Everyone is screaming. My throat hurts with their screams. My ears are full of sparks. An ambulance roars up, almost runs me over. The ambulance men throw people in like luggage. I’m frightened they’ll throw me. I hide behind a door, hide my eyes. Someone kicks my back. I can hear a woman being sick, sobbing in between.
It’s cold. It’s very cold. I dare not wear the raincoat. They’ll say I stole it, stole the dress. The dress is heavy, weighing down my arm. I took it back to the hotel, but Carole wasn’t there, hadn’t left a note. I thought she’d be in Israel, but there were only more loud bangs – coloured bangs, pink and blue and gold. All the pavements trembling. Echoes in my head. I saw Reuben, though, in Israel. His eyes were burn-holes and he was wearing dirty jeans. Forty of him, fifty, pressing up against me. I could smell his smell: hair oil and fried onions. He opened his mouth and a siren started wailing. On and on and on.
Quick! Out of bed and into the air-raid shelter. Miss O’Toole is running, heavy feet clattering on the stone. “Hurry, children! Get your gas-masks on.” The sky is red and grazed. I can hear the planes. German planes. We stumble down the cold stone steps. A big boy pushes past me. I trip, get up, limp on. Both my knees are cut. I can’t see the blood, only feel it slimy. It’s very dark and gloomy in the shelter. Wars are always dark. They put blackout on the sun. We don’t eat in the shelter, only cups of cocoa. That’s dark as well, with skin on.
We sit there hours and hours. I wet my knickers. No one sees. The stone is damp already, damp and hard. Someone reads to us. The children in the story have real parents and a dog. Miss O’Toole’s not listening. She’s talking to herself, or maybe to Our Lady. She’s scared. Bombs blow you into bits. They don’t always find the bits, so when you go to heaven, parts of you are missing.
I think we’ve died already, gone to hell. I can see the flames, real flames in the showroom; devils dressed as acrobats jumping through a fire; red and orange dancing-girls holding lighted torches. Dancing flames. I’m frightened. The noise is hot and crackling. We had a fire at Belstead and two patients burnt to death. There’s a lot of smoke choking from the stage. Pink smoke. It can’t be hell. The smoke is black in hell and people don’t keep clapping.
There’s more smoke all around me. Cigars and cigarettes. The Belstead fire was started by a lighted cigarette. I’m a long way from the exit. There’s music playing which is too big for the room and is screaming to get out. I must get out myself. I‘m hot, I’m catching fire. I struggle to my feet, pick up all my parcels. I’m still carrying Carole’s dress. I think it’s only ashes. Four hundred dollars for a bag of ashes. White for funerals. It costs less to bury corpses than to burn them.
“Sit down,” says someone. “I can’t see through your head.”
I sit. I start to cough. “Ssh,” says someone else. The cough won’t ssh. It needs a glass of water. Everyone is drinking, but it isn’t water. I gulp my own drink. The waiter brought me one, though I didn’t ask him for it.
I’m cooler now. It’s raining on the stage and all the dancing-girls have taken off their clothes and put up gold umbrellas. I shiver. The rain is gold as well, turns into a storm. Claps of thunder, music terrified. The lightning flickers right across the room. No. It’s worse than lightning. It’s green, and cuts like knives, cuts me right in half. I’m bleeding thin green blood. I crouch behind my shopping, but it pounces on me there, shoots right through my eyes. I close my eyes. It’s safer in the dark.
It’s thundering again. I can’t see anything, but I can hear the bangs and crashes, hear the rain still beating beating down. I feel my arms. They’re dry. I think I must be ill. You don’t have storms inside. I fumble in my handbag, find a pill, force it down. I swallow smoke as well, and music, but at least it makes the thunder stop.
Four elephants walk on. They have red bows on their ears like Sally-Ann. They stand on their back legs and turn slowly round and round so all their private parts are showing. Everybody laughs. I don’t. It’s not nice when people laugh, especially at your body.
They don’t laugh at the tigers. The tigers are angry, showing all their teeth. You can’t hear them roaring because the other roar is louder – the people roar, the clapping roar. I’m feeling worse. I’m far too near the tigers. Their mouths are caves with scarlet at the back. Their eyes are yellow glass.
I think I took the wrong pill. It may have been a fruit drop. I’m seeing small white birds now. A man in a black suit has taken off his top hat and put it on a table. It’s covered with a cloth. Every time he moves the cloth, another bird flies out. Then he waves his wand and the birds all disappear. The clapping gets so loud, I block my ears. The birds have all flown back again and are circling round the stage.
I think I’d better leave. You need stronger pills for birds. All I saw before were coloured lights. There are more of those, far more, spangling all the curtains, turning people’s skin blue. We haven’t had the Princes yet. I think they died in Israel.
I pick my parcels up. People say “Ssh” again, “Sit down.” They’re angry like the tigers. I keep bumping into them, tripping over tails. Angry swishing tails. It’s pitch dark in the showroom once I’ve turned my back, but I can see their yellow eyes. I stop a moment, glance back at the stage. It’s full of angels, angels with bare bosoms. Their wings are red and purple, their hair is silver-green. More and more of them, flying down the golden stairs from heaven, filling the whole stage. They’re singing holy songs. They have feathers on their heads as well as wings, and great long shining trains.
The music changes. Not holy any more, but very fast and wild. They’re kicking up their legs. Angels don’t have legs. Or big white wobbling bosoms. I turn and run. They’re running after me, coming right down off the stage. The tallest has a snake wrapped round her body. A real snake, very long. I can see it moving, see its flickering tongue. Snakes are dangerous. St Patrick drove them all away. I wish they had him here.
I can’t get out, can hardly move at all now. My legs have turned to feathers, and there are all these seats and people in the way. I can hear shouts and roars behind me; tiger-roars, people-roars. They’re after me, like Reuben. Angry sirens, policemen firing guns. I’m not inside, I’m outside, back Downtown again. More fireworks – bombs – exploding all around me. Showers of sparks. Huge bangs from the music. Everybody screaming like before. This time I’ll be killed. I turn a corner, fall between two buildings, lie face-down in the street.
“Norah, what’s the matter with you? Can’t you keep still there in the back?”
I get up from the showroom floor. It’s not the street, not Downtown at all. It’s moving. Moving very fast. It’s turned into a plane.
“You’re pissing Angie off, Norah. She says if you don’t sit still, she’ll make you drive youself.”
That’s Carole’s voice, her laugh. She was crying earlier on, but I think that was a dream. She’s drinking. From a bottle. A tiny one. Things are always small on planes. She’s holding out the bottle. Angelique grabs it, tips her head back. She’s drinking while she’s driving. It’s New Year’s Eve, so she’ll get a funeral.
I’d like to drive, but I haven’t got a licence now. Al took that away, with the money and the card. He only left the ring. I’m Mrs Mary Haines. I’m very old and ill. My head is polished granite with ten words written on it. The writing’s very wobbly. I think it’s had a stroke. The y’s have swollen tails.
“Norah?”
I can’t answer.
“Norah, we’re going to a party.” Carole laughs again. I don’t know why she’s laughing. Perhaps she’s glad she isn’t dead.
“A New Year’s party.” She’s found another bottle, a bigger one this time. She giggles through her drink. “Happy New Year!” She kisses Angelique, who slaps her off. “Happy New Year, Toomey-in-the-back.”
“Happy New Year,” I say. She never calls me Toomey now, not since we’ve been friends.
“Happy New Year,” she says again, to no one. I wish she wouldn’t say it. Th
ey said it at the fireworks, shouted it out loud. People kissed me. Strangers. And the kisses smelt of beer. One man tried to strangle me. I don’t like being kissed. Then everybody danced, right there in the street. I was holding two hot hands – men’s hands, black men’s hands – and they dragged me round and round. It was difficult to dance because my feet kept falling over things: broken bottles, dirty cardboard crowns. I said I’d like to stop please, but no one seemed to hear. So we went on round and round. Round and round. Miss O’ Toole said the earth spins all the time, but before I’d never felt it.
“Hey, Norah … ?”
“Yes.”
“See that guy beside you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Angelique’s big brother. Say hallo to Angelique’s big brother.” They both laugh then, Angelique as well.
“Hallo,” I say, again.
He doesn’t answer. Carole laughs instead. “Today’s his birthday. “Say ‘Happy Birthday’, Norah.”
I don’t say anything.
“It’s not a birthday party, it’s a really special do – a rave-up. Guess where they’re holding it.”
“On a … boat?”
“No, you nut.”
I don’t think she’s my friend, not any more. I can hear it in her voice. Angelique’s her friend. She kissed her, called her Angie. She’s shouting at me now, turning round and shouting.
“Scotty’s Castle, that’s where! I thought Angelique was kidding, but she’s not. It’s a real castle in the desert, built by this guy who pretended he’d found a gold mine when he hadn’t.”
She thinks I stole the dress. I couldn’t tell her how I earnt the money. Al made me swear I wouldn’t. He said if I breathed a word to anyone, I wouldn’t have a mouth to speak at all. He used a lot of swear-words, horrid words. I’ve said too much already, told her about Mary. If Al finds out, he’ll send his heavies over. I know what heavies are now. I saw them in the streets.
At least I hid the ring. I’m more scared about the ring than anything. It’s gold, real gold, so they’re bound to say I stole it, even Carole. I’d like to give it back, but I don’t know where Mary lives. I put it in my pill bottle, the empty one I keep for ladybirds. Then I wrapped the bottle up and pushed it through the lining in my handbag. (The lining’s torn already, Sister. I didn’t make a hole.)
They may still find it if they confiscate my bag. So I crossed out “Norah Toomey” on the label, “Three times a day with meals”, and wrote “MARY’ S RING” instead. They’ll know it isn’t mine then, and that I meant to give it back.
“You’re not listening, Toomey. We’re going to a castle for a binge. It’s very grand with eighteen fireplaces.”
That can’t be true. It’s very hot in deserts, so you wouldn’t need a fireplace. I’ve seen pictures of the desert in my library books. And there are deserts in the Bible. I think St Joseph lived in one. Or near one.
“And fourteen bathrooms. Scotty’s buried there. Not in a bathroom.” Carole laughs and hiccoughs. “His grave is up a hill. His real name was Walter Scott. Not the Ivanhoe one.” A hiccough takes her voice away, then back it comes again. “He was called Death Valley Scotty.”
“Why?” I ask. I feel too tired to talk, but it’s rude if you say nothing.
“Because that’s where he lived – where he built the castle.”
“Where?”
“Death Valley.”
I don’t say anything. I know we’re going to die now. Angelique turns round.
“It’s famous, Norah – a huge great National Park with a hotel and a ranch and lots of things to see: old borax mines and ghost towns and museums. Scotty’s Castle is a museum now itself. The party won’t be there, not in the main house. It’s full of all this precious stuff – you know, chairs and rugs and curtains which Scotty chose himself. They guard it with their lives.”
Carole interrupts. “Where’s it going to be, then? On the roof or something?”
“Could be. They got pretty wild last year. Some guests even broke into the basement where the ghosts are said to walk. No – it’s at the Hacienda. That’s the guesthouse in the grounds where the unit manager lives. He’s a pal of mine, invites me up each year. Mind you, I’ve never been as late as this before. They’ll be well away by now.”
“Angie had to work late, didn’t you, Angie?” Carole nudges her. “D’you know what Angie does, Norah?”
“She’s a dancer,” I reply. Carole told me that already.
“No, Angie’s not a dancer. Angie’s …”
“Shut up, Carole. And put that gin away. You’ve had enough.” Angelique glances back at me again. “It’s quite a drive, Norah. We cross the boundary into California soon.”
California. That’s where God is angry. Where they have the storms and earthquakes. I clutch the seat. I wish I could get out.
“I know this road backwards. Another of my friends is a ranger in the park, and I go visit him a lot – well, not in summer. You frizzle to a cinder in the summer. It’s the hottest driest place in the whole United States.”
“Hot?” I say, alarmed.
“Yeah. The hottest in the world maybe. Some years, there’s not a single drop of rain from December to December. You can die there in the heat. I came across a grave once – a rough cross made of stones with this guy’s name scratched across it and RIP. Another time, I almost walked into a dead coyote, just a heap of bones, bleached white in the sun. And birds die, scores of them. Just last year, a flock of geese mistook the salt flats for a stretch of water. They flew in to rest.” She laughs. “Eternal rest. And the first whites who ever came here mostly died of exposure, or exhaustion. Then the gold prospectors followed and …”
“Angelique,” I say. “I … I need to go.”
“What?”
I’m too shy to say it twice. I wish I had a house with fourteen bathrooms, all with toilets in.
Carole stops drinking, wipes her mouth. “Norah’s busting for a pee. You’ll have to stop. It’s probably only nerves. You’re frightening her.”
“I can’t stop. Sorry, Norah, but we’re late enough already. Anyway, I’m scared the cops are after us. Now they’ve got Reuben, he may say anything, really drop us in it. I don’t intend to take my foot off the gas until we’re safe at Scotty’s.”
I cross my legs to try and hold the nerves in. Carole starts to sing, a sad song, very sad. I can feel the wet trickling down my legs.
I edge up to the window, as far away as possible from Angelique’s big brother. He isn’t big at all. I heard her call him George, which used to be a king’s name. His face is squashed and his eyes are very small and hiding in it. The wet has reached my shoes. Some has gone the other way, so even my vest is damp. My face is hot with shame. I’m glad it’s dark; dark outside as well. The road is angry. It’s put out all its lights and is running very fast to catch us up. There are no other cars or buildings, just black and blurry shapes like huge policemen crouching down, waiting to spring out.
I’ve stained the beaded dress. It isn’t mine. I may have stained the car seat. They’ll make me pay, make me iron the sheets. I haven’t any money. This evening I was rich. I can see the gold card shining in my hand, the jangling gold bracelets of that woman in the office; the gold ring on my other hand. They’ll ask me where the ring is, why I took the raincoat.
I stare out at the dark. A big lighted sign is looming up. Gold letters in the black. “WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA, THE GOLDEN STATE.” We seem to fly right through it, gold on both my hands again, gold on Carole’s hair. I shut my eyes to block it out.
I don’t like gold.
Chapter Twenty One
Those are mountains, real live mountains. They are alive. I saw them stretch and smile. And they spoke to me. “Don’t go,” they said. “Stay here.”
I’d like to stay. I’m happy. I knew I’d love the mountains. They’re so tall they can see God. They’re not like the pictures in the books. Those were sharp and jagged with ice and snow and Christmas t
rees on top. These are brown and bald. I think St Joseph lived here. The land looks very old. Its face is lined like his is, and it wears his colour, brown.
It’s not hot, not at all, just cool and fresh and clean. No party smells or people smells. Not even any flowers. There’s nothing bright or green. Just sandy-brown and grey-brown, and a little quiet blue mist. Angelique was wrong about the tourists. She said they came to visit. There’s no one here. Just me. The silence is thick and padded like an eiderdown. I wrap it round me, smile.
I’m the only one who has a morning. Everyone at Scotty’s is asleep. The party went on all night, all day, and then another night, and then the sun came up and people went to bed.
I came out here instead. I don’t like parties and it wasn’t a real castle. Everybody laughed too much and drank too much and one man tried to touch me on my chest. I couldn’t drink myself. I knew I’d need to go, and no one ever told me where the toilet was. In the end, I had to do it outside and I disturbed two men kissing in the dark.
The gardens were quite big and there were lots of people in them, playing games and laughing, or creeping into bushes and taking off their clothes. Some kept all their clothes on, but jumped into the pond. They came out slimy wet, with green stuff in their hair. They didn’t dry themselves, just went on laughing, drinking.
Carole disappeared. I only saw her once. She had taken off her wedding dress and was dressed in Angelique’s clothes. They didn’t fit her. Nor do mine. I’m wearing George’s jeans. I don’t like jeans, but there’s nobody to see me. No mirrors to make three of me, then laugh at all of them. No cars or lights or music. It’s like the chapel name – vale of peace. Not even any birds. The Beechgrove birds sometimes screech rude words.
There’s more room in my head now. It’s often full of soft grey lumpy stuff which sticks to all my thoughts. But today the air’s got in. Desert air. I feel better in the desert.
I sit down on a piece of rock. I’ve brought my breakfast with me. They don’t have meals at Scotty’s, not proper ones with knives and forks or chairs. I took an apple and a roll. It wasn’t stealing. A man said “Help yourself.” I asked if he was Scotty and he laughed and said he hoped not or he’d be well over a hundred and it was bad enough being fifty-three. None of them had names.
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