‘I don’t mean in money.’
He sat down on the deck chair. Norma curled up on the floor beside him. He stretched his legs out and put his hands behind his head, so at home already. More at home than I could ever be. I could not look at him. I went outside. It was dark now and the sky was clearing. A fragment of icy moon caught up in a net of twigs. I listened but could only hear the outside noises, cars, water gushing from a drain. My breath was a sluggish cloud. No voices or only a thin sigh saying See. I should have listened when they spoke to me.
If this was a dream and I could wake, I thought, make it be a dream that I can wake from. I pinched my forearm. It hurt, good. Something honest about pain, something straight forward. The bit of moon was like a shard of broken glass. If only I could reach it down.
The thing to do was play along. I ran my hands over the skin on the front of my head, making a smooth face, and went back in. Doggo was smoking.
‘Drink to my job,’ he said. ‘Get us another bottle.’
I looked down at his sharp shadowy face. ‘No. Anyway, you’re not really going to do it?’
‘You never know.’
‘I thought you were meant to be hiding. What do you want a job for?’
He shrugged. ‘What does anyone want a job for?’ He unfolded himself out of the deck chair. I backed towards the door but he just went and got another bottle of wine. He opened it without even looking what it was. I waited with my nails slicing into the palms of my hands.
‘You can’t stay here,’ I said.
‘No?’ He sloshed wine into the mugs.
‘No.’
‘You going to chuck me out then?’
He handed me the wine. I took it even though I didn’t want it. I took a sip and tried to get my mind still. There were little bits of cork in the wine. Tried to get the balance. What would a balanced person do?
‘Good thinking this,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘I’d never have thought of it. Living in someone’s cellar.’ He laughed. ‘Like a rat.’
Oh Mr Dickens. The way he trusted me and trusted Doggo. Trusted Doggo was a gardener without any proof at all, just trusted. I think it’s a gift, trust, but whether a good or a bad gift I can’t decide. You leave yourself so open to abuse.
He picked up one of the gardening magazines. ‘Ought to get a tip or two before I start,’ he said.
‘You’re really going to do it?’
He wobbled his hand backwards and forwards. My mind was scrabbling about trying to think what to do. Not call the police. There was no one I could call. I went along with him while I tried to think. I pulled out some more magazines and the handbag fell out.
He glugged back more wine and frowned at a magazine. I tried to seem helpful. I read out to him that you prune in the autumn and anyone can see there’s lots to prune so that is easy. It’s what things are that he doesn’t know. He’s somehow managed to get through his life so far hardly able to recognise a rose. I showed him pictures: hydrangea, forsythia, lilac, lupin. We drank down through the wine and the magazines got fuzzy. He picked up the handbag. ‘What did you take it for again?’ he said.
‘What’s this one?’ I pointed at an iris.
‘Will you take it back?’ he said.
‘Why not you?’
‘You took it.’
‘You did first.’
‘But you stole it again.’
‘Not stole.’
‘Crap.’
He’d drunk much more wine than me because I don’t drink, not really, I only drank at all out of nerves. He’d had most of two bottles to himself. He opened the handbag and took things out. A comb, a purse, a lipstick. He took off the lid and wound up the blunt pink stick. He drew a line of it on the back of his hand. It was that same sugar pink she always wears. In the purse, along with her credit cards and money-off vouchers, there was a photo. Neville holding a baby Roy. Doggo stared at it for a minute, blinked, slid it back, stuffed everything back in the bag. He rolled another fag. The smoke and clouds of sour winter breath were crowding the dismal air, like a kind of fog. He pinched the fag between his lips, struck a match, watched the flame till it touched his finger and thumb then dropped it on the floor.
‘Don’t start that again,’ I said but he struck another and another. Even though the floor was concrete I was scared he’d somehow set the place on fire. ‘Please.’
‘Nice manners,’ he remarked.
‘Please, Doggo.’
He struck one more and watched it burn out on the floor. ‘Tell me something then,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Why you don’t do sex.’
‘I –’ I opened my mouth but I couldn’t answer.
‘Ever done it?’
‘None of your business.’ He struck another match. ‘OK, yeah,’ I said. He dropped the match and the flame died on the floor.
‘So, not a little virgin then.’
‘No.’
‘Well then …’
‘No!’ I couldn’t keep my smooth face on, it started to twist out of shape the way it does when you want to cry but I would not cry. He watched me for a minute, like he was really watching. His eyes were like the smoke.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Something else.’
‘What?’
‘I dunno. Tell me about your dad.’
‘My dad.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
I hadn’t thought about my dad for ages. What is the point? I don’t like remembering him not because it’s bad but only because it’s all so faint. It’s so faint I don’t even know if it’s real or if I’ve made it up from what I’ve been told and from photographs. The more times I disturb the memory the more worn out it gets. But this is it: brown hair, brown-rimmed glasses, a tobaccoey smell, a warm handkerchief wiping my face when I cried. Once he rolled a corner up into a twisted point to poke a dried-up bogey from my nose. Imagine doing that for someone. I remember a tweedy scratch against my cheek or maybe it was bristles.
Once he gave me a doll’s tea set and I set out a tea-party on the bedspread. The cups kept falling off the saucers because of the hills of his knees and feet. There is a photo of that tea-party. He was very ill, bone fingers holding a tiny china cup to his lips, black spaces in his smile. There’s a cake and a bit of crumpled wrapping paper and in the background, bottles of pills and a jug of water. I am holding up the teapot, my round face beaming at the camera. My birthday. Maybe my second or third. Not old enough to understand that he was dying. And that’s it, no memory of being told he was dead, no memory of a funeral. Once I saw his feet and they were bluish and the toe-nails long and yellow and disgusting. I don’t even know if they were dead feet or alive.
‘Dead,’ I said. ‘He died when I was a baby.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘Her too.’
‘Fuck,’ he said.
I was startled by the soft sound of his voice. My cheeks went hot.
‘Why have you got that?’ I said looking at the LOVE and HATE on his knuckles. He spread out his hands and studied them.
‘Bit naff, eh?’ he said.
‘Totally,’ I said and looked away.
I was tired. My eyes were stinging from the smoke. All I wanted was for him to go so I could get some sleep. My whole life was out of order with him there, panic rising again. Something broken and he was there. Breathing, smoking, being in my space. Like a stranger dabbling his fingers in my head. Before I could think of what to do, Norma did it for me. She scrabbled at the door and whined. Even though Doughnut’s blind his hearing’s fine and it set him off barking.
‘You’d better take her out,’ I said. ‘If Doughnut barks at night Mr Dickens calls the police. He’s got one of those panic buttons.’ It was a lie but he believed me.
He tried giving Norma a bit of a smack, not hard, just to shut her up. But she wouldn’t shut up, she just whined louder and Gordon started growling too. ‘I’ll take them ro
und block,’ he said. Doughnut was going demented up there. I was scared Mr Dickens really might get up and have a look out the back.
‘Please go, quick, before he calls them,’ I said. ‘The police come fast round here.’
‘Won’t be long,’ he said. He grabbed the leads and went off, quick and quiet into the dark. Easy as that. When he’d gone I leant against the door frame, dizzy with relief. But it lasted only a minute. His bag was on the floor. Because he would be back. If there was a way to lock the door I would have locked it but there is no way. There is a keyhole but no key. Nothing I could do to stop him coming back.
I was shivering. I made myself get into bed. My head a messy fuzz of stupid half-thoughts and my heart as heavy as a rock. I shouldn’t have drunk the wine. Two stolen bottles lying on their sides. All the choosing Mr Dickens did and all the saving. His investment. But bottles can be smashed.
How could I stop him coming back?
I listened for his footsteps, straining for the sound. I couldn’t. But I could go. Pack my stuff – which would take about two minutes – walk out, never looking back. It’s not hard, I’ve done it before. That is what I’d have to do.
I got out of bed, looked around the dingy space. The cold smoke had settled like mist on the floor. But then a thought struck me, stopped me. If I left now Doggo would move in. He might do anything. Poor Mr Dickens up there unaware. I couldn’t leave him to that. So I was stuck. And there was no one, no one I could ask for help. Your own fault, the voice told me. Your own blind and stupid fault.
Inside my eyelids I try to find the tightrope but it is not tight any more. Someone has cut it and it is dangling down but I open my eyes quick before I catch a glimpse of what is down there. Back in bed, I curl around the empty ache. It comes on nights like these, moves into the soft triangle between the bottom of my ribs. Not good clean pain, a dirty empty ache which can be cured with the let of blood. But I don’t do that. I could smash the bottles but no. I am cured of that. See how I am cured? I lie and listen for the sound of footsteps in the night.
Thirteen
The sunlight through my curtains was like rosé wine. My duvet was pink with daisies. I snuggled down waiting for Mum to call. It was only Mum and me and we were close. I didn’t have friends. Mum was my friend. We looked like sisters, people said.
She died fast. A backache, a cough. A test and then another test and suddenly she was in hospital. Nobody even said the word cancer and next thing she was gone. Like a conjuring trick. Now you see her, now you don’t. I was nearly fifteen. I stayed with her friends till certain things. I stayed there till I left.
The sunlight through the curtains was like rosé wine oh no it wasn’t. Sometimes when I wake, as I am waking, I still expect the pinkness with the sun shining through. But then my eyes are opened to the cobwebs and the leak of deadish light.
It took a moment to remember last night. But Doggo wasn’t there. I hauled myself upright and looked. The bottles on the floor, his bag, the stale tang of smoke in the air proved it had been real – but he had not come back. And I had actually slept all night. I never thought I’d sleep a wink. For a moment I was glad until it all seeped back. The guilt. Poor Mr Dickens up there unaware. My head throbbed from the wine. And Doggo would be back, there was no doubt of that.
I got up, peed and splashed cold water on my face. Maybe I’d go out before Doggo did come back. But when he did come, shouldn’t I be here? I looked at myself in his mirror shades. My hair like string and a wild look in my eyes. Before I could decide a thing, I heard his feet come tramping down the side of the house. He barged right in with the dogs like he owned the place. He whipped his shades off and grinned.
‘Oh God,’ I said.
‘Good morning to you too.’ He reached out and tried to ruffle my hair but I dodged away. His nose was shiny from the cold and his beard looked dewy. ‘Any tea going?’
‘What are you so up about?’ I said.
He grinned and shrugged. ‘Miss me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night.’
‘Oh yeah.’ I put the kettle on. I was going to anyway. I couldn’t bear to look at him. He was rosy. He seemed so young again. When he was pink in the face and smiling he didn’t seem much older than me. Nothing to be scared of.
‘Found a fucking van, didn’t I? Camper-bed in it and all.’
‘You want to be careful of vans. I got driven away in one once.’
‘Yeah?’ He squatted down to take the dogs’ leads off. The smell of outside clung to him. He looked up and snagged me with his eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘Not a lot.’
He stood up. ‘Lamb?’
My heart flickered. His eyes were on my lips. ‘What?’
‘Got any grub?’
‘No.’ I turned away and made the tea. He cupped his hands round his and blew and slurped like he’d been desperate. I almost wished I had some toast to give him. He looked cold right through. In the morning he didn’t look so dodgy. He was only a person.
When he’d finished his tea, he stood up. ‘Right, I’ll make a start.’
‘You’re really going to do it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you haven’t got a clue.’
‘Nothing else to do. Tell you the truth I’m bored witless.’
I went out with him to watch. And then I got stuck in too. The sky was the colour of apricots and the powder of frost sparkled the colour back. We ended up working together all day ripping down bushes. My head was throbbing and I could hardly bear him to look at me at first, knowing what a sight I was. After I’d dodged my eyes away from him a few times he asked me what was up. I said I had a headache. He laughed and said it was a hangover and he had one too. He made it sound so normal, I started to feel better.
He was a person. I was a person. It was normal to be with someone, working together. That is normal. I only had to keep my mind away from what was going to happen next.
Despite the frost which hung around all day, we got hot working and peeled off till we were just in T-shirts and jeans. Doggo was thin, but through his T-shirt you could see the muscles. Mr Dickens came out to see the progress and was surprised that I was there. I said I’d come to keep Doggo company and he said, ‘Long as I’m not paying double.’ I thought, you are paying double but kept it to myself. Norma and Gordon roamed round sniffing and peeing, then Gordon lay down with his nose on his paws with his bored-out-of-my-skull face on. He’s a hard dog to impress.
There were old bird’s nests and bits of rubbish stuck up in the branches, plastic bags and even a bicycle wheel. How on earth did that get there? I found myself laughing. It’s a huge garden and there must be weeks of work. While we were working things were easy between Doggo and me, as if we knew each other. Although he didn’t say much and nor did I. Funny how working hard can feel so good.
Halfway through the morning Mr Dickens opened the door and called out did we want a cuppa. We went inside and he looked at Doggo, winked and said, ‘Can’t you get a bit of flesh on her bones?’ I did not know where to look.
Doggo went through and I stood with Mr Dickens in the kitchen. I watched his hand waver as he spooned the tea into the pot, the scattered grit of tea-leaves on the draining board. I wondered how many times, how many spoonfuls of tea he’d spooned in his life, how many gallons of tea he’d made and drunk. Then I noticed something. On a nail by the door was a rusty key. ‘What’s that for?’ I said.
‘What, duck?’ He squinted and reached out his hand. He held it up and frowned. ‘I can’t rightly say. Might be for cellar.’ I carried the tray for him, sliding the key up my sleeve and later into the pocket of my jeans.
Mr Dickens gave Doggo a tin of Pal and he went out to share it between Gordon and Norma. While he was outside Mr Dickens patted me on the arm and said, ‘That’s a fine lad you’ve got there, Lamb.’ I didn’t know what expression to have but my face decided and split into a stupid grin. Then I remembered the wine and the way I’d lumbered Mr
Dickens and the smile just sank away. I sat there feeling awkward which I never feel with Mr Dickens. I had broken some invisible thing by letting Doggo in. Didn’t know if I could ever mend it.
But the day was so crisp and shiny bright it was hard to stay down for long. We cleared the long grass away from a clump of spiky purple flowers with yellow middles. I asked Mr Dickens what they were called and he said Michaelmas daisies. So that’s one we know for definite. I liked gardening, better than cleaning. Maybe I should change direction.
We pulled down an ancient crusty bush and found the skeleton of a cat curled up in the roots. More than just a skeleton, there were bits of skin and ginger fur stuck to the ribs and over the top of the skull. There was one of those little round bells you get on cat collars. I picked it up and it jingled and that spooked me, the bell jingling next to the greenish bones. I went and asked Mr Dickens if he’d ever had a cat but he said, ‘No, we never were cat people, give me a dog any day.’
We decided to bury it and I suggested we buried the handbag while we were at it. Doggo gave me a look. ‘Why?’
‘Just that I don’t like harbouring it.’
‘Harbouring?’ he said and laughed – but without smiling. ‘You can’t bury it,’ he said, ‘it’s got her stuff in.’ I started to argue then I shut my mouth. It was one of those stalemates between us. He didn’t say a word while we buried the poor cat which fell apart a bit when we moved it. I wondered whose cat it was and where they thought it had gone. To tell the truth I like the way cats creep away and find a secret place to die. Dignified.
We got on fine all day. Doggo and me. Had a laugh even. He loved the ripping down, you could see that, putting all his strength into tearing things apart, splitting branches off trunks, hauling roots out of the earth. I thought there’d be nothing left the rate he was going. A funny sort of gardening. I thought gardening was more about growing things than wrecking them. But Mr Dickens wasn’t complaining so why should I? We got on together fine all day. But when the end of the day came, it was as I feared. I couldn’t make him go.
Fourteen
‘Can’t you go back to that van?’ I said miserably, when he’d got settled on the deck chair with a mug of tea and a fag. Sitting on the bed I could feel the hard shape of the key pressing into my thigh but I hadn’t had a chance to try it.
Now You See Me Page 8
