House of Straw

by Marc Scott

  The second thing she benefited from was the prison’s ‘back-to-work’ initiative, aimed at helping inmates find meaningful employment when they leave prison. She managed to enrol in a scheme where part of the course involved teaching novice road-users to drive. When she put her name down for the course, she envisaged herself making a fast getaway in the dual-controlled vehicle the first time she saw an open road. However, she enjoyed the freedom that the experience gave her so much she knuckled down and became only the third inmate to complete the whole course and obtain a full driving licence. The first week she sat in her Omega, she drove for miles and miles, going everywhere she knew, just to see what she had been missing. Her random journeys even took her to the old boating lake that she had visited as a child, but she didn’t stay there for too long, she did not want the ghosts from her past to catch up with her.

  She liked Danny, her boss, a small wiry man of Irish descent. He had been in the restaurant trade for more than thirty years. He took a shine to Poppy when she arrived for her interview several months earlier. He admired her honesty. She had told him about the time she had spent in prison and given him chapter and verse on the reason for her incarceration. Poppy guessed that her new boss had been a guest in one of ‘Her Majesty’s’ establishments at some time in his life, not that he ever confessed to it. They would often have long conversations after work hours. He would offer her support when she was at a low ebb and she would listen to him talk about his ex-wife. Danny had told her that she had left him when she felt his excessive drinking had got out of hand. Poppy understood that, of course, having lived with violent alcoholic parents herself. Her boss had been completely teetotal since the day his wife had left him, hoping that his transformation would result in her returning to him one day. The standing joke in the restaurant was that he would often recite the exact amount of days he had given up the ‘demon drink’, regularly adding that the ‘ungrateful bitch’ had still not returned.

  As she sat in her car, her mobile made a familiar noise indicating that there were messages on her voicemail. These messages were never good news, but she felt that it was better for her to know than not to know. The first was Mr Rahwaz, her landlord, chasing rent arrears. This was a regular message, left most weeks. Her and Cameron were always behind on their rent, mainly because most of the benefits her boyfriend received were spent fueling his unhealthy habits. Poppy did not earn enough to cover all the bills, so Rahwaz would always play second fiddle to everything else, including the drugs. Her second message was from a company trying to sell her life insurance. That one was deleted halfway through. The final voicemail recording, which had only just been received, was from Mrs Bishop from the Fallon Counselling Project, another name for the anger management unit. ‘Thanks for that, Joe,’ she muttered under her breath, knowing that ‘The Reverend’ had contacted this woman within seconds of her leaving his office. ‘Don’t you realise that all this shit about anger management is what makes me so fucking angry in the first place!’ she said, rewarding herself with a smirk at her half-baked attempt at satire. Poppy finished her cigarette and headed for the restaurant. She knew she would be early, but the coffee was free there and she could find something to eat to make up for skipping breakfast.

  Chapter Four

  Parking her Omega in the private car park at the rear of the building, Poppy entered Chez Blanc to the sound of a wolf whistle from the young chef Matt Jameson. ‘Looking hot, lass! As always!’ he shouted in his distinct Geordie accent. ‘Just look at that great arse wiggle across the room.’

  Poppy was in no mood for banter today. ‘Fuck off and die, Matt,’ she replied, in a bid to stop him from making any more sexist comments. Her brutal put-down worked instantly, and the chef got back to his duties. She headed inside the dining area and found Danny rearranging the tables. ‘You are early,’ he observed and then realised why she was there. ‘Oh, it’s Wednesday. How was the Reverend Joe today, still bringing down the wrath of God on all those sinners?’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Something like that,’ she replied. ‘At least that’s another bloody week over and done with.’

  Danny passed her a handful of dirty table cloths. ‘Make yourself useful, love,’ he said. ‘Throw these in the wash for me, love.’ Poppy took the linen and headed for the utility room.

  It was strange, Poppy felt more comfortable at work than she did anywhere else. Danny was like the uncle that she had never really had. He knew her situation better than most and did his best to make sure that she always had plenty of shifts at the restaurant to help her with her finances. Unlike others, he saw Poppy as a hard-working and trustworthy employee and a valued member of his small team. Matt, the head chef, despite being something of an irritant, with his childish smirk and constant sexual innuendos, was harmless. She ignored his incessant flirting, knowing that he would probably run for miles if she ever gave in to one of his sexual advances. Poppy worked long hours, she had to, to make up for Cameron’s lack of contribution to the bills. But she felt as if she was part of something at Chez Blanc, it was almost like an adopted ‘dysfunctional family’, and to her it was the closest thing she could remember to stability for some time. Poppy never took things for granted though, she knew that these ‘good things’ in her life never lasted for long. But for now, things were OK for her. She would settle for that, she would settle for things in her life being ‘OK’.

  Within an hour, the main doors of the restaurant were unlocked and Chez Blanc was open for business. The reasonably priced menu and the recent closure of the pizza parlour in the high street guaranteed a brisk lunchtime trade. Matt was true to form and flirted with Poppy on almost every occasion she entered the kitchen, while Danny spent most of the day promoting the forthcoming Mother’s Day special offers with his patrons. Matt had told him that this was not a great idea as the restaurant was likely to be full on the day, but Danny did not want to leave things to chance. ‘Tell me that when the schedule shows that we are fully booked,’ he would tell his right-hand man. ‘And I will stop making a nuisance of myself with the customers.’

  Poppy did not go back to her flat during the time between lunchtime and evening shifts, she wanted to let Cameron’s temper tantrum simmer for a little longer. Besides Matt had gone for a workout at the nearby gym and Danny was visiting the cash and carry to top up on bottles of spirits, so she was alone and had some time to reflect on her session with Joe.

  Sometimes, when there was no one around, Poppy would go to the staff bathroom and look in the mirror, simply staring at her image for ages, as if she was looking to her reflection for advice. In truth though, if the mirror could speak, it would not want to tell Poppy what it really thought, in fear of retribution. After all, that reflection would know exactly what she was capable of!

  Poppy Jarvis was twenty-five years old, but, as a result of her teenage drug abuse, looked several years older. You could not describe her as a beauty queen. Pretty, yes, in a quirky sort of way, but by no means stunning. Her shoulder-length brown hair was almost always tucked up neatly on top of her head, whereas it might have been better placed covering the two scars she had on the side of her neck. Her features were always pale and her skin somewhat blotchy. Despite the heavy application of concealer, you could still make out the dark circles beneath her eyes, tired and tested eyes that had witnessed more than their fair share of harrowing violence and abuse in their time.

  Poppy knew that she was no catwalk model. At five feet nine she was probably only an inch or two short of the usual requirement, but her stocky size twelve frame would not have attracted many fashion designers. She spoke with a coarse and aggressive South London accent and used the ‘F’ word, without realising it, in almost every other sentence. Not the sort of girl that most men would want to take home to meet their mother. Maybe when she was spending all that time studying her reflection in the mirror, she may have been wondering what attracted good-looking, athletic guys like Cameron and Matt to her. Whatev
er their fascination, both men would probably agree that it wasn’t her warm and sensitive nature.

  Before the start of the evening shift Danny introduced his new part-time waitress, Chantelle Banks. She was sixteen years old and still finishing her exams at school. She would be helping in the restaurant at weekends and one or two nights each week, more if the schedule was busy. Poppy did not believe the scrawny teenager’s claim. The skinny waif had badly concealed acne and a very immature manner, giggling loudly at almost every rude word used in the kitchen. Poppy thought she may have only been fourteen years old, fifteen at most, but as she was the daughter of one of Danny’s regular ‘contacts’ and was being paid the minimum allowed wage, cash in hand, she decided not to share her thoughts. Poppy preferred her to the grumpy Romanian woman that Danny had employed previously. The two waitresses had almost come to blows several times, mainly arguing over who had served most customers and how the tips should be shared. Poppy Jarvis would have had no doubts as to who would have won any sort of physical altercation between the two of them. After a huge argument had erupted behind the restaurant one night, Danny had shown where his loyalties truly lay by dismissing the volatile Eastern European girl on the spot.

  The evening was steady. There were only sixteen covers in the restaurant, but it gave Poppy the chance to show Chantelle what would be expected of her. The young girl, however, seemed more interested in her Instagram messages and the attention of a good-looking male customer than the advice offered by her senior. Nevertheless, Poppy persevered, feeling something of an obligation towards her employer.

  During that evening a minor altercation had taken place, when some regulars had complained about their overcooked meat. Danny dealt with the fussy duo, giving them complimentary drinks and taking twenty percent off their final bill. After they had left the restaurant, he vented his anger at the petty-minded couple, by updating the staff on his static relationship status. He seemed to do this each and every time he became frustrated and felt he might need a shot of alcohol to calm his nerves. ‘Three years, three months and twelve days!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘God, I really hate that fucking woman sometimes!’

  Although it had become a source of regular amusement for Poppy and Matt, they both wished he would find someone else to fill the void in his life. They shared a mutual respect for the fiery little Irishman and thought he deserved some real happiness. The pair had recommended dating sites to him, but Danny had laughed that off as a ‘crazy’ idea, still believing, somewhere deep down, that the woman he had been with for more than half of his life would come back to him one day.

  Despite the fact Poppy was not a fan of Matt’s crude comments and childish behaviour, she still thought he had a charming way about him. The fair-haired northerner was always immaculately dressed and well presented. He seemed to take an extreme pride in his appearance. Poppy often wondered how a man who spent most of his time grilling fish and cooking meat could always smell so fresh. He was a good listener too. He had started to become a regular addition to the after-service ‘wind-down chat’, where she and Danny shared their personal thoughts. Whether Matt was truly attracted to her or not, she wasn’t sure, but he did not seem put off when she reminded him, almost daily, that her boyfriend was a very jealous bodybuilder.

  As soon as the evening shift had finished, Poppy took the fifteen-minute drive back to her flat on the edge of the rundown council estate in Eltham. It was far from a desirable residence. Young kids, some of them no older than eleven or twelve, were still roaming around the shops beneath her home, a couple of drunks were perched up against a wall, trying their best to roll a joint, and two women were shouting obscenities at each other across the balconies of the flats. This was home for Poppy, somewhere to hang her clothes, somewhere to eat her meals and somewhere to sleep. She didn’t have to be woken up at seven o’clock each morning to be let out of a locked cell, facing another day of mindless boredom, constantly looking over her shoulder for the next ‘psycho-bitch’ who wanted to take her on. No, this was not a desirable residence, far from a ‘dream house’, but it was a home, of sorts.

  As she sat in her car, she lit up a cigarette and looked up at the grubby window of her flat above the takeaway. The illuminated images from the television screen were dancing across the curtains, loud sounds were still blaring out from her living room above. She sighed as she took the last drags of her nicotine roll-up, hoping that when she entered her flat through the tatty brown front door, that Cameron was asleep, sound asleep. She hoped he was laid out on the sofa in his usual resting place, out for the count, having taken a little too much of some fix or other. Poppy was late home again and the last thing she needed that day, after the verbal battering from the Reverend Joe, was another confrontation with her boyfriend.

  Chapter Five

  It was silent, the sort of silence you usually find in the early hours of the morning, when the world rests in deep slumber and only the twitter of a lone blackbird or the alarm clock of the local postman might disturb your sleep. But this was not the break of another day, it was mid-afternoon. Bree lay motionless in Jamie’s bed, her eyes open, the signs of deep despair etched on her weary face. Clutching his pillow tightly, as if it was a life jacket, a million salty tears now sunken into the fading patterns of the pillowcase, she breathed in the smell of his presence and felt a small morsel of solace. She was alone now, she knew she would always be alone now. There in the pit of her stomach, an overwhelming pain, a sharp numbness that would never leave her.

  The long brown curtains were fully closed. Complete darkness was Bree’s choice of company in her cocoon of sadness. The only sounds that made any sense to her were those of her own sobbing. She stared at the back of his bedroom door, maybe holding onto a crazy thought that it would open, and that he would suddenly appear before her. The real world might be happening somewhere out there, but this was her life now, she never wanted to leave this bed again.

  It was nineteen days since they had buried him, nineteen long painful days and nights. Everyone had told her that she would feel better when the funeral was over. Everyone said that the healing process could only start when she had said her final goodbye. But everyone was wrong, everyone had lied to her.

  A half-filled coffee cup was perched precariously on the corner of Jamie’s bedside cabinet, a thick film of brown skin hanging over its edge. It had not been touched for days. On the floor to the side of her, twenty or more small white pills made an unlikely pattern on the carpet. She wished that she had followed her plan, she wished she had taken them, all of them. She knew it was the only way she could be with him again. But even in these dark hours of torment, she could not summon the energy or the courage to go through with it. She hated herself for being such a coward. Maybe this was her punishment, maybe this empty existence was the punishment she deserved.

  She was wearing her brother’s favourite grey T-shirt, the one he had bought when they visited Camden the previous summer. She had been wearing this treasured garment from the moment she had returned from the cemetery. She told herself that she would never take it off, but in truth it no longer smelled of him. She had begun to inhale the stench of her own sickly body odour which was now seeping through the precious top. It was rancid. Bree had not bathed for those nineteen days, she had barely eaten anything either. But she cared little about her personal hygiene or malnourishment. Why should she? She had nothing to live for now.

  The sombre silence of her tomb was suddenly broken by the ring tone of the telephone downstairs, its constant ringing echoing through the hallway and up to where she lay. She wrapped Jamie’s pillow tightly around her head and waited for it to go away. This was the third time it had rung that day. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? she thought. But this time it did not stop, it kept on, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, getting louder and louder by the second. She knew that it would not go away this time, she knew that she had to make it stop. Swinging her legs out o
f Jamie’s bedclothes she found her feet crushing half of the discarded pills as she stumbled across the floor. When she opened the bedroom door, the bright lights from the outside world blinded her for a few seconds, causing her to clutch the stair rail for support. As her shaky legs made their way downstairs, she almost lost her balance and fell over before making it to the living room and the offending ring tone. ‘Hello,’ she said in a croaky voice that she barely recognised.

  ‘Brianna is that you?’ came the reply.

  There were only two people in the world that ever used her full name. She knew instantly who it was. ‘Hello, Mother,’ she said, angry with herself now for making the effort to answer the phone.

  ‘I have been trying you for days. Where have you been?’ her mother asked in a harsh but concerned manner.

  ‘Nowhere, just here, trying to sleep.’

  ‘Have you been to the doctor’s yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You really need to see the doctor, Brianna. He will give you something to help you.’

  Will he give me Jamie back? Bree thought. That is the only thing that can help me. She offered her mother an answer that she hoped might end the call prematurely. ‘I will be OK, I just want to rest now.’

  ‘No!’ her mother responded in a sharp tone. ‘You are not OK, I can tell.’

  ‘Mother, I will make an appointment with the doctor if it makes you happy.’

  ‘I know there is something wrong, Brianna. Do you want me to fly back? I can be back there tomorrow.’