by Kevin Brooks
Candy.
The fog was beginning to clear, and I dimly realized that I was lying with my back against the door and that Candy was trying to open it. I looked up at her. She was pulling on the handle, getting her fingers between the door and the frame, trying to widen the gap, trying to squeeze through. Her face was streaming with tears.
I forced myself to sit up and lean my weight against the door.
Candy kept on pulling at it for a while, but it was never going to open now. She had no strength. She was exhausted.
She started screaming—“No! No! No!”—slapping the back of the door with her hands. “No! No! No! No! No!…”
I breathed slowly, focusing on the pain in my belly—calming it, calming myself, keeping my mind off Candy’s despair. I couldn’t listen to it. It hurt too much. Everything hurt.
She kept screaming and hitting the door for a while, but gradually she began to tire. The screaming faded to sobbing, the sobbing faded to whimpers, and finally she went quiet. I raised my head and looked at her. She was just standing there, limp and forlorn, staring at nothing.
I reached up and touched her leg.
She didn’t respond.
“Candy?” I said.
She looked down at me. Her face was tear-streaked and broken. “I’m sorry, Joe,” she said weakly. “I’m so sorry…”
I held out my hand. She took hold of it and slumped down beside me on the floor. There was blood on her hand from a broken fingernail. I licked my finger and wiped it away.
She looked at me.
I said, “You hurt yourself.”
She nodded and started to cry. I took her in my arms and closed my eyes and willed the hurting to stop.
The rest of the day was comparatively quiet. I tidied up the bedroom and got Candy back into bed, then I went around the cottage and cleared up the rest of the mess she’d made. It was hard to believe that while I’d been sitting outside, feeling sorry for myself, she’d virtually ransacked the whole place. She’d searched everywhere—the empty bedrooms, the front room, the fridge, even the cooker. The worst of it, though, was the bathroom. She’d just about ripped it apart. I suppose she must have remembered me searching it, and in her confusion she’d taken that to mean there were drugs in there. Or maybe she had hidden some drugs in there but couldn’t remember exactly where…?
Anything was possible…
As I was beginning to realize.
It was dark by the time I’d finished cleaning up. I grabbed a flashlight and went outside to get some more logs, then I set the fire and tried to settle down for the night. I was still aching a bit from Candy’s low blow, but I’d reached that stage of tiredness when your senses blur and everything starts to feel dull—the light, your body, your mind, your pain…
I was too tired to hurt.
I lay down on the sofa and rang Gina.
The call failed—no reception.
I couldn’t be bothered to go outside, so I just closed the phone and lay there, drowning in the silence.
I don’t know anything about heroin. I don’t know what it is or how it works or what it does to your mind and body. I don’t know why it’s addictive, and I don’t know why you get sick when you stop taking it. What I do know, though—what I learned that night—is the hold it has over a body. Or maybe it’s the other way around—the hold a body has over heroin? The need…the desire…the demand…
The chemistry.
Like I said, I don’t understand it, but that night I witnessed its work.
From six o’clock until midnight, Candy’s soul screamed in every way possible: her temperature raged from hot to cold; her limbs burned; she sweated slime; her muscles ached; her stomach knotted; her skin itched; her eyes watered; her nose streamed; her head throbbed; she smelled bad; she sneezed so violently I thought she was going to burst something. And all the time, on top of this, there was vomiting and diarrhea and raging thirst and waking dreams…
And all because of chemistry.
Her body was holding her ransom. Give me what I want or I’ll make you sick. I’ll hurt you. I’ll kill you. I’ll drive you insane. GIVE ME WHAT I WANT!
But she didn’t.
Or she couldn’t.
It didn’t matter which. She stuck it out—her body screaming, hour upon hour, never giving her a moment’s rest, until finally she became so exhausted that even the screams couldn’t keep her awake and she fell into a nightmared sleep.
I slept, too. On the floor. Dreaming of kangaroos.
Monday morning, seven o’clock: When I woke up, Candy was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette. The curtains were open and her gaunt-looking face was framed in the morning light. It was a portrait in gray: her pallid complexion, the clouded skies, the cigarette smoke, the sweat-stained bed…everything washed-out and dull.
I sat up and stretched the stiffness from my neck.
“Hey,” said Candy, looking around at me.
“Hey, yourself. How’s it going?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “About the same, I suppose…maybe a little bit better.”
“Are you still hurting?”
She nodded. “Everywhere.”
“When do you think it’ll stop?”
“I don’t know—the worst of it’s usually over in a couple of days, so sometime today…hopefully. I don’t think I can go through another night like that.” She stubbed out her cigarette and scratched her head. “God, I feel so dirty… Everything’s sticky and scabby…This bed stinks…”
“Why don’t you go and have a wash?” I suggested. “I’ll change the bed for you—get some fresh sheets and stuff.” I stood up and went over to her. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
I helped her along to the bathroom, then went back and changed the bed. It wasn’t pleasant. Fresh sheets, fresh pillows, a fresh duvet. I cleaned up a bit—tissues, chocolate wrappers, magazines—and opened the window to air the room. I was just on my way out to get some fresh water when Candy came back from the bathroom.
She looked as white as a ghost.
“Christ,” I said, hurrying over to her. “What’s the matter?”
“What?”
“Your face…your skin…”
“Oh,” she said, touching her cheek. “Sorry—it’s just talcum powder. I can’t stand the feel of water on my skin…It prickles.” She shivered. “It’s horrible. The talc makes me feel a little bit better.”
I helped her back into bed, then tried to get on with the day.
Ten-thirty: There were three more messages on the answering machine at home—two more silent ones, and one from Dad. His message went like this: Gina, Joe—it’s me (he never calls himself Dad when he’s talking to us, it’s always just me, or occasionally your father)…I’m just ringing to let you know that everything’s fine. Listen, don’t forget to put the bins out on Wednesday, and if the window cleaner turns up, don’t pay him until he’s done the conservatory. He missed it the last time. And Joe—where are you? You’re supposed to be at home, remember? Look, I’m not checking up on you, and I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason you’re not there right now, but I’ll want to speak to you about it later on in the week—all right? OK, well, I have to go now…I’ll see you both soon—good-bye.
It was weird hearing his voice—it sounded so normal. Talking about bins and window cleaners and conservatory windows…it all seemed so alien. Which it was, I suppose. It was a voice that belonged to somewhere else.
I tried Gina’s cell phone, but it was still turned off. I knew she had to switch it off when she was at the hospital, so I wasn’t particularly worried, but I hadn’t talked to her for a while, and it would have been nice to share a few thoughts.
More than a few, come to that.
Never mind, I thought. She’ll be home tonight. You can ring her then.
I scrolled through my phone book and selected Mike’s number, but all I got was his voice mail, asking for a message. I didn’t leave one—I couldn’t th
ink of anything to say.
And that was it.
No one left to call.
I sat on the veranda and watched the clouds.
I was still sitting there half an hour later when I saw someone coming down the pathway. The mere sight of another human being—the movement, the color, the flesh of a face—sent a surge of adrenaline rushing through my body and a stream of panic into my mind. Who? How? What do I do? Run? Hide? Shout? What?
But even before I’d got to my feet, I realized there was nothing to fear. It was just an old man, on his own, walking slowly down the track. No fear, no panic, no worries. The adrenaline settled sickeningly in my stomach, and I started breathing again.
As the old man got closer, I recognized him as Mr. Butt—the villager Dad paid to keep an eye on the cottage—and the adrenaline began stirring again. I tried to calm myself down—There’s nothing to worry about…it’s your cottage…you don’t need his permission to be here—but it didn’t work. If I’d been on my own, there wouldn’t have been anything to worry about, but I wasn’t on my own, was I? I was with Candy, and she was in bed…
Which made things difficult.
Mr. Butt was about twenty meters away now. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me, so I took off my hat and stood up to meet him. I’m not sure why I thought that’d help, but I did it, anyway.
“Morning, Mr. Butt,” I called out. “It’s only me—Joe Beck.”
He paused for a moment, leaning forward and squinting at me, then he raised his hand and ambled up to the veranda. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t changed his clothes since the last time I’d seen him—and I still couldn’t tell exactly what they were. Some kind of brown jackety thing, a brown outer layer (which might have been a coat), and a shapeless brown hat.
“Who’s that?” he said.
“Joe Beck,” I repeated, “Dr. Beck’s son…Joe. Do you remember me?”
He squinted again. “Joe…?”
“Gina’s brother…I used to come here with my mum and dad.”
“Joe Beck?”
“That’s right. I’m just staying here for a couple of days. Didn’t Dad let you know?”
“Not so’s I recall…” He wiped his nose and peered at me. “You’re young Joe, then?”
“Yeah…I’ll be here for a couple of days. Exams…I need to get some work done, you know…for my exams.”
“Aye…right. Well…” He looked around. “You got enough wood?”
“Plenty, thanks.”
“Plenty there.” He nodded at the woodshed. “Got ‘er chopped up after the storm, couple weeks back. S’mostly dry now.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Aye, right, then…well…I’d best get on back.” He looked over his shoulder but didn’t make any move to go. I think he was probably waiting for me to offer him a cup of tea or something. I stayed silent, hoping he’d take the hint. He looked at me again, vaguely nodding his head, and I was sure he was about to leave, but then I heard a voice behind me—
“Joe?”
—and I turned around to see Candy in the doorway. Her hair was tangled, her skin was flushed, and her nightgown was fluttering in the wind.
“What are you—” she started to say, but then she saw Mr. Butt. “Oh…” she said, glancing from him to me. “Sorry…I didn’t—”
“This is Mr. Butt,” I said quickly. “The man from the village—”
“Morning, Gina,” Mr. Butt said. “You’re looking fine.”
I turned around and stared at him. He was leaning forward and squinting at Candy, his ruddy face creased with a toothless smile. He can hardly see, I realized. He thinks she’s Gina.
He said to Candy, “You’ll need more’n a summer dress today, young lady. You’ll catch your death in that.”
Candy smiled awkwardly and crossed her arms to cover herself up. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or shy or simply uneasy…but whatever it was, it was curiously attractive. For a moment or two, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. But then I realized she was giving me a look—a stop-staring-at-me-and-get-rid-of-him look—and I turned back to Mr. Butt again.
He was still leering at Candy.
“Well, thanks, Mr. Butt,” I said, getting his attention. “It was nice to see you again. Sorry if there was any confusion…you know…with the cottage and everything.”
“Aye,” he said.
“We’ll probably be gone by the weekend.”
“Aye.”
I nodded at him.
He nodded back.
I waited for him to move.
He stood there nodding to himself for a while, and then—with a parting nod at Candy—he turned around and started ambling back up the pathway. I watched him until I was sure he wasn’t coming back, then I turned to Candy. She was still standing with her arms crossed, but she didn’t look so shy anymore. She just looked freezing cold.
“I think he fancies you,” I said to her.
The faintest trace of a smile warmed her face for a moment, but then the cold and the pain kicked in again, and she hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arms and shuffled back into the cottage.
I stood there for a while, staring after her, picturing her face. It wasn’t much of a smile, I told myself, barely a smile at all—but it happened. You didn’t imagine it. It happened. It was there…
It was there.
Monday afternoon: She was still pretty ill, spending most of the time in bed, but as the day wore on, I began to realize that she seemed more settled in her sickness. She wasn’t crying so much, for one thing. She had the occasional sob, and at one point she broke down and wept herself into such a state that I almost called for an ambulance, but apart from that she was fairly calm most of the time—just lying in bed, half-asleep, half-watching the TV…a bit sweaty, a bit cold, a bit achy. She was gradually beginning to talk a bit more, too. She still wasn’t saying a lot, but if she was awake when I went in to check on her, she usually managed a few words.
Thanks…
Yes, please…
What time is it?
It didn’t mean much in itself, but it made me feel pretty good. In fact, it made me feel fantastic. I knew that I mustn’t get too carried away, because I guessed we still had a long way to go, but I couldn’t help feeling that the worst of it was over. All we had to do now was keep our heads together for a few more days…
Just a few more days…
And then…
And then what? I asked myself. What are you going to do when this is all over? What’s going to happen with Candy? Where’s she going to go? And where are you going to go? Back to the old life? Back to how it was? Back to Heystone? Back to school? Back to your bedroom, lying on the floor?
I wished I couldn’t imagine it, but I could—I could imagine myself somewhere else, thinking back on now, thinking of here as somewhere else…
And it made me want to cry.
Four o’clock: I was sitting in front of the fire, idly burning matches, when I heard Candy’s voice from the bedroom doorway.
“There you are,” she said. “I thought you’d run out on me.”
When I turned around and looked at her, I couldn’t help smiling. She’d borrowed one of my sweaters—a scruffy old thing with extra-long sleeves—and she was wearing it over her nightgown, together with a pair of socks that must have been at least four sizes too big.
“What?” she said, looking at me. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing…I was just admiring your outfit, that’s all. It’s very nice.”
“You think so?” She waggled the sleeves of the sweater and looked down at her feet. When she lifted her leg, the toe of the sock flopped to the floor. She gave it a quick wiggle, then put her foot down and smiled at me. “That’s tired me out,” she said.
I started to get up, but she waved me back down and came over and joined me at the fire. Her skin was still pale and she looked really gaunt, but beneath the surface I could see good things—th
e light in her eyes, the way she moved, a hint of life…
She groaned a little as she lowered herself to the floor, and I held out a hand to help her. Her fingers were cold—but not deathly cold. The touch was coming back. Candy’s touch—the unknown shade, the tingle, the feeling inside…
“All right?” I asked her.
She nodded. “A lot better, thanks.” She crossed her legs and made herself comfortable. “I don’t think I’m there yet…I mean, I still feel like crap, but at least I’m not climbing the walls anymore. I just feel as if someone’s been beating me up for the last two days.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, rubbing my belly.
She didn’t get it for a second, then her eyes widened in realization. “Oh God,” she said. “I hit you, didn’t I?”
“Sort of…”
“Did I hit you? I can’t remember…”
“It was more of a well-placed knee.”
“Oh, no…” Her eyes glanced between my legs. “I didn’t, did I?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“I’m sorry, Joe…I didn’t know what I was doing—”
“I know,” I said. “It doesn’t matter—honestly. Forget it.”
She looked at me, half in sympathy, half in amusement. “Did it hurt?”
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“Really?” She smiled.
“Yeah…there’s not many girls get the better of me in a fight.”
She laughed quietly. It wasn’t much of a sound—just a gentle laugh—but it felt like a song to me. A really good song. The kind of song that makes you feel funny inside.
“Do you think you can manage some toast?” I asked her.
She nodded. “That’d be nice.”
So I made us some toast and we talked some more…and the song just kept on playing. It was good. Even when Candy began to feel tired and I helped her back into bed, everything still felt OK. She wasn’t sick-tired anymore—just sleepy-tired. Worn-out. Talked out. Dreamy.
“Thanks, Joe,” she whispered as I tucked her in.
“You’re welcome.”
When she raised her head from the pillow and kissed me, her lips touched mine with the crystal breath of a snowflake.
