by Joanna Baker
She tried to shut the door, but it was jammed behind the pile of metal. And there was no time. She needed to find Mayson.
Behind her, somewhere in the building, Belle started shrieking again. ‘He’s not here! He’s not here! Don’t!’
There were footsteps on the stairs. Veronica followed the sound back down to the first floor landing. She thought she heard movement behind one of the doors. Belle had been arguing with someone here. Was it Roland? They were earlier than planned, but Roland might be here. But there was no time to see. She had to find Mayson.
Belle must have gone downstairs because now, somewhere below, there was a shriek, and more sounds, dragging furniture, a rumble and a crash. Then voices again, Belle and a man, a jerky exchange full of rage, the two voices overlapping, punctuated by shouts. Veronica went back to the ground floor hallway and continued further down, by a set of dark stairs, then through deeper darkness and a choking smell of mould, towards a lighted room.
Belle and Dane were here. At her entrance they both froze. Dane was behind Belle, one hand on her shoulder, one gripping an upper arm as if he was making her walk somewhere. He had a scratch at the corner of an eye, with blood smeared across a cheek. Belle’s dress had blood on it, and it was pulled sideways, the shawl twisted on one arm, half on the floor. Beside them was a pile of tangled bedding, a bowl with brightly coloured cereal, a plastic takeaway container and the remains of a pie, giving off the sickening smell of warm cheese. There was another chair pushed onto its side. And beside the chair was Mayson.
He was lying on the floor. Veronica’s first thought was that he had been hit with the chair, but there was no mark. It looked more as if he was asleep. Drugged then. Drugged again. Behind him, a set of steel shelving had been tipped over and had caught on a filing cabinet so that it was lying above him at an angle. It might not have reached him if it had fallen, but it looked dangerous there, heavy and dark, a threat. Veronica had to get him out of here. She wondered if she could lift him. And where was Roland? If that was him upstairs, why didn’t he come down? He should be here, protecting his child. Was he hurt?
‘Where’s Roland?’
Instead of answering, Dane shoved Belle away. He pushed past Veronica and went out the door.
‘Where’s Roland?’
Belle’s euphoria had gone. Her eyes were wild and hot. She said, ‘They don’t listen.’
‘What?’
Belle’s white dress was pulled tight and under it her bra and pants were visible, tight elastic cutting into the softness of her. She stepped nearer Mayson and stood with her legs slightly bent, as if she was ready to spring away. Or forwards.
Veronica wanted to go to her, pull her away from the child, but she wasn’t sure she could struggle with Belle without getting hurt. She needed to calm the girl by talking. Mayson was in a deep sleep, as he had been in the New Town shop, mouth open, limbs slack, eyelids so heavily closed that his eyes seemed to have sunken into his head. She wondered what his pulse would feel like. Belle pushed him with her foot, looking at Veronica.
‘Don’t –’
‘I’m not having it.’ She spoke peevishly. ‘People like you.’ These were just fragments of thought, unconnected.
‘Has anything happened to Mayson? Is he hurt?’
‘You can’t have him. You’re not getting him now. I’ve got a better idea, a better offer.’ But as she spoke, Belle’s eyes flicked to the right, focused on something behind Veronica. Coming through the door was the woman from the gallery. Vicky.
Veronica said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to help.’
‘Is Roland here?’
‘Roland and Paul and John are on their way.’ Vicky was speaking quietly and calmly, eyes on Belle. ‘Roland’s bringing Thai.’ She started coming forwards. ‘And sandwiches for –’
‘You’re not getting him,’ said Belle. She nudged the boy again with a foot.
‘Wait. Please.’ Veronica heard her own voice shake, raised a hand, let it fall. Vicky stopped.
Belle was saying, ‘If you try to get him, I’ll kick him. I’ll kick his head.’ She took an unsteady step sideways.
Somewhere in the building there were shouts. A male voice, footsteps, a door banging. Dane, Roland, Paul, John.
But there was no time to think about that. Belle said, ‘He’s so fricken’ out of it.’
Veronica needed to keep her calm. ‘Kids. I know how it is, Belle. Things happen to them. Accidents.’
‘Dane won’t have it. But he doesn’t know.’
Vicky was moving now, going around behind Veronica in an arc, hoping, maybe, to come in from the side.
Without speaking, and purposefully, as if she had planned the move, Belle picked up the chair. It was a folding chair, hard backed, with iron legs. She straightened and held it in front of her, showing it to Veronica. Her eyes looked dark, dilated. Her mouth was drawn back into the puffy cheeks, her chin twitching.
Veronica spoke even more quietly, ‘Vicky. Paul and Roland are here, did you say? And John? Are they all upstairs?’ She took another cautious step.
Belle said, ‘Roland’s found an empty house. We’re going to the coast. Away from Dane. House-sitting.’ She seemed to be pleading with them, trying to persuade them of something, but her voice had begun to rise, and she was holding the chair out towards Mayson. Her arm looked spotted, diseased. There was a tattoo on the tender inner skin, a flower, a butterfly, a patch of blood red. On the other wrist there was a bracelet with a big chunky clasp.
Veronica said, ‘Belle. I’m going to look at Mayson. I want to check his pulse.’ Another step.
But her fear wasn’t hidden well enough, because suddenly Belle was screaming at her. ‘I need him. I’m taking him away!’ She was swinging the chair now, jerking it around, iron legs sticking out at them. ‘I didn’t hurt him! It isn’t me! And Treen’s dead. Dane won’t have it. We were just having a drink. To Treen. I shouldn’t of taken all the shit but it’s hard.’
‘Dane isn’t here now. He’s gone.’
‘It’s hard. He’s a bad kid. You don’t know. He’s bad. But it wasn’t me. You saw.’
Vicky stepped closer. Veronica concentrated on the positioning of her arms, every fingertip. She took another step, very slowly, rolling forwards onto the ball of a foot.
‘I’ll hit you,’ said Belle simply, trembling. ‘I’ll hit him.’ She held the chair over the small figure on the ground. ‘I’ll hurt him.’ She moved her feet. ‘I’ll jump on him. I will.’
‘Vicky. You get the boy,’ said Veronica quietly.
She stepped forwards. Belle banged the chair on the filing cabinet, a sound like a gunshot, then she raised it above the head of the child. The noise had woken Mayson. He pushed himself onto all fours and stayed there with his head hanging down. Belle swung the chair.
Veronica charged at her. She felt air on a cheek as the chair went sideways, but her forward movement took her into Belle’s body.
Belle threw the chair at the child. One leg hit him in the head as it went past. He didn’t make a sound, slumped to the ground.
Veronica and Belle fell together onto the lino, heads against the filing cabinet. Veronica felt a white hot pain shooting up her spine. She grabbed blindly, hoping to hold Belle back, or at least to keep her own bulk between Belle and the child. Vicky had gone forwards too. She curled over Mayson. He was bleeding. She clutched him to her body and clambered to her feet, blood on her chest, droplets of blood thrown out as she turned away.
Belle leapt lightly up, away from Veronica, snatched up the shawl and ran.
Veronica straightened, ignoring the pain. Vicky stepped closer and they inspected the boy. He had a deep cut to a corner of his forehead. Veronica took off her cardigan. Merino. It was all they had. She rolled it into a ball and pressed it to the cut. Vicky held it there.
Veronica said, ‘Let’s get him out.’
They went out to the next room. Vicky moved easily, unbothered by the weight
of the child. There was another door here, pale in colour with a bar across it.
Somewhere upstairs, they could hear voices, Belle shouting, ‘Give it back, give it back!’ and a shriek, maddened, delighted.
Veronica pushed the bar on the door and it moved. They stepped outside into a deep alley, surrounded by the ugly backs of buildings, industrial windows with slanting panes, framed in brown steel, the backs of fans, a lot of pipes. Everywhere there were iron staircases – one beside her coming from a low porch, and much larger ones, fire escapes, painted grey, rusted.
Veronica said, ‘Wait. I’ll ring an ambulance.’
Vicky stopped.
They were at a point where the building ended and the yard wid-ened. There was parking space, and a road went under a covered walkway into a dark area and then out to Murray Street. Another led to a cyclone wire gate at Salamanca Place.
Veronica fumbled for the phone. But before she could get it she was seized by a shoulder. Dane swung her around and then, as she toppled, pushed her up against the wall of the building.
‘Are you happy?’
He pinned her by both shoulders, made a strangled noise of rage, pulled her forwards and shoved her back again, banging her head on the bricks. It sent a pain around the inside of her skull, an explosion through her stomach.
In the building she could hear voices. Men calling, a shriek from Belle. She tried to shout to them. ‘Ro–’
Dane slammed her back into the wall. More pain, something in her pants, urine or blood. ‘You see who it was now. You see.’
She looked towards the open yard. Vicky had gone. ‘I have to –’
‘You fucken people.’ Dane shook her again, this time not hard enough to hit her head, but sending a pain through both shoulders. She pushed back. He held her steady. ‘What did she tell you? That I hit him? Do I look like a man who would do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You fucken smart cow. Why don’t one of you open your eyes for once. She took photos for fuck’s sake. Who does that? You didn’t know them. They’re mad skanks. They’re insane. They’d take anything. All that shit about hand cream, that was just shit. That was all bullshit.’
She was going to be sick. He shoved his face closer, his chest pressing into hers. ‘All they ever did was fill in time until they could get their hands on something. Es and dope and mushies.’
Something about the body contact sent him onto a tangent. ‘She liked it up against the wall you know. She liked it hard. You get that?’ He grabbed the side of her face pulling down on the cheek. ‘She liked a big hot hard cock. Eh? You fat cunt. She liked a big hot cock.’ She couldn’t tell now whether he was talking about Treen or Belle, or women in general.
‘That’s what she liked and next to that she liked money.’ He tapped her head back on the wall again and then let her face go. ‘And then she’d get her hands on something …’ He was speaking precisely now, separating the syllables: ‘… and if you mix things with al-co-hol …’ He shook her shoulders in time with the words ‘… they go mad. They were both so ma-a-ad. It was Belle who belted him. With a mop. She pushed him into a wall. There were other people there and she reckoned she was out of it. But the iron was in the morning. It was turned on. So she was straight that time. That time I think she was just in a bad mood.’
A tendon was screaming inside Veronica’s neck and a bone in her shoulders was pressed into the bricks. Her stomach had cramped into a rock.
‘And his so-called mother … she did nothing. Belle kept saying she didn’t know what she was doing, and Treen’d let her go. Just let her get away with it. I was going to take him away. I thought he was my son.’
As he said this his eyes, so close to Veronica’s, filled with tears. The vein down the middle of his forehead swelled and pulsed. ‘An iron, for Christ’s sake. As if I’d pick up an iron. She burned him. Have you ever been burned?
‘And she was so cold. Belle. She said they’d take the photos to the police and they’d blame me and the police would believe them. Well, the police would believe them, wouldn’t they? Everybody does. And in the meantime they’d be there with Mayson and I wouldn’t be there to protect him. She took photos of that poor little kid. Treen helped her because she made up some story about confessing or something. She stood him up and took off his clothes and took a photo. And he didn’t yell, because they kept giving him these fucken sleeping pills. The out-right fucken whores. They’re witches. I tell you, they’re fucken witches.’ He was looking straight at her, not seeing her. The grip on her shoulders had relaxed but he was leaning on her now. ‘I thought he was mine.’
‘He’s Roland’s.’
‘I know who you all are. I know where you all live.’
‘He’s not yours. Let us take him.’
He looked up, shocked. ‘You fucken cow.’ He said it quietly and quickly, the way someone else would say ‘shut up’. ‘Was it you?’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t want her around. Is that how you do it, you people? You just drive people away and dump them.’
There were sounds coming from the building. Footsteps, voices, a door slamming.
‘You mad fucken ugly bitch.’ He was drained now. He pushed away from her, stood swaying, hands hanging limply. Then he went out under the building towards Murray Street.
Veronica started fumbling for the phone again. She needed to fix this. Pain didn’t matter. She needed to be strong.
There was a tiny sound above her. She looked up. The end wall of the building was covered in bolts and bits of iron and there were rust stains where a fire escape had been removed. Four floors up, she could see the open door leading to empty space. At the moment she lifted her head a figure flew out of it.
The figure, whatever it was, seemed to stop there, but that was an illusion. It split into two. One part, darkly coloured, moved slowly, spread and curled and hovered, while the rest, something hard and white, fell. It hit the ground with a dull sound. Then there was silence.
Belle. The shawl drifted down and landed a few feet away.
She looked like a little girl, lying on her stomach, head turned to the side. A soft young girl in a white slip of a dress. A bracelet with a heavy lock. Her stringy hair was spread across her face, which was probably merciful. Veronica could see only the corner of a lip, too fat, and a jawbone pushed out of line. There was blood, of course, but surprisingly little. All the real damage would be inside – broken bone; punctured, shattered organs; bleeding – all inside the little soft body hidden under the white cloth.
Veronica went to stand over her. Belle’s head was in the wrong position, an impossible position, her neck badly bent. Dane had done that in the kitchen, he had bent that neck back until she couldn’t speak. And now something had snapped.
She felt for a pulse, felt none.
She had done this before. Then the neck had been cold.
She looked at Belle’s thin arm. A bracelet, closed with a lock. The other day Belle had worn a necklace. There had been another necklace somewhere, a drawing of one, and there had been a drawing of a noose.
More sounds from inside. A single voice: firm, confident, calling to the empty building. ‘Police.’
Veronica’s muscles were weakening and she had a terrible pain deep in her stomach. Behind her there was a car pulling up to the wire gate in Salamanca and past the car she could see St Davids Park, impossibly beautiful, a deep, watery green.
One of Belle’s arms, the arm diseased with ink, was broken. There was a piece of jagged bone sticking through, tearing at the flesh. A compound fracture. Was that the right word? Her thoughts slipped away again. Why would they call it that? What was com-pounded? Her thoughts slipped away again. She used to know.
She was sitting on the ground. She leaned over the girl, put a hand on the broken arm, tried to cover it, pressed it into the soft body.
Behind her a voice said, ‘A moment you must and cannot have.’ Judith. Veronica turned as far as she could. There was
only movement, the door to the building slowly closing. A smell of rotting stalks.
A bit of Belle’s dress was out to the side. There was a lump, something in a pocket. Veronica put her hand there. It was hard and round. She put her fingers in. It was a stone, white, smooth. And not far from where she was sitting there was the shawl. Dragons and lotus flowers. Silk. Heavy, flowing falling silk. It had floated behind Belle on the stairs. For a moment she had appeared weightless. But this time she had lost the shawl and fallen. In her white nightie. Like the girl. There had been a picture of this. Roland had drawn it. The shawl was the same.
She couldn’t stand it. Belle lying like this. She would fix it. She got onto her knees, leaned forward and lifted the girl’s head, the little girl’s hugely heavy head. She tried to put it back into line, into position on the body. But there was nothing to help her. There seemed to be nothing in the neck at all.
Someone was standing over her, then squatting. A policewoman. ‘Don’t touch her please, madam.’ A young woman, a round, dimpled face. She was speaking softly, as if Veronica was the child, the hurt one. ‘Did she fall? Please don’t touch her. Can you just sit back, please, and let me see?’
‘No,’ said Veronica. ‘Don’t look.’ The young woman didn’t need to see. She should be spared it. They should all be spared.
The officer turned away, spoke into a radio.
Words came into Veronica’s head. The police are getting younger. It made her want to laugh. It was a joke she had with Alan. Not just the police. Waiters, dentists, cyclists, journalists … all getting younger. But this was a double joke, because this time it really was a policeman. A policeman who was young. Policewoman. Child.
She had to pull herself together. This poor young thing had to be protected, from the arm, the face, the neck.
Because there was nothing to be gained. The blood had stopped flowing, had almost not flowed at all. And Veronica had seen two wet glints, Belle’s eyes, open slightly, shining in the sickly afternoon. And this kind stranger, this young woman, Georgie’s age, turning back to her now, squatting again, needed to know that. There was nothing to be done.
