by White, Ben
Imogen kept walking, past a building that put the three men out of sight, her hands squeezed into tight fists.
It was a little more than ten minutes later that Imogen reached her destination, a squat, long building surrounded by leafless trees. There was a flat-faced woman sitting behind a desk near the entrance, but she didn't so much as look up as Imogen walked past. The building stank of burnt cabbage and sour disinfectant, a thick, pervasive odour that caught in the throat and refused to leave. There were a lot of people here, many of them old. Some of them smiled at Imogen as she walked past. She didn't smile back.
By the time she neared room thirty-seven Imogen was exhausted, but she knew her hardships were far from over. She took a small breath, hardened her expression, and walked in.
"You're late, you mad bitch! You're late, you promised to come!"
"Shut up, old man," Imogen growled, thumping her book bag down on the room's only flat surface, a tiny table shoved up against the wall. "Sit down and look at me."
The old man in the room glared defiantly at her. He had scraggly brown hair laced with white and a face that was not so much 'weathered' as 'dead of exposure'. He wore thick square glasses, which he jiggled back and forth on his large nose before an expression of surprise crossed his face.
"You're not her!" he said. He sat down on the bed. "You're not her. You're NOT her!"
Imogen suppressed a sigh as she pulled the three romance novels from her bag and tossed them at the old man. "There," she said. "Your filth."
The old man cackled as he scrabbled for the books, gathering them greedily and running rheumy eyes over the covers—one of them depicted a man and a woman in a physically unlikely embrace, both of them impossibly perfect and utterly naked. He cackled again.
"Done good this time, m'darling!" he said, grinning up at Imogen. "Got a kiss for your old grandpa?"
Imogen rolled her eyes as she sat down, lumping into the only seat in the room, a rickety old vinyl thing.
"Hi," she said.
"Hello, lovely. Didn't bring your girlfriend, did you? She's not waiting outside, is she? Get her in if she is! There's room enough for one more if we all squeeze together!"
"I don't have a girlfriend."
"Shame!" the old man said, with another vicious cackle. "Could do with a couple of fresh young schoolgirls hotting it up in here." He patted the precious romance novels beside him. "Better than this lukewarm tripe!"
"Two things," said Imogen, her voice a little less flat than usual. "First, I'm not a schoolgirl. I haven't been to school for almost two years now. Second, I'm your granddaughter."
"I'm not picky!"
Imogen looked away and took a breath. "You're so gross."
"I'm not gross," said her grandfather. "I'm kinky."
"When you're as utterly ancient as you are, it's not kinky any more. It's just gross."
"You'd know," said her grandfather, with yet another cackle. "Being the lezzer in the room and all—come on, give us some details, I'm not fussy—"
"If you keep going on like this I'm leaving."
Imogen's grandfather shut his mouth and put his hands in his lap. "I'll be good," he said. "Don't leave just yet. Not before the nurse comes around at least, you can see, there's one of 'em, nasty little pillow biter with beady little eyes, he's got it in for me—"
"Grandpa, the nurses aren't trying to kill you."
"They are! They're out for my blood! Here, look at this ..."
Imogen watched as her grandfather furtively scuttled across to his dresser, the top of which was covered in tiny but detailed model soldiers fighting an eternal battle against the dark forces of dust and grime. After a moment's fumbling beneath the dresser, he brought out something shiny and heavy.
"Grandpa. Is that a gun?"
"You're damn right it is! Got it off young Smitty, he won't be needing it any more—heart attack, turned out he was porking one of the nurses, his dicky ticker couldn't take it. Lucky bastard!"
Imogen was still staring at the revolver in her grandfather's thin hand—he could barely lift the thing. "Put that down. No, actually, give it to me—"
"No fear!" said her grandfather, cradling the gun to his chest protectively. "This here's my insurance, my protection, my only hope against these scheming bastards—"
"They're NOT trying to kill you."
"Ssh!"
There was a noise from outside, the trundling of a trolley stopping outside the room.
"Frank, I'm coming in."
Imogen's grandfather hurriedly thrust the gun under his pillows and sat on the bed.
"Go on and get in here then, you scheming little rat!"
The door opened and a broad, short man came in, a plastic cup in his hand.
"This here's my granddaughter, before you get any ideas!" said Frank. "Hands off, squinty!"
The nurse didn't sigh, but it was clear he would have liked to. "Just take your pills and we'll be finished."
"I'd like to finish you, piss midget!" Frank said, but he took the cup and the glass of water Imogen poured him, and he downed the pills in one gulp. The nurse shook his head as he left—he hadn't so much as glanced at Imogen, to her quiet relief.
"That—"
Frank held up a hand, and Imogen fell silent. From outside there was the sound of the trolley trundling away.
"Good," said Frank, lowering his hand. "Sneaky little bugger's off away. Good riddance. Good riddance!" he yelled, raising his voice to an embarrassing level.
"Calm down, Grandpa."
"I'll calm you down, missy! What are you doing here? You're part of it! You're all part of it—"
Imogen's grandfather collapsed into tears, weeping into his hands. He feebly waved Imogen away as she came closer, but he allowed her to sit on the bed beside him and put an arm around his frail shoulders.
"I'm not part of it," she said. "I'm here to visit you. I'm your granddaughter, Imogen."
"How do I know?" he sobbed. "How do I know?"
"Because I'm telling you. Do I ever lie to you?"
Imogen's grandfather stopped crying and looked up at Imogen. "You did once."
"Just once."
"I remember. I remember that."
"See? Your memory's not gone yet."
"'Yet', she says," Frank said, shaking Imogen's arm off and pushing her away. "I know it's going, though. I'm not so far gone that I can't see the end coming! Promise me," he said, his voice suddenly urgent, his eyes wide as he stared at Imogen. "Promise me you'll put a bullet in my head if I can't remember you. I don't want to go on like that. I don't want you to see me like that."
"Grandpa."
"I don't want that! I don't want it! I DON'T WANT—"
Imogen slapped her grandfather on the arm. He clutched at the point of impact and looked up at her, bottom lip trembling, eyes filled with hurt outrage.
"You hit me!" he said. "You hit an old man, oh, the callousness of modern youth—"
"Stop acting, I can see right through you."
Imogen's grandfather grinned. "You always could," he said, and he cackled. "You remember your grandmother? Tall woman, lots of black hair, delicious little arse—"
"Yes, I remember her," Imogen said. "It's only three years since she died."
"What a year ... what a year ... you're nothing like her. Nothing. Same hair. Nothing else, though! Not a thing else!"
"I know, Grandpa."
"Good. Good girl. Good girl not wearing her glasses. Eh? Why?"
"I never wear them. I hate them."
"Hate 'em, good girl. You're strong, that's good! Strong arms! Ah, your stick fighting, that's why. Heh, I remember you beating the snot out of that big slant-eyed girl—"
"That was a long time ago, Grandpa. I don't do that any more."
"Lost your taste for the old violence, eh? Happens to the best of us. Not to me, though! But I'm not the best, that's for sure." A sudden look of panic crossed the old man's face. "No. You're Imogen. Yes, you are. And I'm Frank. Frank Shrou
d. Frank Shroud sitting talking with his granddaughter Imogen Shroud who is ... who is ... she's ..."
"Seventeen years old," Imogen said.
"Seventeen years old," her grandfather repeated, with an air of satisfaction. "Seventeen and gorgeous, except for her messy hair and silly clothes and big arms and stocky legs and odd little ghost eyes—"
"Grandpa."
"—too pale, not blue, not grey, what are they? Like your mother's eyes, never liked 'em, not even when she was a baby, never liked being alone with her, never visits, just sends her daughter to do it, what's her name, odd name, not a good name, Margaret, that was it—"
"Margaret is Mum's name," Imogen said. "I'm Imogen."
"And you're seventeen years old and I'm very proud of you," said her grandfather, staring straight at her. "Very, very proud. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful girl." He winced, then tears came to his eyes. "Promise me you won't let me forget! Promise me I won't forget you! Promise me you won't let me die!"
"No."
"Cruel! Too cruel, oh ..." Imogen's grandfather began crying again, quietly this time, staring at his bony old hands where they rested on his knees. Imogen just looked at him, her mouth a thin line.
"I won't promise you'll never forget me," she said. "I won't promise you'll never die. Everyone dies. Everyone forgets. Grandpa. Grandpa. Grandpa!"
Imogen's grandfather looked up at her, his eyes still wet and his face blank.
"I don't lie to you," she said. "I never lie to you."
"Except once," he said, his voice small, and his mouth twitched into a smile. Imogen didn't smile back.
"Except once," she repeated. "Keep sitting there and I'll bring the table over. We can play backgammon for a while."
*
The clouds had started to shift by the time Imogen left the retirement home, enough to show patches of pale blue sky behind. Imogen was too tired to notice.
"Took your time, didn't you."
Imogen didn't look at her mother as she dragged herself through the lounge. Zack was in the hallway looking at the books in the cupboard there, but he pressed himself against the wall as flat as he could when he saw Imogen coming, and stayed there even after she'd passed.
"It was a really good episode!" he said, as she headed for her room. "Fayette Eve I mean, she beat up EVERYONE and—"
There was a sharp click as Imogen closed the door of her room behind herself, and then a scrabbling noise and a tiny 'clunk' as she locked it.
"I put a sandwich on your desk!" Zack called from the hallway. "I didn't go into your room, not properly, I just took one step, that's okay, right? Imogen? Did you see the sandwich? It's cheese! I went and bought cheese! And bread!"
Inside, Imogen had dropped the book bag and slumped onto the stool. There was a sandwich on her desk, a thick slice of cheese poking out one side. It had been cut, rather inexpertly, into triangles.
"It's diagonal!" came the cry from outside. "I went and bought spread!"
"I'm eating it now," Imogen said flatly, not so much as touching the sandwich. "It's delicious."
She could almost hear her brother beaming outside.
"I can make something—"
"Go away, Zack."
There was the usual moment of hesitance, then the usual sound of his sneakers against the floor as he scurried off to his room.
Imogen stared at herself in the mirror.
After a minute, she pushed her hair away from her face and held it there, leaning forward to stare herself right in the eyes.
Ghost eyes. That's what her grandfather had said. She'd never heard the expression before, but it fit perfectly. Ghost eyes in a ghost face, a nothing face. Not ugly. Not pretty. Nothing. Totally flat. Totally plain. Totally devoid of any interesting features whatsoever. The kind of face instantly forgotten, never remembered.
Imogen looked down, a cold shock going through her as she realised she'd opened her desk drawer. She pushed it closed again, or tried to—it stuck and she was forced to try to work it shut, the paper bag inside covering—
"Imogen. Come out and eat, we're having steak."
Steak. That's what the packet said, anyway. Imogen didn't reply, just left the stuck drawer as it was and kicked her boots off against the wall and fell heavily against her bed. The impact was hard but welcome. If she'd had the energy, she would've done it again. She didn't have the energy. Instead she rolled over to tip her book bag on its side. Books slid out onto the floor. Imogen spent a few minutes neatly stacking them from biggest on the bottom to smallest on the top, spines all in a row. During all of this her mother was calling to her, through the door, her voice getting louder and louder, but eventually she gave up. She always did.
Having stacked her books, Imogen was content to simply lie there staring at them. She wasn't smiling, but her expression was nonetheless satisfied.
Inevitably this faded. As what little light was let in around the curtains dimmed and the voices from outside the room faded into irrelevance, Imogen's eyes dulled. Her breathing became slower and heavier.
Eventually, she fell asleep.
Imogen opened her eyes. She had the vague sense that she should get up, but couldn't find her motivation. What's compelling me to get up? What reward is there?
Nothing.
Except ...
With little noise and less fuss, Imogen rolled onto her side. She stayed like that for seventeen seconds, then twisted herself up into a sitting position. She had on her brown pajamas, the loose ones with the long cut through the midsection.
She waded through the scattered books surrounding her bed and opened the cupboard. Pushing aside clothes and shoving aside boxes, she found a long, slim black case, battered and dirty.
Inside, it waited.
An hour later saw Imogen lying against the floor, cold sweat covering her body, her hair an even bigger mess than usual, exhausted and yet somehow deeply satisfied. After some time she pushed a book out from under her stomach. To her surprise she found that she wanted to do more than this, so she sat up and then stood up, blinking as she looked around her room. There was light coming in from around the curtains, and she could see perfectly well—or well enough, at least. Dirty clothes covered the floor; she kicked the majority of them towards the hamper near the door. On her desk was a plate, and on the plate was a sandwich. The sandwich was growing a thin green beard of mould. Imogen pushed both plate and sandwich into a bin already overflowing with paper and tissues and food scraps. The smell wafting up from it was both sweet and repulsive. For a few seconds Imogen considered doing something about it, then she realised that her desk drawer was open.
Inside, it waited.
Imogen squeezed her eyes shut and pushed hard at the drawer. It didn't move. She wriggled it from side to side, managing to work it in an inch before it jammed tight. Now she couldn't even wriggle it.
It was patient.
Still with her eyes shut, Imogen reached into the drawer and took out a bulky paper bag.
"Muffin," she murmured, as she opened the bag and looked inside.
The muffin seemed fine.
Imogen poked it.
The muffin failed to react in any way.
Imogen closed the bag and dropped it in the bin. It rolled off the top and fell to the floor, taking with it a miniature avalanche of tissues and paper and a plate and a fuzzy sandwich.
Imogen wasn't looking at that. She was looking into the drawer.
It should have been shiny, but it wasn't.
It shouldn't have been inviting, but it was.
With a sudden, almost violent movement, Imogen turned and made for the door, thumping hard against it as she reached for the lock with a shaking hand. She couldn't get the hook out of its latch. It kept slipping back in. Four times. Five times. Again and again, it slipped and fell back with the tiniest of sounds. Such a tiny sound, but it filled the entire room.
Imogen did not scream in frustration. She let out a long breath, closed her eyes, breathed in, opened her eyes, breathe
d out, and lifted the hook from its latch with perfect precision.
After that the door presented no challenge whatsoever, and Imogen was soon outside, in the hallway, heading towards the lounge.
Her mother was in her usual spot, eyes fixed on the television, remote in one hand, cigarette in the other—as well as a piece of chocolate popcorn. As Imogen passed, her mother made a sour face.
"You smell disgusting," she said, not looking away from the television. "Take a shower."
Imogen didn't reply. Instead she went to the fridge. There was a sliver of cheese in a plastic wrapper; she ate this. There was a limp and discoloured piece of celery; she ate this. There were five cartons of yoghurt, all strawberry; she did not eat these. There was a jar of marmalade; she took this out.
"Hungry, are you?" came her mother's voice, as Imogen searched for a spoon. "Not surprised." There was the click of a lighter, then a pause as Imogen's mother took her first puff of her latest cigarette. "Nothing much there. Nobody's done the shopping."
Imogen was sitting at the kitchen table, eating the marmalade.
"It's good you're up, Imogen."
There was a letter pinned to the tiny noticeboard beside the door. Imogen couldn't make out what it was about, but it looked like something from the council.
"I was just about to come wake you."
Imogen squinted and leant forward. The letter had a section outlined with a black box. It looked important.
"You're going to the job centre today."
At this Imogen turned, both marmalade and letter forgotten.
"I'm not."
Imogen's mother took in a lungful of smoke and released it before replying:
"You are. I'm sick of you stinking away in your room doing nothing. You need to contribute."
Imogen stood, her mother's eyes on her as she walked through the lounge.
"Stop there. Not another step."
Imogen wouldn't have obeyed, except for something unusual happening; her mother had risen from the couch, all of her weight on her left leg.
"I've made the arrangement. You have an appointment. They're expecting you."