“Sounds fun,” he said, leaning on the door frame. His aftershave was so strong, it gave me the same head rush as alcohol. “Like some company?”
I smiled. “If I do, I’ll give you a call.”
He slid his hand into the pocket of his low jeans and drew out a key ring.
“Don’t lose it or I will spank you.”
“Get lost, José,” I said good-naturedly, and he swaggered across the foyer and out into the dusk.
After that, I just had to lie low and wait for the right moment.
This morning, I had my first attack of conscience as I watched Jody cross and recross the end of Gordon Terrace, searching for her phantom lover, and decided that, for better or worse, it would have to be tonight.
As the afternoon wore away, I dressed up in Abe’s trousers, shirt, and cardigan, gelling my hair into his careful waves in front of the mildewed mirror in the bathroom.
And now I stand here, by a windowsill strewn with dead flies, swigging from a quarter bottle of whisky to calm my nerves while I wait for Jody to come back.
I had wondered, as the barber on the main street cut my new style, whether Daniel would still fancy me with short hair, but it’s an academic point, since I won’t be seeing him again. He and Donna probably have a cozy night planned, with a Netflix binge, a nice bottle of chardonnay, and takeout curry, the kids slumbering peacefully upstairs, happy in the knowledge that Mummy and Daddy are back together.
I throw the remains of the bottle down my throat and grimace. Is my contempt just sour grapes? Christ, who knows? I thought I was jealous of Abe and Jody.
The glass stops halfway to the sill.
She’s coming.
Her steps drag down Gordon Terrace, her shadow yawning behind her. I would have spotted her before, but her coloring merges with the gray sidewalk.
She reaches the end of the street and steps onto the grass. At any moment, she could look up and see me. A part of me wants her to, wants her to guess what’s going on so I don’t have to go through with any of it. But she doesn’t.
Grabbing Abe’s aftershave and the key from the stained Formica dining table, I let myself out of the flat. I take the stairs two at a time and have made it to the third floor when I hear the creak of the main door opening. Swearing under my breath—I should have moved earlier—I drop to my haunches and crawl up the final flight of steps. But my luck holds—for some reason, she’s lingering downstairs.
I crawl past Abe’s door, then Mira’s and Jody’s, to the other end of the landing. A sliver of grimy wind creeps under the threshold where a semicircle of dust and grit has formed. A stroke of luck.
Awkwardly lifting my knee while trying to keep my head down, I press the sole of Abe’s shoe into the dust, then I slide the key into the Yale lock and turn it with the utmost care. There is the tiniest scrape of metal, and then the door unfastens, swinging out toward me. I catch it and let it out slowly, wincing as it creaks a little. I can hear her coming up the stairs. She must be on the second floor.
Careful not to disturb the footprint, I climb into the stairwell, spritz the aftershave a couple of times, then run lightly up the cement steps to the door at the top.
Opening it, I am assaulted by the wind. Fortunately, José has thought to leave a chunk of cinder block up here, and once I’ve secured it, I straighten up to look for a place to conceal myself.
For a split second, I forget why I came and simply stare.
The sky is on fire.
Ribbons of gold and scarlet light stream west to east, studded here and there with fireballs of slowly revolving cloud. The buildings are charred black stumps, with an occasional window dazzlingly aflame.
My hands are red, and so are Abe’s sneakers, as if I have been paddling in blood.
Behind me, faltering footsteps scrape the gritty surface of the cement steps.
She has fallen for it.
Where can I hide?
The church spire lances up into the roiling sky. There are louvered windows on both sides, one set looking out over the main street, the other looking back over endless public housing. A small door in the wall must lead to a staircase. Is this the place from her imagination? Where she and my brother had their first earth-shattering night of passion?
It’s pitiful, laughable. But I don’t feel like laughing anymore. I dive across the lead roof and conceal myself behind the spire.
Dead leaves crackle under my feet as I peer around the edge of the wall.
I squint, unable to distinguish her shape from the pink shadows on the wall of the stairwell, until she steps out onto the roof.
Close up, she is so frail, I fear that the wind will buffet her straight over the edge. Beneath the scarlet wash of the sunset, her face is drained, her eye sockets dark-ringed.
I assume she is blinking because the sun is in her eyes, but then the tears spill out, the sun catching them and turning them to livid scratches down her cheeks. Like some kind of martyred saint.
No. I mustn’t allow myself to think she is the victim. I must go through with this. Or I will never know.
She takes a step forward, then another, catching her toe on the edge of the leadwork and stumbling, then righting herself.
“Abe?” Her voice trembles.
I step back as her eyes scan the rooftop.
“Abe, I’m here.”
She walks hesitantly toward the door in the spire; presumably, she intends to climb up to the windows. I hear a rattling. The door is locked. Poor Jody. No ghostly lover waiting to enclose her in his cold embrace after all.
I ease myself around the spire to approach her from behind.
Her body is angled away from me, so it takes a moment for her to register my presence.
Jerking around, she cries out, her hands flying to her face, and I realize with incredulity that even now, she thinks I’m Abe. It must be the tears clouding her vision—or the pills clouding her mind.
Either way, she stands rigid with shock, which gives me enough time to get between her and the steps that lead back down to the fourth floor.
“Hello, Jody.”
The hands fall from her face. Her eyebrows contract, tilting upward as her face crumples with disappointment. No, more than disappointment. Anguish. She gives a moaning exhalation, as if she has been kicked in the stomach, and actually bends a little at the waist.
“You’ve been avoiding me. What was I supposed to do?”
I sound like a Bond villain. If I were watching this tableau on a film, I’d be willing her to snatch up the brick door prop and hurl it into my face before making her escape. I set my jaw. It has to be done.
“I need to know what happened—and you’re going to tell me.”
Her eyes are dull. Her face has slackened, as if a little bit of her soul has drained away. Even the wariness seems blunted because when I step toward her, she makes no attempt to evade me.
“You’re not getting off this roof until you do.”
Her eyes slide away from mine. It’s the only signal that she is alive or conscious.
I am ready to hurt her. It is the natural progression of my behavior over the past week—watching her, following her, deliberately setting out to unnerve her. I’ve been stalking her. Murder in slow motion.
“You’re going to tell me what happened that night. Who pushed my brother over that stairwell?”
She is silent.
Striding up to her, I slap her hard enough to make my palm sting. Her head stays where the blow put it, angled away from me, her wide eyes staring down at the lead.
“Say something, Jody, or I’m warning you…”
But I’m losing hope already.
She is a broken doll, propped awkwardly on spindle legs, unstable, liable to collapse like pick-up sticks. I grasp her bony shoulders, my thumbs digging into her clavicles, and give them a
sharp shake as if I’m trying to dislodge something that’s sticking. Her head waggles stupidly, the hair falling in front of her face, hiding her eyes from me. I yank it back, hoping to see fear, but they are blank and glassy.
“You owe me this, Jody. You owe it to Abe.” I force this attempt at emotional blackmail out through gritted teeth. In a minute, I’ll stop trying to keep a lid on my fury. It’s getting dark. Our figures will no longer be silhouetted against a treacherously bright sky. I can do what I like to her, and no one will ever know.
No one would care.
No one would believe her.
“Answer me!”
I count down the seconds: three, two, one.
Time’s up.
And now a part of me doesn’t even want to hear her story. It just wants to hurt her, to punish her for everything that has happened. For Abe, for our shitty childhoods, for the wreck of my emotions, for her own weakness, which has allowed people to hurt and abuse her for her whole pathetic life. She is a rag doll upon whom others can take out their misery and pain. And now it’s my turn.
I drag her to the edge of the roof, where the lead falls away sharply, then kick her legs out from under her. She lands on her back with a grunt, and before she can roll to safety, I drop down to straddle her, my hands around her throat, forcing her head back over the edge. Her hair streams out in the wind.
“This is what it was like for Abe!” I snarl. “Hanging over that banister, wondering if the person who held him would let him go. Was it you, Jody?”
Thrusting my hips, I nudge her forward, and now her shoulders are off the edge. I only manage to stop the inexorable slide of the rest of her by grasping the head of a nearby gargoyle. Its pointed tongue stretches down between its legs, and I want to snatch my hand back, but if I do, she will fall. Even holding onto it, I feel unstable. Perhaps we will both go over.
Somewhere, a police siren wails. The vertical wind pummels my chin, all scent of aftershave long gone, replaced by the gritty, musty perfume of the city.
The siren recedes, and an eerie quiet descends.
She isn’t screaming or crying or begging me not to hurt her. She doesn’t make a sound. Her eyes simply gaze skyward, like a long-suffering saint seeking deliverance from heaven. Her chest brushes my thighs as it gently rises and falls. She is totally calm.
I ask myself again: Who is she protecting?
Whoever it is, it seems she’d rather die than betray them.
How far will I have to go to make her tell me?
A gull swoops down in front of us, red-backed. We must be above the bins. Jody’s view, in all these years of living here, has been of people’s rubbish being fought over by gulls and rats and foxes, and the occasional whore turning tricks. The gull swoops up again, a chicken bone between its beak. Eating its own kind in its greed or desperation.
And then it hits me.
I have been so stupid.
What was it Daniel said? There’s no such thing as truth. Only the story we choose to tell, to others, and to ourselves. Jody is sticking to her story to the bitter end. Sticking to that fantasy in which her life is bearable, in which she is loved and needed, even though it might kill her. Because what on earth is the truth worth to Jody? Nothing. Nothing but pain and despair. But in her parallel universe, she is about to follow her darling into eternity.
Who is Jody protecting? Herself, of course.
I look at my knuckles, white with the strain of gripping her. I thought I’d left that girl behind, the one who took pleasure in inflicting pain, but she’s been here all along, hiding under my skin, waiting for the next victim. The next piece of easy meat.
I loosen my grip. Suddenly released, she starts to slip, and I have to grab her by the arm and yank her back. For a few agonizing seconds, I wonder if we will both fall, but then she seems to wake up from whatever stupor she has been in and, with my help, hauls herself back onto the safety of the leadwork.
We crawl away from the precipice on hands and knees and don’t stop until we have reached the spire. Suddenly exhausted, I lean against the cold stone and let my head drop to my knees.
I have become a coward and a bully again, like my father. Was the truth worth that?
I hear a rustle and raise my head.
Jody has crawled over and slumps against the wall beside me.
The wind rises, catching the gelled wave of Abe’s hair and tugging at it as if to tear it away from my skull. The last sliver of sunset bleeds across the horizon.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead. I don’t care who—”
“Wait.” Jody’s voice is strong and steady.
I blink my eyes clear.
“Listen.”
_____________________
It’s getting dark. Normally, she’s home before dusk. She doesn’t like walking down Gordon Terrace after six, when all the residents are home from their cleaning or catering jobs and are safely tucked away in their concrete boxes, curtains closed like a charm against the packs of feral youth prowling outside.
It was the psych assessment. They were running late. Saturdays are our busiest time, the receptionist said accusingly. You should have booked for another day.
Sorry, she said. She didn’t even know she could; she just came when she was told to. Her appointment was for four, but they didn’t call her in until half past five, and now it’s almost seven.
The bus sits in traffic for so long that when a ballsier passenger punches the emergency door button, she slips out after him and crosses the main street. It’s about a mile to Gordon Terrace, but there’s no point hurrying—it’s already dark. When she gets to the corner, she will just have to pick her moment—a late commuter returning, a car pulling up—and sprint for St. Jerome’s.
Lights glare from the fast-food outlets. Someone is having an argument in the kebab shop. The manager of the Greek bakery is pulling down the shutters. They are covered with graffitied names: Toxo, Barb, Stika. Like alien planets instead of human beings. The man in the Food and Wine is shouting down the phone in a foreign language.
The traffic is solid all down the other side of the road, and as she walks past a stationary bus, she senses a face turn in her direction. Ducking her head, she quickens her steps and is passing Cosmo restaurant when a voice calls out behind her.
“Hey.”
She turns around.
Her legs become matchsticks, and she almost falls to her knees on the sidewalk.
“Hey,” he says again, holding up his hands, palm first. “Hey, don’t look so freaked out. I just wanted to say hello.”
If she could move, she would run as he comes toward her. She would run in front of the traffic and be hit by the now moving bus rather than have him come close to her.
But her legs won’t work, and he is so close, she can smell the beer on his breath and that oh-so-familiar deodorant, with the reek of stale sweat beneath.
“Hey, Jody.” His voice is soft. “How are you doing?”
He looks the same, only bigger and with less hair. His eyelids are heavy. He is drunk. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
“Yeah, yeah, not bad. Just had a fixture against Hackney. Nailed them. On my way home to get ready for the club later—couldn’t believe it when I saw you. What you up to?”
“I’m on my way home.”
His head rocks backward and forward. He doesn’t know what to say to her. If she stays quiet, he will get bored and go.
“You hear about Felix?”
She presses her lips together and shakes her head.
“Mainlining heroin now, apparently. Completely fucked.”
The high-pitched sound in the back of her throat is lost in the traffic. Her beautiful Felix. Still beautiful in her mind, whatever he did to her.
“Lost half his teeth.”
“Stop,” she says. “Please.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you had a thing for him. Don’t reckon he’d twist your lemon these days, sweetheart. He stinks.”
He’s looking at her, waiting for a response. She tenses up, trying to think of something that won’t agitate him.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
And then suddenly, all his affability is gone. “You should be, though, right? I mean, all that shit with the police. That’s what really sent him over the edge.”
It’s like being punched in the stomach. He’s saying that it was her fault, what happened to Felix. She can’t catch her breath as his cold eyes drill into her.
And then he smiles.
“Hey, listen, no hard feelings, though, OK? I mean, all that shit you said could’ve really fucked my prospects, but it’s water under the bridge now, right? I’ve got a nice accounting job. Good money. I’m not bitter. In fact…” He grins. “To prove it, why don’t I walk you home? Make sure you get back safe.”
“Thanks, but it’s not far.” Her smile is skull-like.
“Nah, it doesn’t bother me.” His huge hand closes around her upper arm. “Lead on!”
He walks very fast, and sometimes she stumbles. She remembers how his normal breathing sounded like panting. Like a dog. Her arm is in the grip of its jaws.
They reach the corner of Gordon Terrace. The boys are there, sitting on one of the garden walls, smoking.
Hearing footsteps, their heads turn as one.
They know her, know that her bag is unlikely to contain anything but a few coins and a secondhand paperback, but surely this middle-class white boy, with his bulging kit bag and expensive-looking watch, is more promising. If they accost him, he’ll have to let go of her to deal with them.
But his steps do not falter as they come level with the group.
“Evening, fellas,” he says, and one of them actually grunts a response.
A moment later, they have passed by. She turns her head, and the youths gaze back at her with flat, dead eyes. Where is the shark’s bite when you need it?
The Girlfriend Page 25