by Liza Cody
‘I can’t,’ I said, looking at Billy’s blue and yellow face with revulsion.
‘Gotta.’ Pierre sank down on the sofa holding his head in his hands. ‘Cos if you don’t, and he croaks, there’ll be an autopsy and you’ll cop for whatever they find in that sack of guts.’
I knelt on the bed and tried to do what I’d seen Pierre do.
‘Put some oomph into it,’ he snapped, ‘You gotta move the guy, not tickle him.’
I had as many oomphs in me as flamingos have fingers.
‘You’re doing the world a favour,’ crooned Old Harry. ‘You’re rocking him to sleep. That’s the way to die in peace. No one will miss him.’
‘I will,’ I shouted. ‘He’s a card-carrying twat, but he didn’t kick me out. Not like Hard-hearted Hannah next door.’ I shoved where I thought his heart was with all my strength. ‘He has girlfriends,’ I gasped. ‘They’ll miss him.’
‘Girlfriends?’ Pierre asked wearily. ‘Who’re you shitting?’
‘Find his phone and you’ll see… ’
‘Oh, phone sex,’ he said dismissively.
‘Don’t knock it. At least he has sex that he doesn’t have to pay for by betraying his friends. At least his girlfriends won’t love him so much they undermine his identity and trash his wardrobe.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Just as Pierre said ‘okay’, Billy snorted once, a long wet disgusting snort, and choked up something vile.
‘Fucking ace,’ Pierre yelled. He leaped to his feet, galvanised, and sank his enormous fist into Billy’s solar plexus. Billy choked again. I shoved with all my strength.
The Devil, almost strangled by laughter, said, ‘First she kills them, then she saves them.’
‘We gotta turn him or he’ll choke,’ Pierre gasped. But fortunately for Billy we were interrupted by the experts.
Feet pounded up the stairs. A woman in tangerine coveralls said, ‘Which one of you called in?’ Then she took in the sight of Billy and said, ‘Oh fuck, we’ll need a bigger van.’
Her partner said, ‘We’ll work on him here. What’s he taken?’
Pierre showed them Billy’s prescription tablets.
The woman said, ‘Mirtazapine – oh my, that’s a hefty dose. Temazepam and Zopiclone? Anything else?’
I got off the bed. I was sweating so I opened the window. While my back was turned to the room I chucked my wineglass out onto the front patch of grass. Then I fished the diazepam out of my underwear and dropped it on the floor next to the bed.
The partner was counting beer cans. He said, ‘Having a party?’
‘Can you help him?’ I asked.
‘Someone’s been bloody irresponsible,’ the partner said. ‘Now get out all of you and let us do our job.’
‘On reflection,’ Pierre said, ‘I think I saw more pills on the floor – right by your feet, Sister Angela.’
I realised, to my dismay, that he’d seen what I’d done reflected in the window. I picked up the pills and gave them to the woman paramedic. I couldn’t get out of Billy’s bedroom fast enough.
‘Café?’ Tantie asked when we gathered in the kitchen.
We found an ancient crusty jar of Douwe Egberts. She wrinkled her nose but I set out three mugs and filled the kettle.
Pierre leaned against the door jamb listening to the sounds of violent rescue coming from upstairs. His arms were folded across his chest and he looked like god in judgement.
‘Did you see her?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Her name tag says Alicia. Isn’t she so fine?’
I’d hardly noticed her but I said, ‘Given your appalling taste in women, don’t even think about it.’
‘Whereas,’ sniggered He Who Guides Terrible Choices, ‘your taste in men is so terrific that you can look at Alicia’s partner like you’re a moonstruck girlie.’
Alicia’s partner was broad in the shoulder. His hands were square, dependable and obviously gentle. Most seductive of all, he was saving Billy’s life and, whether he knew it or not, my neck.
‘Enchanting,’ said the Teller of Cruel Truth, ‘a toothless hag, besotted – my favourite. What a wonderful opportunity for heartbreak. Just like last time.’
‘I am not besotted.’
‘No, but you are a hag. You were born a hag and you’ll die a hag. And you’re way too old for the men you yearn for.’
‘Shut up and leave me alone.’
Tantie stared at me shocked, but Pierre didn’t notice. He said, ‘I’m just looking. Don’t you love a girl in uniform?’
‘Know what, Pierre,’ I said. ‘You’re downright frightening when it comes to women. Did you happen to see her partner’s name tag?’
‘Colin,’ Tantie said, and sighed.
All three of us, it seemed, had given our hearts to saviours.
‘I saw your Louis,’ I told Tantie to distract her. ‘He was with the police at the hospital.’
‘Not again,’ she said, lifting her hands and shoulders in a gesture of complete resignation.
The kettle boiled. I made three black coffees. We didn’t talk about the muffled thumps and crashes we could hear upstairs.
‘Louis fight,’ Tantie said. ‘Always, always the fight. But in his heart he is pure. He love this planet. Man is enemy.’
‘He just loves hitting guys.’ Pierre came and sat at the kitchen table.
‘You are the nuns. Yes?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Pierre said. ‘We were the nuns. But we’re pure of heart too.’
‘The little boy?’
‘We rescued him, but it went wrong.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I try too but… ’ she shrugged. ‘Horrible. Too much bad. I try to rescue Zach and Sylvie. Too far away.’
There was another story, another tragedy that couldn’t be told in broken English.
‘Why does everything have to be so fucked up?’ I cried.
‘Why do you have to be so fucked up?’ Pierre asked. ‘What were you thinking? Feeding Billy all that booze? And downers – on top of his prescription shit. Can’t you see he’s got health problems?’
‘He’s overweight,’ I protested, ‘not a moron. This is his house. He’s in charge. It’s his beer. If he wants to drink it, respect his decision.’
‘Great philosophy – coming from an alky.’
‘Great rebuke – coming from the guy who’s so arrogant about what’s best for me that he doses me with Antabuse against my will.’
‘Fucking give it up, will you?’ Exasperation made him shout and Tantie looked up from her coffee in alarm. ‘You’re a mess. I’d a thought you’d appreciate the help. And while we’re talking about respect, why do you always call Li’l Missy “Mister Sister” and “he”? She ain’t a “he”. She’s got a right to her identity. Who are you to make judgements about her gender?’
‘He hasn’t had the operation yet so he’s what nature made him.’
‘Sometimes nature gets it wrong,’ Pierre said angrily. ‘You gotta let people be who they know they are. It’s their decision, not yours.’
‘Well, red wine’s my decision.’ I couldn’t match him for anger because I was too tired. But I could stick to my guns. ‘Like women’s clothes are yours. No one has a right to… ’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘And just cos Billy’s forty stone and a bigot doesn’t mean he can’t get leathered or have girlfriends.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t have to help him. And you really don’t get to dose him with downers.’
‘Hah!’ I screeched, and pointed a finger in his face.
‘And you don’t get to dose me neither.’
‘I didn’t dose you – you came in and stole half his bedtime treat, you greedy bugger.’
‘And now, ain’t y
ou glad that I did?’
‘The reason I had to make sure he went bye-byes is you. You were so noisy and careless.’
We were still glaring at each other when Colin walked into the kitchen looking gloomy. ‘We got him breathing,’ he said, ‘but we can’t wake him up. Normally we’d take him in, but in this case we’d need special equipment. So we’re having to monitor him in situ. But in case a more urgent shout comes in we got to show one of you what to do.’ He looked expectantly at Pierre.
Pierre looked first at Tantie, who was still wearing Billy’s dressing gown and sheepskin slippers, and then at me. When neither of us responded, he looked at his watch and said, ‘I gotta be at work in three hours.’
‘All of you then,’ Colin said. ‘And does anyone know who Michelle Watson is and why Billy was taking her prescription diazepam?’
20
In Which I Find What I Want But Can’t Have It
Pierre jerked his thumb at me and said, ‘Don’t let her anywhere near the patient. She’s, um, kinda accident prone.’
Tantie used the overcrowding in Billy’s bedroom to cuddle up to Colin. She still looked like a lunatic, which is, I suppose, what all older women look like when they fancy a paramedic half their age.
Alicia, who filled her coveralls like air in an inflatable doll, was listening to Billy’s heart through a stethoscope. She didn’t look up when Pierre moved to her side.
Billy, now a healthy colour, seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The room smelled of vomit.
I said, ‘Why are surgical gloves blue?’
‘Shshsh,’ said Pierre.
‘So you won’t mistake us for hairdressers,’ Alicia said. And Pierre laughed too loudly and too long.
I was happy to hear it. Anything that loosened Chilly Cherry’s grip on him was welcome. It suddenly occurred to me that he mightn’t have given back the keys to her house. So while Colin and Alicia were giving us a lecture on CPR I slid out of the room and downstairs to the front room where Pierre had been sleeping.
I found a big bunch of keys in his jacket pocket – nine keys in all. It’s typical, isn’t it – there are always too many or too few. Why couldn’t he have a neat pink key ring with a label on it which read, ‘I’m the key to Ms Frosty’s front door: steal me’?
On the other hand, he did have a money clip.
I left Billy’s house, wearing Billy’s coat, with Pierre’s keys in my hand. If one of them opened a door, I could walk in while everyone was sleeping, reclaim Electra, and blow North Finchley forever.
I could buy a ticket to Piccadilly Circus on a bus or a train and live surrounded by generous strangers. I could watch life roll by from the steps of the National Gallery. I could live at my own pace without the grinding responsibility for abused children or the disabled. No one would shout at me for taking a drink. Electra might occasionally, gently suggest more modest consumption, but she is a true friend. She doesn’t try to force me into unwelcome action for her own convenience. Provided she gets enough food and sleep, and I get enough red wine, we’re perfect companions. When she’s by my side, her sweetness keeps the Devil away. He hardly ever attacks while she’s guarding me. I can rely on her love and loyalty.
Because how can a woman get up in the morning without love? When her heart beats all alone inside that gaping hole in her chest, how can she put one foot in front of the other?
No one has the right to steal love. Frozen Cherry Pie may think Electra’s only a pawn in her long game, but when she stole her she stole the keeper of my heart and soul. Without Electra I have no roll for my rock, no tick for my tock and no ground to stand on.
The kitchen door would be the safest, I figured, because the biggest bedroom, Miss Frigidaire’s, was at the front. I went around the side of Cherry’s house past the gravel pull-in where the Ambo used to be parked, past her tasteful grey Toyota Yaris, to the back garden gate. The latch opened and in I snuck, a hopeful burglar.
The kitchen door was painted white and in good nick. The lock looked as if it took a three or five bolt key. I had four to choose from. I picked one. It didn’t fit at all. Nor did the next. The third magically fitted and turned easily. But the door wouldn’t open. Either the icy troll had bolted as well as locked it, or all the recent rain had made the wood swell and it was stuck.
I was just about to put my shoulder to it when the kitchen light went on. I dropped to my knees, my heart flipping like a crack-fuelled gymnast.
I crawled to the side of the house and sat on the wet concrete. I hadn’t noticed before but the sky was turning dark bruise grey. Somewhere in the East, behind Cherry’s garden shed, dawn was breaking. What time was dawn in November? Was it still November? I didn’t know. And what was the day of the week? Would Ms Arctic be going to work or staying home for the weekend?
All you people with computers, phones and tellies would know in an instant. Have you ever wondered how the rest of us get by? Sometimes simple information’s crucial – especially when you’re breaking and entering.
In my hang-out of first choice, the West End, there’s always someone to ask. Sitting here, some time before sparrow-fart, in a bleak featureless garden, on a bleak featureless road, where the ticky-tacky houses hide loneliness, boredom and despair, I despair too. I long for the lights and life, the tourists, the shopaholics, and the world’s largest collection of damaged drunks – just like me. We don’t hide our disability in a lonely bedroom. We parade it and ask others to pay for it – out of generosity or a need for human contact.
Billy could’ve died last night in his lonely room. But he wouldn’t have been alone. He gave me house room, and I extended the courtesy to Pierre and Tantie. Those of us made homeless by Queen Control were sheltered by oblivious bigoted Billy, and for that reason he didn’t die. Pierre would argue that my actions put him in danger in the first place, but who knows if that’s true? Pierre doesn’t understand the random laws of street karma. What goes around doesn’t necessarily come around – nothing so neat – but you may bump into it again, drowning in a pool of its own vomit. Then you can either lend a hand or walk away. Your choice.
But never expect a drunk to repay kindness with kindness. We may be grateful, but that doesn’t mean we won’t puke on your doorstep.
‘Oh shut up and get on with it,’ said my Dark Lord. ‘Do you want to go in and find your dog or don’t you? I’ve given you the key so why don’t you use it?’
‘You’ve given me nothing but bad advice.’ But I got stiffly to my feet, knees crackling like splitting branches, and moved round so that I could see in through the kitchen window. The light was on. Zach and Sylvie sat at the kitchen table, knees touching. Smister was making coffee in a cafetière. He wore aqua-coloured lounging pyjamas and a petulant expression. Sylvie was wearing his cream satin negligee. I recognised it from before I went to pokey. Zach wore boxer shorts and a tee that were probably his own.
I ducked down below window level. I couldn’t let Smister see me – he was the little enemy in the big enemy’s camp. But I could almost smell the coffee. If he were still my friend he’d give me a hot mug I could wrap my freezing hands around. He might even lend me a pair of his fluffy bed socks. My feet were so cold I could barely feel them.
I couldn’t sit still in the cutting wind, so I wiped my nose on Billy’s sleeve and crept away, following the garden fence. The plan, if you can call it that, was to take refuge in the Snow Queen’s garden shed. It was a large, well built shed on a solid concrete footing. From its shelter I could watch the back of the house and be ready for when Electra was next let out.
The plan was thwarted by a sturdy padlock. I sorted through Pierre’s keys but none of them fit. Typical, I thought. There would be no comfort or shelter on Queen Mean’s property. I went to the back, hoping for a window to force and of course found no window.
The shed was close to Billy’s fence. Hidden, I tested all panels. They were as
well built and new as the fence. I’d have to dig a tunnel. If Billy owned a spade. Miss Perfect probably had one but it would be padlocked inside. The Frozen Fortress was well guarded.
I sat with my back to the back of the shed.
‘It’s only wood,’ said the Inverter of Chaos Theory. ‘Set light to it. Knock it over.’
‘It’s too tough.’
‘Are you deaf as well as dumb?’
‘What?’
‘Hello,’ said Electra. ‘I could smell you a mile off. How come I know you’re here but, even though you claim you’re looking for me, you fail to find me?’
‘But… ’
‘A bit slow this morning, aren’t you? Yes, I’m locked in a shed, waiting for you to rescue me.’
I didn’t have the key. So close – so agonisingly close – but I couldn’t see her or touch her. I burst into tears.
She snuffled and whined a couple of times just to let me know she was there and sorry too. But I simply couldn’t stop myself – I bawled. All the frustration, fatigue and fear caught up and rolled on top of me.
When I could speak again, I said, ‘Darling, I’m going to get help. Be strong. Wait. I’ll be back.’
Still gulping down tears, I left Cherry’s bleak garden, Electra’s prison, and went to find Pierre.
21
Negotiate
Pierre was in the kitchen studying a pamphlet. Without looking up he said, ‘I can do a course in first aid and CPR. Hey, I could save lives.’
‘Yes,’ I snuffled, ‘you could. Starting now.’
‘Alicia reckons I got aptitude.’
‘Did the last woman you had the hots for ever lock my dog in her garden shed?’
‘Say what?’ At last he looked at me.
‘Electra’s in the shed next door,’ I sobbed, ‘and there’s a dirty great padlock so I can’t let her out.’
‘You went next door? Why’re you such an asshole, girl? You gotta negotiate, persuade, even buy a little bling if you want something Cherry doesn’t want you to want. You don’t barge in and raid the place. Where’s your head?’