‘You might want to go away for a couple of days while the work is carried out. It shouldn’t affect you, but they use some pretty strong products for this sort of thing. There might be some odours. We have to inform you, but it’s all quite safe.’
I was still in a daze, otherwise I wouldn’t have come out with such gibberish, but I said to the smoky woman, ‘There can’t be germs up there, the pipe hasn’t been mended.’ She smiled kindly.
‘Not been here long, have you? We fumigate the Savage Twins every eighteen months or so. Be a health hazard if we didn’t. It’s not quite so bad this time, but then we only did it seven months ago. They get put into Residential for a week, we come in and clear the place up, then they come back and the whole thing starts again. The papers, the piss, the vomit, you name it. It’s all about rights see, they have the right to live however they choose, and we have a duty to protect people from any risks to their health.’
I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry. I didn’t do either. I just sat there trying to take it all in.
That was when I found out which twin had died. I had my first glimpse of a Savage Twin for several days. Rose was being escorted down the path, a policewoman one side of her and a young man wearing jeans on the other. She had her brown coat on as usual, but the wrong headscarf. She was wearing the pale blue one. She was shouting, ‘She’ll be all right. I can look after her, we don’t want you bastards interfering with us.’ The escorts tried to quieten her, but Rose was in fighting mood. Her left arm swung backwards and caught the young man at chest level. He fell backwards but got up quickly, unhurt. More hands tightened on Rose’s arms, and she was led to a red hatchback parked behind the police car.
‘Get your stinking hands off me, you’re all covered in germs and diseases.’
I could hear her voice from the car after that, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her face was visible for a few moments before they drove her away. She was like a livid bruise, all that purple skin and the blue scarf. And she was frothing at the mouth. It had run down her neck – a ruff of white foam under Mr Punch’s chin.
They started the clean up before I’d packed my things so I saw the start of it. First to come out was the mattress, soaked and stained like it had already been dumped in a ditch for ages. Then there were the papers. What they did, apparently, was to divide up the rooms by building newspaper walls. They lived inside a maze of papers, stacked from floor to ceiling. It was like squeezing through narrow tunnels, one of the men said. He was wearing a white zip-up suit, and a little mask, big rubber gloves. They’d made their own inner bedroom, newspapers piled close to the bed, with a gap on one side, enclosed like a cave. That was where Keeley was. Lying on her back, on the wet, bare mattress. Wearing her brown coat.
He reckoned she had choked on her own vomit after a drinking session. He told me more, but I wish he hadn’t because sometimes I can’t get it out of my mind. She’d been dead nearly a week. Rose had been trying to feed her and had sat getting drunk with her in the afternoons. She’d slept next to her in the moist newspaper cave while Keeley’s hair and the collar of her coat went stiff with the remains of her meal and a couple of pints of stout. She had baked beans in her mouth when they found her, pushed behind her lips and sitting in front of her teeth like a set of orange spares.
Their fears about germs getting in from outside had led the Savage Twins to seal up every crevice in the flat. Plugholes in the bath and sinks had been stuffed with old rags, and held down with more stacks of newspapers. The toilet lid was tied shut with string and taped round and round with wide, brown, sticky tape. They’d made their own place for getting rid of all that alcohol and so on – another newspaper room, tiny and dark with a bucket on the floor. The man from the environment said it was filled almost to the top.
‘I wouldn’t care, but I’ve got to carry the bloody thing out. Sometimes I wonder why I do this job,’ he said through gritted teeth.
I couldn’t help him think of a reason, apart from the smart protective clothing.
I couldn’t go back. I heard that Rose had gone home, and she carried on just like before. She talked to herself all the time but people left her alone. It was the talking that had brought things to a head and led to them finding Keeley. The man in the grocery shop got worried when Rose started going in on her own and having conversations with herself. She’d do her own voice, and then answer herself in Keeley’s voice. When the shopkeeper asked how her sister was, Rose laughed and said, ‘Just the same as me. They never could tell us apart.’ He got in touch with the authorities and that was that.
I have nightmares sometimes about how long Rose would have lived with her dead sister, and I wake up with the image of an empty brown coat stuck to the mattress, a purple syrup oozing through the floorboards. They put me in another flat. It’s small and noisy. But it’s clean. I make sure of that. The money I spend on disinfectant and antiseptic cleaning fluid is nobody’s business. But you can’t be too sure. I keep a careful watch on the neighbours here, but they all seem to be quite normal. I don’t think they’re as particular as me, but then they haven’t had the experience I’ve had with the Savage Twins. I hope to forget all about them in time.
My sessions at the drop-in centre are helping. I have to tell the group how many times I’ve scrubbed my hands that week, and try to go half an hour without rushing off to the loo to do it again. Not that I like using their premises for my cleansing procedure. They want me to have a go at shaking hands with the others in the group without wiping my palms down the side of my legs. I’m working up to that one. For now, I limit myself to three scrubs an hour. I spell out their names as I turn the soap in my hands. Four turns for Rose gets the water worked in, six turns for Keeley makes a nice lather, and six turns for Savage removes all traces of bacteria.
* Foothold *
You should have seen the look on his face. White, he went – just pure white. The colour in his face emptied down his neck like someone had pulled the plug out of the bath and his blood drained down the hole. It scared him, obviously. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? I mean, what a thing to happen. There he was, all confident and well dressed, on his side of that great big desk. And he kept straightening the sheet of paper in front of him – gave it a little push to the left, then a tiny nudge with his finger back the other way. He didn't want to touch it properly, as if it had nothing to do with him, but he was going to make it conform by organising it, make it fit in on his desk.
He paused a lot as well – just stopped and looked down at the neat lines of writing. My writing – upside down to me.
‘It says here,’ he said, then scanned the paper to see what it did say. It was like he was trying to catch me out.
Ask me, I was thinking. Just ask me instead of checking on there all the time. But he hardly looked at me. Except for when I wasn't looking at him. I could feel quick little glances poking about over my face every now and then.
I slipped my shoes off and felt my way carefully under the desk. I tried to keep my expression the same, and carried on looking at the sheet of paper, then up at his glasses, which reflected tiny fluorescent strips back at me. I felt the carpet; it was more springy under the desk. Then I felt his shoe – it was that bit round the edge, like a narrow bumper where dog shit gets lodged. It sits on that ledge of rubber even after you've scraped it off the sole. I couldn't see if there was any on his shoe, of course. I had to take a chance.
I touched him so lightly that it could have been a fly landing on his foot. Then I walked my fingers up towards his laces – still light and careful, just feeling my way. I brushed against his sock. It was rough and itchy, and felt like it would be grey, or some dull green colour. I forced my face, and all of my body, to stay exactly the same on my side of his desk. With his legs being stretched out, and mine being long, it helped me to reach. I was on the edge of the chair anyway, so I didn't even have to lean forward.
I waited for him to say it one more time.
‘I
t says here …’ There was a long pause, and that’s when I made my move. A quick grab and I had him. My hand circled his ankle, pushed the top of his sock down, and squeezed the cool, bony bit where the leg hairs stop and it goes all smooth and white with veins mapping out directions to the foot.
He froze. His eyes flashed panic, his shoulders locked high up, and his hands went stiff like claws. He stared straight at me, his mouth open, completely lost. I gripped him tighter round his ankle, still without moving the rest of my body, then I ran my fingers up the back of his leg, just a little way – under the flapping fabric of his trousers. His skin was warmer up there, but not hairy like I expected. It felt shiny. I wouldn't look at him for a while, but then I did. And I smiled. He tried to pull his leg away then. He came back to life, out of his petrified state. I held on for a few more seconds, then I let go. But I quickly caught his shoelace and untied it before he whipped his foot away, jerking the shoe off as he pulled back.
He stood up, knocking his swivel chair backwards. I sat and watched him. I put my shoes back on and crossed my legs. I made my face stay calm and friendly, but he was all stirred up and wanted to say something. His mouth was all twitchy with words and questions, but he didn’t know where to start, or what had just happened. And he was hopping then – with one foot high up off the ground – looking for his shoe. He was all confused and shaken up, nowhere near as neat as he had been. No more pushing with his finger now, to keep pieces of paper in line.
All he knows is he's just had a hand round his ankle, and his shoe's been taken off. He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry or run out of the room. Was it a trick? Did he imagine it? Did he get his foot caught under the desk? He can't say anything to me because how would it sound? He’s seen me – I've been sitting still in front of him all this time. He can't say a word to me. So we play this game of pretend it never happened. He can't quite get his composure back though. He sits back, away from the desk, his eyes scanning the room. He’s nervous and jumpy.
I already know I'm not going to get the job. I wouldn't have risked it otherwise. So I relax and wait for him to say it – “we'll be in touch.” As I leave, I get a quick look at his socks. They are grey.
You'll be wondering if I've told this right. Wondering if I've got abnormally long arms or something. No, it’s not that. I did tell it right, and you didn't miss anything. I've got two sets of hands, that’s what it is. I’ve got one pair on the end of my arms and another pair on the end of my legs, where most people have feet. Now you'll do all that stuff where you try to hide your real feelings. That polite sit still and don't bat an eyelid sort of thing, as if you come across things like this all the time. Unshockable old you – you’re so accepting and anything goes aren’t you? But really you'll want to run as fast as you can. Get out of here, your own voice shouts in your ear while you sit with your head slightly on one side and your best understanding expression arranged on your face. Either that, or you'll be plump with relief that it's me and not you. You'll wiggle your own little tootsies and smile to yourself that at least you're not some freak of nature trying to pass yourself off as normal. You'll even feel a bit smug, like being indoors when it's raining, watching others get soaked outside. You’ll tell yourself that you know there are strange things out there in the world, of course there are. And you accept and understand them. But you’re not part of it. You're at a distance from anything like that.
Or maybe you'll be one of those people who just can't hide their curiosity. You'll try very hard, but it will keep slipping out. Dying to have a closer look, you are. You want to ask all sorts of questions, but know you shouldn't. You’re almost willing my shoes to pop off like some grand finale in a magic show, so you can see the hands waving at you. Or clapping like seals in the circus, and doing clever little tricks like juggling or knitting. And I've done all that. Well, not the juggling. I can't get the hang of that with my hand hands let alone with my feet hands. But all party tricks and playing the clown, that was me – I would always be the centre of attention with my little displays. Someone would say something about my hands, and then it would start – the friendly persuasion to put myself in the spotlight.
And I saw the eyes out on stalks, heard the sharp intakes of breath, the hands clapped over mouths to stifle hysterical eruptions speeding up throats like projectile vomiting. And all of it was covered with that thin film of politeness. I used to mistake it for interest, inclusion, even a sort of forgiveness – as if people were saying I was still okay, still one of them even with something a bit unusual hidden in my socks. It took me a long time to realise that it was really the opposite. I started to notice that the friendly behaviour only lasted while there was a group of us – at work or in some social gathering. As long as I could be seen as the oddity among the crowd, everyone was willing to pat me on the back and give me that warm look of support. You're among friends here, the look implied. You're safe. It's only us. And I fell for it. I went ahead with the hand-shaking tricks, walked on my feet hands for them, offered round a bag of sweets, sucked my thumb – all those novelty sort of things I'd done as a child, either in play or simply as my way of interacting with the world. It really wasn't that strange to me. You get what you're given and learn to live with it. As far as I could see, I was lucky – I had more fingers to explore things with. Before that I just assumed everyone had what I had.
But those good-hearted groups of spectators, their controlled reactions carrying me along on a tide of acceptance, gradually made me realise that all is not what is seems. When they'd seen enough, and it was time to put my shoes back on and go home, I would suddenly be all on my own. Disappeared like smoke on a windy day, they did. They just rushed off in all directions and left me to it. And if I ever did catch up with any of them, or strike up a conversation along the corridor at work, they would always be in a hurry, or wouldn't look at me – seemed uneasy. There were no pats on the back then, or friendly smiles. That used to hurt, of course. I thought I'd done something wrong – offended them or something.
So I know all about your unflinching benevolence. Actually I'd prefer it if you were more honest. Just like children are now I'm the grown up – all staring disbelief and startled recoiling, then coming back slowly to ask questions. It happens every now and then. At the swimming pool, when I can pluck up the courage to go. And on the beach when I think I'm far enough away from all the holiday-makers on their multi-coloured towelling rafts and their portions of sand marked out by wind-breakers, moats, cool-boxes and so on. They come and plant themselves, set up home for the day, claim their territory and settle in. Just once in a while though, one of them will wander away from the inhabited area and stray onto the open stretch where I sit.
‘Which way up do you walk?’ a little girl asked me once. She just came out with it as I lay on the sand, reading a book and taking notes with my feet hands. She looked puzzled, her face screwed into a frown. You could tell she really wanted to know, wanted to make sense of something new. There was no undercurrent of distaste or ridicule on her face. So I showed her. I stood up and took a few steps, leaving a line of handprints in the sand.
‘Can you wear shoes as well?’ she said.
I told her I could, just like anyone else. And she went away satisfied, filing the information she'd just discovered.
Like I said though, I've long since stopped being the entertainer. Something happened and it brought out this other side of me, this side that wants to startle and alarm. I went right inside my shell for a long time, I did – felt like some mutant creature that had to keep out of the way of others. It was like I'd been left behind by my own kind when they made a hasty departure back to our planet. So now I had to try and blend into this alien place. Except of course I was the alien.
School was a nightmare – you can imagine. Anything to do with PE was a real torment, but it was everything, really. Once they get hold of something like that, other kids can be cruel. I was an outcast. The one they ran away from in mock horror. Only it wasn't
mock. I just kept myself to myself in the end. I did have one friend for a while, but she moved away so I had to get on with facing things on my own – the drawings on walls and blackboards, things written on the backs of toilet doors, screwed-up balls of paper thrown at me in the classroom. It got boring in the end. I spent my fair share of time weeping and wishing, but in the end it all slid off me like I had an oily coating. I knew there was nothing I could do about my two pairs of hands, so I resigned myself to this life on the edge, and withdrew into my shell.
My short friendship with deaf Penny had given me a taste of shared secrets and that nice solid feeling of knowing there was someone you mattered to. Or even didn't matter to, in a way. It never mattered to Penny about my hands, and it never mattered to me about Penny not hearing a word I said. I started to learn sign language, and she would tell me to slow down because I was talking with all my hands at once. Then we'd get the giggles, and it didn't matter how many hands, ears or even belly buttons either of us had then.
So that was school, a long time ago. I bet they tell their own children about it now, those grown up classmates. They probably paint it differently to put themselves in a better light.
Grave Misgivings Page 3