by Liza Cody
‘Are you absolutely bonkers?’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sit on my knee. You don’t have to like it.’
‘Save it for Milo,’ I said. ‘He’s your little pet. I ain’t.’
‘Workin’ on that,’ he said. ‘If this was the Wild West I’d be a horse-tamer ‘stead of a personal trainer.’
‘So why don’t you go West and boil your ugly bonce?’
‘Think I’m ugly, girl? I don’t need to be pretty, know it?’
Milo didn’t think he was ugly. Milo stuck his head on Keif’s thigh and snoozed. That pup needed massive retraining.
‘Serious, man,’ Keif said. ‘This place a mess. You can’t sleep here tonight.’
‘I don’t sleep at night,’ I said. ‘I mind this yard at night. I sleep mornings.’
‘True?’ he said. ‘Ain’t a good way for an athlete to live.’
‘Ain’t staying for ever. Simone and me, we’re going into business together.’
‘Fer true?’
‘She said. And I can stay with her. You heard.’
‘I heard,’ he said, and he just sat there with Milo kipping on his thigh and a dead bloke not three feet away.
‘So why’re you still here?’ I said. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Sweet ‘n’ dandy,’ he said. ‘I see what I see.’
‘Who cares what you see?’
‘Well, since you ask. I see someone needs lookin’ after.’
‘See wrong. You couldn’t see wronger if you tried all year.’
‘See a good athlete gone bad. You let yourself go, girl.’
‘Fuckin’ did not,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t me. Mr Deeds let me go. All them turdy heavyweights. Barred me.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They told me. You a legend at that gym, girl. Eva this, Eva that. Eva a monster with three heads and the baddest mouth in South London.’
‘They still talk about me?’
‘So I think, I gotta see this girl. ‘Cos if they treat a big woman like they treat a black man, then they treat a black man like a big bad woman. Like enemies, girl, like enemies. So my days is numbered too.’
‘I wish you’d seen me fight,’ I said.
‘They never said you was a bad fighter,’ he said. ‘They said you was a bad woman.’
‘Believe. And bugger off.’
‘Will do,’ he said. ‘Even though you beggin’ fer me to stay. First, what you got wrong with your ankle?’
What ankle? I’d forgotten the ankle but that silly sod only had to mention it and it started to sting again.
‘Burnt it,’ I said. ‘In the fire. It’s all right. I’ll put some more mud on it.’
‘Mud? You know what you putting on it? You putting oil and slime and dog germs. You killing yourself or what?’
‘Don’t you bring your Cousin Carmen back here on account of my ankle,’ I said. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ dare!’
Cousin Carmen would see through the Static wall for sure. She’d see through the metal of the Clio too. She’d see Wozzisname with his eyes open, staring back at her. I’d rather lose my whole leg than have her coming in with her potions, lookin’ through my walls.
‘You ain’t scared of one little old lady,’ Keif said, showing me teeth you could play honky-tonk on. ‘Come here, I’ll wash that mud off for you.’
‘Do it myself,’ I said. ’Cos those big hot hands made me feel small and I didn’t want them anywhere near me.
‘Suityerself. Now, don’t you cry or nothin’ but I goin’ home.’ He stood up. I stood up. And there didn’t seem to be enough space.
‘Hip?’ said Milo. He jumped awake, all shuddery again.
‘Here,’ I said. I scooped Milo up and dumped him in Keif’s arms. ‘Take Milo,’ I said. ‘You want someone to look after, take Milo.’
That’d give him something to do with those big hot hands.
‘Only for tonight, mind,’ I said, ‘while he’s nervy. I want him back tomorrow. And don’t you make him go all soft. My dogs gotta be hard.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Keif said, ‘you like ’em hard. I’ll remember that or what.’
What the hell do you do with a bloke like Keif? What? I never met a bloke like him before. Maybe there’s blokes like Keif all over the world only I never met one before.
Maybe it’s ‘cos this is the first time I’ve been rich so I ain’t used to blokes coming after me for my money. It ain’t anything else. Believe. I ain’t someone blokes come after. And I’m glad. Waste of time, all that. Blokes make complete pillocks of sensible women, and who wants to waste their energy on that stuff?
Whether they want them or not, women spend a huge amount of energy on blokes. Even me, who knows better. Look at how much energy I spent getting shot of Keif – and he’s alive and can use his legs, if he bloody chooses to.
I washed my ankle with cold water and soap the way he told me to. And it hurt. Ain’t that blokes all over? What they tell you to do doesn’t hurt them, does it? No, it hurts you.
All the time, I was waiting. I was waiting for Ramses and Lineker to tell me Simone had come back. I was waiting for Lineker to go, ‘Yack-yack-yack,’ and Ramses to drown him out with, ‘Ro-ro-ro.’ Then I’d go to the gate and let Simone in. Then I’d know what to do.
I hate waiting. I sat on the bunk. I didn’t have no sleeping bag to wrap myself in ‘cos I’d gave that to the dead bloke.
It got to eleven o’clock and then twelve, and all I could hear was rain bouncing on the Static roof. And I couldn’t think what was keeping Simone. I couldn’t seem to think at all, if you must know.
Then I dreamed I put the Clio through the crusher. I dreamed the Clio went through the crusher and came out like a crumpled box except for the boot which popped open. And everyone in the crowd went, ‘Ooh, look at what’s in that car!’ Because, suddenly, the crusher was in the middle of the ring.
‘Boo, hiss,’ they all went. ‘Bucket Nut can’t even put a car through a crusher.’ So I had to do it again. Only this time, although the car came out the size of a beach-ball, there was the dead bloke’s head peering out of what was left of the window. His eyes popped open, and he said, ‘I demand a return match.’ The referee awarded me the beach-ball and the head as a prize and everyone started clapping.
So my eyes popped open, and it was dark, and at first I thought the Static was leaking ‘cos I was all wet and I could still hear the rain rattling on the roof. But then I knew I’d been dreaming and sweating even though it was cold and I hadn’t meant to go to sleep.
I went to the Static door to call Ramses and Lineker. For once they came straight away. I gave them each a Bow Chow biscuit but they didn’t want to hang out with me. And it was all Wozzisname’s fault ‘cos there he was, not three feet away, freaking everyone out.
In the movies the killer shoots someone and then sticks the gun in the dead bloke’s hand to make it look like he topped himself. The next thing you know the house is full of cops and medics. They deal with the body.
Why am I going on and on about the movies? Well, I’m thinking about the movies ‘cos I don’t have nothing else to go on. I don’t. I never done anything like this before. I can’t say to myself, ‘Well last time I croaked a bloke I did such and such, and that worked all right so I’ll do it again.’ But there are dead blokes in the movies all the time. I can tell you that ‘cos when you’re in chokey there’s bugger-all else to do except watch movies about dead blokes on TV.
But when push comes to shove, when you’re in that situation yourself, movies is no bloody help at all. Or maybe I seen the wrong movies. In the movies I seen, dead blokes just lie in the street for someone else to pick up. Or there’s somewhere to put them. They don’t hang around freaking you out while you wait for your sister and even your own dogs won’t talk to you.
Simone kept the Clio key in her pocket so I had to hot-wire the car. I couldn’t wait no longer. I hot-wired the Clio, and Simone was going to be really pissed with me ‘cos I broke one of the panels on the steering col
umn.
Maybe I don’t know what to do about dead blokes, but I do know how to borrow motors. At first I thought I could just leave the car somewhere, because you’d be surprised how long it takes for some people to notice a borrowed car in their street. Then I’d have time to collect the dogs and clear out.
But it was Simone’s car and she’d want it back. She wouldn’t want the politzei to come knocking on her door saying, ‘Got your lost motor back for you. Oh and by the way, there’s a dead bloke in the boot.’
No, the river was the best idea. If I could tumble Wozzisname into the river that’d be that. I’d never have to think about him again.
At least, now, I was doing something else but think about him. At least, now, I was driving him to the river. We was going somewhere. We wasn’t waiting no more.
Chapter 14
Have you been across any London bridges lately? Was there ever a time you was alone on one of them? I mean, really alone – no traffic, no nothing.
‘Cos I couldn’t find a buggering bridge without it had traffic on it. Even in the pouring rain. Even at three in the morning. London don’t stop for nothing.
I went north over Lambeth Bridge, turned east, and then came south again across Westminster, and then east again, then north over Waterloo. And I thought I was going to keep driving north, east, south, east, north and east again till I ran out of bridges and it was daylight.
So I had to give up on bridges. Bridges is a waste of time if there’s something you want to drop off of them without anyone seeing.
And another funny thing – London has the River Thames running the whole way through it. But it’s bloody hard to get a car close to the water – except in places like bridges where everyone else can get close to you. There’s always a building in the way.
I thought of driving out to the country. There’s lots of dead things left lying on roads in the country. But even country people would sit up and notice if I dumped Wozzisname on the ground with all the dead badgers and rabbits.
I got almost to Greenwich, and by that time I reckon I’d of settled for a deep puddle or a hole in the road. But I couldn’t find one of them neither. I almost gave up and took the dead bloke back home. I couldn’t make up my mind which was worse – having him at home or driving him around in my sister’s car.
I was feeling very queer and lonely, and I didn’t really know where I was. I was squinting this way and that, not knowing what to look for, when all of a sudden I realised I was going through a place where there were yards like my yard – yards with car bodies, metal and lifting gear in them. And it was quiet.
It was quiet because there weren’t no blocks of flats or shops or high streets. Just junk-yards. So I nosed around, driving slowly in a circle. And right up close to the river I found an empty space with a Portakabin in front and nothing but a few hulking trucks behind.
That’s when the Clio ran out of petrol. I’d just noticed a sign on the Portakabin that said ‘Security Office’. And I’d thought – that’s the first likely place I seen all night. Except for the security guard, which made it impossible. I was about to drive on when the Clio decided to run out of petrol.
It just coughed and died. And there I was, outside a security guard’s office with a dead bloke.
When I was driving it was like he was chasing me. Now that I stopped I sort of expected for him to sit up and tap me on the shoulder. He’d caught up.
I was so spooked I got out and walked away. Well, what was I supposed to do? The Clio ran out of gas. Outside a security guard’s Portakabin. Just like that. There’s only so much a woman can stand, and I hit my limit.
I walked away. I crossed the road and started to walk back west. Then I stopped and looked round.
The Clio was sat in the middle of the road. It was in a no-parking zone. There wasn’t any other cars. The Clio sat all by itself in the middle of the road saying, ‘Oi! Look at me.’ I s’pose if I painted it stripy and stuck a flashing beacon on its nose it’d be more obvious. Hard to see what else you could do.
And it was Simone’s car.
So I just stood there. And after a while, I calmed down a bit and saw that there was no light on in the security cabin. There was a TV aerial, but no blue flicker, so the TV wasn’t on neither. There was blinds at the windows, but they weren’t closed.
If I was lucky, there was no security guard in there.
Was I lucky? Well, after the night I’d been having, would you bet your mortgage on me being lucky?
Me neither. I wouldn’t bet a dirty snot-rag on it.
On the other hand, there was bugger-all to guard. And there was no fence – just one of those weighted barriers which swings up when you press on the end.
So what was a security office doing there? The place was like a bloody great car-park or a site big enough to build a supermarket on, only there were no cars and no building works. Just some clapped-out old trucks, standing by themselves, at the back next to the river wall.
So I bet my freedom on it.
I walked back, pressed on the end of the barrier and swung it up. Then I waited for the flashing lights, sirens and armed guards.
Nothing.
I waited some more.
More nothing.
I went back to the Clio. I released the handbrake. I pushed. I pushed and steered till the Clio rolled past the swing barrier, past the security office, and into the big empty space.
I’d of pushed the Clio straight into the Thames if I could. But I couldn’t ‘cos there was a chest-high concrete wall stopping me.
I was streaming sweat and rain. I was gasping for breath. But I was well off the public road and there was only a wall between me and the river. I could hear the water lapping. Across the water it was all lit up. Across the water was a big shiny glass and steel development all lit up with peach and turquoise light. But on my side of the water it was dark and windy, and the river smelled old and dirty.
I pulled myself up on the wall and looked down. Down there was loppy choppy water. Down there was a dead bloke’s grave. Not far.
Not far at all, except Simone had the car keys in her pocket and I couldn’t open the back of the car.
I was jumping up and down. I was whining like a dog. I wanted to howl. I wanted to roar. I wanted to pick the Clio up in one hand and hurl it as far away from me as I could.
They say rage gives you strength. Maybe it does, but it doesn’t give you enough to chuck a car in the river.
And maybe you think a dead bloke should be treated with respect. He should be carried by six slow men looking sorrowful. He should have lilies and someone to cry for him.
Not this one. This one had to be dragged from the back of the car through to the front, and he had to be booted out through the door. Because he’d sort of set in a scrunched-up position. He wasn’t floppy no more. You couldn’t fold him, unfold him or bend him round corners.
I hope I never have to hate anyone that much again. I didn’t hate him that much when I hit him with his hammer. I was scared, I was angry, I was panicked when I hit him. That’s all it took to croak him – panic. But it took real blind rage and hatred to bury him.
Who the fuck was he to ruin my life and give me bad dreams and follow me like I was wearing him round me neck? Who the fuck was he to make me sweat, give me muscle cramp, break my back? Who the fuck asked him into my life? Who the fuck told him to manhandle my sister and put me in a stone panic? Not me. For sure, not me. It was his own sodding idea. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t my fault. And now I was having to clean up after him. Poor old Eva, don’t think about her – go right ahead and get yourself croaked in her yard. Go on. Leave her to pick up the pieces. By herself. As usual. Got any shit-work? Give it to poor old Eva. That’s all she’s good for.
I toppled Wozzisname off the concrete wall and he sploshed into the River Thames and the water ate him up.
You’ll never know what a weight it was off my back, off my mind, to see him go. The only thing I was sorry about was m
y sleeping bag. Even with a hole burnt in it my sleeping bag was too cocking good for the likes of him. Splosh, he went. Splosh went the fire extinguisher and the hammer.
I wished I could of done it with a ton of Semtex – a bloody great explosion would of suited me better. ‘Splosh’ didn’t quite express my mood.
And I wasn’t done yet. Oh no. What about the car? The useless sodding car. The one with no gas in its tank. Think that’s going to grow legs and walk back home by itself? Ha-turding-ha. I had to push it. I had to push and steer it out past the Portakabin, out through the swing barrier, out on to the road, along the road. Push, steer, push, push, push.
So there I was, pushing, somewhere in Deptford, pushing, looking for a service station, pushing, and, knock me down with a number 9 bus, the steering flaked out. It locked. I couldn’t turn it no more. The creeping crappy Clio would only go in a straight line. And there aren’t any straight lines in London.
Well, that finished me. What was I supposed to do? I keep asking, but no one answers. I can’t keep making it up for myself. I can’t. I’m all wore out.
I was finished, done, through. This time when I left the Clio in the middle of the road I didn’t look back. I just walked away and kept on walking.
I know it was Simone’s car and she’d want it. I know it was hardly a mile from where I dumped Wozzisname. You don’t have to tell me. I know. But it was just too hard. And I was too tired.
So I walked away. Bugger it all. I don’t care if I spend the rest of me life in chokey. I can’t sort it out. It’s too hard.
Chapter 15
My back hurt so much I couldn’t put my socks on. I couldn’t bend forward, and I couldn’t raise my knees high enough to get at my feet.
It’s a good thing I didn’t have to get up and open the door. Or it’s a bad thing, ‘cos the door swung open and Keif pranced in without knocking.
‘Doin’?’ he asked. But I’d slept so deep and dead that at first I couldn’t remember what the hell I had been doing.
‘What’s the time?’ I said.