by P. K . Lynch
‘What’s wrong?’ she said from the doorstep.
‘You’d better come in,’ Rik replied, holding the door open.
The door to Cam’s room was ajar. Through it she saw the usual mess. She carried on into the kitchen, placing the carrier bag with the booze and ice cream onto the table. Nothing appeared to be amiss.
‘What is it?’ she said again, aware of a knot of fear tightening in her stomach – a skill acquired just over a year ago and which was proving to be a regular affliction.
Rik just stared.
‘What?’ she shouted.
‘He’s gone,’ Rik said at last, with a small shrug and a shake of his head. He spread his hands wide like a magician – now you see it, now you don’t.
‘What do you mean he’s gone? Who are you talking about?’
‘Cam. He’s gone.’
‘But what do you mean “he’s gone”?’ she pressed, panic rising.
‘Come with me.’
She followed Rik through to the tiny back hallway that led to the garden. He flicked on the outside light and they went outside. A hole stood where once a fence panel had been. It was now possible to walk straight into May and Jimmy’s garden, which remained resplendent with dog turd.
‘What the fuck?’ Sissy said.
‘He lifted the panel, went into their garden, nicked the dog. And now he’s fucked off. I don’t know where. No note, nothing. But I’ve been in his room and a lot of his stuff’s gone, plus the hold-all he brought it down in.’
‘But he wouldn’t do that…’ began Sissy, and then stopped. The proof was here, staring her right in the face, and didn’t it seem now, with the benefit of swift hindsight, entirely inevitable?
A yapping started up in their neighbour’s house, informing her that Cha-Cha had been left behind.
‘He couldn’t even take the most annoying one,’ Rik sighed.
‘Maybe he’s just taken him for a walk?’ Sissy said. ‘Maybe he’ll be back in a minute?’
‘He’d better not be, for his own sake. Neanderthal Man’s already been round reading the riot act. He’s been onto the police again.’
‘Fuck.’
They both jumped when their neighbour’s back door cracked open. Before they could disappear inside, Cha-Cha rushed out and deposited a pee against the opposite fence.
‘Poor little fucker,’ said Rik. ‘Not only does it have to live in a shit-hole, but it’s lost its buddy. You have to wonder, don’t you? If Cam’s such a warrior for doggy social justice, why did he only take one of them? And the better looking one at that. Sorry Cha-Cha. No offence.’
The dog came through the gap and sniffed around their feet.
‘It was worse for Bolt,’ said Sissy. Her voice sounded far away from her body. ‘He’s so much bigger. Needs more exercise.’
‘Cha-Cha?’
Light spilled out from their neighbours’ kitchen, and May appeared at the back door sporting a face puffy from crying, and streaked black with mascara. She called the little dog again, and sniffed and wiped her face with her cardigan sleeve which was pulled over her fist. When she saw Sissy and Rik, she hurried out and scooped up Cha-Cha, scattering some old, dried-up shit in the process.
‘Oh baby, my baby,’ she murmured to the dog, before raising her eyes to Sissy and Rik. ‘I wish you’d never moved here,’ she hissed. ‘You fucked up everything. You better tell that friend of yours if he shows up round here again, he’s dead. Jimmy’s fucking beside himself, do you know that? He loves that dog. Adores it. Your mate’s in big trouble, even if he goes back to Scotland. Jimmy knows people everywhere. Make sure you tell him that.’
She went back inside, leaving Sissy and Rik shocked by the encounter.
‘Do you think he’s gone back to Glasgow?’ Sissy at last managed to whisper.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Help me put this fence panel back.’
They each took an end and lifted it high enough to slot it between the fence posts. Winter had thickened the wood and the panel didn’t want to slide into place.
‘Fucking typical of Cam,’ Rik breathed, using all of his strength to force the panel down. ‘Leaving all the hard work for someone else.’
He returned indoors, leaving Sissy alone. For some reason, she was drawn to the section of fence they’d restored. She ran her fingers over it – damp, rough – and thought of their tree in the woods at the back of Cam’s flat in Glasgow.
The light went on upstairs in Rik’s bedroom, causing her to look at the house properly for the first time since moving in. The bathroom, an afterthought, protruded into the garden, soaking up rainwater from the ground. Dark streaks stained its walls. Sissy was no expert, but she reckoned the whole thing was liable to crumble, sooner or later.
Texts, phone calls, Facebook messages all went unanswered. As the week wore on, Sissy’s initial distress turned to anger.
‘How fucking dare he?’ she asked Rik. ‘He knows I’d be worried. How hard would it be to let us know he’s safe?’
And then: ‘What if he isn’t safe? What if something’s happened to him? Should we call the police?’
Rik was annoyingly sanguine about Cam’s disappearance.
‘It was always on the cards. He never sticks at anything. It’s just the way he is. He’ll be fine. Anyway, I’m quite happy to have a living room, aren’t you?’
Once they established the extra rent could be covered between them, Rik went back about his business and didn’t mention Cam again.
Things weren’t as simple for Sissy, who experienced Cam’s loss as a type of capsizing, just as she’d been getting herself steady again. She experienced herself as shrinking, to the point where she began to wonder if she was real.
She placed a photograph of her dad beside a mirror and spent hours studying the similarities between their two faces. Sometimes she held the photo beside her face and tried to imagine they melded into one. Her hair was red, whereas his was more auburn, though they had the same kink running down the left side. She loved that. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it when he was alive. Their eyes were the same pale blue. The realisation that she couldn’t say with certainty what eye colour her mother had hit her like a warning, but it paled in significance to the alchemy that was her face. Sometimes she looked in the mirror and he was there. A flash, and then gone. It made no sense. She didn’t change from day to day, so why was his presence in her reflection such a sporadic one?
They had the same nose, she supposed, especially if time lengthened and thickened it the way she’d heard it would. She willed time to hurry and change it as often as she willed time to slow down because she didn’t want the day to come when she couldn’t remember his laugh, or the sound of his voice, or the feel of his bristle coming in at the end of the day, or the fact he didn’t have freckles, like her. He didn’t have her peachy cheeks. He was white, almost blue. Very Scottish, he’d said. The only time he changed colour was when the sun came out, and then he burned red in an instant. They had that in common.
Sissy’s gaze fell to his mouth. His lips were thinner than hers. She tilted her head this way and that, thinking about how her skin would slacken as she got older and how her lips would probably turn down at the corner like her mother’s. So what is it? Where is he? How are they connected?
Outside, the sun slipped behind cloud and the bedroom was cast in grey, creating a gauze-like effect between herself and the mirror. She leant forward and peered into her own eyes. It’s the eyes then. And not just the colour. She lifted the photo, held it to her face, studied it and looked back at herself, over and over, trying to draw him into her. Her pupils expanded. Black holes, she thought. What’s in there? He’s in there, he’s in there. I’ll keep looking.
Pascal, Pascal, Pascal. She wrote his name over everything. Even Rik noticed.
‘Is that not the dickhead Cam had a problem with?’
‘Fuck off, Rik. Leave me alone.’
She told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about –
Cam hadn’t even known about Pascal when he left, after all – but she experienced a sense of disloyalty, nevertheless, which only made her resent Cam in his absence even more.
Pascal was rarely in the office, and it proved tricky to find ways of being alone with him when he was. Sissy was increasingly desperate to talk to him about the night they’d spent together. The longer she left it, the more likely it would fade from memory, or fall into a hazy quagmire of random party nights. Maybe to him it was just another random night. She couldn’t fail to notice, as he strode around the call floor with his long coat swinging behind him, one hand frequently pushing his hair back from his face, how he barely looked at her. But then he barely looked at anyone unless he had to.
She was on her break with Hazel, the lady with trigger fingers and air freshener. Hazel was an actor in her fifties who did occasional voice-over and theatre work. Her voice was as deep and rough as a chain-smoking man, and very persuasive at getting people to talk.
‘I came out this way, sweetie,’ she said, if anyone was brave enough to ask. Sissy thought her forty-a-day habit probably helped.
Hazel was buxom, wore heavy eye make-up and her face was etched with lines, particularly around her mouth. She oozed a kind of glamour, albeit a faded, rough-around-the-edges kind. Sissy tried to coincide her breaks with Hazel’s because, although they had little in common, she found she enjoyed being in the company of a woman, however briefly.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you,’ Hazel said, leaning in to take a light from Sissy’s cigarette. She stepped back as she inhaled, then blew out a huge cloud of smoke. Her lungs were well-exercised from years on the stage, apparently. Whatever the reason, it was an impressive display.
Sissy waited for her to elaborate.
Hazel swung her head around the corner of the lane they stood in. Seemingly satisfied the coast was clear, she took another draw and tapped the fag while trying to formulate her sentence, which came out as a single word.
‘Pascal.’
Sissy stiffened. Deny everything, she told herself, knowing she was already turning red.
‘Number one,’ said Hazel, ‘he’s bad news. Not right for you at all. Not right for any woman, I’d wager. Having said that, here comes number two: I’m old and ugly enough to know nothing I say will make a blind bit of difference – who gives a fig what I think, eh? – so in order to curtail the painful sideshow I’m seeing every day, here is number three: I’m going to tell you where you’re going wrong.’
Sissy tried to laugh, shake off Hazel’s words, but her body rebelled and wouldn’t do her bidding. Her face felt like it was on fire.
‘Now I know things are different these days, and all you young ones are feminists and whatnot, but, darling, some things are universal. Namely, a man doesn’t care for a woman he knows he can have. He wants what he can’t have, alright? So my first piece of advice for you is to stop sitting up like a damn dog begging for a biscuit whenever he comes within five metres of you.’
Sissy wished for a hole to open up so she could vanish through it.
‘And my next piece of advice is… Oh, look, darling, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, and I know everyone wants to feel comfortable and that’s important, blah-di-blah… but you need to clean yourself up a little. I mean, Christ, what’s this you’re wearing?’
Stunned, Sissy looked down at her usual jeans and trainer attire.
‘I bet you’ve got a lovely little figure under there, haven’t you? But to be honest, darling, with those clothes on, you don’t look any different to those awful nerdy boys up there. In fact, Pascal’s always so preoccupied, if he does catch you out the side of his eye he probably thinks you’re one of them.’
Hazel took another deep draw of her cigarette.
‘I don’t know what – ’ Sissy began, but then Hazel was exhaling again and speaking over her.
‘I don’t mean come in done up like some dolly bird, my goodness, no. You don’t want to be obvious about it. But a skirt would be marvellous. Bit of lipstick, you know. My God, I didn’t think anyone needed telling this. It’s the ABC of getting on in the world, dear.’
She took a final drag of her cigarette and tamped it out against the wall.
‘And number four,’ she said, holding the fizzled fag end in front of her face, ‘is don’t be a litter lout.’
She sashayed to a bin and deposited the cigarette.
Sissy’s mind flew back to the women in the club that night, all of them so different from her. She’d never been the type of girl to fret about clothes or hair or make-up. But then, perhaps that was the reason she’d only ever had sex with one person.
She finished her smoke in a series of quick, shallow draws, and darted back upstairs with a new sense of purpose, eager to get back to work. If she moved quickly enough, perhaps she could trick time into speeding this day along.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Liars and Scissor Blades
It had been several months since Anne had last seen Susan, a gap of time that was new to both of them, and which burdened Susan with more guilt than usual, a fact which Anne was all too aware of and intended to exploit to the fullest, with no real idea of what she hoped to achieve by doing so.
It was decided that instead of a hotel, Susan should stay at the bungalow. Financially it made sense, though Anne wasn’t pleased at the prospect of someone being in her house unsupervised, even if it was her daughter.
‘I’ll stay in a hotel if you’d rather, Mammy,’ Susan sighed. ‘I’ll get a discount at Jude’s, won’t I?’
‘No, no. You can’t put Jude out like that. No, you stay where you like,’ was the reply.
They all went, though Anne remained in the car, quietly suspicious that the whole thing was an elaborate ruse to relocate her away from Jude. It was true her wrist had healed, and true that Jude was doing much better these days, but Anne had no intention of going anywhere.
They pulled up in front of the small, brown-brick building and took a moment to take in the air of general neglect which hung over the place.
‘What a sight,’ said Susan. ‘Have you not been keeping an eye on it?’
‘Haven’t you?’ Danny retorted.
‘I live two hundred and fifty miles away, Danny,’ Susan sighed, as she exited the car. The door snapped shut before he could respond. Anne winced and reached into her handbag for an indigestion tablet, while Danny clamped his lips and shook his head.
‘I suppose I should have been keeping an eye on it,’ said Jude, eager to diffuse the tension. ‘I’ve had the time. It’s just – well, you’ve never really wanted to come back, have you, Anne?’
With no discernible response, there was nothing for it but to head inside.
The gate creaked and dragged across the stone ground as Jude and Danny followed the path up to Susan, who was waiting by the front door.
‘So a gardener’s first on the list,’ she called, moving aside for Danny, who had the key. He shouldered the door open and knelt down to work his arm around to clear the pile of junk mail that was wedged there.
Inside, a thick layer of dust covered the sill. The SCIAF box that had stood there for as long as anyone could remember, and which had somehow escaped the exodus of holy items to Jude’s, gaped at them forlornly. Danny rummaged in his pockets and dropped some change into it.
‘Old habits, eh.’
He opened the interior door and a stale, musty smell greeted them. Susan bustled her way past him.
‘A cleaner too,’ she said, jotting it down. ‘I mean, I’ll do what I can this weekend, obviously, but it really needs something regular. That’s if she plans to keep the place, of course. Any ideas, Jude?’
Something about Susan’s tone made Jude pay attention. The hallway was small, and with three adults standing in it, the bungalow felt little more than a doll’s house.
‘No,’ Jude admitted, surprised by the question. ‘I’ve told your mum she’s welcome to stay for as long as she likes, of course. Bu
t I can easily pop by once a week with a mop and a duster, if you’re worried. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.’
‘No, no,’ said Danny. ‘That’s too much. We couldn’t ask that.’
‘Someone’s got to do it,’ quipped Susan, as she stepped into the kitchen.
Jude and Danny shared an embarrassed smile.
‘She was only supposed to be with you until her wrist got better,’ said Danny, with a frown. ‘I don’t want to feel like we’re taking advantage.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Jude offered. ‘It’s family, after all.’
She thought she saw him flinch, then quickly recover himself. His face arranged itself into a smile, though it didn’t travel as far as his eyes.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. His eyes caught hers. They were grave and somehow reassuring and intimidating all at once. Then he nodded, affirming something for himself only, and stepped away into the living room.
Jude’s relief at having avoided a potentially emotional moment was tempered by the realisation that the only room left for her to inspect was the bedroom. Bedrooms were private places. Surely it would be more appropriate for either Susan or Danny, or better still, Anne herself, to deal with it. Sounds of industry came from the other rooms, pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, windows being heaved open in the living room, leaving her no option but to enter the bedroom, which faced the back of the house and was cast in darkness by the drawn curtains. She pulled them open and weak sunshine spilled in. Really, everything was in an organised state, she needn’t have worried, but Susan should at least have fresh bedding, so she slid back the wardrobe doors until she found a pile of sheets and duvet covers folded neatly on a shelf, and selected the newest-looking set.
‘Oh, damn.’ Danny’s voice carried through from the living room, and then Susan’s immediately after, ‘What did you do?’
