Now You See Me

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Sarah’s great, isn’t she?’ he said. Probably just to break the silence. That would have been OK. But then he kept on. ‘I mean it was great of her to try and take Norma to the vet like that.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He suddenly guffawed, making me jump. ‘You should see the way she drives!’

  I laughed grimly.

  ‘What about asking her to look at your sore arm? If she treats animals she could maybe treat you.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘Fuck it, you’re touchy. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Nobody said another word all the way back to the cellar. I was half thinking of locking him out again. I don’t know why he had to bring Sarah up at that moment. And why he had to sound so tickled about the way she drives. There’s nothing clever about bad driving if you ask me. OK so it was a good idea getting her to look at my arm. I couldn’t go to the doctor’s because I haven’t got one. You probably have to be an official person to have a doctor, with an official name and address. If they saw my arm with the scars and the new wound they would know about me. And I do not want to go back to hospital again. I do not and will not. And there’s no need anyway because I’m not getting into that again. It was only that once.

  Doggo looked ridiculous in the lamplight with the beard and glasses like someone who’d bought a plastic face from Woolworth’s. I couldn’t lock him out. We got to the cellar and went in. I locked the door behind us.

  I got into bed fast as I could and turned my back on him. He didn’t come near me though my heart was beating with a kind of fear wondering if he’d try. But after washing his face and moving about a bit he sat down on the deck chair. He whispered, ‘Are you asleep?’ but I didn’t answer. It was hard as hell lying so still but after a while I heard him snore and then I could relax.

  Twenty-one

  But I couldn’t sleep properly. I couldn’t lie on my arm and Doggo kept snoring and creaking about in the deck chair. Was I sleeping in the same room as a murderer? I was cold in bed so God knows how cold he must have been with only a thin blanket over him. I fell asleep near morning and woke to hear him moving about, making the kind of noise people trying to be quiet make. I pretended to be asleep. Then the key turned and he went out with the dogs. I squinted at my watch, it was before six and not even light. I sat up. But it was OK. His bag was on the floor. I fingered the warm silver hand. I lay back down and slept soundly for an hour or so.

  When I woke there was a strip of sun on the floor. You never get sun in the cellar. Maybe it’s the time of year, the sun slanting unusually low. It reminded me of the strip of metal a burglar might use to break in with. Not that there’s much to break in for. I just lay watching it slide along the floor till it was gone.

  I got up to put the kettle on and the floor was so cold it burnt the soles of my feet. It took ages for the water to come through the tap but in the end there was a freezy trickle.

  The row with Doggo hung about in my stomach like an undigested meal. Not row. The ill-feeling. It was only because of Sarah. I got back into bed with a hot-water bottle and stayed there for as long as I could, drinking cup of tea after cup of tea and reading about aphid control till my bladder was practically bursting.

  Outside it was one of the sparkly days. The air so cold it hurt my lungs. No garden has ever sparkled more and my heart lifted. Doggo would soon be back and we would get sorted out. The water in the toilet was frozen and my pee froze on top of it instantly, yellow with a little wisp of paper like a sail.

  While I was waiting for Doggo I listened to the radio. There was a service on, the gloomy-sounding shuffle of a congregation, the bellow of an organ, a mumbled prayer to God Almighty. There isn’t a God any more than there’s a Father Christmas. But you can still pray if you want something badly enough. You can pray to God like witches make spells, like shamans kill chickens or whatever it is they do. You can believe in a kind of magic or intervention. So I prayed for Doggo to come back and for everything to be OK between us, for Sarah to go away and leave us be. And before I’d even finished praying there was the sound of his boots clunking down the cobbles.

  When I heard him my heart opened like a fist but when he came through the door I could hardly look at him. I made more tea and we crouched down in front of the heater looking at the magazines. I wanted to say sorry but I wasn’t sure what for.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I said instead.

  ‘Walked to Ringinglow,’ he said.

  ‘That’s miles.’

  ‘Got restless. Carried her halfway back.’ He nodded at Norma who was flaked out.

  ‘Good job she’s small,’ I said. ‘Ouch.’ I’d banged my arm on the heater. It really hurt. I wanted to roll my sleeve up and see. Yesterday I’d done Doggo’s hands for him, changed the plasters. I wanted to borrow his Savlon and spray it on but I couldn’t ask or he would want to see.

  ‘Your arm?’ he said. ‘You should get that looked at.’

  ‘What, like your hands?’

  ‘You know why I can’t.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let me look.’

  ‘No.’

  He opened his mouth then shut it again and shrugged. ‘Won’t get a lot done today,’ he said. ‘Ground’s frozen solid.’

  ‘Like iron,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  It made me think of the Bleak Mid-Winter carol, my favourite one, the bit that goes ‘Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone’. Whenever we sang that at school I would get a lump in my throat like the stone.

  I wished it would snow, proper sticking lasting snow. Snow on snow on snow.

  ‘Do you think she’s OK?’ I said, crouching down to pet Norma.

  ‘Think so, just too long a walk for her with her little legs. Love walking, me, clears head.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said.

  He started on about the garden again, what he’d been planning on his walk. He’d had the idea of putting in a fountain. I thought he was getting carried away but I didn’t like to say. I just said, ‘God!’ thinking Mr Dickens would never consent to a fountain, all he wanted was the garden kept tidy not turned into frigging Fontainebleau. He rambled tiredly on a bit, then yawned and stretched.

  ‘Mind if I lie down for a bit? I didn’t sleep right well.’ He could hardly keep his eyes open. He got into my bed and shut his eyes. Norma tried to jump up beside him but couldn’t make it. I lifted her up and sat on the edge of the bed watching Doggo fall asleep. If someone watched me like that I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink but he didn’t notice or care and soon he was making a wiffly noise that made me sleepy again too.

  I got closer and studied him, knelt down by the bed learning every single thing about his face. The scar is thick and jagged and stops just under his eyebrow. He’s lucky. Whatever happened to him nearly got him in the eye. Maybe it happened during the murder, someone fighting back.

  If you look really closely at someone you can see each pore and see where each bristle comes out of the skin. You can smell their hair and their breath. His eyelids were veined and bluish. After he’d been asleep a while they started to twitch which meant that he was dreaming. I wanted to know what was happening in there, to lift up his eyelids like sheets, to crawl inside and watch the dreams.

  My knees got cold and I got up and back on the bed, pushing my feet inside to soak up his warmth. I heard Sarah arrive and walk about upstairs. I wished she would go away. Not wishing any harm to her but just that she would go away because she was a danger. I tried the prayer again. Sooner or later she’d find out Doggo was a wanted man. Maybe Mr Dickens would say. Or she’d see something in the paper. And any moment she could come down the stairs and find me living in the cellar or if I was out, find my stuff. Nothing wrong with her legs, nothing to stop her. Sooner or later she would. If she was going to stick around I would have to go and where would I go?

  It’s never bothered me before, moving on. Maybe it would be OK, if
Doggo came too. But we might end up on the street. I have never done that. I’ve slept in all sorts of places but never in the street. Even with Doggo I didn’t want to do that, to huddle in a doorway with people passing by and flicking their eyes away quick. I didn’t want Doggo doing that either. It was so warm and so sweet, the sealed way he slept, the little puffs of air coming out between his lips.

  Then a vehicle stopped outside, footsteps hurried up the path and there was a sudden blast of the Trumpet Voluntary. Doggo jerked straight up, his eyes on stalks. ‘What the fuck’s that?’

  I shot up and switched off the light. Doughnut was barking and Sarah’s voice shut him up. We sat close together on the bed. I was shivering. Doggo put his arm round me and that was great, like he was holding the bones of me together.

  The dogs seemed to understand the danger. They didn’t bark, even Gordon only did one controlled little growl. We all huddled there like a family or something. I would have stayed in that moment for ever if I’d had the chance. There was this us and them feeling and for once I was part of the us.

  Doggo pushed his feet into his boots. Ready to run if he had to run. A sour smell hung around us, the smell of fear. I was getting dizzy from lack of breath, expecting at any moment the police to come storming down. But after a while, the front door slammed, the voice went off up the path and the vehicle drove away.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Doggo said and gave a long breath out. We didn’t move. We remained still as if we were posing for a photo until Gordon broke the spell by scratching.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, trying to sound sure.

  ‘Christ,’ Doggo said.

  ‘Shall we … shall we go round and see what’s going on?’ I said. ‘We could say we’re turning up early for the garden.’

  We left the dogs curled up on the camp bed and went up the side and back down the path to ring the bell. Doggo laughed at the bell this time. ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘What a wacko idea.’

  Doughnut went into his usual orgy of barking and after a minute Sarah opened the door. Her eyes were red and she had a balled-up tissue in her hand.

  ‘Hi,’ she said and we followed her into the house. The fire was turned up high – Mr Dickens never had it high like that – and the pretend flames beat like trapped wings against the plastic coals. She saw me looking. ‘I was cold,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Mr Dickens?’ I asked, noticing his empty chair.

  ‘He’s had a stroke,’ Sarah sniffed. ‘I came in and took him some tea this morning and he was all … he couldn’t move his arm.’ She lifted up her own left arm. ‘An ambulance came and took him away.’ There was a tremble in her voice. Doggo and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘I woke this morning thinking something’s up. And I was right.’

  ‘Serious?’ Doggo said.

  ‘Course it is,’ I said.

  ‘Well it’s not a huge stroke – but it’s not good.’

  ‘When I was a kid I used to think that a stroke was a nice thing to have, like a stroke of luck or the stroke of an angel’s wing,’ I said. They both looked at me as if I was mad.

  ‘We’ll go,’ Doggo said. ‘He won’t want garden doing today.’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said, ‘but please, stay and keep me company for a bit. Tea?’

  I would have said no, having drunk about a gallon already, but she’d gone to put the kettle on. ‘How’s Norma?’ she called.

  ‘OK, I think,’ Doggo said.

  I flexed my fingers. It must drive you mad not being able to move. Poor Mr Dickens. Sarah came back in. She didn’t look so pretty in a ratty old cardigan with her hair dragged back in a pony-tail which showed that her ears stuck out.

  ‘By the way, where do you two live?’ she asked. She was looking at me. I looked at Doggo who grinned sharply, his side tooth glinting.

  There was a dodgy pause. ‘Near the park,’ I said.

  ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘It’s nice round there, isn’t it? I’m having some toast. You?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Lamb?’

  ‘She lives off air, her,’ Doggo said before I could answer so I said, ‘Yes please,’ because actually I was quite hungry.

  ‘Unlike me.’ Sarah wrinkled up her nose. ‘I just can’t lose weight,’ she said, ‘well I could but I’ve given up trying. I adore food.’ She rolled her eyes in a dreamy way. ‘I love it so much. Like me as I am or lump it, I say.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ I thought Doggo’s head would fall off with nodding.

  While she was in the kitchen making toast, Doggo prowled about. He stopped to look at a framed photo on the wall, a dark photo I’d forgotten until I saw him looking. I should have remembered it was there. I’d even dusted it once, ages ago, in the days when I still used to dust.

  Doggo stood with his back to me for a long time and even though he didn’t say a word I knew what he was thinking. It was a picture of Zita who was meant to be my granny. I could tell from his back, from the length of time he had it turned on me, that he was thinking I was a liar. Adjusting his impression. But loads of women in the twenties looked like that, didn’t they? That style, and those old photos, they make everyone look the same. I wished he’d say something so I could tell him that but he didn’t say a word.

  Sarah came back in with a stack of toast dripping with butter and honey.

  ‘Hope you like honey,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have any marmalade.’ We all sat round the fire and reached for bits of toast. Doggo didn’t look at me and my stomach shrank into a ball.

  Sarah suddenly laughed. ‘Don’t you ever take your gloves off!’ Her eyes danced at Doggo but he just muttered something with his mouth full.

  ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’ she said, switching the dancing on to me and I nodded but I wasn’t sure what she meant. Did she mean he had the gloves on because he had cold hands and a warm heart or that he had warm hands because he had the gloves on which would mean a cold heart? I gave up wondering in the end because she was only making conversation and probably meant nothing at all.

  I thought Doggo was probably sorry he’d burned the LOVE and HATE off now if he thought I was such a liar. Nobody said anything for a while, the room just filled up with toasty munching noises till I asked Sarah where she lived but she was in the middle of taking a huge bite of toast. She chewed with her eyes shut. Her lips were sticky with honey.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that is one of the best tastes on earth, don’t you think?’

  Doggo nodded again. There was honey and crumbs on his beard. He did look ridiculous eating with the gloves on. I nibbled the crust of my toast.

  ‘Norwich,’ Sarah said. ‘Still got my flat there, but if I leave I’m thinking of maybe moving here. I don’t know …’

  ‘Why not?’ Doggo asked. ‘It’s a great place.’

  ‘What, Sheffield?’ I said.

  ‘I mean actually move here,’ she said, ‘this house. I think Uncle wants looking after really although he’d never put it like that. But if I was going to move I’d really prefer a place of my own to put my own stamp on. You know?’

  ‘Yeah, your own stamp on,’ I said.

  At last Doggo looked at me, his eyebrow tilted up at one corner, nearly a chip of a smile, but it was too late for smiles. I’d gone stony cold at the thought of Sarah coming to stay.

  ‘You don’t seem too bothered about your uncle,’ I said and I knew it was the wrong thing to say and so did Doggo judging from his expression.

  ‘Oh I am …’ Sarah said. ‘I feel awful sitting here enjoying this toast so much but …’ She licked her fingers and fanned them out, ‘What can you do?’

  ‘You visiting?’ Doggo said.

  ‘Soon as I can. I’ll ring the hospital in a bit, see what’s happening.’

  We all stared at the plastic fire for a bit, like we were having a minute’s silence for Mr Dickens.

  Doggo stood up and rubbed his gloves together. ‘I’ll get out there and get on.’

 
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Sarah said.

  ‘There’s a few things I can be getting on with. I’ll tell you what though, you could take a look at Lamb.’

  He went out, letting a big blast of cold in. Thanks a million, I thought.

  ‘So what’s the matter?’ Sarah said.

  First I said it was nothing but I was worried about going septic. I told her I’d grazed myself.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll just have a peep.’

  ‘Ta.’ We stood there for a minute then Sarah said, ‘Well you’ll have to show me.’ I rolled up my sleeve.

  She winced. ‘Oooh. What on earth …’

  ‘I fell on a biro and it broke,’ I said. ‘There’s a bit still in I think.’

  ‘You fell on a biro? But, Lamb … all these scars.’ She touched the skin on my arm.

  ‘Can you do something or not?’

  ‘You should really see a doctor,’ she said, not meeting my eyes.

  ‘Haven’t got a doctor right now,’ I said.

  ‘You could go up to Casualty.’

  ‘Can’t you just do it?’

  ‘Well I could clean it up for you. Put on a dressing, but that’s just first aid. Anyone could do that.’ She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Most people would rather have a human doctor. Not that I’m not human!’

  ‘You’re not a vet either,’ I said.

  She went and fetched some TCP and bandages. She sterilised a pair of tweezers in a flame.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Here goes. I’d look away if I were you.’ She held my arm down on the table and probed about with the tweezers. I bit down on my lip as I felt the steel points moving underneath my skin. She was making little breathy sighs of effort. I could smell her skin and honeyed breath. ‘There,’ she said, holding up a clear fragment of plastic. ‘It’s not too deep. If we keep it clean it should be OK.’ We, I thought. ‘You should really get a jab though. Have you had a tetanus jab lately?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘That’s lucky. OK, I’ll just swab it then put on a dressing.’ She smiled. ‘It’s an anomaly you know,’ she said, ‘it would be quite legal for a vet to do this, treat a human.’ She wiped wet cotton wool across my skin. It reeked of TCP. ‘But for a doctor to treat an animal, that’s against the law. Did you know that?’ I shook my head. I was squeezing my eyes shut and biting my lip against the antiseptic sting. She stuck on a pad of gauze. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That should be fine.’ I opened my eyes. It was a neat small dressing. Looked like nothing. Nothing to make such a fuss about at all.