The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

  Rose kept saying it, over and over, as she walked across yet another field, hoping she was walking in the right direction. She was drenched. She didn’t know why. But she knew she had to get back to Dear Green.

  The Queen, red lips.

  The Queen, red lips.

  Why was she saying that? Ah, that garage looked familiar. Was it the one near Dear Green? It looked like every other garage. Oh, but were there mirrors? There should be mirrors on sticks in the distance, at the end of the driveway. No, no mirrors. This wasn’t the one where Chris sometimes bought her Doritos if she asked him nicely. Chris sometimes said: ‘Sure, Gran, but you have to promise to chew them before swallowing. They’re sharp, those things. Remember that time you didn’t chew one properly? You nearly choked, didn’t you?’ He looked after her, that grandson of hers. He protected her, kept her safe. That bossy Chris boy. Chris, with beautiful chiselled features inherited from Vernon, with the pretty lips of a child inherited from no one, all his. Pretty lips. So red.

  The Queen. Chris.

  *

  She was so cold. Why was she wet?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Someone had spotted her by the fuel pumps. ‘You’re all wet. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just on my way home.’

  The man had two children in the car. Rose would use him in a book one day – that torn look on his face. He had two kids in the car. One was a toddler, crying. And there was a wet old lady wandering by parked trucks. Kids? Wet old lady? Kids? Wet old lady?

  ‘Is home close?’

  ‘I’m sure it is!’ Rose kept walking, on the pavement now, passing a betting shop, a pound store, a bakery.

  Three teenage boys laughed at her as she walked by. She’d write about them one day too. Kill them, maybe. Ha!

  Red lips, red lips. Not good. Not good. Very bad, in fact. She’d wondered, since Chris took her to the exit to the maze. Greeted the owner like an old friend, unpacked her things, visited more often than all the other visitors joined together, and much more than he did when she was in the West End.

  There were many good things about Chris. He had fabulous taste. He listened. He was kind. And very good looking. She hadn’t had major concerns about him before Dear Green. Most nine-year-old boys would find a dead pigeon intriguing, wouldn’t they? Perhaps not. But after she moved to Dear Green, Rose started to wonder about him. He spent a lot of time with the slimy owner, and lot of time in Jimmy’s room.

  And then he visited late one night, held her down while Harriet shoved two pills in her mouth. She pretended to fall asleep, listened as Chris tapped on his computer for a while, as Marcus opened the door to say: ‘Quick, they’re arriving. Hair and make-up!’ and as Chris said, ‘Right you are.’

  Chris slapped her cheek to check she was unconscious, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Then she spat out the pills. Another car was parking in the driveway. Why so many, at two in the morning? She wished Nurse Gabriella was on duty, but she’d left hours earlier. A dour-faced bitch, that nurse, but she had a good heart. Rose was too scared to leave her room. She could hear the back door opening, closing; a room at the back of the house opening, closing; she could see people walking from their cars around the side of the house. She knocked at the wall – a secret code between her and Beatrice. Bang. Bang, bang-bang-bang-bang. Bea always knocked back, saying, ‘I’m here, Rose, and I’m okay.’ But she didn’t this time. And then she saw Chris’s laptop, still open on the desk by the window. It took her a while to understand what she was seeing – Bea, on a trolley bed. Chris was leaning over her face, touching up her lips until they were almost as red as his. Marcus and Jimmy were watching from the other side. Gavin wheeled Nancy in, taking their place around the bed.

  Chris was coming. She jumped back in bed and pretended to sleep as he took his laptop. She pounced back out of bed, opened her door an inch and watched as he turned right at the end of the hall. A door closed. He’d gone into Room 7. That’s where Bea is, Rose thought. And they’re filming her. She should do something. She should ring someone, but where was her phone? She could use the one in the office. Use what one in what office?

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  She checked the clock. 3.15 a.m. She must have been lost in the maze again for over an hour.

  Bzzz. Harriet had picked up the intercom phone in the office adjacent. ‘Yes sir,’ she’d said, ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’ She’d heard Harriet preparing food and drink in the dining room, then a crowd walking down the hall, entering the dining room, closing the door. She should check on Bea! Rose tiptoed down the empty hallway and turned the handle of Room 7. She didn’t go in, just looked from a crack in the door. Bea! Salvia frothed noisily from her slack mouth. There was a camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. These people were watching Bea die. These people were filming her. She should get the police!

  Rose closed her bedroom door just as the crowd in the dining room began pouring out again, and heading back to Bea. So intermission had only been ten minutes. Intermission?

  And then some time was lost.

  After waving Bea off the following morning, it came back to her, and she drew it, the first of many times.

  *

  Something felt funny. What was that feeling? She stopped, touched her tummy. Strange noises coming from there. Hunger! She needed Doritos.

  The corner shop was crammed with naughtiness. Rose wanted more than Doritos. She put a large bar of Dairy Milk, a bottle of Diet Coke, two packets of cheese and onion crisps and a large cheesy Doritos on the counter and listened as the register pinged.

  ‘Sorry?’ The woman looked grumpy. Unhappy. She was fat. Yeah, Rose could write about her. One of the kids on the farm would steal from her. Wendy, maybe. Tilly would take the stolen sweets back. The grump would catch her doing it. Yeah! Ping, ping went the register.

  ‘What?’

  Oops, she must have said ping, ping out loud. She laughed. ‘I thought that was in my head.’

  ‘That’s five pounds twenty.’ The woman started bagging the goodies. She packed them so carefully! Neat and tidy, lifting the thin blue plastic carrier bag and dropping it again once filled to check she’d done a good job, and that the bag would hold. When Rose extended her hand to take it, the woman retreated, stared. The pause seemed interminable. ‘That’s mine.’

  ‘And it’s five pounds twenty.’

  Oh. That’s right. Money. She had to pay the grump for this bag. She wouldn’t steal like Wendy had! She reached for the floral satchel she always used, but the long strap wasn’t across her shoulder and the satchel wasn’t banging at her hip like it always did. She must have left it somewhere.

  ‘Oh no, I forgot my bag. I’ll go get it. Can you keep those things till I get back?’

  She sighed, the woman. Plonked the bag under the counter, picked up the magazine she’d been reading.

  This place was soulless. Concrete boxes for houses growing out of the short shopping strip like straggly grey hair. Four wide lanes of road cut the area in half. But Rose loved to wander, always had. She looked at the group of boys at the bus stop. Must have been around twelve. They were smoking. ‘Shouldn’t you boys be at school?’

  The joker of the pack snarled at her: ‘Shouldn’t you be dead?’

  The body count in her next book was mounting. Across the road was a large hotel, just as concretey and boxy as the houses surrounding it. A businessman in a suit, briefcase in hand, entered through the revolving door. What boring conference are you attending?

  A young couple came out a few seconds later, holding hands. I know what you’ve been up to.

  ‘Excuse me!’ A car had stopped beside her, window zzing down. A young woman, around twenty-five perhaps, smiled.

  ‘Are you lost?’ Rose asked.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing! Where you off to?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ This girl had groovy clothes. A floaty cream top, brown knee-high flat boots. She was so pretty. ‘You don’t need all the make-up!
Why don’t you try two days a week without lipstick to start, see how it goes, like they tell you to do with alcohol.’

  ‘Okay!’

  Her lips were so red. ‘Oh! I need help. Can you help me?’

  ‘Sure. Do you want me to drop you home? You know where you live?’

  ‘No no. I mean yes. I do know that. But it’s not that I need help with. Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘I am a vault!’ The girl twisted her fingers at her lips, as if locking them. She had the loveliest smile. ‘Your smile would be so much nicer without the lipstick. Will you? Will you try without? Tomorrow? See how it feels. I bet you get even more compliments.’

  ‘I will, if you tell me the secret.’

  Oh. Oh, yes. The secret. ‘It’s . . . it’s um. What’s your name?’

  ‘Sophie. Sophie Craig. What’s your name?’

  ‘Rose Price. I’m a writer!’

  ‘Rose Price? Not the . . . Tilly? Rose Price! Oh wow. I LOVED your books as a kid. You want me to tell you a secret?’

  ‘I’d love you to.’

  ‘I still read them. The night before my Higher Exams, I read the one about Josie the cow over and over. How Tilly walked all night to put her in Farmer Greg’s pasture. They calm me down, that one’s my fave.’

  ‘In real life, I ate Josie.’ The girl went white and Rose felt bad for telling her the real-life version. ‘I was so hungry.’

  ‘Rose, I am such a fan. Let me take you home. I’ll drop you off at your house.’

  *

  Rose had never been great with directions. Writers shouldn’t be, she’d always told herself. Getting lost, wandering, that’s where good stories came from.

  ‘It’s in Kelvindale?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Kelvindale.’

  ‘So, left at Hyndland Road? See up ahead – that’s Hyndland Road. You recognise it?’

  She did! ‘Yes! Left here. Left again. See that wee lane past the ghost house?’

  ‘Ghost house?’

  ‘I always called it that. There are ghosts in there, don’t you think? Loads of the things. Never saw anyone go in or out. Ghosts live there.’

  ‘So right into this lane?’

  ‘Yes. That’s my house! Oh, my home!’ She’d stopped at the gate. Rose opened the door, got out. She loved this place. Loved it! ‘I wrote twenty-six books in there. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I’d be inspired if I lived here too.’ The girl was getting out as well.

  Was she wanting a cup of tea?

  ‘I would love a cup of tea.’

  As usual, the whitewashed gate was locked. Rose reached for her keys. ‘Damn! My bag. I wonder if I left it in the house.’

  The kind girl jumped the gate into Rose’s stone-paved courtyard and opened it to let Rose in. The flowers were all gone! Just a couple of sad-looking potted shrubs. Someone had ruined her garden.

  They looked through the kitchen window together. Perhaps she’d left the bag on the kitchen table. That wasn’t her kitchen table. Hers was old-fashioned, country-kitchen style, big enough to lay out her drawing pads and her paints. This table was white and new. Where was her kitchen table?

  Rose wasn’t sure what happened in the minutes after that. She was sitting on the ground now. The girl with the make-up was phoning someone.

  ‘Who are you phoning?’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just trying to find out where your bag is.’

  ‘I left the Doritos at the shop.’ The girl’s lipstick was so red. ‘Oh! Call the police! Please, call the police! I live in Dear Green Care Home. People are being killed there. Please, will you call the police?’

  The girl had stopped talking on the phone, was putting the handset back in her bag. ‘I have. I have called the police. They’ve been looking for you, Rose. They’ll be here in a minute. It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  Rose nodded sadly. Dear Green. The name had seemed lovely when Chris first mentioned it. Dear Green. She’d thought about using it in her next book.

  ‘While we wait, tell me about your writing. Where do you get your ideas from?’

  She could talk about writing for ever! It felt so good. On the garden furniture someone had put in the barren courtyard, she told her all about Vernon. How she’d come to life after he died, not that he was a bad man, not that motherhood wasn’t rewarding. She even changed her surname back to Price again. She was Rose Price, not Rose Wife. How she blossomed after all that was dusted and done.

  ‘You mean done and dusted?’

  ‘I prefer dusted and done.’

  She talked about the book festivals she’d attended – in Berlin, Chicago, Brisbane. She talked about the little girls she met at schools, eyes wide open with greedy pleasure as she read from her books. She talked about Tilly, who was the wee girl she’d failed to be.

  She’d been talking a while before she realised two police officers were standing in the courtyard listening to her stories. One looked familiar, a friend of Chris’s perhaps. The other looked about fifteen and was grumpy with her. ‘Where’s your tag, Rose?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Never mind. I hear you were trying to get help? What do you need help with exactly?’

  She could do with a lot of help! She wanted to go to for a mooch in town and she could do with a lift. She was hungry and would love a roll and sausage. She needed plants, plants, as someone had taken them all. ‘Are you police officers?’

  The older, kinder one, nodded.

  ‘Well, someone has stolen my plants.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I wonder what I’d have written in my advanced care planning statement. Let me think. I would have wanted to die at home, probably, in the house I shared with Mum. A few weeks ago, I’d have asked that she be by my side. I’d have asked her to pretend that heaven exists and to list all the fab things about it in that deep serious voice of hers. With Mum gone, I’d have asked for Paul. I’d have liked him to sit on the bed and hold my hand. No! I’d want him to stand by the bed and— No! He should sit in a chair and read, no sing, no, no, talk to me, yeah, talk, about that drama class we did when we were teenagers and how I was too sullen to pretend to be anything other than sullen. And about all those movies we watched together, dissecting them after and him saying, ‘You’re wrong about the turning point, Catherine, wrong!’ And about how I secretly studied hard for my Highers behind my friends’ backs – late into the night in his bedroom or in mine – and how I hid my results from Gina and Co. ’cause As were way uncool and how I worried about showing them to Mum ’cause she’d want me to do law or something and about how proud I was when I did show her. I reckon I’d have asked Paul to be mushy. I’d have wanted him to tell me he loves me and that I’m beautiful. I’d have wanted him to tell me about the flat we’d have lived in together and the places we’d have travelled to. I’d have wanted to continue what we started – another kiss but no tongues, ’cause mine’d probably taste like death.

  I wonder what music I would have wanted. Would I have asked for music? I don’t know. My fads were short lived.

  If I wrote the statement more than a month ago, I’d definitely have said I wanted to die before getting old and smelly and boring and slow and embarrassing. I’d have asked for it to be quick and painless and without fear and in my sleep and I’d have absolutely insisted on having a decent but appropriate outfit on, like my cute stripy PJ bottoms and a fresh sleeveless white T-shirt for instance (similar to Mum’s!). I’d have asked Paul to make sure my mouth didn’t drool during and droop after and that someone closed my eyes immediately if they stayed open and that if they were to post RIP photos about me online or put some up at the service, they should be chosen from the profile pic folder on my Facebook page ’cause they are all fucking stunning. I would not have asked for this.

  When I woke, it took me a while to understand where I was. The bed was comfortable, the room quiet and softly lit. For a moment, I thought I was at home, but then a landscape painting unblurred a bit and after that a handrail or tw
o as well and I wondered if I’d fallen asleep in Mum’s room in Dear Green, but then I remembered that Mum had gone already and that heavy feeling happened, that wave of hot leaden sorrow that had come and gone since she died, and then I realised I had no reason to be there. When I tried to sit up I remembered the last thing that happened before waking here – Chris’s arms reaching out, hitting me – and I knew I was in Room 7.

  Gina’s mate from London had a date rape experience once and for a while after we all remembered to be careful with our drinks. Her name was Kate. Gina’s half-brother found her lying in the car park outside the bar full of Ketamine and some guy’s sperm. Apparently after, she said the worst thing was not being able to remember anything about it, and I always thought that was wacko – who’d want to remember being sexually assaulted? I suppose they’d given me something similar. Everything was wonky. I couldn’t move. I wanted to kick the restraints off and run but I couldn’t do either of those things. I wanted to forget this already.

  I wasn’t being raped; not yet, anyway. I was alone in the room. I wondered if that’s what they were going to do. Maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t touch me. Maybe they’d just watch me die. I shut my eyes and opened them again, unsure why I could move my eyelids but nothing else. When they came in – the people who drove here in the middle of the night to stand, in all sorts of shoes, around my bed – I could close my eyes and pretend they weren’t there at all. Perhaps this wouldn’t be too hard. As long as they didn’t need to see my fear, or the reflection in my eyes. As long as they didn’t need to touch me.

  It was a bland stage. Just me on the trolley bed, Velcro bands stretching across legs, torso, shoulders. The door was shut and I could hear footsteps and faint male chatter. Oh, I could try and yell! Why hadn’t I thought of that? To yell, my mouth needed to be open, but I couldn’t work out how to make that happen. I studied my blinking for a minute or two – my eyelids shut, and then they opened. I tried to pinpoint how I had managed to make this happen in order to transfer the skills to my mouth. No. I couldn’t do it.