by Stella Duffy
5.40 pm
The sun is still lighting the sky, but it’s darker and cooler in the narrow street leading to the hotel.
On the other side of the small canal just here, beneath a shop awning, standing with his back to her, Caroline sees a man texting. She sees the man and she is sure she knows who he is, knows the back of him. The man stops texting, watches his phone’s screen. A few seconds later her own phone beeps. A text comes through, from Pete’s phone. I’m here. Landed. Won’t be long. Can’t wait to see you. It’s been way too long.
The man turns, he doesn’t see Caroline looking. It’s John, Caroline is sure it is John. He looks in through the window of the shop, waves, walks on, away down the little sidewalk alongside the canal, down to a bridge that will bring him back to this side of the canal, where the hotel is.
The hotel has her bag and her things and her passport and Caroline wants nothing more than to run from here, run from this place, but her phone is almost out of battery and the charger is in her room and her stuff is in the room and maybe, maybe she is as paranoid as John always said, maybe she’s just exhausted and maybe it will be all right, but whatever it will be she needs to charge her phone and she needs to get her things and so she runs back down the street to the hotel and opens the front door and lets herself in.
5.50 pm
There is no-one in reception, just as there was no-one earlier. She runs upstairs and into the sitting room of the suite, slamming the door behind her, locking it. Caroline looks around. She takes in the room properly, sees that while it is a beautiful room, cool and clean, lovely lines, it is missing some of those things even the finest hotel rooms must have. The sign on the wall about emergency exits. The list by the telephone of charges, useful numbers to call. The explanation in five different languages of how to work the TV and satellite. She remembers there were no signs downstairs either. Nothing on the reception desk that was, after all, just a counter really, a plain counter, with nothing on it, no message about breakfast or check out, no handy pile of maps and leaflets for unprepared tourists. Caroline realises she has seen no other guests. The only people she has seen are the chambermaid and the man behind the desk. And that she did see them when she went out today and they were speaking English, she wasn’t mistaken. Caroline has let herself believe. And now she lets herself understand. She walks over to the locked door, it opens. Behind it is a kitchen. A normal, elegant, newly-fitted kitchen. This is not a hotel room. It is an apartment.
Her phone beeps. She doesn’t want to look. Can’t stop herself looking.
I’m in the bedroom. Waiting.
And even though she doesn’t want to go, and even though her gut and legs are trying to hold her back, Caroline over-rules them this time and walks herself to the bedroom door.
She opens the door.
Pete is on the bed. And a lot of blood. Pete’s blood, on the bed, bloody Pete.
And the phone beeps again and she hears the sitting room door, the door from the corridor, the door she locked, she hears it being unlocked.
And she looks at the phone as the door handle turns and her phone says See? I told you it was a surprise.
And Caroline wants to move, to scream, to run, but nothing is working, her legs, her mouth, nothing is working, nothing can move her, she is stuck staring at Pete, Pete’s blood, stuck waiting as the steps come closer behind her
And then a hand is on her shoulder and still her mouth won’t open, her voice won’t come and John says See? I told you I’d always remember you.
There Is An Old Lady Who Lives Down Our Street
I’M THE OLD lady who lives on your street, the one you smile at, unsure, as you rush for the train.
I’m the old lady who lives on your street, when you look for me in snow, or in rain, I’m gone.
I’m the old lady who lives on your street.
Shall I tell you how I came here? Yes? Good.
Cuddle up, come closer, listen tight.
There is an old lady who lives down your street, and she wasn’t always old and she wasn’t always me, but she is now. I am now.
I had a house, just like you, and a husband, like you do too, and some children, pretty pretty babies, shining and new. And time passed and he passed away and they passed through, my babies all grown, stopped in, stopped off, dropped off their little ones, but not often, only if they needed my help. And this house, that house, the house we lived in, with rooms so many, so wide, corridors so long – I said to those children, my children, now grown and strong, I suggested, just suggested, I could sell the house, go away, have a trip, spend some time, some money and time, some of the money that buys time, spend it on me.
And my children who were no longer children took it in, slowly, they can be so slow, and when they understood they were suddenly squabbling toddlers again. Who will feed my babies, who will care for my children, don’t you want to be a good granny, kind granny, helpful granny? What about us? Where is our home if you’re not in it? Where is our past if you don’t hold it? Where are our memories if not in these rooms? What about us? Us? Us?
And behind that, a single, slow, held note at the edge of listening, a note that whined, insistent and high, ‘What about, what about, what about our inheritance?’
What about that indeed.
Fair enough, it was a big house, that house, still is, but it’s no longer my house.
It was the fifth anniversary of his death. One of the children sent a text, my eldest girl, good like that, always texts me about important things, her father’s anniversary, my birthday, Christmas.
The middle one called, in a hurry, just wanted to say, you know, Mum, I mean, today, isn’t it? Today? I think?
The baby was away, work, holiday, they sound the same to me, but she sent roses, dark red roses like her dad used to. Sweet. Neither of them ever asked me what flowers I like. I don’t like roses.
And the other two, I’m sure they thought of us. It’s the thought that counts that counts, right?
It was his anniversary and I took myself out for lunch. Our place, a restaurant long fallen from fashion. I wore a frock he liked, long fallen from fashion, and when I left the restaurant I was – admit it – yes, I was, tipsy, cheery, merry. Still widowed though.
I could have taken a cab home, that would have been an extravagance. I could have caught the tube, that might have been wise. But I didn’t, there was a street before me, a street of lovely shops and fine things and then I was walking down that street, walking like I owned it – I, who never go into those shops, the ones with young men on the door, and elegant ladies inside. But I had dressed well for my singular lunch, and I walked down the street with my head held high.
And then I saw it.
In the window.
A bracelet in white gold, linking emerald green stones, diamond pieces between each one. I assumed it was paste, it was in the window after all, but it was still so lovely, so … bright, light, green.
And it called me, called me in to the shop.
I went in.
I asked the young man, I just asked him, that bracelet in the window, how much is it? A shop like that, they wouldn’t put the real thing in the window, and I know imitations can be pricey, but even if it’s five thousand, maybe I could, maybe I shouldn’t, but maybe I could. Five babies, five empty bedrooms, five years alone.
He smiled and said, would you like to try it on?
Yes, thank you, I would.
He brought me a chair. And the security guard came, with a big set of keys, and they opened the window and pulled out the whole display case, locked display case.
They went into the back room and I waited.
They returned and presented me with the bracelet on a cushion of gold silk.
And I held out my arm and he put it on me and my arm, my arm had never looked more beautiful.
I asked him how much and he said half … and then stopped, because he knew it sounded too big, too much, ridiculous. I smiled, go on, he opened his mouth a
gain, five hundred thousand.
And my arm had never looked more beautiful.
The house didn’t take long to sell. I used one of those companies that box everything up for you, I wouldn’t need much of my own, nowhere to put it even if I did. I made the children take their old toys and school books from the attic, the things they assumed I’d keep forever, the free storage of a mother’s heart.
Two months later I went back to the shop. I asked the young man about the bracelet that had been in the window, he remembered me, said had I come to try it on again. He was humouring me, prepared to be kind, because why not?
I said no, I didn’t need to try it on. I would take it, there and then, no need to wrap.
I had the phone numbers with me, bank account details, it was a simple matter of transferring funds.
My arm has never looked more beautiful.
I live at the end of your street. I am not an old lady, but I do have five grown children, and I wear their inheritance on my arm. When the weather is bad, I go to them, the children who now have to keep rooms for me. I’m a good guest, I always make my bed, never raid the fridge, and haven’t once come home at three am, drunk, sobbing that he or she doesn’t love me, before throwing up in the hall. Not yet.
They’d like me to get it insured, but I ask what’s the point? It’s always with me, and I am always where I am. Here, now.
The house was lovely, but I was not married to the house. I was married to him. and he is dead. I am his widow. And I was never a very good house-wife.
Now – look at my wrist, see the delicious depth of thirteen emeralds, diamonds linked between, couldn’t you just dive in? Couldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?
You’ll never look more beautiful.
I did.
Jail Bait
Jill’s telling me the girl unit at Holloway is the coolest thing she’s ever heard of. Special and new made and all shiny and clean. And just for us. It was on the radio – I didn’t hear it, I don’t listen to that kind of radio, don’t listen to any kind of radio, got enough voices of my own to listen to, tell the truth – but Jill heard about it and she told me and we thought it was just so fucking cool. It’s not got any of the old bitches in it, sad old slags and the slappers who’ve been around forever anyway and don’t know where else to be, except just this side of North London, downwind of Hampstead, turn back if you get to Arsenal, you’ve gone too far. You’ve always got to go too far.
Getting our first tattoos together. Real tattoos, paid for and sterile and everything. Watching the man painting on her skin, soft flesh raised into hoarse red welts, wiping away the blood and adding new colour, pretty yellow and blue and deep red darker than her blood. Then my turn and Jill said it wouldn’t hurt, didn’t hurt her, did it? She wasn’t whimpering for fuck’s sake. So I took off my bra, lay down, heart shape over heart space. But it did hurt. Too fucking much. I made him stop even though she said I couldn’t. Made him give up halfway through. He said I must have a low pain threshold. Maybe I do. I also have a tattoo of a broken heart.
Sitting in Jill’s bedroom – also kitchen, lounge, bathroom, the lot – sitting on the floor, leaning against her knees, hoping if I wait here long enough she might stroke my head again, play with my hair. She doesn’t. We’re sitting there and then she says how fucking crap the end of daylight saving is, how she can’t stand it and now the bloody sun’s coming in waking her at eight in the morning and then it’s dark by four, dark before the day’s even started and too damn cold and what the fuck are we supposed to do for Christmas dinner anyway? I thought it was a big leap from the end of October to the full stuffed turkey, flaming Christmas pudding, but you could see what she meant. Then she said we should go to Holloway. For the festive season. And I’m like fuck me but you’re a mad cunt, madder than I am, and Jill says that’s just not possible, just not possible. But she’s not making a whole lot of sense either, she can’t mean it, that place fucking stinks and anyway last time we tried that shit she got to Holloway, I ended up in bloody Styal, two weeks out of my mind in boredom valley and then luckily just about loopy enough to get shunted off to community care hole. Left there in a halfway house to nowhere, easily influenced, just keep the mad fucker on the medication and she’ll be good as gold, good as Goldilocks, steal your fucking porridge you stupid great cunts and what do you mean I can’t see her, I have to see her, who else is there? Then fuck you bitch and now what’s the problem, you’ve got another eye haven’t you? Oh Christ and such a lot of fucking blood and God I hope it’s not mine, there’s nothing like an institutionalised period to start the day, end the day, start the week – more radio fucking shite – and then the quiet and the sweet icecream and jellies, temazepam baby I am, will be, ever be, hush now good girl.
Anyway, anyway, the point being that the last time we tried to come in from the cold they tore us apart and broke my heart and Jill came tumbling after. But apparently … Holloway’s got this new young offenders unit and the radio lady from the north think’s that’s shit, thinks all the money will go there, showcase for the dangerous young ones, too much of a good thing and what about the poor little girls in the frozen north, where will all their good money go? Stay down here baby, warm in the soft south where it always has been, did you not notice it’s why we moved here too? So – it’s the end of October. We just have to do it well enough, big but not too big, within the next couple of weeks, then the least it’ll be is remand and maybe even a few months more to get us all the way into spring, fever of the recently freed.
But we have to do it right. Too big and we’ll not see summer soon enough. Too small and it’s crap cell night, maybe a caution, and worse than that the possibility of another fucking year fucking the carers. So whoring’s out because that’s always leading back to some foster daddy, let me hold you and make it all better baby, oh yes please do, that’s just what I need. And shoplifting’s good for the clothes, or the dinner, or even just the sheer fucking thrill of being bad in the shining light of security cameras and in the face of Henry Stupid the thick cunt who stands at the door pretending to be a security guard, biceps for brains and a dick the size of my clit, but shoplifting won’t get us Christmas crackers with plastic scissors inside. And housebreaking is possible but Jill’s still terrified of dogs and gets tinnitus with too much loud noise – or a too hard smack on the head – and if we want them to get us it would have to be dog or alarm and what’s the point of the pointless breakin if you get away with it? Indeed.
First breakin. We were thirteen, fourteen at the most. Maybe Jill was already fourteen. Fast shared a gram of speed and running around the town, new town with walkways turned into airplane runaways, ready to fucking take off there was so much of the too-much energy spilling round my veins. Then Jill says we should use the excess and do a job. She’s been watching daytime re-runs of The Sweeney, it takes me a minute to work out what she’s talking about. There’s a place on the corner, a flat above the closed off-licence, the woman who lives there works every day, gets the bus first thing and isn’t back until dark. She’ll be safely at the office. It’s easy to get in. No dog, no alarm, she’s probably not even thirty yet that woman, no money for any good security shit. Good guess, no security at all, but she’s got a great place. Easy in through the back window and it’s nice in there. Just bedroom and lounge, kitchen and bathroom. And all of it girlie soft and warm, too much pink, but it’ll do us. We eat bacon and eggs – Jill can’t eat much, but speed’s never really affected my appetite, I’m weird like that. I can just soak those drugs right up. She does me a big breakfast – half a packet of bacon, three eggs just how I like them, yolk running all over the bacon, bright yellow into the setting fat, geography rivulets on the plate. Bacon’s a bit too salty, smoked back, but good anyway. I chew the rind and walk through the little flat. We think about a place like this, maybe Jill and I could get a place together, share it. The woman’s got chocolates in her fridge, creme eggs too, we take the telly into the bedroom and get into bed, sheet
s quite clean, must have been changed only a few days ago and no fucking or period stains, maybe she’s got a washing machine, easier that way to wash your sheets whenever you want to. We eat chocolate and watch Richard and Judy, laugh at the phone-in moan-in, but then it’s too comfortable and warm and we fall asleep and we’ve got problems of our own. It’s dark, the only light is from the telly, the woman’s walked in and guess who’s sleeping in her bed and she’s off on one and screaming at us, hitting at us and I don’t know what the fuck she’s so pissed off for, we didn’t take anything. Jill can’t believe she’s hitting her and I can’t believe she’s hitting Jill, can’t she see how stupid that is? She’s fucking lucky we fell asleep, we were going to take loads of shit and we didn’t so what’s the fucking problem? What is your fucking problem you stupid fucking ignorant bitch? Big dry cleaning bill I expect. Hard work getting all that blood off the pretty pink duvet in your basic home washing machine. The woman moved out weekend after that. Squatters moved in. Bet they didn’t keep it as nice as she did.
Jill rolls a joint, mostly tobacco, thin rub of hash into it, then special treat for the goodest of good girls, sprinkling of coke across the top – she worked last night in the City boy street, sweet rich boys paying in kind. Kind City boy forced to hand over cash too when Jill explained what was going to happen when she stopped twisting his balls and the blood flooded back in and then out again when she used the blade hidden in her other hand. Fifty quid, just like that. Scared City boy pissing in his own wind. But driving home anyway. Whimpering back to his girlfriend and just an especially difficult day in the money markets darling, I’m a bit tired, maybe I’ll have a little lie down. No you bitch, don’t fucking touch me there, I didn’t mean that kind of a lie down, for fuck’s sake, is that all you bloody women ever think about? Jill and I lie back and dream of Holloway, special shared room and painted walls and breakfast and lunch and dinner and hide out in the house of girlies until summer comes around. I’m wondering, just briefly, if Jill’s got this completely right, if it’s all going to be so fucking lovely, I mean the point is, it is a house of detention right? But she’s sure it must be great because otherwise why would the Tory bitch on the radio be so fucking concerned and anyway, even if it’s just like the same old place, no new paint job or anything, if it isn’t for the old ones, if it’s just for us, then think of how it will be, no old lady smells and no mad mothers crying for their fostered babies and the following, always following because we’re always the little ones. We’ll be big girls, just us, our very own home from home. Which, when the home you’re homing from is ten foot square of peeling damp and the screams of the dozy cunt next door who will keep welcoming him into her bed and then getting surprised when she finds his fist into her face as well, if that’s home and Jack Frost is on his way, then maybe anything’s better. Or maybe I just wanted Jill to stroke my hair again. Like she did. Just the once. Soft stroking like she meant it, not absent action like I might have been the cat or her own head in need of a good itch. Anyway, anyway, the hash is spreading my mind all over the fucking place, it’s chocolate spread brain, and then because neither of us smokes tobacco if we can help it, we’re getting a nicotine rush too and I’m just starting to refocus when the pretty little truth drug kicks in on top of all that and my poor bitch of a brain doesn’t know what to do. Mouth opens and closes and doesn’t know if it should laugh or talk and starts to say words, any will do, but tobacco dries my lips and nothing comes out just a goo gah of bollocks and pretty soon Jill thinks I’m really funny, really fucking funny and I so want her not to laugh at me, I want that hand to stroke my head not point fucking laughing at me.
