Crocodiles & Good Intentions

by Liza Cody

  ‘Don’t procrastinate,’ Mother said. ‘You’re wasting valuable drinking time. You know you’ll never have the guts even to make up your timid little mind until you get some of that good red tonic down your throat.’

  ‘Bugger off,’ I said loudly. But when I looked round there was no one to hear me, just as there’d been no one to see the woman in the Volvo Estate.

  The hand-written notice on the charity shop door said, ‘Please don’t leave donations outside when we’re closed. Come back when we’re open. Otherwise bags will be vandalised or rain soaked and your precious gifts will be ruined or stolen.’

  Too right. There’s a whole section of the under-society who can’t afford even charity shop prices.

  ‘Have you no pride?’ Mother said. ‘I would rather have died than stoop so low.’

  ‘You did die,’ I said, ‘so stop bugging me.’ I really didn’t want to hear her. Her voice made breathing difficult.

  The first bag I opened was full of baby and toddler clothes. They looked like pretty good quality but I could tell by the smell that they hadn’t been washed. The Volvo woman wasn’t donating clothes to charity, she was having a clearout and couldn’t be bothered to wait for rubbish collection day.

  The next bag was full of unwashed women’s clothing. I picked up the whole thing and then re-crossed the road to the Mini Mart.

  ‘Stealing from a charity shop,’ Mother remarked. ‘No wonder you can’t live with yourself when you’re sober.’

  I tried to ignore her as I pushed through the Mini Mart door. And, as I turned unerringly towards the drinks aisle I tried to ignore the mental picture of a bolt cutter, price ten pounds only.

  23

  What Is Love?

  Tantie tipped the contents of the bag onto the kitchen floor. She looked at the clothes and burst into tears. Maybe there was nothing there to her taste. Maybe there was nothing in her size. But eventually she wiped her eyes on Billy’s sleeve and put her arms around me.

  Together we pawed through all the low-end high street brands. She picked a blue shirt, a grey sweater, a black viscose and wool jacket and black jeans probably a size too large. They were nearly clean. I picked a black tracksuit, black leggings and a thick knee-length green sweater. It had some baby’s up-chuck stains on the front which Tantie sponged off. Some of the garments were too dirty and mauled to think about. Those went straight back in the bin bag. Some we put in the washing machine along with what we had been wearing for two days. Tantie was not phased by the complexity of Billy’s white goods.

  A woman with small children yo-yos between sizes. Our lazy benefactress had jettisoned her whole weight history. Sometimes she had a waist, sometimes she didn’t. She’d had big boobs and she’d also been nearly flat-chested. She’d dressed to hide and she’d dressed to display. Tantie and I were very lucky.

  Two crucial gaps in our new wardrobes were underwear and shoes. But it was nearly bedtime and we were too tired to care.

  At one o’clock, Tantie came in to sleep on the floor of the little spare room. She made me understand that Billy had gone to sleep watching porn on his computer. ‘Bang, bang, bang till ze woman bleed,’ she told me by way of illustration. Which made me want to do the same thing, with a golf club, to Billy’s head.

  I’d hardly gone back to sleep when I heard Pierre coming, too noisily, through the front door. I hurried downstairs to hush him and lock the door behind him. He smelled of a musky perfume and rum. He had not rescued Electra.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I snarled, herding him into the kitchen. Because even if I’d been born without a nose I’d have noticed that it was not Cherry’s perfume. Miss Frozen Farts went in for something more flowery and pink. What Pierre was wearing smelled of crimson mixed with burnt caramel and orange.

  ‘I gotta get my head down,’ he complained.

  ‘Not so fast. Where’s Electra? Did you even go next door?’

  He set a large backpack down on the kitchen table and unzipped it. I had a sudden mad hope that Electra would bound out, into my arms, saying, ‘Ta-da! Surprised you, didn’t I?’

  Instead he reverently lifted out a biscuit-coloured glamour wig which he set carefully on a crude polystyrene head.

  ‘Li’l Missy saved it for me,’ he said. ‘She hid it under her bed while Cherry was murderin’ the others. Course I went next door. I done a deal. We – you and me – gotta give the ambulance to Zach and Sylvie. But that’s tomorrow. I can’t think about it now.’

  ‘You gave away my home, and all she gave you was her word?’

  ‘Look, she thought I could just pick Zach and Sylvie up by the scruff and evict them. She still has this picture of me as some kinda bouncer. She thinks cos I’m big I should be violent an’ protect her from all comers. Well, it ain’t like that. I ain’t like that. Never was. Never will be. End of.’

  ‘What she wants from a man… ’ I began, thinking of all my own dead hopes and dreams.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘I ain’t it. After that first time with her I was upfront – I told her who I was an’ what I do. And she pretended to find it “different and exciting”. But when push came to shove she wanted the stereotype – the “proper boyfriend”. Looks like she still does.’

  And I was making the same mistake – I thought, because he was a big guy who had some sort of influence over Miss Pinkie Poison, he would rescue my dog. I should take the time and trouble to rethink Pierre entirely. After all, guys who actually want to look like women, and for a short time at least to be women for whatever reason, are rare birds with very different feathers. Most men would rather die.

  I said, ‘Put the wig on, Pierre. I want to see you in it.’

  He gave me a strange look, as if he was re-assessing me too. Then he grinned and took the wig away to the mirror in the wet room.

  When he came back he was still dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt and no make-up – but he was a woman. The same magic that made him a hundred times more convincing as a nun than I was made him more convincingly female than I would ever be.

  I sat across the kitchen table from him with my chin in my hands. He sat, perfectly relaxed, seeming to enjoy my gaze.

  ‘Yes,’ I said at last. ‘Magic. I hope you showed this to Alicia.’

  ‘You ain’t even hammered,’ he said in a tone of wonder that matched my own. ‘Sure I showed her. She didn’t drop onto no live rail about it neither.’

  ‘Good for her,’ I said. ‘Pierre, did you see Electra?’

  ‘No,’ he said sadly. His voice almost sweet. ‘You’re right. Cherry said she was at the vet’s for the night with a cold. But when she went to the bathroom Missy told me she was lying. She kept Electra in the house while the kid was there cos that was the only way they got any peace. But after she got rid of Connor she said she didn’t want to be reminded of you and how you’d manipulated me into betraying her. The memory was too painful – so she put Electra out of sight. She’ll do something about her Monday.’

  ‘She’s rewriting history.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said in the light, warm tone of the woman he’d become. ‘Why didn’t I see Cherry for what she was months ago?’

  ‘Maybe she made you see things exclusively like a man,’ I said. ‘But Pierre, what’s she going to do on Monday?’

  ‘You think women see people clearly?’

  ‘We’re just as blind and stupid about love,’ I admitted. ‘But we usually smell a rat when another woman’s up to no good. What’s the frilly fascist going to do on Monday?’

  ‘Nothing – I told you. We hand the Ambo over to Zach and Sylvie. She keeps her end of the deal.’

  ‘You believe her? Meanwhile Electra’s forced to spend another freezing night in a shed. I don’t know if she has her coat on or even if she’s being fed. What did Little Missy say about that?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s too wobbly about her ow
n future.’

  ‘Oh.’ Then, with sudden foreboding: ‘What exactly is the deal?’

  ‘See, I thought you’d be assholed.’ He bit his lip and then reluctantly removed the wig and restored it to its polystyrene support. ‘You always think shit’s all about you. But y’know it really ain’t. Other folk’s got their own shit too.’

  ‘You never even discussed Electra.’

  ‘That ain’t true. I wanted to. Cherry didn’t. What I found out came from Li’l Missy. And that wasn’t hardly nothing. Missy’s my homie from way back. She’s scared. She ain’t even in control of her own meds. How d‘you think she feels knowing crap like re-growth of facial hair depends on placating a woman she’s afraid of? Don’t look like that. You got no idea what fuckin’ work she’s put in, what a dangerous game she’s into, to be who she knows she oughta be.’

  ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to?’ I hissed. ‘I was there. I saw her beaten up. I nursed her after a cop raped her. Don’t you dare… ’

  ‘Okay, okay. Yeah, you saw bits and pieces. So you know. Ain’t that worth the comfort of a dog?’

  ‘This isn’t about comfort. It’s about using a living creature as a pawn in a game your ex “honee” wants to win. This is about a woman so avid for her own aims she gives a baby back to the people who used him for an ashtray. If she can do that to a baby, how can you trust what she’ll do to a tranny she despises, or a dog who belongs to a woman she hates? Tell me that, Pierre. She used to say she loved you, right? And now, two days later, she’s blackmailing you and threatening your friends. Isn’t it time you stood up for what you know’s right? Well, isn’t it?’

  He got up and went to the fridge. He took out two cans of lager and popped the ring pulls. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘You’re going all Judy Garland.’

  Did you think I chose the wine over the bolt cutter? If you did I can’t blame you. That’s what I was going to do. It’s what I thought I wanted to do too. But I didn’t. I bought the bolt cutter for ten stolen pounds. I stole a bag of clothes from a charity shop as well. I was trying so hard, you see, to find out what it felt like to be a virtuous thief. Then I went back to Billy’s in a stone cold funk.

  But Devil Mother was right. Without my Alcoholic Assistant I had no jazz. I couldn’t bring myself to take the risk of being caught breaking and entering. Of violating the terms of my parole. Of being carted straight back to chokey. Even for Electra.

  Call that love? No, I don’t either.

  Surely love is about putting someone else first? Or at least on an equal footing? It isn’t about being too wussy-scared of chokey that you won’t walk a few yards to next door’s garden to try out your new bolt cutter on a cold troll’s padlocked shed. That’s not what Electra would do in my place. She’d put herself in danger to save me. On the other hand, I think Electra is the only one in the world who’d understand my failure to act. That’s what I call love.

  But on the other other hand, she ran away with her tail between her legs when I was attacked by those kids at Castle Cropper. And did I blame her for that? Well, to be truthful, yes, I did. But only a little. I understood. Well, mostly. I wouldn’t wish a kicking on her just because I was getting one. Is that love?

  Love shouldn’t depend on a couple of Billy’s beers and another sleepless night.

  Love, I thought feverishly, isn’t just what you feel – it has to be backed up by what you do. Well, doesn’t it?

  Which is why I wrote a note on an envelope I found in Billy’s trash bin. It said, ‘If I’m not back by morning, call Kaylee Yost.’ I slid it under the living room door where Pierre would have to see it on his way to the wet room.

  24

  What’s Wrong With Us?

  The shed loomed, rain-shiny, blacker than the sky.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I whispered to Electra. ‘It won’t be long now.’ But she didn’t answer. I fingered the padlock with one hand and juggled the bolt cutter with the other till I felt the jaws engage around the padlock keeper. Then, using both hands, I slammed the jaws shut.

  A jarring pain ran like snakebite up my arm to my recently dislocated shoulder. ‘Ow-ow-ow!’ I cried. I couldn’t help myself. I dropped the bolt cutter and ran behind the shed to hide.

  No security light came on. No one opened a window and yelled at me. The pain subsided in a few minutes, but Electra remained silent.

  I wished I could’ve found a torch in Billy’s house. I wished I had riveter’s wrists like Pierre. I wished I hadn’t had to make an impossible choice between wine and bolt cutters. Beer doesn’t dampen my inhibitions like wine does. Wine gives me confidence. Beer just makes me want to pee.

  ‘Stop it,’ Pierre said, making me jump out of my skin, let alone my pants. Where had he come from? ‘What you doing?’ he went on, disgusted. ‘Marking territory? I thought Electra was supposed to be the dog.’

  ‘It’s that beer you gave me.’ I scrambled to make myself decent. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Saving you from yourself. I got up to take a leak and found your note. I thought you’d be here doing some insane shit. Right again, yeah? Pissing in Cherry’s garden? Some kinda payback?’

  ‘You missed the bolt cutter,’ I said. I was so relieved he’d come I could’ve hugged him. But I said, ‘I didn’t ask for your help. Why don’t you go back to bed?’ A person has a right to be surly when she’s been caught peeing in her mortal enemy’s herbaceous border.

  ‘Bolt cutter?’ he said. ‘Let me see.’

  I showed him. ‘It doesn’t work,’ I said. ‘Maybe the padlock’s too new.’

  ‘Dummy,’ he said. ‘A: it’s a piece of crap. B: you’ll never cut through the padlock. Where did you go to school – Madame Doobie’s Academy for the brain damaged? You should try cutting the hasp – it’s a lot older and rustier.’

  Silently I handed him the despised tool. He sighed and took it. After four tries the hasp fell away and the bolt cutter broke. He hauled the padlock off and pulled the shed door open.

  Electra did not rush out to greet me. It was dark. At first I thought she wasn’t there – that maybe the Icicle had relented enough to give her a warmer bed for the night. But then I heard a tremulous whimper.

  ‘Hang on,’ Pierre said. ‘I got a little pocket torch.’ He fumbled in his pockets.

  I felt my way into the shed until my hands met Electra’s soft fur. She seemed to be leaning, all wrong, against something hard. Then the weak bluish light from Pierre’s tiny torch showed me my best friend half slumped on her side on bare concrete. Her head was cocked up at a weird angle.

  ‘Shit, shit, oh shit,’ I said.

  It wasn’t bad enough that Electra had been locked in a shed, or that she had no coat and no bed: someone had also chained her to a large petrol powered lawnmower with a chain too short to allow her to lie down properly. There wasn’t even a water bowl.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Pierre said. ‘Who’d do shit like this?’

  ‘Your girlfriend,’ I said. ‘The woman you loved, the one you’re going on holiday with, the one you shared a bed with and called “honee”. Shut up talking. Help me get this chain off.’

  ‘Not my girlfriend.’ He knelt down beside me, pointing his tiny light at Electra’s neck. ‘What the… ?’

  The chain was padlocked around Electra’s neck and then padlocked to the lawnmower. Two padlocks for one poor old dog. ‘I can’t get this off,’ he said. ‘The bolt cutter broke.’

  ‘Can you stand up, darling?’ I asked Electra. I put my arms under her chest and helped her to her feet. She was so weak she had to sit down almost immediately. I didn’t even have any water to give her.

  ‘I’ll have to carry her,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to steal the lawnmower.’

  ‘Can’t we dismantle the machine?’

  ‘No tools,’ I said. ‘No time.’ I picked up Electra. He got behind the mower. Slowly,
too slowly, we left the shed.

  ‘Shee-it,’ he said, looking at the kitchen window. The light was on. He checked his watch. ‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘Your timing’s just crap.’

  Electra’s head drooped over my arm. She was almost invisible in the darkness of winter dawn, but I could feel through her fragile bones to the cruelty and sadness that had seeped into the centre of her body.

  I thought, ‘She’ll never recover from this.’ She’d put her trust in someone who was only pretending to care for her. She’d given faith and love to someone, Chilly Cherry, who was using her as a weapon in the war game she was playing with Pierre. She’d put her trust in me but I deserted her. I went to the lockup and left her with Li’l Missy, who was too weak and insecure to look after himself let alone protect her. She was my friend, my responsibility, and I failed her.

  ‘My cute ass was not built for pushing lawnmowers,’ Pierre grumbled. We were negotiating the gate from the garden to the gravel pull-in. I couldn’t imagine why no one in the house had heard us.

  Electra has always needed my protection. She was only a day away from the lethal injection when we met. She was a clapped-out old racing dog, unfamiliar with human company – not top of a wish list for anyone who wanted to adopt a cuddly pet. That’s probably why the animal shelter people let a homeless woman take her. If she’d been younger, less scared and shivery they’d have found her a proper home.

  ‘That worked out well, didn’t it?’ Mother Satan sneered. ‘You? Look after a dog? You killed your hamster, as I recall.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I panted. Although she was starved and dehydrated, Electra was still a big dog. On top of that I had to stoop awkwardly because of the shortness of the chain that tied her to the lawnmower. But I could hear satanic laughter so I said, ‘That hamster chewed through the wiring of an electric fire.’