by Ruth Dugdall
Upstairs, a woman was singing, a pop song, too high and out of tune. Then she yelled, ‘Keri! Bad dog! Stop pissing on the floor.’
She staggered down the stairs, holding a stocky white puppy at arm’s length, shouting, ‘Open the door, open the door!’ Rob made for the front door, squeezing past me, kicking his guitar in the process, but Sonia yelled, ‘The back door! For fuck’s sake . . .’
I heard the door open, and then slam closed. ‘Stay out there till you’re house-trained, you little bitch!’
Then she was right there, so close I could smell the booze.
The years since her photo appeared in the newspaper had not been kind to Sonia. She had a gappy mouth and dead eyes, like her face batteries had only half-charged. A homely blonde with brown roots, her face sunken. The tattoo on her neck was an unlikely tiger, resting on the ridge of her collarbone, its mouth open as if to swallow her Adam’s apple. Her cheeks were red with broken veins, sure signs that this morning’s tipple was a regular habit.
‘You for the off then, love?’
Her lower lip quivered and she leaned into Rob, hugging him until the bark, bark, bark from outside demanded her attention.
‘Christ’s sake. It’s worse than having a baby.’ Stepping back on to Rob’s guitar, she steadied herself against me.
‘Sorry, sweetheart.’
‘S’all right,’ I muttered.
Finally turning, she focused on me. I could see her brain was ravaged with drink and maybe drugs; even her eyelashes looked stunted. Her skin was a shade of yellow, and the only lively thing was the twitching nerve under her right eye. She was studying me, hard, trying to place me.
‘Who are you then? New girlfriend?’
‘Mum!’ Rob’s ears turned red. She gave him an affectionate poke in the ribs.
As she turned to me again, her mouth froze so her broken-toothed smile looked like a grimace.
‘I know you.’
My heart jumped; my cover was blown. She leaned towards me, and under the booze I smelt the fake herbal tang of tea lights, the stench of joss sticks.
‘You’re the Hoolihan kid.’
‘Sam,’ I said, trying not to show how scared she made me feel. Like she knew exactly why I was there, that I was using her son to gather evidence against his dad. But then her clarity evaporated, her eyes watered and she blinked furiously, reaching for her son.
‘Please don’t leave me, Rob.’
‘It’s not like I’m moving miles away.’
She wiped a finger under her eye where the purple eyeliner was running, a stain like a bruise on her skin. Rob shrugged on his jacket and endured it whilst she cupped his face with her hand.
‘I’ve never been on my own before. Even when your dad left, Andy would come round. And I always had you.’
‘You’ve got the puppy.’ For a moment, mother and son shared a grin, and I could see warm affection pass between them, until she belched and put her hand over her mouth in mock horror. Rob’s face darkened and he picked up his bags. I understood why he needed to leave: he couldn’t rescue Sonia anymore; he had to get on with his own life.
Sonia folded her arms, plumping up her small breasts, her frown lines deepening. The tiger tattooed on her neck seemed to be eating her throat.
‘Come and give your old mum a hug. Stay here with me.’
Rob was sour with his mum now, and the hug was stiff. I pretended to be interested in my camera, but could feel Sonia assessing me over her son’s shoulders, trying to work out why I was in her house, but too tipsy to understand.
‘I heard about Jena on the news. The bitch had it coming.’
I felt like she’d thrown icy water over me, and my skin shrank on my bones at the shock of it.
‘Don’t call my sister that.’
‘Oh yeah, who’s gonna stop me?’ Booze or drugs were working through her system, and Sonia had flipped quickly into her anger. She ground her teeth together. ‘Always thought she was a cut above, did Jena. Walking around this estate like her shit didn’t stink.’
‘You know she was left for dead?’ I asked, with quiet venom. ‘She was in a coma for four days, and even though she came round seven weeks ago she’s still having seizures. She might be brain-damaged forever.’
Sonia looked down at herself, swaying slightly as she picked a bit of something from her cleavage, then said with steely irony, ‘Maybe she pissed off the wrong person this time.’
Anger came out as a demand. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sonia was so close I could smell the sweet, sickly stench of liquor on her breath, and see her pink nostrils flaring. ‘It means she’s a lying little bitch and she had it coming to her.’
Rob grabbed my hand. ‘Let’s go, Sam. My mum’s not worth talking to when she’s pissed.’
Sonia grabbed his hand between hers. ‘You shouldn’t trust this girl, Rob. Her family are no good.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Mum, what’s with you today?’ He pulled his hand free. ‘Is it just booze, or have you been using again?’
‘No, son. I’m straight, I swear.’ But her now-free hand covered her mouth and nose as if to hide any traces of powder that might remain there.
‘Like hell. You promised me, Mum!’ In that moment, he seemed to grow a size. His voice had a new sureness to it. ‘It’s good I’m moving out. We both need some space. You need to call your sponsor.’
‘Rob, no, don’t say that. I’m just looking out for my boy.’
‘But I’m not your little boy anymore, am I? I haven’t been that for a long time. Come on, Sam.’
We quickly collected Rob’s bags, and made our way out the door and down the path. All the time I could feel Sonia watching, her eyes like bullets boring into me.
CHAPTER 19
16 January
‘I don’t want to be a role model to any of the girls here. I’m not a good example for anyone.’
Clive listens without response. The clock ticks on the wall and the wind gathers pace outside, the sea crashing into the shingle, ripples of petty chaos. Low-hanging white clouds warn of snow.
I’m thinking about Pearl, though I don’t tell him this. She’s so young, just a kid, and I want her to get better. But to talk about her, in this session, would be a betrayal. We are all liars here; we all keep secrets.
‘It’s normal, on an eating-disorder unit, that other girls will see those who are most underweight as being more successful. You know that, Sam. Adoration of this type is part of the mental imbalance. You aren’t responsible.’
I feel responsible, though, for Pearl at least. My heart aches for her, so young and so frail, so skilled at starving, and yet fooling the staff into thinking she’s doing well. Anorexics lie; everyone knows that. It isn’t up to me to tell him this; he knows it already. I can help her more if I gain her trust, I understand her better than the staff ever could. I decide to stay silent about my concerns, for now.
‘What about your own recovery, Sam? Do you want to get better?’ He touches the lid of the Black Magic box, and I feel as uneasy as if he were touching me. ‘Now you’re revisiting the past, it could help with how things ended.’
How things ended. I think about Mum then. ‘Where is she now? Before she’s buried, I mean. Where does she . . . wait?’
‘She’ll be kept cool, and they’ll have fixed her hair, her make-up. Would you like me to arrange a half-day release for you to see the body?’
I shake my head vigorously. ‘No way.’
‘Would you like me to arrange for you to go to the funeral?’
Jena will be there. Dad too, possibly. Again, I shake my head. ‘I can’t. The board meeting is the same day.’
‘I’ve said I can arrange to have the time moved. I wouldn’t stop you seeing your mother buried, Sam; that would be a breach of your human rights.’
‘What about her human rights? What makes you think she’d want me at her funeral? I gave up on deserving rights eighteen months ago.’
His gaze drops t
o the floor. It interests me that even Clive can’t talk about what happened, what I’m guilty of. Instead he says, ‘Is this why you refuse any visits? Because you don’t think you deserve them?’
Words are bubbling up, and I can’t stop them or control my thinking. I don’t even know what I really do think until the words escape me.
‘I don’t want to see anyone; I don’t deserve to get better. To eat normally, live normally. Have all the things normal people have. And if I do this, Clive – if I talk aloud about what I did – it could destroy me.’
I look down at my thin body; my hands are bunched in my lap like scrawny birds.
‘It’s destroying you already, Sam. Anorexia is eating you away, and that’s because of your need to control everything, even in the way you blame yourself. You need to let go, go back to that time when things were beyond your control. And not your fault.’
‘But I’m scared.’
Clive considers me frankly. ‘If you don’t continue with this story, you’ll never be truly free. Even if the board grant you your liberty, you’ll still be a prisoner.’
So I prepare to talk, to purge myself. I pick up where we left off, hoping I’ll feel clean after.
Rob was shaken by the scene with his mum; he was walking fast, breathing heavy. It wasn’t the time to talk about it, not right then, but I knew I wouldn’t get away with it so easily once he’d calmed down. He’d want to know everything.
Rob’s new home was a red-brick tower at the grotty end of Ipswich docks. Most of the windows were wide open; several had people leaning out smoking, and carrier bags full of lager cans hanging from the snib. On the wall beside the entrance a gold plaque announced that local superstar Ruthie Henshall opened it. The plaque was just two months old but already marked with graffiti, and no doubt Ruthie had long since forgotten this dump. Still, Rob’s mood had switched, and he was grinning like he’d rocked up at The Ritz.
The entrance was a large hallway with posters along the walls and a staircase directly ahead. To the right was the glass window of an open-plan office, where a skinhead in his thirties sat at a desk in front of a pile of paperwork.
‘There’s Mac.’
Rob banged on the glass and Mac looked up; he put down his pen, and a moment later he joined us in the hallway, extending a tattooed hand, a key dangling from his long, bony fingers.
‘This is it, mate. The key to your very own pad.’ Mac had a tattooed tear, faded blue like old china, next to his left eye. It narrowed to a comma when he smiled. ‘Hello, love. Here, let me take those.’
He relieved me of the carrier bags, but Rob wasn’t hanging about. He bounded up the stairs.
‘Come up, Sam, see my room.’
‘Whoa, Rob!’ Mac called after him. ‘You need to sign the contract first.’
Rob stopped on the landing. ‘Sorry.’
‘The previous resident only left this afternoon, but Lance gave it a good clean for you.’
‘Sweet.’ He came back down, slowly at first, but then regaining his spaniel energy. Because he was free, he now had his own space, and I envied him.
‘Don’t go taking advantage,’ Mac warned Rob. ‘Lance isn’t here to skivvy after you. Now, give me a few minutes to get the paperwork ready and I’ll be right with you.’
Lance was busy getting the hoover into a cupboard that was clearly too small, vacant eyes roaming, his too-loud laugh reverberating. He noticed me and waved, as if my being there was the most natural thing in the world. He must have been so used to seeing people he knew, being such a character in Ipswich and selling the Big Issue on the Cornhill all those years, but it surprised me.
‘I didn’t know he worked here,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s a community placement. He lives in a flat, at Westerfield Hospital,’ Mac said, not knowing about my own link to the place. But Rob watched me, for my reaction. Just like his mum, he knew exactly where my sister was and what had happened to her.
Rob’s room was nothing to write home about. A single bed (no headboard), a pine chest of drawers (ring marks on top), a stained mattress naked to the world, and a sink in the corner. The floor was clean, though, thanks to Lance.
‘No towels, I’m afraid,’ said Mac, helping Rob in with the final bag. ‘Did you bring any?’
‘No. We left in a bit of a hurry, so I forgot my duvet as well.’
‘Should we go back to your mum’s to get it?’ I asked, though my stomach churned just thinking about seeing Sonia again. Luckily, Rob felt likewise.
‘She needs time to come down from whatever shit she’s on. I’m sorry, Sam. She’s not always like that. That junk she takes makes her aggressive. She should never have said that thing, about your sister. Not when she’s so sick . . .’
I wondered how often he’d seen it on the news, about the unsolved attack on our estate. But the police hadn’t released the name of the man they were questioning. Only I knew that information.
Mac disappeared, and we unloaded Rob’s possessions: his iPod, two pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters and T-shirts, an alarm clock in the shape of a football, a Swiss army knife that looked junked, a canvas roll of car tools and a plastic model of a car with 007 printed on the door. And a red-and-yellow Airfix plane, the one that had been in Sonia’s plastic bag with the photos.
All his worldly goods.
Rob put his clothes away in the chest of drawers, his iPod on top. The car and plane were placed on the windowsill. Ten minutes and he was done. The room still looked bare.
‘Here you go, son.’ Mac was back, a bundle in his arms. On to the bed he spilt a duvet, still in its plastic wrapping, a cover and a clean towel. ‘From the staff cupboard. I don’t think anyone’ll miss them.’
‘Thanks, Mac,’ Rob said quietly.
‘I reckon a few posters on the wall and you’ll make this place look like home.’ He patted Rob’s shoulder, then noticed the models on the window. ‘Aston Martin, of course. Nice. What’s with the plane?’
‘It’s Japanese.’
Mac turned it in his hands. ‘Lots of work went into this. You do it?’
‘My dad.’
I stilled, willing him to continue. Whatever he had to say about Douglas Campbell, I was desperate to hear.
‘They always say the Japs are a cruel race,’ said Mac, still looking at the plane. ‘But I reckon that’s just prejudice. Say something often enough, people think it’s true. But what happens if it’s a lie and people just go on believing it?’
CHAPTER 20
17 January
Most people’s problems stem from their family, but no one wants to know about that. It’s in bad taste, isn’t it, blaming our parents? So we stay silent, mostly, but stay away. Visit at Christmas and leave it at that. But us starving girls, friends of Ana, we don’t stay silent. Not completely. We shout with our bodies.
I’ve seen Joelle go home plumped, come back emaciated.
I’ve seen Mina starve herself after any talk of a home visit, or any phone call from her father.
I’ve heard Manda say to Sian that it makes no sense sending us back to the source of the illness, that it causes relapse. She runs fortnightly family therapy sessions, here on the unit, but no one likes it, least of all the families. The mums and dads and siblings think the problem is the anorexic but, as Stacey once said, ‘I might starve myself, but my whole family are fucking sick.’
My family: they couldn’t come in for family therapy. Not possible. So it’s just me and my illness. My Black Magic box of photos. The only family interaction I have is in my head, the only voice is mine talking to Clive, as the sky becomes black and the room darkens and the past becomes my present.
I can remember it now, though for the past eighteen months I preferred to forget, how good it was being with Rob, despite how determined I was to feel nothing for him. We instinctively knew we were alike in some way. I needed things to move quickly, and we were soon lovers, but it ran deeper than that; Rob understood me, and I felt the same about him. We w
ere both doing the best we could in a world that hadn’t dealt us the best hand.
Clive says he’s proud of me, opening up like this. Down to the flesh and bone. But this isn’t just about me, and I’m not the only one with a sad story.
I was trying to get Rob to talk some more about Douglas. Looking at the plane on the window ledge, and noticing one of its wings was broken, I said, ‘Why don’t you fix this?’
‘It’s a reminder,’ he said.
He was going to stay silent, but I couldn’t let him, not when I knew he was going to tell me about Douglas. I pushed him, until he told me.
‘I wasn’t very old; I’d only just started nursery, so you’d think I wouldn’t remember. But I do.
‘I know that it was just before Dad went away, before he was sent to prison, and there was lots of shouting in the house. I’ve heard since, from Uncle Andy mainly, that Our Plaice wasn’t doing so well; business had been affected, and they’d had to close so they could both attend the trial. Dad had this aeroplane collection, parked along the window ledge in his bedroom, all placed just so. When he was building one, I’d sit next to him on the lounge floor, watching. It’s one of the few strong memories I have of him.
‘He’d have the kit on a tray in front of him, pots of paint and glue lined up. I mean, Mum said he never so much as put an empty beer can in the bin, wouldn’t pick up a dirty sock from the floor, but he would arrange his aeroplane stuff like a surgeon preparing for an operation.’
He laughed at the memory, and I tried to make this piece of information fit with what I already knew about Douglas. A rapist with a dorky hobby.
‘That was his special plane,’ Rob said, warming to his subject, and reaching to take the broken plane from me. ‘He’d bend over with a tiny paintbrush between his fingers, making the wings yellow and later adding red circles. Whole days he’d waste, when he wasn’t working, hunched over that blasted plane. It was weird, y’know, how those hands that usually just tossed fish into batter or unhooked beer cans could build a plane so slowly and carefully.’
Rob handed the plane back to me, and I studied the carefully painted markings.
