by Naomi Joy
*
It took fifteen minutes to cycle from college to the McDonald’s on the outskirts of town, and every time I made the journey, I hated myself more. I could almost feel it: my ego flattening under the front wheel of my bike as I set off. Unlike my privileged peers, I had to work to keep myself afloat. I don’t think I would have minded if I wasn’t the only one, but I was, which meant that before the end of the first week I was already behind. I was certain that if I didn’t have to work, I’d have been able to keep up here. As it was, while I looped the ends of my apron to my waist, mopped sodden chips from the restaurant’s dusty corners and swirled sky-high McFlurrys into disposable cups, they learned about Nietzsche and Marx, and debated the great economists of all time. They swapped theories and revision notes while I rummaged through the stock cupboard for the last of the ketchup the franchise owner – Darren – never ordered enough of.
At first, I lied about where I went when I was at work; I told the boys on my landing there was someone I rode off to see, a gap-year girl, toothpick thin with red hair, pale skin and a couple of trips to Malawi on overseas-aid projects under her belt. Refined. The type of girl I was supposed to be interested in.
It was a slow Friday midway through an unusual October heatwave and my shift was dragging, just the occasional sticky customer inside, sweat stains on the back of recently occupied chairs because the air conditioning wasn’t working. I pushed a strawberry sweet into my mouth, bagged up the afternoon’s rubbish and thought about what my gap-yah girl would be called, what her favourite colour was, her favourite food. I settled on Poppy, red, steak. A theme emerging. Any discerning listener would see right through the lie.
Later, working the tills, I played games to pass the time, guessing people’s orders before they made them. A skinny girl approached, legs poking out from the frayed hem of her denim skirt, a gingham blouse on her top-half tied with a bow. I guessed her order just as she asked.
‘Diet Coke,’ she said, avoiding eye contact with me, shoving a twenty-pound note on the counter as though it were Monopoly money. I took it, slid the note into the till, plucked out her change, then prepared her drink.
‘Your Diet Coke and…’ I reached beneath the counter, feeling for the paper wrappers. ‘A straw,’ I said, handing them both to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then scooped up the change I’d left on the counter, leaving behind a cluster of brown and silver coins.
‘Keep the rest,’ she told me. ‘Your tip,’ she smiled nastily, and I ground down on my back teeth as she left the restaurant with her friends, laughing. Though I wanted to stand there, offended and angry, I stole a glance behind me and scooped the coins into my greedy palm, shoving them deep into my shallow pocket. Nowhere made me hate myself more than inside this garish red-and-yellow McNightmare.
Once my shift was over, I cycled the route back to halls – couldn’t risk a job that was nearby – and, just as I arrived, the heavens opened. The heatwave vanished with the rain and, rather than T-shirts and jeans, the boys were getting ready with jumpers and blazers and expensive leather jackets for tonight’s night-out. I joined in as best I could, wore a dark-grey coat I’d found in a second-hand shop back home, and headed with the rest of the boys to their preferred nightclub, forced to spend all the money I’d just made on expensive rounds for my moneyed mates. I thought about the 80p in the pocket of my uniform when I handed over thirty pounds for a round of Jäegarbombs and shook my head at my stupidity. When I handed the drinks out, none of my friends blinked an eye, only a few of them even said thank you. That wasn’t because they were all horrible people… they just didn’t understand. The people here weren’t like me, the previous rounds had been Veuve Cliquot and Krug. I’d watched as one of the boys had bought an extra bottle and chugged it straight from the neck, champagne drooling down his face as he’d tried to finish it in one, half of it tipping to the floor, jeers from the other boys. Down it, Down it, Down it! He’d puked it up almost immediately –inside, right on the dancefloor, he didn’t care, someone would come to clean it up. He’d laughed about it afterwards. Bought another round. It would be my turn again soon. And you know what was bad? I wanted, more than anything, to be like them, to buy champagne like it was tap water, to make the people who couldn’t feel inferior.
Later, drunk, gone midnight, I laid eyes on a girl with chunky highlighted hair and pink pearly lips. She was walking towards me, her round face illuminated by a shaft of white light from the strobe overhead, and I watched a smile break across it when our eyes met. The light clicked off, the club dark, and when it fired again, strobe-effect, her smile was gone and her position had changed. She was in front of me, now, saying something about the university. I morphed into one of the boys – she didn’t know any better – and it felt good. I let her know I was the heir to a confectionery company, coy with the details.
‘Really?’ she asked.
‘How old are you?’ I fired back, changing the subject, and she replied, eyes to the sky, that she was twenty-one. I knew she was lying – there was no way she was older than me – and we debated, jokingly, on the dancefloor. Eventually she handed me her driver’s license, a naughty smile on her pearlescent lips. She was eighteen, and only just, finishing her last year at school. Her white lie resonated with me. She wanted to be someone else, too. I looked at her, a little sad, and leaned in.
‘Never lie about who you are again,’ I slurred into her ear, a gold stud in the middle of the lobe. ‘Who you are is enough.’ And, even though I was drunk, distracted by the way her halter-neck gaped at the front, her shiny hair twisted round her finger, I really meant it.
She told me about herself, about her foster parents and normal high school, about the fact she was going to drop out because she hated being there. She reminded me of the girls at home. The summer-soaked sixth-formers I’d meet on the beach in Great Yarmouth with loud-mouths and short-skirts. She made me realise what it meant to be homesick. I fancied her and, not only that, her humour was the exact same as mine, her references, her interests.
Though we’d only just met, it was as though I’d known her for years. I think she even said it, her blue eyes blinking up at me. I was so happy to have found her, a piece of me in a haystack of others.
‘This might sound weird but… I feel as though I know you already.’
Annabella
Now
I duck into the moss-green shed of number 50, the frantic scene before me illuminating the night. Red and blue kaleidoscope sirens, high-vis yellow uniforms, blue and white tape, a stretcher loading a woman into the back of an ambulance. I hope she’s OK. A tumble of Mandy’s blood-black hair identifies her as she’s wheeled past and I watch as neighbours’ curtains flicker, snatches of yellow-light breaking into the dark. A few of the more curious among them are already outside, slippers in huddles, arms crossed over waists, excitement dressed as concern dancing across their faces. A man with a haphazardly tied dressing gown walks, head bowed, towards the activity. A few of us, you know, are just a bit concerned. Could you tell us what’s going on, please?
The policewoman he approaches shakes her head.
I retreat into the shadows of the shed, remove my balaclava, the gloves I’m wearing, pull off my black windbreaker and change into a smart coat and scarf from my rucksack. Then I wait. The couple from number 50 are either out, or heavy sleepers, and the windows behind me remain black. I sigh deep with relief and wait for the commotion to begin. What have I done?
I sink to the floor of the shed and let my mind travel back to my teenage years, connecting the dots from then to now, showing me who I’ve always been, revealing that tonight wasn’t a one-off, freak event, but entirely and utterly in character. I bottle up my emotions, I always have, allow them to fester. For some reason I’m always surprised when the glass explodes.
I spent my formative years growing up in a mews house just off Holland Park with my eccentric parents. Whenever I think of that house, I remember the tiny ground-floor t
oilet first, the plush pink hand towels and the rose-scented candle that sat on the windowsill for years and never burned. I think of that room first, then remember my mother teaching me how to bake, watching endless repeats of Murder, She Wrote together. I adored that show and that tenacious old woman who’d get to the bottom of every crime thrown her way, thirsty for justice, satiated only by unravelling the truth from a pack of lies. When our family cat went missing that summer, I’d used her as inspiration and broken into the garden of the big house at the end of the road. I was caught looking for cat-poo among the bushes and, though I was told off, I was found again the following week when I thought the family were out, picking through the gravel of their front drive with my father’s antique magnifying glass. Don’t tell me your mysteries: I will only try and solve them.
I have to face it: what I did to Mandy tonight, though horrifically violent, was all me.
*
At the turn of 5 a.m., just as my eyelids begin to droop, I recognise a presenter from the Breakfast News arriving at the scene, a clutch of cables and men in anoraks following behind. Adrenaline flares. Her face is usually squashed into unflattering 2D on the screen, but today she’s right in front of me, fully formed. I feel as though I’ve nabbed a backstage pass, exclusive access to the inner workings of her off-air world. The early mornings, the late-nights, the last-minute concealer drawn in beige paint-strokes under her tired eyes. The news never sleeps, so neither does she. My finger twitches for the volume on my imaginary remote control. I want to hear what she’s saying but, of course, I can’t. I draw closer to read her lips.
‘Rick Priestley – ex-husband of the still-missing Tabitha Rice – was the victim of a break-in overnight. His partner, Mandy, has been taken to hospital with a head injury described as ‘severe’ by a close neighbour. According to the same neighbour, there were raised voices in the property earlier in the evening.’
I take a breath as a police car revs, lights flashing down the twist of the cul-de-sac. They’ve probably just had a tip. Or they’re pretending to have just had a tip, they want the news to think they know what they’re doing. That they’re ‘exploring all avenues of inquiry’. But they’re thinking it too: Rick Priestley’s guilty as sin. One girlfriend missing, presumed dead, the other in hospital. We cannot comment on ongoing investigations; the line they will deliver. Then Mandy will wake up and exonerate him. ‘He’s telling the truth, there was someone in our house, someone wearing a balaclava and gardening gloves holding a paperweight.’ But everyone will think he’s manipulating her, that she’s scared to tell the truth. What kind of intruder attacks someone with a paperweight?
No, it was him, in the heat of the moment. It’s obvious. It’s sad. I pity her.
I know it already. Though I deserve it, no one will come looking for me.
*
Streetlights line the way back to my flat. I don’t live far from Rick and Mandy in Battersea, and I’m sure one of the reasons I haven’t moved from the area is because of Tabby: I’ve never really been able to let her go. The fact that Rick hasn’t moved tells me he hasn’t either.
I push open my front door, number 413, desperate for bed, aware as I take my first step inside that the air smells different somehow, greasy with leftovers and takeaway food, but perhaps it’s just my imagination. Has someone been inside while I’ve been out? My palm pushes the door shut, closing it behind me with a cautious click of the latch.
‘Hello?’ I call.
Silence.
I steady myself. ‘No one is here’, I say out loud. No one has found their way into my space. The smell I thought I could detect disappears. I’m projecting.
I breathe. I let the remaining fissures of adrenaline leave my body, then pull, tug and peel winter layers from my limbs, my dyed, dry hair filling with static electricity as I unfurl my scarf from my neck. I hang it over the iron coat holders in the entranceway and move towards the wooden console table in the corner. I place my keys on the far left, stroking them in line, then straighten the stack of letters beside them, which I need to post tomorrow. I unhook my feet from the depths of my winter boots and tuck them neatly beneath the table. Three other pairs are out on display: old trainers, work plimsolls, and a pair of sheepskin slippers. I steal a quick glance at myself in the oval mirror that sits above the table, my skeletal features and bruised cheeks from a recent tear-trough procedure appearing ghoulish, somehow. I do not like to look at myself for too long: I always find something I need to improve. I shake the thought away, push my feet into the slippers, and walk into the living area, squeezing anti-bacterial gel into my hands and up my lithe arms as I go, enjoying the sterility. Performing my rituals calms my breathing and helps me to rationalise the situation: There’s no point in panicking until you know how Mandy is. She could be fine. You’re not a killer, you’re not like Rick.
I let the thought percolate and watch, in the flat opposite mine, a yellow-lit young family in the throes of breakfast. I can’t make out the details, but I know that they are happy, unified, and it makes me smile. I’m glad there are families like this in the world, that they aren’t just the cynical invention of advertising companies trying to sell washing powder and package holidays with a smiling group of similar faces. I wish I’d grown up in a house like that, so full of warmth. I bet there’ll be apple crumble for dessert tonight, thick custard on the side.
I watch for a moment as they make breakfast, morning TV playing behind them. Then I spot Rick’s face and my smile disappears. His piercing eyes are etched with electric worry and I can just about make out what he’s saying. Vigilante groups are out of hand. This vilification of my character by the media has to stop.
I close my blinds. I do not want to see him. I do not want to hear what lies he is going to deliver to the masses watching him.
I move to the kitchen, parched, pushing him from my mind and pour myself a drink, letting the water run through my body, quenching my thirst. I reflect on the packed family home across the street. The surfaces had been so full of things, the room packed with stuff, brimming with life. In contrast, the shiny surfaces of my own kitchen are clean and empty, the hob sparkling, the fridge white and orderly. It’s a little sad, in a way, but the cleanliness is an oft-overlooked upside of living alone. When I return to this place, I’m greeted by the same sanctuary I left, no one messes anything up while I’m gone, leaving stains across the surfaces, specks of mud trodden from the outside in. Other people are so unhygienic. I learned that first at university, forced to live with nursing students who clearly hadn’t read the course notes on the spread of E.coli and the importance of washing one’s hands. Filthy, that lot. I’m not sure how I’d come through it.
I run my glass beneath the tap, clean it, then stack it on the draining board next to the sink. Perhaps I’m not the kind of person who would be able to cope with a family, anyway.
Too messy.
I wipe away the tears that paint my cheeks.
Tabby
Five Years Ago
The humidity of earlier in the week has given way to monsoon-like downpours and my jacket is sodden as I wave goodbye to Bella at the end of the road.
‘Feel better soon,’ she urges as my arms slip from our rushed embrace. I feel terrible for lying to her. For pushing her away in favour of my secret crush.
‘I will!’ I reply, over-enthusiastically. ‘I just need an early night.’
I’m not planning to get an early night, of course, but I had to cancel our plans. I can tell she’s disappointed – it’s the third time in as many weeks I’ve cancelled our ritual Thursday night dinner – but, listen, the new Mexican in Soho isn’t going anywhere. It can wait another week.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, shuddering against my hip, dancing up to the flutter in my chest.
He’s waiting. Dr Daniels. He wants to talk.
I’ve missed you, Tabby cat.
He calls me by my real name but talks to a different face. Bella hasn’t noticed – no one has �
�� but I switched our names on the company website, just in case he looks at it. I can just about bear him thinking about her face but calling me by her name would have been a step too far. What’s in a face, anyway? Shouldn’t love be based on connection rather than physical attraction? Another text message arrives.
I have an hour tonight, between shifts, if you’re free?
My heart skips beats. It’s not unusual for him to only have an hour here, a couple of hours there, and I’ve learned to make the most of every available moment he gives me. When we do find a moment to talk, our connection burns fast and bright, swirls pink and red and hopeful, exploding like fireworks, my eyes saucer-round and wondrous, the blaze always fizzling out too soon.
‘Send my love to Rick,’ Bella calls as she turns away from me, her eyebrows raised. She can probably tell I’m up to no good but has decided not to force the truth from me. She’s a good friend.