HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’s fucking high usage.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s been that way for years, Pete. One key, every six to eight weeks. You use a lot.’

  ‘I know.’ Pete wants to ask if he can get dressed, he’s feeling a chill, but can only nod at Lennie.

  ‘I once had you followed, Pete.’

  ‘Followed?’

  ‘All the way to bonny Jockland. But my snout reported you were nowt but a hardworking halfwit who took so much speed it would probably kill him sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Aye, probably.’ Pete shivers at the goosebumps prickling up his arms. He opens his mouth to ask permission to dress but Lennie holds up a hand. He goes back to the drawer and pulls out a gun and places it on the desk with a thud that makes Pete jump.

  ‘I’m worried, mate,’ Lennie says. ‘I’m worried on two counts. First, that I’ll lose a good customer when he packs his heart with too much billy and drops down dead; or second, that I’ll lose a good customer when I shoot the fucker in the nuts.’

  Pete pulls the clothes he’s holding to his groin.

  Lennie swipes up the gun and points it at him. ‘Get your fucking hands up!’

  Pete lets go of his clothes and pushes his hands high.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Pete. No one knows you’re here, I’ve got your car and your cash. What’s to stop me, eh?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pete croaks.

  ‘Sorry for being a fucking idiot?’

  ‘Aye.’ A tear runs down Pete’s cheek.

  ‘One last chance. Who set this up?’

  ‘Me,’ Pete answers immediately.

  ‘That’s a crock of fucking shit, Pete. And you know it. You’ve just paid double the going rate for five keys and some dodgy smoke alarms. What the fuck are you up to?’ Lennie cocks the gun. ‘I could waste you right here. In fact, I think it’s the safest fucking option.’ He points the gun at Pete’s dick. ‘BANG!’ he shouts.

  Pete shrieks and falls to the floor. ‘Please don’t, Lennie mate. I swear it’s the truth.’

  Lennie nods. ‘Maybe I could buy your story for the whizz, even though five keys is enough to see you in jail on a long one, but what the fuck gives with the fancy fucking smoke alarms?’

  Pete swallows the lump in his throat and once again the answer comes forth, ‘I’ve got thieves at the cabins. Stealing everything from towels to cups out the cupboard and clocks off the walls. Need to put a stop to it, or I’ll be out of business.’

  ‘Get up, you cunt and get fucking dressed.’ Lennie presses the com button.

  Pete does as asked with the gun still pointing at him.

  ‘Five keys is a shitload of billy. If you’re fucking with me, Pete.’

  ‘I swear, Lennie. No way, man.’

  ‘If any of this comes back to me, bonny lad, I will hunt you down and bite your cock off and shove it down your fuckwit throat. Under-fucking-stood?’

  The door opens and Sasha walks in. ‘Can I shag him before you kill him? He’s got a canny cock on him. Plus I’d like his nose up my snatch.’

  ‘Not today, sweet child of mine,’ Lennie says. ‘Give him his keys and show the fucker out.’

  At the front gates, Sasha takes hold of Pete’s left buttock and digs her nails in.

  ‘Nice,’ Pete says. She releases her grip and looks him in the eye, her straining cleavage, this close, makes Pete want to suck on her tits. A desire he’s never experienced before. She jiggles them and he hears a rattle and realises his keys are in there. She tells him to help himself, but two nuns are walking past. He waits a few seconds till he can see their backs, then he reaches into the slit between Sasha’s breasts. The flesh is soft and warm and she jiggles them again while his hand’s still in there. Saliva drips from his open mouth. Sasha takes his wrist and pulls his hand free. His keys are hooked round one finger.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling about you, Pete,’ she lets his wrist go and runs her fingers down his shirt. ‘I’m going to sit on your face, one day. I know it.’

  Pete has a similar yearning and wants to say so but can’t find the words. He smiles at her instead.

  ‘Your jeep’s down the road, outside the cemetery. Your stash is in the back. Get in quick and drive away quicker and don’t look back, and no stopping to check your stash until you’re well away from here. Right?’

  She opens the gates and shoves him through. ‘Stick to the speed limits, Pete,’ she laughs. ‘Speed limits . . . Get it?’

  Pete got it. ‘Cheers,’ he says, taking a last look at her fleshy white breasts as the gates clang shut.

  6

  Rose had cried for an hour, a painful mourning for her breasts. She’d stopped herself from opening the wine, smoking another joint instead. Still the breasts remained firm on her chest and trying to rationalise the feeling of them seemed to make things worse. When she touched her hands to the phantoms she could actually feel them, and she could feel the sensation of her own fingers through the imaginary breasts, even though her shirt ran flat and smooth. All she could put it down to was the shock of bumping into the statues. Those seconds from hitting the silhouettes to rushing out into the rain were terrible life-burdening seconds. She truly thought she’d hit two kids . . . even taken a life. What greater shock than that?

  With resignation she opened the wine; a simple red from Moxley supermarket, a fiver a bottle. She made up a joint and tried to get comfortable in the chair by the window. She tasted the wine, it wasn’t too bad. She downed the first glass in one and poured another.

  A sparrow landed on the rail outside. It seemed to be watching her. When she next took a drink the sparrow chirped, a song that brought back memories of Bluey, the budgie she’d had as a child, the sweetest thing, died of old age. One morning she’d taken the cover from his cage and most of Bluey’s feathers had dropped out. He was stiff on the cage floor the morning after that. Such a happy little bird.

  Why didn’t she get another? Or even a pair? This was a seed planted. It seemed like a good idea. She’d let it roll around a bit and see if it grew wings. Rose let out a sharp laugh at that, said cheers to the wine, and to the sparrow, and to Bluey, and drank some more, realising the drink was having the desired effect and that the phantoms were feeling lighter.

  The sparrow chirped and fluttered its wings when she topped up her glass and again when she took a drink. With a woozy head she stubbed out the joint and lit a cig, kicked her legs out and relaxed in the mellowness as the smoke sucked out of the open window.

  Rose woke with a start and sweat on her brow. It was growing dark, the sparrow had gone, the wine was finished, the ashtray overflowed, and she felt queasy at the jowls. She pushed herself up from the chair with a struggle and took a drink of water from the bottle on the side. Trying not to be aware that she could not feel the presence of the phantom breasts, she headed for the shower.

  She found a rash on her upper chest and down her arms. Itches teased at her puckered scars. She turned the water to lukewarm and leant against the tiles, eyes closed as the freshness eased the itches away, the patter of the water on her skin soothing, its constant drumming sending ripples through her ribs, ripples that flowed in a curve to her stomach into points of pleasure where her fingers now smoothed the skin in circles.

  Rose thought of the silver vibrator back home in the drawer, but not for long because her free hand was now squeezing at invisible breasts, and heated jolts of pleasure made her tug at invisible nipples. She heard herself groan and kept her eyes closed as she sunk to her knees, the water cascading over her head and back and the weight of her phantom breasts hanging beneath her a pleasure in itself.

  She slipped her other hand between her legs into heat that quivered, the merest touch and the pull of an orgasm made itself felt. Panting now, convulsing, listening to her groans echoing round her ears and the tepid water chilling her breasts to stiffness, she opened her eyes and saw them.

  Perfect breasts, just as they’d once been. With
the last of the orgasm resounding through her, Rose got to her feet, cupped the breasts, felt their weight. No scars, no stretched and skewed skin, no itching, no ugliness, just beautiful breasts and perfect pink nipples.

  She couldn’t breathe; couldn’t catch her breath. She opened the shower door, grabbed up a towel and ran out into the living area, leaving the shower on. She went for the front door, wrapping the towel around her, stepped into the twilight, gripped the rail, and breathed.

  Rose had the crazy thought that if someone – anyone – came by, she’d ask them to take a look, or even a feel. But there was no one about. She took her time, breathed the cool air, blamed the shock of hitting the kids, three joints and cheap plonk. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d hallucinated on the weed, especially when mixed with cheap plonk.

  Like the time a panther had slunk across the bedroom floor, or the time she’d seen fairy lights scattered down the stairs and Superman standing at the bottom with his arms folded telling her to jump, or the time wall cabinets had appeared on her bedroom walls, one after the other, each announcing its arrival with a magical ping, until ten or more were sliding around the walls bumping into each other.

  Those hallucinations had seemed just as real at the time, though she’d never reached out and touched any of them. Hallucinations were a visionary thing, weren’t they? She looked down at the towel wrapped around her. It lay flat against her chest. The beginnings of a headache – hangover – pulsed at her temples. The heat between her legs was gone. She cursed herself for acting like a stupid woman, told herself to act her bloody age, and decided she’d get dressed and walk the loch path before the twilight vanished.

  7

  Alison’s hands were shaking so bad it took three goes before the bolt slid home. She made sure all windows were locked and the curtains drawn, relieved and so, so grateful that Bethany was staying with Martin and Muriel; because she was feeling the itch, begging for release again. No, not just begging – demanding! She took the razorblade from her purse, pulled a handful of tissues, went to the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp. The amber glow from its coloured shade made the pained face in the mirror appear tanned and healthy in a grotesquely sad way.

  George had gone. Again. Most likely back tomorrow, he’d said, and the purple vase would have found its way into her hand and launched itself at him if he had not left in such a hurry with his bitch in a suit to drive him.

  Ali had opened the door to the woman. She’d known as soon as she heard the car pull up, recognised the BMW’s purr. Always a bitch in a suit to run him round, signing his autograph for whatever the big deal was. The woman in the mirror in the stuffy jumper and with the plain hair and sorrowful face was a weak, weak woman.

  George never had payslips or communication from the Bank. There was never a works do to attend. Never any mention of which bank he worked for, because good old Georgie was top of the tree, “A top-secret fucking commander”, he’d said once, when she’d moaned that his secrecy was unwarranted, that he should be able to trust his bloody wife; trust her!

  The woman in the mirror was crying. Ali pulled her jumper over her head and let it drop to the floor. On her stomach the little lines ran like zippers; the itching intensified behind the caesarean scar. Sometimes, the feeling of release when the blood runs warm and the cut zings feels like an orgasm. That’s something clever Georgie isn’t clever at. The last orgasm she had was brought with a loofah in the bathtub at home. Clever Georgie didn’t have a fucking clue, didn’t have a love-bone in his handsome body. Having no money worries and a bank account that other banks fought over was all very well, but money wasn’t everything, was it? She licked her fingers and stroked the scars. Doing this sometimes eased the itch – but not now. The itch crawled up inside her. She reached behind and unclipped her bra and let it fall to her feet. Her breasts were full, nipples erect, the itches pulsing inside them as well, the skin a smooth blank canvas. She picked up the tissues and flattened her left breast to her chest. With fingers shaking, she readied the razorblade. The itching within pulled together and showed her where to cut. With the knowledge that the release would be much greater than a stomach cut, she brought the blade to the spot. In her mind’s eye she saw the cut gape, the darkness spilling out like oil. If only George could experience such a high. A high-pitched beep made her start. She put the blade down, swiped up her jumper, pulled it on. Listened.

  The beep came again – from above – the smoke alarm on the ceiling, battery running low. She went through to the kitchen, rummaged in drawers. No batteries. Carrying a thunderous feeling of foreboding she went to the fridge and took out one of the bottles of Chardonnay she’d bought in to celebrate George’s return. She filled a plastic tumbler and drank it down, filled it again and sat herself in the living area and folded her arms across her breasts with the tumbler of wine in hand. She stared at the curtains and thought about Bethany laughing and having fun with the M&Ms and George with his bitch in a suit and listened to the beep.

  8

  Bob touched his head where Carol had superglued the cut, muttered that he had a headache and went to the kitchen. He could have a slight headache, if he thought about it. He drew a glass of water and sat at the small table. Carol and Beth, both on their knees through the doorway, were cutting out spikes from various materials. He’d left the room to get away from Beth. That stone hadn’t been dropped by any bird, the trajectory was wrong.

  He looked at Beth, the back of her, kneeling on the floor, following Carol’s instructions with the greatest care like the good kid she was. The yellow dress suited her. Plain and simple and carefree, just like she was. She was staying over tonight. Soon they’d have supper and after that, bedtime, which couldn’t come soon enough.

  Beth was getting to her feet. Bob stared at his glass of water and took a sip. The yellow dress moved into the periphery of his vision. ‘Just going to the loo,’ Beth said brightly. Bob didn’t look up. When she disappeared into the bathroom he went through to see Carol. ‘You look peaky,’ she said.

  ‘Looking forward to my bed, to be honest. Horlicks and biscuits and call it a day?’

  Carol agreed just as the toilet flushed and Bob waited until Beth was back on her knees before returning to the kitchen. He made Horlicks and brought the biscuit tin to the table and asked them through.

  ‘I adore my new skirt.’ Beth did look good in it. She had it on over the yellow dress: an angled hem of spikes in various autumnal shades that made her appear fairylike, natural, from the earth. She also had a pink plastic flower in her hair. A beautiful kid.

  ‘And we adore your ideas, don’t we, Martin,’ Carol said. ‘We could go again tomorrow, search for more inspiration. If that’s what you want to do, of course, sweetie.’

  Bob was surprised by the lack of immediate response or the glee he might have expected. Beth remained quiet, staring at the steaming mug in front of her. An unexpected feeling of despair ran Bob cold. Beth picked up a gingersnap, nibbled at it, sipped at her drink.

  ‘If you’ve other plans, we can always go the day after. There’s no hurry. Is there, Martin?’

  Bob realised his mouth was gaping. He closed it quickly and swallowed.

  ‘It’s just, I think I might have to be home for Dad coming back.’

  ‘Your dad is back, sweetie.’

  ‘He left again. Urgent work signatures. He’ll return tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. Well that’s okay, sweetheart, you can come out with us any time you want and stay over any time you want. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  Bob had the feeling the kid was telling porkies. After supper, and after Beth had washed, brushed her teeth and changed into her nightdress, he found himself following her into the small bedroom. She got into bed and pulled over the covers. She was lying about something and Bob was walking the line between guilt-ridden paranoia and doubt. Now he was feeling that headache, a small ball of cold in his right temple. H
e wanted to demand she tell him what the lie was, and why she was lying, wanted her to know how to show respect, that he loved her. Then came the strangest thought of adopting Beth and taking her far away. ‘Good night, Beth. You have sweet dreams and come up with some more great ideas.’

  She pulled the covers up to her chin. ‘I’ll try. Thanks for a real fun do.’

  Bob could not leave, could not take his eyes from hers. It pained him to say it, but he went ahead and asked why she’d thrown a stone off his head, told her it could have resulted in a serious injury, could have had his eye out. The girl looked fearful at first, before crossing her heart that it wasn’t her and promising to stick a needle in her eye if she was lying.

  Bob knew she wasn’t all there, that her mother mollycoddled her. He decided to put the incident down to a behavioural glitch and leave it at that. He wanted to kiss her forehead, tuck her in, smooth the hair from her face like he’d done every time she’d slept over. But it was different now. Now he wanted to kiss her pouting lips, wanted to get in the bed with her, wanted to feel the softness of youth. His stomach lurched and cold sweat pushed through his brow. ‘Good night,’ he said, smiling at the girl. He backed out the door, bumping the frame on the way, and pulled the door to.

  In bed, Bob hugged close to Carol. Carol liked spoons and Bob needed spoons right now, needed to be close, to be tight, to feel . . . protected? Or loved? Or to keep his mind off Beth? Her scent lingered in his nostrils: the virginal smell of innocence that sends some men mad. He’d once read an article on that: hormones taking the body through puberty, forcing chemical reactions resulting in mood swings, acne, high odours and thick doses of testosterone, and instead of attracting parental love and protection the blooming female aroused the male nose, brought them sniffing. Nature at work, steaming ahead.

  Carol said in a whisper: ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Not bad.’ And it wasn’t too bad, but the ache was there, nagging. He nuzzled the warmth of Carol’s neck and closed his eyes and thought of tomorrow, a fresh day of more sunshine. ‘Love you, Caro.’