Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  It stops, turns round. I clamber on its back, hold on tight. It’s bigger than I thought, and still I’ve got to climb, climb right to the top.

  It’s very hard to climb. I keep falling, sliding, tripping on loose stones. I can’t see far, even in the moonlight. My hands are made of silver, but the mountain’s made of black.

  “B!” I call. He may have come up here to see the flowers.

  Silence. I think I’ve got his name wrong. I shout some other names. I don’t know whose they are, or if I’ve ever met them. No one answers.

  I call my Mother. I think she’s waiting somewhere.

  No. She doesn’t hear. She must have gone.

  I call my Father.

  Nothing.

  B (or Someone) said all the little creatures come out in the night-time in the desert. It’s safer in the night-time. Not so hot. People die of heat in deserts, leave their bones behind.

  I can’t see any creatures, none at all.

  It’s very cold, not hot.

  Mountains have black bones. I can see them sticking up, very tall and jagged in the sky. No flesh on them, no grass.

  I stop a moment. I’ll have to take my coat off. I can’t climb in a coat. I fold it neatly, leave it on a rock.

  There isn’t any path, only stones and stumbles. I keep bumping into things, things that hurt a lot. My feet are very frightened. My legs ache at the backs.

  I shouldn’t wear pyjamas, not when I’m awake, and not so many pairs. Laundry is expensive. Sister will be cross. I take them off as well. It isn’t easy. My hands are cold and clumsy and I keep overbalancing.

  I’m making too much noise. I’ve woken sleeping things. I can hear them grumbling, snuffling, reporting me to Sister. There are black rags on the moon. The sky is getting bigger all the time. I must be close to God.

  There are mountains all around me now, not just Jubilee. Nothing else but mountains, one above the other. They’re climbing, climbing with me. I can hear them panting, feel their heartbeats pounding through my shoes. I look up into black. The moon has disappeared again. I think it must be busy like the nurses. They’re always disappearing.

  “Nurse!” I call. “Nurse Clarke.”

  I expect she’s gone to tea.

  I wish they’d bring my pills. I can’t tell where the mountains end and where the sky begins. Both are dark and blurred. I feel quite dizzy because nothing will keep still. The clouds keep changing places, changing shape. I’m not sure if they’re clouds, or only shadows. I step right on a shadow, hear it cry.

  I don’t know why I’m wearing all these frocks.

  I stop again, try to drag them off. My head seems bigger than it was before. The last frock won’t budge past it. I choke a while in tiny nylon flowers. I’m blinking flowers, eating flowers. In the end, it rips and lets me out.

  Three blouses underneath. I can’t undo the buttons. The buttons are too small, the hands too big. I think they’re someone else’s hands. Several buttons break and fall, like teeth.

  I leave the blouses folded in my locker. We don’t have hangers in the ward, not wire ones. You can undo the ends of wire ones and jab them through your eye. Tom Bryden did.

  “Tom!” I call. “Tom Bryden.”

  I think he died at Eastbourne, jumped off a high cliff.

  It’s easier to climb in just my underclothes. I’m higher now, much higher. The moon’s come out again. It must get very lonely. There’s only just one moon, so it’s always on its own. The stars all have each other.

  I can see some white stuff shining just above me. It may be snow. It may be just the moonlight. The moon is very cold, slaps my naked arms. It’s rude to take your clothes off in the ward.

  They’ve dropped the Bomb – I know now. I didn’t hear it, but it’s colder all the time. Cold and very bare. All the trees have died. And all the birds. None of them are singing. Not even owls, or night-birds. I’m treading on their bones.

  I’m the only one alive.

  There are a lot more fallen rocks now. I don’t always know they’re there. Sometimes they spring out at me. Sometimes I fall down.

  I use my hands to help me climb. It’s hard to hold the carrier as well. It’s very heavy, keeps trying to drag me down again. It’s the shoes which make it heavy, not the Dress. The Dress is made of air.

  I didn’t steal the shoes. I only stole a feather. Feathers fly.

  I think my feet are bleeding. I sit down, undo my lace-ups, start to take my stockings off. It takes me a long time. I’m feeling stiff and shaky, so I rest between each pair. I’d like to see the doctor, but Sister says he’s busy. Everyone is busy.

  Both my legs are bare now. The wind blows up and down them. I’m not sure if I’m cold or not. My skin is cold, but the inside of me is hot. Very hot.

  I struggle with my petticoats, claw and fight them off. It’s getting hard to breathe. The brassieres are tight and make a thumping noise. I’d better keep those on. Naked chests are rude.

  It hurts to walk barefoot, so I get down on my hands and knees. It’s very steep, the mountain, tears my hands. I need to go again. The moon is watching, so I try and hide. It stings and burns a lot, worse than all the other times.

  I leave all three pairs of knickers off. I expect they’re full of germs.

  I don’t think I’ll reach the top. However high I climb, it’s always higher. There may not be a top.

  I unhook my brassieres. Nobody can see me. They’re all dead. Or gone to shelters. Even Sister. No point calling; nobody can hear. I call once more, to check.

  Someone’s answering.

  Just my own voice, deeper. The mountains copy it.

  It’s peaceful when you die. You don’t have to climb, or breathe, or call out names. Your feet don’t hurt or bleed. You’re cold, but you can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything. You don’t wear brassieres. You don’t wear clothes at all, just bare white skin.

  My skin looks very white, shining in the moonlight. The ground looks white as well, silver white below me; far below me. I think it’s salt, not snow. Salt embalms your body. That means it doesn’t smell. Salt is made of tears.

  I look down, then up, to see how far I’ve climbed. Very far. The stars are really close now. I can almost touch the moon.

  I lie down where I am.

  St Joseph wakes me, taps me on the shoulder. He’s brought me to the top. There are mountains all around me, but I’m the highest now.

  I’m lying on a ledge. Below me is just fall. Just black and dizzy fall. I hardly dare look down.

  The moon is very bright. The clouds have gone, all gone. It’s a full moon now. It wasn’t full before, but St Joseph made it bigger. Full moons bring you luck.

  I think it must be March. He wants me for his feast day. Jubilee means feast day when everyone is happy and there’s cake for tea instead of sand and stones.

  I’m not alone, not now. The desert creatures have come out of their holes. I can hear them breathing, rustling, all around me.

  It’s safer coming out at night. People can’t see you if you take off all your clothes. It’s cold without your clothes. I’ve never been so cold before. The cold is like a fire.

  I try to put the Dress on. My body keeps on shaking, so I have to stop and rest. Nothing underneath. Carole wore nothing underneath. The Dress feels cool and silky against my burning skin. It’s tight. It’s very tight. I leave the zip undone.

  I’ve never worn a long frock, or lacy petticoats. I haven’t got a mirror, but I know I’m beautiful. My hair is fair and my eyes are blue with little darker flecks in them.

  Carole wore a hairslide. It’s broken now. George broke it, but I’ve still got the ribbon from the chocolate box. I tie it in my hair. I tip out the carrier bag, find a comb, a beetle. Then I find a pill bottle. I haven’t any pills. I try to read the label, hold it very close. The moon is like a torch. “MARY’S RING”, it says.

  I smile. St Joseph’s bought the ring, bought my wedding ring. A ring means someone wants you. It’s
a very special ring. He bought it at that shop, put it with my pills. He knew I’d find it then. I take pills every day.

  “MARY’S RING.” He wrote that on himself. Mary’s beautiful. She always wears long frocks. I’ve seen her in the pictures. Long frocks and small red shoes.

  My feet are sore and blistered, but I force the red shoes on, take a few steps up and down the ledge. The train floats and whispers after me. Only Queens have trains. I’m Queen. I’m Queen of Jubilee.

  Carole carried flowers. I haven’t found the flowers yet. It can’t be spring, not yet.

  I stare down at my Dress. There are white flowers on the skirt. Sprigs of orange blossom. That’s for funerals. It means you’ll have children and be happy. Reverend Mother had three hundred children.

  At funerals, you have to say “I will”. And you have to have a witness. I’ve got my witnesses, crowding all around me. Scorpions and pack-rats. Circus beetles. Kit fox.

  I know I’m better because I remember all the names. I feel light and made of glass. Precious glass. There’s more room in my head. Room for all the names. St Joseph made me better. He’s my bridegroom, dressed in brown. I’ve got his wedding ring. I didn’t steal it. I only stole a feather.

  I open the pill bottle, tip it in my hand. It’s gold, it’s solid gold. I slip it on my finger. Mary/Joseph, joined for ever.

  I throw away the bottle. I shan’t need pills again. Mary doesn’t take them. And she never had a germ, not one on her whole body.

  I sit down on the ground. Joseph’s late. We’ll have to wait our turn now. They’ve closed the chapel doors. They’re marrying someone else. Carole’s getting worried, pacing up and down.

  “Of course he’ll come,” I tell her. “He said he might be late.”

  I take my glasses off. I don’t wear glasses. It’s then I see the flowers, a million million flowers, blooming on the mountain-top – for me.

  They’ve waited twenty years. More than twenty years. Waited in the dark. Waited for my wedding. Burst out just for me. They’re wearing coloured frocks, bright expensive frocks. They’re crowding round me, staring at the Dress.

  I remember all their names. St Joseph made me better, so there’s room for all the names now. Maidenhair and Lantern Flower. Blue-Eyed Grass. (That’s Carole’s.) Desert Star. I can almost touch the stars. Gold Carpet. Desertgold.

  The flowers are mostly gold. I saw them in the ranger’s book. Gold daisies, golden poppies, golden eyes and mouths. I’ve found my crock of gold. Before, I wasn’t high enough, and it was cold grey winter still. Now it’s golden spring.

  I can hear the buzz of insects. Heavy bees, insects with red wings. They’re naked in the flowers, deep inside the petals, sucking up the pollen. St Joseph has red wings.

  The moon is like the sun. Burning sun, so hot it hurts my eyes. Burning golden pollen.

  I’m ready now, step right towards the edge. There’s nothing underneath me. Only fall. Only black and plunging fall.

  I pick up a handful of confetti, toss it in the air. It doesn’t fall. It flies. A million million tiny bright balloons filling the whole sky on New Year’s Eve. I knew they’d fly here for my party, in the end.

  New Year’s Eve. I can hear the wedding bells, hear my bridegroom calling very softly.

  I take a step towards him. There’s nothing underneath me. Only sky. I’m falling into sky. Huge black shapes rush by me. The stars are very close and very cold. I see St Joseph smiling as I fall fall fly towards him.

  “I will,” I say, and

  Copyright

  First published in 1987 by Michael Joseph

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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  ISBN 978-1-4472-2269-9 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-2268-2 POD

  Copyright © Wendy Perriam, 1987

  The right of Wendy Perriam to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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