by RR Haywood
‘Just give me the…’ Henrietta drops to a crouch and slides the device from Rose’s pocket. ‘Pin code?’
‘What is?’
‘What’s the pin code, Rose?’
‘Zero zero zero zero.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, like, nobody would ever guess that. It’s, like, totally stupid proof.’
‘Absolutely,’ Henrietta says, keying the numbers in as the realisation strikes that Rose hasn’t once asked about her father. ‘Where’s your dad tonight?’
‘Fucking Ivana probably.’ A drop in tone edged with spite and hurt.
Henrietta thumbs through the screen icons and finds the torch, which shines a bright white light to banish the shadows. She turns slowly, probing the depths of the workshop. A vehicle dug out further inside with a trench formed to access the underside of cars. Old hydraulic lifts used for shifting pallets. Rusty tools and bald tyres stacked in the corners and there, fitted to the side, is the filthiest ceramic sink ever known to have existed in the history of mankind. Once white but now streaked with years of grease, oil, shit and dirt smudged and built up in layers of putrid gunk. The taps, once stainless steel and gleaming, now coated in limescale and crusted with flaky, rusting layers of dirt.
‘Fucking hell,’ Brian whispers in awe at the magnificent sight of humanity at its very best. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ Henrietta asks, reluctantly moving a step closer and seeing the dark object in the bowl. ‘That?’
‘Yeah, what is it?’
‘No idea…dead rat?’
‘Might be.’ Brian goes forward again to stare quizzically down at the inert and lifeless object. Long and dark brown but hidden in the shadow of the recess. Henrietta lifts her arm to gain height for the beam of light angled towards the bowl.
‘Oh,’ Brian says, flat and devoid of expression. ‘It’s a turd.’
‘It is,’ Henrietta says, staring at the poo. ‘Someone took a shit in the sink.’
‘Looks that way,’ Brian says quietly with a mind going suddenly blank. ‘Do you think it’s old?’
‘What is it?’ Bennie asks, getting unsteadily to his feet.
‘Poo,’ Brian says.
‘Where? In the sink? Oh wow, that is so cool…’
‘It’s not cool,’ Henrietta says.
‘You never shit in a sink before then?’ Bennie asks.
‘Funny that,’ Henrietta says, thinking back to a life lived of parties, events, dancing, clubs, sex, booze and everything in between. ‘No, I really don’t think I have.’
‘Ha! I did,’ Bennie says proudly. ‘Not here, though…I mean, that’s not mine.’
‘Gross,’ Henrietta says, shaking her head and wondering why she’s even surprised after years spent in the company of singers and rock stars. ‘We need water,’ she mutters, trying to weigh the benefits of finding a stick to shift the poo against the need to hydrate and wash the gore off.
‘No fucking way,’ Brian says.
‘We need water,’ she says again. They might have to run again. No, they will have to run again. They need water. They need to drink and replenish lost fluids. The foundation of all exercise lies in the ability to stay hydrated and keep the body working. Having said that, there is a big poo in the sink and the bowl isn’t big. Mind you, the turd isn’t actually touching the tap and there’s at least a three-inch gap and that streak suggests the defecator hovered nearer the other side by the hot tap.
‘Henrietta,’ Brian says, not quite believing he’s facing a puke-covered Henrietta Swallow while worrying that she’ll make them drink from a sink covered in human shit.
‘We need water,’ she says, resolute and firm. The decision is made. Brian and Bennie take a step back while Rose watches with the expression of a puppy trying to keep up and Dolan whimpers at the ever-worsening turn of events. Henrietta goes back to the door to retrieve the rusty tyre iron she used to prise the lock off. With the weapon in hand she marches back to the sink and looks down at her foe.
‘Henrietta,’ Brian says, again grimacing at the sight.
‘We need water.’ She brings the end of the iron down to brace against the tapered end of the projectile-shaped faeces. A gentle tap and the whole of the object nudges over. ‘It’s quite hard,’ she says, tapping the end a few times in an effort to tap it up and over the edge. ‘Got it moving…’
‘This is wrong,’ Brian states. ‘Just wrong.’
‘Hang on…almost there…’ Henrietta bites her bottom lip in concentration as the turd gets edged further up the steep side of the sink but gravity tugs at the weighty middle section, bringing it back down towards the water gathered round the blocked plug. ‘Shit,’ Henrietta tuts, starting again as the poo gets a fresh layer of lubricant.
‘Ha, good one, Henrietta,’ Bennie snorts.
The noises outside grow louder, closer. The smoke is thicker and tinged with heat from the nearness of the spreading flames eating into neighbouring buildings. Embers soaring up on the hot thermals glide down to a land already hot and dry from a glorious summer. Another gunshot. A scream. Glass breaking. Nerves frayed and the tension mounts as Henrietta pokes the poo with a stick.
‘Get it in the middle,’ Brian suggests.
‘Stick the, er…stick the stick in and lift it out,’ Bennie says.
‘We’ve got to go,’ Dolan whimpers with a mind filling with images of those things charging down the alley towards them.
‘Almost there,’ Henrietta says, rolling the poo towards the lip of the sink.
‘We have to go now,’ Dolan insists.
‘Just a sec…’
‘Flick it,’ Bennie urges. ‘Go on…flick it, Henri.’
‘We have to bloody go,’ Dolan says, his voice getting louder as his panic starts to rise again.
‘Flick it,’ Brian joins in with Bennie.
‘It’s right on the edge,’ Henrietta says, trying to balance the wobbling poo against the thin end of the tyre iron. Too little pressure and the poo will roll back down. She’s got to get the centre of mass just right.
‘Henri, just fucking flick it,’ Bennie says, caught in the moment of the battle against the turd.
‘We have to go RIGHT NOW.’ Dolan’s whimper turns into a shout that forces Henrietta to give a tiny explosion of power into her wrist that twists quickly, ramming the point of the tyre iron into the turd that gets flicked up and out of the sink to sail majestically through the air.
‘What the fuck!’ Dolan cries out as the turd slaps him in the face and rolls down the front of his white dress shirt. Henrietta freezes on the spot as Brian’s mouth drops open and Bennie collapses in a roar of laughter at the sight of Dolan being hit by a flying poo.
‘I am so sorry,’ Henrietta blurts, dropping the iron and rushing over. ‘Oh my god…Dolan, I am so sorry.’
‘It hit him in the face,’ Bennie says between laughs as tears stream down his face.
Dolan stares ahead. Unmoving. Unflinching. A brown splodge on the tip of his nose and the freshly wet crap emanating a pungent aroma. Henrietta’s hand darts out to wipe it away and in panic at her actions she goes too hard and too fast. Her arm is strong, adrenaline is pumping and the impact of her palm on his nose is solid enough to force him back a step.
Dolan cries out as Henrietta gasps and lunges in to stop him tripping backwards. Shit is smeared on her hand and she grabs the white sleeve of his shirt, spreading the love down his arm.
‘Get the fuck off me!’
‘Dolan, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…’
‘She fucking punched him…’ It’s too much for Bennie and he clutches his sides at the cramps radiating out. ‘Oh my god she actually punched him…’
‘Dolan…let me help…’
‘Stop it! Just fuck off.’
‘I’m so sorry…’
‘You’re smearing it everywhere…ARGH, it’s in my mouth…’
‘In his mouth.’ Bennie drops down with a fresh wave of laughter as Brian chuckles at the gros
s sight.
‘You stupid fucking bitch…you put shit in my mouth…’
‘Oh god, Dolan…I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry…let me wash it off.’
‘It stinks. I stink. I stink of shit. It’s all down my shirt. THIS IS NOT FUNNY.’
‘Fucking is,’ Bennie cries at the sight of Dolan smearing the wet brown stains further over his shirt.
‘You lot are fucking dead,’ Dolan seethes, holding his shit-covered hands out from his body.
‘Is it still in your mouth?’ Henrietta asks, wincing and trying to peer closer at his lips. ‘Rinse it out…come on, use the tap. The shit’s not there now.’
‘I know the fucking shit isn’t there now. It’s on my face instead.’
‘Oh…my…days. Stop…please, it hurts.’
‘Come on.’ Henrietta grabs his wrist to guide him towards the sink. A twist of the tap and she pushes her hand underneath the spout waiting for the flow of water that doesn’t come. She twists the tap again, spinning the top round as it squeaks and groans but refuses to disgorge any water.
‘Nice, Henrietta.’
‘Hang on.’ She tries the other tap but the top refuses to twist. She wraps both hands and grips hard, grinding it millimetres but no water flows from either outlet.
‘You stupid little bitch,’ Dolan says in a voice sinking low and filled with hatred. ‘You waste of fucking air…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘One step away from a cheap hooker…’
‘Dolan!’ she says, flinching from the rebuke, ‘I said I was sorry. Look, I can rub it away.’
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘It’s coming off,’ she says quickly, rubbing at the worst stains as the smell of shit grows stronger.
Dolan slaps her hands away, his face twisting with rage. ‘Stop it…get your hands off me…’
‘It’ll come off. Please just let me rub it off.’
‘I said don’t fucking TOUCH ME,’ Dolan shouts with an explosion of temper that sends a hand lashing out to strike Henrietta’s face with a ringing slap that snaps her head round.
Instant silence follows, broken only by Dolan breathing heavy and hard and Henrietta bringing a hand up to gently touch her stinging cheek.
‘What the fuck, mate?’ Brian asks in shock. ‘What you do that for?’
‘Henri, you alright?’ Bennie says, going to her side.
‘I’m fine. Really, it’s fine…’
‘You hit Henrietta, you fucking prick.’
‘Bennie, it’s fine.’
‘It ain’t fine. That’s assault…you’ll get nicked for that.’
‘By who? By the police? Where are they then?’ Dolan asks, smirking in the darkness and feeling a rush of power at being the big man in the middle.
‘That was out of order,’ Brian says angrily. ‘Bang out of order.’
‘Oh fuck off,’ Dolan says, waving a dismissive hand.
‘She was only trying to help you.’
‘She was attacking me. It was self-defence.’
‘Self-defence! You clocked her in the face,’ Brian says, his voice getting louder.
‘I told her to leave me alone,’ Dolan says matter-of-factly. ‘You all heard it. I told her and she continued to attack me so I fended her off.’
‘Oh no, no no, mate,’ Brian says, taking a step towards Dolan. ‘She was helping and you hit her…’
‘Leave it, Brian. He’s right,’ Henrietta says, grabbing at Brian to pull him back.
‘He ain’t right, Henri,’ Bennie says with the full-on sincerity of the very drunk.
‘No,’ Henrietta says, standing upright and drawing a deep breath. ‘He told me to stop touching him.’
‘Henri, it wasn’t like that.’’ Brian says, aghast at her backing down from him again.
‘It was. It was my fault. Dolan, I apologise.’
‘Good,’ Dolan says with the benevolence of a tyrant. ‘Like I said. Self-defence. I have the right to protect myself.’
‘You didn’t do that outside, though, did you, mate?’ Brian asks. ‘Got Henrietta to do that for you…’
‘Brian, leave it. We’d better go.’ Henrietta tugs the hem of her dress down and tucks the loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hands stink of shit, her back is covered in vomit and her eyes and throat still hurt from the smoke cloud they ran through, but she pulls the mask of composure firmly down. She is Henrietta Swallow. She can deal with it. She smiles and looks round at the concerned faces of Bennie and Brian then down to the silent and scared-looking form of Rose. ‘Everyone ready?’
‘I am,’ Dolan says, staring ahead as though nothing happened.
‘Railway line then.’ Henrietta heads towards the door. ‘I’ll check outside. Everyone wait here for a second.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Brian begins to follow her.
‘No, stay here. I’ll be a few seconds. Just wait here. Please,’ she adds, giving him a quick glance.
‘Sure,’ he says softly, reading the need for a minute of privacy in her eyes.
She eases the door open and leans out to stare round at the dark and empty yard. All clear. She walks out and gently closes the door behind her with a growing sense of overwhelming sadness bubbling up. Her bottom lip trembles gently then quavers with raw emotion that spills out of her eyes to make clean tracks down her cheeks. A sob threatens to come but she bites it down, swallowing it for fear of making noise. Her face hurts. He hit her. Dolan hit her. He lashed out without fear of the consequences. She’s kept him alive so far and he hit her. It’s not the physical act of being hit but the representation of what she is worth to him. A cheap whore one step away from a hooker. A porn star. A topless model. A creature of flesh who holds no value as a human being. Right now, in this place, she sees every mistake she has ever made in her life. How she cheapened herself and became a role model that gave entirely the wrong message to young women. She always thought she was part of the game and joke but she was the joke. The Swallow family fortune was made in finance, insurance and banking. The Swallow family were serious, austere, conservative and proper. Henrietta rejected that to become a joke, to rebel against the pressure given all through her childhood. The more she rebelled the more attention she got, and so it went on. It was a self-perpetuating need to become more beautiful and seek more attention until it became a drug. An addiction to gain approval and validation from others, and that, mixed with an addictive personality, a fuck you attitude and a well-spoken voice, made her the person she is. Strong. Formidable. Decisive. A survivor, but someone always needing the approval of others and especially those she perceives to be greater in intellect than her and now every one of those flaws is laid bare to be seen. Painful and raw and as dirty as the city around her imploding further by the second.
Dolan was the key to her future. The only one of the controlling elite that could have given her a chance to show she can be worthy and serious, and he hit her. The strength of the conviction in his voice when he said the insults, too. He meant what he said. He meant every word of it. If he thinks like that then all the people in his world must think like that. Laughing at her behind her back. Taking the piss. Humouring her for the sake of politeness, or even worse, for a joke sustained and dragged on that was designed to belittle and humiliate. A wealthy aristocrat trying to be a glamour model. A glamour model trying to be a journalist? A glamour model trying to become celibate and copy everything the other famous models did. A glamour model trying to buy her way through life on her looks while claiming she was bullied? Bullied people are cowed and meek. Bullied people cry and look away. They don’t wear outrageous outfits and have cosmetic work done to plump lips and breasts. Bullied people have a box with a label and they should stay inside it, otherwise it’s confusing.
Half of her wants to go back inside that room and smash Dolan in the face. She could rip him apart in seconds. She knows she can. She is stronger. Fitter. More ruthless. More honed, skilled and hungry. Go to a gym and lift an Olympic bar every
day for two years and see what it does to you. Dolan is a fat middle-aged man gone to seed and fed on the power of his influence.
The other half wants to please him. To placate and befriend and earn his approval. To get a patronising pat on the head and be told she did good while inside she dies from the lack of pride while her self-esteem breaks into pieces.
Fuck him. Get his approval. Leave him behind. Keep him alive and earn the reward. Ach, dry your eyes. Wipe the tears away and hold your chin up. You’re Henrietta Swallow. Nothing touches you.
Chapter Twelve
A never-ending nightmare of pain and terror
A sound idea but the actuality of following a railway line through any part of London will find you walking into a brick wall within minutes.
‘Now what?’ Dolan whispers fiercely at Henrietta and Brian staring at the brick wall at the end of the alley. After having made it the several metres from the safety of the old work unit, his bravery levels are still high.
‘We’ll go round it I guess,’ Henrietta whispers back.
‘You guess or you know?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just a suggestion.’
‘A suggestion? Fucking brilliant, Henrietta.’
‘Dolan, leave her alone.’
‘Go crash a van, Brian.’
‘Cunt.’
‘Call me a cunt again, Bennie, and…’
‘Cunt.’
‘I said call me a cunt again and…’
‘Yep, heard you. Cunty cunt pants.’
‘Right. Last warning. Do not call…’
‘Mr cunty cunt pants of cunt street who looks like a cunt.’
‘Bennie, pack it in.’
‘Yes, Henrietta.’
‘Yes, Henrietta,’ Dolan mimics, high-pitched and scathing.
‘Don’t take the piss out of Bennie. That’s bullying,’ Rose says.
‘Oh give me strength, the imbecile can speak.’
‘I’m English,’ Rose retorts. ‘I’m not from imbecilian or, like, anything…in fact, I think all religion is bad.’
‘We’ll go round,’ Henrietta says.
‘You’re a bully,’ Rose says again.