by Dawn French
‘You’re joking Cat. Stop it. I know you’re joking. Please say it’s a big fat joke. Darling. Come on. Seriously. Please. Cat. Please.’
Cat watched Silvia sober up very quickly until they were both speaking in rushed hushed tones the way you do when something is horribly true, and shockingly urgent. The way you do when a murder has just happened …
Silvia was confronted with a fait accompli.
It was done. Cat had killed Philip. Philip’s body was in the boot of Cat’s car.
Silvia felt sick. Sick that it had happened, that Cat had made it happen, that Cat had made it happen in such a premeditated way, and that Cat’s eyes were so ablaze with it all as she was recounting it to Silvia. Whilst Silvia listened to the telling, which was chillingly calm, except for that small giveaway fire in Cat’s eyes, Silvia’s stomach lurched. Then her head became uncomfortably tight on her skull, then she started to taste acid in her throat. It was the clunking realization that she was about to make a colossal life-changing decision.
If she kept Cat’s awful secret at this point, she would be leaping into the dangerous darkness where Cat lives, along with her. There would be no return from there. She would be inextricably part of it. Actually, she already was. Five minutes before, Silvia had been utterly innocent, she had no knowledge of this horror, and now, five minutes later, she is in it with Cat. She is colluding by even hearing it all. It’s all so very weird and menacing and dreadful and yet she is drawn. She wants to be, longs to be complicit.
Silvia can feel the sinister change in light on her soul as she moves further into the shadow of death. In an unbelievable moment from which she would never recover, she has a life-altering lapse of judgement.
She doesn’t waver.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Silvia says, ‘Shh now. Listen. This is what we do …’
We. They are ‘we’.
And that’s it.
In a careless trice, Silvia betrays everyone else but Cat. She makes the most foolish decision of her lifetime, and consequently, she loses her family. In that tipping second, the splitting starts, because that’s when Silvia jumps into a deep murky pool where she knows her children can NEVER be permitted to swim. She makes the decision, without fully knowing it then, that she must separate from them. To save them. Never ever must her family be embroiled in this filthy fucked-up mess.
On top of Cat’s unhinged, volatile state of mind which has resulted in this deadly mire, there is also the glaring nightmare of her addiction. Glaring because that’s what Silvia also saw in her eyes that night. The whole sorry mess had happened whilst Cat was buzzing, high as a kite and as confident as a queen.
Silvia doesn’t like anything about the drug. She was shocked when she first saw Cat sniff a couple of lines. She felt as if she was watching a cheap Hollywood film. This didn’t happen in her life. She had eaten some cannabis cake in Amsterdam with Ed once, managed to get run over by a cyclist, followed by a huge dose of explosive diarrhoea the next morning, so pretty much decided not to repeat the experience. That’s how racy Silvia’s life had been, drug-wise. Of course, Cat didn’t display her relationship with cocaine for some time. She kept it furtive, where it belonged. In toilets, in cars, in carefully locked rooms, and she managed to keep the full knowledge of her ever-increasing love affair with it from even herself.
In the same way that Cat could disconnect from any difficult or awkward experiences in her life, she was and is alarmingly able to unplug from reality when she chooses. This trait leaves Cat unfixed very often. Adrift. Available to danger. And Silvia didn’t want THAT available to her kids.
She and Cat have argued many times about it. Silvia has pleaded with Cat to give it up. Cat has even promised to, in more emotional moments. She claims, when she is high, that she can kick it. When she is the inevitable depressed opposite a day later, she is gripped by her need and can’t envisage her life without it to bolster her. The toxic mix of shame, guilt and desire is Cat’s familiar luggage. Nothing Silvia feels or says will change it. Cat even loves how slim she gets to stay as long as coke is her chum, forever suppressing her appetite and quickening her heartbeat. Always boosting her confidence and giving her a lovely, reliable, immediate burst of euphoria.
Cat is ultimately only ever going to be interested in Cat, first and foremost, and so her faithful Colombian compadre is the perfect complement to her bruised ego. Her arse-licking chum. Sniff. Charlie. Blow. White. Coke. She chooses to call it ‘Mr Charlie’, it enables her to minimize her habit, and regard it as harmless and colloquial. Not at all dirty or bad. Cat wouldn’t want to be regarded as a hypocrite. Cocaine isn’t a bad habit in the same way that smoking is. Smoking is what Silvia does, and it’s awful. Cocaine is what Cat does, and it’s fun.
So, on the night of Philip’s death, when Silvia said, ‘This is what we do,’ Cat listened. She listened for two reasons. Firstly, Silvia would indeed know what to do, and secondly, Silvia said ‘we’ and Cat knew then that they would be inextricably linked from then on, and that is what she has always wanted.
Silvia knew where they could drive to, very close by, they took spades and they dug and dug. It was back-breaking. It took ages. Not a shallow grave, but a fairly deep one. The hole wasn’t quite long enough when the sun started to come up, so they doubled Philip’s body over and pushed it in. He was buried as he was born, in the foetal position. The two women worked like navvies and filled it in, covered it over and stood panting and sweating on top of him, treading in the soil among this dense thicket of trees as the dawn chorus started up.
Cat drove Silvia home. They sat in silence in Silvia’s street, side by side, thinking about the strange night. They clasped each other and hurriedly kissed before Silvia scuttled into her home, stripped off her clothes which she stuffed into a black bin liner, showered and slipped into bed alongside the deeply deeply asleep trusty old Ed. Silvia lay still, hearing his snuffles and knowing that this marriage was now over. Ed and the kids must not be anywhere near the ugly chaos. Lying there in the dark, frantically thinking, thinking, she was struck by the lightning realization that she would, at this moment, give anything to turn back time and re-establish herself in the bosom of her boring, predictable family. Her wonderfully normal husband and kids.
What on earth had she done? She could physically feel the dread spreading in her body like poison.
When they all woke up, it would be new and different. She would have to protect them.
By rejecting them.
It was going to be appalling.
In Suite 5, Cat is fraught and fidgeting. Her comedown is dismal. She is extra irritated by the fact that, because she is a GP, she travels some distance to buy her drug, to be sure she isn’t recognized. She had already spent a great deal of money, and travelled a long way, all for nothing because she can’t find the bloody box. Which she clearly remembers leaving under the bloody bed. Bloody hell.
‘For God’s sake, Sil. I mean, it’s not that I can’t cope without Mr Charlie, a’course I can, just not at the moment with everyone asking me all this useless bloody stuff. Endless questions. About Philip. About you. It helps me to think straight. Feck’s sake – do they really think I wanted you like this? I didn’t. I so definitely didn’t. You … just … pissed me off, Sil. You know you did. Sometimes you do that. Especially when you’re drunk. Why do you do that? I’ve told you not to. I’ve told you not to smoke, and you still do. I’ve told you not to constantly rehash old unimportant stuff. You know it’s not good … for me … to do that. And you persisted. You knew what you were doin’. You know I hate it if you are upset. I hate cryin’. It’s so … bloody hideous. You knew you were pushin’ me, so you did …’
Cat is sweating now, and thumping her left fist into the palm of her right hand as her irritability moves up a notch. The beginnings of the red mist are starting to descend.
‘If they all knew what you’re like, honestly, they would see … you know how to wind me up, sure you do. You’re so
… bloody … disappointin’, Silvia.’
This said with hissing on both the words ‘disappointin’’ and ‘Silvia’. Cat is allowing the venomous serpent in her to emerge.
‘And that was it for me, when you called me a “Hoodoo”. How dare you? You are the one who’s brought me the bad luck, woman, not the other way round. Everythin’ was … under control ’til you came along. Who do you think you are? I have lost everythin’ because of you. All for you. You. You. You. You selfish …’
Cat tails off, trying to keep her voice down, and desperately attempting to steer a steady course in very choppy seas. She is listing badly. She is taking on water at an alarming rate and she has no ballast whatsoever. Silvia is the ballast. And she is just lying there, being pointless. Fit for nothing. A broken bilge pump.
‘You’ve got the backbone of a banana, you useless eejit. Well listen, the fact is, if any of it comes out, have no doubt hon, I will be blaming you. What’re you gonna do about it, eh? Everyone knows what a bossy control freak you are. I have been under your influence for years. That’s what I’ll say. Hear me? Christ …’
Cat scrabbles around in her handbag, checking again if there might be any possible remnant of old Mr Charlie lying about in the bottom somewhere, amongst the Polos and hairbrush and coins and tissues. She licks her finger and dabs around in the detritus in the hope of picking up any residue. She rubs what she finds on her teeth and gums. She waits to see if there’s any effect.
Nothing. Just dirt. It’s all just dirt.
‘Yes, look at you. You feel so strongly about me, doncha? So much that you want to die to get away from me. Well guess what? I trump you, because the fact is, Silly I am the one who needs to get away from you. You are bad for me. Time wears on, and we all wear out eventually. So. I am leavin’. This room. And you, the bloody undead. Now. Watch me …’
Cat O’Brien picks up her handbag and her coat. She approaches the bed and in one final defiant and disgusting flourish, she spits at Silvia.
The saliva hits Silvia’s cheek, and starts to dribble down.
Cat has finally revealed herself entirely as a snake. She hoped to feel victorious when she did that, but she doesn’t. She feels immediately diminished. Worthless. Cheap. Because that’s what she is. She slams the door as she leaves and a whoosh of her own indignant guilt blows her up the corridor and out.
Silvia is alone in the room again. But now, the atmosphere in Suite 5 is changed. It’s completely different. The danger left with Cat.
Silvia might be dying but, at last, she is safe.
Twenty-Eight
Cassie
Wednesday 4pm
Cassie is sitting at the head of Silvia’s bed, close to her mother’s face. Cassie’s mobile phone lies on the pillow by Silvia’s ear, and it is on loudspeaker, so that Willow can be heard joining in with the familiar poem Cassie is reciting to her mother by heart.
‘With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose …’
Willow jumps in quickly, she wants to be the owl for this next part, she knows and loves it, and puts on a four year old’s version of a posh, deep, owly voice.
‘Dear Pig, are you willing to shell for one silling your ring?’
Cassie picks it up.
‘Said the Piggy …’
Willow tries to oink the words.
‘ “I will.” Oink oink.’
They both laugh and laugh.
Willow says, ‘Shhh Mummy, that is the Piggy and it makes my nose go sore.’
‘I know darling. It sounds good though, just like a proper pig. Come on, let’s carry on. Can you remember the next bit?’
Willow certainly can, she has no doubt whatsoever, and she launches into it at full throttle.
‘They took it away, marry next day, by a turkey on a hill, a hill, a hill, a hill.’
‘That’s right sweetheart, and what happened next?’
‘They eat all the mince and slices of mince.’
‘Yes, which they ate with a …?’
‘A munchable spoon.’
‘Yes. And hand in hand …’
Willow eagerly joins in, and mutters the words she doesn’t quite know.
‘On the ya ya ya sand. They danced by the la la la moon the moon, the moon. They danced by the la la la moon.’
‘Yes! Well done sweetheart! Lovely!’
Cassie claps loudly and whoops her approval for the tiny person on the other end of the phone to hear loud and clear. Lots and lots of unconditional praise. Not that Cassie would consciously think of it like that. She instinctively dishes out lashings of love. Buckets of it. She relishes nothing more. Piles it on in massive generous dollops. Of course she does. She loves her daughter. That’s what you do as a mum. Encourage and support. Willingly. With joy.
‘Alright darling. Go and have your tea now. What’re you having?’
‘Daddy’s done nuggets. But not chips. Corn.’
‘Oh, that sounds delicious. Yum Yum.’
‘Yum Yum. Stop it Daddy, shh! Mummy, Daddy says corn comes out all new in poo, like it went in. Tell him to shh. Shh Daddy. Mummy says shhh, you’re rude.’
‘Alright honey. Go and eat your tea, and I will be home soon. The lady loved your poem, by the way.’
‘Say night night to the lady. Say Happy Birthday.’
‘I will, darling, I will. Bye.’
Cassie presses the red button on the phone, and Willow is gone. She looks closely at her still and unresponsive mother, and wonders if she heard any of that delightful jabber? And if she did, did it lift her heart? She wonders what, if anything, her comatose mother would want to hear that would make her want to come up and out of her giant sleep? What would it take? Cassie knows that if it were her, the voice of her darling little daughter would surely do it. Would it for Silvia? And for her, would that key voice be her own estranged daughter, or might it be her stranger of a granddaughter? Well, Silvia has heard that voice now. The unheard before voice of little Willow.
For a second, Cassie considers a life without hearing Willow’s voice. Unthinkable. It’s too sad a prospect for her to ponder too long.
If only Silvia could plug into Cassie’s fathomless love for her daughter, feel even two per cent of it, she is sure it would jolt her back into life as if she had jump leads attached straight to her heart. The direct descendant line from Silvia to Willow goes slap bang through the middle of Cassie, and although it’s a line that has recently overgrown at one end, Cassie’s fervent hope that the love still travels along it, is strong. Potent enough to rouse her? Cassie doesn’t know. Nobody knows, but it’s certainly worth this try.
She suddenly remembers something, and riffles around in her handbag for a few seconds to find it.
‘… put it in here somewhere … know I did … stupid … so much crap … ah! Here it is …’
Cassie has, in her hand, a brass curtain ring. She holds it up in front of Silvia.
‘The ring, Mum, the ring at the end of his nose, his nose. D’you remember? I so believed it was the real one. Couldn’t get over how amazingly lucky you were to have it. I’ve guarded it very carefully, you’ll be pleased to hear. It lives in my jewellery box. Which you also gave me. It’s tan leather with a popper on the front, and red velvet inside, remember? I think it’s for travelling or something. Didn’t your mum give it to you? Think I remember you saying something like that. Anyway, I love it. And this piggywig’s ring has been kept safely in there for, ooo, for … fifteen years or more. God. It’s a curtain ring, isn’t it? Ha ha. Yeh. Still, the piggywig didn’t know that, sure he was delighted with it …’
Whilst Cassie was rummaging around in her handbag, her fingers brushed against the letter that’s there. She knows she has to read it out to Silvia. She really doesn’t want to, but she has made a promise to her brother and she will keep it. She has delayed long enough, distracting herself with the poem and Willow and the ring and … anything but that letter.
The time has come.<
br />
Cassie reaches back into her bag and brings it out. It almost burns her fingers, it’s so incendiary.
‘There is a letter here, from Jamie. It’s come all the way from Afghanistan, and he’s asked me to read it out to you so … that’s … what I’ll do.’
Unfolding the blue airmail paper, she is trembling as she starts. She has already seen the letter and she doesn’t relish the fact that the slicing words on the paper will soon be words in the air. In the open air, which will convey them into Silvia’s ears. And then possibly into her heart. But a promise is a promise and Jamie used up his valuable and limited phone-home time to call her expressly to ask her to do this. So she must.
‘Here goes …’
Dear Silvia.
I can’t call you Mum. I don’t want to. You haven’t been one to me for the last five years or so. Just want to make that clear, right? OK.
Well, I’m sitting here in a hot stinking tent in Lash Vegas (which is what we call Lashkah Gar), writing this bluey to you from the patrol base. Dad and Cass have told me what happened to you, although, frankly, I’m not sure anyone really knows what happened. I don’t get how a woman like you can just fall off a balcony? Unless you were pissed. Or pushed. Or both. Anyway, it’s happened now, and I know the docs have told everyone to talk to you in case you can hear. Personally, I don’t care what you can or can’t hear, but Dad was so bloody insistent on me contacting you, especially on your birthday, so here it is. Cassie will do the honours.
So, what can I tell you? I could go off on a big one about what a bitch you’ve been, and how you fucked up everything in this family, I specially can’t get over just how bloody mean you’ve been to Cassie and Willow …
At this, Cassie falters slightly. Although she read the letter last night, therefore nothing in it is a surprise, she is caught out by just how important it feels to have her hurts acknowledged openly. Last night, she was slightly looking forward to this somewhat revengeful moment where Silvia might hear how her brother felt in this respect, but now that the moment has arrived, she feels the actual pain of it more than the anticipated satisfaction of having it possibly land on Silvia.