by West Camel
Deborah saw her looking at it. ‘That’s a new piece I found last night. From what I can see, it doesn’t tell me anything I don’t know already. But I thought I might as well wash and study it – I might find out something that’ll help me. You have to be scientific about these things, you see. I’m sure that’s what Mr Mellor would say; if he’s still alive, which I doubt. But then, I am, aren’t I?’
Anne didn’t reply. Since Deborah had said she couldn’t die, since she had insisted what she insisted about the motif, Anne had assumed the tapestries, the contents of the chest, the majority of what was sewn onto the sheet they were now uncoiling and turning in the other direction – even Mr Mellor himself – were all Deborah’s invention: the product of years sewing alone by lamplight. But there in the bucket was a real piece of very mucky, very muddy cloth.
Anne was confused. But when they began to shake the creases out of the damp sheet, she smiled at Deborah across the delicately textured valley between them. Deborah raised her eyebrows and stopped for a second. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. It’s just nice doing things like this in the sun with someone.’
Deborah walked towards her and gave her corners to Anne. ‘Oh it is. I’d have a hell of a job to get this done myself. Now, you’ll see my washing line.’ And she picked up the painter at her feet, hauled the boat towards the creek wall and clambered down into the bow.
‘Pass me the sheet.’
With a swing of her arm, she slung it over the gaff and hauled it up the mast like another sail. ‘It’s so much quicker to do all this with someone else,’ she breathed heavily as she pulled on the rope. ‘You’re a godsend you are, Anne.’
Anne held the painter taut, so the boat stayed close to the wall as Deborah got out, putting her damp warm hand on Anne’s, and it didn’t matter too much if Deborah was lying, or mad. They looked at the drying sheet for a moment then went inside for a cup of tea. ‘I’ll do the new tapestry later – it won’t harm to soak for a while,’ Deborah said.
Back at home that afternoon, Anne washed her dress from the christening in her kitchen sink – in cold water, so that the orange wouldn’t run into the blue. She didn’t expect to wear it again very soon, but it smelled of smoke and a knocked-over glass of wine that had splashed on the skirt.
She hung the dress to dry over the clothes airer on the balcony, slowly arranging the sleeves and skirt so they wouldn’t crease too much.
The afternoon was warm – almost like summer now – so she went inside and brought a kitchen chair out to sit on. There was a pot in the corner of the balcony she had not noticed before. It must have belonged to the previous occupant; there was a dead plant in it. She would use the pot for her own plant; there was a stall on the market where she could ask what was suitable for a balcony like this.
The wind had a gloss of warmth on it and came in pleasant gusts around the corner of the building. She could see the stretch of Creekside where the mural was. Some kids were playing football – the ball sometimes appearing, followed by a boy in shorts, sometimes another child standing, waiting, then running out of sight.
She was surprised to find that the entrance to the alley leading to Deborah’s house was just visible – she hadn’t even thought to look before, but then she’d never been out here for more than a moment. The children didn’t seem to heed the alley, and the ball didn’t ever seem to be kicked in. It was as if there was some invisible barrier across the entrance. Anne changed the angle of her chair and examined the roofs of the warehouses, and the new blocks of flats, trying to work out where Deborah’s house was, but she could see no sign. She could not even see the creek from here, so if Deborah took down the dry sheet and went for a sail, up and down, Anne still would not be able to catch sight of her. They were so close, but it took a decision to walk down the alley and say hello.
Anne sat up straighter in the chair and brushed her hair behind her ears. Deborah seemed so sure that she was ignored, that for all this time – since the war, since that night when she was bombed – no one had paid her any attention. That instead of dying in the basement of the Methodist Mission, she had slipped off the edge, into an unseen fringe. But perhaps Deborah didn’t quite believe this story herself; perhaps what she was doing was carefully hiding, folding herself away on the defunct creekside. It was like grief – for what, Anne couldn’t put her finger on. She simply recognised the impulse to freeze, become part of the surroundings. To be rubbed out.
Anne put a hand out to the dress; it was drying quickly, so she turned it over and spread it out. The legs of the airer emerged from the skirt, and the tops made bony shoulders in the bodice; there were no arms, no head, no face, of course, but still, it gave Anne the sense that she sat with someone. She thought again of Deborah’s stories – the ones about her life, the ones that were like fairy tales or Bible stories, about ancient people in distant lands. And of course, ‘I can’t die’ – a whole story in three words.
There was a cheer from the kids playing in the road; two or three ran backwards and forwards, in and out of Anne’s vision, shouting powerfully, their arms raised.
It wasn’t difficult to make up fairy tales; Anne could tell a few to show why she had got to where she was now; but she wouldn’t end up believing them, would she? Perhaps she would – if she spent as long as Deborah had, cut off from everyone else. She looked at the orange strips in the dress; they were becoming brighter as the water evaporated into the early-summer air. Deborah would never wear something so eye-catching herself; but it had been her idea for Anne to wear it yesterday.
And yesterday had not been so bad; people had been gentle with her – even warm. She had been bright at the party; she had smiled and stayed through right to the end. And she had embraced Kathleen. Anne put her head on one side and closed her eyes for a moment; the sun was hot on her lids; a yellow-black patchwork skittered across her retinas.
Which fairy tale was the one for her? A girl lost in the woods; a boy who slayed a dragon? A princess pricked by a needle and put to sleep for a hundred years – that would do for the twenty years she had spent on the scag, she supposed. But who was the wicked fairy who wasn’t invited to the party? And who was the handsome prince with his lips puckered into a kiss?
There was a banging noise from somewhere in the building; it was some moments before Anne realised that it was quite close. She looked into her flat in puzzlement: was it a hammer? Someone being beaten? A door being kicked in? She refocused and saw her reflection in the glass door. It was the opposite of the night before the christening when she had stood inside feeling awkward in the new dress; now she was clear in the sunlight, leaning back in her chair, one foot resting on the wall of the balcony.
She heard her name: ‘Annie! Annie!’ It was rhythmic. ‘Annie! Annie!’ It was strong and deep, and accompanied the banging.
Mel was at her door.
She tripped over the threshold into the living room and almost ran into the hall. She stopped a few feet from the door, gripping a corner of the wall. She should’ve stayed on the balcony, or hidden in the bedroom, keeping silent and still. She held her breath. Mel’s face was blurred in the frosted glass; his wide shoulders heaved up and down. And then the banging and yelling began again. Her name, stolen and mangled, then hollered through the letter box.
And just to stop the noise and anger, she lurched forwards, turned the handle and lifted the warped door open.
He was inside before she’d opened her mouth. The heat of his body swept past; she pressed herself against the wall in order not to be touched and watched him, still holding the door open. She could duck outside, scamper along the balcony in her bare feet. But this was her home and seeing his slight disorientation as he looked for the main room, she knew it – truly knew it. He was an intruder. She didn’t know how she would get rid of him, but she closed the door firmly and followed him into the living room. He was looking around at the bare walls, attempting to stand in the centre.
Her body trembled,
but she managed to control herself.
‘Tea?’ An, empty, dumb thing to say. But unafraid. Yes, unafraid. As long as he couldn’t see her twitching.
He nodded and picked up a framed photograph. It was of her father – one of the few possessions Mel would be able to recognise. She touched the corner of the sofa with two fingers to steady herself; he was going to begin breaking things. Prepare, prepare. A net of strategies, long dormant, launched: which way to move; which hand to watch; which words to avoid. She waited in silence – she knew her eyes were wide; she was taking deep breaths through her nose.
‘Kathleen’s dead.’ Mel dropped onto the sofa, placing his index fingers into the inner corners of his eyes.
Anne remained standing. ‘Oh God, Mel.’ Her mind raced. This was quick. This was too quick.
Mel stood up again and in one lunging movement was in front of her. ‘What did you give her yesterday?’
Flecks of spit or sweat landed on her face. She could have stepped backwards, but something rigid prevented her.
‘I didn’t give her anything.’ She was shocked at the steadiness of her own voice. He was even closer – the sharp smell of his angry sweat wrapped around her. Behind him the sun filled the balcony and she could see the chair she had been sitting in moments before – centuries away.
‘I saw you with her outside the hall. I knew something was going on. You gave her some of your shit, didn’t you?’
‘Mel, I didn’t give her anything. I said no.’ She bit her bottom lip. Fuck. That was wrong. She should have just denied everything. Closed down.
Mel’s head dipped low. ‘You said no to what?’
His hand rose up, a flat, wet bat. Many times she had stood against walls and felt its sharp, hard sting on her cheek, and been glad that it was done. She had confessed to all sorts – betrayals, spite, any crime against him – just to force the slap. It was usually just one or two – open-handed, no punches. And then it would be over, he would leave and there would be quiet. And she would reward herself with a fix. The scag had brought the slaps, but the slaps also brought the scag.
But now there was an empty space behind her, the sunlit chair was on the balcony, and there was no reward. She swatted the hand away, keeping her head up, looking into Mel’s eyes. He raised his hand again – he wouldn’t stop this time.
She shouted; her spit sprang onto his cheek.
‘Listen to me! She came round here a couple of weeks ago asking for stuff and I told her no. I wouldn’t get her anything.’ Her fear ran round the room – a sticky, toxic imp, searching for cover.
Mel dropped his hand and backed away a step, his slack face confused. She saw her hand reach out and touch his shoulder – he was hot and damp.
She lowered her voice, stunned that this had worked. ‘Mel, I’m really sorry, but it wasn’t me. I was trying to tell her not to do it. I had no idea she’d go ahead and top herself so quickly.’
He swung around in a sudden, renewed attack. ‘So you knew she was going to do it? You helped her get the stuff, then? Where did you take her?’
This time he was too quick for her. One hand was on her shoulder and one on her throat. She made the error of stepping backwards. His fat face hardened, his lips taut. Everything unravelled and for a second she was back with him a decade, two decades before.
‘You lost one baby. You nearly killed Julie. And now you’ve killed my fucking sister, you fucking scag cunt.’ His voice was horribly quiet, his diction nastily precise, but the hard face was wet with tears and snot ran from his nose.
She felt the pressure of his hand on her throat. Any tighter and she’d not be able to breathe. This was it. This was finally it. Her body gave way and she stumbled back onto the sofa. He lost his grip of her as she fell and, with an elastic strength she didn’t know she had, she managed to twist away and stand up, this time with her back to the open balcony door.
She quaked in the sunlight. He could pounce on her at any moment; she was defenceless; she would stagger back onto the balcony, he would push her, she would topple over the wall.
But Mel’s tears seemed to wreck his strength and his speed; he remained hunched and fumbling a moment too long. Through her panic she managed a thought. She had to tell him; it was the only way to save herself.
‘It was that Nigel bloke – the tall, weird one. I caught them doing the deal. I was trying to persuade her out of it when you came out of the hall.’
His large red eyes stared at her; his fat hands spread out.
‘She was here a couple of weeks ago, getting angry ’cos I said no to her. She must’ve found out he was a dealer. It wasn’t me.’
Should she comfort him, calm him and get him out? Or maybe step back onto the balcony and slam the glass door between them and scream for help. But who would come? Could she scream for Deborah from here? Crazily, she looked behind her – and he was nearly on her again.
‘How do you know Nigel? You arranged the deal for her, didn’t you?’ But he did not put his hands on her this time. She held on to the window frame.
‘No, I fucking didn’t.’ And then she knew what she had to say. And she knew what she said. ‘And Mel. I never nearly killed Julie.’ Her voice seemed loud and slow. ‘I left before anything could happen. I didn’t see her for years, Mel. Remember that. I left my baby.’
Mel swung away and stood on the other side of the room. Her eyes pricked with a familiar heat; and then to her surprise, she felt the wet, comfortable warmth of tears on her cheeks. She nearly smiled in relief. So long.
Then, like clearing nausea by vomiting, she found herself talking. ‘Why do you think I came back, eh? It’s because I’m better. No drugs. Why would I go near any dealer? Think how dangerous that would be for me. I know you think I haven’t changed. I know you don’t believe it, you and Mum and Julie. But I’m telling you, Mel, it’s over. And that means I wouldn’t do anything like getting Kathleen drugs to kill herself.’
She ended with a snort and a sob that scraped the inside of her throat. He could easily hit her again. But she didn’t feel brave or reckless. Simply right.
He didn’t hit her.
But his rage needed an outlet, and in a few moments he had refocused. He rubbed the tears and mucus off his face, attempting to reset.
‘So it was Nigel. You sure?’
Anne was still by the balcony door; Mel was still in her flat – she was yet to deliver herself. He would not go without more answers.
‘I saw Kath talking to him. They went out the back. I followed them ’cos I was suspicious. Nigel has dealer written all over him, so I went out to stop it. When I got there, they were putting things in their pockets – I didn’t see what. I asked her, and she denied it was anything. Then you came out. That was it.’
She turned her back on him – a huge, leaping risk – and looked out onto the balcony. Was it enough? Had she saved herself? The chair was empty; it needed paint. She could paint a chair, she thought – put some newspaper down and paint a chair.
Mel stirred behind her. ‘He’s fucking scum, that Nigel. He’s been playing Derek up recently. But he’s gone too far now.’
She was safe. She turned around and found he was close to her again. ‘Annie, why didn’t you tell me Kathy had come to you?’
She had no quick answer, so she remained silent, and Mel answered his own question. ‘But what difference would that have made? She’d still…’ A sudden sob rushed to the surface and burst, and he was crying again.
‘I’ll have him. I’ll fucking have him. Don’t you fucking worry.’
He was out of the room and in the hall, Anne following, her legs almost giving out on her. She held on to the wall and watched him struggle with the door, whining and choking and, at last, bashing it with his fist, as if someone on the other side would let him out. And despite needing to be rid of him, despite being so near to safety, with the door locked and him on the other side, despite her own rising grief for Kathleen, which was now twisting in with his roars, she let
him wrestle. Somewhere, a dense white stone governed her. But at last she put it down, moved forwards and performed her trick with her foot; the door was opened and he was outside.
She locked the door after him.
Anne got herself a glass of water and found that the rim rattled against her teeth. She sat on the sofa in the dent that Mel had left, next to where Kathleen had sat a couple of weeks before, desperate, thin, angry; but alive. She went to the bedroom, sat, then lay on the bed, but was back in the living room within minutes.
At last she sat back in the chair in the sun on the balcony, a wad of toilet paper ready in her hand, and after only a little effort, she cried, quietly. For Kathleen.
When her tears finally stopped, she sat calmly, kneading the damp lump of tissue, trying to stay focused on her oldest friend, trying to encompass her suicide. She spoke the word quietly, her voice raw now. It had a smooth sound: suicide.
Anne tested her guilt, but nothing sprang back at her. She had said no; and if Nigel had also refused, Kathleen would have found someone else. All Anne could hope was that Kathleen’s desire had been sincere. ‘Sincere,’ she said aloud.
There would be plenty more crying for Kathleen; her family was large – many of them had been at the christening. They would cry sincere tears – she played her tongue around these words now – for someone taken early, her life unfulfilled. She had had no children – never found the right bloke, Rita always said. And now she was a dropped stitch, a hole that could not be mended.
The sun moved so that Anne was half in shadow. She looked over once more at the roofs by the creek, making another attempt to see Deborah’s house.
When Deborah died – for she would, despite everything she said – who would cry for her? Did she know anyone else apart from Anne? Anne stood and picked up the dress from the airer – it was completely dry now, and slightly stiff. Was that what Deborah meant by ‘I can’t die’. She was able to – of course she was – but if no one knew she lived, if no tears would be shed for her – could she be said to have died?