‘Christ, Don, what does it mean?’
‘You don’t . . . it’s the Native American name for Bigfoot. The giant ape that people keep seeing.’
Tamsin blew on her coffee.
‘Well, I never knew that. You’re quite bright, aren’t you?’ Donald was confused. The fact that she didn’t know what Sasquatch was made her stupid or from another planet. It didn’t make him smart. Suddenly, he preferred her when she wasn’t talking. Talking was raising barriers between them instead of breaking them down. But, right now, talk was all he had.
‘Do you think you’ll find them?’
‘I don’t know. Kevin says he’s put a poster up in the post office and knocked on a few doors but I doubt he’s really asked anyone. Bloody useless man.’
Though it cheered him to hear her say it, Donald didn’t think what she was saying was fair.
‘He asked me. That’s how I know you lost them.’
‘Really? Well he ought to be asking a lot of other people too. He ought to be out there now going house to house. Instead he’s gone to some bloody weekend business meeting. Probably just playing golf and drinking. Christ, we might as well be retired the way we go on.’
The whole weekend? And she saw Mr. Doherty as useless?
Donald jumped all over the opportunities.
‘I could find them for you.’
‘You?’
‘Yeah. I know my way through Meadowlands like no one else. I know loads more of the people than you do. I could ask around. Someone’s bound to have seen them.’
‘Would you really do that?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
She threw her coffee in the sink.
‘Come here.’
On legs like stilts he went to her. She stroked his cheek.
‘You’re very sweet to me.’
Her long nails traced the side of his neck and disappeared into the hair at the back of his head sending tight, flesh prickles all the way to his feet. She drew him close and pressed his head into her throat. He felt her breasts pressing flat between them. He took his hand out of his pocket and put his arms around her. He didn’t see her smile and close her eyes as she felt his erection spring free.
‘Do you have to rush off, Donald or can you spare me a few minutes?’
He tried to answer but his throat was clogged dry. Some kind of noise came out but it didn’t sound like his voice.
‘That’s good. You haven’t seen upstairs yet, have you? We’ve just had it redecorated.’
***
Ray arrived at The Barge at one o’clock and ordered a pint of cider to quench his thirst - the short walk from his flat was enough to get him sweating. He could feel the heat reflecting up from the pavement. It was a good day to have chosen his cut-off denim shorts and an army surplus shirt, the sleeves rolled well above the elbows. No matter what the weather, Ray Wade never wore sandals or showed his feet. He would never admit it but to show the skin of his feet made him feel utterly vulnerable. He’d have preferred to strip in public than take off his shoes. His favourite footwear was boots and even the unusually hot weather hadn’t changed him - he was wearing the least booty boots he owned, a pair of green Converse hi-tops. A creased leather bush hat kept the sun off his head.
The Barge was already humming with people enjoying the suddenness of summer. Families with kids ate outside near the small playground. Students from Shreve College attended in large numbers, so there was no shortage of people to talk to. Ray fell in with a crowd of psychology students as they discussed Big Brother. These were people he’d met through Jenny but their chosen subject hadn’t made them better judges of quality TV. Ray thought Big Brother stank of voyeuristic exploitation.
‘That programme’s a fucking carnival,’ he said. ‘It’s exactly the sort of freak-show the government wants to distract us with while they levy stealth taxes against us and steal our privacy and liberty. All the contestants should be executed.’
Up until that moment, the talk had been, if not positive, then at least interested in the reality show. After Ray spoke there was a silence. Maybe it was the third pint of cider that had loosened his tongue. He didn’t care. He grinned around the table challenging any of them to disagree. They were all two years younger than he was anyway. The quietest of them was a Goth chick with long purple-streaked black hair and heavy make up. Her skin was china white next to her long black garb and her piercings glinted in the sun.
‘Lethal injection or firing squad?’ she asked in the lengthening pause.
Ray grinned.
‘What about a good old-fashioned hanging?’
The Goth - her name was Delilah though he didn’t believe that for a moment - shook her head.
‘Public execution would play into their hands. They should all be made to live alone and unobserved knowing they’ll never get any attention again.’
Ray lifted his pint to her.
‘Nice one.’
Any girl that wore a full-length black dress in thirty-degree heat was alright by him. He tried to gauge the size of her breasts through her clothing. They seemed fulsome. But it was difficult to tell. You never knew with these Goth chicks. They dressed that way because they had something to hide. Obsessive compulsives, bulimics and self-harmers most of them.
Delilah smiled back at him while the conversation resumed and went in a different direction. It seemed to leave him and her behind. He wondered if he’d been staring and quickly found he didn’t care. Ray stood up.
‘Anyone for another?’
He only asked because he knew they’d all just bought a round. All except Delilah who’d arrived later than everyone else. She was thirsty.
‘I’ll have a pint of cider, please.’
She started to dig out a grimy looking purse.
‘You can get the next one,’ he said. That was when it all went to shit.
As he turned for the bar he caught sight of a couple sitting on the grass by the canal. He stopped, an empty pint glass in each hand. The couple were kissing deeply. He could almost taste their mingling saliva. The girl was Jenny. Seeing it hit him in the chest physically, like a bag of lead. It took his breath away. Something was different about Jenny; he’d never seen her look so good. She’d lost weight, cut and dyed her hair. He could see her usually bitten nails were long, manicured and painted. With them she held the back of the man’s head as she kissed him. Who the hell was the bloke?
Ray realised that he was staring and made his feet walk to the bar while the rest of him seemed to stay behind in the beer garden.
He placed the glasses on the bar.
‘Two pints of cider, please,’ he said to Doug the landlord.
‘You alright, Ray? You look weary.’
‘Fine, Doug. Too much sun probably.’
‘Too much cider, more like.’
Ray squeezed off a smile and made an announcement.
‘Today, cider will be the cure for my weariness.’
It was as hollow as it sounded. Doug ignored him while he pulled the drinks.
Outside, Ray handed Delilah her drink and took his seat at the other end of the table. But now he was morose and he knew it showed on his face. He wanted to flirt with Delilah but suddenly he didn’t have it in him. He stamped the sparks out by avoiding her gaze and ignoring her comments. His contribution to the chat around the table dried to a trickle. He surrendered himself to the larynx-ripping chill of the cider a mouthful at a time, welcomed its effect.
This is my habit, my coping mechanism, my panic room. And it fucking works.
He slipped into the safe alcoholic mind-fog a little deeper than usual for a lunchtime session but he didn’t care. There was nothing important that needed to be done. Not thinking about Jenny was hard; the image of her face welded to the face of a stranger would
n’t quite leave him alone. He grunted his way through the next hour, only half paying attention to what was said. Then, very suddenly it seemed to him, the group was breaking up and leaving. He looked at his watch. It was almost three.
Rather than putting her off, Ray’s ignorance of Delilah had served to make her more determined to connect with him. When everyone else had gone, she reappeared from the pub and sat next to him.
‘You look fucked, Raymond.’
‘No one calls me Raymond. It’s Ray.’
‘So, you are fucked then, I take it.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Fancy a joint somewhere?’
Ray focussed. The girl was talking his sweet holiday language. Immediately, he realised she probably knew his reputation - that he always had a decent sized stash. She was just in it for a free toke.
‘Why not?’ he asked. And then, testing her, ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Some nice sticky buds from my mate on the Crowthorns estate.’
Crowthorns? This was a dealer Ray hadn’t heard of. Even though he was fairly drunk he took in the information and retained it. Some things had importance. This was one of those things.
‘Sounds good to me. Where shall we go?’
‘Outside, I was thinking. It’s too nice for indoors.’
‘That’s fairly radical thinking for a Goth, isn’t it? Aren’t you allergic to the rays of the sun? Turn to dust or something?’
Delilah’s disappointment was plain. She looked like she was thinking about leaving.
‘I didn’t think you’d be one to judge by looks alone. Not like everyone else. Was I wrong about that?’
‘Hey, come on. I’m not serious.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘I mean look at me. Do I look like the sort of person I look like?’
‘You sure you won’t pass out? This weed is really strong stuff.’
‘I bet I’ve had stronger. I’ll be fine.’
He watched her a little unsteadily for a few seconds, not caring how obvious was his stare. She seemed to make up her mind.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Great.’
Ray stood up from the bench and swayed pleasantly. He had made full contact with the cider goddess and he loved her.
They walked around the outside of the pub to leave and Ray couldn’t resist scanning the grassy bank for Jenny. She wasn’t there. The thought of her made him so totally miserable he could barely feel the sunshine.
I’m not going to let you spoil my day, Jenny. Or my summer. I never cared about you that much.
He straightened himself, tried to walk with assured steps and failed within a few yards. He giggled.
‘Hey, where did you say we were going?’ He asked.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Fine. Where are we going?’
‘Into nature. I know a lovely spot where no one ever goes.’
‘Cool,’ said Ray. ‘Supercool.’
***
Tammy had always thought of Mavis as a sweet, well-meaning old lady. A little bit lonely, a little bit dotty, perhaps, but otherwise harmless and always nice to have around for a cup of coffee and a chat. She was even able to ignore the occasional evangelical hint in return for some harmless company. Recently, however, Tammy had noticed that the woman had begun to look tight of face, sharper somehow, and more intense. The word fanatical sprung to mind. There were rumours of disputes in the street with neighbours and more than one tale of Mavis being seen at her window with a pair of binoculars. Apparently she’d tried to drag some local youths to church. Physically.
The obvious conclusion was that the lonely, dreary hag was losing it. Everyone who mentioned her now believed Mavis to be, at the very least, a little cracked.
At first Tammy couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman. Mavis was still young really, even though she neither looked nor acted as though she was. She didn’t appear to have any family nearby and if she really was developing some kind of mental problem there wouldn’t be anyone to look after her. She’d probably end up drooling and ignored by under-paid, under-trained staff in some psychiatric ward with rotting mortar and peeling green paint.
It was a sad thought. It made Tammy think carefully for the first time about what she would do in those circumstances. Something similar would probably happen to her when she got old. Everyone seemed to end up in some kind of ‘care’ home. Would she even know she was losing her wits or did crazy people hold on to the belief that they were sane even when their minds were porridge? It was too terrifying and depressing to contemplate. Especially because Tammy knew she would never allow herself to have children.
So, when Mavis knocked on her door one morning while Kevin was out, Tammy was all welcomes and smiles.
‘Good morning to you, Tamsin,’ Mavis said on the doorstep. ‘Might I have a word?’
‘Of course. Come in and have some coffee. I’ve been wondering how you’ve been. Seems ages since we had a nice chin-wag.’
Tammy caught the look on Mavis’s face. Sternness wavering and then returning. She didn’t understand it.
As brightly as she could, Tammy said,
‘Seat at the breakfast bar or a comfy chair in the lounge, Mavis?’
‘Oh . . .’
The hesitation went on as Mavis followed her through the hall. They both ended up in the kitchen while Tammy put the kettle on. So the decision was made.
As she took out cups (always with saucers for Mavis) and brought out the real coffee and the cafetiere, she wondered what to say.
Mavis took care of that.
‘I’ve brought you something, my dear,’ she said and placed a large, recycled brown envelope on the breakfast counter.
‘That looks exciting. Shall I open it now?’
‘Why don’t you wait until you’ve got your cup of coffee?’
Again, Mavis’s expression didn’t match the words coming out of her mouth and suddenly, Tammy realised that this probably wasn’t going to be a pleasant morning of coffee and chit-chat. It would be the strain of talking to a woman who was adrift from her mental moorings. She chided herself for being so selfish. Mavis had always been a caring support for her - even though Tammy was independent enough not to need anyone’s support - and the strange woman had no one else. She would make the most of their time together. Her sudden charitable feelings surprised her.
‘Here you are, Mavis.’
She placed everything on the breakfast bar between them and sat opposite. She even put out the special ginger shortbread biscuits she usually reserved for herself. Then she reached for the envelope, slid a table knife under the flap and slit it open in one deft swipe. She tipped the contents onto the counter.
Snapshots of her and the boy. Not explicit but explicit enough. Her face flamed.
‘I don’t understand, Mavis. What is all this?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
‘But why? Who took these and where did you . . .’
Christ, it’s her. She’s done this.
No. It couldn’t be. Not sweet, quaint Mavis from across the street.
Across the street.
That was where the photos had been taken from. Shots of the front door and hallway. Shots of the bedroom.
‘You’re a jezebel, Tamsin. A Babylon whore. I’ve been so wrong about you. It hurts me to think I’ve spent time trusting a woman capable of this kind of deceit. This kind of . . . filth.’
It was a moment or two before Tamsin replied. The volume and pitch of her voice rising as she found her words.
‘Don’t you judge me, Mavis. Don’t you come into my house and pass judgement on my life. What about you? How many people have you spied on? How many dirty little secrets are you party to? Do you get off on it, Mavis? Is it because you
’ve got no one to talk to? Christ, I don’t care if you do end up locked in some dungeon for the insane. How dare you come round here and do this as though you’re some kind of moral watchdog? You’re just a sad, curtain-twitching nutter looking for a way of getting some kicks.’
Tammy threw the pictures across the breakfast bar.
‘Take these and fuck off, you depraved cow.’
She stood up and walked round the counter to Mavis’s seat. The woman looked shocked. The fingers of one hand fluttered at the silk neck scarf she always wore. She looked frightened and Tammy was glad. Tammy pointed to the front door.
‘Out. And don’t come back.’
Mavis cleared her throat but didn’t move.
‘I think you should listen to me before you turn your back on this.’
‘I’m not listening to another word from you, Mavis Ahern. You’re not welcome here any more.’
‘I’m going to tell your husband, Tamsin. I’ve got the letter ready to give to him.’
Tammy exploded.
‘You do that and I’ll fucking kill you.’
She turned away and drew a carving knife out of the wooden block beside the sink. She held the point in Mavis’s face.
***
When the doorbell rang, Mason was in his back garden as usual. He wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been bending down to the outside tap for a drink of water.
The sun was high and even though he was only checking things over in the vegetable plot, he was sweating. People didn’t come calling at his house too often. Perhaps a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses - Jehovah’s Nitwits he called them; to their faces if they hung around too long - or the occasional cold-caller who hadn’t heard to keep away.
Now he had more reasons to turn people away than simply not being a ‘people person’.
The doorbell rang a second time. He shrugged to himself and walked quietly along the side pathway to the front of the house. He wasn’t pleased to see a teenager from the estate dressed in baggy cargo trousers and unlaced skateboard trainers. The kid had a fervent look, determined somehow, and Mason immediately wondered if he was out of his head on drugs or desperate for the money to buy some more. But Mason wasn’t scared of the boy. He was a tall man and strong from all his garden labour and lifting free weights. Strong from the pure, simple food he ate and the outdoor air he breathed. Not like these burger-eating, computer-fixated kids with nothing but slackness in their muscles and no hint of steel in their bones.
Garbage Man Page 16