Queen Dolly

by Emmy Ellis

“Nice, aren’t they?” he said.

  I faced him and recognised his eyes—the only thing that remained the same. His sallow cheeks and spindly nose was nothing like the old Mr Hemmings, and I struggled to accept this man as him.

  “Do I know you?” I asked and looked at his hands still caressing the burgundy tie. His slim fingers—I couldn’t imagine them reaching inside a lollipop jar.

  He frowned and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure I do,” I said. “Didn’t you used to run a shop?”

  His cheeks above the beard reddened. “I…uh…I…”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did,” I pressed, “the one that had lots of sweets behind the counter in jars. And you gave me a handkerchief once. I still have it, in fact. And my mam used to send me to the shop with a brown envelope for you, and you’d give me boxes of cigarettes in return. I’m sure that was you.” I fingered my chin.

  He let the tie fall from his grasp, cleared his throat, and patted his chest. “I, well, I… Yes. I did.”

  “I can’t believe it. That it’s really you. I’ve thought about you for such a long time. You know, wondered where you’d gone. I mean, one day you’re in the shop letting me sit behind the counter and everything, and the next…well, you just weren’t there anymore. No one told me where you’d gone, either, and I was so disappointed. I’m so glad that I’ve bumped into you again.”

  Relief crawled into his eyes, and the blood sucked out of his cheeks, leaving them bleached.

  “Carmel Wickens?” he asked.

  Like he doesn’t bloody know.

  “Yes, that’s me. How are you? Where have you been?” I touched his arm, his prickly coat material biting my fingertips.

  He patted my hand—Doesn’t that make you cringe, Carmel, knowing what he may have done with that ha—and said, “Well, dear, I’ve been away, that’s all. And I’m fine. More to the point, how are you?”

  Belinda’s giggle permeated the shop. “Wouldn’t he like to know? Fucking old pervert.”

  His clammy skin against mine brought stomach acid surging into my throat again. I moved my fingers and placed both hands in my jeans pockets.

  “Oh, I’m all right. Grown up now, you know.”

  He nodded, his beard rustling against his coat collar. “I see that, yes, I see that.” His wide smile broke through the facial hair.

  “I bet you bloody do and all,” sniped Belinda. “Bet she doesn’t tickle your pickle now, does she? Older girls don’t do it for you, do they?”

  I glared at Belinda then returned my attention to Mr Hemmings. “Are you in town for long? Shopping, I mean.” I smiled, despite my guts twisting.

  He cocked his head and stared at me.

  Reckon he can see right inside your eyes—right inside your head. Blink. Blink…

  “Oh, I’m just browsing, really,” he said. “Umm, why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered what you were doing for lunch. Whether you’d like to catch up or something?” I scrunched my hands inside my pockets. “Or would an evening be better?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at me for long moments. A shiver crept up my spine.

  What is he thinking, Carmel? Is he recalling the pictures and what he did when looking—?

  “Or maybe you wouldn’t want to spend any time with me. I mean, I wouldn’t if I were you. You know, I wouldn’t want to spend time with a youngster that I hardly recall. Why would you remember me, after all?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. Yellow teeth decorated his mouth, and silver-coloured fillings graced every other molar. “Of course I remember you. I’ve thought of you often.”

  I bet he bloody has—filthy bugger.

  I smiled, my jaw clenched. “So, would you like to meet up? Only, I’ve got to get back to work. I nipped out when I saw you in the street, and my boss won’t be happy if I stay out too long.”

  “This evening,” he said and fumbled inside his coat. He held out a business card. “Here.” He pointed to an address on the card, his fingernail brown and brittle. “Tonight at seven o’clock.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I must dash. Lovely to see you again, Mr Hemmings.” I backed away from him towards the shop door.

  “Lovely to see you, too,” he said.

  “Is it just my imagination, or is he leering at you?” Belinda popped her head out from behind a rack of trousers.

  I jumped and squealed.

  Turning, I smiled at the man behind the counter and left the shop, racing over the road. With burning cheeks, I scooted into work and glanced around the shop. No one seemed to have noticed my disappearance, so I continued with what I’d been doing before the interruption, my mind as busy as my hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A dirty grey tower block loomed above me on the estate where I’d grown up. Dark purple clouds scudded behind it in a pitch black sky, their destination somewhere to the west. Mr Moon peeked round the left side of the building, one eye and half a smiling mouth visible. Trees dotted a grassed area around the tower, their branches empty of leaves as if the wind had snatched them away in fury. Streetlamps cast their fuggy orange glow on the rain-slicked pavement, and I shucked up my shoulders, buried my chin inside the neckline of my coat, and lifted my hood.

  Flat twenty, level six.

  An uneven paving slab walkway led to the main doors of the building, and I stepped onto it, cautious of my footing. At the door, I took a deep breath and pushed it open, the peeling blue paint rough on my palm. The odour of dried piss and spilled beer prevailed, and I stifled a gag. A typical tower block, then. I supposed the lifts wouldn’t work, either.

  I jabbed the elevator button, surprised at the low hum and the level indicator window lighting up. The green numbers changed from eight to seven to six. A loud ping issued, and the lift door glided open. I stepped inside a relatively clean cubicle, pressed for level eight, and waited for the doors to close. The main tower door flung open and bashed against the inside wall. A guy on a skateboard rolled towards me and entered the lift, the smell of the outdoors radiating from his jeans, black bomber jacket, and red knitted hat. Red cheeks stood out against his super-white skin.

  “Level you garn on?” he asked then sniffed.

  “Eight,” I said and nodded at the buttons.

  “Right. Garn see Teddy, are you?” He winked.

  “No. Not tonight.” I settled farther into my coat hood.

  “Not need nothin’ tonight, then, eh?”

  “No. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Okay. I lettim know you be round. Get the stuff you need, know what I mean?”

  “Thanks.”

  I buried my chin again. Maybe this kid thought I was someone else? The doors closed, and the lift trundled upwards.

  “Hear about Meeta? About how she garn? Sad shit, man, sad shit. Miss her.”

  I frowned, willing the level to reach eight. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, me tell you about it tomorrow when you pops in Teddy’s, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  The door slid open with a sigh that matched my one of relief. The guy scooted out, flipped his skateboard and jumped, landing back on it with ease. He rode down a concrete corridor, his hand raised in farewell. While his back was turned, I stepped away from the elevator and descended two flights of stairs to level six.

  * * * *

  The silver two of number twenty hung askew, one nail attaching it to the door; the zero veered off centre. A recent coat of red paint shone on the door, and a white net curtain covered a square of glass in the top. Light glowed inside as if down a hallway, and the window to my right yielded nothing but blackness. I rapped on the door. A figure shuffled towards it, and a shadowed arm reached for the handle and opened the door.

  His knitted beige cardigan looked homemade.

  Maybe he got back with his wife after his release? You hadn’t thought about her, had you, Carmel?

  Shit. I lowered my gaze from his beaming face and stared
at his slippers. Dark brown faux leather with cream elastic side panels.

  “Attractive!” said Belinda.

  I looked up. She stood behind him, peeking round his waist, the smile on her life-face elfin. I frowned at her and gave Mr Hemmings my attention.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Carmel! Come in, come in.” He moved to the left and waved to usher me inside.

  I stepped over the threshold. Warmth enveloped me much like the heater in his old shop, and a pang of nostalgia prodded the backs of my eyes. Smiling, I stood next to a room on my right.

  He closed the front door, tethered the chain, and shuffled towards me. His grey hair flopped forwards to rest against his forehead, and he swiped it away.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked. “Or perhaps some pop? Do you like pop? I have some cola in the fridge. Or maybe lemonade?”

  He smiled and came closer, his arm brushing mine as he reached for the door handle. Once switched on, the light revealed a kitchen, and he walked over to a small white fridge sitting beneath a worktop. He plunked a bottle of cola on the counter and stood on tiptoes to open a cupboard above the cooker. Clutching two glasses, he set them down and began to pour, the popping soda bubbles loud in the quiet.

  “How’s your mam?” he asked, his back to me.

  “Oh, I don’t see her these days. Moved out some time ago. How’s Mrs Hemmings?”

  He stiffened—his shoulders a rigid line—and sucked in a breath. “Oh, I haven’t seen her for a long time, either. Seems we’re both alone, eh?” He picked up the drinks and turned to face me. “Come along into the living room where it’s warmer.” He stood in the doorway and dipped his head to the right. “Would you mind closing this door behind me? It gets quite cold of a night if I leave it open.”

  I closed the door by hooking my foot around it then followed him down a short hallway.

  “Damn council were meant to fix my window latches. They don’t shut properly, let the cold in, you know. Dreadful when you think of my age, really. I could get ill, couldn’t I?”

  Nothing that you don’t deserve, you old nonce.

  In the living room, an electric fire boasted two lit elements, their orange glow like monster’s lips. A moss green, velvet three-piece suite surrounded a Chinese-patterned rug in greens, creams, and blues.

  Mr Hemmings placed our drinks on a glass-topped coffee table and tsked. “I keep forgetting to use coasters,” he said and bustled over to the mantelpiece and selected two. His foot nudged a fire companion set sitting on the hearth. The brass tools tinkled against one another.

  Quite a posh place, eh?

  “Yeah,” said Belinda. “Seems that even if you commit a despicable crime the government thinks nothing of housing you and giving you money to furnish it. Disgusting, if you ask me.” Belinda sat on one of the armchairs farthest away from the door, her legs dangling, not quite reaching the floor. She sniffed. “Still, that’s handy to know, isn’t it, Carmel?”

  From the doorway, I stared at her and frowned.

  “At least you’ll have the peace of mind knowing you’ll get somewhere to live once you’ve done your time for the crimes you’ve committed in your life.” She smirked.

  I tuned her out and sat in the other armchair beside the door. Finished with the drinks, Mr Hemmings sat on Belinda. Her stifled, indignant scream hurt my ears, but I smiled and fought the urge to laugh. Belinda zipped out from beneath him, and Mr Hemmings shivered.

  “Someone walked over my grave,” he said, chuckling.

  Belinda stood in front of him and leant forward, her face inches from his. “I’ll fucking put you in it if you do that again.”

  I smiled at Mr Hemmings then turned to look at the TV.

  A picture of me as a child sat on top of it.

  “Oh, how sweet. You have a picture of me,” I said, my tummy flip-flopping.

  He glanced towards the TV, smiled, his eyes glassy. “Yes. It’s the only one I have of anyone I knew back then.”

  “Have you lived here long?” I asked.

  Nice frame, that. Looks real silver to me. Glad to see you’ve got your clothes on in the picture.

  “About two weeks,” he said.

  Didn’t Bob only take pictures of you in the pretty dress or that…that thing?

  “Oh, right. Where did you live before that?” I picked up a glass of cola, drinking deeply.

  Mr Hemmings’ cheeks changed shade—a hue bordering purple.

  You’ve got normal clothes on in that picture. Even got that blue coat on that you pinched from school.

  “I lived near the moors,” he said. “Fancied a change of scenery once the wife announced she wanted a divorce. You know how it is, I’m sure.” He picked up his own drink, quaffed half, and panted for breath.

  Belinda lounged on the sofa, picking her nose. “Yeah, she knows how it is. The moors, eh? Funny that. There’s a prison near a set of them moors. Up north somewhere.”

  “Oh, right,” I said and finished my own drink, the heat from the fire drying my throat.

  Reckon he must have taken that picture himself, Carmel.

  “So where do you live, then?” he asked. “And what have you been up to since I last saw you?” He cleared his throat and sipped the rest of his drink.

  Spying on you, he was. Filthy, nasty, perverted, bast—

  “I live on the other side of town. I needed to get away from…here. And I’ve got a job, sorting myself out slowly. Left home about three years ago now.”

  Mr Hemmings narrowed his eyes, peering at me. “Have a falling out with your mam, did you?”

  Wonder how he got to keep that photo? Considering what he was put away for…

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “That’s sad.” He drummed his fingertips on the chair arm. “And you don’t see her, you say?”

  “No, no, I don’t.” Tight smile.

  Was his sigh one of relief?

  “Have you seen anyone you know since you came back?” I asked, moving forward to perch on the edge of my seat. “You know, anyone from the old days?”

  His eyes widened, and he rubbed the end of his nose. “No. If I’m honest, I’m not sure why I came back here.”

  Belinda guffawed. “Not sure, my arse. You’re hoping to reacquaint yourself with Annette and get some more pictures, aren’t you? Dirty old fucker. Did you hear that, Carmel? He’s a dirty, disgusting old nonce who—”

  “Your mam still live in the same place, then?” He inhaled deeply, his exhale a shudder.

  “She does as far as I know. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. Anyway, let’s talk about you. I want to hear all about you.”

  I laughed quietly and laced my fingers, hugging my knees. “All about me? Are you sure?”

  “Why, yes,” he said. “You were my favourite customer, weren’t you? Why wouldn’t I want to know how you’ve fared?”

  His eyes focused on me, seemed to bore into mine, and I disguised a squirm.

  “Well, I was sexually abused as a child, but then you knew that, didn’t you? You saw enough of the pictures.” I paused and took in the unbridled shock on his face. His beard and moustache parted, and an open gash gaped slack and wet. My guts lurched, but I pressed on, “And Mam, she didn’t see fit to feed me, clothe me, love me. She lived for heroin, Mr Hemmings, and I was the result of a teenage sexual assault. Blamed me for it my whole life, she did.”

  His jaw hung slacker, and the skin around his eyes appeared to slough away from his eye sockets. “Sexual assualt? But I…I didn’t…”

  “You didn’t what, Mr Hemmings?” My heart thudded, wild, painful.

  “I didn’t…she didn’t…” He fiddled in his trouser pocket and produced a crisp, white handkerchief. Snapped it open, mopped his brow. “She didn’t…didn’t say no. She didn’t tell me she’d got pregnant by me. I…”

  I clamped my jaw closed and swallowed.

  Blinked. Closed my eyes for a time.

  “Uh-oh. Now look w
hat you’ve gone and done,” Belinda whispered.

  Oh, shit, Carmel.

  I opened my eyes.

  An iron poker protruded from his forehead. Still seated, his arms splayed to the sides, Mr Hemmings stared up at the instrument in his head. His chest rose and fell in sporadic bursts. Blood seeped from his ears, nose, and mouth, dribbled down his chin, and pooled against the collar of his cardigan.

  My heart thundered, and I glanced down at my hands.

  They didn’t tremble.

  I stared at Mr Hemmings again.

  “You’ll need to wipe that poker, you know.” Belinda.

  “I know.”

  A gargle escaped Mr Hemmings’ mouth along with bubbles of blood that popped upon meeting the strands of his beard.

  “I’d suggest taking that glass with you. The one you drank from.” Belinda again.

  “Okay.”

  He coughed, spluttered, tried to form words.

  “And wipe everything you’ve touched, including before you came into this flat.”

  “Right.”

  His body jerked then came to rest, his chest no longer moving.

  “Give him five minutes to, you know, climb the star-steps, pass over, then get a cloth for the poker,” she suggested.

  “Okay.”

  “And take the cloth with you too.”

  “Yes.”

  I continued to stare, shocked at the sight of him.

  “Oh, and Carmel?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll be wanting to take that picture of you on top of the TV as well, won’t you?”

  * * * *

  The door closed. Expecting the lift to lurch downwards, surprise gripped me when it moved upwards. Shit, shit, shit.

  Should have taken the stairs, Carmel… Put your coat hood up. Quickly.

  Two floors higher, the lift stopped, and the door slid open. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “All right? You garn home now?” The teenage boy minus his skateboard.

  Relief wiggled through my veins. “Yeah,” I said, my voice muffled against my coat collar, the cola glass stiff in my coat sleeve.

  The door closed, and the lift dropped downwards.