Crocodiles & Good Intentions

by Liza Cody

  ‘How’s Billy,’ he asked, as if he really cared.

  ‘Still groggy,’ Alicia said, displaying a fine command of medical jargon. ‘He needs an eye kept on him and plenty of fluids but no alcohol.’ She gave me and my glass of red an appraising glance. ‘He needs his GP to go through his medications with him. Clearly he’s overusing and should cut down.’ She stared at the stacks of canned soup and rice pudding before continuing. ‘It’s a waste of my breath to suggest he eats more fresh fruit and veg, isn’t it?’

  I said, ‘He gets Meals on Wheels too.’

  ‘Oh, okay. They’re not bad on healthy diets. But… ’ She shrugged. Billy’s dietary problems were probably almost as overwhelming to her as they were to me. We all shrugged.

  ‘He’s shouting for his breakfast,’ she continued. ‘And I should go home to bed.’

  Pierre’s phone rang.

  22

  In Which Billy’s Daughter And My Mother Make Surprise Visits

  Tantie slept on the sofa. Billy slept in his bed. I left an urgent message on the RSPCA’s helpline. There was nothing else I could do to help Electra or myself till Pierre got back. Then I lay down in the small back bedroom.

  I dreamed that I was all alone in Holloway prison. There was no shouting, no screaming, no raucous laughter, no doors slamming. That’s what you remember most from chokey – the sound of slamming doors and the squeal of the screws’ rubber soles as they walk up and down the corridors. But I was by myself in endless silent corridors and empty cells. Ants and beetles crawled on the floors and up the walls. There was something urgent I should be doing. Cleaning? I couldn’t remember. I tried to find someone to tell me what to do. And began to panic.

  Then, at the end of one of the corridors, I suddenly found a picture window. Outside was a view of a suburban garden. I still couldn’t hear anything but I could see people enjoying a barbecue on a bright summer day. There were steaks and burgers on the grill, fat golden cobs of sweet corn and full glasses of ruby-red wine. Children played in a paddling pool. Pierre was costumed in a blue and crimson silk tea dress. Little Missy’s summer frock was gauzy and floaty. Cherry wore a pink baseball cap with the word Winner on it and showed Alicia the best way to flip burgers. Billy, in white satin pyjamas, lay on a sun lounger. Tantie, Zach, Sylvie and the angry one were singing a capella. Electra slept in the sun, sleek, well fed and beautiful.

  They were all friends, having a good time in Cherry’s garden. Cherry’s barbecue, Cherry’s friends. Cherry’s dog. But I knew that somewhere, underneath the grass, lay the body of a scarred, distorted little boy who’d died of starvation.

  Cherry was the only person there who knew I was watching from my prison window. She looked up at me, smiling her tight, frozen smile, and spoke. I could hear her clearly. She said, ‘I won. Fuck off.’

  The doorbell rang. I jerked awake and went down to find the doctor on the doorstep. I let him in. He gave me a curious look and said, ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, although he was the one Pierre took me to see – the one who prescribed Antabuse and antipsychotics. Of course he was a conniving, manipulative grot-brain – he was Cherry’s doctor too.

  ‘Billy’s upstairs,’ I said helpfully. Where else would he be?

  ‘I know my way,’ he said huffily – as if I’d beaten him to a difficult diagnosis.

  I did not offer him stale coffee, chicken soup or rice pudding. He didn’t deserve it.

  Tantie stumbled out of the living room, lumberjack shirts flapping, to the downstairs wet room. Which reminded me that I hadn’t had a proper wash for… how many days?

  I went to the kitchen and poured myself a modest glass of wine and saw with concern that I was running out. This was not as worrying as it might have been because of Billy’s beer and the claggy remains of sweet sherry. Also I had Pierre’s ten pound note in my pocket. Even so a spasm of panic gripped my guts and brain. I should be out with Electra in the West End collecting money for the next bottle. Sometimes, some righteous citizen will say, ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ Or, ‘I have to earn my own living – you should too.’ They just don’t understand how much time and effort go into sitting on the ground in all weathers, looking ill and pathetic. Or hustling in the rain when everyone, including me, wants to be elsewhere. But it’s our job, and Electra and I do it the best way we can.

  You may disagree. But it’s an honest living. I ask, you give, or not. It’s up to you. Is every single coin in your purse or pocket already spoken for? You may feel poor or stressed and resent my need. You may see me and pretend you haven’t, furious that I’ve made you feel ungenerous. You might not see me at all. It could be you’re angry enough to give me a lecture about drink, drugs and laziness. I don’t mind – maybe you want someone to notice you and understand how hard you work. Perhaps you aren’t appreciated at home or in the office. Or maybe you drop a coin in my hand as you hurry by. You might even bend down to pet Electra. Thank you – she likes that. Now and then you may crouch, stroke Electra and say to me, ‘Hey, how’re you doing today?’ Thanks again, I like that too.

  I don’t wash much – because I can’t. And I don’t rinse out a wine glass — because there isn’t one. Nobody cares. That’s freedom.

  I live from one day to the next, from one bottle to the next. There is a clear, inescapable purpose to every day. Food and drink for Electra and me. Life is pared back to basics. I do only what is absolutely necessary. Can you say the same when you’re dusting the do-dabs on your mantle piece, valeting your car, worrying about what to wear today?

  And yeah, the reason I can stand here appreciating a way of life I did not in fact choose for myself is because I’m trespassing in Billy’s warm kitchen under false pretences. I’m also sipping, ladylike, a glass of red wine bought with fraudulently obtained cash.

  ‘I like you better when you’re kidding yourself,’ the Lord of the Lies whispered. ‘People who lie to themselves are so much easier to manipulate into lying to everyone. Drink up.’

  ‘Know what?’ I said. ‘I’m fed up with you telling me what to do.’ I took one more sip and then put the glass, still half full, in the fridge.

  Listen to me. I put an unfinished glass of wine in the fridge. Have you any idea at all what that means?

  ‘Yeah,’ Satan sniggered. ‘It means you’ll have to get it out again after you fail to leave it alone for ninety seconds.’

  ‘Belt up, knob-head,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said the doctor. ‘Were you talking to me?’

  I was about to deny it when the front door opened and a woman with three children walked in. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said to me. ‘What’s going on? Why’re you here, doctor?’ She was dressed in a navy blue anorak and jeans, and carrying a Pyrex dish the size of a tennis court full of what looked like cottage pie. The three children, two boys and a girl, were all dressed identically to their mother and each of them carried two stuffed Iceland carrier bags.

  The doctor said, ‘Hello, Mrs Wilton. I’m sorry, but your father had another one of his turns last night.’

  ‘Oh?’ She put her pie on the kitchen table. ‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital? Kids, the ice cream’s melting. Is he all right now? In the freezer – you should know by now. Why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘I wasn’t informed myself until an hour ago,’ the doctor said stiffly. ‘The situation was assessed and treated by an emergency crew. I… ’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘They weren’t carrying “special equipment” for the morbidly obese. I’ve heard it all before. Who’s she?’

  ‘A neighbour,’ he said, looking at me as if he didn’t quite believe himself. ‘She called the emergency service when she couldn’t get a response from Billy.’

  ‘What’re you going to do about it?’ She wasn’t listening to anything but her own voice. ‘Dad should be in special ground floor accommodation. Sheltered living. T
hat sort of thing.’

  ‘He’s on the Social Services list.’ The doctor adopted the tone of someone who knew all about Billy and all about lists. He looked as if he’d run out of optimism years ago.

  ‘Well, I’m not satisfied,’ Mrs Wilton said. And she too sounded like she’d used those words a million times before on a million occasions.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay. I have to attend another call.’ And off he went. He just managed to avoid Tantie who was emerging from the wet room with one towel wrapped around her head and another one around her shoulders.

  The children nudged each other. Mrs Wilton said, ‘What’s going on?’

  Tantie disappeared into the living room and closed the door.

  I felt as if my head would explode if you stuck a pin in it. The thing about prison is that you can go for weeks on end without anything happening at all. The chaos of the last few days was taking its toll.

  I said, ‘We’re only staying till we know Billy’s okay.’ I jerked my thumb at the living room door and went on, ‘Your dad threw up all over her so she hasn’t got anything to wear till… ’ I pointed to the washing machine. It was the best I could do on the spur of the moment to explain the presence of a nearly nude middle-aged woman in her father’s house. ‘I expect you’ll want to see your dad now and give him his lunch.’

  ‘Tea.’ She gave me another superior look.

  ‘Can we go now?’ her daughter said.

  ‘I have to get home and give this lot their tea. All I seem to do is stuff food in people’s mouths. You can warm the pie up for dad, can’t you?’

  ‘Aren’t you going up to see him?’ It was to my advantage that she cared so little. But I was surprised.

  ‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘the only thing he wants from me is in that dish.’ She collected the children and left. The children after their brief reaction to Tantie’s state of undress had settled back into silent apathy.

  ‘Don’t you want to see your grandpa?’ I murmured to their retreating backs. I didn’t understand but I supposed the pie and ice cream represented some sort of love and commitment. I went upstairs.

  Billy said, ‘What did she bring me?’ He didn’t even use his daughter’s name.

  ‘Cottage pie,’ I said. ‘Look, can I get something straight here? Your daughter… ’

  ‘Half of it now,’ he said, ‘half tomorrow.’

  ‘But is it okay if Tantie stays here for a few days too?’

  ‘Talk to me after supper,’ he said. ‘And turn the TV to face me. I’m not getting up again today – I’m too weak.’

  ‘No,’ I said, sensing another advantage. ‘I need to know now. She helped save your life, and she’s homeless.’

  ‘The connection is?’ His fingers, drumming on the back of his mobile phone, sounded like a tiny galloping horse.

  ‘She was staying next door,’ I said. ‘She came to help me when you passed out, and now your favourite neighbour’s locked her out and won’t even let her have her clothes back.’

  ‘No shit!’ He said, suddenly interested. ‘What the fuck’s going on? The Witch-Bitch is such a control freak – she’s so sodding organised. I didn’t dream last night, did I? With the cops and that bit of all right with the big knobs and knockers?’

  Oh the women men choose to fancy! Have they no criteria for selection other than big boobs and spread legs? Mrs Cropper – a drunken, stoned, abusive grandmother, and Cherry – a coercive, frozen-faced, hard-hearted dog thief – had no trouble landing men.

  I said, ‘You didn’t dream it. Your neighbour’s coming unglued.’

  ‘She used to put notes through my door about me not cutting the grass in the front. Or when anyone parked outside her house – like it isn’t a public road. Not just me – the other neighbours too. I’m not the only one who wouldn’t mind if she came down a peg or two.’

  ‘So its okay if Tantie stays?’

  ‘Not for long. She’s old, isn’t she, got grey hair?’

  ‘You’ve seen her.’

  ‘I’m not feeding her – she buys her own food.’

  I turned his TV to face him and left before he forced me to slap him.

  ‘What I do now?’ Tantie asked. She was in despair – not just because her life was desperate, but because she couldn’t express it in her own language.

  ‘Heat up half this pie.’ I pointed to the pie and then to the oven. ‘Feed Billy. Il dit que you can restez chez lui for a few days.’

  ‘I have permission?’ She got up and stared blankly at the pie and the grubby oven. Her hair was clean, but it floated, confused, around her anxious little face. In her two shirts she looked even more demented than I did. But her housing problem could be shelved for a few days. As could mine. Unless we royally pissed off our host. Or the Social Services or the cops moved us on. Because the cops would be coming back. That’s something you can bet your life savings on. Always. Unlike the RSPCA whose job it is to prevent cruelty to animals. Where were they now I needed them?

  I had another problem. Only two and a half glasses of red wine had slid down my gullet since… since when? Now that I was counting my consumption in glassfuls rather than in bottlefuls I was finding counting easier. But I was feeling quite ill – a bit queasy, headachy, panicky and unsteady on my legs.

  I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands trying to reconstruct what had happened to my poor battered body since leaving the comfort and safety of Her Majesty’s chokey. Kicked by kids, knocked over by a bus, knocked over by a man, poisoned with Antabuse and prescription drugs and deprived of sleep. Worst of all I had no idea of how to rescue Electra. Anxiety for her well-being gnawed into the lining of my stomach like pure acid.

  I was supposed to sit quiet and keep out of trouble till Pierre got back. But Pierre had been gone all afternoon. I’d done my very best, but all I had to show for my heroic restraint was one empty wine bottle and an empty sweet sherry bottle. Either I’d be forced to steal from Billy again or I’d have to go out to buy supplies with the money I’d stolen from Pierre. Begging is an honourable profession compared with hanging around someone else’s house with no money in your pockets for essentials. And I had no choice but to hang around Billy’s house because Electra was trapped next door.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. At five-thirty I covered myself with Billy’s coat and tumbled out into a drizzle so fine and cold it felt like all my clothes were wet. Scurrying, head down, collar up, I risked passing in front of the Ice House. Its face was blank – a clone of the house opposite, a clone of all the blank-faced houses in the whole street.

  My right hand was clamped around Pierre’s ten pound note. My left hand searched the dark and empty air by my side where Electra should have been.

  ‘Get used to it,’ the Devil said. In the cold maze of identical houses the Devil sounded like a woman. I stopped and looked around. I was alone.

  ‘Get used to it,’ she said again. ‘I can come to you in any form I like. I have no limits. You’re just sexist, and you don’t have enough imagination, do you? I’m an equal opportunities emanation from all of humanity – and a few cats, rats, bats and kumquats thrown in for good measure. Call me Mother.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. But I knew he was right. How else could he know all my weaknesses so thoroughly? And it was true the enemy, the one who wanted to destroy me and my only friend, was a woman. This time, the force, the coercion was not being applied by a man. This time I was the victim of female coercion and manipulation. Oh joy – a woman can compete with total equality in a sport none of us should be engaged in.

  I didn’t like it. The Evil One was supposed to be male. He was what the angel Lucifer became. He used to be an angel, and god only made bloke angels. His face was the face of my ex-demon lover. He was the traitor, the deceiver, the destroyer of all my dignity, honesty and the last remnants of trust and femininity. Was he, even in
the shape of the Devil, deserting me again?

  ‘I told him you were stupid,’ Mother informed me coldly. ‘You still love him, don’t you? I’m right, as always – you are stupid. Big feet, clumsy hands, inadequate brain – that’s my girl.’

  ‘If you’d been a… ’

  ‘What? Better mother? Blaming your mother are you? The last excuse of the abject failure. How banal. Whereas, of course, I blame you. You were corrupt and a liar even as a child. My husband left me because of you.’

  I used to wish that the Devil would disappear magically and never come back. But as tormenters go he was preferable to the one who called herself Mother. ‘Shut up,’ I muttered, almost inaudibly through clenched teeth – much as I had when she was alive and we were living together in Acton.

  By now I had reached the charity shop that marked the boundary between the residential area and what passed for a high street in this arid neck of the woods. There were three charity shops and a Pound Place in the space of three hundred yards. None of them sold red wine so I ignored them. Then there was a Mini Mart which advertised cheap wine. That was what I was aiming for. But right next door to the Mini Mart was a hardware shop. ‘Closing Down!’ the sign said. ‘Everything Must Go!’

  And there, right in front of the untidy display, was a bolt cutter. Price: ten pounds.

  Ten pounds. Exactly what I had – Pierre’s ten pounds in the pocket of Billy’s coat. Ten pounds with which I could buy a bottle of cheap red wine and still have enough left over to buy eggs or beans and bread for Tantie.

  Or I could chop the padlock off a shed door, free Electra and then hit Cherry Ice-Price over the head with a bolt cutter.

  ‘But,’ sneered Mother, ‘you’ll never have the courage to trespass and vandalise pretty Cherry’s property unless you have a swig of your favourite tipple.’

  While I was dithering, a Volvo Estate car pulled up outside one of the charity shops. A woman got out of the driver’s side, glanced furtively up and down the dark street, then, quick as a fox, opened the hatchback and threw two rubbish bags out onto the pavement. She couldn’t get away fast enough.