Hear Me

by Julia North

  ‘Don’t they mind smoking?’ I ask as the air grows thick between us.

  Hattie sniffs. She bends forward to stump her cigarette out. ‘No, it’s the one drug we’re allowed.’ She fishes in the pocket of her tracksuit pants and pulls out a crumpled packet of plain Lucky Strikes and holds it out towards me. ‘Want one?’

  I twist a strand of hair between my fingers and shake my head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  She looks at me with weathered eyes and leans back in the chair. ‘So … alcohol your only vice?’

  My chest constricts at her derisive tone. I nod. ‘Only alcohol.’

  Hattie sniffs again while I shift uncomfortably on the squeaking leather.

  ‘I’m doing a second round,’ she says, pulling out another cigarette and lighting up. ‘Karlos and Alison are doing the same.’ She utters the names and takes a deep drag, tilting her head against the back of her chair, waiting no doubt for me to ask about them. I give a small nod. She forms her mouth into a wide ‘O’ and puffs rings of smoke out towards the ceiling. ‘Neither of them is as fucked as me though. Had to go cold turkey in the first week. Yslike, it was hell.’ Her face distorts in a repulsive snarl.

  I feel sorry for her, but it’s obvious she’s looking for sympathy. A cool ‘Shame’ is all I offer as I watch the rings drift up and dissolve one by one into the sullied ceiling.

  ‘Alcohol’s nothing compared to that fucker.’ Hattie pauses and leans forward. ‘You should’ve seen me – fuck, I was shaking, screaming, itching all over like a million red ants were eating me. It lasted three fucking days – I never want to go through that again – never.’ Her pink chest heaves up and down like a dying flamingo. ‘That’s why I’m still here. I’m going to defeat the fucker. I am.’ Seconds later her face contorts into an ugly cry and she lets out a loud wail.

  I sink back into my armchair, wishing the soft leather would swallow me up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur.

  The wail transforms into crude laughter. Hattie takes one last drag from the burning cigarette before stubbing it out with a sharp jab of her hand. She sits back against the chair. ‘There’re three other okes who arrived on Friday night: Nic, Wolf and George – none of them done heroin.’ Her eyes wash over me. ‘How come you didn’t come the same time as them?’

  I shrug. ‘I only made the arrangements yesterday.’

  Hattie lets out an ugly laugh. ‘You have a crisis?’

  My chest tightens and my cheeks grow hot. ‘Something like that.’

  Hattie takes another drag and looks at me with narrow eyes. ‘Agh, you can let it all out in the group meetings. We all have to wash our dirty panties for each other.’ She gives a self-satisfied smirk. ‘But no-one else’s have been as dirty as mine.’

  My head grows light and begins to spin. I grab the arms of the chair and move to get up just as the lounge door creaks open. I sink back down and turn. Two men enter. I draw in a sharp breath to try and chase the lightness from my head. The first guy looks like a male model with a touch of Michael Douglas about him. He’s dressed well in Wrangler jeans and a crisp white shirt with the first two buttons undone; obviously one of Durban’s surfer boys with that tan and sun-bleached hair just touching his collar. I was expecting ravaged addicts with dug-out crater cheeks and vacant eyes. What’s he doing here? I swallow what spit I’ve got left in my mouth and try to ease the dryness which is constricting my throat. I don’t want to let him know my dirty secrets. That’s the last thing I want.

  My cheeks warm as he watches me, watching him.

  The other one is big and blonde with thick unbrushed hair. I feel a shiver of distaste as I take in the dull blue eyes, straight nose and square jaw. He’s far too German looking for me and has those shapeless hippo legs I hate. I’m conscious that Model-man is still watching me with the type of pose you put on when you want to look like you’re in control. I turn unsmiling to the window to stare intently at the hydrangeas as his footsteps echo over the pine floor towards me. My chest mottles. Why do I have to suddenly feel so self-conscious just because a good-looking guy’s come in?

  ‘Howzit, Hattie.’

  ‘Howzit, Nic. Meet Melissa, she’s just arrived.’

  I turn my head and give him a small nod of acknowledgement. He’s got a faded bruise just below his hairline and a network of broken capillaries under the surface of his cheeks near his nose. Must be a drinker. Probably fell over?

  A smile edges across his mouth. ‘Good to have you here, Melissa. I’m also a newbie.’ My name slips in syllables from his tongue. He offers me a smooth, tanned hand with no ring.

  I push my body back into the chair and hold out my hand for a cursory shake. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter. Good, my voice sounded cool and confident. He’s obviously a player; I’m not going to let him read into my soul like Mike.

  ‘This is Wolf,’ says Hattie, ‘luckily he doesn’t bite.’

  I cringe as Wolf throws back his head in a fake howl, revealing teeth like blackened corn. He strides over on his hippo legs. He’s even more repulsive close up with a bloated stomach and dry red patches under his eyes.

  ‘Place is full of wackos, I’m afraid,’ says Nic.

  I ignore him and turn with a fixed expression to Wolf as he offers me his hand. My nose wrinkles. He stinks of sweat.

  ‘Volfgang, but you can call me Volf.’ He grins as if I should be grateful.

  The accent is German. Damn, I’m good. I limply shake the offered paw and wipe my hand against my jeans as soon as he lets it go. Stereotypical Aryan. Hitler would have loved him. I can just see him in an SS uniform. He moves to the side of Hattie’s chair and scratches his forearm. Bile rises in my throat. He’s got at least four open sores dotted across his arm. He really is vile.

  ‘Wolf’s from South West,’ Hattie offers in a loud voice.

  ‘It’s Namibia now,’ says Wolf, and his face contorts into a snarl.

  Hattie snorts. ‘Ja, sorry, I forgot. I suppose we’ll be Azania soon, thanks to fucking De Klerk.’ Her top lips curls. ‘I don’t trust that fucking Mandela.’

  Wolf mirrors her sneer. ‘Another fooking terrorist just like Njuoma. They’ll fook zis place up just like South Vest.’

  I turn on Wolf. ‘Mandela’s not a terrorist.’

  ‘He let off bombs,’ snaps Hattie, ‘That makes him a terrorist.’

  I lean towards her with my heart pounding in my ears. ‘Only because our bastard racist government wasn’t prepared to give an inch …’

  ‘She’s right,’ interjects Nic, ‘Mandela’s our only hope.’

  ‘You’re fooking mal if you think that,’ says Wolf scornfully.

  ‘Ja, hope for the kaffirs …’

  ‘Please don’t use that word,’ I snap at Hattie.

  Hattie’s head jerks back at my angry tone. ‘I’ll use …’

  ‘Leave it, Hattie.’ Nic takes a step towards her. ‘You know it’s offensive …’

  ‘Ja, and I suppose they’re going to throw us in jail now if we call them kaffirs?’ She lets out an ugly laugh and leans back into her chair. ‘I’m going to get the fuck out of this place …’

  ‘Who’s for a drink?’ says Nic. His tone is falsely jovial. ‘Believe it or not, Melissa, I discovered we’ve got a bar here, except its stock is, wait for it: cream soda, ginger beer, Coca-Cola, lemonade and Fanta. What more could you ask for, hey?’ He pauses, waiting for a reaction from me. ‘I’m having the green fizz. Can I get you one?’

  He stands waiting.

  ‘Ginger beer, please,’ I mutter. My heart is still hammering in my ears and I turn to the window and stare at the hydrangeas until they merge into a purple haze. Tension like this is the last thing I need.

  ‘Good choice.’

  ‘I’ll have a coke,’ shouts Hattie as Nic makes his way to the far end of the room. She pulls out the packet of Lucky Strikes and offers it to Wolf. He takes the squashed pack and helps himself. He places the cigarette between his ugly teeth and bends down with his jeans halfway down his arse as Hatt
ie flicks a cheap pink Bic lighter over the dangling end. Wolf inhales with a grunt. The cigarette trembles in his fingers. He blows out a long line of grey smoke and makes his way over to the bar. He examines a large poster plastered on the wall behind the bar and turns back to Hattie. ‘Hey, this is a take-off of the Mainstay advert. You seen it?’

  Hattie leans over the side of her chair to look in the direction of the bar. ‘Ja,’ she says and laughs. ‘They put it up this morning; it’s good, hey? Karlos says that’s what happened to him except it was brandy, not Mainstay.’

  Wolf laughs. ‘Ja, Afrikaners like their brandy, was probably the Klippies brand. I’ve had a few Klippies and coke in my time.’ He takes another long, shaky drag of his cigarette.

  The poster shows a down-and-out drunk, holding a bottle of Mainstay cane spirit. Under him is written the usual slogan: You can stay as you are for the rest of your life, or you can change. I can hear the tune as I read it. It brings back memories of the beautiful people on their luxury yachts, sipping their Mainstay and sailing away to freedom in exotic places. A memory of me stumbling down a hotel corridor to bed and hardly being able to open my hotel door during a holiday in Mauritius creeps into my mind, igniting the shame deep inside. There’s nothing glamorous about being drunk and don’t I know it.

  Nic comes back with my ginger beer. ‘No Mainstay in it, I promise.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble as I take the glass with my thumb and forefinger poised, making sure I avoid touching his hand. He lingers next to me and takes a loud slurp of his cream soda before saluting me.

  ‘I’m going to sit in the “business class” area. Why don’t you guys come over there?’

  Hattie stubs out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. She looks up at Nic and nods. ‘Ja, okay. We can put on some sounds.’

  I stay seated.

  ‘It’s over this side,’ says Nic, waiting for me to follow. I supress a sigh of irritation and follow him around the corner of the room. A thin girl, who looks about nineteen, is slouched at the end of one of the couches. She’s immersed in reading a Cosmo magazine and keeps her eyes firmly fixed to the glossy pages as we come near.

  ‘Alison, this is Melissa.’ Hattie flops down on the couch next to her. The leather squeaks. Alison’s jaw jerks, but she says nothing.

  ‘Hello,’ I murmur as I settle on the couch opposite.

  She glances up with hooded eyes. Her face is pale with a long, thin nose. She reminds me of an Indian mynah bird. She flicks a strand of straggly black hair away from her face and mumbles an almost inaudible, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Alison likes to keep to herself,’ says Hattie. ‘She’s on her second round, but still not better.’

  ‘I’m sure Alison can speak for herself,’ I say, shaking my head at her lack of tact.

  ‘She doesn’t like talking,’ snaps Hattie.

  ‘Scones,’ says Wolf, snatching up one from the piled plate. He ladles large dollops of cream and strawberry jam onto it and, as he stuffs it in his mouth, jam runs down the side of his chin. I turn away as he chews loudly with the masticated mess clearly evident.

  ‘Let them eat cake,’ says Nic, helping himself to a scone. His hand shakes as he picks it up. ‘The more we stuff our faces with the sweet stuff, the less we’ll cry for booze.’

  ‘Or heroin,’ puts in Hattie.

  ‘Yes, or heroin,’ says Nic in a patronising tone.

  Hattie’s eyes harden. She takes another drag of her cigarette before picking up a saucer from under one of the teacups and stubbing it viciously onto it.

  ‘Scone?’ Nic places his on a side plate and picks up another one. He holds it out to me.

  I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Agh, such a charmer,’ says Hattie with a sneer. ‘You better take what he says with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘A dose of salts maybe,’ says Wolf. He throws his head back in an ugly laugh.

  ‘What’s this, pull Nic apart day?’ Nic’s jaw tightens.

  No-one speaks. Hattie smirks. She lights up another cigarette and sucks deeply on it with twitching fingers. She crosses her legs and jerks her dangling boot up and down. A slow smile slides across my face. She might appear strong, but the constant chain smoking and this jerking speak volumes.

  ‘So, Melissa, tell for us your story,’ says Wolf, licking his lips but leaving smudges of jam down the side of his chin.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ says Nic, picking up a cup and sloshing in some tea. ‘Leave the shit for group therapy tomorrow.’ He gives me a sideways smile. ‘So much to look forward to, hey?’

  I shake my head as Hattie’s dirty linen comment slinks back into my mind. I’m not saying anything about Chino-man or anything else for that matter. Fuck the group therapy. They can’t force me to talk.

  Hattie laughs. ‘Ja, you need to talk if the H-man’s …’

  ‘We’ve all got the T-shirts,’ says Nic. His shoulders stiffen.

  Hattie sniffs and gets up. ‘I’ll play some Crash Test Dummies, that should suit us, hey?’

  ‘Ja, make it Afternoons and Coffee spoons …’

  ‘Ah, just the thing for a car crash afternoon,’ says Nic sardonically. He wipes a shaky hand across his forehead, his fingers lingering on the bruise.

  Dark laughter rumbles across my mind as I can’t help but agree.

  Chapter 4

  I leave the dining room after breakfast having only managed a coffee. My head’s groggy from lack of sleep. Anticipation of the dreaded group therapy went round and round in my brain all night. And when I did finally get to sleep, the ridiculous six-thirty alarm woke me. I’m sure I’ve only had about three hours. My cheeks grow hot at the memory of the sharp knock on my door for the humiliating room inspection. Do they really think any of us could smuggle booze into this ridiculous prison during the night when we can’t even leave?

  My stomach cramps and acid shoots into my gullet. I gag as I try to swallow it back. I draw in a long, shaky breath. I probably should’ve eaten something, and I’m sure I would’ve if Hattie hadn’t turned up like an unwanted stench and put me off. Why the hell did she have to come and sit with me? Can’t she see we’ve got nothing in common?

  I push open a door to a terra-cotta courtyard with flowerbeds of aloes and yellow gardenias on each side. The morning air’s already hot and humid.

  Hattie is loitering outside. ‘That’s the medical block.’ She points towards a red-brick building on the far side. ‘We have all our sessions there.’

  ‘Fuck the sessions!’ I feel like screaming as she marches towards the building. She stops and waits until I’m nearly at the door before striding through it like a troop leader. My hands grow sweaty. This crap is the last thing I need. I’m not going to talk. I’m not.

  ‘We’re in here.’ Hattie pushes open a door at the end of the corridor. I wipe my damp hands against my jeans and follow her in to a conference room with a circle of blue armchairs. The lighting’s dim and the air smells strongly of lavender. A low wooden coffee table holds a tray of water glasses, a bowl of mint imperials and pamphlets. A granite egg-shaped water-feature tinkles away in the corner. Every detail suggests a pseudo meditation retreat.

  Nic and Wolf are sitting in two of the armchairs, both with their legs crossed. Nic is giving me the I’m interested in you; are you interested in me look? as if we’re in some sleazy nightclub instead of a bloody rehab. I blink away from him and look straight at another guy seated near the door. He gives me a smile, while I stand tense, feeling like the awkward new kid on her first day at school.

  ‘This is Melissa. She arrived yesterday,’ says Hattie, pointing at me as if she owns me. ‘This is Karlos.’

  Karlos gets up and strides over before I even have time to answer. His smile widens and he offers me his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Melissa.’ He has a thick Afrikaans accent. ‘I’m one of the oldies like Hattie.’

  His hand grips mine and I flinch as he presses into my bruised palm. He lets go and I feel his fingers glance over the smal
l of my back as he ushers me further into the room. I pace towards an empty chair near Hattie and sit down. I push my knees together and stiffen my body. My cheeks are on fire. Why the hell am I blushing? I draw in a deep breath. ‘For shit’s sake, Melissa. Get a grip.’

  Alison appears in the doorway. She stands pale and stooped for a few seconds before shuffling in my direction with her head down. She stops and slinks back two steps. Her eyes flick around the room like a frightened deer.

  I half-lift myself from the chair. ‘Do you normally sit here, Alison?’ She shakes her head and moves back like a sliding shadow to a vacant chair and hunches down.

  Karlos shakes his head as he looks at her. He’s sitting comfortably with his khaki-clad legs sprawled out in front. His hands rest in his lap with his fingers linked. He’s either very confident or very good at hiding things. I envy him whichever. He’s not the type I usually go for, and he looks like he could be about forty, but for some reason I find those khaki pants and suede veldskoen shoes comforting. He’s got a down-to-earth look, and I think he must be an outdoor type from his tan; maybe even a game-ranger with that short brown beard. I can see him sitting tall behind the wheel of a Land Rover bumping through the hot yellow veld with a shotgun over his shoulder. He’s not as good-looking as Nic, but he’s at least six feet two and has that Camel cigarette advert look about him. I bet Elsa would like him; she always went for the rugged types rather than the pretty boys. His arms are lined with fine, dark brown hairs and a few are visible from the open top button of his shirt, but he’s not a gorilla type; not like those hairy-backed Afrikaners you see frolicking in the waves on the Durban beachfront like they’ve never seen the sea before.

  Wolf is watching him with snake eyes, while Nic leans back into his chair, trying to look relaxed with his one leg still crossed over the other and his arm sprawled across the back of the chair in a relaxed manner, but his jerking foot and clenched fist say otherwise. I look over at Karlos and wonder why he’s making Nic and Wolf so uncomfortable?