“Goodbye,” I say, to no one.
Chapter Eighteen
I walk out into the street. It’s a completely different street. It’s night, not day, though it’s brighter than the daylight. Everything is moving, even tall great buildings. I can feel the pavement breathing, hot between my legs. The whole night is ill and hot. Sweat is running down the walls, running down my face. Coloured sweat which burns. There isn’t any moon. Lots of little suns are shining, spinning round and round.
The moon is pale like Norah. An empty O like Norah. There’s nothing pale Downtown. The stars are scarlet mouths, screaming in the sky. The trees are coloured lights. The lights flash on off on. My eyes hurt with the glare.
“Keep still,” I whisper. “Turn off all those lights, please.”
No one listens. Nobody has ears.
I need a drink. Something safe and kind. A glass of milk. A cup of tea like Sister’s with two sugars in. There are cafés everywhere, closing in on me, I can smell onions on their breath. They’re serving words, not food. Sizzling words spitting in my head. BIGGER, BURGER, LIQUOR, EAT, HOT, RIB. I push a door. More words. “Twenty-four-hour breakfast, cheapest eats in town.” I step in, blink against the noise. There’s music playing. Music like a pain.
“A cup of tea, please.”
It doesn’t look like tea. It’s very dark and black, with something floating in it. I can’t see any sugar. I wish I’d asked for milk. Milk is pale and quiet. They give it to small children. It’s made of grass and munching. They don’t have grass Downtown.
“That’s fifty cents.”
I fumble for my purse. It feels very limp and thin, like a small brown animal which no one’s fed. There’s nothing in its stomach, not even fifty cents. I leave my tea, walk out. I can hear the woman shouting after me. A lot of people shout here.
I check my purse again. No, it’s not my purse, it’s Reuben’s. That was Reuben’s money. I don’t like Reuben and I only borrowed it.
Borrowing is stealing if you haven’t asked.
A thief, a petty vandal.
A deep-dyed wretched sinner.
Gambling is a sin.
I sit down on a step outside a shop. The shop is empty, boarded up. The step is very cold. I’ve lost my coat. I don’t know where I put it or why I took it off. I never take my coat off. That Friend who gave it to me had it since the War. I’ve also lost my gloves. They’ll say I’m very careless and they don’t know why they bother. The gloves weren’t quite a pair. They were both dark blue, but one was fuzzier. I’ve never needed gloves before. I don’t go out at Beechgrove. It’s safer to stay in. You can’t lose money then, or lose your clothes.
A boy and girl have stopped outside the shop. They’re kissing. It’s a long kiss, very long. Sally-Ann didn’t kiss like that. She told me to phone her, but she didn’t leave her number. I haven’t got a friend now, not even Carole. I’ve lost her money, Reuben’s money, stolen it. They won’t let me come to Israel. Not a thief.
Another couple are walking arm in arm. Their hands and sides are joined like one person with four legs. You’re one person if you’re married. It says so in the Bible. Joined for ever. Carole will be Reuben. Reuben doesn’t like me. Even before he met me, he said I couldn’t come.
I get up off the step, walk slowly down the street. No one is alone. They’re mostly all in families, or couples. There are also gangs of frightening-looking boys, throwing coloured streamers at each other. Some are swaying, shouting, drinking out of bottles, kicking empty cans. They’re waiting for the fireworks. They set them off Downtown, a great show at nine o’clock. It can’t be nine o’clock yet, though it feels very late and dark inside my head. They may put me into prison if they find me. Bars on all the windows like at Belstead.
“Hey, lady, wanna hat?”
A man has stopped me. He’s holding out a golden crown, and a hat with orange feathers on. Other hats are piled up on his stall. He takes a step towards me, slams the hat right down on my head. “Happy New Year” is written on the brim in coloured letters.
“For you, lady, three dollars.”
I take it off again. I haven’t got three dollars and nothing will be happy any more.
A wheelchair is blocking half the pavement. There’s a man in it, a beggar. He hasn’t any legs. A woman throws a bank note in his dish. He bends to pick it up and I see he’s lost his hands as well. His wrists just end without the fingers. Half of him is missing. He’s a stump.
I turn away. I’m a stump myself. A lot of me is missing. I feel very light and weak. I think I may be hungry. I haven’t eaten anything all day. Food is lying in the gutter: a piece of bread, half a fat brown sausage. I ought to pick them up, save them for my breakfast. I peer down at the bread. There’s lipstick on it; teeth-marks on the sausage.
I walk on, pass an open door. Tables, chairs, a counter; people eating clean food without lipstick on, or germs. I haven’t any money, but at least I could sit down. I limp in, find an empty seat. There are great big coloured pictures on the walls. Food again. Potato chips piled on plates like firewood; chocolate cake so huge you can see its pores. The real cake looks quite small, and rather dry.
“Can I get you something, Madam?”
“I’m waiting,” I reply. “Waiting for my friend.” The waitress walks away.
I lean back on the padded scarlet bench. Red again. Too loud. All the different noises go round and round my head. Knives and forks keep quarrelling and something in the kitchen is roaring on and on. Someone laughs. A sneeze fires like a gun. There’s a steady chewing-chewing noise, much closer than the rest.
I open my eyes. (I don’t know why they closed.) A woman’s sitting next to me, chewing on a bone. She’s eating with her fingers, reading while she eats. Her newspaper is propped against the ketchup. I read the other side of it. There are a lot of bombs and shocks. “Blood Bath”, “Gas explosion”, “Big Blast New Year’s Sale”. I can see a picture of a crash. The larger car is lying upside down. I think it’s dead. The woman turns the page. “Baby found in trash”.
I rest my forehead in my hands. I’m very tired. I’d like to go to bed, back to our hotel. But Carole might be there. And Reuben. Waiting for his shopping. Waiting for the change.
The woman’s just got up, paid her bill. She’s left her chicken, left her newspaper. There’s a little pool of ketchup on it, which looks like Carole’s blood. I wipe it off. Newspapers are useful. When Ella Cartwright slept rough on Hastings promenade, she wrapped her feet in newspaper to keep them warm. I try to fold it up.
“FREE FUNERAL”, I read, in big black letters. “The Eden Funeral Parlour offers a free funeral to anyone who plans to drink and drive this New Year’s Eve.”
I’d like to die. It’s peaceful when you die. You wear white because it’s your wedding with the Lord. I’d be a bride like Carole, wear orange blossom, be joined to God for ever.
I go on reading. All you have to do is sign a piece of paper which says you’ll agree to drink and drive on New Year’s Eve.
“In return, we offer you an antique silver sealer-casket, lined with moss-pink satin, and a polished granite grave-marker in our beautiful memorial park.”
I’m not sure what they are, until I see the photos. There’s a coffin with its lid up, a very grand expensive one with silky stuff inside. And a gravestone with a lily on, and two whole rows of writing. “Up to ten inscribed words,” it says. “Plain or Gothic script, your choice.”
If you die at Beechgrove, the coffin’s very plain. The State pays, unless you’ve got money of your own, and the State is very poor. You don’t get a headstone, or silky stuff inside, and sometimes you’re buried in a grave which belongs to someone else. It’s cheaper if you share. The other corpse is often very old, only bones and worms left. You don’t get many flowers. Doris Clayton had plastic flowers. Green ones with blue leaves.
I’d like flowers which smell. And a polished granite headstone with ten whole words on it. It would be hard to choose the wor
ds. I think I’d have Carole’s name put on, instead of mine. It’s prettier, and I’d have the Joseph then. She won’t need it any more. She’ll be Mrs Reuben’s Name.
Funerals cost pounds. Like those weddings in the wedding chapels where everything is extra. If you’re really rich in England, you can even have an angel on your grave. I saw a huge one once, with white marble hair right down to its shoulders and wings which kept the rain off. I’ll never get an angel.
If Beechgrove’s closing, I won’t get any funeral at all. The vicar buries people, and you never see the vicar once you’ve moved out into lodgings. I read about a woman who was just stuffed into a dustbin-bag and buried in the garden with no coffin and no clothes. They found her later, some of her, when her dog was digging for a bone.
There are bones in front of me, that woman’s bones, pale ones, tiny ones, some with flesh still on. I push her plate away, get up. The waitress hurries over.
“My friend didn’t come,” I tell her. Tell myself.
I find myself outside again, right out in the street. I’m not sure how I got there. I’m just wandering round and round. It’s colder now, much colder, though all the suns are shining still and the lights won’t let the night in. A band is playing, plays right through my head. The noise turns into Reuben’s voice, calling me a thief. The voice gets louder: thief, thief, thief, THIEF! Suddenly, a bomb explodes. The sky turns pink, then silver, and sparks fly everywhere. I crouch down in a doorway, block my ears. I don’t want to go to Israel.
Perhaps it’s not a bomb. It may be a Sign from God that He’s about to end the world. One Reverend on the television lives in California. They have earthquakes all the time there, and floods and storms as well. They’re Signs, he said, Signs that God is angry. And a punishment for sin. There’s more sin in California.
I walk on very carefully, waiting for the storm. I’m so cold, I’ve lost my hands again, and my stomach’s still a hole. I stop outside some big glass doors. They open, just like magic; slowly close behind me. It’s warm inside, safer if it floods.
“Free margaritas,” says a sign. I don’t know what they are, but maybe you can eat them. I join the queue. It’s very long and noisy, and only moves in shuffles. When I get up closer, I can’t see any food. Just tiny plastic tooth-mugs with stuff like water in them. I almost walk away, but it may be wine, and wine can make you better. Carole’s always happier with wine.
“Carole,” I say softly. I’m missing her a lot. I may never see her in my life again. I haven’t said goodbye. I haven’t said a lot of things. I don’t know how to say them.
At last I reach the counter. I try to take a glass, but a big man grabs it back.
“Where’s your coupon, lady?”
“I thought the drinks were free.”
“Yeah, but only with the coupon from your fun-book.”
“Book?”
“Jesus Christ!” he mutters, wipes his face. “You can get one over there.” He’s pointing to another queue, so long it winds in circles and hasn’t got a beginning or an end.
“Move ya butt now, will ya? You’re holdin’ up the rest.”
I join the second queue. It’s slower than the first one, so I close my eyes and pretend that Carole’s with me. We’re sitting at a table eating bread and butter. Just the two of us. Reuben’s gone to Israel. On his own. The bread is new and fresh. It’s not margarine, it’s butter, and there’s jam with strawberries in.
I’ve eaten fourteen slices, chewing very slowly and with a wait between each one, before I get my fun-book. The lady stamps each coupon, writes the time on them.
“Do I have to queue again to get my drink?” I ask. I wish it was free bread and jam instead. The drinks looked very small and very cold.
“Yeah, I’m afraid you do, Ma’am. We’re real busy New Year’s Eve. But you don’t go right away. You have to wait an hour first. I’ve stamped the time right here, see? When one hour’s up, you can claim your margarita.”
“An … hour?”
“Don’t worry – these coupons give you three-for-two match play on all the table games. So you can spend your hour makin’ lots of money. This is how it works. Say you wanna play roulette, well, you just tear out this coupon, bet it with two dollars, and if you win, you’ll get three bucks instead of two on even money bets.”
I don’t know what she means. I don’t want to play roulette. Not again. Not ever. “No,” I say. “No thank you.” I’m talking to myself, walking past the long long queue, right out to the exit. I can see the stump of beggar just outside. He’s following me, he must be. His lips are moving. He’s giving me a Message. I think he’s come to warn me. There are lots of beggars here. They lie on bits of cardboard in the gutter. Some were very rich once. Victor told me that. He said they lost their money playing cards.
“Free donut.” “Free hot dog.” I don’t take any notice, just walk past. Nothing here is free. “We sell happiness.” That’s outside a flowershop, but there’s nothing in the window and the shop is locked and barred.
“WIN A CAR!” I stop this time. It’s a great big shiny yellow car, parked right inside the window, and hung with yellow flowers. The flowers are only paper, but the car is real. I don’t know how they got it in. It’s wider than the doors.
I press my face against the glass. If I won it, I could drink and drive. Then I’d get the funeral. If the End of the World is coming, then I’d rather die before it comes. Quieter and less frightening. Without the smoke and devils, or all the other corpses wailing in their nightgowns. It’s peaceful when you’re dead. You don’t feel tired or hungry. You don’t lose gloves or coats. You’re just white inside, like clouds.
“This new-model Tornado can be yours for just one dollar. Simply play four quarters on our …”
No. It can’t be mine. I haven’t got four quarters. I haven’t got just one. If you haven’t any money, they bury you in dustbin bags.
I walk away. I don’t know where I’m going or what to do. There are more cars in the street. Shiny ones. Scarlet ones.
I could borrow someone’s car.
Borrowing is stealing.
I stop. It won’t be peaceful. Or white inside like clouds. Hell is red and hot. Tom Bryden set himself alight once and burnt half his skin and flesh off. He was in hospital six months. But the flames of hell go on and on for ever and they don’t give you injections or antiseptic dressings. The Reverend said if we imagined the worst pain possible, then multiplied it by a hundred thousand million, that would be just half an hour in hell. I can’t multiply, but it still made me very frightened. I couldn’t sleep that night, even though I took my pills. Every time I tried to close my eyes, the blankets caught alight and I could hear the flames licking at my skin.
If I paid Reuben’s money back, I wouldn’t be a thief. Wouldn’t burn in hell. I’d be white again like clouds. There’s money all around me. The slot machines are choking with it and it’s piled up in the stalls. I watch people buying hats, people buying doughnuts. There’s sugar on the doughnuts. I can feel it on my tongue. Sweet, and melting slowly, trickling down my throat. You die if you don’t eat.
A gang of boys all dressed the same in black with silver skulls is marching right towards me. I run across the street to hide, watch the boys pass by. They keep chanting the same words, on and on and on. I don’t understand the words. The tallest boy throws an empty bottle in the air. It goes right across the road, crashes into pieces at my feet. They all cheer, then march on.
I stare down at the glass. I can see bits of Carole in it, broken now and bleeding. She has only one eye, a cold and staring one. Her mouth is a red horseshoe, hung the wrong way up. Her luck is pouring out of it. She hasn’t got a dress.
A huge gorilla with fat pink lips comes swinging round the corner. I turn and run. I can hear it roaring after me. Its shadow catches mine. My legs hurt. My feet don’t fit my shoes. My heart is going faster than my legs. The lights keep playing tricks on me. I’m bumping into rainbows, running over ponds. T
he water’s gold and silver, splashing round my feet. I glance behind. The gorilla is still there, a gorilla with blue denim legs. It snatches off its headdress. It’s a man.
I stop. I’m panting. Don’t know where I am. There are no casinos here, only small and dirty shops leaning on each other, as if their legs have given way. “WORLD’S LARGEST PAWNSHOP” says a sign across the road. Everything is largest in the world here. I don’t think they really measure. I’ve never been inside a pawnshop, but I know what they are. Ella Cartwright went to one in Hastings. She pawned her watch to buy a doll.
“Gold, silver, jewelry” says the sign, then – larger – “READY CASH”.
Silver. I could pawn my silver shamrock. It’s not the same as selling. They give you a ticket, so you get it back again. I couldn’t sell it. Ever. It’s the last bit of my mother. She may have worn it round her neck on a tiny silver chain. It may have touched her skin, listened to her heartbeat.
I cross the road, so I can see into the window. I’ve never seen so many rings and bracelets. They’re piled in bowls, spilling out of boxes. There are two pink necks which haven’t got their bodies, but are hung with diamond necklaces. And dead pink hands with rings on. And lots of different watches set to different times. Dead and staring clocks. Cameras with no eyes.
I can see a man inside, an ugly man with tattoos all down his arms. He’s watching me, and smoking. He must be very rich. He’s wearing rings himself, three or four big gold ones. He hasn’t got a shamrock, though. Not one single shamrock in all that crowded window. Shamrocks are lucky, luckier than horseshoes. He might pay me for that luck, pay a lot.
I’m not sure what to do, though. What to say, how to get the money. Another man is watching me as well. A smaller man in a grey mac and a hat. He’s not inside, he’s outside, standing in a doorway. I feel nervous with his eyes on me like that. I tug at my cardigan, wish it was a coat. Coats hide more of you. I could buy a coat if I had Ready Cash, a cheap one, secondhand, add it to the list of Reuben’s shopping.
Sin City Page 33
