by Gary McMahon
“I’ve never seen you look so pale… it’s like you’re anaemic. Maybe I should make an appointment with the doctor.” Lana wanted to hold the girl, but felt that it might scare her. When exactly had they moved so far apart?
“No. Really. I said I was fine. I am, really. I’m okay. Just a bit tired.”
Lana moved away from the door. “Aren’t you sleeping?”
Hailey shook her head. “Not too well. Not here, in this place.” She walked past Lana, being careful not to touch her.
Lana felt like crying. “I’m sorry. I never wanted it to be like this. I had plans for us, big plans.” She stood where she was, bathed in the glow from the bathroom light, feeling its fragile warmth on the side of her face. “I thought things might be better once we settled in.”
Hailey wasn’t listening. She crossed the lounge and went into the kitchen area, where she sat down at the breakfast bar, staring at an empty bowl. Her eyes looked odd, as if she were blind.
“Let me get you something.” Lana followed her daughter, opened a cupboard, and poured some cornflakes into Hailey’s bowl. Then she opened the fridge. “Fuck,” she said, feeling useless. “There’s no milk. I forgot to buy milk.” The omission felt like a metaphor, a symbol of how bad a mother she was. “How could I forget to buy the fucking milk?” She felt hysteria building, as if she were about to laugh or scream – she wasn’t sure which, and even when it came the sound would be difficult to identify.
Slowly, carefully, she closed the fridge door. Then she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Hailey, standing and pushing the stool across the cheaply tiled floor. “I’ll get something on the way to school.”
Lana was unable to open her eyes. She was entranced by the dancing darkness behind the lids. “Do you have money?”
Hailey laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Yes. I have money.” Then she went to the front door, opened it, and slammed it behind her as she left.
Lana straightened up and opened her eyes. She saw bright little points of light in her field of vision; dancing moonbeams, trapped in her kitchen in broad daylight. The bright spots faded, going out like distant flames blown by a wind, and then vanished altogether.
Acting on impulse, she returned to the bathroom, lifting the toilet lid and staring down into the bowl. Stringy vomit floated like pale kelp in the water, clinging to the side of the bowl where it had not quite been flushed away. There were tiny red flecks in the matter, as if Hailey had also brought up a small amount of blood. She could be mistaken, but it looked as if that was what had happened… unless she was suffering from the hangover and the weird morning light, and the redness was simply the result of tired eyes. She reached out and pressed the flush, watched the water as it swirled and cleaned away the stains.
A rogue thought entered her head, and she was unable to push it away: what if it isn’t vomit? But the thought of Hailey issuing that pale, clotted material from elsewhere was one she couldn’t countenance. It was too much; too terrible to hold inside her mind.
Back in the kitchen she made instant coffee and sat at the breakfast bar wondering how she could get her life back on track. Things had gone so wrong by now that it seemed impossible to put them right. Everything was difficult; the world was at best uncaring and at worst actively against her. Nothing went right, not now: everything she tried seemed to fail, and her attempts to fix their situation usually brought more pain into their lives.
At first she didn’t hear the knocking at her door, but after a short while the sound grew louder and drew her attention. Lana put down her cup and walked across the room to the door. Monty Bright’s phone call was fresh in her mind. She thought about putting the security chain in place, but then decided against it. If Bright wanted to get to her, he could pick and choose his moment. A cheap door chain would not hold him back.
She opened the door.
The man standing in the corridor was big, possibly the largest human being she had ever seen. He stood well over six feet tall and his girth was proportional to his height. A large round shaven head sat on a neck that resembled a joint of uncooked beef – wide, raw and spilling over the collar of his white shirt – and when he smiled a gold tooth glinted somewhere at the back of his mouth.
“Morning, darling.” His voice was squeaky, quavering, like a tardy teenager’s late-breaking tones.
He was wearing a tight black leather bomber jacket and dark blue jeans. The clothes were so big that Lana assumed they must be custom-made, and were probably expensive to buy.
Lana took a single step back, into the narrow hallway. She didn’t mean to retreat; it was an instinctive reaction to the presence of the giant at her door, the monster who was even now following her inside. Only when he moved did she catch sight of the other two men behind him. They were not as big as the first, but they were big enough; tough enough.
“I hope we aren’t disturbing you, Miss Fraser.” The last one in closed the door behind him. The flat felt tiny, as if it were a doll’s house.
“I haven’t got the money.” She stood against the wall just inside the lounge, giving them the run of the place. She decided that subservience might be the safest course of action. “I told Monty yesterday, when he called me. I don’t have anything this week.”
The smallest man, the one closest to the door, stepped forward and gave her a fast back-handed slap across the face. Just before her head started buzzing, Lana noticed that he was wearing black leather gloves. She didn’t realise that her head had shot backwards and hit the wall until the pain started: a hot, beating place at the back of her skull. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks, and she was ashamed. The last thing she wanted to do was show these bastards how much they scared her.
“Just keep your fucking mouth shut until we tell you to speak, Miss Fraser.” It was the one who’d hit her: he was standing right in front of her, his scarred face only inches from her own. He ran a hand along her bare arm; the black leather felt wrong, like diseased skin.
She nodded, trying to smile.
“That’s better,” said Leather Glove Man. “It’s always easier when you people let us control the situation.”
“Get a fucking move on, Terry,” said the large one. He was examining the room, picking up books and putting them down again, running his fingers over her ornaments and framed photographs. “Ooh, nice.” He picked up a photo of Hailey in a swimsuit. “I like it when they get those little pointy titties. Like buds, they are.” He brought the photograph to his face and licked the glass frame.
Lana closed her eyes. The third man, who had moved further into the room, began to giggle. “Dirty bastard,” he said; his voice was nasal and unpleasant. “You’d shag anything, wouldn’t you?”
“If it bleeds it breeds,” said the big man. “And I do like it when they bleed...”
Lana opened her eyes. “Listen, I can give you some other stuff, just to buy some time. I have jewellery. Some of it’s still worth a lot of money – it’s from before, when we were better off.” She moved away from the wall but Terry pushed her back against the plaster, his leather-clad hand pressed against her chest, between her breasts. He looked right into her eyes and smiled.
“Come on,” she said, feigning weakness while all the time she wanted to tear out his throat with her teeth. “Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable,” said the big man. “And what’s reasonable about borrowing money and not paying it back? Monty’s a reasonable man; all he wants is what’s due to him. Nothing more, nothing less. He wants what he’s owed.” The gold tooth glinted. Leather Glove Man’s hand at her chest pushed harder, shoving her back against the plasterboard wall.
Lana was trapped. She knew it, and the men in her flat knew it. This was a game, a routine, and they were all aware of the rules. They would intimidate her for a little while, maybe even rough her up a bit more, and then they would take whatever they wanted in lieu of money owed.
Her right cheek was burning.
The pain where she’d hit the wall with her head was a gentle throbbing, subsiding as she spoke to the men.
The big man stepped forward. His leather jacket creaked and his footsteps were loud and heavy, like sacks of wet earth being dropped onto the floor. “You know why we’re here.” He pushed Terry out of the way, bringing up his hand to stroke her cheek. “We’re going to take your stuff and go away. Then we’ll come back again, but for the money next time. This is a warning. We won’t hurt you, not today. But next time we’re going to have to break some fingers, or maybe even a pretty little hand. Not an arm or a leg – that’ll come after. It gets worse each time.” His meaty fingers slithered across her face, cupping her chin. He squeezed, forcing open her mouth. “We might even take something else... something that you won’t want to give freely. You have a very pretty mouth.” He blinked rapidly, as if there was something in his eyes. “So does your daughter.”
Lana was breathing heavily, as if her heart was approaching a cardiac arrest. It was panic, building in her chest and spreading outwards, like a fire. She fought to control her rage: lashing out would make things worse, and probably result in even greater violence.
Just a warning, she thought. That’s all.
“There’s a message, too. From Monty. You want to hear it?”
Lana nodded. He was still gripping her chin, keeping her jaws locked open. Her mouth was wet. Saliva filled the back of her throat, but she was unable to swallow.
“If you want to pay off the debt in another way, come and see him at the gym. He’s always willing to negotiate, and you’re a very attractive woman, Miss Fraser.” He paused, cocked his head to one side like a dog. “You don’t mind me saying that, do you?” He pushed his knee between her legs, forcing them apart.
“No,” she said, her breath coming in short, sharp stabs. “No, not at all.”
The big man pressed his broad kneecap into her groin. Her legs began to tremble.
“Thank you, Miss Fraser,” he said, pulling away from her. “Now we’ll just take a few things and be on our way.”
Lana felt her body crumple like a discarded suit. Her legs buckled and she slid down the wall, rubbing at her chin. Her face ached; her legs felt like partially disassembled plastic toys, unable to hold her upright. She sat on the floor and watched the three men as they moved around the flat, mentally cataloguing her belongings. When Terry, the one with the leather gloves and the quick hands, entered Hailey’s room she fought the urge to scream.
It took them less than thirty minutes to clear her out. They knew what they were doing and the type of goods they were looking for. They only took the stuff that was worth something in terms of resale value; everything else they either left behind or destroyed for fun. The last thing they carried down the stairs to load onto the back of their van was the television. Hailey would be distraught if she couldn’t watch her shows: lacking close friends or any kind of regular social life, she used her video games and the TV as her main sources of distraction.
But at least they’d left her books. Thugs like these were not renowned for their love of literature, and Hailey had a shelf filled with classics and science-fiction novels, books that had belonged to her father. Hardy, Wells, Vonnegut; the girl loved her books, and would have been distraught if she'd lost them.
The men said little more before they left: just a few words, a couple of vulgar promises that washed over her, not even touching her where it mattered. The big man grabbed his crotch in his massive hand and blew her a kiss on his way out the door. “Next time we’ll have some proper fun,” he said, before thrusting his hips like a piston. “Some proper fucking fun...”
Lana remained where she was on the floor, squatting like some primitive warrior woman delivering a baby in the dirt. She was no longer shaking. It was comfortable down there, near the dusty skirting board. She stayed there for a long time even after they left, thinking about her options, trying to work out what to do about the situation. Once again, she had failed her daughter. The choices she had made led only to despair.
Soon all she could think of was Hailey’s face when she walked through the door after school to find the flat emptied of their belongings.
Hailey’s poor, sad face and a single word, one she’d always been afraid of, even when it had entered her life two years ago. A word that stayed there, lodged inside her head, even when she stood up, crossed the room and closed the door. Her hands, when she looked at them, were as steady as those of a stone sculpture.
The word in her mind brought horror, it promised terror and a release from financial bondage: the word was revenge. But it was something she shied away from, terrified. Violence was an option she could only ever consider once everything else had failed. She’d learned that, at least, from her desperate murderer of a husband.
THE THREE MEN walked outside and headed towards their car, the largest of the group hanging back from his colleagues. He stopped, looked up, and then looked back at the Grove Court flats, feeling a strange tingling sensation at the back of his neck, as if he were being watched.
“Boater! You coming?”
He kept staring at the grey-walled building, his eyes scanning the façade. Finally they came to rest upon the window of the flat they’d just left – Lana Fraser’s place. What was drawing his gaze? Why was he staring so hard, so intently, at that window? Was it that he was desperate to get another glimpse of the woman inside? Yes, she was beautiful, but he’d seen better. In truth, he’d had better. Despite his size, and the fact that he was not a handsome man, the power associated with his position as one of Monty Bright’s pack-dogs ensured that he never went hungry for physical pleasure.
No, it wasn’t just her beauty. There was something more – an inexplicable desire, a craving. It exhausted him to think about her, and the obscene act he’d put on inside the flat had caused him to lose his grip on the day. All he wanted now was to go home and rest.
“Come on, man! For fuck’s sake, we have work to do. That junkie needs sorting out, for one thing. Monty doesn’t want him coming down from his high before he can go to work on the skinny bastard’s arse.”
Francis Boater fought hard to drag his eyes from the window. He strained, forcing the muscles in his neck to turn his head. Then, when he was once again facing in the direction he was meant to be heading, he pushed his reluctant feet across the pavement.
“I’m coming,” he said, but what he really wanted was to get away, to go back to the flat and tell that woman that everything would be fine. These thoughts were new to him; never before had he felt even a glimmer of tenderness. Not way back when his mother used to treat him like a house pet, or during any of the subsequent desperate relationships he’d fallen into. This feeling – it was so large, so much bigger than him, that he felt like falling to his knees and crying, or pummelling the nearest face into mush.
Yes, that was it – that felt so much better. A normal reaction: the lust for violence. Francis Boater would be nothing, just an empty shell, if it were not for the violence at his core. It was what drove him, what made him real.
He joined the others at the car, those alien thoughts banished for now. Banished but not forgotten.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HAILEY KNEW SOMETHING was wrong before she even entered the main door of the Grove Court flats. She stood outside the building, clutching her book bag, and looked up at the balcony of the flat she and her mother shared. The window looked smeared, as if someone had rubbed dirt across the glass. The concrete balcony jutted out from the façade like an afterthought, its crooked rail looking as loose and dangerous as ever.
She thought about the Needle, and what had happened to her there. She had no real memory of the events, just a vague image of hummingbirds and something small and lithe and dusty darting towards her from the shadows. Then she’d blacked out and found herself lying on a grass verge a mile away, on the border of the estate, with that man – was his name Tom? – leaning over her, his face knitted with concern.
She pulled the strap of her book bag over her shoulder and pushed on through the door, into the building. At the bottom of the stairs she felt an involuntary internal shudder pass through her as she glanced up the concrete stairwell. Hailey didn’t like enclosed spaces, and the stairs always smelled of stale piss and sweat. Kids often sat around on the steps at night, drinking beer and smoking spliffs, urinating up the walls and shouting into the empty spaces.
She began to climb the stairs, clinging to the handrail and moving as quickly as she could without fear of stumbling. By the time she reached the next floor, she was breathing heavily. Her stomach rolled, once, as if she were carrying something fluid in there, and she belched. Tasting egg in her mouth, she opened the fire door and moved slowly across the landing, heading for the door to their flat.
Outside the door she took out her key and adjusted the bag on her shoulder. Her stomach felt bloated, gaseous. She rubbed the area above her belly button, experiencing mild discomfort. Then she slipped the key into the lock, jiggled it, and turned. The door latch popped and she kicked the door open a couple of inches, jamming her foot between door and frame to stop it from closing again – the lock mechanism was automatic, and she didn’t want to have to fiddle with the key again.
“Mum.” She walked into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind her. The latch clicked into place. She threw her keys onto the telephone table, let her book bag fall to the floor, and shrugged off her jacket. Her arms felt cold; she hugged herself, rubbing at them, wondering if she was coming down with something. There was some kind of bug going around at school, and she could easily have picked it up from one of the other kids.
“Mum! You in? I’m home… what’s for dinner?” She walked along the short hallway, turning the corner into the living room, and was surprised to see her mother sitting on the floor and cradling her head in her hands. The side of her neck was red, livid, and the lights were out. The sky outside the window was growing dark, signalling the early approach of evening.
