Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  In my head, I heard Roger from Crisis Care: ‘We’re not Citizen’s Advice, we’re here to listen. We’re here for the heart not the head.’ My dad had written that everything we needed to know was in there – in the heart.

  ‘I’m tired now,’ said Sid. ‘Do you mind if go? I might sleep.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ I wanted to cry. I knew I wouldn’t. It would serve no purpose. Sometimes the wanting was better than the doing because the doing didn’t bring the relief hoped for.

  ‘Thank you, Katrina.’

  The phone clicked and he was gone. I held the receiver to my ear, not wanting the call to end. When I replaced it, I stared at its black surface for a while. Then the door to the hall opened and I let Sid go. Norman had arrived for my catch-up.

  ‘Hey Katrina,’ he said, as I returned to the sofas.

  Christopher looked at me over his newspaper. Jane was in the kitchen; I heard cups clattering.

  ‘Just here to find out how it’s going. Shall we go and chat in the kitchen?’

  I followed Norman to the door. He wore a black T-shirt with Green Day’s last tour dates down the back. Jane passed with drinks.

  ‘Cover the phones for a bit, will you?’ Norman asked her.

  In the kitchen, he pulled two stools out from under the worktop and motioned for me to sit on one. He placed his opposite mine and sat, like Chris Tarrant facing a Who Wants to be a Millionaire? contestant.

  ‘How’s it going, Katrina?’

  I was tempted to ask if I could go for the fifty/fifty option or phone a friend. ‘I feel like I’ve been here forever.’

  He laughed. ‘Is that a good or bad thing?’

  ‘Good, I think. I’m enjoying it, if “enjoying” is the right word.’

  Having just spoken to Sid, I thought again of that first call with him, the call I should never have answered. Should I tell Norman about it now? I decided not to; it was already long enough ago that surely it wouldn’t matter?

  Norman reached for the kettle, displaying damp armpits. ‘Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Christopher said you’re a natural on the phones.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘He said you’re an asset to the team and you fit in well and take on your share of calls. So now that you’ve done four full shifts you don’t have to be on with your buddy.’

  ‘My buddy?’

  ‘Christopher – your buddy.’

  I remembered the buddy thing, him supposedly mentoring me and working the same shift until I was confident. I had forgotten that we were only together until I became accustomed to the phones.

  ‘I think you’ll be fine on your own now.’ Norman hunted for a clean spoon, wiping the one he’d acquired on his T-shirt. ‘So, you can stick with Wednesday and I’ll let Christopher know he doesn’t have to do them. He already said he’d prefer not to – unless of course you’d rather change to a different day? I can’t remember if you specifically picked it?’

  ‘He wants to do a different day?’ I asked.

  ‘He can be someone else’s buddy now.’ Norman stirred black coffee.

  ‘Of course. Are we done?’

  ‘Yes, if there are no issues?’

  I stood and said I was fine, that I should get back to the phones. I heard one ringing on cue and returned to the lounge.

  It was seven-thirty – in fifteen minutes we could switch them off. Christopher was in a booth; Jane reclined in the armchair, eyes closed.

  I went to the window and looked out into the night but could only see my reflection. My tired face, my dirty hair, the room behind. Whenever I tried to look beyond the glass I could see only the room. I placed my hot palms on the cool surface of the window, my breath marking the spot just above. In the reflection, I saw Christopher return to the lounge area, glance at my back and watch me for a second before turning off the phones.

  ‘We’re done,’ he told Jane.

  Norman came into the lounge, said he was leaving and we shouldn’t forget to lock up. I pulled the shutter across the window with a violent clatter. Jane helped Christopher carry the cups to the kitchen and asked if he was nervous about his date. I followed them. Saying he might cancel it after all, he dropped the cups into murky water.

  ‘When are you meeting her?’ she asked.

  ‘Eight-thirty.’

  ‘You can’t cancel a date half an hour before you meet her,’ chided Jane.

  I dried my mug, put it in the cupboard and went into the hall. When I was halfway down the steps Christopher called, ‘Katrina.’

  I held the wall for support while he grabbed his coat from the banister and followed me.

  ‘No bike?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m only going up the road.’

  I paused at the gate, looking left, the direction of my bus stop.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I have to go this way.’ He looked right. ‘I should go this way but I don’t have to. Shall I go this way?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  Where he stood – awkward, one hand in his pocket – a streetlamp shone on his head like a spotlight. I was reminded of a game show whose title I couldn’t recall, in which a clock ticked while the stage was spot-lit and contestants had sixty seconds in its glare to answer the questions.

  ‘You’ve done all you’re supposed to,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t understand – “all I’m supposed to”?’

  ‘Norman said you swapped shift to accommodate me.’ A car whizzed past, splashing slush onto the path. ‘You must have juggled your schedule to be with me while I got the hang of things. But you’re not obliged to anymore.’ I paused. ‘Your date will be waiting, and I don’t think you’re the kind of man to let anyone down.’

  He looked up the road towards the restaurant, and then at me.

  ‘Go,’ I said.

  And he walked away.

  When I got home I didn’t turn on the lights. I was too tired to eat, to think, to feel. Dropping my clothes on the floor near the door, I slipped between the sheets on the sofa, pulling the covers up to my neck, and stared straight at the photograph propped against the TV.

  I sat up again, picked up the photo and studied the image of me with Geraldine once more.

  Tell me where my memory is, I willed her.

  For a second her nose twitched. Whiskers scratched my cheek. I was in a dark place, a place where Geraldine snuggled against me.

  There was someone else.

  I tried to see who it was, but the memory died, as if I’d reached into water and made ripples that broke up the reflection. I threw the photo onto the coffee table and closed my eyes.

  I decided that if I dreamt of the room, I was going in. I was going to grab the pulsating handle and open the fat, wet door and see. Helen had said fear is only fear. It was just a dream room and I could face it. I could. The not knowing was driving me madder than any answer could. I was ready.

  I was ready, but when sleep came after four restless hours, it was dreamless.

  20

  Knowing all the words

  The tap dripped.

  Fat droplets hit the bottom of the stained sink every five seconds; two days earlier they’d been falling every seven. I knew because I’d lain awake, counting and timing and cursing. Nights of dripdrip-drip. I’d even given up on the tea-towel trick.

  Early morning, on the day of the Flood Crisis Christmas night out, I got up at seven and hit the tap’s spout with Fern’s hammer. A long pause, and I prepared to celebrate. Then dripdrip-drip again, every four seconds. I wasn’t just annoyed with the tap. Part of me wanted to go on the night out, hoping Christopher would be there. Part of me thought, Let whoever his new buddy is go. Part of me thought, Get a grip, why do you even care about what he does?

  Dripdrip-drip went the tap.

  When the phone rang, disturbing the beat, I half hoped it would be Christopher saying he wanted me to go to the party, and he’d only go if I did.

  ‘Just letting you know how Aunty Mary is.�
�� My mother’s tone suggested I hadn’t cared enough to find out for myself.

  ‘And how is she?’

  I took off Christopher’s watch and put it on the worktop. It had been rubbing my wrist. I was beginning to hope Fern didn’t come back. Anger at her leaving me when I’d done nothing grew each day.

  ‘She’s doing amazingly well,’ said my mother. ‘Especially as she’s had an infection. Strong antibiotics will sort that out. The doctor said it’ll take time for her to get back to normal, and she may have the odd setback, but she should be home from hospital next week.’

  Aunty Mary’s slow progress mirrored the work in my house. Brian the plumber had called the previous day to say he’d need another week to complete my heating system. Like intestines or bowels, if pipes didn’t work properly the house would be in trouble. I felt I’d never get back home, but it was good that Aunty Mary might do soon.

  ‘Give her my love,’ I said to my mother.

  ‘You’re not visiting her today, Catherine?’

  ‘I have to do a shift at Flood Crisis,’ I lied.

  I wasn’t any more in the mood for the hospital than for a night out. I saw my pale face in the cracked mirror; I was exhausted and looked it. Since I’d felt ready to open the pulsating door in my nightmare and face whatever horror lay beyond, in the room, I’d not dreamt of it. I’d searched and searched hazy dreams without reward, my footsteps punctuated by the dripdrip-drip that repeatedly woke me.

  ‘You pick the troubles of those faceless strangers over your family,’ said my mother.

  ‘I don’t. I just offered to cover for them when they’re desperate.’

  ‘Are you coming for Sunday lunch tomorrow or are you covering then too?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  Life outside crisis lines was what happened in between Sunday lunches at my mother’s; her roast beef or stuffed chicken was a marker that began and ended each week. Last Sunday I’d escaped it when I covered the shift with Christopher and Jangly Jane. Now I listened to my mother describe Aunty Mary’s latest stool sample and wondered whether it was normal to find answering the phones to the depressed and suicidal less stressful than her company.

  ‘At least ring Aunty Mary today,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ll see her tomorrow,’ I sighed. ‘Look, I have to go.’

  ‘Go then, Catherine. Go and help your callers. Go and do that strange thing you’re compelled to do. I’ll never understand it!’

  She hung up.

  The tap continued to taunt me. I rummaged in the drawer for another tea towel. It made little difference. The sound of the plops only thickened, as though they’d grown larger. Victor would have to fix it, but I doubted he’d rush to do so at my request. I wished for a moment that Fern were there to flutter her eyelashes and have him repair it in an instant. Instead I bashed the spout one more time with the hammer and threw it in the sink.

  Dripdrip-drip.

  I was in no mood to go out tonight. No mood to be affable or jolly. No mood for anything or anyone. No mood for taps.

  I took the rest of my tea to the window and looked out. Grey sky, grey mood. Christopher’s watch glared at me from the worktop. Its ticking hands added up my misery and counted drips. Suddenly I was sure I didn’t want Fern to come back. The girl whose name I’d never messed with had believed I could go behind her back. She didn’t know me. Not really. No, I would be fine on my own. When you have nothing, you can’t lose anything. Without my home, my friend, a partner, or my memory, what else could possibly hurt me?

  I left the watch where it was and booked a taxi for seven-forty. I would go out.

  It was no fun getting ready alone. I had no heart to listen to music or drink vodka. In silence broken only by drips, I applied pink eye shadow and pulled on a silver vest-top, not caring whether they complemented one another. The red dress Fern bought me hung in the bathroom window like a holiday towel from a balcony, fluttering back and forth. I’d sewn the frill up and reattached the strap but had no desire to wear it again. It attracted attention I didn’t want and reminded me of things I’d rather forget. If I had to go out I would dress down, not up. So I carried it into Fern’s bedroom and put it in the empty wardrobe. I imagined her suddenly in the doorway, half dressed and offering to style my hair. ‘Fuck you,’ I whispered. I had never felt more alone.

  Victor whistled merrily and dropped bin bags in the back garden as seven-forty approached. At the taxi’s horn I grabbed a jacket and bag, glad to escape drips, watches and women I no longer needed.

  The car hurtled past flashy bars full of festive partiers. The driver – an identity card on the dashboard said BOB FRACKLEHURST – sang merrily along to the radio.

  ‘Christmas work do?’ he asked after a while. He reminded me a little of my dad, and my heart squeezed.

  ‘Yeah, kind of,’ I said. ‘The place I volunteer. Annual night out.’

  ‘My Trish volunteers,’ he said. ‘Wonderful thing to do. Blessed are the ones who give so generously, especially at this time of year. When you give like that, you deserve whatever makes your heart whole.’

  I was tempted to belittle his words with a flippant comment, but resisted.

  I decided I wasn’t going to drink, a resolve that faltered as we pulled up at Sharky’s and I faced going in alone.

  ‘OK?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, paying the fare.

  ‘Have a great evening,’ he smiled.

  I waited ten minutes on the pavement and then made my way inside. A Christmassy Mariah Carey song blasted out of speakers. The floor was sticky with spilled drinks. Bare-chested and full-bearded barmen wore Santa hats over white wigs. I hate walking into pubs on my own. I always imagine I’ll never find whoever I’m meeting and have to wander around before pretending I’ve somewhere more important to be and going home. The multi-mirrored, flashing space was hot; after the subzero street, I felt as if my make-up was melting. I loosened my jacket while scanning the many heads and pushed through the tightly packed bodies.

  Then I saw Christopher.

  He hadn’t seen me yet, which gave me a chance to study him. Under a neon ‘Cocktails’ sign he frowned at something on his phone. Even though he wore the usual Flood Crisis apparel, he seemed different; he had jeans on and the black shirt he wore on our last shift; his hair was as unkempt as any day on the phones, but somehow he was sharper, more real. One hand on his chest and the other holding his phone, he fidgeted, so unlike the relaxed crisis-line man.

  When he suddenly looked up I sought another face to study. Jangly Jane was talking to a man in a fake-leather jacket, nodding like one of those toys on the back shelf of a car. Nearby, Norman leaned on the bar wearing an England T-shirt and laughing too much at a blonde woman. I saw Condom Kath with an old man in a string vest, and Lindsey, who waved vigorously. When I looked back at the ‘Cocktails’ sign Christopher had gone. The neon flickered, went out for a moment and came back on; the letter C was missing.

  ‘We didn’t know if you’d come.’ Lindsey grabbed my arm. Her hair was teased into a dramatic sweep and gold glitter highlighted her cheeks. ‘You can save me from Norman – he’s hammered! What are you drinking? I know the barman; I’ll get you one for nowt.’

  I thought of Fern but instantly pushed her image away. ‘Gin sling,’ I said. ‘Large. With ice.’

  Reflected in every mirror, it appeared that multiple Lindseys made for the bar, all gold-highlighted. While waiting for her, a draught tickled my neck, like a ghostly kiss.

  Like breath.

  In the festive song I heard the word ‘sweets’: Will’s pet name for me.

  The breathy draught on my neck had me expecting him to say it. Expecting him to move my hair from my shoulder, which I’d automatically pull back again. Had he returned from Scotland to see if I’d let him affectionately reposition my hair? Let him call me sweets without protest?

  No, he loved Miranda. And I didn’t want him.

  Maybe Robin had returned to haunt m
e, to nuzzle my neck. Had he seen my solitude exaggerated by the mirrors and sought me out? I heard again that word in the climax of the song, the word he’d called me while his hands climbed. ‘Tiger’. Shame and regret warmed my cheeks.

  Goosebumps rippled my skin’s surface.

  Maybe Fern had come home and her smile had caused the whisper of breath. A sorry ghost to go home with, to be at my feet when I woke. I frowned.

  Then a heavy hand touched my shoulder and I thought it must be that fourth ghost, like the evil godmother at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. The ghost whose face I could never fully see but whose imagined presence sent my hand to hold my chest, my stomach. I didn’t know this ghost’s name only that he would be tall and hairy and would call me all the names I hated.

  It wasn’t him.

  No, this ghost said the name I liked. The one I’d chosen: ‘Katrina.’

  I turned.

  ‘You don’t have a drink, Katrina.’ Christopher looked at my empty hands.

  ‘You don’t have your date,’ I said.

  ‘She stood me up last week.’

  ‘Lindsey’s getting me one. She didn’t show up?’

  ‘I was relieved.’ He laughed and took a sip from his beer bottle, seemingly less anxious now than earlier. ‘I just got hammered on cheap wine with my sister and her husband. Apparently Emma – the non-date – had a family emergency. I think her fish died or maybe the neighbour’s cat.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I just texted you,’ he said.

  I found my phone and read the message: ‘I hope you come out tonight, Christopher.’

  ‘My fish died,’ I said. ‘So you’re very lucky I did.’

  Lindsey appeared with my gin sling and an ostentatious blue cocktail in her other hand. ‘I think it’s called a “blue sextini”,’ she said. ‘Hey Christopher, how was your date?’ Everyone seemed to know about it.

  ‘Not good,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I think Kath’s single,’ she smiled. ‘I’m off to dance.’

  She disappeared in a flash of gold and black. The music intensified and the hordes cheered when a DJ took to a small podium with silver tinsel twined around it. I drank. The ice tinkled in my glass like anchor chains in a port.