by Deborah Bee
And it was warmer for a change and we would have left the window open but there’s a cold breeze in the shade and two of the children are kicking a ball around in the garden, yelling at each other.
It isn’t a proper football. They aren’t allowed a proper football in case it breaks the glass.
The thing with pizza is that you always want one and then as soon as you have had one slice, you’re full.
‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into a vegetarian again and now you don’t want any more,’ says Sally, shoving the salad across the table. ‘Eat some of that before you waste away in front of my very eyes.’ But she keeps staring at her phone and slamming it back down on the table face down, like she doesn’t want me to see it and she keeps not looking me in the eye and I wonder . . .
‘Have I done something to upset you, Sally?’ I say.
Something’s not right.
‘No, love. You haven’t.’
‘If I had, would you tell me?’ I say.
‘Sure I would,’ she says. ‘Now eat some salad.’
The front door buzzes.
Then the inner door clicks.
Kitty storms down the hallway, sounding like she’s going to murder someone.
We sink back in our seats and Sally does that face like an ‘eek’ emoji.
Last thing we need is a Kitty attack.
She storms up the stairs without coming into the dining room.
‘You really have to watch what you’re eating,’ Sally says. ‘If you’re hypoglycemic you should see the doctor to make sure you’re not diabetic, because fainting is definitely one of the signs, and I read in a magazine that if you don’t eat regularly, then you can feel faint but if you have glucose tablets on you, then as soon as you feel—’
Kitty comes crashing back down the stairs.
‘Why are you hiding down here?’ she shouts. ‘You’re deliberately avoiding me!’
‘Calm down, Kitty,’ Sally says. ‘We’re not—’
‘Not you, HER,’ she yells, pointing at me.
I stand up, with a dough ball still in my mouth. I switch it to the inside of my cheek.
Mrs Henry comes running out of her office.
‘Kitty, what is all this about?’ she says, trying to slow Kitty down by holding her arm. ‘Kitty!’
‘DON’T ASSAULT ME OR I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED!’ she shrieks at Mrs Henry.
Mrs Henry backs away, behind Kitty, then motions to the two security guys with a nod of her head.
Kitty has her mobile in her hand and is waggling it in my face.
‘You did this deliberately!’ she says. ‘You bitch!’ She’s right up to the table now, shoving her phone in my face.
Sally hasn’t moved from her seat.
‘What have we done now?’ she says quietly. Calmly.
‘Not you, her!’ she says again. ‘Axel doesn’t like any of the pictures of me.’
‘Come along, Kitty,’ says Mrs Henry.
‘Says I have a common face. Common! Says that in Milan they like more “editorial” looking girls.’
The two security guards are now standing behind Mrs Henry.
‘Says I’d do better in Manchester, where they do all the online shit. Or Bradford. Fucking Bradford. Who goes to fucking Bradford?’
One of the security guards starts moving towards her.
‘And then guess what he says?’ she shouts.
Mrs Henry has her hand on Kitty’s elbow.
‘He says “who’s this girl, she’s amazing!” This girl has a real future. And he’s looking at the pictures of you. In bed. Looking like a fucking beached whale. With your face all blotchy like a junkie.’
Mrs Henry guides her backwards, slowly, and she doesn’t even seem to notice. The security guard is on the other side. She doesn’t notice that either.
‘And he says, “tell me where she is, she’s just what they’re looking for in Milano.” He said Milano like he’s fucking Italian. What the fuck does he know?’
They’re still gently guiding her backwards towards the stairs.
‘I said to him, you don’t want her. She’s wacko. She’s a proper psycho,’ Kitty shouts from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I said to him, she killed her husband,’ she yells. ‘So, don’t expect a contract any day soon, COCO. It is COCO, isn’t it? Cos you ain’t gonna get one. PSYCHO.’
She’s still screaming as they turn the corner and help her up the stairs.
I slowly remove the dough ball from my mouth and leave it wet on the table.
Fifty
Sally
I’ve let her go upstairs on her own.
I don’t feel like pizza either.
I empty the salad into the box, pick up the soggy dough ball and go into the kitchen.
Part of me feels like I want to scoop her up as if I’m her mum or something, and part of me feels like I never want to see her again.
When she was sitting on top of Kitty, I thought she was actually going to kill her. If she’s playing me, she’s doing a really great job. Maybe Sue’s right, maybe she is just acting the emotional victim. If I told Sue what she’d done to Kitty, she’d definitely get her sectioned.
If I told Sue what Barney had done to me, she’d definitely get Barney banged up, and throw away the key. And me sectioned for not telling her. But I’m not just going to throw him under a bus. He’s got a good heart – for all his problems.
My phone vibrates and I’m expecting my five hundredth missed call from Barney when I realise it’s Sue.
‘We’ve had to pull out PC Hall from outside the refuge,’ she barks, as if she’s in a hurry. ‘I just haven’t got anyone available right now, Sal. I’m getting pressure from upstairs. But I’ve spoken to Mrs Henry and she’s put the security team on high alert. That should be fine for now. I’ll get someone else down there later. They’ll be there before it gets dark.’
‘Thanks, Sue, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Keep away from the windows.’
‘I am keeping away from the windows,’ I say, with my nose pressed up against one, drawing pictures in the condensation from my breath.
‘I hear our Kitty has had a meltdown,’ she says, changing the subject, thank God.
‘She’s actually mental,’ I say, walking into one of the empty rooms and closing the door, thinking: at least she didn’t try and strangle anyone like Clare did.
‘How’s everything else?’ she says.
‘Same old, same old,’ I say. ‘I’ve been emailed some stuff from work. That will keep me busy at least.’
‘It won’t last forever,’ she says. ‘He’s not smart enough to stay underground for too long.’
‘Hey, Sue, I was thinking. That journal you had. Did you ever get anywhere with it?’
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘We’re going back over it. Oh, but there’s some traffic warden report we got from TFL this morning about a man refusing to give his full name in January and the registration number matches Clare’s car. We’re following it up. We might have some evidence to support Clare’s story at long last. But why’d you ask about the journal? I need it to help urgently, Sal.’
‘OK, well, the thing that struck me about the journal was not so much what was in it – which was mainly rubbish, by the way – but how it was written. Been nagging in my brain. The style kept changing, so one minute it was official sounding, another minute it was like emotional first-person stuff. When I read exam essays, I have to look out for that kind of stuff. When a voice changes. I mean, you do realise he could’ve just nicked the whole lot off the Internet, don’t you? It’s dead easy to check; all you do is use this bit of software and it checks it automatically – it’s called Turnitin. Get one of your lot to have a look.’
‘What’s it called again?’
‘Turnitin, one word like T.U.R.N.I.T.I.N, but you say it like it’s “turn it in”.’
‘OK, great, thanks.’
A phone rings in the background.
‘I’ve gotta g
et that,’ says Sue. ‘Call you later.’
*
I go up to our flat but there’s no sound from Clare’s room and half of me is convinced she’s thrown herself out the window. I’m determined not to mother her, so I last for at least fifteen minutes before I poke my head round the door and see she’s just fast asleep. That’s all I need to know.
I do some work, and when I can’t stand reading any more terrible teenage grammar, I go for a cuppa.
In the kitchen, Derek, the older security guy is making a coffee.
‘Been told to keep an eye out for your ex.’ He winks at me. ‘Be OK love.’
I take a mug down from the cupboard.
‘How’s the boyfriend?’
I feel my cheeks getting hot and quickly squeeze out the teabag and throw it in the bin.
‘Never thought I’d get a blush out of you,’ he shouts as he heads back to the desk.
‘He’s not my boyfriend. Hey, Derek . . .’ I go up to the desk, scanning the road outside.
‘Did you, by any chance, give Barney my number?’
‘Who am I to stand in the path of true love?’ he replies. ‘But don’t tell the boss, eh?’
‘No, I won’t tell the boss,’ I say, wondering how much cash Barney would have got for that piece of information.
*
Prashi is late with the girls again but no one is really that worried because the news is on the TV and Donald Trump has said something stupid again and the press are acting like a pack of rabid dogs. Aiysha is knitting, with four needles at the same time, and I don’t even begin to understand what that’s all about, Sian has a pile of magazines on her lap that she’s nicked out of the doctor’s surgery and has settled in for the night with an out-of-date Easter egg from Marks and a box of Maltesers, Abigail has her laptop open and is shouting at her emails, Sarah is studying a book about diets and Big Debbie has lined up seven bottles of nail polish, four nail files and a bottle of pink nail polish remover along with a fat bag of pastel-coloured cotton-wool balls, all in straight lines, and is slathering Shea Body Butter onto her hands like she’s trying to preserve Tutankhamun’s mother or something.
‘I don’t know why this even constitutes national news,’ says Aiysha. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. There are some very real things going on in the world at present, and the lead headline on the six o’clock news is about an overprivileged chinless wonder with a massive sense of entitlement marrying some American.’
‘Isn’t she divorced?’ says Sian, not looking up, as the footage shows some supermodel type stepping off a private jet in giant sunglasses and a white skirt that hasn’t creased despite her having flown halfway around the world; if it were me, I’d have spilt my tea all over it before we’d even taken off.
‘She looks divorced,’ says Sarah, picking something out of her back teeth with a match.
‘How does someone look divorced?’ growls Big Debbie from her table by the window.
‘In fairness, she does look like she’s been round the block a few times,’ says Abigail, looking over the top of her screen.
‘You look like you’ve been round the block a few times,’ says Big Debbie, leaning around so she can see the TV.
‘I’m not marrying into the monarchy,’ says Abigail. ‘Well, not yet anyway.’
‘They wouldn’t have you,’ snorts Sian.
‘It’ll be no life for her,’ I say, ‘because she’ll never get a moment’s peace from the press, for driving the wrong kind of car, or getting her hair done wrong, or wearing a dress that makes her look too fat or too thin, or . . .’
‘Oh yeah, sounds like a fucking nightmare to me,’ says Big Debbie. ‘All them dresses. All them parties. All that fucking hairspray. I’d be lost to know what to do with myself. Oh, Prashi’s back.’
She must have walked past the window. The front door buzzes. It buzzes longer than usual, but I guess Prashi has lost one of the girls to a dandelion in the front garden that needs blowing or a shoelace that’s come undone and needs tying, or something that little girls do when they don’t really want to come home yet, because it’s way more fun out in the sun than it is stuck in here, in the dark cold shadows.
‘And now to international news . . .’ the newsreader says.
From where we are sitting in the TV room, you can’t see the front door, or the lobby, or the door into reception, but you kind of get used to the sounds of what’s normal – like when the buzzer stops buzzing, it’s usual to hear the inner door click as the security boys release the bolt, then the sound of voices returning, usually laughing or complaining, sad to be back, glad to be back. Safe and sound.
But the buzzer has buzzed for too long.
And then there’s a pause.
Then a click.
Then silence.
It feels wrong.
Suddenly, none of us are watching TV anymore.
Mrs H is walking backwards from reception, slowly, slowly, white as a sheet, so she is level with the entrance to the TV room, her left hand, the one nearest the doorway, slightly raised, hand outstretched, like she’s mentally saying ‘stay, stay, stay’.
‘Well,’ comes a voice, a strong accent, a man’s voice. ‘Ain’t this nice!’
I haven’t heard that voice in over twenty years, but it still turns my blood to ice.
‘AIN’T. THIS. NICE.’
Everyone turns to look at me.
Abigail is nearest the door and can see furthest up the hall. She closes her laptop and her face falls into the shadows.
‘So. Where’s my girl? Anybody seen my girl? Five foot two, eyes of blue,’ he sings. ‘You in charge are you, lady? You seen my Sally, have you? Sally! SALLY!’
Mrs H stands there, stiff as a board.
There’s a shuffling sound and she takes half a step backwards.
‘He’s got Jay, Prashi’s youngest,’ whispers Abigail. ‘Prashi and her eldest are with security, but he’s got Jay and he’s got a knife.’
Big Debbie picks up the control and switches off the TV. The blue light in the room disappears.
‘Who’s in there?’ he says. ‘Has anybody seen my gal,’ he sings.
‘He’s coming. He’s got a knife against her neck,’ whispers Abigail again.
‘SALLY, DARLIN’. YOU IN THERE, DARLIN’?’ he shouts.
I’m stuck to the chair. I can’t move, but silently the other women move to the corner opposite Abigail, the other side of the doorway. Aiysha, Sian, Sarah. Big Debbie sits staring at her nail polish bottles like she’s in a trance.
Mrs H is still keeping her hand where it is, ‘stay, stay, stay’.
‘There’s no one here,’ says Mrs H. ‘You’ve come at a time when the residents are at a class. Now just let Jay come over here to me. If you let—’
‘What you think? I just got off the banana boat?’ says Terry. ‘SAAAALLLLLYYYYYY.’
‘About ten feet,’ whispers Abigail again, edging further back into the shadows.
Big Debbie stares at me. Then shakes her head.
‘He’ll kill you whatever you do,’ she whispers.
I get up. It’s now or never. Just do it, I tell myself.
*
‘THERE SHE IS!’ shouts Terry as I walk through the archway into the hall.
Mrs H goes paler, stiffer.
‘Five foot two, eyes of blue, HAS ANYBODY SEEEEEN MY GIRRRRRL,’ he sings. Jay’s eyes are huge under her headscarf and the knife he is holding is horizontal against her throat. She stares at me, two big tears appearing in the corners of her eyes, and when she shuts her eyes tight they fall, leaving shiny channels down her dusty face.
‘Pleased to see me, Sal?’ he says, stopping suddenly. ‘You don’t look pleased to see me, girl. Still look like my girl. Only just though, eh, Sal? Twenty years hasn’t been kind, has it, love? Put on a few pounds—’
‘Look, um, Terry,’ I say.
‘Look, um, Terry,’ he says. ‘Look, um, Terry. Seriously, Sal? Is that the best you’ve
got for me? Your husband? After twenty years? Twenty years, ladies and gentlemen! I ask you!’ he says and spins around to check Prashi and the security guards are still behind him.
‘Ex-husband,’ I whisper.
‘Oh? Ex-husband, is it, Sal? Ex-husband! You’ll always be my wife, Sal. Always. You mean the world to me. Couldn’t wait to see you again. Number one priority you were on my bucket list of things to do when I got out. Number one. Visit Sal. Say Hi to Sal. Go and give Sal what she’s got coming to her.’
‘Could you just let Jay go?’ says Mrs H. ‘She’s just a child. Her mother—’
‘Shut up, bitch,’ says Terry, without taking his eyes off me.
‘Jay is eleven years—’
‘I said shut up, BITCH,’ he says, jamming the knife harder against Jay’s neck. More tears fall from her eyes.
‘Does this remind you of anything, Sal?’ he says. ‘Does it, girl? White Wine Hayley, eh? Remember her. What a good-time girl she was. Weren’t she, Sal? Always had one-too-many that White Wine Hayley. Lovely blonde hair as I remember. Much like your hair was. At the time, eh, Sal. Not now, Sal. Don’t look like that now, does it? Bet you wish you’d died instead of her, eh? Least then we’d remember you when you was pretty. Not like now. You look like an old sow.’
He spins round again.
The two security guys look afraid. Derek is there. His face is grey and drawn.
‘You didn’t press the alarm, did you?’ says Terry. They shake their heads, the younger one and Derek. ‘Cos you know I’ll kill her before the police get here, don’t ya? And then I’ll kill you both. Understand?’
One security guy nods. Then the other.
‘Can I ask you?’ he says, backing up, fast, with Jay’s head still pushed against his stomach and the knife against her neck. ‘Can I just ask you two, man to man, as it were,’ and he’s still backing up so he’s level with the security desk. ‘Do you think Sally here, with the grey hair, do you think she looks like a fat old sow?’
The two security guys look blank.
‘Do you? Do you think she looks like a fat old sow?’
They nod.
‘Say it then. Say, “Sally looks like a fat old sow”.’
One of them mumbles something.
‘Now, who heard that?’ he says, pushing Jay forwards again. ‘Did anyone hear that. Hands up if you heard that?’
