by David Mark
Pants around his thighs.
A look of acute surprise creasing his face as I crash into the room.
Alcohol in my system igniting like brandy in a frying pan.
Flaring blue.
And as I’m rising to my feet, listening to his protestations of embarrassment, his apologies, his shame, I’m piecing it together.
Thinking “money-lender”. Debt-collector. Bailiff. Popping round to collect a payment, and leaving a deposit instead.
And I’m barrelling into his chest, pinning his arms beneath my legs, nutting him silly, tenderising his forehead, laughing as he uses what little consciousness he has left to try and find a way to fasten his pants.
Me, sitting on his chest, down behind the sofa.
Kerry still not moving.
My hands at his throat, thumbs wedged between the central defenders and last season’s midfield general.
My face impassive as I throttle the life out of him.
Watching his face turn blue.
Hearing his feet drum on the carpet, the rhythm reminding me of an old C&W tune Dad used to play over and over again on long car journeys back from the hospital; Kerry and me humming along on the back seat, playing games, counting horses and pylons, listening to Mam and Dad talking about wallpapers, about new stair carpets, about my grades and medicines, about itineraries, and how to squeeze museums, galleries and beach days into one week in Cornwall. Telling us to keep the noise down. Always watching me in the rear view mirror, always keeping a suitcase between Kerry and me. Mam reading one of the leaflets they had given her, listing which food colourings I should be kept away from, and which signals she should come to recognise as an indicator of looming violence.
Me, gulping down mouthfuls of air.
Eating his soul as it leaves his body.
Thinking: I’m getting better at this.
24
Peaceful, now. Lights low. Tie-dyed curtains pulled to. Low thump of bass coming from somebody’s CD player. Like a heartbeat.
Me, wrapped in an Afghan scarf and fading adrenaline.
Warm and damp.
Bailiff still on the ground, eyes open.
Kerry not moving. Breathing like a hot bull-mastiff.
Me on the floor with my back to the sofa, legs drawn up. Smoking a cigarette. Calm. Concentrating on every breath. Counting them. Eyes open as I breathe in. Closed as I exhale. Exhausted. Weary to the bone. Starving. My vision bobbing as if I’m in the ocean, looking at the room through waves that push and pull, lift and break.
Not much left here now. Everything of value sold or taken. Still cluttered, but with nothing. If you tidied away the crap the place would be empty. Kerry’s life. Kerry’s home. Kerry’s creation. Kerry’s world. Not Kerry’s fault.
I pull myself up to my knees, and then stand, shakily, feeling the blood returning to my legs. Pins and needles jabbing my feet.
Things to do. Got to clean up my sister. Got to eat. Got to stop all this. Got to keep going.
Feel like I’ve been breathing in paint fumes. I know what I’ve done, but it’s not real. Even the body at my feet seems somehow removed. Staged.
The bathroom’s at the bottom of the corridor and I make my way to it, locking the door behind me. Light on. Off-white suite, lemon walls. No panel on the bath. Ring around the enamel. Half-finished tiling job. Squelching over green lino and a rotting pedestal mat.
I turn the cold tap on full and hold my face under the stream until my head is
numb. Mouth under the tap, drinking and slurping. Slightly minty flavour in my mouth as I lick the tap.
Drying myself with the hem of the scarf that’s still around my shoulders.
Walking back into Kerry’s place, still dripping.
She hasn’t woken. Neither has he.
I kick the door closed behind me, and push the TV up against it. Best not to be disturbed. Businesslike, I cross to the small kitchen area in the far corner of the bedsit. Two-ring hob and a dirty rectangle where the fridge used to be. Door hanging off the solitary cupboard. Nowhere to hide a body. Bin-bag full of dirty clothes.
Hands on hips I look around, willing the bare walls to suddenly yield an empty cupboard or a waste disposal chute.
Kerry gives the faintest of groans and I smile down at her as though gazing at a contented baby. I’m consumed by love for her, the need to protect her. I want to tear my skin off and drape it over her as a shield. She’s an innocent. Mine. My responsibility. Something Jess could never understand.
I take the hem of her T-shirt in my hand and pull it up to her face, wiping her eyes and cheek, the folds at her neck. I’m looking at the body I’ve exposed. I see the bones pushed up tight against her belly, and skin like candlewax. Bruises in the crook of each elbow, drilled with holes. Veins standing out on her breasts, nipples flaccid and shapeless. Chipped nail varnish, long since applied.
Hurriedly, I pull the T-shirt down, and squat down by her face. She’s still beautiful, to me. Ears like a pixie, pierced a dozen times. Button nose, full lips. She shaved her head a few months back and it’s still short and ragged, with twin beaded rat-tails hanging down at the front. Her mouth’s open, and I catch a glimpse of her teeth. They look like toffees, and are starting to rot. The smile of a smack-head.
I stroke her cheek gently with the back of my hand and then slide my arms under her, one under her head and the other cupping her arse. I ease her off the sofa and carry her to the door. She’s almost weightless. It’s like carrying a ghost. She doesn’t wake as I lay her on the floor and cover her with the duvet.
The bailiff’s not that big of a guy, and I figure he’ll fit where I’m going to stick him. I pull the cushions off the sofa and grip the metal frame of the bed inside, pulling it out and unfolding the legs, propping them up among the detritus of the coffee table. A space appears inside the sofa. To me it seems coffin-shaped. Naturally, as though I’ve done it a thousand times, I put my hands under the armpits of the bailiff, and heave him into a standing position. It’s hard going, and I’m consumed with a fit of giggles as the words “dead weight” appear in my head and beat like a drum. In stages I get him to his feet and myself to mine, and drape him over my left shoulder as though burping a toddler. I can feel his erection prodding my hip. With my free hand I push the wire frame of the bed into the air, and bundle the bailiff into the gap created. His legs don’t go in. I try to bend them at the knee but they seem stiff and it creeps me out, so I just kick at him until he squeezes into the gap, then drop the bed back down. I nudge the coffee table out of the way and the legs of the bed hit the floor, then unfold the mattress out over the frame. In a second, the bailiff has gone. Out of sight, out of mind. Problem solved.
I pick Kerry up again and feel her begin to stir. I lay her down on the sofa, still bundled in the scarf. I step back, and slip off my coat, jacket and boots, switch off the light and lay down beside her. I spoon up behind her and let the heat from her body warm mine, a fiery aching suddenly spreading into every limb.
My arm her around her waist, nose at the nape of her neck.
Dick squashed up against her left buttock.
Room spinning. Eyes heavy.
Falling asleep with my naked sister on top of a corpse.
Gazing at perfect blackness behind my eyelids.
Monsters nowhere to be found.
25
Two hours later, and we’re snuggling. Little cold nose in the crook of my neck, rasping gently against my stubble. Hand on my chest, fingering my hair. Breath slow and soothing. Her on her front, leg draped over mine, drawn up, like a dog pissing.
She’s awake, but fighting it. Knows she’s got to come down and doesn’t want to. Hanging on to sleep. Me too. Liked it there. Dark. Uncomplicated. Silent.
Trying to keep my eyes closed, but the lids slide upwards, slowly, like a lift carrying a fat man.
Open into grey.
Still dark in the room, but dark with shapes and lumps. Possibilities.
I stifle a
groan as I realise I haven’t changed during the night, and I still have to face every day with my own mind.
“I knew you’d come,” whispers Kerry, so low and breathy it comes out in a rush and I feel the breeze on my cheek. “I needed you.”
“I’ll always be here, princess,” I say, without thinking. I’m pre-programmed to say this shit, regardless of the truth. “I’ll always look after you.”
She starts to wriggle, like a baby with wind. Fluttering, groaning noises escape her lips. Her hand leaves my chest and I feel her rubbing her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose. “Ugh,” she says, and starts to sit up. “Just urgh.”
I put a hand on her bare shoulder and pull her back down to my chest, resting my head on her soft, short hair. She doesn’t resist. I kiss her on the top of the head, and wrap an arm around her shoulders. With my other hand I pull the scarf up, over our heads, and we’re in a warm little cave, where I can only see the tears that sparkle in her eyes, the hints and shadows of her face. It’s nice. Our voices are soft, like a spoken lullaby. We’re safe in here, on top of a corpse.
“You got somewhere to be?” I ask softly. “Let’s just chill.”
“I’m all for chilling,” she says, sibilant, like a tyre swishing over a wet road. “You’re not normally a fan.”
“I am. I want the easy life. I’ve just got responsibilities.”
“You’re too tightly wound to chill, Owen. You even sleep aggressively. Do you still sleep with your arms folded?”
“It has been mentioned. That’s the way I was shown.”
“At the hospital?” Her voice is cautious. An ember from an old fire suddenly begins to smoulder in mine.
“Yeah. Never really broke the habit.”
“What’s the thinking behind it?”
“Christ knows. I just did as I was shown.”
“They probably didn’t want you touching yourself.”
“Probably not. Didn’t work though. You just get somebody to do it for you. Maybe that’s what they were hoping.”
I hear Kerry smile. “You’re never short of offers, Owen. Jess didn’t know what she was letting go.”
“She didn’t let go, Kerry. I set her free.”
“Did she want to go?”
“She said she did. Can’t really blame her, but I do.”
“I’ll miss Jess. She was fun. Don’t think she really liked me though. Think she thought I got in the way.”
“I remember moments when she liked you a lot, and I remember moments when she wished you were dead. I remember all of our moments.”
Silence for a little while, then, timid, she says: “Do you still see her?”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My hands are shaking.
“Sometimes,” I say. “She still appears when I’m tired. Or stressed. I can control it though. She doesn’t tell me what to do.”
“I envied you, you know,” she says, quietly. “The things you saw. I sat and stared at her too, and she never spoke to me. Never moved.”
“You don’t want what I’ve got, Kerry. You don’t want to see what I see. Or do the things I’ve done.”
“You’ve paid for what you’ve done. You were taken away from us. From me. And I never really got you back again.”
“You paid too. You paid too high a price.”
“You did it for us. You were ill. She was whispering in your ear. I know how it is to be addicted to something that’s killing you, Owen. Something dreadful but mesmerising.”
“She was the only one who understood….”
“I would have understood if you let me in. You were my big brother. And after the accident, you just ….”
“It’s all in the past now, Kerry. Think of our happy times…”
“I think of them before I fall asleep and it makes me feel like you’re here.”
“Sometimes I am. Sometimes when you feel there’s somebody else in the room, watching over you, listening to you breathe, it’s because there is.”
We lie in silence. I can hear the lady’s voice, telling me of St Peter, denying his Lord three times before the cock crowed. She is angry and hurt, and I shake her away.
The CD downstairs changes to something harder, and the volume cranks up. I strain to hear the words. Placebo, I think. Something about friends in need and friends with weed. Couldn’t agree more.
“I got a bad feeling last night,” she says, gently, as though the words are coming from far away. She’s talking in washed out water-colours. “After we spoke. You sounded…”
“Sounded what?”
“Like you used to. Sort of, you know, empty. Hollow. Waiting to be filled up with something you could use as fuel. I thought you might hurt yourself.”
I shush her with a kiss, and stroke her cheek. “It was a bad night. It’s a bad time. I think about things too much, you know that. I still want to bury my head in mud to stop the noise of my brain. That hasn’t changed. Pills don’t change that. Nothing changes that.”
“You are still taking them, though. You have to. You know what happens ….”
“I’m cool, baby. I’m your big brother, remember. Fucking invincible.”
“Those things I said last time, Owen. About not needing you any more ….”
“You were out of it. I’m amazed you even remember.”
“Sometimes my head gets like yours.”
“Nobody’s got a head like mine, mate. I’m blessed.”
Silence again, broken only by somebody else’s music, and the gurgling in our bellies. After a while, the stomach rumbling becomes funny.
“Peckish?” I ask, laughing.
“Sick with it.”
“Pass my phone.”
Kerry slides down my body and slithers onto her knees.
I hear Kerry rummaging through my pockets.
Coat pocket.
Shit.
Fucking gun.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Kerry suddenly shuffling back, into my arms as I kneel on the bed, falling back with me, phone in hand, giggling.
Me, laughing with relief.
I breathe deeply, pain in my sinuses, heart pounding. Flip the phone open. Switch it on. Girly jingle as it chirrups into life, then searches the sky, starts to ring.
“This is the Vodafone voicemail service. You have two new messages.”
“Owen, it’s Lenny again. Listen I know we had words before but I’m getting really worried. She’s still not home. I believe you if you say you didn’t see her, but that means she could be anywhere. Look, please give me a call. I’m sorry about how I spoke to you. I know things aren’t easy for you at the moment and you miss her, but… oh I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Please give me a call. OK? Bye.”
Message left at 9.37pm. To return the call, press 5.
“How do, mate. Tony. Sat in the Tap like an arsehole. You coming? I’m struggling a bit, to be honest. Desk don’t want to go in too deep on the gangland shit but they’re going to have to if this Petrovsky starts making waves. Anyway, might see you in a bit. There’s a press conference at Priory Road tomorrow so I’ll see you there if not tonight. Take it easy, mate. Laters.”
Best not think about it. So I don’t.
Kerry rolling a cigarette in the dark.
Me, scrolling through my phone for the number of a pizza place. Ordering a large ham and pineapple without being asked. Give the address. He doesn’t get it first time, so I spell it. Tell him in Italian instead. Doesn’t help – he’s Tunisian. Couple of cans of pop as an afterthought.
Hang up, snuggle down.
I pull Kerry close, taking the cig from her and breathing deep.
“15 minutes, he reckons. Pizza man.”
“Cool.”
Silence again. Comfortable. CD player drifting into uncharted territory; something I don’t recognise. Feeling old.
Kerry playing with her hair, moistening her lips and spitting bits of tobacco.
“You’re such a lady.”
“And y
ou’re a gent.”
“If the girls at pony club could see you now….”
“They’d be jealous. I’m in bed with you.”
“People will talk.”
“They always did.”
“Fuck them.”
“I always did.”
“I remember. Vicky liked you almost as much as her horse.”
“Neigh, lass.”
We laugh, gently.
“I haven’t killed those brain cells yet. The ones from when we were little.”
“Me neither. They sometimes get a bit lost in there, but I know we were happy once. You without smack, me without, well without whatever the fuck it is I take to get by. It’s a sensation, somewhere inside me, floating around like a dust mote in the sunlight.”
“I love it when you talk like that. You should never have stopped writing. Proper writing I mean.”
“And you should never have stopped being you. Christ, princess, ….”
“Don’t. I know.”
“But you’ve fallen so far, and you’re still in there, just trying to break out ….”
“I can’t do it, O. I can’t live and not be numb. Neither can you. I need the veil. I need this.”
“But Kerry ….”
Cold fingers, clamping over my mouth, shushes in my ear. I deflate, and hold her close.
“One day,” I start to say, and trail off.
“One day we’ll both get there. You’re not exactly on the right road either.”
“But I hide it better.”
“You think so?” Incredulity in her voice, toes rubbing my bare shin.
“Better than you. You just need an old greyhound and a can of Special Brew and you’ll be all you ever wanted to be. Is there a fucking school for you people? Fuck it’s a good job Dad’s too far away to see this.” I sound angry, but I’m not.
Kerry tenses in my arms, thinks about what I’ve said, and sags. It’ll be a few hours before she needs another hit, but already she’s feeling itchy, and I sense her fingers start to scrabble at her thin arms, then the rustle of her fingernails in her pubes.
“Yeah,” is all she can say. She shrugs, lying down, distance between us.
