Dead Girl Walking

by Sant, Sharon

  One day at a time – that’s what Gran tells me. And I try, I really do, but it’s hard. This journey’s the same, maybe. One step at a time, maybe that’s all it takes. So I move my foot out. Inch along the wall. I know people are staring at me, staring at the freak, but one step at a time might get me home and it’s all I have.

  The house is in darkness. A shaking hand twists the key in the lock and I push the front door open, tumbling over the silent threshold, my breath ragged and harsh. I reach and find the light switch, flicking it on to reveal the empty hallway. No fire already burning or TV murmuring in the next room, no snatches of laughter or arguments, no dishes clinking in the sink, no waves of fragrant basil on the warm air. I live here alone now.

  I drop my bag and lean back onto the door. It closes with a heavy thud. Bolts are drawn across and I’m hidden from the world. My bag is abandoned in the hallway. It’s freezing, so I go to the sitting room, find the light there too, then flop onto the sofa and curl up in a corner, coat and scarf still on.

  This is my house. There’s a vintage railway clock on the wall. Mum bought it from a flea market. A plush, red rug from India – a present for Mum and Dad’s anniversary from Mum’s friend. A deformed pot on the shelf that Tish made at school when she was six. A gilt mirror over the fireplace – Mum went mad when I bought it for her out of my first student loan but she still hung it. This is my house. A house full of dead people’s things. I didn’t want it but I didn’t want anyone else living here either, so when the estate was settled and it was clear it was mine to do with as I wished, I kept it.

  The crying stopped soon after the accident, but perhaps crying would be better, perhaps crying would make me more human. Instead I have this void, this cold, empty space where my heart used to be. Every day is a battle to stop it from swallowing me whole. I lean on the arm of the sofa and close my eyes. When I can’t see the world is it still there? Hunger gnaws at me but I don’t have the strength to move. Not yet.

  The silence is shattered by the shrill call of the phone out in the hallway. I jump as my eyes refocus on the room. I’m tired, too tired to get up. Seeing the counsellor took everything I had and now I’m numb. It rings off. For a brief moment there is silence until it starts again. Whoever it is knows I’m here and they’re not giving up on me any time soon.

  I think I know who it will be and I don’t want to talk to him so I let it ring.

  The light forces my eyes open. I’m shivering, still wrapped in my coat on the sofa where I fell asleep last night, surrounded by ghosts. Then again, ghosts would be easier, more comforting. I’d be able to see my family, instead of just seeing their deaths, replaying over and over in my head, fused now with my own memories. The clock says nine. Eight months ago that would have seen me jump up, cursing my lateness for a lecture. Not today. Today there is nothing to move for, so I pull my coat tight around me and squint at the blinds where the winter sun pours through in yellow bars.

  I should get up, make some pretence of the day having a point to it. You’d think escaping death would make me want to grab life around the neck and suck it dry. But I don’t feel like I did escape death; it’s always with me.

  The money won’t last forever, or so Gran keeps telling me. Gran says I need to get a job, or something to make my inheritance stretch further. I know she’s right and I want to get a job. After all, that’s what normal people do, isn’t it – get a job, get a boyfriend, watch telly, eat pizza, go to the cinema on a Saturday night – all the things Gran tells me I should do. But Gran doesn’t have all this death pulling through her head. How can I have what normal people have when I’m not normal?

  The phone’s ringing again. Doesn’t look like he’s giving up any time soon. There’s a sticky staleness in my mouth; my breath must reek. My joints ache from sleeping in the cold all night.

  I need something to drink so I drag myself off the sofa, past the phone still screeching for my attention and into the kitchen. My eyes skim the dishes in the sink. How many days have they been there? There’s just me, though, so it doesn’t really matter. Good job Gran doesn’t get over here to see. There’s a dribble of orange juice left and I slurp the lot straight from the carton. Despite how I feel about it my body is very much alive and I need to pee. The climb up to the bathroom makes me dizzy. I suppose I must need to eat too at some point, which would probably involve me having to shop as the cupboards are almost bare. Shopping is still a nightmare but easier than it used to be. After the accident I didn’t want to do anything. I used to lie in my bed wondering if I could starve. I wondered if I actually could die if I tried. Death had already spat me back out once. What if he doesn’t like the way I taste? If I hadn’t been such a spineless loser I’d have put it to the test – stuck my head in an oven or something. But the fact is that even with all the guilt and sorrow and loneliness, there must be a tiny part of me that is glad I survived. And that’s the hardest thing of all to accept.

  The mirror catches my attention. Hollow eyed, skin grey, hair scraped back. I’m a real catch. There’s a headache building. I loosen my hair from the band and it falls about my shoulders, instantly feeling the relief. Flame-haired, my mum used to call me. It’s more of a dirty rust today. I peer closer and scrape a patch of dry skin away from my nose. The longer I stare at myself, the stranger I look. I’m not sure I recognise the girl in front of me anymore. And that’s why I need help.

  Cornflakes from the packet will have to do as there’s no milk. There’s been no milk since yesterday. Mum would be horrified if she saw the way I lived now; she was a real stickler for healthy balanced diets and sitting around the table to eat at meal times, no matter what else was happening. She said it bonded us as a family and would give us all long, happy lives with our own. I always wanted to skulk off to my room with my food but Tish loved to share her day with anyone who would listen, even if that was our deeply untrendy parents. Mum always said Tish was the light to my dark, but that both were equally important in life and equally loved. She didn’t half talk some crap but I loved her for trying to understand why I wasn’t like my perfect sister.

  The cornflakes are dry and bland without milk but I munch them down anyway. Besides, bland is good, bland is ordinary. Bland suits me just fine. The phone starts to ring again. Jesus, what do I have to say to stop this guy from hassling me? If I give him what he wants maybe he’ll leave me alone. I suppose a curiosity like me is impossible for someone like him to simply forget about. Slamming the cornflake box down, I go to get it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Cassie?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘Of course… Have you made up your mind yet?’

  ‘I told you no.’

  ‘But you didn’t seem sure.’

  ‘How does saying no communicate uncertainty?’

  ‘A young girl like you, on your own, fending for yourself – I’m sure you need all the help you can get.’

  I take a moment to think about it. I know what Gran would say. I do need to think about money soon.

  ‘I can make it more if it’s not enough,’ he presses.

  ‘People like you always bring everything back to money.’

  He’s silent for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ I mumble into the gap. ‘I just don’t want to reduce the lives of my family to money.’

  ‘Look, Cassie… last time we spoke I realise I was probably insensitive and I went about my offer all wrong. I’m sorry for that and I can see why you wouldn’t want to talk to me now. But money is all I can offer you of any worth, that’s why I mentioned it again.’

  ‘Money won’t bring my family back.’

  ‘No, but it will help you rebuild your life.’

  I’m tempted to tell him that nothing will rebuild this half-life I find myself living now but I think that information would be wasted on someone like him. ‘It’s not that,’ I correct him. I sigh. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he says. ‘But you
could help me to. I’ve been to lots of people who have suffered losses like yours, in all walks of life and all situations. You’d be amazed how many of them tell me that talking to me makes them feel better. Look on it as a way to honour their memory, to share your version of what happened with everyone so people can understand it.’

  I doubt whether anyone would understand the real version, but I have to admit that the rest is tempting… if that is what he really wants from me, of course. ‘Would I have to come to your office?’

  ‘If you don’t want to I can come to your home. Might be less stressful for you there.’

  Neither prospect sounds appealing right now. ‘I can’t decide. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Ok. You know where I am if you do decide to go ahead. Just say the word and we’ll arrange it.’

  I’ve only just picked up the cereal box again when there’s a knock at the door. I stiffen. People have stopped knocking at my door now. It couldn’t possibly be him, could it? He’s only just phoned me and surely he wouldn’t dare come round? I wait, motionless in the ticking silence. Just when I think they’ve gone, there’s another rap at the door. Then a voice through the letterbox:

  ‘Cassie? Are you in?’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘Cassie, it’s Gail – your gran’s carer. She’s worried you haven’t called…’ A pause. ‘I know you’re in…’ another pause. ‘Look, I don’t want to interfere, I just want to be able to tell your gran you’re ok. And if you need a bit of company… well, I may not be who you want, but you have my number. Call me, even if I’m not on shift…’

  I clutch the box, my heart thudding madly. Gail: soft around the edges, caring, sympathetic, warm. The sort of person everyone turns to when they’re down. The sort of woman who makes people feel loved. Part of me wants to yank open the door and fall, sobbing, into her arms. But there’s that maggot of guilt, eating away at me. Nobody should care about me.

  Eventually, the letterbox clatters shut. Before I know it, I’ve dumped the cornflake box and run to the door.

  She turns at the gate. She looks almost surprised to see me. But maybe this is part of the rehabilitation I have promised myself. Maybe this is the first second of that first minute of the brand new day. One day at a time, Gran says. How about I start with one conversation at a time?

  ‘You want to come in?’ I ask, feeling awkward and weird making the offer.

  Her smile is warm and genuine. It’s kind of infectious and I smile too. Smiling is not a thing I do often these days, and it’s a genuine novelty but it feels nice.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she says. ‘I won’t stay long,’ she adds as she makes her way back up the short path and follows me inside. ‘Unless you want me to, of course.’

  I wonder how Gail makes it so easy. She always knows the right thing to say without being awkward or sounding like she’s forcing it. When she tells me she wants to stay if I want her to, I believe her. Not like when other people say it. People used to visit all the time, in the aftermath of the accident and my – well, I don’t know what to call it really… reawakening sounds like a good word, I guess. But those people, I knew they didn’t want to be there. They’d glance at the clock constantly, talk about shit that didn’t mean anything – their eyes said they wanted to be anywhere but with me. Even my closest friends were like that, all those years of friendship and fond memories wiped out by a single catastrophic event. I didn’t just lose my family that day, I lost everyone, including the girl I used to be. Not Gail though. I always know where I am with Gail and she genuinely doesn’t seem afraid of me. She doesn’t call as often as she did right after the accident, but perhaps I’ve made everyone believe I don’t need anyone to call on me.

  ‘I haven’t got any milk, I’m afraid.’

  Gail tuts in a motherly sort of way and then laughs lightly. ‘See, I was right to call. It looks as though I need to get one of our helpers in here to do your shopping as well as for all the old ladies in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. I just need to get off my backside and go out for some. I was going to when you knocked.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘No you weren’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I gesture for her to take a seat at the kitchen table.

  ‘Because I was nineteen once…’ her eyes flick to the worktop as she sits down. ‘That and the fact you’re obviously eating cornflakes without any.’

  I can’t help but smile again. ‘There’s no fooling you, is there?’

  ‘Not when you’ve cared for as many people as I have over the years. I’ve seen it all, heard every excuse.’

  ‘Did you always want to look after people?’ I sit down across from her.

  She laughs. ‘That’s a bit out of the blue. What makes you ask?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I mean, did you always feel a sense of purpose, like there was one single thing you were meant to do with your life… like caring for people?’

  ‘I never really thought about it much.’ She pushes a stray lock of her blonde bob behind an ear. ‘I sort of fell into it, I suppose. But once I realised I liked helping people and I was good at it, I didn’t want to do anything else. Twenty years of doing it has gone by in the blink of an eye, and I’ve seen a lot of nice people come and go.’ She smiles and looks into the distance as if she’s running her gaze along a line up of familiar faces. ‘Some of them not so nice too. But I was happy to help them all. It’s not a career for everyone,’ she adds, looking at me meaningfully. ‘It’s tough and sometimes not very rewarding. Nothing tests the patience quite like being slapped around the head with a slipper by a ninety-year-old lady.’

  I laugh and it’s genuine. The sound is odd in the air of my lonely house, but it’s nice too. ‘I know. I wasn’t thinking about it, if that’s what you mean. I suppose it must be nice, that’s all, knowing what you’re on the Earth for.’

  ‘You could start with your gran if you want to show a bit of compassion,’ she says pointedly.

  ‘She doesn’t need compassion, she needs a gag,’ I reply darkly and she laughs.

  ‘She is one on her own, God love her. She’s always been one of my favourites, though. And she is only mouthy because she loves you and worries about you. You can’t blame her for that.’

  ‘I’m big enough to look after myself now.’

  ‘You’re never too big for a granny to stop caring about you. Especially after all that happened last year with the car crash.’ Gail says this sentence simply, no muttering or code, no sign language or weirdness. Her ease and frankness is something I never fail to find refreshing. ‘She did get quite upset too when she saw the news report earlier today about that girl who was murdered. I think it probably chimed with her because the girl was the same age as you.’

  ‘What girl?’ I ask, more out of courtesy than because I’m all that interested.

  ‘Haven’t you seen the news? Another murder…’ Gail says this like we live in some utopia where violence never happens. The fact is we live in a town like any other in twenty-first century Britain. You only have to pick up the local paper on any day to see a photo of someone with a mashed face staring back at you.

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, you ought to be careful. And you should be keeping in touch with your gran.’

  ‘Murders are usually committed by someone the victim knows. I expect it was someone she’d dumped by text or something equally unflattering.’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Gail replies airily. ‘The police don’t seem to be thinking along those lines at all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t go wandering up and down dodgy alleyways and waste ground when it’s dark, so I hardly think Gran needs to worry that I’ll be next on our local serial killer’s hit list.’ I say.

  ‘Probably not,’ she agrees, ‘but she’s allowed to worry about you. Perhaps she wouldn’t worry quite so much if she could see for herself you’re ok from time to time. For all she knows I could be reporting back to her that ever
ything is ok when I really have you tied to a rocking chair in my attic.’

  I pull at a piece of loose cotton on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. ‘I know. I keep meaning to visit but I’ve just had some stuff to do.’

  I look up to see that she is wearing a disbelieving frown.

  ‘Ok,’ I admit. ‘I haven’t felt up to talking much lately.’

  ‘As you’re talking to me now, I can tell her that you’re feeling better and you’re going to pop over soon?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I should,’ I sigh, ‘her wrath will only be worse the longer I leave it.’

  Gail grins. ‘In that case, rather you than me, girl.’

  Two: Dante, like the painter

  Helen watches as I enter the room with a faint look of disbelief.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d come back,’ I say as I shrug off my coat.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she replies. ‘But I’m glad to be wrong.’

  I sit down in the armchair opposite her. ‘I had nothing better to do.’

  She nods and opens her notebook. ‘How did you manage the journey here?’

  It was one of the days when it takes every ounce of strength I possess to force myself through my front door. But I don’t tell her that. ‘I walked it.’

  ‘It’s a long walk.’

  ‘I like walking.’

  ‘Ok. How’s your week been?’

  I shrug. ‘The same.’

  ‘The same meaning bad?’

  ‘Lonely,’ I say. I don’t even know why that word comes out; it just does, like I have no control over it.

  ‘Would it help to have company?’