‘What’s up with your hand? Looks just like mine – look.’ She angles her hand to show me the side of her palm where there is a recent but healing purple cut.
‘Cat got you as well, did it?’ I say.
‘No,’ she says, smiling and raising her eyes. ‘My own fault – I was doing the meat. What were you doing with the cat?’
I look down at the plate she’s put in front of me – it’s got two eggs, baked beans and masses of tinned tomatoes on it. I look away quickly and rub the back of my hand lightly. ‘He got in my room,’ I say, ‘and got a bit scared, so he – ’
She interrupts. ‘It’s a she,’ she says. ‘Like the rest of us.’
‘So …’ I don’t know what to say. She is talking to me as if the strange, uneasy meeting with the women never took place. I am still curious, still muddled. ‘So, do you mean there’s really no men here, then? Is it really all women or – ’
Again, she butts in, and this time she’s gone all sharp. ‘Now, I know you’re not a meat eater like all of us here,’ she says, ‘so I’ve done you something you can eat.’She points at the plate. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘a plateful of things that never spoke a word out of place, or broke a promise to put a shelf up or betrayed anyone by going off with the holiday makers.’ She laughs and stands next to the table waiting to see me eat this liquid array of orange, red and yellow food. I try to laugh with her but it comes out more like a choking sound at the back of my throat. I pick at the beans and mushy tomatoes in their mingled juices.
‘Go on,’ she says, ‘you get stuck in. There’s no meat hidden under the eggs, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ She pats my back. I think I am supposed to take this as a friendly gesture but it feels like a warning – eat that or else. She heads back to the door near the stairs. The overpowering smell of meat is everywhere and gets stronger when she opens the door. I try to make it look like I’ve eaten some of the food by piling it up but it all slides back to cover the plate again. I can’t eat a single mouthful of it. I even consider a vase on the windowsill, but think I’ll probably spill it all over myself if I try to tip it in there. Either that or I’ll get caught in the act. So I just put the knife and fork down, push the plate away and pour myself a cup of tea from the chipped brown teapot.
‘Where’s the other one of you?’ It’s the fat young woman. She’s waddling her way towards my table from the bar area.
‘Where’s the what?’ I say. I have no idea what she means, but I am determined to be as rude to her as she has been to me.
She reaches the table and stands in front of me like a chubby baby, her arms crossed and resting on the top roll of her stomach. She sighs. She is out of breath from her short walk and I can hear her wheezing. ‘I said, where’s the other one?’
I don’t know what to say – don’t know if she’s having a go again. ‘It’s only me, as you know,’ I say.
‘No,’ she says, ‘there were two of you – I’ve done the bill and everything – hang on, I’ll go and get it.’ She thuds heavily to the bar and comes back with a sheet of paper, puts it in front of me. Her stubby finger jabs at the rounded, blue writing. Room for two, evening meal for two, bath for two, breakfast for two, it lists. The total at the bottom is more than double the price I’d been told. ‘We don’t take any of them fancy cards or nothing like that,’ she says. ‘It’s cash only, if you don’t mind.’
I stand up. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to get away with here but it was just me. I was here on my own – you know I was. You should know – you came and watched me having a bloody bath for Christ’s sake.’
‘Who’s doing a bit of wishful thinking then?’ she says and gives her provoking, rubbery smile.
‘How can you even try and charge me for two of everything when you know I was here on my own?’ I say. ‘Look, one plate of slop that you call breakfast. Not two – just one.’ I bang my hand on the table. ‘Can you see that?’
‘Oldest trick in the book though, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘One of you sneaks off in the night and you expect us not to notice. You don’t want to go thinking that because we’re all women here, you can get away with anything.’
‘Listen,’ I say, my voice quavering with anger now. ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re on about, but if you think I’m paying for two you must think I’m stupid. And guess what? I’m not.’ I flick the bill across the table. It catches the edge of the plate and a line of bean juice splashes the paper.
‘Oh, really?’ she says. ‘You reckon you’re not stupid?’ she fakes a snort of laughter. ‘You’re trying to tell me you’re not stupid and yet you actually think we’ve eaten all the men?’
‘You what?’ I say, and my voice goes all high and funny. ‘What?’
‘Well, don’t you?’ she says. ‘Come on, be honest – you thought to yourself how come there are so many women here and no men? And what are they doing humping things about in that yard? And why does the place always smell of meat? Go on admit it, you thought you’d stumbled across something didn’t you? This place filled with all these women that have decided to take over, didn’t you? A place where we won’t put up with the dirt and clutter, the drinking and bad language or the selfish behaviour of men any more. So we eat them. Right, aren’t I?’ She stares at me, shaking. ‘And you say you’re not stupid. I mean who’s going to believe you if you go telling people things like — ’
‘Donna!’ The older woman is back. ‘That’s enough now,’ she says. ‘You just hold your tongue right now and get that bill sorted out. Stop all that silly talk of yours, the young lady might not understand the joke.’
I stand up, making the chair scrape. ‘Funny sort of jokes you have round here,’ I say. I grab my backpack of the floor. ‘I’m leaving. Right now.’ I pick the bill up, wave it at the two women and slap it down hard on the table. ‘And I’m not paying your fucking bill either. There is something seriously wrong with you lot. And I just want to get out of here.’
‘She’s just like the men used to be,’ says the fat woman, ‘effing and blinding all over the place.’ she takes a deep breath. Her face is red. ‘And where will you go?’
‘That’s none of your bloody business,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of other places to stay.’
‘None of them will have you though,’ she says, ‘you can be sure of that. That’s why you ended up here – we decided it was best to keep you out of the houses. We didn’t want you upsetting the routine, not now we’ve got it all worked out.’ The slabs of fat at the sides of her face and under her chin are quivering. ‘Blakey comes to the houses, see. And we always keep them nice for him – well, some are nicer than others of course. Some of us try harder and try to keep him sweet. He’s the last one — ’
‘Donna, stop it now,’ says the older woman. ‘Don’t say another word. Not a word.’ She is making a high pitched, nervous sound that I think I am supposed to believe is laughter.
‘Why don’t you just eat him as well?’ I say.
The older woman continues her laughing. It sounds more like she’s crying. ‘He’s one of a kind, Blakey is,’ she says. ‘You won’t find another man like him.’
Donna joins in again. ‘Yeah, he can turn his hand to anything,’ she says, ‘and he’s no trouble. Always home on time, he is, wherever we’ve got him staying for the night. He’ll come in and get his slippers on good as gold – loves home cooking, and he’s never down the pub or anything like that. We wouldn’t have him here if he didn’t know how to behave, would we?’ she turns to the older woman who has got her hand clapped over her mouth. Her eyes look angry. But scared as well.
The fat woman is still talking when I leave, my backpack swaying as I pick up speed and head out of the gloomy bar, onto the pavement.
I find the garage card and ring from the telephone box in the market square. There is a cheerful answer-phone message. I wait for a while then try the number again. I see a cat looking directly at me from the house opposite; it is halfway up
the window and looks like it’s levitating. I think it must be some sort of ornament or a sticker until it pulls back its ears, opens it mouth and bares its teeth at me, then disappears behind the net curtains. I try again and still can’t get through to the garage so I walk there.
The man is working on another car. I ask how long mine will be.
‘It’s done,’ he says.
I am stunned. ‘You said three days.’
‘Wasn’t the clutch after all,’ he says, ‘just needed a few bits tightening up here and there. Good as new now,’ he said.
I ask for the bill and he gives me a sheet of paper. It includes the amount from the Red Dragon. Room for two has been added in different handwriting.
‘You can’t go walking out without paying, now can you?’ he says. ‘Not after they’ve been so good to you.’
I want to scream with frustration. ‘It was just me – they want to charge me double,’ I say.
‘Oh I don’t get involved with anything between the women,’ he says. ‘I do as I'm told and keep my nose clean. That way there’s no trouble and we all have a …well, we have a quiet life. I’ve always been one for that.’
‘But — ’
‘Anyway,’ he carries on, forcing a theatrical laugh. ‘You’ve seen them – I'm not arguing with them. They’d eat me for dinner.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I say.
He laughs uneasily, shuffles his feet and looks at the ground. ‘Look, pay the bill and get on your way, Miss’ he says. ‘Forget all about what’s happened here.’
‘And what has happened here?’ I look at his face but he won’t make eye contact.
‘Well, you know,’ he says. ‘This.’ He pats the bonnet of my car. ‘You breaking down and everything.’
I stuff the bill in my back pocket. ‘I’ll send you a cheque as soon as I get home,’ I say and get in my car. There are no keys.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ he says, ‘but I don’t trust what you ladies say. Not any more I don’t, anyhow.’ He points to a board behind him where my keys are hanging on a nail.
I find my cheque book and write out the amount I owe him for his work on the car. ‘You can tell them from me that I’ll take the consequences of not paying for the Red Dragon,’ I say.
‘I’m not telling them anything, Miss,’ he says. ‘I like a quiet — ’
‘Yes I know, you like a quiet life,’ I say, and pay him for the work he’s done. ‘And you’re more than welcome to it.’ I tear the cheque out and hand it to him. He hands me my key, then tries to give me the bill again. I take it from him, let it go again and we both watch it float to the concrete floor and land face down.
I get in my car. It starts first time. I drive home with the windows open to try and get rid of the smell of meat
* Unattached *
What really gets me down is the way they make you go over it again and again. Of course they need to check and double check before they can go ahead; no-one would want it any other way. But it drains you in the end. Which is why they do it, obviously – if you can’t tolerate the pressure of interviews, tests, endless repeated questions, and the sheer psychological battering, forget it. You stand no chance. Most candidates are excluded right at the start; and even if you get a long way through and look like you’re going to make it, once you show the slightest hint of struggling, you’re out. Just like that, no second chance, no special considerations, just out in the cold. And they don’t let people come back to them later. It doesn’t matter how much money you put in front of them, they won’t even look at you once you’ve cracked; they can’t. And that’s exactly how it should be of course; absolutely the right thing to do. But it does create an enormous amount of stress.
Looking at some of the others on the programme, I’d say the common characteristic is determination. These people are one hundred percent focused on the end result, and they all have the iron will to get there. When you’re aware of that level of determination in yourself, you can recognise it in others. I know they have the same commitment I do and will let nothing stand in the way. Once you get to this stage in your life, when you know it’s the only way you can survive, you have to be prepared to give up anything that might jeopardise the outcome. For me, that meant walking away from my marriage and family, my friends and my job. Some of the other candidates have made greater sacrifices – wealth, authority, even a certain level of fame and popularity in one case – and that’s what makes it so hard for other people to understand. Unless you feel this is the only option left to you, that your life has reached the point of being utterly intolerable, it would be impossible to endure the selection process. But if, like me, you could not contemplate living the rest of your life attached to an alien parasite, then there is no other option.
Although the others on the programme are hoping for the same result as me, I would do anything to secure my place before or instead of each one of them. I know how far I’ve come to get here, and I know with absolute certainty that I will not give up now – not for anyone or anything. But then, altruism is in short supply in this situation. I am fully aware that each one of them would happily walk over my dying body to get ahead of me in the queue; and I know without doubt that should they find themselves on life-support machines, I would stand on the tubes supplying their oxygen and not feel the slightest qualm.
Desperation will drive people to extreme measures; we all know that about ourselves. Yet I have found little understanding and less sympathy towards my own desperate need to be rid of this vile appendage, this repellent thing taking life from my body, this so-called limb. The closest I have come is the professional acknowledgement I see on the faces of the doctors, psychiatrists and psychologists whose desks I have looked across for the past two years. Every second will have been worth it if the limb is removed and I can go on with my life as the person I was meant to be. But their faces, as they have watched me repeat my story to them again and again, will stay with me forever. Even with all their careful attempts at concealment, it is still unmistakeable when one human being experiences disgust in the presence of another. A slight flaring of the nostrils; a narrowing of the eyes, or a lifting of the upper lip – however momentarily – these are all instinctive reactions and I have picked them up at that same level, without any conscious effort. I have known for several years that I cannot expect empathy from others, and realise that I appear perfectly normal. But while I know it seems to others that there is nothing wrong with me, which has always been the least acceptable type of illness in our society, of course, I did expect more from the medical profession than curiosity and distaste.
I have yet to meet the surgeon that will perform the operation; the one who will actually remove the limb. There are still hoops to go through before I get to the final stage, and I have to satisfy many other specialists before I reach the big man. I must answer the same questions put in different ways, fit their criteria of need, pass their battery of tests and convince the panels of experts that I am of sound mind and in genuine need. As I put myself through all this and play the part they expect of me, I often wonder what the top man is like.
Recently I had a vivid dream, one of many about the limb. I had passed all the tests and was finally on the operating table, and even though I had been anaesthetised, I was euphoric that I was at last going to be separated from the hideous tumour that looks like a leg. The surgical team was ready and prepared, their masked faces looking down at me, and then in he came – the big man himself. And he had no arms. There was a smooth, uncluttered outline to his body – the pure and simple shape of his torso. Before they put the gown on him, I saw them attach a harness over his shoulders and chest that had shiny, metal robotic arms connected to the sides. It was all highly technological and looked like something from a science fiction film. It made sense to me instantly. I would have clapped my hands with excitement had I not been sinking into a heavy, swirling state of sedation. He had obviously been through the same surgery that he was about to perform on me; had obviousl
y been burdened by the same life-draining organism that had invaded my body. And here he was, a highly successful surgeon, still practising his skills and taking his place in the world, unencumbered by the leech-like creature that had lived inside him. I took great solace from that dream, and actually wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised to find that my surgeon has indeed had personal experience of the horrors of alien occupation. Why else would he be in the field of amputating apparently healthy body parts from seemingly well people?
I have had to draw on all my resources of resilience and self-belief to get this far and I now see that it wouldn’t have been possible earlier in my life. Even the ability to get through the rigorous selection process is something I couldn’t have managed as a younger man. I would have reacted angrily, been outspoken and offensive in response to their probing, their challenges and provocation. Now I have the maturity to see there is a way to play their game, that unless you do, you cannot hope to win. And it is winning that is so important to me. Without it I will be forced to seek some back-street butcher to do the deed. Worse, I will have to carry it out myself. I know I am capable; indeed many times my desperation has driven me close to using crude tools. I have stood mesmerised by the serrated teeth of my chainsaw, placing the blade at the point where my own thigh becomes the property of the festering tissue that lives in what used to be my lower leg. I had to will myself not to press down hard and let the fast, slicing action begin. I have used all my strength and self-discipline to throw down my electric hedge-trimmer seconds before I allowed it to fall heavily on my thigh and sever me from the parasite concealed beneath my flesh. And I have had to explain the lines of bloody dots piercing my skin when my wife wanted to touch, to soothe, to understand what had happened. For me, any such action would be both an easy route – I know I can go through with it; and a last resort – I do not want to provide confirmation to all those who believe me to be mad. I want this alien thing removed surgically and within the respected arena of the medical profession.
Grave Misgivings Page 14