Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “You like it?”

  “Can you come and do my house? I never have time to freshen things up.”

  There’s a feature wall of course along the chimney breast side of the room. The rest I painted.

  My furniture is a mix of Ikea, reclaimed, custom-made and catalogue bought. I put together things I like.

  “Is that a pity offer, or a proper offer?”

  She sniggers. “You know it’s a real offer.”

  “Yeah well… your husband, he’s just… what’s the word?”

  “Overprotective. He’s trying not to smother you, but he can’t help it.”

  He can’t help knocking on my door everyday – unwittingly reminding me that I am not as good as him because he once did get into the police (first time), and excelled, apparently. Me, though. I haven’t been given so much as a sniff of a chance at the career he had.

  “I’m not his frickin’ ward or anything, I’m not his responsibility.”

  She sips her tea, then puts her cup down on the knitted coaster I made for my glass coffee table. “Rick’s been around. He knows how things start. He knows how they end, too.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not some sort of statistic, nor a disaster waiting to happen!” Feeling angry I turn my head so I don’t have to look at her, my eyes staring at the whipping flames of the fire instead. “Jules, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get what it feels like to have no real family. I have no backup… just someone who’s there. There is nobody I feel like I can go to, someone who’ll take care of me, no matter the mess I’m in.”

  Basically, I have no mother. Never really did.

  My grandparents’ money is pity money, too. Guilt, as well. Because they knew how cruel my mother could be but they did nothing to step in, either.

  Jules’ face changes and she looks pissed off, retaliating, “Yeah well, we thought we were your family but all you’ve done since you got the news is hide in here and sulk, ignoring us.”

  I want to throw that back in her face. This is the first time Jules has rocked up to my house (probably because she didn’t want to get involved, or else she has too much marking back home to do).

  “Why do you even want to be in the police? Why did you do a degree in social care?” Her questions are hurried and tinged with exasperation.

  Rubbing my head, I know the answers, but they’re not that easy to say. I toy with how to explain myself before I respond, “Warrick saved me from further abuse when he did what he did so that’s why I did social care but then as the reality of going into that field set in, I realised it’d be the police where I could make more of a difference, where I could be challenged.”

  Jules shakes her jaw side to side, like she wants to say something but doesn’t best know how.

  “Spit it out, for fuck’s sake,” I demand.

  “Warrick won’t say it… and most others won’t say it either… but maybe it was like this. Maybe it came down to you and one other candidate, all right? You were neck and neck but there was only one place left. And the examiners saw your history…”

  I grit my teeth. As sick as I feel at hearing her words, I know she could be right.

  “Because I’ve… I’ve…”

  Jules sits forward slightly. “Yes, because you’ve been a victim.”

  I wet my lips but no matter how many times I lick them, they’re still bone dry within seconds. I can feel myself flaring up.

  “That’s so wrong, Jules. Do you know how wrong that is? When I’ve tried so hard not to be a victim, when I’ve… I’ve studied so hard. I was the top of my class, every class… I don’t get it…”

  I burst into tears. Finally. The sensation of admitting it hurts to be rejected brings all kinds of emotions brimming to the surface at once. Hot tears leak and I can’t stop myself bawling in front of this woman, who doesn’t deserve me. Not today. Not any day.

  Jules is on the arm of my chair before I know it, her arm around me. She passes me a tissue and once I take control of my grief, she speaks. “Hetty, maybe I’m wrong. I mean, they check every, single person’s background so thoroughly. Rick says any little thing could go against you. For all we know, maybe it was a personality thing. Maybe it wasn’t your day. Maybe you could try again. Maybe it’s not your destiny.”

  I dry my tears but my soul feels even emptier now. “I don’t have the energy to try again. I gave it everything, it still wasn’t enough.”

  Jules rubs my shoulder. “It’s not about chasing around arresting people anymore, but trying to protect victims. Maybe they think it’d be emotionally taxing on you. Maybe… and please just listen when I say this…” I look up and into her glassy, grey eyes. “Maybe you’ve been dead set on trying to save other people… when maybe you should think about saving yourself for a change.”

  And that’s why I needed Jules today. Because people may think Warrick’s the stronger of the pair, but I know different. She’s the one with bollocks. She’s the person I look up to most in the world.

  “Do you think they’d tell me why I didn’t get in if I rang them?”

  “Maybe,” she says.

  “I’ve got a number,” I say hesitantly, “would you stay while I ring it? I bet he’ll answer, even now.”

  Coppers are never far away from a phone. Hell, Warrick should have one taped to his ear. I’ve been telling him for years he should get Bluetooth but he says he doesn’t want to look like a wanker.

  “Sure.”

  I pick up the phone and the piece of paper nearby with the man’s number on it. Taking a deep breath I ring it. Mid-dial I hang up. What am I doing?

  “Fuck this,” I blurt, my hand starting to shake as I hold the phone.

  “Come on, you can do it,” Jules encourages.

  I race to the kitchen and produce a bottle of Jack. Swilling some down my throat, I return with the bottle still open in case I need more after the phone call.

  I dial again, determined.

  “Barnes,” he answers.

  “Hi… it’s Hetty. Do you remember…?” I’m stammering like a dickhead. Come on, get it together woman!

  “Ah, Hetty. How are you?” His voice is so warm and endearing, I almost forget my problems…

  “I’m… I didn’t get in.”

  “Yes…” He sighs, sounding regretful. “How do you feel about it? You know, you only know how you really feel about the job once you’ve been rejected.”

  I’m not sure, so I ask, “Off the record?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m angry. I feel cheated.”

  “We saw a lot of anger in you, Hetty.”

  I shoot Jules a look. She tries to smile but I’m not encouraged.

  “Is that… is that why I didn’t get in?”

  “Partly.”

  “Partly?”

  “I’ve been on the force for over 30 years. I know a creative when I meet one.”

  “Creative?”

  “You have untapped potential. I think you were only applying because you don’t yet know what else you can do with your life.”

  “And you deduced all this during a few interrogation sessions?”

  “I deduced it the moment I saw you.”

  “So how did I even get so far? I got to the last round.”

  “On paper you’re perfect, Miss Bernard.”

  “And otherwise, I’m not?” I start chewing my nails, hating the man on the phone.

  “Otherwise, you’re underdeveloped.”

  “You can’t seriously… I wasn’t just an academic. I threw myself into everything!”

  “As I said, Miss Bernard, you will only know how you really feel about something once you’re rejected. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m right. You’re welcome to reapply.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  “I must get back to my family now. Bye for now–”

  “Sorry…” I start to apologise but he hangs up unceremoniously.

  It’s definitely a cop thing, hanging up like that. Warrick does it al
l the time, moving straight onto his next task of the day.

  “Well…?” Jules asks, fidgeting with her hands. Clearly she’d rather be home with her beautiful family, not here with me, the drag.

  “He’s a fucking knob,” I spit, and grab the bottle of Jack, swishing a load down the back of my throat.

  Jules can’t help but snicker. “Hetty…”

  “He’s right, Jules. Since they rejected me I’ve felt like shit. But now I know exactly how I feel about joining the force. I actually do!”

  “And…?”

  “I have so much to give. So much! So what if they’ve confused passion with anger. Fuck ’em. Fuck the lot of ’em. They don’t deserve me. Something better is out there, I know it.”

  Jules sits, bemused.

  “What?” I beg.

  “Are you sure this isn’t just your way of coping?”

  I shake my head at her. “You can go now and tell the others I’ll live. I have a posse to ring round. The night is for the taking.”

  Jules stands, arms folded, jaw moving again. “If you’re sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “We’ll see you soon, then?”

  “Yep, but tell Warrick I’m done. Better fish to fry.”

  I stun her with my words (and deep down I know I’m flailing, I know that), but I cannot continue to allow myself to be brought down when I so desperately need to fly free.

  On the doorstep she’s apprehensive about leaving me. “And what’ll you do for work?”

  “I don’t know… yet.”

  She swallows. “Hetty…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I promise.”

  She stares at me, trying to judge my mental state.

  “I’m like you remember,” I retaliate, “no matter how much I try not to be square, I am. I can’t fuck up even if I try. It’s not in me.”

  Failure is something I will forever deny, and forever resist.

  “Promise you’ll answer Liza’s texts. She’s very worried about you. Don’t forget she’s got two young babies, she’s all over the place, she needs her friends.”

  And what about what I need? I’d never say it but I think it all the time. Everyone relies on me but I’ve nobody to rely on but myself.

  Jules is about to turn and walk away when she faces me one, last time. “Please don’t go and fuck another stranger. Please. Please, Hetty. As much as you might have yourself convinced you’re not destroying yourself, you are.”

  Now’s the time to step back inside and slam the door in her face.

  And that’s exactly what I do.

  MY FUN NIGHT out is ruined. This was supposed to be about making things new, chatting shit with my girls and deciding on plans for the future. Instead I’ve been sat here unable to vocalise my disappointment. I’ve sat and drank, basically. And now across the other side of The Piper, the one and only local nightclub in this area where you don’t necessarily have to be a student to get in, is my sometime boyfriend, sort of I don’t know, ex friend. We never fucked. I just… I don’t want to see him right now.

  My two friends who did the same course as me at uni (and are now both in social work) clock me clocking Nate.

  “Isn’t that him?” Kerry says.

  “It is,” I admit, chewing the tip of my thumb.

  “What are you gonna do, babes?” my other friend Babs, short for nothing, just a nickname, says.

  “I don’t need him in my face, not today.”

  “We know you’re bummed about the job and everything treacle,” Babs says, because every sentence has to end in an affectation, “but facing the demon, might help.”

  “Guys, he’s spotted me.” I try to sink in my seat but it’s difficult. I am six foot tall. I don’t see him coming over but just the fact he spotted me then is bad enough. Things ended terribly between us. He came round to my house to watch a DVD one afternoon but when I didn’t answer, he peered through the blinds and caught me fucking one of his mates on my living-room floor. Good sex, bad timing. We haven’t spoken since. That was seven months ago. He’d even been helping me with my keep-fit training for the police.

  “We could move on, if you really want,” Kerry says, “go somewhere quieter… talk, maybe?”

  There’s a hint of pity in her tone I don’t like and I want to do anything but talk about my so-called problems. Maybe I should stand up and face the beast, though. God, he’s still fine. His Italian heritage is what first attracted me to him, so dark and dangerous looking. He has this gentle, caring way, but I always felt he was hiding something from me. Yes, he was hiding himself.

  Still, what I did to him was bad and I still hate myself for it. But hating myself is easier than loving myself, because the woman I am inside is gnarly, like those ancient trees which need to be held together with rope and joists from younger trees.

  Nate is one in a long line of either quick fucks or disastrous screw-ups. Sometimes I am not even sure what I’m screwing with – me, or my life?

  The pumping beats of the club begin to make my skin crawl and I want out. I don’t even know why I’m here. I thought this would fix me. Being here – this is actually draining what little life I have left.

  “Let’s go, come on girl,” Babs says, “before you do something stupid.”

  The pair grab me at the elbows and lead me out. I drank lots before I even came out, plus I’ve had six cocktails (they were half price), and I know I am not entirely in charge of myself. I can drink everyone I know under the table but still, I never let myself get this bad.

  I feel Nate’s eyes following me as we leave. He’s with all his friends from the doctor training school (the one I fucked is notably absent and the rest all hate me for what I did to Nate). I don’t blame them.

  Outside in the fresh air, something hits me. Not the fresh air. Something else.

  I vomit on the path and narrowly miss my own shoes but manage to splutter a bit on Babs’ lovely floral wedges.

  “Fucking hell, darlin’, what a mess.”

  We all look over to the cab drivers who are shaking their heads, telling us they won’t drive someone like me, someone likely to make a mess of their interior.

  Instead, Kerry says, “We’ll have to walk her.”

  After we manage half the Avenue, we have a breather. Resting my forehead on the corner of a building, I shut my eyes and try to focus but the world’s spinning.

  “Not far now,” Kerry says.

  I seem to blink and the next moment, I’m home. They’re pushing against my butt to get me to walk up the stairs and Babs is complaining, “Het, you’re not gonna have us carry you, we’re both half a foot shorter.”

  “Bastard, why’d he have to show up… oh god, I’m gonna…” Despite my inebriated state I’m still aware of what will happen if I puke here. It’ll decorate my clean carpets and the walls I lovingly painted. And I don’t want that. So an invisible rocket shunts me up the stairs and I make it to the toilet.

  After heaving numerous times, the world’s not spinning as much anymore and I’m ready for sleep. They help me into the bedroom and I lay in bed, fully clothed, just my shoes on the floor.

  “Here, girl,” Babs says, making me take a sip of water.

  The room’s going in and out of focus as I mumble, “I hate living round here. Everywhere I go, I see him. It’s doing my head in.”

  “You should clear the air and have done,” Kerry says, “or leave the ’hood.”

  “I was going to,” I mutter, “once I got the job and a better wage coming in. Get a flat or something on the docks. Get away. Reckon I’d make a big profit on this place, done it up nice.”

  I’m swinging as Babs strokes my hair, as though I’m being rocked in a hammock.

  “We’ll speak tomorrow,” Kerry says, and I hear them letting themselves out, posting the key back through the letterbox.

  The image of Nate’s eyes, so disappointed in me, doesn’t budge �
�� and I fall asleep with that, my drunken dreams haunted by him all throughout the night.

  I wake without a hangover. Granted it’s noon, but I don’t have a hangover, just a night of Nate-related terrors to rid myself of as I slope down the stairs and towards the kitchen for the most over-stewed cup of tea in history.

  After I take my first sip, I stare down at myself and fish the pocket of my jeans for my phone. Battery’s low so as I plug it into the charger in the kitchen, the screen lights up with numerous texts and missed calls.

  Firstly I text Jules to let her know I’m alive.

  How was your night? she asks me.

  I text back: Puked on my friend’s shoe. Got home safe. Saw Nate. Was horrible. The end.

  Oh, she says.

  Yes, oh.

  Well, you know where we are.

  Thank god Jules’ brand of pity is a lot less invasive than Warrick’s, although he seems to have cooled it since Jules came round last night. No missed calls or texts from him.

  I send a text to Liza to ask her to meet me for coffee today and then I notice a message from an unknown number:

  Just checking you got home all right?

  I know who it is. I deleted his number. Obviously he didn’t delete mine.

  I type out a quick reply and have an argument with myself about sending it, but I do, I bloody well send it:

  Leave me alone, Nate.

  I realise in texting him I am actually confirming I got home all right, but the sadistic side of me also realises that my words will tell him exactly what I want from him: to bloody leave me alone.

  The cup drained, a ping alerts me that Liza wants to meet in half an hour.

  Better get a shifty on.

  LIZA’S the girl I used to bully. God, all these people and their fucking humility. Bastards. I can’t help loving her, though. Even though I feel shame every time I look at her, I also love her to pieces too. She played her part in the Save Hetty Campaign.