Wildest of All

by P. K . Lynch

  Anne dug up her sleeve for a handkerchief. There was always a handkerchief up there, Jude realised. Anne blew her nose and continued, her voice harsher now.

  ‘That’s the way of it, of course. Spoiled children. How could they be anything else? Take my lot, for instance. I’m just a burden to the two that’s left.’

  And so the conversations became circular healing rituals of prayer and sympathy, where they each found strength in the other and consolidated their beliefs. Anne in particular was very proud of bringing Jude to the Lord, and was convinced there was some higher purpose in her daughter-in-law’s misery. She approached Jude’s conversion with a fervour that succeeded in masking the other problem in her life. But only for a short while.

  Ever since she’d told Jude the truth about Patrick, a portal appeared to have opened up within her, through which all pain and memory poured through. It was impossible to distinguish one from the other. Reluctant to burden Jude with even more to worry about, she kept to herself all the aches and spasms her digestive tract threw at her, turning instead to the Internet for advice. From there she found a website ready to furnish her with a wide array of pills and potions, though sometimes she thought the amount of mixing and matching of products was doing her more harm than good. She consoled herself with her life-long belief that time and God heals everything.

  What she really needed was a doctor, but the mere idea of walking to the surgery made her want to lie down. There was no question of asking for a home visit – precious resources had to be preserved for those who needed them. She could ask Jude to drive her, of course, but it was difficult to find the right moment, especially as Jude had to work so much these days since that Aleks fella had moved on. Besides, despite having left pills lying around for weeks, Jude had asked Anne only once if she was feeling all right, and had accepted the reply – ‘Just a bit of indigestion, dear’ – more readily than one would have hoped.

  So she was back to square one. True, it was a years old problem, but now she was old she didn’t seem to have the same tolerance for it. But what did she expect? She was approaching her eightieth year, after all. Indigestion tablets weren’t miracle workers. Only God provided miracles. However, she didn’t like to ask Him for favours for herself. It seemed so shallow and wrong.

  In the end it was an ambulance job.

  She was wakened one night by a pain in her abdomen so severe it took her breath away. Her groans disturbed Jude, who immediately called the emergency services.

  ‘I just needed my pills,’ Anne chastised later. ‘All this fuss over nothing.’

  Jude accepted the chastisement and made no reference to Anne’s frightening consumption of Entonox in the ambulance, or the way her teeth ground the mouth piece, or how her knuckles turned white because she gripped it so tightly, frightened someone might try to take it from her.

  Doctors and nurses came and went, questions were asked, the answers noted, and then the same questions were asked again a little while later.

  ‘I’ve already told you all this. I want to go home.’

  But there was no going home.

  ‘How long have you had that yellow in your eyes?’ someone asked.

  Jude sat up and leaned over to check Anne’s eyes, but Anne closed them and turned her head away.

  ‘Any ideas?’ the nurse asked Jude, who could only shake her head and apologise for her ignorance.

  Tests, tests, tests.

  Danny arrived, a stricken look on his face.

  ‘Ma! Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, who called you…’ came the withering reply.

  Tests, and tests and more tests.

  Susan arrived a few days later and was greeted with a judgemental, ‘Oh, you made it then.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon for people to lash out at those they need the most. Try not to take it personally,’ a nurse advised.

  Susan stayed for the weekend, and Danny came every day after work. Jude took the week off.

  ‘It’s easier for me,’ she told Danny. He nodded his agreement before he left. As she watched him make his way down the corridor, she considered how foolish it was to think a child might do the right thing for their mother.

  She stayed with Anne for hours every day, for some reason she appeared to have been granted a dispensation beyond normal visiting hours, and while Anne slept, Jude kept a vigil over her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Helper

  ‘I have to go to Manchester. Business,’ said Pascal.

  ‘Were you going to tell me?’

  They stood in the flat’s narrow hallway, she blocking his way, having just arrived back from work to discover him on the way out, carrying a suitcase. For a moment she’d thought he was throwing her out.

  Pascal dragged one hand through his hair and tossed his head back impatiently. He put the suitcase down and brought the palms of his hands together.

  ‘I am an adult,’ he said. ‘And you are an adult. Yes?’

  He left a silence in which Sissy was compelled to nod her head.

  ‘Good! So…’ He spoke in a very clear and clipped manner so there could be no misunderstanding. ‘I have a business which means that every now and then something comes up which requires me to be a fucking businessman!’ His voice soared towards the end of the sentence and his face came in close to hers, twisted and furious. She immediately reddened and, much to her shame, felt tears fill up her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he sighed, pulling her into him. She forced her head sideways so she could breathe. ‘I’m sorry. It is very stressful. Idiots up there to deal with.’

  The agency had for some time been looking to set up a separate office in Manchester.

  ‘I thought it was going well,’ Sissy sniffed. He sighed and leaned back against the wall.

  ‘It is, it is.’ He wiped a hand across his face and shook his head. Suddenly his whole body slumped and he looked straight at her. ‘Such fucking idiots, I swear,’ he whispered. ‘I have to do everything my damn self. That’s why I am so glad I have you. You, I can trust. You will keep everything running for me while I am gone, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, in a small voice.

  He kissed her on top of her head and squeezed round her, dragging his suitcase. ‘You’re such a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘But Pascal…’

  He sighed and looked upward. ‘Yes?’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I will email. Or call, even. Listen,’ he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘I still need you to be at the club this weekend. My boys will look after you, all right?’

  ‘So you’re going to be away all week?’

  ‘Jesus, I feel like I am talking with my mother. Look, I may be back in a week, I may not. Work will dictate. Now, do you think you can handle things here or do I need to make another arrangement?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, I’ll be fine here.’

  ‘Good. Oh, there’s my taxi. I have to go.’

  He disappeared down the stairs, leaving her wondering what exactly she was in charge of.

  She went in to work the next day and managed to catch Tony before her shift began.

  ‘He said what exactly?’ Tony frowned.

  ‘Just that… you know… I was to keep things running. I wasn’t sure what he meant.’

  Tony laughed. ‘I think we’ll cope without the magical Pascal for a few days, Sissy, but thanks all the same.’

  Her face a fiery red, she muttered a thank you and went to her booth, trying to nurse a smidgeon of gratitude that at least Tony clearly anticipated Pascal’s imminent return.

  Friday arrived and, with no call or email from Pascal, Sissy was forced to go to the club by herself. It was a new venture so she took it seriously. The admin had been done, hundreds of emails and texts sent, flyers posted, DJs and dancers booked. A good buzz was rolling on social media. All that remained was to ensure the customers had the night of their
lives. She couldn’t quite believe that Pascal would be absent this evening, but then she thought of how he trusted her and she felt better.

  She arrived early and hooked up with the two guys she’d seen that first night, who were Pascal’s regular runners. One was Jason, tall, smartly dressed, arrogant; the other a little guy everyone called Fame. He was scruffy, skinny and edgy, never still, and his eyes constantly scanned his environment.

  ‘Paranoid,’ Pascal had said. ‘That’s good in his line of work.’

  Jason was the front man in Pascal’s absence. He dealt directly with the club owner and delegated to his team, which this evening consisted only of Sissy and Fame.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ asked Sissy. Normally Pascal ran a team of seven or eight, all of them with their own contact list. Together they guaranteed whichever club they worked for a high turn out, and a lucrative base for Pascal’s ‘product supply business’, as he called it.

  ‘At Rumba’s,’ he said, referring to a massive club in the West End. He glanced up from the list of names he was scanning. ‘We’re just trying this one out tonight. Pascal wants to see if we can handle two on the same night. Let’s show him we can, yeah?’

  He left to hand over the completed list to the door staff.

  ‘That means I’m your boss,’ Fame told her with a cheeky grin, flashing a gold front tooth.

  ‘Fuck off are you,’ she replied, while they waited for Jason. Sissy thought Pascal was short-sighted to have someone on his team who looked as dodgy as Fame, but then what did she know? She kept quiet and avoided him whenever possible, which normally wasn’t difficult. Tonight looked to be a different matter.

  ‘All right, you two,’ said Jason on his return. This place is gonna be jumping and it’s your job to make sure it stays that way. Sissy, I want you to stay close to Fame, all right? Let him take the lead. If you sell everything, you can refresh your supply from him.’

  Fame shot her a toothy grin that caused her to scowl. ‘Cheers, boss,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you down.’ He stepped sideways to throw his arm around Sissy. ‘And I’ll keep an eye on this one, don’t you worry.’

  She gave Jason her best grin. A bad atmosphere helped no one.

  The club began to fill with familiar faces, and plenty who Sissy didn’t recognise, though many of them greeted her like a best friend. Regardless, she met them all with the same hyped enthusiasm, long-lost friends all. Here was the guy who hit on her every time he saw her; she hugged him and squeezed his cheeks because he always brought at least half a dozen friends. He’d be easy enough to lose in the crowd later, but it paid to make him feel special. Here came the lonely brunette who would pay Sissy repeat visits as the night went on, each time with an apology and a request for just one more pill. Here was the C-list celebrity who always brought an entourage and required close attention. So many different types of punter, each of them Sissy’s responsibility for the evening.

  She moved between groups, and for the first time couldn’t catch a lift from their playful vibes. She was reminded of that first night she’d been out with Pascal when she’d felt so dowdy and out of touch with everyone else. She’d sorted herself out since then – heels, hair, eyes, lips – but she felt like an imposter as she flitted from table to table, her face making all the right expressions, but doing nothing to dispel the hollowness inside. The room continued to fill, people spilling in from outside, the space between them growing smaller. At the same time, the DJ’s tunes dug a little deeper, taking the dancers further into his world; signalling the journey to come, though he wasn’t ready to take the brakes off yet. Other than the DJ, she and her little team of Jason and Fame were the most important people in the room. The way she saw it, neither could do their job properly without the other. They were all in it together.

  It was shaping up to be an underwhelming evening until Jason became aware of another dealer in the room. Fulfilling his legal obligation, he alerted management to their presence. Once their product had been confiscated, they were escorted from the premises and the flow of Sissy’s business intensified. Before long, she had to locate Fame for more pills and powder.

  ‘It’s a fucking gold mine in here,’ he yelled, bouncing with the beat. She wondered how he had time to dance when she was being hauled into various groups for chat and deliveries. She signalled that she wanted more product and he nodded and headed to the side. She sighed and followed him. Why he had to make such a song and dance about it, she didn’t know. He passed her a bag of twenty pills and ten wraps of cocaine, which she slid into a slim purse attached around her waist before disappearing back into the crush.

  By midnight, the tunes had kicked in and the crowd soared. Word came that the line outside went round the block. Jason and Fame announced the evening an unparalleled success. Normally she would be high with them but she couldn’t get on it. She remembered Pascal’s instruction to keep things running and wondered if he’d be pleased with her. Working the club without his presence in the background was a big deal. She needed to prove she was reliable, make him proud of her. He hadn’t called all week, and only responded to one of her texts. His silence had taken on greater significance with each passing hour, despite her efforts to minimise her reaction to it. He’s busy, she thought. He’s stressed. Don’t give him more to worry about.

  The crowd heaved and surged once more, transported to an impossibly high plane by the ramped up beat. Lasers cut across the darkness, beams of light guiding people home, back to source, the origins of their existence.

  Sissy observed it with sullen detachment. The walls were lined with old beat up sofas on which various couples reclined, stroking and kissing each other, blind to the audience in the room.

  A pale, sweaty face emerged from the darkness, shouted in her ear, and a swift exchange of cash and drugs was made. They kept on coming, the excited faces of the early evening now given over to expressions of grim focus, each of them intent on crawling their way back to the high they’d involuntarily vacated.

  Soon her stash had gone and she had a pile of notes she wanted rid of, possession of money being a larger source of anxiety than anything else. It wasn’t difficult to imagine being robbed for money, whereas the drugs made everyone roll over and beg. She stole her way through the room until she found Jason behind the bar making the blonde bartender laugh. He came towards her with a frown on his face.

  ‘I told you to deal with Fame.’

  ‘Yeah, for refills. You didn’t tell me to give him the cash.’

  She pointed to the belt around her waist. With a curt nod, he opened his palm to receive and, with hands kept low behind the bar, she passed the money over.

  ‘That’s it, I’m done,’ she said. ‘I’m going home.’

  He gave a quizzical look. ‘You sick?’

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you.’

  His attention was already back with the blonde.

  Maybe she was sick, she thought, as she went to collect her coat. Either way, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It wasn’t until the cool London air wrapped around her that she realised how oppressive the club had felt. She slipped her heels off and walked barefoot until she found a cab office.

  In the cab she flipped her phone over and over, resisting the urge to text Pascal. To call was out of the question – too demanding, too needy – but a text could be tended to when the recipient was ready. The phone found its way to her pocket. She wouldn’t be rash. She’d decide when she got home.

  She gave the driver thirty for a twenty-one-pound fare and told him to keep the change. Her street was quiet, no sign of the chaos currently occurring in dark little bubbles across London. As she approached the door to their flat, she heard music. With a sudden flare of excitement, she hurriedly opened the door and walked through, checking the bedroom as she passed. Pascal was in the living room, bent over the table. He inhaled the powder and threw his head back, eyes alighting on Sissy in the doorway.

  ‘Ma cherie,’ he said, stand
ing immediately and opening his arms wide.

  ‘Pascal,’ she cried, and rushed forward to accept his embrace. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?’

  He kissed her on each cheek, then reverted to his position by the table. He hoovered up a second line then, after offering the straw to Sissy who refused it, scooped her up in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom. She squealed and laughed and he said he was a cave man and threw her onto the bed.

  His kisses were hard and impossible to respond to. In between kisses he called her names, bitch, whore, but it was borne of passion so she didn’t object. When he paused to unbuckle himself, she quickly struggled out of her top. She tried to pull him back down to her, but instead he turned her over and tugged at her underwear until it gave way. Then she felt him at her but she wasn’t ready and he couldn’t get in. He jabbed away, cursing in French. Sissy stared at the headboard, willing it to happen, but with each attempt he felt softer. Her humiliation grew as she waited for the inevitable.

  ‘Ah, fucking merde!’

  The bed shifted as he stood up, leaving her on all fours with her head hanging down, looking at her hands. The sound of his buckle as he fastened himself up quickly so she couldn’t see was her cue to fall onto her side.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. He batted her off with his arm, refusing to look at her. ‘We should talk about this, Pascal.’

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said, as he left the room. ‘I’m taking a shower.’

  ‘Pascal, it doesn’t matter,’ she called after him, only to be answered by the slam of the bathroom door and the sound of water raining into the plastic bath tub.

  Next day, they woke in the early afternoon and went for brunch in one of the local cafes. He bought a broadsheet which he read at the table, emerging from behind it now and then to sip his coffee. She nursed her hot chocolate and gazed through the frosted glass window, trying to imagine what the people beyond it might look like.

  Pascal told her he had to be back and forth between Manchester and London for the foreseeable future, so if Sissy had trouble with that she should let him know. It was only fair.