by Ruth Jacobs
She checked the time on her phone – 5.07 p.m. Around two hours had passed since her hit. After lighting a cigarette, she meandered out of the house.
“I’m so sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep.” Shelley raised the clean mug to her lips.
“You were dead to the world, love.” Len picked up a white chest of drawers and leant it against his shoulder. “I’m sorry about ratty. You all right to help now?”
“Are you replacing my TNs?”
“I’ll give ’em a clean. They’ll come up good.”
Shelley shook her head. “What do you need me to do?”
“Can you lift these?” Len pointed to the pots of paint that were stacked like a shop display pyramid.
Shelley lifted one and, as it wasn’t too heavy, she took another in her other hand then followed Len into the house. They walked through to the lounge, and out of the damaged patio doors. In the back garden, a pile was accumulating, reminiscent of that which had previously been in the front.
“My neighbours are gonna love me.” Len inserted a cigarette into the side of his self-satisfied smile.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Shelley grinned.
When they returned to the front of the house, the old lady from next-door was walking down her front garden towards the street. As Shelley went to collect the next load of paint pots, the lady walked past Len’s garden and tutted in their direction.
“What now? You fucking interfering old biddy!” Len hollered after her.
“That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” Shelley said, expecting the tut was due to her getting back with her boyfriend – as she had assumed Len was – as opposed to disapproval over the clearance of the front garden.
“You don’t know what I have to put up with from that one. Bloody curtain-twitcher. She’s always up in my business.”
“She’s an old lady,” Shelley informed him, as if he might not have noticed for himself. Although she liked the lady, it worried her how much of an interest she might take in her business. A quidnunc next door was the last thing she needed.
29. Unhappy Birthday
A shiver ran down Shelley’s spine as she sat on the grey settee between her mother and Aunt Elsie. On 17th May – her birthday – for the third year, she had a feeling the day was incomplete. The family was incomplete without her brother. In a way, it was as if her birthdays didn’t pass at all and she stayed at nineteen, the age she’d only just turned before William had died.
“Can I get you some more cake, dear?”
“I’m not hungry, Mum.” Shelley walked through to her mother’s kitchen and put on the kettle. She’d felt tears coming and wanted to cry on her own. When she couldn’t control her sobs, she went into the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror and thought what a broken mess she’d become. Her judgement of Tara may have been correct, but it applied equally to her. From the bowl on the white vanity unit, she took a piece of cotton wool and tipped the jar of moisturiser onto it. Then she wiped her face while she breathed slowly, trying to calm herself.
This year had been hard to live. She had survived past the twenty-one years her brother had not. Now she was in an age unknown at twenty-two. In some ways, she still felt like a child, but in others, she felt far too old.
With her face clean of wandering mascara, she wandered through to the lounge and took her seat between the two sisters. On lifting her cup of tea and seeing it empty, she remembered the kettle boiling in the kitchen. She picked up the brown teapot and stood up.
“Stay where you are. I’ll do it.” Aunt Elsie took the teapot and went into the kitchen.
Shelley sat down again and looked at her mother. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, dear, all these changes. You know Elsie’s got me going to this counselling person?”
“How’s it going?”
“They just want your money, those quacks, but she’s making me do it.”
“She’s trying to help you, Mum, we both are.” Shelley took her mother’s hand.
“We’ll see. I don’t feel any different yet.”
“She’s only been once,” Elsie said as she came back through, carrying the teapot. She filled Shelley’s cup and then Rita’s before sitting down. “There’s not a quick fix, Rita, you know that. You can’t expect to feel better in a week, or even a month. It’s taken years to get where you are, so it’ll take some time to get you better.”
“She’s got me in a bleeding self-help group as well. Did she tell you that?”
“That sounds lovely, Mum.” Shelley picked up her teacup.
“It’s a bereavement support group. I’m going too. You could come with us,” Elsie said.
“I don’t know... I’ve got a lot on.” Shelley looked at her aunt’s encouraging stare. “I’ll think about it,” she said, considering the power grief had to age. Her mother, at fifty-one years, was nearly four years younger than Elsie, but her withered skin and grey hair belied her as the older sister – over the past seven years, she’d aged a couple of decades.
“Have some cake, dear.” Rita put a slice of the Victoria sponge birthday cake on Shelley’s plate and handed it to her.
“I don’t—”
“You should. You’re looking too skinny nowadays,” Elsie said.
Reluctantly, Shelley ate her cake. She didn’t even like Victoria sponge but she’d never told her mother or Aunt Elsie, one of whom always made that cake on her birthday. Rita had been the one to bake it until Shelley’s fifteenth, after which time Aunt Elsie took over – not only the cake making, but all the things her mother used to do. So what if she didn’t like the bloody cake? What the fuck did it matter?
“How’s work?” Elsie asked.
“Same old, same old.”
“You still look tired. I can tell they’re working you too hard.” Elsie pushed her long, red fringe away from her eyes.
“Not really. I’ve got a bit more responsibility now I’ve been there so long.”
“I think they’re taking advantage of you. I’d like to give your boss a piece of my mind,” Elsie said.
“What are you talking about, Elsie? It’s my fault she’s so tired, running around after me. Isn’t it, dear?”
“No. It’s no one’s fault. I’m just not good managing my time. I’m not even here that often now, am I?” Shelley felt warm tears on her face. She hadn’t realised she was crying again.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Elsie said.
“What do you mean, what I’ve done? You started it.” Rita put her arms around her daughter and rocked her as they sat on the settee. Shelley couldn’t recall her mother comforting her in a long time. Their roles had been reversed and she’d been the one providing comfort to her mother.
Being held like that, Shelley felt like a little girl – but a safe little girl in the arms of her mummy, and that wasn’t a feeling she was used to. She remained in her mother’s embrace until Rita released her, and when she did, Shelley felt the heroin-shaped hole inside her expand.
“I better get going.” Shelley picked up her small, cream handbag.
“You’ve not been here that long,” Elsie said.
“She’ll need an early night. She’s got work tomorrow. Haven’t you, dear?”
“No, she hasn’t,” Elsie said. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.”
“I’m going in for a few hours to catch up... I’ll be back in the week, Mum.” Shelley kissed her mother goodbye.
Aunt Elsie walked with Shelley down the stairs to the front door. As they stood together in the hall, she said, “Tell me you’ve been for your allergy test.”
“I don’t think I need one.” Shelley knew what she was allergic to. She injected it daily to make living bearable. And it would probably show in her blood if she went for an allergy test.
“Well, maybe next time you’re at the doctors, you could ask about it.” Aunt Elsie patted Shelley’s arm. “Make sure she doesn’t give up on this counselling. Keep encouraging her, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. I can’t believe you got her to do it.”
Elsie put her hands on Shelley’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “I told her if she wants you to make something of your life, she needs to get herself together. There’s no way you can get the grades you need at UCL if you’re still being her carer.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
Although Elsie’s hands were no longer on Shelley’s shoulders, they’d been replaced with the heavier weight of guilt. She kissed her aunt on the cheek, and called out, “I love you,” as she dashed to her car.
***
Wrapped in the safety of her duvet and the warm blanket of heroin, Shelley’s guilt eased. Although she was delighted her mother was at last in therapy, Aunt Elsie’s explanation of how she’d coaxed her caused Shelley to question herself. Initially, she’d felt remorseful as the thing most likely to ruin her grades at university was drugs, that’s if they didn’t stop her going in the first place. But then she decided the reason didn’t matter; the fact that her mother was in therapy at all was all that mattered.
Knowing the awkwardness of birthdays, Shelley had ensured a decent supply of heroin and crack. She stretched over from the sofa and prepared her next fix. The pain she felt was mainly due to Will’s absence but there were also other factors. Even when Will was alive, for both of them, their birthdays had been difficult. She wondered if it wasn’t just her but that perhaps her mother, and Will too, felt guilty about celebrating anything after what they’d lived through.
Maybe next year Shelley would do something different, a holiday possibly. Without fail, every birthday she’d spent with her mother and Aunt Elsie, and of course William when he was alive. Now that she was older, surely it was time for a change.
Though the day had been hard, it wasn’t the worst. Her sixteenth had been. That birthday she’d spent in the psychiatric ward of Barnet General Hospital. Her mother had been held on a twenty-eight day section following a suicide attempt. She knew her mother still felt regret over Shelley’s absence from school during that period, and blamed herself that her daughter hadn’t achieved the GCSE grades she’d been predicted.
With her speedball prepared, Shelley found a spot untouched on the one vein she was using. She tied a chiffon scarf around her arm and carefully inserted the needle. She drew back the plunger, watching her blood dance with her medicine in the barrel. She pushed it in gradually. The commixture of comfort and chaos engulfed her. This was the way to utopia.
30. Little Policemen
After forty-eight hours with no sleep, no food, and regular intravenous transfusions, Shelley’s medicine was making her ill. In an old, pink nightdress, she staggered to the dining table. She tried to pick up a pen but it kept slipping from her fingers. She wanted to write a list to stop the worries multiplying any further in her head. If she could get them on paper, they might stop increasing and she might be able to make sense of them and make a plan to calm the panic.
The recent periods of hibernation had ruined her daily ritual of examining the newspapers. Although she hadn’t seen anything on the news, not everything was reported on television – or the papers. But what if it had been, and she’d missed it?
She pictured her face in a wanted article, her mother and her aunt’s reactions. But if it had been printed, and if they had seen it, they would have phoned. Perhaps they hadn’t seen it yet. A friend or neighbour would take a clipping and show them. Any time now, she’d be found out. Her head felt compressed at the temples, creating pressure on her skull as if it might crack.
Still unable to lift the pen with her hands, she laid her chest on the table and pressed her face over the nib of the pen. With one hand pushing the other end, she forced it into her cheek to lever it up. Finally, the pen was in her hand but she couldn’t remember how to hold it. Her fingers weren’t working properly. With the pen gripped in one fist, she used her other hand to slide a white envelope from the opposite end of the table closer towards her.
She fell back on a chair. “Ow,” she screamed. Her bony backside broke her fall and as the leather chairs were thinly padded, it hurt.
Her double vision meant that she couldn’t tell if she was writing on the glass table or on the paper. The exercise was futile. She stood up. Her head felt heavy. She couldn’t see anything apart from shadows. Then, emerging from the shadows were the shadow people. Her legs went. Her body tilted forward then slapped down onto the wooden floor.
“Ow,” she cried again.
Diminutive policemen – the size of garden gnomes – were rolling out from under the dining table in droves. “You’re a bad girl, Shelley Hansard. We know all about you,” said one.
“Leave me alone.” Shelley hit out with her arm, but her hand was grabbed. A bantam policeman squeezed it. He stomped over her as he yanked her arm high behind her back. “Get off. You’re hurting me.” Shelley moaned in pain. “I didn’t do anything, I promise.”
“We know what your promises are worth, Miss Hansard,” a shrill voice said.
“The worthless promises of a whore,” said another.
She felt the tiny policemen climb onto her back, and with the weight of so many, she was pinned down on the floor. She looked around as far as her head could turn. She couldn’t see the shadow people. At least she was alone with the police.
“I didn’t kill him. He just died. It wasn’t my fault.” She sobbed. “Please, I’m telling the truth.”
“You were in Sodom,” one said, and they all jumped up and down on her back. “You think you’re high class. You’re a fucking whore.”
“Why are you being so cruel? I’ve never hurt anybody. I don’t deserve this.”
“High-class call girl, you’re still a whore girl. High-class call girl, you’re still a whore girl. High-class call girl, you’re still a whore girl.” Their high-pitched voices sung so loudly that Shelley feared her neighbours would hear.
“I haven’t done anything. I haven’t hurt anyone. I’m not like that.”
“High-class call girl, you’re still a whore girl. High-class call girl, you’re still a whore girl.”
“Stop it! Please stop,” Shelley begged, but they continued to sing. Preternaturally rage replaced her fear. “Shut up! Shut up!”
Unrelenting, they kept on.
“Shut the fuck up, you fuckers!” With all her strength, she pushed herself up from the floorboards and as she did, the miniature policemen rolled back under the table. She bent down on her knees to see if they’d disappeared, but they had not. They stood together in a line, holding their lilliputian shields and batons.
“Get out my fucking flat!” She banged her hands on the hard floor hoping to scare them. The tiny policemen bounced up and down.
“You have to come with us.” Two by two, they marched out from under the table and formed an orderly line. Their numbers had increased to maybe thirty or more.
“Where do you want to take me?” Shelley’s voice quavered.
“To the place where girls like you belong,” one said poking her in the cheek with his baton.
“Where’s that?”
“Hell,” they said in unison.
Shelley rushed into the kitchen and pulled out a bag of rice from the cupboard. She ran back to the table where the policemen stood and poured the rice over and around them. She watched as they tripped and stumbled, falling over each other on the oak floorboards.
“You’re not helping yourself, you stupid whore,” one said.
“We’ll get you, Shelley Hansard,” said another.
“No crime goes unpunished,” said a third.
The urge to run from her flat was intense. However, the fear of what might be outside was greater. She tried to move, but what she was telling her brain wasn’t being relayed to her legs. Her knees could move but her feet were glued to the floor.
She bent her knees and lowered herself down. Turning her head, she saw the policemen wobbling on the rice and shaking their batons at her. She looked away. Sh
e lay flat on the floorboards and used her arms to drag her body from the dining table by the entrance of the lounge to the coffee table in the centre.
Holding on to the wooden coffee table, she pulled herself up to kneel. The table appeared to be flooded. Her drugs, the works, the scarf, the spoon, the ashtray, her phone, everything floated on top of the river. She glanced over to see if the policemen had left. They hadn’t.
Apprehensively, she dipped in her hand. To her surprise, it didn’t feel wet. She blinked a few times and then squinted. All the items were still afloat. As they bobbed up and down and shifted around, she found it hard to keep her eyes on her ever mobile, mobile phone.
Swishing her hand in the dry water, she finally grabbed her phone. On bringing it towards her face, she couldn’t make out the buttons. With one hand, she covered one eye and her vision from her seeing eye became clearer. Her clumsy fingers eventually brought up the short contact list and she called for help.
***
“I need to go back and pay the cab,” Len said, standing at her front door.
“Of course.” Shelley clung to the door handle to stop her body from falling. “My bag’s by the sofa. Can you see it? I can’t see straight. My purse is in it. Take what you need.”
She heard Len’s light footsteps on the stairs. Although she hadn’t noticed him leave, he must have passed her; she was sure she hadn’t moved from her position by the front door. Her arm was getting tired holding the handle, so she pulled the door inwards and leant against it.
Suddenly, she was catapulted up in the air and floating through the hall. She flew into the lounge, past the dining table and chairs, and landed on the sofa. The ride had been exhilarating and she was disappointed it had come to an end.
“Let’s get you some fluid. Have you been drinking?” Len stooped over Shelley where he’d placed her on the sofa.
“No, I haven’t, I promise – just speedballing.”
“I mean water. Have you had any liquids?”