by S. L. Grey
The Rat Dogs whine and scratch outside the door, and I crank it open slightly to let the spoilt little fuckers in. Clarissa, the smaller of the two and some kind of inbred miniature poodle, blinks at me through rheumy eyes before skittering in and struggling onto the bed, immediately infesting the room with her sickly stench. She’s way past her sell-by date; covered in lumps that I’m pretty sure are cancerous. The other one – Lulu, a less decrepit version, but just as revolting – hesitates by the door, growling softly.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ I hiss at her. She whines again and slinks away, pausing at the top of the stairs. I’m tempted to boot her down them, but it’s not her fault she’s a racist. Bad upbringing.
Now, where to start? I decide on the bedside cabinet. I have to strain to pull open the drawer – it’s stiff with lack of use – and it springs out suddenly, almost tipping its contents onto the carpet. There isn’t much here. Just a few old receipts, a couple of HRT patches and a neglected Jodi Picoult novel. No cash, no vibrator; not even a bloody diary. Boring.
Next, the chest of drawers. Most of Rose’s underwear is of the giant beige figure-control kind, but I unearth one skimpy g-string that still has its price tag attached. Then, bingo! My fingers find the edges of an envelope that’s squashed beneath a stack of elasticised girdles. It contains several glossy photos of a paunchy white man with a comb-over. I flick through them. In most of the photos he’s sitting on a couch next to a black Labrador, mugging for the camera. Dan’s dad? I can’t see any family resemblance and, judging by his disastrous jumper, the photo was probably taken some time in the eighties. Neither Rose nor Dan has mentioned any sort of father figure. Must be some kind of embarrassing family scandal. Mementoes of dead relatives usually have pride of place on the mantelpiece; they’re not usually stuffed like dirty secrets in underwear drawers.
I move onto the double-door closets. Impressive. Rose clearly doesn’t stint on her clothing budget. I pull out a Christian Lacroix jacket that looks like the seventies has thrown up all over it, and an Ann Klein skirt that has to be at least two sizes too small for her. I run my fingers over the skirt’s fabric. Nice. Expensive. I hold it up to my body and glance in the mirror, shaking my hair over my face. A few of the extensions are looking a bit frayed, but they’ll do for now. Behind the curtain of hair, the scar’s hardly visible at all. It’s the rest of me that looks like a bag of shite. My green silk dress is in the wash at the mercy of Florence, and it’s surprising how much I’m mourning the feel of its expensive material on my skin. Especially in comparison to what I’m wearing now: a pair of Dan’s black sweatpants that hang on me like clown trousers, and a T-shirt that reaches my knees. I’m not too charmed by the Nightmare Before Christmas logo on it, either, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I decide to take the skirt – Rose probably won’t even miss it. Clarissa whines as if she’s just read my mind.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ I say to her. She cocks her head on one side as if she’s considering this, and the gesture makes me hate her less.
The vacuum cleaner drone cuts out. I shove the skirt under my T-shirt and usher Clarissa off the bed and out into the corridor. I shut the door behind me and tip-toe back into Dan’s room.
After the diseased dog stink and the cloying perfumed scent of Rose’s room, the stale fag smoke that permeates the space is almost a relief. But Christ he’s a slob. The coffee mug on the window ledge is full of fag butts, and the place is littered with discarded socks, computer game covers and boxer shorts. There’s even a graveyard of cigarette ends carelessly stubbed out on a CD next to his side of the bed. He’s become a dedicated chain smoker – even managing to out-smoke me. We’ve nearly finished the carton of fags I brought back with me, and I have to scratch around the room to find a half-empty packet.
I plonk myself down in front of the laptop and quickly scan his Gmail account (there’s nothing of interest – not even spam), and then click onto the missing-children page on Facebook that I’ve been haunting like a stalker ever since we returned three days ago. Nothing new. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. For the last three days I’ve been scouring the news sites and trawling Google, but there’s nothing about a missing white kid anywhere on the web. Dan keeps assuring me that there’s no way rich white folks wouldn’t kick up a media stink if they thought their kid had been abducted. Still, it’s a total fucker that I can’t remember the kid’s name.
Should I try phoning Zinzi again? I finger the phone in my pocket, but can’t muster up the energy. I tried her when we first got back, but her phone just beeped and then cut out. The bitch is either blanking me, or letting me know that I’m in serious shit. I know I should just head straight to the flat. But fuck it. Do I really want to deal with a pissed-off Zinzi right now? Do I, fuck. What if she gives me a hard time and I crack? I could still be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, after all.
But that’s bollocks and I know it.
The only thing I’m suffering from is the usual Rhoda insecurity bullshit, and if I’m in the throes of some sort of delayed shock reaction, the symptoms haven’t shown themselves. If anything, the overriding emotion I’m feeling is boredom.
In fact, coming back has turned out to be a total fucking anticlimax. Even the first few minutes after we stepped through that door and found ourselves back in the real Highgate Mall were seriously low-key.
You’d think we’d have danced around in glee at our lucky escape, maybe fainted with relief, kissed the travertine tiles and sobbed with joy. That would have been a normal reaction. But we didn’t do any of that. In fact, for several minutes after we made it through, we just stood numbly outside a shop selling expensive homeware, ignoring the stares of the shoppers and staff behind the display windows. Finally I nudged Dan and said, ‘You think this is another trick?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You think we’re actually back?’
He shrugged.
‘It doesn’t feel… right…’ I said, unable to put what I was feeling into words. Because ‘real life’ looked… different. Not quite how I remembered it. The people seemed to be… greyer, less substantial almost, as if I was looking at them through misted glass. Dull, featureless, everyday. But that was probably just the effects of exhaustion and stress.
‘What now?’ I said.
‘Let’s go home.’
‘I don’t have a home.’
‘Yes, you do,’ he said.
And then he’d taken my hand and led me towards the exit door.
It was as simple and mundane as that.
Thankfully his car keys were still where he’d dropped them when I’d accosted him in the parking lot forever ago – hidden beneath the front wheel. Wordlessly we climbed in and drove away, as if we’d just spent the afternoon buying a pair of new shoes, or comparing prices at the iMac store.
Of course, things didn’t go so smoothly when we arrived at Dan’s place.
I wasn’t shocked that Dan still lived with his mother – I’d been expecting that. What did throw me was the place itself – a double-storey pseudo-mansion, ringed by razor-wire, electronic gates and a landscaped garden. I’d assumed Dan fell more into the poor-white demographic.
We barely turned off the engine when Rose flew out of the front door, shrieking at the top of her voice, and almost breaking her ankle as she stumbled in her high heels.
‘Daniel!’ she said, throwing her arms around him. ‘Where have you been?’ She stood back to assess him. He looked like utter shit, but at least his hair hid the wound on the back of his neck. ‘I even called the police but they refused to take it seriously. What have you done to yourself?’
‘Mom,’ he said wearily, ‘I’m fine. This is Rhoda.’
Up until that point, Rose only had eyes for her son. There was a short, awkward pause while she took in the full beauty of my smudged make-up, and, of course, the colour of my skin.
‘Rhoda will be staying with me for a while,’ Dan sai
d.
Face rigid with shock, she opened her mouth to say something, but then the two Rat Dogs let rip, dancing and nipping at my ankles.
‘Lulu! Clarissa! Shh!’ she snapped. ‘I’m sorry. They’re not good with strangers.’
I knew what she actually meant: they weren’t good with strangers of colour, but I smiled benignly. ‘It’s fine—’ I said, but Rose wasn’t listening.
She turned to Dan again. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I’ll explain later, Mom.’
‘Are you hurt?’ she said. She grabbed his arms, but he shrugged her away.
I put on my best posh English accent. ‘It’s all my fault, Mrs…?’
‘Call me Rose,’ she snapped automatically. ‘What do you mean, it’s all your fault?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Dan saved my life.’
Rose’s mouth dropped open, and even the dogs ceased their hysterics. ‘What?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
‘Go on,’ she said, holding my gaze.
‘Mom!’ Dan said, sounding just like a small boy. ‘Can’t we do this tomorrow? I need to sleep.’
‘Dan,’ I said pointedly. ‘Your mother deserves an explanation.’
Dan looked at me in surprise. He’d never seen this side of me: well-behaved Rhoda. Articulate, charming, and utterly full of shit.
Slightly mollified, Rose ushered us through into the lounge.
Dan and I sank into the couch and Rose sat opposite us, back rigid.
‘Well?’ she said. Her gaze kept sliding over my body, taking in my bare feet, my dress, the hair extensions. It was pretty clear she didn’t know what to make of me.
I knew I’d need all my wits about me to get through this, but exhaustion and disorientation were taking their toll. Fortunately lying is one of the few things I’m very, very good at.
‘I came out here on holiday,’ I began. ‘From the UK. You can probably tell that from my accent.’ I smiled at her, but she stared back, impassive. ‘Anyway, I’d just popped into the mall where Dan works, and had parked my hire car in the car park. I was climbing out when, out of nowhere, these two men held a knife to my throat.’
‘No!’ Rose gasped.
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said, allowing a tremor to enter my voice. Dan was staring at me in frank astonishment.
‘They took my bag, my passport and everything.’
Rose’s gaze drifted down to the bag at my feet.
‘My other bag,’ I said. Shit. ‘And then Dan appeared. He saw what was happening and jumped in to help.’
Rose let out a little scream and clutched her throat. The Rat Dogs whined in unison. ‘Daniel! You could have been stabbed!’
‘I owe Dan my life, Rose. It looked like they had… plans for me as well.’
‘And this was at the mall? Highgate Mall?’ she said, her voice full of horror. ‘When? What time?’
‘Quite late. Nineish, wasn’t it, Dan?’
He was still too gobsmacked to respond.
‘Appalling,’ Rose said.
I nodded. ‘It was terrifying. I don’t know what would have happened to me if Dan hadn’t come along.’ I was beginning to enjoy this.
‘But you’ve been gone for almost two days!’ Rose said to Dan.
Dan and I shared a glance. Just two days? How the fuck…
‘Daniel! Where have you been all this time?’
‘That’s the thing, Mom,’ Dan said, ‘we—’
‘After Dan threatened them, they dragged us down to the basement and locked us in a storage garage,’ I jumped in, improvising wildly. ‘And we’ve only just managed to get out of there.’ I held her gaze. I didn’t really give a shit if she believed me or not. ‘A security guard let us out.’
‘But… two days?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Thank God they didn’t…’
‘Kill us?’ I said. ‘All down to Dan. He convinced them not to.’
‘Daniel? Is this true?’
I had to give Dan credit. He didn’t even hesitate. ‘Of course.’
‘But you must be starving! Daniel, shall I make you something to eat?’
‘We’re fine, Mom.’ He fumbled in my bag, pulled out a box of smokes and lit up.
‘Daniel!’ Rose squealed in horror. ‘What are you doing?’ She stood up. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘It’s just a cigarette, Mom!’
I couldn’t help the snort of laughter. Rose glared at me.
‘I won’t lie to you, Daniel. I am gravely disappointed to see you… you…’ The woman couldn’t even say ‘smoking’. ‘But the police need to know about your… ordeal!’
‘Mom,’ Dan said, ‘it’s under control.’
‘But this… this is a… Something must be done!’
‘It’s fine, Rose,’ I said. ‘We’ve already spoken to the police.’
‘Why didn’t you call me, Daniel?’ Rose said.
‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he said. I gave him a small smile of encouragement.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Dan stood up.
‘Enough, Mom,’ he said, and I could tell by the expression on her face that she wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, especially not by her son. ‘Look. We really need to sleep.’
Realising she was beaten (for now), Rose ran a hand through her highlighted curls. ‘I’ll get the spare room ready,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, Mom,’ Dan said. ‘Rhoda can stay in my room.’
Her skin began to turn puce under the thick coating of her make-up. ‘I really don’t—’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I interrupted in the sweetest voice I could muster. She shot me a look of pure suspicion. I realised then that Rose wasn’t stupid and I’d have to watch my step with her. But the story was the best I could come up with at short notice. And it wasn’t as if we could have told her the truth. That would have led straight to the nuthouse.
‘Where are your things?’ she said to me. ‘Your luggage. Weren’t you staying at a hotel?’
Shit. That was the problem with lying. I hadn’t really had the time to think things through.
‘Come on, Rhoda,’ Dan said, taking my hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Without another word to his mother, Dan led me straight up the stairs and into his bedroom. Although I would have murdered for a shower right then, we both collapsed onto his single bed. And we were both asleep in seconds.
I type another combination of the words brown+mall+alternative+reality into Google, but a quick scroll down the page doesn’t reveal any links I haven’t seen before. Fuck it. Not even the obscure conspiracy theory sites have any accounts that even approximate what Dan and I have been through.
The smoky fug in the air is starting to get oppressive. Grabbing the box of Turkish fags, I head out.
I pass Florence in the hallway. She’s angrily spraying the mirrors with Windowlene, wiping the glass clean with furious strokes.
‘All right, Florence?’ I say.
‘Ja,’ she snaps, glaring at me. I smile back at her. I like Florence. She’s a snarly old seething pot of resentment, but at least I know where I stand with her.
I wander out into the back garden, pushing the Rat Dogs back inside with my foot when they try to follow. I light up and sit down on the patio step.
I need to make a plan. I need to decide what the fuck I’m going to do next. I can’t stay at Dan’s much longer. I have no way of knowing if Zinzi still has my stuff or if she’s chucked it out or sold it or whatever. The only good thing I’ve got going for me is that I have absolutely no desire to try and score any blow. In fact, even the thought of a joint doesn’t appeal in the slightest.
I stub out the fag and head back in just as Rose comes bustling through the front door. Shit. If I’d known she was back I would have stayed in Dan’s room.
‘Oh, it’s you, Rhoda,’ she says, trying to look pleased to see me. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘Fine thanks,’ I
say.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yes thanks,’ I lie. My appetite for food has gone the same way as my appetite for drugs.
She hesitates, torn between politeness and her obvious antipathy towards me. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together; Dan usually provides the buffer between our mutual dislike.
‘Will you join me for a coffee?’ she says.
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
She nods curtly. Her foundation is caked on thick, accentuating the creases around her mouth. Still, she knows how to dress.
‘Florence!’ she calls. ‘Please bring a cafetière into the lounge.’
I make myself comfortable on the couch, sitting with my back straight and ankles crossed, à la Princess Di.
‘This is such a lovely room,’ I say. It isn’t. It’s as bland and unimaginatively furnished as the lobby of a mid-range business hotel.
‘Thank you,’ she says, slightly thrown. I let the uncomfortable silence stretch on. We covered the basics on that first awkward morning: where I was from, what my parents did, etc., but she hasn’t yet dared stray into more personal areas. I’m looking forward to seeing if she’ll do so now.
Florence slinks into the room, face like a smacked arse. Whenever I see her I can’t help but stare at her skin – it’s as wrinkled and weathered as a raisin’s, and has that leathery look to it you see in elderly sun worshippers or alcoholics.
‘Here you are, madam,’ she says to Rose.
‘Thank you, Florence,’ Rose says without looking at her. The Rat Dogs pad through, yap at me and then slump at Rose’s feet, filling the room with their stench. Florence shoots me a baleful glare and shuffles out.
‘So. Daniel’s at work,’ Rose says, stating the obvious.
‘Yes.’
‘And have you heard from the police?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. This whole thing. The… incident. How dreadful for you.’ Her sympathy’s as phony as Jordan’s tits, and she doesn’t even attempt to sound genuine. I begin to feel a slight smidgen of respect for her. ‘Have you contacted the British Embassy about getting a new passport?’