Lady Bag
Page 1
How do you evaluate books when you haven’t seen published reviews? Well, here is a selection of reader’s reviews for my last three books from US and UK Amazon. Nobody pays readers to post reviews—so thank you, readers!
MISS TERRY
Julie Greeman
Loved this book!
Pam Caswell
Well told story
Kathleen O’toole
Brilliant
C. Fairweather
Wow! Miss Terry is one of the best books I have read in a long time… Wow!
K. Maxwell
Different, thought-provoking mystery
iChas “Biologist”
An unusual—and very topical—book that I strongly recommend.
Lovetoread
A great read
BALLAD OF A DEAD NOBODY
Kathleen O’toole
Fascinating
Kathryn Bennett
So glad to see Liza Cody is still writing
Hilde
Another great Liza Cody
iChas
A gripping story very well told…
A. B. King
What a writer!
Esskayee
Good outing by Cody
Ian S. Maccarthy
Half of a good novel
GIMME MORE
Merle K. Gatewood
Fresh and Different
Likesmysterystories
Liza Cody’s the best!
Jacques Coulardeau
A masterpiece, of sorts
A Customer
I loved this book/Leading the field again (bought 2 copies—yay!)
Mrs L C Harvey
The Truth About Rock and Roll
Ed “ramblingsyd”
The music biz, the seventies, born again rock chicks…
Other books by Liza Cody
Anna Lee series
DUPE
BAD COMPANY
STALKER
HEADCASE
BACKHAND
UNDER CONTRACT
Bucket Nut Trilogy
BUCKET NUT
MONKEY WRENCH
MUSCLEBOUND
Other novels
RIFT
GIMME MORE
BALLAD OF A DEAD NOBODY
MISS TERRY
Short stories
LUCKY DIP and Other Stories
LADY BAG
Liza Cody
iUniverse LLC
Bloomington
Lady Bag
Copyright © 2013 by Liza Cody.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
iUniverse LLC
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-0746-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-0747-0 (e)
iUniverse rev. date: 11/18/2013
Cover drawing and design by Elsie and Emzel
Contents
Chapter 1In Which I Bump Into The Devil
Chapter 2I Follow The Devil And His Doxy
Chapter 3I Am Advised By A Dog
Chapter 4Plagued By Joss, Beer And Jealousy
Chapter 5I Find Myself At The Wrong End Of A Boot
Chapter 6Hospitalised
Chapter 7I Become Natalie
Chapter 8Leaving Harrison Mews
Chapter 9A Dodgy Nun And Electra
Chapter 10I Am Persuaded To Move South Of The River
Chapter 11Abiding In Babylon
Chapter 12In Which I Try To Review The Situation
Chapter 13Money, Violence And A New Flatmate
Chapter 14We All Wear The Mark Of Kev
Chapter 15Fire!
Chapter 16I Do A Deal With The Devil
Chapter 17Exposure
Chapter 18More Exposure
Chapter 19Electra Needs A Roof Over Her Head
Chapter 20The Doggy Who Burnt Her Toes
Chapter 21Smister’s Dreadful Story
Chapter 22Jerry-cop And The Mouse Momster
Chapter 23Torpedoed By A Shock Encounter
Chapter 24Threats, Thieves And Pierre
Chapter 25The Last Straw
Chapter 26In Which The Cops Catch Up
Chapter 27I See Natalie’s Ghost
Chapter 28I Become An Ambulance Driver
Chapter 29I Drive Back To Where I Started
Chapter 30Called By The Devil
Chapter 31I See The Devil’s Feet
Chapter 32What Hairy Clairey Said
Chapter 33So I Remembered
Chapter 34Smister Takes A Stupid Risk
Chapter 35A Quarrel On A train
Chapter 36Drives Badly Bradley
Chapter 37Back With The Man In The Machine
Chapter 38It Gets Worse
Chapter 39Just A Little Comfort…
Chapter 40… After Which It Gets Even Worse
Chapter 41Toxic Hope
About the Author
For Mike
And with love to Sue, Brigid, Ben and Nell—in memory of Brian Garvey who, in a very real way, made all this happen.
With a big thankyou to Julie Lewin for her sharp eyes
and generosity.
LADY BAG
Chapter 1
In Which I Bump Into The Devil
The silvery man looked plump and prosperous in his fine wool coat. Through the glass door he’d seemed good natured as well. My mistake. Never judge a man through glass. Always wait till you can smell him. This one smelled of tomato soup and single malt—a smug smell.
He said, ‘We’ve all got to work—except, apparently, you. Why should I give you money? No one gives me any.’
He pinned me back against a no-parking sign with contemptuous eyes, and in front of all the city workers rushing to go home he said, ‘I’m not going to feed your ha
bit or encourage your laziness.’ He had a rich brassy voice, loud enough to be heard a mile off.
Then he walked away. I hate it when they do that. It’s like saying, ‘I don’t even want to look at you.’
What does he mean—no one gives him any money? What about all the tax breaks, business expenses and bonuses? People are giving him money all the time.
You think I don’t know about playing the system? I haven’t always looked like this, you know. I wasn’t born out here. If you make your mind up about me too quickly you’ll be as guilty of bigotry as that snotty guy.
Electra pushed her wet snout into my hand and I stroked her sleek narrow skull. ‘Never mind,’ I said.
Public rejection is hard to recover from. Bastards like him in their clean wool coats never imagine you might need a pick-me-up to help swallow their self-righteous words.
A woman in a black city suit said, ‘I heard that.’ She held out a pound coin. ‘I’m not saying I disagree, but what about the dog?’ She smelled far more womanly than she looked—of breath mints and rose-water.
I held my hand out for the coin. At the last moment she snatched it away and said, ‘This is for the greyhound; not you. You’ve got to promise you’ll spend it on him.’ Like she was offering me a fortune instead of one measly pound coin that would hardly feed Electra her supper.
‘Her,’ I said. ‘She’s called Electra. She’s a rescue dog. If I don’t look after her the animal shelter people can take her away.’
‘I should hope so,’ the woman said. ‘Why did you name her after a girl who killed her own mother?’ Maybe the breath mints covered the acid scent of cheap white wine.
I said, ‘Her racing name was RPA Radiovista’s Electra of South Slough. Nobody murdered a mother.’
‘Electra did.’ She released the coin into my hand and started to walk away.
‘Why?’ I followed. I love stories.
‘Sorry, I’ve a train to catch. Look her up. Google her.’
Of course I will, on my thousand quid laptop which I can plug into any fucking lamp-post in London. Know what? The shelter where I sometimes sleep makes you buy a key before they let you charge your mobile phone for an hour. If you’ve got a mobile phone and haven’t been robbed when you were sleeping rough because your stupid dog was too much of a pussy-cat even to bark and wake you up. Murder her mother? Hah! You got that one wrong, office lady—this Electra couldn’t kill a crippled bunny. Unless of course she just stared at it with her big tragic eyes and the bunny committed suicide out of sympathy.
Those eyes are why I got her in the first place. Electra can screw coin out of the coldest of hard hearts. Me? They don’t care if I live or die, but then I’m not Ms Pitiful like she is. Sometimes when I really need extra cash I bandage her paws. It isn’t dishonest: she actually does have arthritis in her legs and feet. A lot of ex racing dogs do, and trudging around on stone-cold pavements doesn’t help. Bandages just make her pain visible. And they make me look like the caring owner I am when normally nobody sees me at all.
People like dogs more than they like people. And they’re right. You can actually help a dog but you can never really help people.
Look at me and Electra—she’s old and arthritic. The bastards who raced her would’ve put her down. When I first got her all she knew how to do was run, but not fast enough anymore to escape a lethal injection. She didn’t know how to sit on a sofa and be sociable or sleep snuggled up. She’d never seen a sofa in her life and greyhound trainers don’t snuggle worth a damn.
I took her and fed her and kept her warm. I’ll feed her and keep her till the day one of us dies. I wouldn’t do that for a broken down old human athlete with social problems, would I? And nor would you, unless you were maybe a saint or related by blood or way better at solving human problems than I am.
Then again, if you look at it from her point of view, I’m not the disappointment you’d expect me to be. She was brought up in a cold concrete kennel block without human kindness. I’m not letting her down in that department, am I? She isn’t lonely because she’s got me twenty-four seven. If she didn’t like me she could just walk away—she isn’t tied up.
When I first got her she used to stand with her tail between her legs, shivering and not making eye contact. She used to flinch when anyone tried to touch her. Now she lets strangers give her a pat and she sticks her nose into my hand when she wants to be noticed and petted. We didn’t go for couples therapy or any of the shit you’d have to go through with a human being. No. Electra just got into the habit of trusting me and trust made her happier. You could never do anything that simple for a human being. I think people are too complicated to be content with simple happiness. That’s why I’d rather talk to Electra than anyone else on earth.
We collected about seven quid and when rush-hour was over we walked west to get ready for the evening entertainment crowd. When people get too drunk and abusive, we go to the hostel if we managed to keep enough coin to pay for it or we find somewhere safe-ish to put our heads down. Or we do the rounds of the charity shops to see if there’s anything in the bags outside that’ll fit me.
First though I had a little taste of the Algerian red—just enough to recover from the insults and to make the evening warmer. Then I wandered down St Martins Lane towards Trafalgar Square. If you can’t get a seat on a bench there, you can always sit on the steps. I like Trafalgar Square. There are masses of tourists to listen to and someone always makes you laugh by jumping in the fountains or falling off one of the bronze lions.
That’s when I bumped into the Devil, also known as Gram Attwood, coming out of the National Portrait Gallery. Him with his cool blue eyes and his vicious little smile. I didn’t think it was vicious in the old days—I thought it was cute. I thought he was cute. And he was—for a thief and a killer.
Chapter 2
I Follow The Devil And His Doxy
I saw him but he didn’t see me. He was with a woman, of course. She was a few years older, of course. Not beautiful but well constructed and carefully dressed. Of course. And of course he was charming and attentive. Of course, of course, of course.
I could smell his soap, his shampoo and moisturiser, his laundered shirt. So clean, so fresh and so inhuman. However close I came to him I could never smell his body. The Devil leaves no scent. Maybe that should’ve tipped me off.
I stood for a second, stunned, and wondering if Electra could catch a whiff of Gram Attwood. Maybe that is a dog’s superpower—distinguishing between the merely evil and the Devil by smell alone. But she stood patiently, waiting for me to move on. Dogs are sweet creatures who know nothing about evil so maybe they won’t recognise the Devil when they see him.
Gram Attwood walked across Trafalgar Square towards Haymarket without a flicker of recognition. His right hand lightly grasped his companion’s elbow. His touch was intimate, the touch of ownership. Maybe he paid for something. He’d certainly gone up in the world since I knew him. When I knew him I paid for everything—including the price of his freedom.
‘Come on,’ I said to Electra, and we followed the Devil.
The woman parted from him outside a theatre. She kissed him on the mouth, laughing and lingering a little. His smile was a work of art. I’m so interested, his smile said. Fascinated. Treat me right and I might just love you.
I was in the dock the last time I saw that smile and I did treat him right. I did exactly what he asked of me. Or rather it was what I didn’t do that was important. And you could write a hundred books about what I didn’t say. When I finally realised that he was never going to visit me, that he’d left me inside to rot, I understood what hatred actually is. Hatred is love with maggots gnawing at its living flesh. It’s love turned inside out, its guts and soft places exposed to the maggots and the acid rain.
That’s what I learned in prison. Pretty, eh?
They gave me tablets—three a day—to s
top the hatred. They buried it under layers and layers of gauze which muffled sound and hung between my eyes and the world.
I fitted in better after that. Time slid by day by day without leaving footprints on my memory. It was just time and I did it the way you have to. But my personality was eaten away just like my memory.
Then it was over. I left prison and there were no more tablets. I was free. Free to hate again. Free to hurt again. I woke up one morning and the gauze that hung between me and sights and sounds had blown away. Everything hurt my eyes, ears and skin. Sights and sounds became slights and wounds. If I’d had any money I would’ve turned into a junky because they say that junkies feel no pain at all for hours at a time. But I had no money, my mother was dead and my house had been sold.
At first I did what you do to get back to normal. I tried to find a job so I could rent somewhere decent. But then I discovered that I’d been left at the bottom of a deep chasm called Debt. I’d given Gram Satan Attwood power of attorney to sell my house to cover legal fees—which is much the same as giving the Prince of Thieves the key to your treasure chest and saying, ‘Go ahead, my dearest one, help yourself.’
There I was, with less than nothing. Even so I tried to get back into the system and become a proper person again. I really did. The trouble was that I wasn’t a proper person anymore, and everyone could see it. Or maybe they could smell it; like I can every day of my life.