I went in the bathroom but it was untouchable in there. The towels were in a wet heap on the floor and the washbasin looked like Harris tweed or something with all its mix of different bristles and God knows what. There were empty toothpaste tubes, spot creams, disposable razors, condom packets and of course a pizza box on the floor. I drank from the tap, peed standing up and left.
It was dustbin day and a lorry was roaring, tipping up the plastic bins and munching the stinking rubbish. Why are dustbin men so cheery? I don’t know. I was cheery too apart from a throbbing head. I had done it, sex. I felt like calling it out to the dustbin men, to the whole wide world. OK maybe I’d been half pissed and it was hardly shag of the century but still I had done it. Me.
I just wished it had been Doggo.
Thirty-three
Sarah’s car was still there. The front door was locked. I could not believe it. They had locked me out. I stood there for ages just staring at the door. I put my finger on the doorbell but didn’t press. Last thing I needed was the Trumpet Voluntary. I went round the back but they’d locked that door too. I had to go my old way. They had not locked the cellar door.
I pressed the light switch. It looked like a scene from another life in there. Or from some awful tedious dream. The camp bed where I had slept for months, the cold Calor heater, the card from Mr Dickens lying on the floor. I picked it up but it had gone soft. It was so cold, so gloomy. How could I ever have thought that was a life? A possible life. Cobwebs were crowding across everywhere, between everything, draped on the old high wire. What a desperately stupid idea.
The only way into the house was up the pitch-black stairs. The hand-rail was tacky and sour breath was leaking from the walls. What if they had locked the hall door too? I didn’t even know if there was a lock on it. What if they had gone round, laughing, locking me out in every possible way?
But they had not. I stepped out into the hall, dazzling bright with green fan shapes of sun on the lino. I blinked, looking at the inside of the front door with the key still in the lock.
Everything was quiet. It was early. I thought they must still be asleep. The dogs looked up at me when I went through to the back and Gordon yapped half-heartedly. The fire was on and they seemed drugged by the heat. Once they’d realised it was only me they both put their heads back on their paws. Gordon has aged about a hundred years since Norma died. Maybe it’s rubbed off from Doughnut. There were two empty wine bottles on the floor, one red one white. How sweet. I made tea for me and Doggo and went up the stairs. Sarah’s door was shut. I climbed quietly up into the lighthouse room.
Of course they were both there in the bed. Of course I knew they would be. They were asleep. The sun was shining through the ripped curtains and it was nearly hot. They had no clothes on and their hair was mixed up light and dark. The pillowcase was still splattered with Doggo’s blood.
You can see how people get murdered, can’t you?
‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ I said, maybe louder than necessary.
Sarah opened her eyes first. They were the same blue as the quilt. She stared at me for a minute. I have to give it her, she was cool. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said. I could see Doggo was not really asleep. His eyes were screwed up tight.
‘Lamb’s brought us up some tea,’ Sarah said, nudging him.
She sat up and I got a flash of her tits, like big white loaves, before she pulled the quilt up to cover her. Not quilt, eiderdown. That is such a lovely word, don’t you think? Eiderdown. Feathers from the eider duck.
Doggo sat up and his eyes skidded round the room avoiding mine. I handed them the tea and stood staring. The dark and the blonde, sitting up in bed with their cups of tea. They looked like an advert for something but I don’t know what.
‘Urm,’ Sarah said. ‘I urm, hope this is all right with you.’
‘Oh absolutely,’ I said in a phony voice I didn’t even know I had. ‘Actually I was off seeing an old flame last night, so call it quits, Doggo.’
He did look at me then. He practically slashed me with his eyes.
‘It was urm, mainly for warmth,’ Sarah said and I snorted. It would be an advert for yoghurt or some other dairy product with all her acres of white skin.
I couldn’t stand there all day and smell the smells that were hanging round the bed. I had to get out of there while I could still control my face. Down in the bathroom I stripped off. I ran an inch of water in the bath and scrubbed myself all over with a scratchy flannel, scrubbed and scrubbed until it hurt and I was pink. I went downstairs and kicked and kicked at the chairs. The dogs cringed and crawled off into the corners. As if I would ever, in a million years, hurt a dog.
I was watching the telly when Sarah left. A woman in a lurex top was demonstrating how to pot on poinsettias. Doggo might have been interested if he’d been down but I wasn’t about to call him. Sarah put her head round the door and said, ‘I’m off now. Bye, Lamb.’ I didn’t answer.
She was half in the room, half out. What did she think I’d do to her if she came right in? ‘Doggo said … he said you didn’t …’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘That you are more sort of … platonic.’
I managed to laugh. ‘He said that, did he?’
She waited for a minute and then said, ‘Well, see you then.’
‘There’s something you should know about Doggo,’ I said. ‘Something I bet he didn’t tell you. That he’s a murderer.’
She widened her eyes at me and then she laughed. ‘A murderer! God, Lamb! First Uncle’s happy as Larry now Doggo’s a murderer. Get a grip.’
She closed the door. There was the sound of the front door then a dim choke as her car started up and drove away. My heart was racing. I should not have said that. A murderer, I should not have told her that.
Doggo came down as if nothing was wrong and started making toast. ‘Want some?’ he said. I didn’t answer. Anyway, Sarah didn’t believe me. So maybe there was no harm done. He slathered the toast with about an inch of butter and chewed so loud I had to turn the telly up. The way he was chewing was like, hey I’ve got a healthy appetite, wonder why? but I ignored him. Maybe I should have told him what I’d told her. But what would be the point of that? I did feel bad though, something inside me going dark. He chewed his way through a whole stack of toast and slurped a pot of tea.
He wiped the butter off his lips with his sleeve and said, ‘So, who’s this old flame then?’
‘Just someone,’ I said, ‘no one you know.’
‘Did you sleep with him?’ he said.
Get that! The nerve of him. ‘Like you care,’ I said. Him asking me.
He still had butter on his beard. I watched his fingers on the mug and thought about all the things he’d touched lately. There was the advert on for frozen cod steaks. It made me shiver. I looked at the side of his face, the puff of moustache over his lip, the curve of long lashes. He was staring into his mug as if there was something fascinating taking place in there. I got a pang under my ribs and believe it or not, it was still love.
‘So that was a lie too?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That you’re frigid.’ He gave me a very scornful look. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know any more. I didn’t know the truth of that. I couldn’t bear the scorn on his face when he looked at me. I had to do something. I didn’t know what to do. Then I had an idea. It was a desperate idea, but it was the only one I had.
‘Shut your eyes,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Go on. I’ve got a surprise only you have to shut your eyes.’ He looked at me, his mug stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘You needn’t look so petrified,’ I said.
I went in the front room and got his presents out from under Mr Dickens’ bed. Still in their carrier bags and no proper wrappings but it didn’t matter. I thought we would have Christmas that very minute before everything fell apart. Presents and Christmas dinner and everything. There was still time to save it, us, everything.
I could go to Tesco for food and crackers. Plenty of wine in the cellar. At least now that Mr Dickens was dead it didn’t matter about the wine any more. That was one good thing. He’d probably want us to drink it. He would probably be looking down on us, if there was anywhere to look down from, saying, ‘Cheers.’
‘Here,’ I dumped the bags at Doggo’s feet. ‘Happy Christmas.’ He just stared. ‘Open them,’ I said. But he sat there like a lemon. ‘Presents,’ I said. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘It is if we want it to be.’ There was no expression on his face. ‘Please, Doggo.’
He sighed and shook his head as if he thought I was cracked but he did pull the soap and deodorant out of their bag. He held them and looked at them but not at me. He put them down. OK, so maybe deodorant wasn’t such a bright idea.
‘Go on,’ I said. He unwrapped the gloves and last of all the jacket. ‘Try it on,’ I said. ‘I can change it if it doesn’t fit.’ But he didn’t try it on. He let everything slide on to the floor. I wanted to say, Don’t do that because of all the dog-hairs everywhere but I didn’t. Maybe he thought I’d stolen it. ‘I’ve got the receipt,’ I said.
The jacket was beautiful but he never said thanks and he never even smiled. I knew what would make him laugh. I got out Gordon’s new collar and buckled it on him. It looked just as funny as I’d thought with the sparkles sparkling round the grumpy ginger face but no one laughed.
Doggo’s eyes were on me. I looked everywhere I could except his eyes until in the end I just had to.
‘What you staring at?’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Know you stole that money off Mr Dickens.’
‘I did not!’
‘You bought these things with that money, didn’t you?’
‘I did not …’
‘Where’s it from then? When I met you you were skint as me then suddenly presents, pizzas, clothes … Your hair-do.’
Hair-do! I wanted to laugh. No one’s called it a hair-do for about a hundred years. What was the matter with him? I mean he had slept with Sarah and I had said not a word about it. I was giving him presents. I was giving him Christmas.
He could have had anything he wanted from me.
‘And Sarah knows you stole it,’ he said. ‘Out of that sideboard.’
‘What?’
‘She even saw you looking in there. Fuck it, Lamb. I can’t believe you’d do that after how nice she’s been, sorting your arm out and letting us be here …’
And shagging you, I thought but I didn’t say. ‘I did not,’ I said instead. ‘And anyway what about all the wine? You steal all the time. What about the tree?’ I thought there was nothing he could say to that and I was right. I looked at the tree and one of the baubles slid down and plopped on to the floor. I didn’t even bother to pick it up. There were only about two left on and I’d never even taken a photo. I’d never even got a camera.
You can just picture it, can’t you. Me out of the way and them with their chairs pulled close together, knees touching, oh what a thrill, talking about me and making up stories when they knew nothing about me. You can just imagine them getting closer and closer till they closed right over the space where I’d been.
If they think I would steal money from Mr Dickens then they don’t know the first thing about me. I can’t believe Doggo could think that of me. I thought of telling him about Mr Harcourt and how I got the money but why should I? Anyway he wouldn’t have believed me. Why doesn’t anyone believe a single thing I say?
There were no more possible words so I just slammed out of there. He never even said thank you. I thought, sod this trying and trying to make things nice. All that effort and to be told I am a thief. To be told that by a murderer who I am hiding from the law. And Sarah with her great big curves all cosied up in my bit of bed with my Doggo.
I was walking so fast there were practically sparks coming off my jeans. I could have gone then. I had it in me to go, just go, but it was like there was a voice saying Do not give up. And for once I listened. I stopped walking away. I stopped dead and swivelled on my heel.
Thirty-four
I went into Tesco like any normal person and bought the dinner. Rolled turkey breast, which only takes an hour, with cranberry sauce, spuds, sprouts and a pudding. Also a bottle of Cognac and some crackers. And that was all the money blown. In some ways a relief.
When I got back Doggo had taken the dogs out and left all his presents dumped on the floor. He’s so ungrateful. And he should not go out like that. I’m always telling him. I picked everything up and hung the jacket over the back of a chair. I chucked the deodorant in the bin.
I set the table and turned the telly off for once and started on the food. Things like peeling potatoes and cutting little crosses in the sprouts I haven’t done for years but I remembered how. I managed to fix the baubles back on the tree. There was no star on top and no fairy and that was a mistake but there was nothing I could think of to use instead so I left it bare.
I put on the white pyjamas even though it was daytime and they were like Zita’s. I looked at the picture and at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was weird how similar we were. I made sure the little silver hand was showing between the buttons. Then I had a good idea. I took the photo of Zita in her white pyjamas and pegged it to the top of the Christmas tree with a clothes peg. The perfect angel.
I put mascara on and drew a thick line of smoky kohl right round my eyes and in the bathroom light my red streaks showed. I did my lips damson and fetched some claret from the cellar and opened it so it had time to breathe. The time went on and the house filled up with cooking smells but there was still no Doggo. I was starting to think, what if he never came back? What then? But at last he did.
He walked in and looked round the room and at that moment I realised I’d forgotten candles. Candles on the table would have been the finishing touch. And maybe one of those table decorations with fir-cones sprayed gold. We could have done without the two wet dogs though. Doggo had a strange expression on his face. I couldn’t tell you what it meant.
I poured out some wine and handed it to him. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I said.
‘Fuck off,’ he said but he knocked it back then shrugged and grinned. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘a perky vintage.’ He avoided looking at his presents and I didn’t look either. He didn’t mention the pyjamas even though I was standing beside the tree with Zita’s picture on top so there was no way he could have missed the likeness.
We drank the wine too quickly and I thought maybe we’d need some more. We pulled a cracker. He wouldn’t at first but I kept poking him with it till he got hold of the end and pulled. The snap made Gordon bark and put a tang of fireworks in the air. Doggo got the big end and inside was a pair of tacky ear-rings.
‘Here,’ he said chucking them at me, ‘Happy Christmas.’ I ignored the sarcastic edge in his voice and put them on even though they were dangly plastic carrots. We pulled another cracker and put the hats on. He read out the jokes which were those elephant ones like How does an elephant get down from a tree? Sit on a leaf and wait till autumn. Hahaha. But we never ate the dinner.
‘Lamb, maybe you could give what’s left of dosh back?’ he said. ‘Then we could forget it. I know Sarah would.’
His hat was orange and purple and why would anyone put orange and purple together in a hat? It was half over one eye and he pushed it up.
‘It was not Mr Dickens’ money,’ I said keeping my voice level. ‘It was mine. I told you.’
‘Yeah right.’ His fists were bunched up, the scars shiny. Scars he made because of me. To please me. Listen, what he did with Sarah meant nothing. Just fucking someone, that’s not special or clever, is it? Animals do it all the time. Even I’d done it now and sure enough it did mean nothing.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ I said. I don’t know why I said it. But anyway he shook his head. ‘What’s up,
shagged out?’ I said. I didn’t mean to say that. It must have been the wine catching up with last night’s tequila. He took the paper hat off and scrunched it into a ball. It didn’t matter. There were four more crackers left with four more hats inside.
‘You’re doing my head in,’ he said in a voice like a tyre going down. ‘You are one screwed-up person.’
Me!
‘You need help,’ he said.
I laughed.
‘Sarah says,’ he started but realised that was maybe not the thing to say. I stared at him, pityingly, shaking my head. I didn’t say a word because remember, not speaking is more powerful than speaking. When I met Doggo he was sneaking about in his mum’s house with her stolen bag and then trying to piss off in a puff of smoke. He is a murderer on the run. A wanted man. And he thinks I need help.
‘Why didn’t you say about Mr Dickens?’ he said.
Well what’s that got to do with anything?
‘What else have you lied about?’ he went on. ‘Or maybe, what have you not lied about?’
Lies. What are lies? Everybody lies, they do it all the time. Can you honestly say you have never lied? Haha. Trick question. Say yes you’re a liar, say no you’re a liar too. There is nothing wrong with lying. It doesn’t mean you’re out of control. Lying is control.
‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Where did you get money? And don’t say savings.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘What do you mean, why?’
‘What does it matter?’
That stumped him. I spilt some wine on my pyjama trousers and it spread like a fast purple bruise.
‘Why do you care anyway?’
He leant forward and put his hands over his face for a minute then he took them away. ‘Fuck knows,’ he said, looking at the carpet, ‘but I do.’
‘Do what?’
‘Care.’
Oh.
Now You See Me Page 21
