by John King
THE MAN IN the white coat isn’t a hairdresser though, reaching in his bag and taking out a ball of cotton wool and a tub of ointment, a syringe with a long needle, a small bottle of liquid, and she’s wide-eyed, shuts her eyes now, remembering, running, opens them again, thinking instead of Ben when Mum and Dad first brought him home, before she was even born, she loves hearing about that, how he was a three-month-old pup who gobbled his food down so they thought he was going to be sick, he still loves the jelly, the meaty chunks, just a baby living in the corner of someone’s garden, scared at first, Mum says he thought he’d died and gone to heaven, to end up in a house where he was so loved, people can be cruel, imagine that, he’d never been inside a house before, another three months in the dog’s home, and he’s such a beautiful boy with this tuft of white at the back of a black neck, white on his tummy, loves having his belly rubbed, he was scared to go outside in case he wasn’t allowed back in, and when he ran to jump on the couch he missed because he’d never done it before, tried again and again until he got it right, it took him ages to work out how the stairs worked, Mum had to lift him up and move his front legs, and he understood after a few goes, running up fast as he could, the chopper firing a light down, it’s dark now, cutting into memories.
RUBY GETS OFF the wider streets and runs down an alley cutting through the one-parent flats, small starter homes where flaking cement hangs like icicles, frozen Arctic sculptures, the woodwork a two-tone mix of wood and paint, gravel earth and dried-out housing association trees, a square of grass that hasn’t caught on, squashed fag ends and the smell of fish fingers from a ground-floor window, electronic heartbeats, a new orange bike and a fluorescent skateboard, leftover building materials, bricks and mortar, worm-shit blobs of concrete left behind the same as when the tide goes out at the seaside, and Ruby stops for a breather, maybe she’s lost the police, checks this way and that, sweat covering her skin, should she turn left or right, one way is quicker but the other is safer, the roads tighter, lots of bollards and alleys, the street lights on, but dim, two fat women in trainers and joggers standing outside their front door chatting, drinking cans of Diet Pepsi, and suddenly there’s a roar and the air whooshes again, the helicopter breaking all the rules, scaring children, and it takes the women about one second to realise who it’s chasing, telling Ruby to duck down that road over there, she’ll be all right if she goes between the houses, and she thinks for a moment, frozen in the light, brain counting down.
BEN’S OLD HEART ticking in his chest, all grown up and worn out by time, lying on the couch with a patch of fur cut away, the vet pushing the needle of the syringe into the potion, pulling the lever back, removing the needle, moving forward, Mum’s hand over Ben’s eyes so he doesn’t see what’s happening, the vet leaning forward and slipping the needle into Ben’s leg, a second when he tries to move, the soft feel of Mum’s hand moving over his eyes, stroking his forehead, whispering gently like she’s singing, a good boy, his fur soft, such a beautiful dog, a good good doggy, and the man moves his hand and Mum is crying, he pulls the syringe away and stands up, moves off, and Mum is stroking Ben’s head, sobbing now, choking, and somehow Ruby thinks that Ben is dead, that he’s in heaven, in his dream chasing rabbits and running through great big fields, she doesn’t know how it happened so fast, she isn’t sure, hears the vet talking, maybe she’s wrong, sitting there until he lifts Ben’s floppy body off the couch and wraps it in the blanket he always sleeps in, a fluffy old red blanket with hairs mixed in with the blobs of wool, and the vet takes him out of the house, Ruby going back to her room and, looking out of the window, she sees Ben being put in the boot of the vet’s car and driven away.
SHE RUNS BETWEEN the houses same as she did that night when she was a little girl, an hour later after she went downstairs and Mum told what had happened, she slept in a garden till morning before going home, it must be fifteen years since Ben died, it’s in her dates book, a long time ago and just like yesterday, there’s no cradles and no graves for animals, just syringes full of special medicine, that’s what her mum called it, when she sat down with Ruby the next day and explained that it was kinder to him because he was dying and in pain and didn’t have very long to live, and he was happy now, he was in heaven, and she held her little girl in her arms, Ruby asking about heaven and what happened to people when they were like Ben, and when you were in heaven did it mean you could see all the people who were dead and could you come back or was it for ever, and where did this special medicine come from, was that the vet in the white coat, and Ruby never told her mum she’d been sitting on the stairs watching.
RUBY KNOWS WHERE she’s going now, five minutes later climbing the sagged corner of a wire fence, off along another terrace and cutting across a petrol-station forecourt, past more houses and a curry house, out on to the high street next to the pet shop, the helicopter higher in the sky but still in touch, this is the crunch, the chopper’s tracked her the whole way but is going to lose contact any second, she’s out in the open on a main road and this is their last chance, if they can get a van down here now they’ll have her, but she’s moving through other shapes, she has no face, sex, age, the man on the monitor doing his best not to mix her up, and there’s three pubs up ahead with at least a hundred people standing outside drinking, and she goes into the first one, safe, laughing, and she stays for a minute, the music and conversation battering each other, a smell of drink and cigarettes and perfume and sweat, and she’s thinking of Ben and how he died, how she ran away from home but only for one night, the press of a cold glass on her arm, she could murder a drink, and it’s the pub across the road where she’s meeting the others, in half an hour, so she goes back out and strolls over, looking into the night sky as a police van passes at street level, packed with armour and frustrated police who aren’t about to steam into a busy pub chasing shadows, they probably think they’re after a young man with a shaved head, or a ponytail, one of the stereotypes, already people are waving at the van, things are tense and they withdraw, the chopper peeling away, giving up, they’ve lost a dangerous criminal and Ruby’s safe with the masses, orders a drink that smells of raspberries and is laced with vodka, the bottle icy cold, the taste sweet on her tongue.
Ruby reached over and slid the switch sideways, the jolt of the radio’s alarm replaced by the easy hum of On The Parish, her favourite DJ, Charlie Boy, easing her into the new day. Police sirens weren’t the sweetest sound first thing, but they turned her head and opened her eyes. She couldn’t afford to oversleep. People depended on her. She stretched out over the mattress lifting her arms above her head, heard the veins buzz and valves pop, big surges of energy racing into her brain. She saw muscles under the skin, dazzled by the colours, glowing red and orange, held her right hand up to the sunlight for a proper X-ray effect, a skeleton outline of fingers, thumb, knuckles. She wasn’t religious, but there was no way this was accidental, her body too complicated, a jigsaw that was taking the best scientists hundreds of years to work out. The sun fed her, long bamboo shafts reaching deep into the room, turning to elastic fingers as she watched, relaxing her same as a massage, cracking joints, releasing tension, pressure on her skull tapping a pulse, meridians on fire. She felt brilliant. It wasn’t even half six yet and she was already warm, the sunlight catching billions of dust particles spinning same as a slowed-down fractal, waves of motion taking her breath away. She rolled on to her tummy and really listened to the music, a long track that eased back and forward over a central rhythm, boring to some people but trance-like to her.
On The Parish came out of the best pirate station around, Satellite FM, the sound cutting into the M25, broadcasting for six months then disappearing off the air. The DTI had shut them down before, the RA running riot with the bolt cutters and angle grinder, confiscating the station’s aerial and transmitter, at other times those concerned having a break, then coming back twice as strong. It was a lot of work for no real financial return, just a love of music, and Ruby sometimes wond
ered where their studio was, what the DJs looked like, she could picture the turntables all right, the mixing desk and mic, the speakers, but not the faces involved. As well as Charlie Boy there was DJ Chromo and DJ Punch, Ruby remembering the time Chromo told his listeners about FM and medium wave, the regular Chromo Zone lecture, how with medium wave the stratosphere was like a cushion and bounced the waves back down to earth, since then she’d felt safer than ever, could almost see the dome protecting her, keeping the goodness in and the evil out, a shimmer of skin, every single fish scale glittering in the wind. Charlie played a couple of times each week and had been going since midnight, coming through with the insomniacs and speed freaks, the hypermanics, night prowlers and other barmies, kick-starting anyone lumbered with the early shift.
For a moment Ruby could feel Ben at the bottom of her bed, tried to forget but couldn’t stop herself going back, and that dog really loved the sun, stretching his panting body across the floor in summer as his fur cooked, lids jammed shut and his tongue lolling, and when she woke up in the morning he was always there waiting to lick her face; the bang of his tail on the mattress, Ben her drummer boy, turning to scratch his ear and lick his balls, innocent and carefree, a bell ringing somewhere, fast, lost in the drizzle, the clink of bottles and the yawn of a milk float, a man in a white coat with six eggs in his hand, passing another figure with a black bag, and she thought of Jack the Ripper, a professional passing a tradesman in the street, a surgeon or a butcher, no, a milkman, the milkman of human kindness, milk and eggs and sliced bread on your doorstep, birds pecking through foil tops sipping cream, and Ben was trying to lick her face again, little Ruby screaming and laughing and pushing him back, not after licking his willy, and she’s going downstairs to meet this man with the special medicine, a magic potion that puts you to sleep when you’re very sick, Mum says it takes you to a beautiful place where you live for ever and everything is nice, a place where you never get sick and everyone’s happy and smiling all the time, there’s no worrying about money, no working yourself into an early grave, and Dad’s there, throwing Ben’s favourite rubber ball into a stream so he can bellyflop in and grab it with his mouth, bring it back out, shaking his fur dry, fluffy same as after a bath or when he’s been in the rain, Ruby shouldn’t be too sad because we’ll all be sitting next to God one day, up in heaven, life will be perfect and it’ll never end, that’s our reward for being good people while we’re alive, and the bad people, they go somewhere else. To hell.
Ruby blinking and shivering and goose pimples covering her skin, a hard coldness in her bones as Charlie’s voice pulled her up above the surface.
—This next track is for the chaps who helped us out the other night. I know one of you is listening, so thanks again, it was much appreciated. And a question for the boys who kicked it off, just asking you, what was the point? You must know you got a slap when you deserved a spanking. Why shit on your own doorstep when there’s plenty of people dumping on us who don’t even live here. And just because you never see them it doesn’t mean they’re not out there. Just because they don’t turn up mob-handed doesn’t mean they’re not ten times as deadly. So let’s calm down and live in harmony, man. And for anyone who thinks I’m turning into a smelly hippy, and for all the people who keep tuning in, this one is for you, and if anyone’s interested …
Ruby got out of bed and had a shower, dried herself off and dressed. One of her work shoes had a small hole in the sole so she could feel the road when it was hot, reckoned she could get by for a while yet, as long as it didn’t rain, but the tarmac felt good coming in like that, small jets of heat where her foot touched down, shoes expensive. It was early but she wasn’t going to hang around sitting indoors. She hadn’t eaten anything last night and was starving, the fridge empty except for some jam and half a bottle of flat Coke. She could smell bread baking downstairs, her mouth watering as she imagined the food.
Ruby lived on top of an electrical shop, but next door was Dilly’s Dozen, a baker’s dealing in bloomers, filled rolls, turnovers, iced buns and doughnuts, plus sausage rolls and meat pies, a fridge with cold drinks and a pot of coffee on the go, a kettle for tea and hot chocolate. Dilly ran the counter while her husband Mick did the baking. They opened at six for the first wave of workers on their way to the trading estate, Mick coming out front to help when things got busy, when the baking was done.
—It’s funny how you can jump back and jump up to different styles, and today’s Deep South selection is five-strong, kicking off with the original version of ‘Brand New Cadillac’ by Mr Vince Taylor, and thanks to Jim in the market for this one. If you fancy trying some rockabilly, go and visit him, he’s right between the saris and the livers, he’s got a load of psychobilly vinyl as well, mutant stuff by the Meteors and Tall Boys, but going back to Vince Taylor, if you were going to buy yourself a Cadillac, what colour would you choose? Me, I’d …
Ruby clicked the radio off and left the flat, made sure the door was locked and went down and out on to the street, turned towards the baker’s and just missed a pool of sick, looking at the colours and doing her best to see good in bad, struggling, but just about doing it, Mick coming out with a bucket of water and washing most of the mess into the gutter, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head.
—She almost had me out rowing with them last night, he said. Fifty-five years old and she wants me to have a go at a couple of drunks in their thirties.
He shook his head and went back into the shop for more water, Ruby following him in through the door.
—Morning, dear, Dilly said, arms folded. Did you hear the noise last night? Bloody hooligans effing and blinding when we’re trying to sleep, kicking bottles around. I got up and gave them an earful, then one of them threw up. They got a move on when I said I was letting the dogs out.
Mick went back outside and Ruby smiled.
—What can I get you, dear?
—A black coffee and a cheese roll please. One of those buns as well, that one at the front with the icing down the side.
Dilly was nice enough, but a nosy parker.
—Been out, have you, love?
Ruby nodded, watched as Dilly’s face shivered in front of her, the edges of her eyes lined with red, then purple, finally smashing back into yellow, and she could see the drunks looking up and seeing this woman hanging out of a window, eyes burning into them, and Dilly was well built, could look after herself, Ruby wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, and the head was growing, eyes huge, deep and interested in anything Ruby had to say, she was thinking about the boys Dilly caught breaking in two months back, how she knocked one out with Mick’s rolling pin, punched the other and broke his nose. She didn’t call the police either, believed in instant justice, told Ruby she wasn’t a grass but made them squirm, waited until the weedy one came to and gave them a lecture, she could see they were embarrassed, being sorted out by a middle-aged woman. Ruby kept smiling politely.
—Busy at work? Suppose that’s a silly question really, isn’t it, you’re always busy. At least here you can stop, there’s a beginning and an end, you get up early but finish early as well. It’s not a bad way to make a living. Not bad at all. You look at some of the people who come in, working with metal all day, stuck on production lines, things like that, and we’re lucky, working with flour and yeast. Jam and tea.
Dilly’s face shrunk back to normal size.
—It never stops, Ruby said. The more people get well and go home, the more seem to turn up needing a bed. You get used to it, have to remember that every case is separate. I wouldn’t change it for anything.
—You’re a good girl. Kind-hearted.
The BBC was playing a song with a chorus about rocking in the free world and Ruby couldn’t help tapping her foot as Dilly put her breakfast together in a paper bag. She was free and in love with life, and looking at the woman on the other side of the counter she thought again how Dilly was big for her height, it must be tempting in a baker’s, you’d want to
eat all day long, but Ruby didn’t reckon fat meant ugly, never thought like that about people, Dilly big and strong and generous.
—Here you are.
Ruby handed over the right money.
—Thanks.
—See you.
—Bye, love.
Ruby left the shop and turned right, walking along the length of the parade, three skinhead dustmen on a wall opposite with their lorry parked a few feet away, the youngest one whistling, and she flashed him a smile for the compliment, these men sipping three hot drinks and chewing three rolls, the smell of rubbish hanging in the air. Ruby made sure she only picked up the tea, coffee, sugar, wasn’t interested in rotting food and dirty nappies. She saw these three every week, loved the fine hair on their heads, white skin showing through all that individual stubble, the black and brown and grey razored right down. The one whistling was the nicest, a red cross cut into his right forearm, and when he moved the polystyrene cup to his mouth a ripple of energy raced towards the older man next door, a box-like head more interested in newspaper models than a passing nurse.
—You’re happy this morning, the youngest skinhead shouted.
Ruby smiled again and crossed the empty road, heading towards the hospital, a car turning and the smell of exhaust fumes in her nose, the rubbish gone, petrol floating up and through radio waves that were all around her but which she couldn’t hear, trying but getting nowhere. She could feel the tarmac on the bottom of her right foot, surface gently rubbing. She’d go and buy a new pair at dinner time, it was just the money made her put it off, but if she didn’t go to Dilly’s for a while, made her own breakfast instead, then she could save a bit, but it was never enough, and she wasn’t good with domestic stuff, couldn’t be bothered cooking. She spent a fair bit going out, but it was to do with priorities, she wasn’t the sort to sit at home, she liked having a laugh, listening to music and dancing, talking to people, feeling alive and free and part of the world, really loving it when the ground was hot and the heat surged into her like this, thinking again about the meridians and all the different medical systems people had worked out, wished she could see the power flashes, looking back at the shops, the flats above, her home in the bricks, the outside giving nothing away. There were no ornate decorations or plaster casts, creeping vines or stained-glass windows, just bricks and glass in metal frames that were peeling and spotted with rust, and it was perfect, so many lives being lived there, by people she knew. It was a proper home.
