by John Marrs
‘I thought maybe you were courting that young man outside,’ Mrs Baker continued. ‘My ears can’t hear speaking voices very well from a distance any more, but I often hear you two giggling together.’
‘No, he’s my best friend but he’s not my type.’
‘But I bet if I ever met him and asked him the same question, he’d answer differently,’ smiled Mrs Baker. ‘And who could blame him, you’re a pretty, intelligent girl with an enormous heart. Any man would be mad not to snap you up.’
A deliberate cough from the doorway interrupted their heart-to-heart. Both turned their heads to see an immaculately dressed women with a pashmina draped over the shoulders of a cream Burberry suit.
‘Hello, Mother,’ said the woman coldly, and entered the room, slipping off her jacket and passing it to Nicole without making eye contact. ‘Find somewhere for this, then close the door.’
‘Did you take a wrong turn getting here, Bridget?’ asked Mrs Barker.
‘No, why?’
‘Because I’ve been here almost a fortnight and you’ve yet to make an appearance. I presumed you’d got lost in the car park.’
Nicole felt uncomfortable as the once pleasant atmosphere iced over and Bridget glared at her. Nicole stood up and moved awkwardly towards the door.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Baker,’ she smiled, then closed the door behind her, dropping Bridget’s jacket to the floor on her way out.
CHAPTER 17
TODAY
Tommy couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of Peyk’s head hanging upside down from a jagged hole in the ceiling tile.
‘Right, now’s the time to tell me what you’re doing or I’m leaving you hanging,’ Tommy began.
‘I told you before, I’m doing something for Ron.’
‘So Ron’s asked you to fall through every ceiling in his building, has he?’
‘Are you going to help me down or not?’ Peyk replied crossly. Two joints fell from his shirt pocket to the floor below.
‘Well if you stop smoking that crap, you might keep your balance.’
‘And if you start smoking this crap and you might chill out and get laid.’
Tommy smiled, shook his head and waved goodbye to Peyk and Sadie and headed back to reception, with the sound of Peyk’s Dutch obscenities following him down the corridor. They could still be heard when he reached the top of the stairs and spotted Joe’s unkempt pal Wayne entering the building with a mangy dog wearing a rope for a collar.
‘Hey, I’ve told you before, get out,’ ordered Tommy, and without protest, Wayne turned around and shuffled away sheepishly. However, his dog had its own agenda and suddenly bolted past them both and into the hostel.
Tommy chased after it up into the kitchen where he found it hovering by Ruth’s feet, its head bowed, eagerly licking her ankles. A delighted Ruth scratched behind his ear, enjoying the attention from the four-legged stranger.
FIVE WEEKS EARLIER – DOG SANCTUARY, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
‘Uh-oh, you-know-who is on his way over here,’ warned Colleen, and straightened her back as she swept the floor.
‘Who?’ asked Ruth, placing her dirty mop in the plastic bucket. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her shirt sleeve.
‘As if you have to ask,’ chuckled Colleen, ‘Your bloody shadow, who else? Whenever you’re here, you know he’s never going to be that far behind. We work with enough dogs to know when one’s on heat.’
Ruth felt her face redden as a smiling Mickey walked towards her. Dogs leapt as high as their hind legs would allow in their gated pounds, and poked their snouts through the metal bars when he passed.
What Mickey lacked in his 5-foot 5-inch stature and unremarkable looks, he made up for with persistence and optimism. The three eager strays on the end of his leads strained as they approached Colleen and Ruth, desperate for their attention.
‘And what can we do you for?’ began Colleen, knowing full well what, or who, had brought him over.
‘I’ve come to see this beaut,’ Mickey began, his big, beaming smile revealing a less than proportionate tooth to gum ratio.
‘I thought you might’ve. Don’t distract her for long, we’ve got another dozen pounds to scrub before it’s clocking-off time.’
‘So how’s about it, then?’ Mickey directed at Ruth.
‘How’s about what?’ she replied, shyly.
‘The same “it” Mickey asks you every time,’ interrupted Colleen.
‘Oh, that.’
‘Every week I ask you out for some tucker and every week you tell me you’re busy. C’mon, Ruthy, does a bloke have to go down on his hands and knees in dog shit and beg?’
At twenty-four, Ruth had yet to accept a date invitation from Mickey – or from any man, for that matter. When she’d relayed to her mother Mickey’s interest some months earlier, Denise trawled through his Facebook profile and offhandedly advised her daughter, ‘Neither of you are in a position to be picky.’
Ruth was sure Mickey would make some girl very, very happy, at least at the beginning. Because eventually, he would leave that girl and break her heart, as that’s what all men were programmed to do to women – her mother had reminded her of that enough times over the years.
Even her brother Kevin took pride in showing Ruth the begging texts he’d received from girls he’d duped, slept with, and then dumped. And she’d watched enough movies and soap operas to know that relationships rarely worked out like they were supposed to. Men would say all the things you wanted to hear, but in the end, they’d replace you with someone else once they grew tired of you. Ruth wouldn’t allow Mickey to do that to her.
There was only one man she was certain would love her as much as she loved him. Zak Stanley’s lips would be the first – and only – pair she would ever have pressed against hers.
‘Thanks, but I can’t,’ Ruth told Mickey assertively, then paused. ‘I’m seeing someone.’
Mickey and Colleen looked at each, then at Ruth.
‘Really?’ they replied together.
‘You don’t know him,’ replied Ruth, pre-empting their next question. She picked up her bucket and walked towards a drain to empty the dirty water. ‘I’m going to check on Bobby.’
‘Maybe if I had four legs and licked my own balls she’d be interested,’ mumbled Mickey sulkily before wandering off, while Colleen pondered who on earth Ruth could have fallen for so quietly.
*
The groggy Border Terrier lay on a soft fleece blanket in his cage, slowly regaining consciousness.
His black, dimpled nose twitched when he smelt Ruth’s familiar bleachy scent as she’d entered the recovery room. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his front left leg, and an IV drip stretched to a bag attached to the front of his cage.
Ruth carefully opened the latch on the cage door and put her hand inside to stroke his wiry black head. He nuzzled Ruth’s hand before closing his brown eyes and drifting back to sleep.
Ruth’s favourite of all the centre’s unwanted dogs had resided there for a month after his neighbours reported him for howling at all hours in his garden. When the RSPCA arrived, officers discovered him sheltering from the rain under a rotting wooden door propped up against a shed. When the officer finally persuaded the shivering creature to trust her and exit his makeshift sanctuary, his matted body was covered in flea bites, stale blood and his sibling’s teeth marks. Ruth knew how it felt to be bullied in your own home, so she’d visit him three times a day, every day of the week, just to remind him not every human was cruel.
‘Don’t get too attached, Ruth,’ began Mr Rogers. She jumped at hearing the voice of the dog pound’s practice manager. ‘If the antibiotics don’t start working soon, we’ll be wasting our time and money . . . and you know what that means.’
Ruth had watched Colleen wheel enough blanket-covered bodies towards the incinerator to know exactly what Mr Rogers meant.
*
‘No, no, no, we are not keeping that thing,’ Denise began, f
olding her arms defiantly.
Ruth stood before her mother, cradling a bewildered Bobby in her arms. One hour and two bus journeys earlier, he’d been enjoying his post-anaesthetic dreams about a nugget of chicken he’d found on a lawn. Now he could sense the animosity coming from the aggressive human in front of him.
‘That wretched thing is not coming into this house,’ continued Denise.
‘Which one?’ added Kevin, much to his own and his mother’s amusement.
‘Please, Mum, they were going to destroy him,’ Ruth pleaded. ‘You’ll be no trouble, will you Bobby? Look, he can’t even walk properly.’
To demonstrate Bobby’s disability, Ruth placed him gently on the grass, where he sat down and took in his new surroundings.
Then as quick as a flash, he up was on all fours and charged out of the garden. By the time Ruth reached the road, she’d already heard the thud of the car bumper colliding with him.
*
The first shovel of dirt fell into the hole and covered Bobby’s body. Ruth continued digging as her family looked on from their seats on the patio.
‘That thing’s gonna stink in this heat,’ murmured Denise as took a long sip of her Long Island iced tea.
‘Which one?’ replied Kevin, and laughed as Ruth continued to dig.
CHAPTER 18
TODAY
On those lazy mornings when his parents were out and Tommy promised them he’d spend his time wisely by job-hunting, he instead spent many an hour lying on the sofa with a TV remote control glued to his fingers flicking through hundreds of Sky channels.
Overtly charming presenters desperately flogging ostentatious must-have watches and clothes that went up to size XXXXL amused him the most, but he’d never lingered on the religious channels until he arrived in LA. Now he’d become fascinated by their broadcasts on the reception desk television. He puzzled at how people could be so daft, and hand their money over so readily to preachers who claimed to be carrying out God’s work when they were blatantly serving their own financial agenda.
Today’s focus of attention was an evangelist by the name of Reverend Devereaux; a peculiar but amusing-looking man whose bark sounded worse than his bite. Tommy leaned back on his chair, flicking peanut butter M&M sweets into the air and catching them in his mouth. Most bounced off his lips or nose before he finally succeeded.
‘You beauty,’ he cried proudly.
‘Thank you!’ replied Savannah, watching him from the doorway. Surprised, Tommy fell from his seat and quickly scrambled back to his feet, to Savannah’s amusement.
‘Quiet afternoon?’ she continued.
‘It’s dead. How’s yours?’
‘Dull, apart from a few Bunker Hill financiers putting money in my bra instead of in their kids’ college fund. Am I still sleeping alone?’
‘Yep, the room’s all yours.’
Savannah leaned over the counter and gave him a peck on the cheek. She felt comfortable and unthreatened by Tommy; they’d talk with ease about how they’d just spent their day, but they never went into detail about their past and what brought them to their crossroads. Sometimes when Savannah returned from work in the early hours and Tommy was working a shift, they’d keep each other company watching old black and white films before she’d invariably fall asleep on his shoulder. Neither enjoyed spending time alone, and neither told the other why.
On several occasions, Savannah considered admitting that on the night of his arrival, she had been the one who came within two book chapters of blowing a hole through Tommy’s spine. But then she’d feel obliged to reveal why she had a gun and what she was really hiding from in Los Angeles. And they were secrets she’d only shared with one other person under that roof. So she decided against unburdening herself as it would likely damage their friendship and would serve no purpose to either of them.
‘It’s normally ten bucks for a peck,’ she smiled.
‘Will you take an IOU?’
‘For you, yes, but don’t tell your girlfriend.’
‘Nicole’s not my girlfriend. I’ve not even seen her today.’
‘Not yet,’ smiled Savannah.
Her light mood abruptly changed when she recognised a familiar voice preaching about sinners and Satan coming from the television. ‘Why are you watching this?’ she snapped.
‘Rev Dev’s a funny guy. Why? Have you seen him before?’
Savannah’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not a funny guy, he’s a dangerous, sadistic sonofabitch.’
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER – MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA
‘Wipe this black stink off me,’ Reverend Devereaux roared at a teenage boy.
The terrified lad grabbed two white cotton face towels from the table in the Reverend’s dressing room and began to dab at his employer’s clothes. Meanwhile the Reverend took a handful of wet wipes from a packet and rubbed his jowls and hands.
‘Why do you allow them on stage if you don’t like touching them?’ asked Pastor Jackson, flicking the scroll wheel of his Blackberry and checking his employer’s emails.
‘Because the blacks are where the money’s at,’ the Reverend replied with disdain. ‘All those Ella Mae Joneses sitting in front of their televisions in their ghetto swamps are praying for their drug dealing sons to see the errors of their ways. And they ease their consciences about parental failure by donating money to my ministry – all those dollars add up. So if I have to touch their coalmine faces to convince them their dollars are worth my prayers, then so be it. But I don’t have to like it and I ain’t gonna have their smell on me a second longer than I need to.’
‘I think you’re very brave,’ the Reverend’s wife began, and kissed his forehead. A small black curly Afro hair fell from his shoulder and landed on the hem of her Diane von Fürstenberg skirt. She brushed it to the carpet with the tip of her fingernail, then cleansed her hands using a pocket-sized bottle of antibacterial soap.
Reverend Devereaux took a swig from a bottle of chilled sparkling water, his eyes darting towards Savannah and her younger sister Roseanna, sitting quietly side by side on a plastic-covered sofa.
‘And next week may I at least get a smile from my own flesh and blood?’ he asked.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Savannah replied, making little effort to disguise that she’d rather be anywhere else.
‘When one of the dozen television cameras pans across the audience to focus on my “beloved” family, I expect my viewers to see them caught up in the joy I’m bringing,’ he continued, ‘and not sitting there turning their spoiled little noses up like skunks have crawled up their asses. Do you understand me?’
Savannah and Roseanna nodded their heads.
‘Good. Now bring me joyful news from the world of ticket receipts, Pastor Jackson. Tell me how well have we done this evening.’
His head of finances clicked on the latest email to reach his phone and smiled. ‘Preliminary figures suggest around the $75,000 mark so far from the folks at home, and they’re still counting donations from the collection plates. But with 12,000 seats sold, the arena was full to capacity, so that’s going to be a lot of donations for the church.’
‘Good, good,’ smiled the Reverend and turned to his wife. ‘Looks like we’ll get that estate by the lake just in time for summer after all.’
*
‘I hate him, I absolutely hate him,’ Savannah whispered.
The heat from the Starbucks coffee mug began to burn her hands as she clasped it tightly, but she kept them in place. Physical pain helped to block out the animosity and frustration she felt each time she failed to stand up to her father.
After each Sunday morning and Wednesday evening wasted at his weekly telecasts, Savannah spent the rest of the day nauseated by the genes she shared with a man who so eagerly misled the vulnerable. She felt a permanent unease for the folk who could barely afford to eat regularly, yet saved up their cash and spent $25 a ticket to witness one of his sermons in person.
That afternoon, Savannah kept recalling the s
hy little black girl with the stammer, and the terror that spread across her face as the fat white man shouted at her and tried to withdraw imaginary demons from her young body. There was nothing demonic inside her; she was made of love and trust and raised by caring parents who believed in their hearts they were doing what was best for her. The Reverend was not God’s vessel on Earth like he claimed; he was a charlatan who profited from blind faith.
Savannah wondered if she was the only audience member to have noticed the child peeing herself when Reverend Devereaux gripped her face. She was convinced her father had seen it too and got a kick out of it. Then Savannah remembered later, backstage, passing the crippled woman who’d taken baby steps in front of the audience earlier that day. Moments later and out of view, she was back in her wheelchair, praying for the pain in her knees to subside.
Savannah often chastised herself for remaining under the Reverend’s roof and accepting his soiled dollars. As a beneficiary, she felt complicit, and it sickened her.
‘Baby, you just have to hold on for another year and then we’ll be able to get somewhere of our own,’ reassured Michael from his seat opposite her. He placed his hands upon hers. ‘Let him pay for your college fees, and once you graduate I’ll put in for a transfer and we can move to New York like we planned.’
‘It’s not my dad who’s paying for all this, is it though?’ she reasoned. ‘It’s his congregation, it’s the collection plate he robs so we can live in a twenty-room mansion, so I can drive a Mercedes, go to dance classes, buy clothes, shoot guns at the rifle range and have the best education those people’s money can buy.’
