by Lia Louis
I am shaking now – adrenaline, I suppose – and all I want to do is get to the car and burst into tears. This feels hopeless. A series of winding routes, each leading to a dead end. I look at the guy and I nod. ‘Cheers,’ is all I say, and I turn to leave.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ Nick calls after me, but I don’t stop walking.
‘Yeah,’ I call. ‘Fine.’
But he’s caught up with me. He stands at the side of me. ‘I’m in social care,’ he says. ‘I work for a charity.’ He pulls his jacket to one side – there’s a plastic pass around his neck. He holds it between his fingers. I stop. The pass has a .org.uk website address printed on it – it’s small but looks like it’s called ‘Free to B’ – beside a photo of him, an ID number, and his name: Nicholas Munk.
‘Just in case you thought I was an accomplice of ol’ silly bollocks over there,’ he laughs, but he’s watching me with concern; as if I’m something that might collapse at any moment. ‘You’re shaking. Do you think you should take a minute?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll be alright. I just wanna get out of here.’
I still can’t get my breath. My words come out in short bursts.
‘Then at least let me walk you out. Those stairs are concrete, and there’s hundreds of them. I used to work in risk-assessment. A wobbly person and those steps …’ he pauses, and grimaces. ‘Well, I wouldn’t forgive myself. And I’m not sure your bones would, either.’
My head spins. ‘Um. OK. Fine.’
Nick and I walk without talking for the first two flights of stairs. My stomach lurches at the smell of piss. It’s putrid, and at the moment, everything feels more intense than usual. Every sound is loud and alarming, every colour, illuminated. The shock of it all; of all of this.
‘Think lovely thoughts,’ laughs Nick, trotting down the stairs beside me. Then, as we descend the fourth flight, he says, ‘Can I ask what brought you here? Totally fine if that’s too personal a question.’
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ I tell him. ‘It seemed like a good idea.’
He nods. ‘Was surprised to see someone, to be honest. It’s being demolished soon. They’re rebuilding. Most have moved out.’
‘I’m trying to find an old mate,’ I tell him. ‘This is the only address I have. But I think it’s old. Years old.’
‘Was he an ex-con?’
I stop on the steps. When he sees I’m at a standstill, he stops too, a few steps further down, his eyebrows raised, lips parted.
‘What? No. No, he wasn’t an ex-con.’ Then I notice his face. His mouth a tight curve, eyes downturned at the corners – the same face Helen wore at Broxton Farm. The smile. The sad, pitiful smile. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because that’s what number 68 and 104 are, here. It’s shared housing for ex-cons.’
‘Ex-cons? As in … people who’ve been in prison?’
Nick nods, twice. A bow really, his eyes widening slightly as if to say, ‘What else would I mean?’ My hand grips the cold handrail. I think of Roman. I think of that place, those men. I think of prison, of cells, of how much he hated the idea of being trapped; that nightmare he used to have, of being locked in. Then I think of us. Looking up at the clouds, pointing out swifts and kites, us on that beach, his hands holding my arms, counting with me, till the panic stopped, the laughing until we cried, cocooned together in Sea Fog, running through the town in black tie, him crying in that hospital bed. God, that hospital bed. My heart heaves against my ribcage. It’s unbearable. All of this. It’s too much.
‘It was a dry house for a while,’ says Nick. We haven’t moved from the steps. I can’t. It’s like someone has sliced a knife through me and I’m deflating. ‘Place for recovering addicts. Then we had the new rehab centre open. That was about fourteen, fifteen years back now. Then it became the housing for ex-cons. When was it your friend—’
‘Not as far back as fifteen years.’ As if addiction would be better – as if it would be preferable.
‘Right.’ Nick nods again – that sad bow. He watches me. There’s silence between us for a moment. There is water drip-dropping somewhere, and distant sirens.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just wasn’t expecting that. I don’t understand any of this.’
‘Never easy,’ he utters.
After a moment, I straighten. We start walking again.
‘I always say this place is a stop gap, between your mistakes, and the rest of your life. So, hopefully this place is long behind your friend. Ex-cons either—’
‘No.’ I stop. We’re just one flight from the ground now. ‘I don’t— I don’t think Roman was an ex-con.’
Nick says nothing, and brings his hand up to his stubbly chin.
‘I know that’s probably what everyone says and I sound really naive, but … he would never steal, or hurt anyone. He was a good person.’ Silence, again. ‘He was better than anyone. He had this heart, and … he was just a good person. Better than good. Better than all the people I ever knew. I think maybe the address was a number out or a mistake or something …’
Nick smiles, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does. ‘Look, I don’t doubt there’s a possibility it could be wrong information. But I’ve known many good men go into those flats,’ he says, softly. ‘In fact, most are, at the core, beneath it all. They just take a wrong turning, make a poor decision. Then they need to get back on track. That’s what we provide, and sometimes, that’s all it takes.’
‘And other times?’
He hesitates and takes a deep breath. ‘Other times, it doesn’t matter what we say or do or help them with. They’ve made their minds up.’
‘They re-offend?’
He nods once. ‘Or …’ He doesn’t say anything else. He just raises his shoulders to his ears, and I don’t want him to say any more. We stand on the step, halfway down. There’s just the sound of our breathing, and that dripping of water, and I wait, as my heart slows from a gallop to a trot.
‘And what about Craig?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Craig. Twat upstairs. Is he a good man?’
Nick laughs, rubbing his chin. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Well, I’ve seen worse pull their finger out, put it that way. So, who knows?’
When we get outside, Katie’s car sits welcomingly on the concrete. There’s a black car parked beside it, a ‘Free to B’ sticker on the side of the door. Nick’s car. I can’t hear the music now, or the sirens; just distant traffic and the wind, through trees.
‘There’re places online that have a registry of everything. Names, cases, convictions, all that. Not all, but … you might strike lucky.’ Nick grimaces. ‘Perhaps, wrong choice of words there.’ He ducks to look at me. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks for walking me out.’
‘Anytime,’ says Nick. ‘Good luck, yeah? And no more knocking on strange doors. You never know who you’ll find.’
‘Babe, it’s me again, Priscilla. Remember me? Your best friend who went to that bloody work trip and should’ve never ever gone because Graham is the worst drunk in the whole frigging universe and I want to bathe in holy water just because I observed it. God, you’re crap at answering your phone. I’m almost home. You need to ring me back as soon as you get this. I mean it. Please?’
This PC/D: Lizzie Laptop/Roman/
Roman signed in on 22/03/05 23:57
Lizzie: hey.
Roman: Hiya
Lizzie: where have you been? you been out dog walking with Ethan again?
Roman: No. Offy in town. Phone’s dead. Sorry.
Lizzie: the offy? why?
Roman: Came home, found Mum passed out, 3 bottles of vodka and a bottle of wine in her handbag.
Roman: She’s been out robbing agauin.
Roman: again^
Lizzie: roman :(
Lizzie: are you ok?
Roman: Sort of.
Roman: Took them back. Dude at the shop was cool about it. Shook my hand, gave me 15 quid to say thx …
<
br /> Lizzie: that’s shit Ro, I’m sorry :(
Roman: It’s ok. Kipping in Sea Fog tonight. Can’t be arsed with her when she wakes up and finds them gone. Only just got signal so if I sign out it’s not me it’s my net :/
Lizzie: it’s so cold. do you have loads of blankets?
Roman: Yeh lots. & a oil heater thing I found in the loft. Made the hot water bottle you got me too :)
Lizzie: I wish you could just sleep here.
Roman: Me too.
Lizzie: Dad’s asleep and Nathan is at Mum’s. can’t you climb up my drain pipe?
Roman: I wish.
Roman: Wait … that was a euphemism wasn’t it?
Lizzie: NO!!!!
Roman: Oh.
Lizzie: lol! shut up.
Roman: Haha. Sorry. Too easy.
Lizzie: nob.
Roman: Silver lining is we’ve got a 5er for the pot. Would’ve been another tenner but we needed stuff. Loo roll and milk, pasta for my tea …
Lizzie: ok Jamie Oliver :D
Lizzie: seriously tho, you don’t have to explain. you should have it all.
Roman: Nah. Rather give it to Operation Sea Fog :) plus …
Roman: I bought you something.
Lizzie: did you?!
Roman: Just a little something for college. Wrapped it and stuck a tag on and EVERYTHING :P
Lizzie: that’s so lovely <3 thank you :)
Lizzie: I’ve gotta get in first tho.
Roman: You will.
Roman: Then there’ll be no stopping us.
Lizzie: counting down the days …
Roman: Me too J. One at a time.
Chapter Twelve
‘Sesame orange chicken, vegetable spring rolls, prawn pancake rolls, prawn and mixed meat pancake rolls, beef chow mein, pork chow mein, chicken chop suey …’
‘Wow––’
‘Sweet and sour chicken balls, sweet and sour pork balls, sweet and sour chicken Hong Kong style …’
‘Is that in the light batter?’
‘Yes, Calvin. A light batter and served in the sauce.’
‘Well,’ says Calvin, ‘I must say, mate, this definitely sounds—’
‘On to sundries. Steamed beef dumplings, steamed vegetarian dumplings, chips, fried in groundnut oil …’
Gary, Fisher and Bolt’s scruffy IT guy, and Cal’s unlikely BFF, stands in front of us with a crumpled piece of folded lined paper, and with small rounded glasses on the end of the nose of his enormous beardy face, he reads from it. Cal is sitting on his computer chair, lounging back, his eyes fixed on Gary, as though he’s watching a marvellous opera.
‘Could you at least look as though you’re working, please, Lizzie?’ he’d said about fifteen minutes ago as I’d stared into space, and willed away the hours until home time, when I could crawl back into bed and pull the duvet over my head and stay there until morning. ‘Gary’ll be in in a minute and I don’t want it getting back to Lenny that you spend work time Googling things and emailing Priscilla.’
‘Why is Gary coming in here exactly?’ I grumbled.
‘He’s going to be looking at my Outlook.’
‘Right.’
‘And he’s tried that new Chinese buffet in Stratford. Says he wants to show me the menu.’ I thought by menu, he meant an actual menu, which he would just hand to Cal after fannying about with his email and grunting a bit, and say, ‘Nice place to take the wife. I recommend the sweet chilli beef, and to dine before seven.’ But no. This is Gary – Gary and his soul of batter and heart of fondant potato. There is no menu. Just a handwritten list of every food and accoutrement available courtesy of his own fair, hairy hands, and it’s being verbally delivered. Calvin looks enrapt though; as if he’s listening to Wordsworth, and he is quite sure he is the cloud. I sigh, loud enough that he might get the message (he doesn’t) and open my email. It’s not that I don’t love Chinese food. In fact, it’s one of my favourite things in the entire world, normally, and listening to a menu, especially read by Gary and his unintentionally-comedic ways, would be a highlight of my day. But I’m in no mood. No mood for food, no mood for laughing, no mood for anything. I’m teetering – on the edge of tears, on the edge of just jumping up and walking out the door.
Because everything feels odd.
Everything seems flat and colourless and as if everything and everyone is just moonlighting as themselves, and they’re really something else beneath the surface. I imagine this is what stepping through to an alternate reality is like. Everything’s there, the world looks the same, everything in its place, as it’s always been, but it’s just not quite right. Something is off, something has shifted. Nothing feels true. And unease, like this … feels like an old friend. It’s been a while since I’ve felt it this strong. It’s always there really, a dulled, weak version, thanks to the tablets that have kept it that way for years, now; the edge of something I know would try to engulf me if given half the chance, ever blunted. But I can feel it today, fighting to become more than just a shimmer; to be a wave, of helplessness, of random, gratuitous dread, that crashes over me and knocks me to the floor.
‘You’ll become addicted,’ Dad told me when I came home from seeing the doctor, age eighteen, a prescription bag held tightly in my hand. ‘You got off them once, you don’t need them again. You’ll never know how to be happy without them if you’re not careful.’
‘Well, the doctor doesn’t agree.’
Dad had let out a scoff of a laugh. ‘He wouldn’t, would he? Quickest way to get you out his office and onto the next one is to chuck you happy pills.’
‘But they might help me, Dad.’
‘Or make you worse.’
‘Well,’ I told him, pushing down the want to shout at him, to ask him what was worse than being unable to start college for the second time, or being unable to hold down a simple Saturday job because of this thing he seemed adamant on curing with pep talks and new clothes. ‘Stay tuned. You’ll soon find out.’
Twelve weeks later, Dad waved Priscilla and me off at Ashford station, our bags packed for France, our Eurostar tickets in hand, and he held me for much longer than usual.
‘I’m so pleased,’ he said into my ear, his voice thickening with tears, ‘to see my girl smiling again.’ He has never mentioned them again. Not negatively anyway.
‘Liz?’
‘Hm?’
‘Popping to Greggs for lunch. Want me to get you anything?’
I shake my head. ‘No cheers, Cal. I’m going out at one. With Priscilla.’
‘Oh. Oh, that’ll be nice.’ He rocks slightly on his heels as if he is contemplating asking me something else, but he doesn’t. He just nods, says, ‘Alright. See you in a bit,’ and dashes off, leaving with Gary, the pair of them chatting madly, bouncing as they walk from the office.
I close the door of the Shoebox of Doom when Cal leaves – less likely to attract anyone wanting to come in with accounts questions – and I want the peace.
I open my email. There’s one from Martin, our German director, one from Jeremy – photographs from the work trip, as well as a link to them and a password to gain access, and two from Priscilla – one is a reply to an email I sent her earlier, asking why she was late in again this morning and didn’t answer my texts last night.
From: Priscilla Greene
To: Lizzie James
Date: 28 August 2017 11 :57
Subject: No subject
Morning babe. Sorry I didn’t text you back last night. (Bit rich coming from someone who was begging for you to call them back I know, but nightmare night, nightmare morning. Chris and me. Another row.)
Can we go to Princess of Wales at lunch? I know it’s a walk but I want somewhere quiet away from work. I need to talk to you. 1 still OK?
For a moment, I feel like I’m going to burst – explode into chunks of woman with anticipation across this pub, all over lunching workers and pint-drinking builders on breaks. This always happens when she has news, good or bad, or she has to
talk about something she’d rather not; speaks nothing but pure bollocks, prolonging the misery and/or excitement. We cover the consistency of pub chips, how long it took her to put her eyelashes on last Saturday, the smell on the Northern Line this morning, and what exactly work’s cleaner, Martha, found in the loos last Friday morning that made her cry then send a very cross email (poo apparently, on the floor, in the cold light of day. Gary, I guess. Priscilla agrees).
‘So …’ P looks over her white wine spritzer at me, and smiles. I admit I’m relieved at the smile. The bags under her eyes today, another argument between her and Chris, and her rare make up-less face had me leaning towards bad news. But she’s smiling widely – teeth showing and everything – so it has to be good. Something funny about the work trip, like Jeremy dancing on a table with a carnation between his rock-hard buttocks, or Graham going missing before being found drunkenly dangling his balls over the continental breakfast selection in the hotel restaurant in a dress that wasn’t his own.
‘I went to Leckwith,’ she says. I blink. ‘You probably guessed from the voicemail that—’
‘What?’
‘The one I left on the train. I said I was going to Cardiff to a shopping centre—’
‘What? You didn’t – you kept breaking up.’
Priscilla stares at me over her glass, eyes wide. There’s a beat – a moment of silence between us at that round table – of shock, of disbelief, before I lean forward, head pulsing, my hands shaking as her words sink in, and say, ‘You went to Roman’s dad’s. As in … Pam’s? Dragon, bitch-from-hell, robbing nut job Pam’s? Are you for real?’
Priscilla starts to laugh. ‘I know it’s mad. But … how could I have not, Lizzie? We were right there. We were shopping and I was telling Becky, just that we were trying to track down an old mate and she told me to put the postcode in my phone, because Cardiff is obviously a massive fuck-off place and … it was just a couple of miles. Before I knew what I was doing I was booking a cab—’
‘My god, Priscilla.’ I am speechless. I wasn’t prepared for this. I thought it’d be gossip, a little work-related secret or something, and then I’d tell her the news, all about Edgar Fields. But this. I can barely speak. ‘And was she … d-did she speak to you?’
