by Mary Carter
“What happened?” Ava asked Deven.
“I had to show them the garden. They let me keep the fertilizer.”
“Do you feel any safer?” Vic said, throwing up her arms in a what-has-the-world-come-to kind of way. “I certainly don’t.”
“What does this have to do with my lucky charm?”
“Maybe you dropped it on the footpath in front of Deven’s and one of the coppers fingered it on his way in.”
It was such a ludicrous scenario, which meant only one thing. Vic was lying. She had the lucky charm. “Please give it back. I’ll pay you.”
“Did I say I have it?”
“You haven’t denied it either.”
“That’s London for you. Sometimes it takes things from you and you never get them back.”
Deven stood near the window, peering down at Ava’s pile of sketches on the floor. The top several were of Deven, in various poses in front of his building. “What in the bloody hell?” It was comical to hear him swear. But this wasn’t the time to laugh. He shook the picture at Ava. “Who are you? Are you stalking me?”
Ava laughed; she couldn’t help it. “I’d be the world’s most pathetic stalker.”
“Are you a spy?” Vic said. “Is he a terrorist after all?”
“I’m just a girl. I like to sketch.”
“I’m not a terrorist,” Deven said.
Vic walked over and grabbed the sketch out of Deven’s hand. “Looks like a Wanted poster to me. She really captured your scowl.”
“I don’t have a scowl,” Deven said, his expression matching the one on the sketch to a T.
Ava grabbed her other sketches. “I’m just passing the time. See?” She held up the sketch of the couple on their first date. Vic squinted.
“They look like cartoons,” Vic said.
“People like cartoons,” Ava said. She put the pictures away. They felt soiled now. “I need to rest. I’ll see you to the door.”
“What’s it like then? Your agoraphobia?” Vic’s voice was loud. She didn’t care who heard her.
“It’s like you’re going to die,” Ava said.
“A right in-valid,” Vic said.
“Don’t pronounce it like that. ‘In-valid.’ Like I have no value.”
“You have value,” Vic said loudly.
“Thank you.”
“Your life doesn’t though, does it?”
Ava clenched and unclenched her fists. “Good-bye.”
“We just got here,” Vic said. “You haven’t even offered us tea.”
“I have to unpack the groceries. Maybe next time.”
Vic and Deven ambled to the door. Deven exited, but Vic stopped before she reached it. “I have to go to the loo,” she said.
Damn it. Couldn’t she wait? Ava pointed to the bedroom. Through there. Vic disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Why did she do that? The bathroom had a door of its own; she didn’t need to shut the bedroom door too.
“Do you think she’d steal anything?” Ava said.
“Most definitely, yes,” Deven said.
Shoot. Should she go in there? She turned back to Deven. “Do you like her bossing you around?”
“No,” Deven said.
“Then why put up with it?”
Deven looked up, as if someone he admired were floating on a cloud just above him. “She has the personality of the butchi-est lesbian, and the body of a straight girl. She’s every woman who has ever rejected me all rolled up into one. Colored ponies couldn’t drag me away.”
“Wow,” Ava said. “I didn’t realize you had reached the colored ponies stage so fast.” Deven nodded very seriously.
When Vic emerged from the bathroom Ava eyed her pockets for bulges. It was hard to tell, what with the apron and all. Should she frisk her?
“Crikey, that’s some wardrobe you’ve got in there,” Vic said.
“Everything belongs to Aunt Beverly. You shouldn’t be going through her things.”
“Chillax,” Vic said. “Isn’t that what you Yankee Doodle Dandies say?”
“I’m hardly a fitting representative for the rest of the Yankee Doodle Dandies.”
“Riding on a pony!” Deven said. He bobbed his head and smiled. “I’ll bet it was a colored pony too.”
“What if Deven and I help win the competition?” Vic asked. “What would you give us?”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Ava said. Go now. Just go.
“Oh, there’s always something that can be done,” Vic said. “And I’m usually the girl they ask to done it.” She laughed at her own mispronunciation. “I’m sure we can think of something.”
“That’s not necessary,” Ava said.
“What’s his name? Queenie?”
She was relentless. Ava had made a huge mistake inviting her here. Hello, box. Meet Pandora. “Thank you again for the groceries.”
“Does he have a last name?” Vic asked.
“Please,” Ava said. “I can handle this.”
“How would Queenie feel if he knew a terrorist was living right across the street?” Vic smiled and put her arm around Deven.
“That wouldn’t work,” Ava said. “But thanks.”
“I’ll think of something,” Vic said. “Maybe we could rotate use of the flat. A time-share.”
“No,” Ava said. “I don’t want your help. Sorry. Good-bye.” She tried to shut the door. Vic lodged her foot in it.
“I’m telling you. I can make this happen.”
“If they even think I’m cheating, Queenie gets the flat.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
“Do I have to know?” Deven said. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“Go home, little terrorist,” Vic said.
“Will I see you later?” Deven said.
Vic shrugged.
“Both of you need to go,” Ava said.
“Not until you say you want my help,” Vic said.
“I don’t.”
“I’ve decided. I’m going to help. I’ll start by digging up dirt on your flatmate.”
“No. I said no. All right? Now get your foot out of the door and go home.”
Vic winked at Ava. “Right, right,” she said loudly, as if they were secretly being recorded and had just discovered it.
“I mean it,” Ava said. “Don’t do anything.”
“What if you and Deven got married? He could do the things on the list.” Deven looked like he’d swallowed his own tongue.
“No,” Ava said.
“Marry me, then,” Vic said.
“Please don’t,” Deven said.
“I won’t,” Ava said.
“We’ll talk terms later,” Vic said. “After I’ve proven my worth.”
“If you wanted to prove your worth you’d give me the lucky charm back.” Ava tried to nudge Vic’s foot out of the doorway.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“I’m not trading you the flat for it if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What about your flatmate? Would he be willing to trade me his share of the flat for the charm?”
“If you have that charm you’d better give it to me. Stealing is a crime.”
“I’m just saying I’ll keep me eye out for it, I will. Especially if there’s a reward.”
“I’ll pay you a reward. A hundred pounds. Deal?”
“I’ll give you a ring if I come across it,” Vic said. She turned and started down the stairs.
“It has no value to anyone else. It’s just sentimental. Two hundred pounds?” Ava called after her.
“Cheerio!” Vic called back.
Ava slammed the door. Did Vic actually have it or was she just messing with her? So much for friends. So much for friends, so much for charms, and so much for colored ponies. Ava headed for the kitchen, where she had every intention of stuffing herself into the next life.
CHAPTER 21
Don’t think; just run. Ava stood at the bottom of the steps of her
building, facing the main door. If she didn’t start warming up, going out in little increments, she’d never build up to anything on the list. Vic’s visit had really shaken her. Vic saw her as vulnerable and was more than ready to swoop in for the kill. Did she actually think Ava would just hand over a portion of her flat to a total stranger? Just go outside the damn door. Open the door and stand on the stoop. That’s all. There was only a small window in the door and it was so old and dirty that all Ava could see was a blur of colors and shapes. She was wearing one of Diana’s black turtlenecks and jeans. At the time Ava thought it might assist her with channeling her inner therapist, but now she was sweating bullets, and it felt like someone was slowly strangling her. Why did Diana love these things so much? Do it. Just do it. Ava closed her eyes, pushed open the door, and stumbled out onto the stoop. The air was cool against her flushed cheeks. The noises, the smells, the vibrations. Horns, and voices, and cars, and sirens. She smelled coffee, and bacon, and dirt. Get this over with.
Ava opened her eyes and sprinted down the stoop. Muggy air accosted her. It felt wet even though there was a break from the rain. She was right. It also smelled like exhaust. She tripped on the third step. She grabbed the rail, but it was too late. She fell down the other three steps, landed on her hands and knees on the sidewalk.
“Ava?” Vic called. Ava peeled her stinging palms off the ground and stood. She lifted her left leg, then the right. She didn’t think anything was broken. “Ava? You’re outside. You’re outside, luv.” Ava tried to keep her head straight ahead but slid her eyes across the street. Vic was standing with Deven in front of his building, smoking. Great, he’d changed his one smoke break to coincide with hers. And this time he looked like he was enjoying it. Which meant he’d picked up two bad habits, Vic being the worst of them. Ava just held up her hand in an approximation of a wave. Keep going. Don’t think.
Ava took a step, and then another. Put one foot in front of the other. And soon you’ll be walking out the door.... Great. Now she was going to have that bloody Christmas carol in her head all day long. Maybe death wasn’t the worst thing after all. At least if she died she wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore. That was something, wasn’t it?
“You off, luv? Going to do something on the list?”
Bugger off.
“Want us to come with ye in case you do another header?”
Run, Ava, run. Run away from her. Ava ran. She pumped her legs and her arms as fast as she could. She was doing it. Running down the street past a wine shop, dry cleaner, and apartment buildings. Emergency sirens pulsed and shrieked in the distance. She could relate. A man with a briefcase blocked her path; she darted to her right and plowed into a young woman lost in her headphones.
“Ow,” the girl said. “You gobshite!”
“Sorry,” Ava said. She wanted to push the girl to the ground and stomp on her face. She didn’t do it on purpose.
“Watch where you’re bloody going!”
“Sod off,” Ava said quietly to the girl’s back, watching her blond ponytail bounce away.
The colored dots swarmed Ava’s vision. That was enough for today. She turned around and made it step-by-step back to the building by fastening her eyes on the pavement. London was chewed gum, cigarette butts, and abandoned advertisements.
“Back so soon?” Vic called when she’d climbed the first few steps. “Or forget your lucky charm?”
Ava whirled around. “Do you have it?” she shouted. Her voice cracked. She wasn’t accustomed to shouting. Or talking, for that matter. Her vocal cords had atrophied.
Vic laughed. “Why don’t you come see?”
Ava shook her head. One of them was a terrorist all right. Ava jogged the rest of the way up the steps and threw herself at the door. It didn’t open. She didn’t, did she? Keys. Oh, God, how could she be so stupid? So careless? She’d forgotten to bring her keys.
Typical. Normal people always remembered their keys. What did Ava bring instead? A turtleneck. Perfect for suffocating and strangling her on this hot summer day. Nicely done, nicely done. The colored dots began to disco. Ava collapsed on the top step and buried her head between her knees. She wanted to rip the turtleneck off. Was it illegal to sit around in a bra on your stoop in London? There were just some things the guidebooks didn’t cover. Think, Ava, think. What can you do? The one little window in the main door was made of thick glass. Even if she did find something to throw at it she was pretty sure it wouldn’t break, and even if it did break, it was so high up it would be impossible to stick her hand in and open the lock.
She would have to start buzzing neighbors. Hers was the only flat at the top, but the other four floors had two flats each; at least eight other people lived in this building. Someone had to be home.
Ava lifted her head. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she put it back down. She lifted her head again and looked across the street. Deven and Vic were gone. She put her head back down. That was probably for the best; she didn’t want to owe Vic any favors. But surely Vic had seen that Ava was locked out? Had she taken off on purpose? Ava didn’t know a lot about friendship, but she definitely couldn’t trust Vic and thought she’d be lucky if she never had to deal with her again.
Keeping her eyes closed, Ava scooted around on the step until she was pretty sure she was facing the front door. She pawed her way, hands and knees, to the door; then, using the knob, she hauled herself to a standing position. Were Londoners paying any attention to her? Was a crowd gathered behind her photographing her ass for Facebook? From the times she’d observed them from her windows, Ava was pretty confident that nobody was paying any attention to her. In Iowa the Fire Department would have arrived by now and neighbors would be camped out on her lawn with binoculars and a bag of chips.
Ava gripped the knob and took deep breaths. She still wasn’t ready to open her eyes again, so she began to feel along the door heading for the right side, guessing that’s where the buzzers were located. She felt hot, scratchy brick. Her fingers played up and down it searching for a panel. To an outsider it probably appeared as if she were a lunatic scratching at the walls. The rough edges of the brick cut into her palms the harder she pressed. She liked it. The pain felt good. The more she concentrated on the scrapes in her palms and fingers, the less she noticed the colored dots. She stopped, took a deep breath, and then opened one eye. She traversed the wall in front of her bottom to top. No panel. Darn it. She slid her eyes to the left. There it was, a rectangular bronze panel with buzzers. Great. Nothing going on here, folks. I just like wearing turtlenecks at the hottest point of the day and scratching at the walls until my palms bleed. Surely you do too. Cheerio!
Ava sidled to the left and examined the panel. There were nine buzzers. Please, somebody be home. If they all had typical day jobs she would be out of luck. The buzzers didn’t have names, just flat numbers. Ava started at the bottom with 1a. She laid her finger on it for several seconds, then released and waited. She listened for the buzz but wasn’t able to hear proof that the buzzer worked. She pressed the next one up, again holding it for several seconds. Once again there was silence. She continued to press, up, and up, and up, this time using both fingers, and then finally using all fingers and the sides of her hands to press as many buttons as she could at one go. Pound, pound, pound, that felt good. She began to punch each buzzer with her fist. Then both fists. She was having a boxing match with the buzzers. The pain felt good. When she finally pressed her own buzzer, just for the hell of it, she heard it shriek. Good God. She was right about that deafening level; she could hear hers from all the way out here. So why couldn’t she hear a single peep from the others? Either nobody else’s was working or hers was the only one set to DEFCON 1.
Damn it. Who were these working-class neighbors with good hearing? Did they know she had moved into the building? Had they been friends with Aunt Beverly? Was Queenie friends with anyone in the building? Big cities were so cold. So many people packed into so little spaces, hardly any privacy
anywhere you went, crammed into tubes, and lifts, and bars, and restaurants, and shops—yet nobody would answer a distressed buzz. Maybe the only way outsiders survived was to deny anyone was next to them at all. And people called Ava weird.
What now? She was absolutely baking, and if the dots continued for much longer she was going to pass out. Step right up, folks. Watch the agoraphobic go down. Would Londoners step right over her? Assume she was a drunk? Public loo. She needed to find one and lock herself in a stall. Who cared what happened after that? Salvation was a cool, dark space where she could rip off this turtleneck.
Don’t think; move. She ran back down the steps, then took a right on the footpath and it was déjà vu time. Past the wine shop—probably no public restroom in there, although a bottle of wine might help, past the dry cleaner, where there was a long line and, again, probably no public restroom, then past apartment buildings. Didn’t Queenie or Jasper mention there was a pub up here somewhere? She kept going and, sure enough, she saw a sign hanging overhead, a crest of some kind, flanked by regal lions holding giant mugs of ale. She didn’t even register the name of the pub because her vision was blurry; it was all she could do to remain upright, fighting both dots and dizziness. Her breath become more and more labored, perspiration soaking her entire body.
She picked up speed and flung open the door of the pub. It was dim and smelled of stale beer, and curry. There were patrons in the pub, and waiters, and bartenders, all furry blobs to her; she could only see patches of them, like a living, European quilt. She lurched ahead, praying the restrooms were in the back. Halfway there she slammed into a curved piece of metal; it jammed into her, just below the breastbone. She registered what it was just as the serving tray crashed to the floor.
“Bloody hell!” the waiter who had been holding it screamed. “Look what you did.” The floor was smeared with burgers, and chips, drowning in ale.
“Loo,” she said. “Loo, loo, loo.” She hooted it like an owl, then ran straight ahead and burst through a pair of swinging doors. Fluorescent lights, a grill, steel counters, ham sizzling, coffee gurgling, and curry, curry, curry, curry.
“Oy. You’re not allowed in the kitchen, mate!” a chef yelled.