by Dawn Goodwin
Once was an insult; twice a challenge. I felt a snap in my head and, as if from a distance, watched my hands shoot out in front of me to shove at her, pushing her back and away from the doorway. She stumbled under the sheer force of my reach, then overbalanced on the step and fell hard onto the pathway.
‘Don’t you ever mention Grace to me again.’ My voice was low and icy. ‘Tabitha has never been a patch on her and you are not worthy of speaking her name, you paranoid, arrogant bitch. You sit there in your perfect house with what you think is a perfect daughter, looking out your window every day and passing judgement from the safety of your fucking Laura Ashley lounge,’ I spat back at her. ‘We’ve been friends a long time, but you’ve always looked down your – quite substantial – nose at me. You’ve spent years putting me in my place and bullying me to make yourself feel better and more in control, but no more. I don’t need a lecture from you – and I certainly don’t need your pity, because you have nothing that I would want.’
My voice was a low monotone, almost unrecognisable, and my heart was pounding, the blood thudding in my ears. I reached down to where she still lay sprawled and grabbed hold of her jaunty runner’s ponytail, then yanked her up as hard as I could. She shrieked, her feet scrambling to find purchase on the path.
‘Now, I’m a little unpredictable at the moment and possibly slightly unhinged,’ I snarled, ‘so for your own safety, I suggest you get your bony arse and ridiculous tits off my front step before I slap you back to yours.’ I released the ponytail with force and she retreated down the path, tears prickling her wide eyes.
As I glared at her retreating back, she turned around and said, ‘This isn’t over, Veronica. Not by a long shot. You don’t know the half of what’s coming to you,’ all the while sounding like a movie villain.
I lunged towards her, my gown gaping open. I heard her shriek again and dart away, before I sneered at her, ‘Oh, it’s over. This so-called friendship is over.’
Then I turned away and slammed the door.
I looked down and saw my hands were shaking. My mind was blank, refusing to compute what had just happened, but I could feel the adrenalin buzzing through my veins like fizzy bubbles. I pulled my robe tight around me, then walked into the kitchen and took a can of Coke from the fridge, thought for a moment, then replaced it and headed to the booze cabinet instead.
Pulling the vodka from the shelf, I unscrewed the lid and took a gulp straight from the bottle. The liquor burned as it hit my throat. I had never raised my hand to anyone before and in the space of a few hours I’d assaulted two people, both of whom deserved it, but still. My propensity for violence was starting to scare me. I took another healthy gulp, before wiping my mouth on my sleeve and returning the bottle to its place. The shakes were subsiding, replaced by a feeling of crackling electricity in my fingers.
I had the urge to call Scarlet. She would be proud of me. I headed back into the hallway to see if my handbag was there. I saw it lying on the floor under the hall table, but when I opened it, there was no phone inside. I cast my mind back to the bar and remembered dropping my bag at some point under the table, then scrabbling around for the bits that had spilled out onto the floor.
To double-check that I hadn’t taken my phone up to bed with me, I raced up the stairs two at a time, my altercation with Felicity suddenly filling me with a burst of energy. There was no phone on the bedside table or dresser. I headed back to the top of the stairs and was about to bound back down when I was struck with a sudden case of vertigo on the top step and I had to clutch onto the handrail in case I toppled forward. I closed my eyes against the dizziness as a fresh wave of nausea hit me. Sitting hard on the step, I took a moment to breathe deeply and hang my head, the towel slumping forward and pulling on my hair, bringing some clarity.
Once the dizziness had subsided, I slowly descended the stairs, all the while hanging onto the rail, then grabbed hold of my bag again for one more futile search. Another thought struck me and I grabbed my purse and opened it. My bank card was missing too and I distinctly remembered handing it over for the tab earlier in the evening. With a sigh, I knew I would have to return to the bar.
*
I sat in my car for a moment across the road from the bar. My hands gripped the steering wheel and it took a second of concentrated thought to get them to let go. Nausea swept over me once more and I breathed deeply. So much for hair of the dog – the vodka felt like it was suspended in my throat.
With a mental push, I got out of the car and walked slowly through the dingy car park, my scruffy Converses kicking up puffs of dust and my still damp hair sticking to my cheek in the breeze. There were loads of people milling around, looking decisive, going about their business. I felt like I was in a thick fog, my head pounding, walking through treacle.
Approaching the bar, my eyes flicked to the alleyway briefly, then zoned in on where I needed to be.
I pushed through the glass doors and looked around. Snippets of memory flooded back, the conversations I had been involved in, laughing, lots of drinking. I was surprised at how spacious and airy the place was during the day; last night it had been packed full and resembled a cavern.
There were a few people enjoying afternoon drinks, but for the most part it was quiet. I approached the corner of the bar where we had taken up residency last night and looked around the chair legs and floor to see if I could see my phone lying anywhere obvious, perhaps kicked into a corner. No such luck.
I leaned on the bar, waiting patiently, and after a moment one of the bar staff emerged from the back room, the huge box of crisps in his arms obscuring his face.
‘Excuse me,’ I called as he bent over to put the box down.
‘Yip,’ he replied, standing up and turning towards me. He studied me for a second, then said with a smirk, ‘You look how I feel.’ My green-tinged pallor was obviously giving me away.
‘Probably,’ I replied. ‘I think I left my bank card here last night? I opened a tab with it, then we kind’ve got distracted…’ I trailed off, realising that I probably hadn’t even paid my bill.
‘Okay, it’ll still be here then. Name?’ he replied.
‘Veronica Pullman.’
His voice was muffled as he rummaged on a shelf behind the bar. ‘Nope, can’t see anything, but it may be downstairs. I’ll go and have a look.’
‘Thanks – um, also… did anyone hand in a mobile phone?’ I continued, a blush creeping up my neck.
‘Jeez, you had a good night, didn’t you? Let’s see – the cleaners were in earlier, so they may have found something. Give me a minute.’ He started rummaging again, then disappeared.
I sat heavily on the same bar stool that had propped me up for some of the previous evening, and let my heavy head fall into my hands. The strain of having to hold a conversation was starting to take its toll and I had an overwhelming urge to just rest my forehead on my arms and go to sleep.
Forever.
Just for a second I felt relief at the idea.
The barman returned and I pulled myself upright again.
‘Good news: I’ve got your card. The bad news is you haven’t paid your bill, so owe us £57. I also found a phone that was handed in downstairs, but how can I tell if it’s yours?’ He dangled the device in front of me, teasing, enjoying my obvious discomfort. I could see straight away it was mine from the crack in the top corner of the screen where Grace had dropped it once.
‘I can tell you my number – if you look in the contacts at the top, it should list the number of the phone. Or if you look in the photo gallery, you should see some pics of my daughter and me.’
‘Nah, you’re okay, I believe you. I think you could do with going back home, so I won’t torture you anymore. Besides, your daughter is probably wondering what mum got up to last night,’ he said with a wink.
‘I doubt it,’ I replied.
He turned away towards the register to sort out my tab. Another wave of nausea hit and I almost had to make a run for it,
but he handed over the card terminal, which forced me to focus as I entered my PIN, a number that was hard to forget, being the year Grace was born, but one I couldn’t bring myself to change. Card returned, phone in hand, I muttered a ‘thanks’ and retreated from the bar at a sloth’s pace.
I climbed into the car and slammed the door shut as utter exhaustion flooded over me. I just sat, staring out of the window, unseeing. Time ticked by – five minutes, ten. The phone that I had hastily thrown on the seat started to vibrate and ring next to me, and I looked at it snaking its way across the seat. I could ignore it. I wanted to. But it could be Tom wondering where I was and he deserved to hear something after last night.
I picked it up and answered it without checking the caller ID, then heard Scarlet’s voice in my ear.
‘Finally you answer! Before you say anything, I am so sorry. You must hate me – and so you should.’
Relief flooded through me. ‘Why would I hate you?’
‘Oh my god, do you not remember how we closed out last night? Me vandalising Cruella de Vil’s parking cones; you hooching on her doorstep! She’s going to kill you!’ I could hear the twisted mirth in her voice and knew she wasn’t sorry at all.
‘She’s already got to me today. It was bad.’
‘Aagghhh! Tell me everything! I’m coming over.’
‘I’m not at home. I had to go back to the bar and get my phone – oh, and pay the bill. Give me half an hour and I’ll be home. Tom’s not there anyway.’
‘Excellent – hair of the dog it is!’
The smell of alcohol still in my nostrils, my stomach lurched in response.
*
I spent the erratic drive home going over Felicity’s words in my head. The anger returned thick and fast, and my foot responded by pressing harder on the accelerator. One phrase kept repeating over and over in Felicity’s self-righteous, squawking voice: ‘Grace would be ashamed of you.’ It repeated louder and louder until my head was screaming. Tears began to leak from my eyes and stream down my face; snot ran from my nose. I couldn’t see clearly and swiped at my eyes with my sleeve, all the while pressing harder on the accelerator in a bid to outpace the voices.
Suddenly I saw a flash of colour in front of me. A woman on a pedestrian crossing. I was going dangerously fast. I slammed on my brakes and stopped with the nose of the car just over the line. A car behind me blared its horn as the pedestrian glared at me through the windscreen, frozen in position. I raised a shaky hand in apology, waiting for her to be well clear of the crossing, before slowly pulling away again. I didn’t want to think about how close I had come to hitting her. The shakes were back and I was relieved to turn into my own street a few minutes later, the tears shocked into submission.
I parked the car and stood resting against the car for a moment, taking some steadying breaths. Walking towards my front door, I noticed a police car round the corner and pull up to the kerb behind me. My heart started to thud. Had they just witnessed the pedestrian crossing incident? Good luck explaining this one to Tom.
A tall, young policewoman and a podgy, older man climbed out of the car and headed straight for me. I put the key in the lock and opened the front door, pointedly ignoring them in the hope they were heading elsewhere, then heard the policewoman say behind me, ‘Veronica Pullman?’
I turned with what I hoped was a casual smile. ‘Yes? Is everything okay?’
My cheeks were burning, but my hands were icy cold. I fiddled with the key as it stuck in the lock, resisting the urge to run inside and slam the door in their faces.
They were both holding out identification that I didn’t bother to look at. ‘May we come in? We’ve had a complaint raised that we need to talk over with you.’
‘Oh?’ I said, feigning innocence. ‘Um, yes, please do.’
Freeing the key, I pushed the door open further, then stepped aside for them to pass. ‘Please go through to the kitchen – do excuse the mess. I haven’t had a chance to straighten up after my daughter had breakfast this morning.’ I gestured with my arm towards the kitchen, then closed the door behind them and took another fortifying breath.
They stood just inside the kitchen door and I could see them glance at each other. I then saw what they could see: completely clear countertops, no sign of dirty cereal bowls or milk splashes, everything immaculate.
‘Silly me,’ I said with a chuckle. ‘I must’ve been on autopilot this morning. Can I offer anyone some tea?’ I sounded like I was hosting a coffee morning rather than about to be questioned by the law.
‘Perhaps we should get to the point, Mrs Pullman. It seems that a neighbour has filed a complaint with us regarding your behaviour.’
‘Gosh,’ I jumped in, inwardly cringing and wondering if I would start calling them ‘chum’ soon. It had to be bloody Felicity. My mind scrambled for purchase. Did they just see me get out of my car? Would last night’s excesses have worked through my system by now? Did I put the vodka bottle away earlier? Oh god, if they were behind me at the zebra crossing, they would definitely breathalyse me. The irony of being done for drink driving. Unforgiveable. But I didn’t have enough vodka this morning to be worried, surely? ‘I’m really sorry about that, I was completely away with the fairies when it happened,’ I said vaguely.
The two exchanged another glance. ‘I think you may have misunderstood us.’
Inwardly, I kicked myself hard. Not the driving then.
I backtracked, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not myself today. Not feeling well. Please carry on – I’m not entirely sure what you are referring to, to be honest.’ My voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched in my ears and my smile was starting to ache.
‘We’re referring to an alleged assault that took place on your property earlier today.’ The policewoman pulled a notebook from her vest and flipped it open, just like they do on the TV. I could feel the giggles building. What the hell was wrong with me? I clenched my fists and dug my nails into the palms of my hands in an attempt to focus.
The woman continued. ‘A Felicity Green has contacted us to say you violently assaulted her during an unprovoked attack this afternoon after she was trying to resolve a matter of vandalism on her property. She claims you physically attacked her when she implicated you in vandalising her traffic cones and…’ She paused and consulted her notes ‘…and flowerpot, and apparently vomited on her step. Perhaps you could fill us in on your version of what may have taken place?’
How were they managing to keep a straight face during this apparent interrogation? I took a moment to sit on the stool, more because my legs had started to shake than anything else, before saying, ‘It was all a misunderstanding really. She accused me of messing with her cones – which I believe she is legally not allowed to use as it is – and because of the things she was saying about my family, she overstepped the mark and I admit I pushed her off my step so that I could close the door. As it is, I was the one who feared a physical attack when she pushed into my doorway. I had no choice.’ I mentally crossed my fingers. ‘It was all very unfortunate since we have known each other a very long time.’
‘Mrs Green claims you were drunk last night?’
‘It is no secret Mrs Green has a vendetta against me – I have no idea why. She was out of control, jabbing and verbally threatening me, and, as I say, I had no choice.’ My nails dug further into my palms.
‘Well, since there is no concrete proof of the vandalism and you are correct in suggesting that Mrs Green is legally not allowed to have traffic cones outside her house without written consent from the council, she has agreed to remove the cones and not press charges against you, but did ask that we talk to you about your behaviour. Living in close proximity to others is hard enough without a turf war between neighbours, Mrs Pullman, so we urge you to calmly talk through your differences with Mrs Green and come to some sort of understanding as we may not be as lenient in any future altercations. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, yes, absolutely. I am mortified that all of this has happene
d. I intend to stay well out of her way from now on.’ I hopped down from the stool, hoping to indicate that the conversation was over, but there was one more thing they had to say.
In a gentler tone, the policeman said, ‘Mrs Green also filled us in on recent events as background and we suggest that you seriously consider talking to an objective party on the matter.’ He pulled a card from his vest and held it out. ‘This counselling service may help with that?’
I started at the white rectangle he was waving like a tiny flag of surrender, but made no move to take it. Instead, my nails dug deeper like claws.
He paused, then carefully placed the card on the countertop. ‘It’s there if you need it.’
With that, they turned and headed back to the front door. I made to follow them on wooden legs, fists still clenched, but the policewoman turned and said, ‘We can let ourselves out. Have a good day and thank you for your co-operation.’
They disappeared through the door, but I barely noticed as it shut behind them. My eyes were trained on the card, sitting on the counter like a letter bomb. Rage coursed from my toes all the way up my legs until my vision clouded. I grabbed the card and threw it towards the corner of the room, then sunk to my knees. The hard tiles bruised my kneecaps and jolted me. I looked down at my clenched fists and slowly unfolded them, noting the angry red half-moons where my nails had imprinted the pale flesh.
As I sat there mesmerised, I heard from a distance the sound of knocking, then Scarlet’s voice through the letter box.
‘Ron? Are you in there? Open up. Was that the police?’
Scarlet and I sat in silence initially. I stared into a mug of black, swirling coffee, trying to get my head straight; Scarlet looked on with concern, but let me take a moment to calm down. Felicity had struck a nerve earlier and opened up a raw wound, but had now declared war by setting the police onto me.
‘So?’ Scarlet said with a raised eyebrow.
