The Confession of Stella Moon

by Shelley Day

  Had that Frank been back?

  ‘I don’t understand what’s got you into this state. And what’s that smell…sort of like ether, or chloroform?’

  Stella shuts her eyes and shakes her head. She shakes it and shakes it and then rests it back against the wall and sighs. ‘Water, please, get water … so thirsty…’

  ‘What’s got you into this state? You’re covered in sick. It’s all over the floor in there.’ Gareth nods in the direction of the scullery. ‘You’d passed out. Are you ill? What’s the matter with you?’

  Stella shakes her head. ‘Fuck’s sake, get some fucking water.’

  Gareth jumps up and rushes through to the scullery, looking at the vomit mess on the floor and more of it on the fireside. He can’t imagine what Stella’s been up to, puking up all over the shop. She says she hasn’t taken anything, but he’s not sure he believes her. Why else is she in that state? But at least she’s not dead and it’s now clear to him that she’s not going to die. And thank God he’s probably not going to have to call the ambulance. If he can just get her hydrated...

  Gareth gets his trousers soaking trying to get a beaker of water from the leaking pipe. He steadies Stella’s head and puts the beaker to her mouth, but she takes it out of his hand and drinks it herself, slopping it all about, her hand’s that shaky.

  ‘I’m not a fucking invalid.’ She hands the beaker back to him. ‘Get some more.’

  Stella drains the second beaker and lets it drop. It rolls across the lino. Gareth picks it up.

  She’s exhausted. What the hell has she been doing? Her face is the wrong colour and it’s not just the bad light.

  ‘See to your hand,’ she says, ‘in the cupboard, in the back kitchen.’

  ‘Let’s get you cleaned up first, eh? You stink of sick, if you don’t mind me saying. How come you were sick? Promise me you never took anything?’

  Stella shakes her head. ‘Think what you like.’ She tries once again to get to her feet, but she’s too weak. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  She seems to be breathing more steadily.

  ‘None of my business? Eh? Ha! Now that’s where you’re wrong, my girl,’ says Gareth. ‘The Stella Moon case is mine from now on, I’ll have you know.’

  A twinge of doubt: Gareth hasn’t actually quite taken the case over yet. Geoff hasn’t actually passed it over, not quite. Gareth brushes his misgivings aside. If it weren’t for Gareth coming here tonight, God knows what could have happened.

  ‘I’m not a case,’ Stella says, defiant. ‘And I’m not your girl, either,’ she adds. ‘Help me up, would you? Then you can get on your way.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  If you’re thinking Stella for your MSc Case Study, Gareth, you’re not really going about it the right way.

  ‘I know what you meant,’ Stella says, pulling herself up now. ‘Just stop talking about me like that, that’s all.’

  ‘What?’ says Gareth. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘I’m only saying,’ says Stella, almost standing up.

  ‘Well, blow me down! I find you here, collapsed in a heap, covered in vomit. I’m helping you the best I can, in the middle of the night, out of nothing more than the goodness of my heart, and here you are, giving me a lecture.’

  She’s a handful, this one. What his MSc tutor might refer to as a personal challenge.

  ‘Just shine the torch, Gareth,’ Stella says, ‘so’s I can see.’

  Gareth helps Stella stagger down the passage. She stops beside the back kitchen door and leans her back against the wall.

  ‘God,’ she says, breathing deep.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shite. I feel absolutely shite.’

  Gareth helps Stella down the step and into the chair. He gets her settled, then lays the torch on the table so it lights up some of the room.

  ‘You stood up too quick,’ he says, ‘It can make you light-headed. You’ve been under a lot of stress, you’re dehydrated. No wonder you feel shite. I’ll get you some more water. You put your head down, that’s it, between to your knees, that’s the way…’

  Gareth rests his hand on Stella’s back as she leans forward. He can feel her skinny backbone, the individual vertebrae, like the bones of a little bird. He takes his hand away.

  ‘It’s cold in here. I’ll light the fire. Shall I light the fire?’ Gareth kneels down by the fireplace, splattered with vomit. There was nothing in the file about her being a druggie.

  Stella straightens up again and pushes her hair from her face.

  ‘Bit better?’ Gareth says.

  ‘Bit,’ says Stella.

  She sits there in silence, sipping the water as Gareth pokes about in the fireplace for something to get the fire started.

  ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Plus you stink of drink. It’s making me feel sick again, the smell.’

  Gareth hasn’t yet worked out himself what the hell he’s doing.

  ‘I came out for fish and chips and found myself wondering why you never showed up at the housing place. Geoff told me. He was mightily pissed off. He waited for hours, then his car broke down.’

  ‘Whoever he is he can stuff himself,’ Stella says, ‘if he thinks I’m going to some mangy…’

  ‘There’s grateful.’

  Stella shrugs.

  ‘Well, you can hardly stay here, can you?’ says Gareth. ‘I mean, look at the place. Vomit City. Talk about mangy…’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on staying here. If you remember,’ Stella says, ‘I didn’t exactly have a damn deal of choice though.’

  Time to change the subject, Gareth.

  ‘What’s all that water pouring out?’

  Stella shrugs again. ‘Dunno. Frank Fanshaw must have done it. It wasn’t like that yesterday.’

  ‘Where’s he now? Is he living here?’

  Stella shrugs. ‘No idea. Look, you haven’t got a cigarette, have you? I don’t know where mine have gone.’

  Gareth shakes his head. ‘I gave up. Frank Fanshaw. What did he want you for? I’ll get you some water in a bowl or something. You can get yourself cleaned up.’

  ‘Find my case first. Where is it? A little blue suitcase. I need my case. Oh my God, don’t tell me I’ve lost it.’

  ‘How could you have lost it? Don’t be dull. You’re getting into a panic over nothing.’ Gareth shines the beam around the room. ‘There it is, by the door. Don’t panic.’ Gareth fetches the case and puts it down beside Stella. ‘Are there any candles in here or something? This battery’s not going to last forever.’ Gareth shakes the torch. The beam flickers, visibly weaker.

  Stella doesn’t answer. She’s holding the suitcase upended in both hands but hasn’t opened it.

  ‘Hello? Candles?’ says Gareth. ‘I’d offer to go and buy some, but it’s the middle of the night.’

  Stella stands up, still unsteady, and pads through to the scullery. She comes back with another beaker of water. Her hand’s shaking badly, and it looks as though her legs won’t hold her up for long. She must have been well dehydrated. Half an hour ago Gareth was convinced she was at death’s door. Now she may be alive but she seems to keep getting lost in some kind of reverie.

  ‘Candles?’ Gareth tries again.

  ‘Front room,’ Stella says, ‘the candles are in the front room.’

  ‘I’ll take the torch, OK? I’ll come straight back.’ Gareth is not half way along the passage when Stella screams at him to stop. Then she’s got up and is staggering along the corridor after him, grabbing hold of his jumper.

  ‘Gareth! No!’ she shouts. ‘Don’t go into that room! I shouldn’t have told you to go. It was a joke. But it’s not funny. Really, it’s not funny. Come back. We’ll manage in the dark. We’ll get out of here. I want to get out of here. Come on, let’s get out of here.�
��

  Gareth’s voice is kind. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ He’s holding the tops of her arms as if to steady her. ‘I’ll just get the candles. I told you, I’ll come straight back. You need some light to get yourself cleaned up. You can’t go anywhere in that state, look at you…’

  In the failing light of the torch, Gareth sees Stella as she is: filthy, stinking, disheveled and tormented. She’s scary, this girl is – a proper shape-shifter. How could he have felt that stupid tenderness towards her only a moment ago?

  ‘Don’t go in that room! Do not go into that room!’ Stella is yelling now, commanding, giving out orders, wild-eyed and mad.

  Gareth is starting to get that claustrophobic feeling again, like yesterday. The desire to be a million miles away. Gareth can’t imagine what it was that pulled him towards Stella Moon, if anything did, anything beyond his stupid drunkenness. Or duty – that’s all it was – an over-developed sense of duty. One of the crosses he has to bear, that’s all she is. Gareth sighs. It’s remarkably easy to switch back into Probation Officer mode, the effect of the drink now a distant memory. God only knows what she’s hiding in that room. He’s going to have to get the police. He can see it coming. Damnation. He’s getting a bit sick of her stupid games.

  ‘Why can’t I go into that room? What’s in there I’m not supposed to see?’

  Stella shakes her head. She is still blocking the passage. He’ll have to physically remove her if he wants to get by.

  ‘Come on, Stella. What – or who – have you got in there? Stop playing your stupid games.’ Gareth looks at her, but she turns her face away. ‘Is it Frank? Is he in there? What have you done to him? There’s not much that can shock me, Stella, so you might as well just tell me what’s going on. I wish you’d realise I’m supposed to be here to help you. I’m on your side, for fuck’s sake.’

  Stella still doesn’t budge. He’s going to have to manhandle her to get her out of the way. Maybe he should just give up, bugger off home and let her get on with her stupid, sad little life. She’s really nothing to do with him anyway. Let Geoff keep her. Sod to the Case Study and the whole fucking MSc. Sod to the whole fucking lot of it.

  OK. One more go.

  ‘If you’ll let me past, I’ll just get the candles. I won’t look at anything else in there. I promise.’ Gareth draws his hand across his throat. ‘Hope to die.’

  But Stella won’t be cajoled. She’s a stubborn little bitch, but Gareth can be stubborn as well. Never in his life has he bitten off more than he can chew. And this is not going to be the first time. Certainly not with this skinny, carrot-headed little misfit. Dirty Harry Callahan wouldn’t let himself be defeated, not at this stage.

  ‘Come on now, Stella, you’re being ridiculous.’ Gareth pushes at her gently by the shoulder, but her resistance is firm.

  ‘It’s not. Please, Gareth, it’s not ridiculous. You’re really not to go in there.’

  Stella sounds pathetic now, another change of personality. She’s manipulating Gareth – that’s what she’s doing. He’ll get the better of her, for certain, he’s got her sussed. He’ll do whatever it takes to achieve what he wants and he’ll have no regrets. Gareth’s mission is to rescue Stella Moon, even if she doesn’t want to be rescued. Victims often resist being rescued. It’s a common phenomenon. Stella Moon really would make a cracking Case Study.

  Stella’s still talking. ‘You’re not to even open the door. Believe me, Gareth, you do not want to open that door.’

  Then she’s withering, she’s starting to cry, she’s collapsing to the floor again. She must be serious. This is for real. She’s not just acting. What the hell is going on?

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Gareth, crouching down beside her and taking her trembling hands in his. She’s getting into a state again, breathing fast and shallow, almost back to where they were an hour ago. ‘It’s OK,’ he says again, ‘I’m not going in there, alright, if it means that much to you. Now, come on – tell me what’s all this about. Have you got that Frank in there? Have you done something to him?’

  Stella shakes her head.

  ‘Well, what then? Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ says Stella, ‘I really can’t. Not while we’re in this house.’

  ‘Right, we’ll go somewhere else.’ Gareth will be more than glad to get out of here, anyway. The place is starting to give him the heebie jeebies. He definitely doesn’t want to be here when the torch runs out. ‘We’ll get out of here and then you can tell me what’s going on, OK?’ he continues. Stella lets him pull her to her feet. ‘You’re a strange girl, Stella Moon, no mistaking.’ At least she’s stopped crying. Gareth lets go of her hands. ‘Now, where are we gonna go?’

  Stella shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Anywhere away from here. Can’t we go back to your place? Or have you got a wife or something?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got a wife,’ Gareth says, a little too quickly. This Stella girl is a bit weird about boundaries. He’ll have to watch out. He definitely can’t take her back to his place: first of all, look at the state she’s in. If old man Dickinson saw her… it doesn’t bear thinking about. And second, it’s not professional. It’s not what you do, taking clients – offenders, murderers – into your flat. They’re not even supposed to know where you live. They’re only supposed to see the professional exterior. And Gareth is well aware he’s already stretched his professionalism with Stella Moon well beyond normal limits.

  ‘I can’t take you to my place,’ he says. ‘It’s neither convenient nor appropriate.’

  ‘Well, what then?’ says Stella, as though the responsibility of finding her somewhere to go were entirely Gareth’s. She’s dodgy about boundaries alright.

  ‘You get yourself cleaned up and we’ll think of something. Here, you have the torch and I’ll wait right here until you shout, OK?’

  Stella takes the torch and leaves Gareth in the passage. ‘You won’t go in there, will you? Promise me you won’t open that door? Cross your heart.’

  Gareth holds up a finger and draws it across his chest, making a cross. ‘On my life,’ he says, ‘I won’t go anywhere near that door. I’ll wait right here until you shout, OK?’

  Gareth has no intention of going into that room, none at all of digging himself in more deeply than he already is. If there’s something nasty in that particular woodshed, Gareth really doesn’t want to see it.

  When Stella comes out some ten minutes later, she looks a different person – almost normal. That wild hair of hers is pulled tight into a pony-tail and tied back with an elastic band. She’s wearing normal black jeans and a black sweater. On her feet, normal black and white baseball boots, though she doesn’t seem to have socks. In her hand, the little blue suitcase. Only the eyes haven’t changed – those wide, staring eyes. So much trust in them, so much fear, so much anger. Gareth can hardly stop looking at them.

  ‘How do I look?’ Stella says, putting out her arms, spinning around. ‘I feel a whole lot better for drinking some water. And getting those smelly things off. They were covered in yuck.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ says Gareth. He laughs. Maybe Stella’s not so bad after all. She’s like a kid really. ‘Come on, let’s make a move.’

  When he goes back into the back kitchen to fetch the torch, Gareth sees the thin silk dress and the lacy cardigan and the gold lamé slippers lying in the fireplace among all the sick.

  ‘Don’t you want these things?’ he asks. ‘They could easily be washed.’

  Stella hesitates for a moment. ‘OK. Can you bring them, Gareth? I don’t think I can touch them.’

  Gareth bundles the clothes up in an old towel he finds on the back of the scullery door and ties them up. ‘The Zodiac’s just round the back,’ Gareth says, pulling the keys from his pocket. Without looking back, he follows Stella out and closes the front door behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Stel
la scrambles into the back seat of the Zodiac without even commenting on the type of car it is, which indicates to Gareth she’s far too wrapped up in herself by half. Next she’s shoving Gareth’s things along to make room for herself and doing it with a carelessness that indicates to Gareth a distinct lack of respect. She’s dragging the suitcase in after her.

  ‘Give me the bag,’ Gareth says, reaching across her and taking hold of the suitcase. ‘I’ll put it in the boot.’

  But Stella snatches it away from him and holds on to it, out of Gareth’s reach.

  ‘No, it’s alright,’ she says, her voice calmer than her actions indicate. ‘I’ll keep hold of it, if that’s OK.’

  ‘It’s up to you.’ She’s like a kid, refusing to part with a new toy. ‘Sorry about all the paperwork,’ Gareth says, ‘Work stuff.’ He comes round the other side and gathers up the papers Stella’s shoved aside. ‘I’ll put this little lot in the boot, then. You got enough room by there?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ She’s sitting there, the suitcase on her lap. ‘Yeah, thanks a lot.’

  Stella wriggles in her seat. She’s like a kid, going on an outing.

  ‘It smells in here,’ she says.

  ‘That’s because it’s not a brand-new car.’ Gareth tries not to sound exasperated. ‘It’ll be a classic though, one day – just you watch. Did you ever see Dirty Harry?’

  ‘A stinking old classic,’ Stella laughs. Then, ‘What are we waiting for? Why aren’t we going?’

  Yep. Totally wrapped up in herself.

  ‘We can’t exactly get going until we know where we’re going to,’ says Gareth, adjusting the rear mirror. God help him if he gets stopped driving about in the middle of the night. He feels alright, but he must still be well over the limit.

  ‘There’s not exactly that many places you can go in the middle of the night now, is there?’ Gareth starts the engine and leaves it running, puts the fan on to demist the windscreen. He looks at Stella in the rear-view mirror, but looks away almost straight away. Eye contact with her is disturbing, even via a mirror. Especially via a mirror.