Crocodiles & Good Intentions

by Liza Cody

A Hyundai screeched to a halt beside me and a man jumped out, almost braining me with the swinging door. He bought an evening paper before he noticed he was stepping on my habit. ‘God! Sorry. Didn’t see you down there. Sorry, sorry. Are you collecting for lost dogs? Here, take my change.’ He dropped a handful of coins into my lap and was gone in a cloud of carbon monoxide and citrus cologne.

  There was more than enough for a can of Bow-Chow for her and a sandwich for me but I stayed where I was. I didn’t want to give our food money to Mrs Dora.

  A Range Rover drove onto the forecourt. Two huge men and one tiny woman got out and went into the shop. Five minutes later Mrs Dora came out and asked, ‘What does he eat?’

  ‘She,’ I said. ‘Bow-Chow and I wouldn’t say no to… ’

  ‘The stinky kid,’ she snapped. ‘What you got – poop for brains?’

  ‘I only know about pizza. Sometimes a neighbour woman posted pizza slices through the letter box.’

  ‘Firkin’ criminal,’ she said, tottering away on her sexy sandals, pushing past the rangy woman who was exiting through the same door.

  The rangy woman squatted down beside me to pat Electra. She had a can of Bow-Chow in one hand and a paper plate in the other. Electra sat up eagerly. The woman pulled the ring opener and plopped the gruesome contents onto the paper plate. Electra smiled at her and waved her tail before tucking in. Only then did the woman hand me a cheese sarnie. She didn’t even look at me but she stroked Electra’s shoulder blades while she ate.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to sound nunly and dignified while tearing into bread and cheese.

  ‘I’m amazed that your convent hasn’t sent out someone to help you.’ She didn’t take her eyes off Electra. ‘And I’m not sure you should trust Mrs Dora’s family. They look a bit iffy to me.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I said, happy for once to be telling the truth. ‘No one trusted the Good Samaritan either.’

  ‘The Good Samaritan didn’t charge ten pounds an hour,’ she said tartly. She gave Electra a final pat and straightened up adding almost sheepishly, ‘It could be a mistake, but I’ve paid for another two hours. Make sure you get my money’s worth.’ And off she went, too brisk to hear my mumbled thanks.

  ‘I suppose I should be feeling guilty,’ I said, as I held the paper plate so that Electra could lick up the last smear of food. ‘But I don’t. After all I’ve got a little boy and a dog to feed. I’m only doing what a nun should be doing – looking after the needy and hoping for the best. At least I suppose that’s what praying is. Only praying is directional and hoping isn’t.’

  Electra sighed and lay down across my legs again. She gave me a sleepy, satisfied smile and I could almost hear her say, ‘I don’t care what you pretend to be as long as it gets me a full belly.’

  Mrs Dora appeared at my side again in a puff of sulphur. ‘Wakey-wakey, Sister Dafty, yes you. You ain’t here to kip your life away. You’ve got a kiddie needs looking after who ain’t gonna look after his self. So snap lively.’

  Electra and I scrambled to our feet.

  ‘Yer dog looks like a skellington, and you don’t look like you scarfed much recently. It’s all right you nuns starving your divvy selves to death, but kiddies and dogs need their firkin’ meat and two veg.’

  ‘I’m just the transport nun,’ I mumbled.

  ‘And a firkin’ fine job you made of that an’ all.’

  ‘We’re a poor order.’

  ‘So am I but I still managed to feed my kids.’

  ‘Connor was only just given into our care… ’

  ‘Care, my arse,’ she said and led the way back to the Ambo where two huge men and one tiny woman were loading Connor into a black bin bag. Only his head poked out and he was roaring. The tiny woman shut him up by stuffing a chunk of chocolate into his mouth.

  ‘That’s my Misha. She knows how to care for kids,’ Mrs Dora said proudly.

  Misha said, ‘Shit in a pit, does he ever need a scrub! What’sa matter with you god-botherers? Don’t you know nothing about kids?’

  ‘This one’s as much use as a lace condom,’ Mrs Dora said, jerking her aged thumb in my direction.

  ‘You shouldn’t say that,’ one of the huge men said. ‘Catholics and condoms don’t mix.’ He and Misha bundled Connor, now sucking loudly rather than crying, into the luggage space at the back of the Range Rover and they drove away into the night.

  This left the second huge man by himself. He said, ‘Where’s your battery?’

  ‘Don’t ask her,’ Mrs Dora said. ‘She’s got poop-for-brains.’

  ‘It might be under the passenger seat, and bless you.’

  ‘What you doing, blessing my Tony? Get back here and clean the shite out of the back of this here honey-wagon.’

  8

  Sweet Charity

  Hampered by my habit, the best I could do was to chuck out soiled rugs and clothing. I swabbed what was swabbable with the disinfected water Misha and the two giants had brought with them. The Ambo still didn’t smell sweet. Maybe it never did. I couldn’t remember. Cold water and a cold wind made my hands raw. It was my prison job all over again – cleaning up other people’s shit.

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ Satan sniggered. ‘You’re being paid back for not cleaning up after yourself. This mess began with you. Count the steps. They started when you chose me for your lover.’

  ‘You chose me.’

  ‘I might have called. You didn’t have to answer. There were plenty of opportunities to step back and deny me.’

  ‘You never told me you were the Devil. You pretended to be a man who loved me. You made me feel special.’

  ‘At your age? With your looks? Don’t make me laugh,’ said the Lord of Cruel Jokes, laughing. ‘A forty-year-old virgin, living with her mother – don’t be so naïve. You weren’t a relationship – you were a business opportunity. Any man worth his salt knows he can get whatever he wants by convincing a woman that she’s special.’ He spat out the word ‘special’ as if it was the dirtiest word in the dictionary, and I knew he was telling the truth. I felt the wind-frozen tears on my face. Some jokes never get old. But I do.

  Mrs Dora said, ‘If you’re asking god for his help, don’t waste your time. Roll your sleeves up and help yourself.’

  ‘She is doing,’ Tony said. His forearms were streaked with black oil and tattooed with Maori designs. ‘This battery wouldn’t light a torch. She needs a new one. Get Lance back and we’ll go to the yard.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Jimmy Singh,’ she said. ‘Meantime, just effing get on with it, the both of you.’

  ‘Don’t mind her,’ Tony said, when she’d gone. ‘She’s a force of nature, my gamma. I won’t say she’s got a heart of gold, cos sometimes she ain’t got a heart at all, but she do get stuff done. Our family would of fallen apart ten times over if it wasn’t for Gamma.’

  ‘Are you the one who liked Mr Singh’s daughter?’

  ‘Still do,’ he said, his face creasing in a fond smile. ‘Dads and gammas think they got the world sewn up. Think they know it all.’

  I thought he smiled a good and trustworthy smile. He had his feet planted on the earth as if he knew he belonged there. I hoped he hadn’t picked the wrong woman. The wrong woman can twist a sweet smile till it turns sour. Look what Kerri Cropper’s mum did to Connor. Look what Cherry was doing to Pierre. And I am the result of what a bad man can do. Look and learn.

  ‘Corrosion,’ Tony said as if he could read my thoughts. ‘This battery’s knackered.’

  ‘I can’t afford a new one,’ I said, counting through the change the Hyundai man chucked in my lap. There was six pounds, thirty-one pence. He threw money as if it was breadcrumbs for birds.

  ‘I dunno how you got this far without conking out.’

  ‘I don’t either.’

  ‘D’you mind if I come in out of thi
s wind?’

  We both climbed into the back of the Ambo. Thoughtlessly he pulled a tobacco tin out of a pocket and started rolling a cigarette. I didn’t stop him. Social control is Cherry Pie’s bag, not mine. I might be dressed like the army of righteousness, but I still knew who I was. And I’d just left the prison system where there are more smokers per hundred of the population than you’ll find anywhere else on earth. I wasn’t going to judge.

  But that seemed to be what he wanted me to do. We sat on the bunk bed with Electra asleep between us, him smoking, me resting. After a while he said, ‘I do believe in god – I was brought up Church of England. I know you’re RC but I was wondering… ’

  I said nothing but waited in fear of religious questions I couldn’t answer.

  He went on, ‘Jimmy Singh’s daughter is Harpreet Kaur. I call her Pretty. She believes in one god too. Do we believe in the same god? That’s what I want to know.’

  I said, ‘If there is only one, there is only one. Don’t think about same; think about name.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘lots of names for the same thing. But think about cars.’

  I thought about cars but came up empty.

  ‘There’s loads of different cars – Hondas, Vauxhalls, Mercedes, et cetera. They’re all cars but they’re not the same. And, think about this – someone who drives a Bentley wouldn’t be seen dead in a Skoda.’

  ‘The Devil comes in many guises too,’ I interrupted. ‘With horns or without, with a tail, maybe cloven-hoofed, maybe an evil spirit, maybe an ordinary looking blonde woman possessed by Satan’s essence.’

  ‘But he’s still Satan,’ my philosophical Tony said, puffing on Golden Virginia tobacco and fogging up the Ambo with manly smoke. It didn’t smell like sulphur, but you never know.

  ‘Always the same,’ I agreed, ‘always with the same purpose – to corrupt and corrode, always with disciples.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He carefully stubbed his cigarette out on the back of his tobacco tin and put it in his pocket. One of us, it seemed, remembered we were in a petrol station. ‘So he ain’t what he’s called. He’s what he does.’

  I was suddenly too tired even to nod.

  He said, ‘So you’re saying it’s the same with god? Pretty’s god and my god are the same cos they’re good and their disciples are good even if they’re called Gurus. You’re very easy to talk to for a nun.’

  Except he wasn’t talking to a nun – he wasn’t even talking to me. He was talking to himself. No wonder he thought it was an easy conversation.

  I said, ‘Where have they taken Connor?’ I thought it was politic to look as if I cared even though the poor little chap was an unbearable burden.

  ‘They took him to Mum’s. That was her with Lance.’

  Tiny Gamma, tiny Mum, huge sons – no wonder the women of the family had to be tough as rhino hide.

  ‘Mum knows what to do,’ Tony went on with the blithe confidence of a child with a strong mother. ‘Plus she’s got all the baby kit in for our Meadow’s three. We’re well sorted for this kinda thing – better than you, leastways. What were you going to do with him?’

  Good question; no answer. I said, ‘He could sleep at the convent, but I thought, looking at him, he needs a doctor or a social worker.’

  ‘Well he won’t get no social worker from our family. Can’t abide ’em.’

  ‘But he’s starving.’

  ‘Mum’ll feed him.’

  ‘And he looks as if he’s been knocked about.’

  ‘Yeah, well you can’t undo that in a hurry.’

  ‘No. But Social Services could make sure he wasn’t mistreated any more.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Tony said. ‘Nine times out of ten they give the poor little tyke straight back to the family. You should see what I see every day with our neighbours. There was this one family in our block – about as bad as Connor’s – and Gamma and Mum sort of ran a drop-in centre for the kids. They still send Christmas cards. They know, like as not, they wouldn’t of made it otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t think our convent’s equipped for direct action.’ I knew, sure as eggs, that I wasn’t.

  ‘Just don’t give him to the social wankers or Mum and Gamma will hunt you down and kill you.’ He smiled his sturdy smile.

  Mrs Gamma Dora peered in through the Ambo door and said, ‘Who’m I gonna kill? Better get off your arses or it’ll be you. Tony, get that battery over to Jimmy Singh’s – he says you can use his whatsit to see if it holds a firkin’ charge.’ She pointed a knobbly finger at me, ‘You come with me to that god-forsaken shop. I’m gonna make you buy what you need to keep a poor innocent little feller alive for twelve effing hours. I know you got toad pee for brains but I s’pose your heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘It’s in my chest somewhere, broken and bleeding,’ I muttered, because every time I remember the Lord of Lies and Lost Love I want to drive a stake through it to relieve the pressure of misery.

  ‘What you blethering about?’

  ‘I said I’ve only got six pounds something.’

  ‘You’ll have to make it do then, won’tcher?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said meekly and followed her to the shop.

  Looking at the price of a packet of disposable nappies though I realised that I couldn’t afford much more for Connor than a litre of milk and a day-old sandwich.

  I panicked, and while Mrs Gamma Dora conferred with Jimmy Singh I swiped the charity collection tin on the counter and slipped out into the night.

  Electra and I trundled into the wind down the North Circular Road, blasted and buffeted by the ceaseless London traffic. The smell of frost was in the air and I shivered. We turned into the first side street I saw that had a pub in it. I stuck Honda-man’s six quid into the charity tin to make it rattle more enticingly. Then I walked into the public bar. As I held out the tin I noticed that I was collecting for Help the Aged. Help the Indigent Middle-Aged and Her Kidnapped Kiddie would be more accurate but accuracy wasn’t on my agenda.

  The pub was warm and beery. On the overhead monitor Sky Sports was showing a golf tournament in a green and sunny land. Ignoring it and talking loudly, men were gathered in groups necking their pints as they do just before closing time – faster than usual, and sloppily. I couldn’t have timed my raid more perfectly. Warm and relaxed, faced with a shivering nun and a skinny dog, they dug in their pockets and paid up like lambs. Even the landlord stuck a fiver in the tin. The landlord usually turfs me out for begging or refuses to serve me because I’m a ragged, needy example of what too much booze can do to a social drinker. Normally no one wants to be reminded. That night was different. The habit protected me and allowed me to commit a fraud with impunity.

  On my way out I noticed an unattended glass of cider. Cider is not my tipple of choice but if it’s strong enough it gets the job done. I lifted the glass and let my long black sleeve cover my hand. Then, bowing my head in humility I slipped out into the dark and searched out the first protective doorway I could find.

  I was halfway down the glass before I remembered the Antabuse and registered the fact that I was not throwing up. There was a headache, yes, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me vomit. The queasiness stayed constant. I slowed down. Gulping wouldn’t help me keep the alcohol where it belonged long enough to seep like loving kindness into my veins and from there into my brain.

  I looked at Electra and she looked at me. After a long pause, she said, ‘Idiot. You could start afresh with no addiction if you wanted to.’

  ‘One glass of cider won’t turn me into an addict.’

  ‘Don’t deceive yourself,’ she said sadly. ‘You’re an addict already. You’re a card-carrying alcoholic and you know it.’

  ‘How can I be an alcoholic? I haven’t had a drink in months.’

  ‘Not for want of trying. You keep taking the risk of up-chucking and the
world’s worst hangover just to get a little alcohol inside you. A normal person would say, “That’s enough.” But not you – oh no. If that’s not booze-dependency I don’t know what is.’

  ‘It isn’t booze-dependency. It’s just half a glass of cider.’ But when I looked down at my hand I saw that it was holding a pint pot which was now as empty as a beggar’s pocket.

  ‘See?’ Electra said. ‘No one kids herself like a woman who wants a drink. Booze makes a filthy liar of you – don’t kid yourself about that either.’

  ‘But I’m lonely,’ I wailed. ‘You won’t talk to me unless I’ve had a drink.’

  ‘Don’t you start blaming me for your sins. They’re yours and the Devil’s.’ She shuddered. ‘I’m just a dog – I’m not supposed to understand sin. And while I’m on the subject, I’m not supposed to talk either. I communicate directly. You should know what I’m all about by what I do, not by what I say. Your language is a maze and a trap. It means that you don’t know the difference between facts, truth and honesty. If I’m just a dog I can’t tell you the truth, and I can’t tell lies either. I am honest. But you can see that just by looking.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m dishonest?’

  ‘Bingo! You’re pretending you aren’t an alcoholic, and you’re pretending you’re collecting the money to help Connor.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘You so are,’ she said without a flicker of doubt. ‘You’re kidding yourself you’ll go back to the garage and give the money to Gamma Dora to spend. But you won’t. You’ll find another pub, and then another and another. And you’ll end up in a doorway, just like this one, drinking till you drop. You pretend you care about Connor but you don’t. You pretend you love me but I come a long way behind booze on your list. Yes, I call that dishonest.’

  ‘It’s true I don’t really care about Connor… ’

  ‘See, I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘I haven’t finished – I don’t know him enough to care properly. But that’s not it. It’s the situation. It’s too big for me. I can’t think about it. A neglected, abused boy who’s been turned into a little monster – how can I care about that? If I care I’ll have to do something, and I don’t know what to do.’