by Shaun Baines
Dr Cooper's office was cloistered and badly lit. Blue paper covered a bed in the corner. On the wall were an empty hand sanitiser and a poster warning her of chlamydia. A round-faced clock ticked loudly, counting down the seconds of Dr Cooper's precious time. She took the note from her handbag and placed it in front of him.
He was about thirty with a swimmer's build and blonde hair down to his shoulders. It was a look Ma Dayton didn't approve of. The bloody hippy didn't even wear a tie.
His fingers stopped typing and hovered over the keyboard. "I can't give you these prescriptions anymore."
Ma Dayton made herself comfortable, undoing the buttons on her heavy tweed coat. "Why not?"
"You don't need them."
"Of course, I don't need them, but the old biddies at the retirement home rely on them. It's like the holding pen of a slaughterhouse in there. The only way they can get through the day is being off their heads."
"From now on, they must face their final days sober," Dr Cooper said. "Things have changed since…what happened. Deep down, you know that."
Ma Dayton adjusted the curls of her perm, as if she was repositioning a crown. "My son was a great man, Dr Cooper, but he was my son. That greatness came from me. Whenever I come here, people see another sick, old woman, but that's only halfway to what I am." She pushed the note closer to his hand. "I have the bottles and labels of every prescription you ever gave me. All with your name on them. What would the manager at the retirement home say if he found them?"
With a wink, Ma Dayton opened up her tweed coat revealing a number of hidden pouches. "Unless you want your shitty handwriting used in evidence at a medical hearing, I suggest you start lining my pockets."
The expression on Dr Cooper's face darkened.
Ma Dayton tapped the note again. With a sigh, he found a set of keys and unlocked a drawer in his desk. Her pills were waiting in neat, little packages.
"All that blustering," she said, "and you had them there all along."
He counted out the medicine, cross-referencing it against Ma Dayton's shopping list. Before long, a pile teetered on his desk.
She snatched at the pills, squirrelling them away in her many pockets. When she finished, her brow was beaded with sweat.
Dr Cooper locked the drawer and held firmly onto his keys. "Is that all? Are you well?"
"Much better, thanks," she said, standing and closing her coat.
He followed her to the door, his hand lingering on the handle. "Wait a minute, Mrs Dayton. Despite everything, I am a doctor and have to ask - are you still smoking?"
"Haven't had one in months."
"I'm afraid spearmint doesn't mask the smell of smoke on your clothes." Dr Cooper smiled, but his eyes blazed. "Cancer is a horrible way to die. It will suit you."
He slammed the door shut and Ma Dayton was left with her mouth hanging open. She kept her head down and made it outside. The air was cool and she took a fortifying breath, causing her to cough. She hawked black phlegm onto the pavement and drew oxygen into her floundering lungs. The doctor was right. Smoking would kill her one day, but not today.
Stepping over the gelatinous puddle, Ma Dayton turned to the pawnbrokers and the discount treasures in the window. She lit a cigarette and hurried across the road as fast as her bunions allowed.
Her heart lifted on seeing the cameo again. Eisha would be so happy with it. What child wouldn't want a cameo brooch? Especially one that looked like her Great-Granny. Ma Dayton would dip into her savings to buy it, replacing the money with her drug dealing earnings. It was the least she could do for little Eisha.
A motorbike pulled up to the kerb. She was too engrossed in the window display to pay it much attention until the exhaust fumes made her cigarette taste peculiar. Frowning, Ma Dayton looked over her shoulder to see a man step onto the pavement. He was thin, wearing a white t-shirt and a leather jacket. Her mouth went dry and she wondered if she could get into Headstone before it was too late.
The man was wearing a skull mask and carried a machete.
Ma Dayton pressed her back against the pawnbroker's window. "What do you want?" she asked, her cigarette bobbing like a conductor's baton.
The man came forward, raising the machete above his head. She watched him from behind her fingers, the cigarette slipping from her mouth and rolling into the gutter.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked, cowering under the threat. "I'm a Dayton."
It was the last boast she ever made. The blade sheared through her head, not decapitating her, but removing her scalp and spongy perm. She was dead instantly, collapsing into a pool of red. Her eyes glazed and brain fluid soaked into the shoulders of her tweed coat. The man climbed onto his motorbike as Ma Dayton's legs twitched her a final dance.
The only witnesses were a couple of seagulls, who abandoned leftover pizza for a closer inspection of the body.
Chapter Thirteen
Julie lay in Sprout's bed, fish and chips balanced on her pregnant stomach. The greaseproof paper rustled as her fingertips rummaged for scraps of batter. The bedsit stank of fat and vinegar. Not from Julie's fish supper, but because Sprout lived above the shop that supplied them.
Giving Julie a cup of tea, Sprout slipped under the blanket beside her, gawping at her beauty. She was small boned with porcelain skin. Golden hair snaked down her back, trailing the buttons of her spine. Julie looked good in anything she wore, which right now, was nothing at all.
She dropped another handful of batter into her yawning mouth.
"Remember when we first met?" Sprout asked. "You sat next to me at The Black Rose. Out of everyone there, you chose me. I couldn't believe my luck."
Julie slurped her tea and handed it back. "I said, two sugars, babe."
Sprout flung open the covers and hopped over four feet of sticky linoleum to the kitchen area. There was a sink, a two-ring hotplate and an ancient boiler no bigger than a kettle. When it kicked in, its rattling innards sounded like the chains of a tormented ghost.
"I still don't know what you're doing with me," Sprout said, spooning greasy sugar into the cup. He wiped his dirty feet with a dirty tea towel and returned to the bed. Bracing his body against the cold, he waited for her to test the beverage. She gave him a curt nod and he slid back under the covers.
"I like you, Sprout," she said between chips. "You're a nice guy."
A spider dangled from a cobweb in the corner of the room, fattened from gorging on the cooking oil seeping from the walls.
"This place is a hole. I'm going to move out soon." Sprout turned to Julie, pulling the duvet down to see her large breasts. "How come we never go to your place? It must be better than here."
The spider retracted into its web.
Julie folded the greaseproof paper over the remains of her meal and threw it to the floor. She placed a light hand on his chest and Sprout's skin tingled.
"Do you want to make love again?" she asked
"Yes," he said immediately and then paused. "I mean, no. Can we talk for a little bit first? Why don't we ever go to your house? Do you live with someone?" He nodded toward her stomach. "Do you live with the father?"
"You'd rather be asking questions when we could be messing around?"
Julie kissed his neck and his body went weak. He closed his eyes, feeling her soft lips graze his skin. The crappy bedsit was forgotten, the chip fat stench replaced by her perfume, filling his nostrils, enchanting him.
"No, wait. Wait." Sprout pulled away, gently, but firmly. "This is important. I want to know."
Julie leaned against the headboard and faced the window. "The father isn't around. I told you."
"Where is he?"
Her breasts rose and fell as she sighed. "He's dead. Does that make you happy?"
Sprout flinched. Why would it make him happy? Though deep down it did. The father was a competitor. Sprout imagined him tall, handsome and rich. All the things he wasn't. If he was dead, then he was out of the picture and Sprout could stop worrying.
&nbs
p; He took Julie's hand and rubbed a finger over her knuckles. "That's terrible news. I'm sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," Julie said, looking at him with tear filled eyes. "Sorrier than you'll ever know."
"I can look after you, Julie. I'd love that."
She glanced around his bedsit and he could almost read her thoughts.
"You said you were moving out?" she asked.
Sprout sweated under the duvet. It was a sentiment he'd expressed many times, but he'd never made good on the promise. It was Julie who gave him the opportunity he needed and she didn't even know it yet.
"How can you afford that?" she asked, wiping her oily hands on the duvet. "You work in a scrapyard."
"Not forever and we've had a bit of good luck."
Her eyebrows arched. "We? You mean, you and your boss? What was he called again?"
"Bronson. Anyway, we found some cocaine. Loads of it. In a van I stole. The boss says he knows someone we can sell it to."
"Cocaine? Wow. So, it's worth a lot of money?"
Sprout nodded. "As long as Bronson can keep his hands off it."
"Is he a cokehead?"
Sprout pushed the duvet to his feet, allowing cool air on his naked body. "You know, you're always asking questions about Bronson. Why are you so interested?"
"I'm not," Julie said, looking away, "but cokeheads are unpredictable. I'm just worried about you, that's all."
The last person to utter those words had been a girl called Kimberley. It was only when school ended and she was out of his life that he'd realised she'd had good cause.
Sprout didn't want to repeat the same mistake with Julie.
"Have you heard of The Devil's Playground?" he asked.
Julie shook her head.
"It's a dangerous place. Full of druggies and bad men. I've been a few times, but I'm not scared."
"What do you do there?"
"Nothing, really," Sprout said. "Bronson makes me wait in the car."
"Bronson goes to The Devil's Playground?"
"Yeah, lots. That's what makes me think he's on the coke or crack or whizz, but he never comes out stoned." Sprout tugged at a loose thread on his mattress. "If anything, he comes out looking sad. Maybe he's just visiting a desperate friend."
Rolling the thread into a ball, he flicked it across the room. "Do you want to hear how I found the cocaine?" he asked, but Julie was out of bed and getting dressed.
Sprout sat up, pulling the duvet to his chest. "Where are you going?"
Julie was back in her underwear, slipping her dress over her head. She pushed on her shoes and checked her make-up in a grimy mirror. Clasping a hand over her bare wrist, she searched the floor.
"Have you lost something?" Sprout asked into his chest.
Julie lifted the duvet and patted the mattress. She discarded the pillows and kicked over the chip wrappings on the floor. "I can't find my watch."
Dropping to her knees, she poked her head under the bed.
Sprout joined her, his pale arse waggling in the air. He pulled out empty shoe boxes, a lost sock and a crumpled ball of paper he sometimes unfolded when he was alone.
"What does it look like?" he asked.
The dust made Julie sneeze. "It's a Cartier."
She got to her feet, her hands jammed into her hips. "You stare at me all the time. You must have noticed it on my wrist."
Sprout kneeled beside her on the floor. "I won't stop till I find it. I promise. Don't be mad."
"It's very precious to me, Sprout and very expensive. It's all I have to remind me."
"To remind you of what?" he asked.
Lowering her face to his, Julie placed a finger under his chin. Her breath bore the harsh tang of vinegar. "I love you very much. You know that, don't you?"
He nodded, his chest tightening.
"Okay, then," she said, releasing him. "Have a nice day at work."
He placed a hand on her stomach, marvelling at the smoothness of the bump. "I will. For all of us. You're the only family I have."
"Find my watch," Julie said, walking to the door.
"Have you ever thought of having another one? Another baby, I mean?"
Julie turned slowly, her dress swinging from her pregnant stomach. She wore a smile on her face that didn't match the coolness of her eyes. "Yes, I have," she said and slammed the door shut behind her.
Sprout climbed into bed, thumping his pillow. He retrieved the watch from under his side of the mattress. It was warm and cold at the same time, like Julie herself. He knew nothing about watches, but he knew how to be a thief. As soon as he saw it, he'd been planning how to steal it. In the end, all it had taken was a pregnant woman's appetite and a packet of chips.
He laid it on the floor next to a sachet of ketchup. Because of Sprout, Bronson had his cocaine. Because he was a car thief, Masani and Marvin had a business. It was time for Sprout to have something for himself. There was plenty of cocaine and Bronson would share the dividends from the sale, but Sprout was so far down the food chain, he'd be left with crumbs and he needed money fast. He'd sell the watch at Vintage Pawn and get a nicer place to live. Julie could move in with him. They'd settle down and be a family. He could finally make good on his promise.
Lacing fingers behind his head, Sprout looked to the cobweb in the corner, wondering why spiders lived alone.
But the spider was gone and so was Julie.
Chapter Fourteen
Osborne Road was a string of restaurants and pubs in Jesmond, frequented by those whose disposable income came in paper form, not coin. The beer was foreign and expensive, the food was rich and exotic. Well-heeled students mixed with high-flying stock brokers and street fights were rare. That kind of behaviour was left to the locals and morning drinkers of the city centre's Bigg Market.
At the end of the road was St Andrew's Chapel. Its sandstone visage watched over the street, though few went there to pray. Like its surroundings, the chapel was exclusive, its cemetery only open to those with power. It was compact and overgrown. The grass was a foot high and seed heads waved forlornly in the breeze. A path of cracked tarmac hugged a drystone wall, marking the boundary between holy and unholy land.
Daniel watched Ma Dayton's funeral from afar, casting his eyes over the mourners bearing witness to the burial. A gaggle of faceless pensioners whispered behind their hands, no doubt speculating on who might be next. Bronson stood with his head bowed and his cheek twitching. Eisha was by his side. She leaned into him and Bronson wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.
The Reverend clutched at her Bible, her final prayers stolen by the wind. The coffin was lowered into the grave by council workers on minimum wage. Mourners took turns throwing handfuls of soil onto the coffin. With nothing more to say, they disbanded, trudging along the broken tarmac in time to catch the next bus home.
Daniel sat on a headstone. The last of the true Daytons was gone. His mother was still alive somewhere, though these days she was too drunk to pronounce her surname, never mind live up to it. All that remained was what the Daytons had left behind. There would be no reconnecting to that past, but Daniel and Eisha had each other.
His head jerked at the snap of a twig. A woman was waiting for him on the pathway. The headstone wobbled as he stood and Daniel clambered over the grave, stumbling over tufts of grass to get to her. Stopping short of the pathway, Daniel pulled on his tie, gulping as it tightened around his neck.
Lily smirked and came forward. She had lost weight since their fateful last meeting. Her hair was shorter too, cut to a bob just under her ears. It suited her, Daniel thought, trying to catch his breath.
Standing on her tiptoes, Lily reached for his tie. The knot came apart in her hands.
Daniel smelled her perfume and caught himself swaying.
"You don't suit them," she said, handing the tie back to him.
He stuffed it into his pocket and stared at his shoes. "If you're here for the funeral, it's over."
"Of course, I'm here for the fun
eral," Lily said, peering around him, "and to make sure she doesn't rise from the grave."
"We're surrounded by restaurants. We should be able to get our hands on some garlic if we need it." Daniel tried to laugh at his joke, but it sounded more like a quack. "Did you know she kept photos of us all? In her room. What was that about? I never got a chance to ask her."
Lily patted his arm. "The harder the shell, the softer the centre, eh?"
The pensioners passed by, sucking toffees and muttering about the weather.
"Yeah, well, I brought my stake, just in case," Daniel said.
Lily's lips parted into a smile. She wasn't the same person Daniel had dreamed of or the one he tried to forget when she married his brother. She was a stranger he'd known all his life.
Daniel moved his hand, inch by inch, toward Lily's. Their fingertips brushed. Her skin was warm, but Lily withdrew the contact.
"You look tired. Are you okay?" she asked.
A girl screamed and Daniel scanned the cemetery. Bronson held Eisha by the hands, swinging her in circles. Her feet cut a path through the tall grass. She shrieked with laughter, her face red with glee.
"Still fussing over her like a mother hen," Lily said. "I asked how you were doing?"
He answered with an open mouth and a stuttering brain. Daniel searched for something to say and was greeted with white noise. The harder he tried, the louder it became. He swallowed repeatedly, his tongue flapping uselessly.
"It was nice to see you again," Lily said, checking her watch, "but time's up."
She walked away, shaking her head.
The ball of his tie weighed heavily in Daniel's pocket. Spurred on, he quickly caught up. Lily stumbled on the broken surface of the path and Daniel grabbed her by the elbow. She rested her head on his arm and even through his coat, the warmth of her body touched him.
"Your watch," Daniel said. "Scott bought it for you."
"For our first anniversary and only because you reminded him."
"Why do you keep it then?"
The wind tugged at her clothing and Lily held the material down. "I gave back the ring, didn't I? And anyway, nothing says funeral more than a gift from my ex-husband."