by Ruth Jacobs
“Do you see your parents often?” Shelley asked. Tara had never spoken of her parents before tonight. Shelley had thought they didn’t have contact. There were no pictures of them in her flat. There were no pictures of anyone in Tara’s flat.
“Sometimes,” Tara said, as she sank into the mountainous armchair.
Shelley slotted three cigarettes between her lips and lit them simultaneously for the same purpose as the previous three. “Do they know you work?”
“Yes, and they’re so proud – their daughter, a call girl.”
“Why did you tell them?”
“I didn’t.” Tara stole one of Shelley’s left-to-burn cigarettes from the ashtray and took a long drag. “It was one of my regulars. His wife came home and found me tied up in their bed.”
“She knew your parents?”
Tara took a gulp from her glass. “I went to the same prep school as her daughter. I hadn’t seen them in years but she was still in touch with my mother and blah-blah-blah.”
“Oh, poor you. That’s awful.”
Tara raised her left eyebrow and a half-smile spread from the right side of her mouth. “It would have been, if it’d happened... We’re going to Cafe de Paris on Friday. You should come. You won’t need any money.”
Shelley felt her cheeks warm, part in embarrassment and part in anger. “So, they don’t know, then? What do they think you do?”
Tara stood, and then walked towards the door. “Do you want a coffee?” Her voice trailed off as she left the room.
***
The buzzer rang out. Tara answered it. A tappity-tap of high heels resonated up the wooden staircase and into the flat. Shelley was expecting the dealer but unless he’d cross-dressed since his earlier visit, it wasn’t him.
Nicole O’Connell strutted into the lounge as if she’d stepped straight off the catwalk. Her runway model looks – usually pale from her Irish heritage – were transformed with a Mustique tan. Defying the British weather, she wore a flowing, strappy dress and her blonde hair cascaded half way down her back.
“You sure there’s gonna be enough crack for all that ash?” Nicole smiled. She was as beautiful to know as she was to observe. Shelley leapt from the sofa to hug her closest friend. She took a step back and held Nicole’s suntanned face in her hands. She wondered how Nicole managed to look so well when, most likely, she hadn’t been doing anything remotely good for her health while she’d been away.
Within minutes, the dealer came to exchange a quantity of crack for Tara’s two-hundred and fifty and her Toshiba. Tara brought the booty to Crack Island – the coffee table by the bay window in the front of the flat where they always smoked. Shelley and Nicole were already there waiting, sat on the carpet. Taking turns, they made up their own hits on the shared pipe – another mini Evian bottle abused.
After a few pipes, Shelley and Nicole moved to sit on the navy sofa. Shelley began to hallucinate. She could see the dead john’s face staring back at her from inside the glass top of the coffee table. Every time she looked away, she could see it again: on the wallpaper, in the carpet and on the black screen of the television. There was no body, only the head, doing a jig in front of her eyes wherever she looked.
“A punter died on me the other night.” Shelley didn’t realise she’d verbalised her thoughts until she saw Nicole and Tara gawp at her.
“Are you joking?” Nicole asked, quashing any remaining doubt that Shelley had spoken.
Had the question been posed by Tara, even in her jittery state, Shelley could have probably have mustered a lie, but not to Nicole. She never lied outright to her. “No. I need another pipe.”
Nicole made up a pipe, handed it to Shelley, and lit it for her. Shelley sucked hard on the sawn-off biro in the hope it would improve how she felt and what she saw.
“Did he have a terminal erection?” Tara asked.
“I don’t think it was his erection that killed him,” Shelley said.
“No, I mean did he have angel lust?”
“It’s not a damn joke, Tara,” Nicole said, taking the pipe back from Shelley.
The context of the conversation was lost in the aftermath of the hit. Shelley was conjuring the image of an angel fantasy in her mind. A request for an angel fantasy had never been put to her, though she’d dressed up for clients innumerable times. She tried to remember if she’d seen an angel costume in Tara’s repertoire. She envisaged a transparent, white negligee with curved angel wings of the same material. She spent a while considering how one might lie down in such a costume, or even sit down. She decided the whole job would have to be undertaken with the hooker standing.
Tara walked into the lounge carrying a book in her hand. Shelley hadn’t seen her leave the room and wondered how she’d made her exit. Did she fly?
“I wasn’t joking.” Tara brandished the paperback in front of them. “I was asking if your stiff had a stiffy.”
“You’re not funny. Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” Nicole slipped her arm over Shelley’s shoulder. With her other hand, she angled Shelley’s face towards hers. “Ignore her. She’s smoked too much. Are you all right, love?”
“Can I talk to you later?” Shelley whispered in Nicole’s eye.
“Anytime, most precious.” Nicole blinked repeatedly.
Tara knelt on the carpet. Using the edge of the blue Rizla packet, she scooped up some fresh ash from the cigarettes Shelley had let burn for the pipe. On top of the ash, she placed the last large rock. She aimed the Clipper lighter at it and taking the deepest of draws, killed it. Only a few crumbs remained on the clingfilm for Shelley and Nicole.
Tara swivelled her body round, stretched her legs under the coffee table and leaned back against the sofa. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Shelley.” She looked over her shoulder at Shelley sat behind her on the sofa. “I’ve been reading about it, angel lust. It’s in here, ‘Naked Lunch’ ”.
Tara jumped up as if suddenly repelled by her dirty carpet. She waved the paperback in front of Shelley and Nicole. Shelley glanced at the book. So did Nicole. But they both looked away when Tara tried to hand it to them. How could they be expected to start reading now? The words would have wriggled all over the page. Surely, Tara knew that. Regardless, Shelley didn’t care for erotic tales, which is what she expected the book contained. That was Tara’s interest, for her work at least. Shelley recalled one client in particular. Nicole called him Resident Crack Wrap. Tara had told them he liked to be constrained in clingfilm while she was naked, feeding him crack pipes, and poppers on a cigarette, and reading erotica to him.
Shelley and Nicole tried to prepare their final hits with the few morsels Tara had spared them. Tara, however, distracted them. She flicked through the pages of the open book, blocking their access to the drug paraphernalia they were trying to use on the table.
The last thing Shelley wanted was to try to decipher written words. Being on crack, spoken words were hard enough to follow. With the paperback nearly pressed to her nose, she couldn’t help but look. The paragraphs floated up from the page. They flew across the room then out through the closed window. This gave Shelley a new focus – how do words pass through solid objects?
Shelley kept her eyes on the passages of words flying out the window. One sentence bounced off the glass. Perhaps it couldn’t get through. The line drifted back in the direction it had come from and paused in front of Shelley. She read the words hovering in the air: Who can hang a weak passive and catch his sperm in mouth like a vicious dog?
As quick as that line left, another flew back in. It tapped her between the eyes and back-flipped before stopping long enough for her to read: And I knew him when, dearie... I recall we was doing an Impersonation Act – very high class too – in Sodom.
Then all the passages came rushing back inside. Like a frenzied flock of birds, they were soaring round the lounge. Abruptly, they stopped and formed an airborne queue at Shelley’s eye-level.
“Enough!” Shelley yelled as she covered her now m
oist eyes with her hands. “I need more crack,” she repeated in between whimpers.
Nicole held Shelley in her arms and rocked her on the sofa. The motion, coupled with the apple smell of Nicole’s hair, began to calm her. Shelley leant forwards to the coffee table to make up the one pipe Tara had left her. Nicole pulled her back and told her to wait, lighting a cigarette for her instead.
The intercom sounded. Tara hauled herself up from the armchair and disappeared into the hall. Shelley heard heavy steps, most likely male. She expected the dealer to make his entrance imminently. She hadn’t heard Tara phone him but she was aware of her own inattention. The thought of more crack caused her stomach to churn and her heart to beat a racing rhythm all over her body.
***
Nonchalantly, Hugo strolled into the lounge. He didn’t deal crack or even take it. Shelley’s nervous anticipation deflated and her innards adjusted accordingly, shifting down several gears.
“What’s with the serious faces, girls?” Hugo ran his hand backwards through his blond, curly locks. The sound system in Shelley’s head played Carly Simon - You’re So Vain.
“Shelley had a punter die on her at The Lanesborough.” Did those words come from Tara’s lips or her own head? Shelley wasn’t sure.
“Did you fuck him to death, Shelley?” The cad smiled at her with his I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me eyes.
“I bet she fucked his brains out.” Tara sniggered.
“Fuck you!” Shelley raised her middle finger in Tara’s direction.
“Don’t worry, darling. I think they have a morgue in there. They can put it to use.”
Shelley was flummoxed.
“How much coke have you done tonight, love?” Nicole asked him.
“Not enough, darling.” Hugo swaggered to the dining table where he emptied a bulging wrap of cocaine on the glass top. He began chopping at it with his credit card.
Having elongated what looked like more than a dozen white lines, he bent over the table and snorted two with a fifty-pound note. He passed the note to Nicole, then she to Shelley, then Shelley to Tara.
After their hits had been hoovered, Hugo produced a half-size bottle of whiskey from an inside pocket of his navy blazer. “Get some glasses,” he told Tara. Then he stared into Shelley’s eyes and she was sure he was reading her thoughts. “So tell me about the dead guy, darling.”
6. More Than One Kind of Dead
No one responded to the knocking on the red door concealed behind an overgrown hedge at the top of Hammers Lane in Mill Hill.
“Mum, open the door.” Shelley looked up to the bedroom window of the first floor maisonette. “Let me in.” She saw the curtains move and knew her mother was home. Although that was really a given as her mother hadn’t been out in months. “I know you’re up there. I can see you.”
Shelley had a key to her mother’s maisonette but she preferred her to open the door. If Rita got up to answer the door, she would at least get out of bed. If Shelley used her own key, the chance of that happening was drastically reduced.
A few moments passed and the door opened. Shelley stepped inside the hall. Her scrawny mother stood in her ankle-length dressing gown, slightly hunched and with her head low.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come in the week.” Shelley hugged her mother, hiding tears of guilt.
Taking her mother’s arm, she guided her up the stairs and into the lounge. The curtains were still drawn. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Shelley pulled them open, letting in the day. The dark lounge transformed into a brighter one, but now the disorder was exposed.
Papers, files and books were scattered everywhere: on the dining table, on the chairs, by the gas fire and on the windowsill. Shelley removed a pile of pink and blue files from the three-seater and directed her mother to sit down.
In the kitchen, Shelley put on the kettle and waiting for it to boil, she washed up the collection of dirty mugs and plates that had accumulated in the sink. She brought her mother a cup of tea in the lounge, then she returned to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. Fortunately, there were still ample supplies left over from the shop Shelley did for her last Friday.
With shoulders slumped, Rita sat next to Shelley on the pale-grey settee. In slow motion, she nibbled her sandwich.
“How are you feeling?” Shelley asked.
“I’m trying not to, dear.” Rita put her plate with the barely-touched sandwich on the end table.
“I’m going to Will’s grave. Do you think you’re up to it to come with me?” Shelley took out a comb from her cream handbag.
“What about work? Don’t you have to get back?”
“They’re letting some of us go early on Fridays. It was my turn. Will you come?”
“No dear, you know I can’t. Not at the moment.”
Shelley leant across and gently ran the comb through Rita’s long, grey hair. “I’ll sit with you for a while before I go.”
***
Crime of the Century boomed from the nearly blown speakers in Shelley’s Mercedes as she raced up East Finchley High Road. Arriving at the cemetery car park, she lifted the pink carnations from the passenger seat. The coldness of the cemetery air hit her as she opened the door. It always felt colder inside the graveyard.
She walked around her car, counting aloud to five each time she tried a door handle, ran her fingers along the top of a window, and depressed the catch on the boot. What could have been accomplished in twenty-five counts – less than as many seconds – took a few minutes.
On reaching William’s grave, she sat down on the ground next to him. She spoke to him quietly. She told him of her plans to go to university, her fears that it might not happen, her dinner with Aunt Elsie and her visit with their mother.
Shelley never spoke to William about work – neither her non-existent job at Foxtons, nor what she really did. So she didn’t tell him what happened at The Lanesborough after her visit with him last Friday. She knew he wouldn’t judge her, but she didn’t want him to worry about her from up in heaven. She wasn’t sure if he only knew what she told him or if he saw everything. If he did, he’d already know what happened. In a way, she hoped he was looking out for her, keeping her safe. But in another, she hoped he wasn’t, so he didn’t have to see how she was living.
Heading back to the car park, she stopped at the double grave of her grandparents. Her mother’s parents died before she’d been able to really know them. Shelley was only three years old in 1978 – the year a drunk driver crashed into their Morris Minor on the M1.
Her maternal grandparents were the only grandparents she’d ever known, and the only grandparents she shared with William. Like Shelley, William’s father wasn’t in his life, although he was back and forth for the first year or so after William was born. After that, his full time job took precedence – alcoholism. William had also known some of his family. Shelley had never met anyone on her father’s side, not even the man himself. Apparently, he had his reasons, one of which was being married.
Back in her car, Shelley locked herself in. She put the Supertramp CD on shuffle. From the glove box, she took out the dessert spoon, citric acid powder, gear and her works. Using the water from the bottle kept in the car, she began cooking up a fix.
She sensed someone’s presence and looked out her window. A tall man, dressed in a shell suit, with a hat covering a third of his face, was staring at her from the other side of the car park. She recognised him. She’d seen him in the cemetery before. He gave her the creeps. The way he loitered and the way he watched her. Apart from him, the graveyard was nearly always deserted. She rarely saw another living soul whenever she was there and that’s how she preferred it.
Once he’d gone, she felt safe to carry on. To be inconspicuous, she bent over with her head down in the footwell. Using a rag conveniently kept in the car, she constricted the blood flow at her ankle. The veins in her feet were thin and easy to burst. She knew she risked losing the hit. Only the other week, she’d caused tissuing in a vein on t
he same foot. The resulting lump wouldn’t massage away. It had given her pain, and restricted her choice of footwear, until it left of its own accord.
Selecting a barely visible vein in which to inject, she slid in the needle. The thrill began as she watched the blood infiltrate the barrel. She pushed in the plunger a little, releasing some of the junk into her bloodstream. Then she pulled out to watch more blood percolate. The next time she pushed a fraction too forcefully. The vein was blown.
She tried to rescue what was left in the syringe, but the blood was congealing. Holding the plastic tube in the air, she flicked it to release the air bubbles. Impetuously, she thrust the needle into her arm. Most of the heroin and coagulated blood had entered her body. However, not all of it went in via the vein. In addition to the new swelling on her foot, she now had another on the inside of her elbow. Of greatest distress was that most of the hit had been wasted. The rush was negligible.
On the drive home, she cranked up the volume. The song that started to play was one that reminded her most of William. She’d heard him sing it countless times in the days he gigged with his band in the pubs around North London. He sang his own version in what he’d described was a blend of punk, ska and reggae.
She part-sung and part-sobbed through Hide in Your Shell. She shivered, feeling William’s presence. Her tears stopped as he sang to her, “Why don’t you listen? You can trust me.” It sounded as if he was sitting next to her in the passenger seat.
7. That Palaver with the Blindfold
Flickering light was all Shelley could make out from under the blindfold. Her ability to balance was compromised by her inability to view her surroundings. Her body jolted around on the backseat and she wondered how much longer she could tolerate the motion before surrendering to nausea. She wanted to ask how much time it would take until they arrived. But she didn’t, imagining she’d sound like a whinging child.
The car stopped abruptly, lunging Shelley’s body forward. Her head smashed on something hard. She knew not to remove the blindfold, so she brushed the back of her hand across her throbbing forehead. She didn’t feel any blood.