanshaw… He was there, at the house when I got there yesterday. He’s alright. He’s OK. Just a bit weird, that’s all. Harmless, really. Used to be one of the lodgers at my grandmother’s boarding house. I’ve known him … well, since I was a kid and …’
‘The one you said was… I thought you said on the phone there was someone there who was…er…a bit dodgy… You couldn’t stay there because…’
‘He won’t be there. Not now. He’ll have gone.’
‘You sure about that?’
Stella shrugs. She’s biting the inside of her bottom lip. She can’t tell this social worker what Frank Fanshaw is actually like. They’d get it all wrong. They’d mess everything up.
‘You don’t look very sure,’ Gareth says.
But Stella’s made up her mind. She nods. ‘I am sure,’ she says, ‘I’ll be alright. It’s no problem.’ She shouldn’t have mentioned Frank. She doesn’t want to go into all that.
‘You absolutely certain?’ Gareth says again.
Stella’s nodding. She’s making as if to walk away. ‘Thanks,’ she says, ‘thanks for all your help, Mr Davies.’ Stella picks up the little blue suitcase and pulls her cardy around her.
‘You’ll have to come back to the housing place tomorrow,’ he says, ‘say 10 o’clock? I’ll drop these forms in, so they’ll know to expect you. I’ll leave a note for Geoff. That’s Geoff Burns. You’re really his case and not mine. You’ve got that card I gave you? Just give Geoff a ring on that number if you get any problems. Alright?’
Stella nods again. And off she goes.
That Gareth man was itching to get away, Stella sensed it. She can’t face going back to that boarding house, not alone, not tonight. If Frank Fanshaw’s still there, he’ll be angry, she’ll be punished, he’ll make her pay and she can’t face him, she’s run right out of guts.
But that place is Home, Stella. It’s the only place she has ever called Home. And Home wants Stella back. Stella feels the pull of it in the pit of her stomach.
She’d rather sleep on the streets than go back there. She could take her pride in her hands, her courage in her hands, she could go back and ask that Gareth man… Stella turns, and she sees the back of Mr Probation Officer Gareth Davies, he’s bending over, he’s doing something at the door of the housing place. Go back, Stella. Ask him about a B&B. There’s nothing wrong in that. But no. There was something about him. And now he’s hurrying away. It’s too late to change anything. In any case, Stella should be managing on her own, she should be managing better than this. The Gareth man couldn’t wait to get away from her. He’s supposed to help, but clearly that’s not going to happen. Marcia was wrong. There’s no-one that can help. Stella’s on her own. Like it always was. Only this time, she’s not at all sure she can cope.
The house wants Stella back. It’s calling her to come Home. That house is the one thing in this world that wants Stella Moon.
Marcia. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. This isn’t what you said would happen. First Frank, and now the house, pulling Stella back into the past. She’s never going to be able to restart her life, never.
Chapter Thirteen
Gareth Davies had suddenly become aware of an intense desire to get away from Stella Moon. He’d felt a malaise creep over him, he’d tried to ignore it, but it got the better of him and he’d had to get away. It was, at first, only a vague discomfort he put down to tiredness and the anxiety of dealing with a case that wasn’t his, and the peculiar, almost exhilarating anxiety – if he was honest – of dealing with a killer. He’d told himself it was all part of the job, that he should put his feelings to one side and just get on with it, but he’d started to feel it, whatever it was, in his stomach. Then the vague desire to free himself from Stella at once became a pressing need. In moments, it had overwhelmed him. Gareth felt his bowels turn to liquid, which set him onto the verge of panic and a horrible claustrophobia closed in. He’d rushed through the forms, hardly knowing what box he was ticking.
It pained him – even in the midst of panic – it actually hurt Gareth to know Stella was none the wiser. She looked trustingly on whatever he did, and appeared to have not a clue that something abnormal was happening. Yes, it hurt Gareth to know she was putting her trust in him and to know he was letting her down. The forms completed, Gareth had looked at Stella; those eyes, those great big staring too-pale eyes. He would never have been able to explain how he’d had no choice but to get well away.
Gareth had never been prone to nervous ailments before, not really, nothing like this. Whatever it was, every bone in his body told him to get away from Stella, as if she was a danger to him. And yet he felt drawn to her, he felt concerned for her, protective of her – yes! He felt responsible for her. Yet there was no reason on earth why Gareth should have felt any of those things, and felt them in the way he did. And on top of it all, Gareth couldn’t get it out of his mind that the girl was a killer, a dangerous killer. Round and round the panicked thoughts went, clamouring inside his head, and in the end, making him want to be sick. His heartbeat jumped all over the place, it had completely lost its regular rhythm, and he was having trouble getting his breath. Gareth’s overwhelming instinct was to put as much distance as he could between himself and the murderess. Then, and only then, he would be able to breathe again. Somehow – he has no idea how – Gareth had made it to the Housing Office, he’d managed to get rid of Stella and managed not to go to pieces completely.
In the cold and the damp of the autumn evening, the Newcastle rush hour, traffic nose to tail, headlamps flickering, tail lamps red, red, red, exhaust fumes belching, and there’s Gareth, still stood outside the Housing Office. He inhales deeply and breathes out a long sigh of relief. Stella’s gone. Gareth fumbles as he stuffs the forms into the large brown envelope, his hand is shaking and he can hardly grip the biro to scribble a quick note on the outside. He tucks the flap in and pushes the envelope through the letter box. All his insides are vi
brating. Gareth waits for a moment to watch the envelope drop onto the doormat on the other side of the glass. That small separation is enough to calm him a bit.
‘Thank Christ,’ he says aloud. ‘Thank Christ that’s over with.’
Stella is gone and Gareth will be OK in a minute. He can’t think where those feelings came from. They weren’t like anything he’d ever known before. The girl’s inscrutable, bloody hard work and something about her had drained it out of him. Half the time she’s clammed up silent, then out it all pours, a load of gush and ramble. She veers from very obviously not normal to completely normal, like she switches on a coping mode. All of which would be fascinating if it weren’t so disturbing. Stella Moon makes Gareth feel disturbed. Gareth’s not used to feeling disturbed, especially by clients. He can feel sorry for them, annoyed by them, angered even, but his reaction to Stella Moon is in an altogether different league. Please, God, he won’t have to deal with her again.
As he walks away, Gareth starts to calm down. The panic subsiding, Gareth has to wonder what it was all about. He knows about panic attacks, but he’s never had one before, and now he has, and he doesn’t know why, and the whole thing’s scary, terrifying, actually. What if it happens again? He’s got away with it this time, but what if it happens again? And why? What’s made him suddenly start feeling like – like what? Troubled. Unhinged. Vulnerable! Like one of his clients? It felt like he was having a heart attack. And Stella apparently hadn’t even noticed there was anything awry.
Now, in the calmer light of day, Gareth has to admit privately to himself that he’s made a cock-up as regards Stella Moon. Well, at least as far as the accommodation. And possibly other things. Leaving her alone – she’s vulnerable, he has to keep reminding himself, vulnerable – but he left her alone to go back to that derelict house. Now that’s all preying on Gareth’s conscience. OK, she had a peculiar effect on him. But still, now Gareth’s calmer, he’s no longer entirely convinced that Stella Moon – straight out of seven years inside – can look after herself. At the end of the day, however, it’s not Gareth’s bogey. But still. She’s a human being and he feels sorry for her. Stella Moon is not Gareth’s case. She’s Geoff’s. Plus the fact she’s twenty-five. She’s a big girl now. She knows what’s what. She’s done time, for God’s sake. She should be able to look after herself. Gareth’s done his job, done everything he’s supposed to, mostly. OK, yes, he’s messed up on the accommodation front.