Now You See Me

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Only a couple of nights, then I’m moving on.’

  I bit the edge of my fingernail, thinking. Maybe a couple of nights would be OK. Only I didn’t know where he’d sleep.

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  He shrugged. ‘Something I’ve got to get sorted first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A mate to see. Then I’ll be offski.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘God’s honour,’ he said, doing a salute thing which is maybe Boy Scouts’ or something.

  I stared. He was so different. Not like someone you’d be afraid of. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it is only me. Scaredy cat. Scared of anyone. Scared of my own shadow.

  ‘You can maybe stay for a night or two,’ I said.

  ‘Ta,’ he said.

  ‘Long as that’s all it is. If you don’t do that match thing. And don’t keep drinking his wine.’

  ‘Any more rules?’

  I thought about it. I’m sure there were but I couldn’t think of any straightaway.

  ‘Bit selfish, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Keeping a place like this to yourself.’

  ‘I found it. Anyway, I really like Mr Dickens,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to …’

  He nodded and put his head back, opened and closed his mouth like a fish and blew a stream of smoke rings that rose like bubbles into the cobwebs.

  ‘Are you on the run?’ I said.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘From the police?’

  He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Are you an escaped convict?’ I said.

  He gave a hard-edged laugh that made me jump. ‘You kid,’ he said. ‘Shut it, will you?’ He muttered Escaped convict like it was something funny.

  I had to get out of there to think. Funny how I can’t think straight with someone there. I can’t get him clear in my mind. It’s like looking in a kaleidoscope. Soon as you think you see one thing, it’s changed to another. Or maybe it is just me. Not used to people any more. Maybe people aren’t that simple, one thing or another. I know I’m not.

  I said I was going out to get some food. ‘Fetch us back a couple of cans,’ he said. I wouldn’t normally let myself be ordered about but I was so glad he was going to drink beer instead of Mr Dickens’ wine, I said I would.

  It was the Saturday nearest to Guy Fawkes night and all up and down the streets, in their little back gardens, people were having parties. The air smelt of gunpowder and the wet paths were stained orange from the street lights, slithery with mulched-up leaves. And from everywhere there were explosions and whizzes, and brilliant waterfalls of sparks. It was like war, except instead of being frightened people were cheering and laughing and saying, ‘Oooooo!’ even though some of the noises were exactly like guns or bombs. If you want to shoot someone you should do it on Guy Fawkes night. No one would turn a hair. I wondered what it was that Doggo had done.

  The cellar was a good place for him to hide. The gardening was a way of making a few quid. If it was only a couple of nights, it would maybe be OK. It wouldn’t hurt Mr Dickens and he would at least get the garden started. I went to the off-licence and the newsagent’s. They didn’t have much food, but I bought a couple of Scotch eggs, then stood and looked at the fireworks. I stared for ages at all the boxes of Catherine wheels, Roman candles and splintery rockets. They made my teeth feel funny, the buzzy colours of them, the memory of the smell.

  I bought a packet of sparklers. I don’t know why. The thin feel of the wires through the paper and the itchy smell of them whipped me back to feeling about five again. I couldn’t take them back to Doggo, he would probably think that I was just a kid. I didn’t know what to do with them. Halfway back I stopped and lit one. It took ages to light and when it did the sharp silver fizz of it made me start. I waved it about like some lunatic and it went out. Maybe too damp. I put the rest of the packet on a wall for someone else to find.

  Doggo gave the Scotch eggs a funny look but ate one anyway and I ate the egg out of the other and fed the dogs the greyish scoops of sausage. We listened to the fireworks, and when it got late enough for Mr Dickens to be in bed we stood in the garden for a while watching the rockets.

  ‘What did you do?’ I said. ‘If you’re staying you could at least tell me what you did.’

  ‘I got away. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Was it murder?’ A screaming silver streak shot up and exploded overhead.

  He got hold of my arm so suddenly I yelled. ‘Shut it,’ he said, opened the door and shoved me in. He stood with his back against the door.

  ‘What do you want to hear?’ he said, grabbing me by the wrist. He spoke in a stupid girly voice. ‘“Was it murder?”’ He gripped my wrist so tight I could feel the blood throbbing in my hand.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please let go.’

  He shoved me away so hard I nearly fell. But I didn’t fall I just sat down on the bed. My heart was banging in my ears. I glared down at my knees to keep them still. Although it was icy cold my ears were burning. Norma yapped round Doggo’s ankles. I thought he’d kick her but he didn’t. He just stood there till she stopped. Doughnut was barking above us. I was shaking but I sat on my hands so he couldn’t see. I was scared that he would hear my heart. He stood for a minute flexing his hands. He looked up at the ceiling but the barking was dying away.

  He suddenly slumped down in the deck chair. There was a fierce hiss as he opened a can of beer.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. I swallowed but I couldn’t speak. He licked the foam that came down the side, then put his head back and shut his eyes. His throat was white and vulnerable, the skin smooth. There was a small pulse between the sinews.

  ‘How old are you?’ I said. He opened his eyes and looked at me like I was mad and then he laughed.

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Well you should be.’ He swigged the beer and netted a delicate line of froth on his moustache. He smiled. ‘I could be a serial killer for all you know. It was round here they caught Yorkshire Ripper, weren’t it? Can you roll fags? Roll me a fag.’ He chucked me some tobacco and papers. I just looked. I may sometimes be a cleaner but I’m nobody’s servant.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. He blinked at me, his lashes making shadows on his cheeks. I’ve never rolled a cigarette. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try but I was useless at it. ‘Crap,’ he said when I finally handed him a loose and wonky tube.

  ‘Tough,’ I said. ‘Do it yourself then.’

  He shook his head at me. I gave him back his stuff and in a split second he conjured himself a tight and spindly fag. What was the point of that? Just making me feel stupid. He lit it, breathing in with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I want to go to bed now,’ I said.

  He raised his eyebrows tauntingly. ‘No one’s stopping you.’ But I sat there. There was only the one small bed. And I wasn’t about to get undressed with him there. My mind had changed. I had to get him out.

  ‘I’ll sleep here,’ he said, nodding at the deck chair. ‘I’ll take dogs out first.’ He smiled, the nice smile again, the young one. ‘Give you your privacy.’

  As soon as he’d gone I leapt up and tried the key. It wouldn’t turn. I hurt my fingers trying to force it. When I pulled it out of the keyhole there was a clot of rust and filth. I wiped it off on a rag. On the shelf by the door was some oil. I dripped a bit on the key and tried again and this time, after a bit of wiggling, it suddenly gave between my fingers, turned, the latch jumping into place. I gasped with the shock of this success. Stood looking at the locked door, feeling dizzy.

  It was a risk, I knew. He might come back and hammer on the door or shout, but I didn’t think he’d dare. I touched my wrist where he had gripped so hard. I could just make out the prints of his fingers on my skin. I took some clothes off and cleaned my teeth. I got into bed and waited, listening for his footsteps through the slamming of my heart.

  He d
id come back after a while. He tried the door once or twice and he called my name. It was strange to hear my name being called out in the night like that, ‘Lamb, Lamb.’ He called it softly, didn’t yell or bang. I saw his face against the window but I lay flat on the bed. I heard him hesitating a bit, muttering to the dogs, and then he went away. His footsteps growing fainter up the side of the house until I couldn’t hear them any more. I felt almost sorry. I did feel sorry for the dogs.

  Fifteen

  I let myself in through the back door of the Harcourts’. The kitchen table was stacked with the ‘special finish’ greasy pans as usual. Everyone was out so I stripped off and shoved all my clothes in the washer on the wash ’n’ dry cycle. I was dying for a bath after all that gardening. I didn’t even bother to look at the note which would just be the usual list of orders. I ran up the stairs, through the dark ‘master bedroom’, and turned on the taps in the en suite.

  I sloshed some plant essence into the bath, switched on the Jacuzzi effect and slid down into the warmth, the bubbles swirling round me like the confusion inside my head. I tried to get my mind to still, to get the balance back. Doggo hadn’t returned last night and I’d locked the cellar so he wouldn’t be there now. He was maybe miles away by now, going wherever he was going. It was over. I held my frothy wrist up and watched the faint beat of my pulse. Everything was OK.

  I closed my eye to see the high wire and I did see it – but I saw other things too, things I hadn’t noticed before. Things that looked exciting. In a circus there are more acts than just the high-wire act. The thought of Doggo was more like a trapeze, the high and dizzy swing of it, the swoop. That gasp when the two pairs of hands grab each other and one swings high, swooping above the applause, high and safe in the other’s hands. Imagine the trust of that. But anyway he had gone.

  I slipped down, my head under the water, and held my breath imagining something crazy. You can imagine anything you like, doesn’t do any harm. I imagined Doggo in the Jacuzzi – not that I’d do that, let him in, not in a million years. It is just so gorgeous, the bubbly feeling. You have to give it to the Harcourts, they have some good facilities.

  The water started to get cool and I made myself get out. I did mean to do some of the cleaning. I was getting dried when the door swung open and there stood Mr Harcourt.

  I had the towel up to me at least. We just stood staring at each other. I was too stunned to be scared. Not right away. He was wearing pyjamas. It was like a knife spreading something horrible on bread the way his face changed from blank to a smarmy smile. ‘Aaah,’ he said. ‘Been enjoying yourself, sweetheart?’

  ‘Just cleaning the bath,’ I said.

  ‘Not an abuse of your employer’s trust then,’ he said and stepped closer.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Drop the towel,’ he said coming towards me. I backed away. ‘You didn’t read the wife’s note, I take it?’

  I shook my head, still backing till I could feel the edge of the bath against my legs. The pyjamas were those naff silk type with a monogram on the pocket in swirly gold, BH. It was close to my nose and I just stared at the initials till my eyes went funny then he started to unbutton himself. ‘Imagine my surprise when a naked sylph came flitting through my bedroom.’ His voice oozed out like grease. ‘Needless to say I pinched myself and, yes, I was awake.’

  His head was huge with longish golden hair like a lion’s mane and his chest was thick and fleshy. He grinned and I leant back as far as I could then he let his trousers fall down and his stiff prick, all pink and whiskery like a prawn, jumped up and pointed at me. He got so close it rubbed against the towel. So close I caught a whiff of fish.

  ‘This could be rather nice,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh come come. Listen, if you drop that silly towel’–he got hold of the edge of it and tugged–‘I’ll give you fifty pounds.’

  I didn’t have to think about it. I just kneed him in the balls and when he doubled over I ran down the stairs only I couldn’t leave because my clothes were still churning about in the washer.

  All I could find to put on down there was Mrs Harcourt’s apron and my denim jacket that I hadn’t put in the washer but I still had a bare bum. I wrapped the damp towel round me and even though the house was hot I was shivering. I looked at the phone and thought about dialling 999 but what could I say? Mrs Harcourt’s note was there on the table:

  Dear Lamb, Mr Harcourt is unwell and is upstairs asleep. Therefore please be quiet and considerate. There is no need to go upstairs today. Please do not use the vacuum cleaner. This would be a good opportunity to tackle woodwork, skirting boards, window frames etc. Please remove ornaments from alcove by fire, wash in warm soapy water and polish shelves. Be especially careful with the Shepherdess – sentimental value! Money in envelope.

  Myra Harcourt.

  I should have smashed the Shepherdess. I should have just run off but I couldn’t go without my clothes. I was giddy and weak in the knees with the shock of it, the thought that I’d walked naked right through the bedroom where he was in bed, the bed all rumpled, the curtains drawn, and into the en suite. I couldn’t bear it that I’d been in there, the door not even properly shut, wallowing in the bath with him next door all the time, probably having some porno fantasy, playing with his prick.

  Then I heard his feet creaking down the stairs. I got hold of a cast-iron grill pan. It weighed a ton. You could brain a person with it easy, if you could lift it. I rested it on the table while I waited. My legs had gone like string. It seemed like hours by the time he finally opened the door and stood there. He’d got the smarmy look back but strained this time like a mask that didn’t fit. He was wearing a dressing gown now but no pyjamas. His bare feet were plump and babyish.

  ‘Still here?’ he said.

  ‘Waiting for my clothes,’ I said. The washing machine sloshed and churned. He laughed, actually laughed, throwing his mane back and roaring. His teeth were huge and yellow inside his thick red lips.

  ‘That somewhat hysterical response was unnecessary,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Not to say hasty,’ he added. ‘Just as a matter of interest, if I’d said a hundred pounds what would the response have been?’

  I didn’t even bother to answer.

  ‘Two hundred? Five? It’s my theory that everyone has their price.’ I shrugged. ‘A grand?’ he said.

  I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, then stopped. A thousand pounds. I was thinking about a thousand pounds. What I could do with a thousand pounds. My hands loosened on the grill-pan handle.

  I left and walked for ages, gulping down the fresh air. I walked through the Botanics. It was a damp day, not raining but if you closed your eyes you could hear a million faint dripping sounds and smell the wet of earth and rotting leaves. There was no one else around, not even a gardener, but a lone magpie jerked about and a flock of pigeons took off in front of me, sounding like a clever card-sharp shuffle.

  I needed someone to tell. If I saw Doggo again and told him, what would he think? What would he say about it? I felt sick in my heart and the pain was there between my ribs again. I would pay a thousand pounds not to be fucked by Mr Harcourt. If ever I told anyone that is what I’d say. Would Doggo say that was stupid or was brave?

  Instead of just kneeing him in the balls I should have pushed him in the bath and held him under the water until he stopped struggling, all his bubbles lost in the Jacuzzi-effect bubbles. No one would have known it was me. I could have said I never went upstairs, I’d read and obeyed the note. I could have done a murder just like that. The perfect crime. When you look at murder like that, it doesn’t seem so bad.

  I sat down on a wet bench and squirrels gathered round me sitting up on their haunches expecting some monkey nuts but I had no monkey nuts to give. I cried a bit feeling completely pathetic sitting alone on a bench crying for no reason at all. Then I remembered it was a Mr Dickens afte
rnoon and I was glad.

  Sixteen

  I went back to the cellar and unlocked the door. Everything was just the same. I’d thought Doggo might have slipped a letter under the door or maybe not that but something. Been back and left some sort of sign. But there was nothing. Which was for the best. Of course he would be mad with me. He’d probably hate me now. I did feel guilty about shutting him out, after I’d said he could stay. Going back on my word. He only wanted to stay a night or two. The relief had gone now and I just felt bad.

  I wanted to talk to someone. All the things that could have happened. Maybe I did it with Mr Harcourt, maybe we got into the Jacuzzi together, had a ball. Ha ha. All sorts of things happen in this world.

  I came over suddenly tired, too tired to go straight up to Mr Dickens’, my legs like lead, the air almost too heavy to get into my lungs. I needed someone. Needed? No. To talk to. No. Anyway there was no one. I flopped down on the bed. Before Mum died it was her I talked to, told things, almost everything. Would I have told her about Mr Harcourt? But if she was alive it would never have happened so that thought is a waste of space.

  After she died I went to stay with her friends, the people we spent Christmas with each year. I had hardly ever been to their house apart from Christmas and it looked strange in the summer sun, with no Christmas tree or decorations. It was my GCSE year. I was supposed to get on with it and do my exams as if nothing much had happened. I was still supposed to want to be a doctor.

  The friends were very kind but I could hardly bear to look at them. They decorated a room for me and put up bookshelves. They said I must have my friends round and think of it as home. They thought it would be good therapy to talk about my mum. They put photos of her up and talked about her every day. They said it was all right to miss her, it was normal. It would be all right to cry.

  I couldn’t tell them that I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t tell them I was angry. I was angry with her for dying. Furious. I was furious with her for allowing me not to have other friends, for being my only friend. I was furious with her for dying so quickly, of nothing, of a backache. What a stupid thing to die of. Furious with her for giving up like that and being dead. She didn’t even say goodbye. Last time I saw her she said, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and it was a lie.