by Emmy Ellis
Wilf’s hair turned from orange to purple.
Chapter Nineteen
We all bundled into the elevator. I reckoned if I followed everyone else, I’d find out where to get my apartment key. All these bodies in such a confined space should incite claustrophobia, but I felt surprisingly safe amongst the others. A blonde woman jabbed at a lone button, and the door closed. One button for all these floors? A slight jolt, and we were moving upwards.
No one spoke. Perhaps we were all lost in our own thoughts, coming to terms with the culture shock. I glanced at everyone in turn. No Nicola. I had seen her, I knew that much. She must have run off once Wilf spotted her.
The lift stopped, and the door slid open. Seemed no one was in a mad dash to find their apartment; the other patients filed out in an almost lethargic manner.
Patients wandered towards doors in a corridor much like those at Klinter. They placed their palms against the wood and pushed the doors open, disappearing inside. Alone in the corridor, I glanced from one end to the other. I walked along to find my door. My shoes squeaked on the polished white tiles. The first door had my name on it. Mimicking the others, I placed my palm on the wood.
And walked straight into my childhood home.
* * * *
Everything was exactly as I remembered it. The green sofa with the cream swirls sat against the back wall in the living room. Dust thick enough to write in covered every surface.
I dashed to the kitchen. Splatters of Scott’s dried blood sullied the linoleum, the knife beside the largest splodge. I looked at the lower cupboards; a drawer above one of them was open—the drawer where I’d found the knife. Turning to the worktops, I winced. A roll of Sellotape sat on the middle island beside a can of processed peas. An empty saucepan encrusted with pea juice rested beside the sink. I jumped over the blood and moved into the dining area. Three dirty plates were on the table. Knives and forks appeared stuck to it by dried food remnants.
I walked to the back door. Our fucking garden was outside! Mags’ patio, the shed, Hairy’s old cage… How the hell was this all possible several floors up in a damn apartment block? I opened the back door and prayed, stepping out. Firm ground met my right foot, and I gripped the doorframe just in case it was a vision. I tapped my foot and tested the ground as far out as my leg would reach. Bringing my leg back inside, I stood on the aged door mat and took in the scenery. The trees, they were there as they always had been at the bottom of the garden. Green summer leaves whispered to one another in the slight breeze.
Wayne’s home…Wayne’s home…Wayne’s home…
I shook my head, closed the back door, and returned my gaze to the room. Different kitchen. No dining room. Steel cupboards and work surfaces stark against the white walls. This room looked more like one of those kitchens on TV, the chef programmes that showed how a restaurant worked behind the scenes.
Hunger griped in my stomach. A fruit bowl, laden with strawberries and grapes, caught my eye. Selecting a large strawberry, I took a bite. Juice dribbled down my chin, and I closed my eyes to savour the sweet…
…rancid taste?
I stared at the remnants of the strawberry in my hand.
Its flesh had been gouged out, leaving only the pip-stippled outer skin. And that skin was filled with processed peas.
* * * *
The sun heated the top of my head again. I’d left my apartment with its steel kitchen, its living room, where the green sofa disappeared and a cream leather one took its place. No slashes on the arms, thank fuck, but a bad memory trigger just the same.
I had no idea where to go, so headed towards the main central street to my right. Good job I’d studied those pictures in the booklet, otherwise I’d be right up shit creek without a paddle.
The road that the apartments were on was eerily quiet—no people, no cars. Maybe everyone was at work or at the university; perhaps the patients who’d arrived with me were settling into their new homes? I kicked myself for not listening to Wilf. I didn’t know what day I was meant to start at uni. I didn’t even know what day it was, full stop.
Ah, the main street, named Middle Place if I recalled correctly, showed signs of life. People trundled along, some with shopping bags, others with briefcases, and it looked just like any other main street in any other town. I must have had some weird blip back there in my apartment. I crossed Middle Place to the other side and entered a small newsagent’s. I needed a drink to get the taste of processed peas out of my mouth. Patting my pockets, I realised I had no money.
A cold drinks cabinet stood to the right of the door, enticingly filled with cartons of Ribena. A floor-to-ceiling magazine rack squatted next to it, and beside that, a shelving unit held various snacks, crisps, chocolate bars, and biscuits. The checkout was more like a wooden worktop with a hatch in the top. An old man was sitting on a stool. His legs dangled, weren’t able to reach the floor, and various boxes surrounded him. His elbows leaned on the counter, his chin in his hands, and rheumy eyes seemed to stare at nothing through the window behind me.
I stepped towards the counter.
“If you’re gonna ask if you can buy a Ribena on tick, the answer’s no. You can have one, they’re free. No money needed here or anywhere on this complex.”
His voice startled me, and I jumped back a little. It sounded like he smoked sixty cigarettes a day, and judging by the deep wrinkles around his lips, I wasn’t far from wrong. Boredom lived on his face, a permanent resident I’d say, as no expression I could define was evident.
“Oh, thanks, I—”
“Word of advice.” He continued to stare out of the window, giving me the damn creeps with his fluffy white hair that curled at the temples, long sideburns from the seventies growing into a point. “Take only what you need. Those with greedy guts ain’t appreciated in these parts, and you’ll get your card marked. Another thing. Take everything in moderation. The minute you hogs, they bring out the dogs. Nasty little critters, too. You don’t want them pesky bleeders nipping at your arse any more than we want to hear them howling. Hear the howl, someone played foul.”
What the hell is this bloke on?
“And I’ve been here too long to have the wool pulled over my eyes. I know your game, I’ve got your number, Wayne Richards.”
A shudder flitted down my back, spiders’ legs.
“Nuttersville ain’t no place to be, either. You’re better off concentrating on the task at hand. Then again, that ain’t a good path to be travelling, but if you insist on going to where you want to go, remember to repent and all will be well. Don’t matter what you do, so long as you say you’re sorry. Don’t matter what crime you commit, so long as you commit it with the right reasons in mind. Don’t make sense, violence forgotten so long as you apologise for it. S’all a big balls-up, in my opinion.” The old man coughed, hawked phlegm into his open palm. “But, my opinion ain’t worth shit, so I’m better off keeping my trap shut. You getting a Ribena or what, kid?”
I swallowed, shook my head, and turned back to the drink cabinet. No use giving myself a headache with useless thoughts.
Taking a Ribena out of the chiller and leaving the shop without paying for it seemed wrong. I walked farther down Middle Place and expected a policeman to apprehend me at any minute, blue lights flashing, truncheons smacking against the side of my head.
I stopped outside another shop to poke the straw through the silver moon. The taste of blackcurrants overrode processed peas. I swished the juice round my mouth to clean out any pea residue and spat it out on the pavement.
A sharp knock sounded to my left. A young woman, purple hair held rigid by at least a whole can of hairspray, scowled at me through a shop window. Her mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. She waved to indicate that I enter.
I pushed open the old wooden door, scarred from years of bad weather it seemed, and stepped inside what looked like an old-fashioned sweet shop. The back wall behind the counter was home to hundreds of jars containing all swe
ets available in my youth. Barley twists, lemon sherbets, pear drops.
“What do you think you were doing spitting in the street?” the girl said.
I turned to her. She was so angry that red splotches marred her cheeks, and her eyes seemed ablaze with fury. Orange fire burned in the pupils. She blinked, and moon mist replaced the flames, dissipating almost as soon as I registered it.
“I was just getting rid of some—”
“Doesn’t matter what you were just getting rid of, you shouldn’t have been spitting.” She moved from the window and stalked behind the counter. “I won’t be serving you at this moment. Not until—”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s better.” A smile brightened her face, rendering her pretty. “Now, what can I get you?”
The oppressive air in the shop seemed to lift; my head lightened.
“Whoa there, fella. Take a seat.” She walked back into the shop area and led me to a chair that wasn’t there before. It seemed out of place, more like one of those seats posh birds sat at to do their makeup, white wrought-iron with a filigree backrest and a fluffy blue seat cushion.
“Finding it a little difficult to get settled in here?” she asked.
I sat. “Well, I…I haven’t really had a chance to settle in. Things have been weird as fuck and—”
“Language. That’s not a nice word.”
“Sorry, things—”
“That’s okay. Carry on.”
“Things have been strange since I got here. Nothing seems right.”
“Ah.” She moved off behind the counter again and fumbled beneath it. “Didn’t you take your orientation capsule?”
“Orientation capsule?”
“Yup. Ah, are you Wayne Richards?”
“Er, yes, how did you…?”
She laughed, clutched at her guts like they’d fall out if she didn’t. “We all get to hear about the new ones who don’t listen to the wardens. Always one in every group who thinks they know best. Here, swallow that.”
She handed me a brown circular tablet.
“It won’t mess with my other meds, will it?”
“No. Otherwise they wouldn’t give it to you, would they?”
“That’s debatable, seeing as they’ve been screwing with my meds back at Klinter.”
She lifted her hand to her chin and looked at the ceiling, appearing deep in thought. “Did you collect your bottle of medication yet?” She put her hands on skinny hips, and the material of her long black skirt swished in the quiet.
“Um, no. I di—”
“Didn’t know where to go to collect it? Well, it’s a good job there are people like me who’ll let you know what you have to do. Three doors down is the pharmacy. You get your tablets there. Right, did you want anything here?” She unwrapped a pink square of bubble gum and popped it into her purple-lipped mouth.
The sound of gum smacking between her teeth turned my stomach.
I blinked. “Um, a small jar of pear drops, please.”
She reached towards the shelves behind her, selected a jar, and placed it on the counter. “Small is good. Can’t be a greedy guts, now can we?”
* * * *
The pharmacy smelled of dust and mould. Almost like an olden-day chemist, its interior shouted brown. Brown walls, shelves, flooring. Medical books with aged leather covers nudged against one another on shelves that leaned slightly downwards. Looked like a damn drunk had attached them to the walls. Behind the counter, pills in large glass vials sat inside a clear plastic cabinet; a key swayed in the lock on one of the doors.
“Help you?” A strident female voice.
I looked from side to side but saw no one.
“I’m here!”
I glanced round again; maybe my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom.
“Happens every time. People assume I’m on their level. No wonder I get narked.”
Something tugged at the hem of my shirt. I glanced down. A positively ancient biddy stared up at me. The skin on her face resembled well-worn leather, soft, yet wrinkles criss-crossed one another like those on my palm. She stood at about three and a half feet tall. Her hair reminded me of Medusa; black snake-streaks interspersed the grey.
She bustled off behind the counter and climbed to the top rung of a small stepladder to reach the keys in the cabinet door. Unlocking it, she swung the door wide, almost knocking herself off the ladder.
“Bloody hell!” she muttered. “That door’ll be the death of me.”
She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a small brown paper bag.
“Here we are… Wayne Richards. That’s right.” She moved down one rung.
I chanced my arm. “How many placebos?”
Ms Small paused and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you ask me that.”
She climbed down, hair shuddering and snakes dancing with each step, and turned and walked towards the counter. A set of eyes, eyebrows, and the top of her zany hair peeped over the counter edge.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Yeah, I caught on quick.
“Good. Here are your tablets. Now, be off with you. You’ll be back here before you know it.”
* * * *
The sun was still high like it was noon. I’d surely spent the best part of two hours in Middle Place, yet no time seemed to have passed. I glanced up the road, checked to see if a clock tower stood anywhere. People milled about, ants around sugar. Turning back, I walked towards the university. I stopped and shielded my eyes from the sun to get a better idea which street it was. Huge structures made of steel lined each side of the road—the steelworks and factories?—and I continued along Middle Place knowing the next road was where I needed to be.
Gogglins Theme Park was on the corner opposite me. Though open for business, the place appeared deserted. I crossed the road and strode through the gates. A person dressed as a giant teddy bear stood just inside the entrance holding an array of foil helium balloons. They danced on their strings, and sunlight reflected from their silver edges. Each round balloon has a slogan printed across its middle.
SAY SORRY!
APOLOGIES ALWAYS ACCEPTED!
ALL WILL BE WELL IF YOU ONLY REPENT!
Who the fuck would want a balloon like that?
I strolled towards the teddy bear and nodded to it as I ambled past.
“Good day and good cheer to you, Wayne Richards,” it shouted.
“Uh, good day to you, too.” I felt like a total dickhead.
“Have fun at Gogglins,” it said and waved maniacally.
“I’ll try.”
Ahead of me, a stall with a red- and white-striped canopy grabbed my attention. I wandered closer. An outer circular channel of water held plastic yellow ducks that bobbed and paddled, their backs home to a small metal hook. A row of wooden poles with round metal rings at their ends leaned against the inner circle of the stall. Prizes such as Action Man figures, Barbie dolls, and various cheap knickknacks jostled for precedence on a set of three shelves.
“Wanna play, son?”
The raspy voice grated on my eardrums, and a shiver of unease skittered through the hairs on my spine. I whipped around one hundred and eighty degrees. A man, his misshapen body jutting out at all angles, peered at me through one open, white eye. His other appeared sewn closed. Greasy black hair hung limply, a lone lock against his forehead, the end brushing his nose.
“Um, no,” I said.
The man screwed up his mouth, lips twitching, as if he longed to spew malicious verbiage.
“Thanks, anyway,” I added.
His lips changed direction, forming a curve. “No problem, Mr Richards. Ducks not your thing, then?” He staggered to a small door concealed in the side of the stall, unlatched a lock on the inside, and walked through, closing it behind him. His gait looked painful, as did his hunched back.
He wobbled towards me.
“Well, I’d feel a bit…you know, silly, playing this game.”
Black moon mist floated across his white eye.
“Not that this game is silly or anything,” I said. “It’s a great game, actually, it’s just—”
“Not for you. I understand. What kind of game is for you, then?” Spittle dangled from his large lower lip.
“Dunno, really.” I looked farther into the park.
A roller coaster zoomed along a high track with no one on board. Come to think of it, there were no shrieks, or screams, or sounds here at all except the distant ping of what sounded like a hammer game. You know, smack a large mallet on a giant button to make the bell at the top ring.
“What about a shooting game? Get a rifle and shoot the cans. Pretend they’re your demons.” He lifted his arms and mimicked a shooting action. “Bang, bang, bang, you’re dead.” He laughed, his toothless mouth an open cavern.
“Er, no. Shooting isn’t my thing.” I wanted to get away from him, explore the park a little more, but it seemed he wanted to talk.
“Ah,” he said. He sucked his lips in then let them go again. “Stabbing more your style, eh?”
I laughed. “No, I don’t practise stabbing too often as a rule.”
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Shame you didn’t do a better job last time, eh? And he isn’t dust, not really. Am I right? Still lives and breathes in the recesses.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What they don’t tell you is that the dust ain’t meant to go completely. You’s got to learn to ignore them leftover particles, accept they’re there, and forget about them. Move on. That’s the ticket out of this place. Acceptance of the past as it were, making your future better, get it to outshine what’s gone. D’you get me?” He leaned forward, winked with his open eye. “That’s good advice, that is, and I ain’t meant to have told you diddly squat, but you seem a good kid to me.”