‘How dreadful.’
‘Me? Well, I got shot through the front window, wham bam after Grandma and that’s how all this shit happened to me. Got it in the face on a bit of glass Grandma left behind when she shot through first. Then I had to climb up that cliff and stop a car. Not easy for such a little guy. Took hours it did. Took so long that the damage was done. Didn’t get to the hospital, see, for the stitching up of my face to be done quick enough. Scarred for life, me. Scarred for bloody life.’
Esther looked at him. ‘Dreadful. Truly dreadful,’ she said. ‘What a dreadful thing for a child, for anyone, to have to go through.’
‘That is a very lovely plant you’ve got growing in that pot,’ and again Damon’s fingers left his face to reach out and touch the small blue china bowl in which the plant grew.
‘It is a geranium. See the buds coming,’ she pointed. ‘It will flower soon. A brilliant fiery red.’
‘Will it? Well, it will sure look nice in its blue pot. Red and blue look cool together.’
‘You like it?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
‘Take it with you. It will flower as well in your home. It is yours. A gift.’
‘I don’t want a gift,’ said Damon. ‘Don’t even know you. Why give to me the one pretty thing you’ve got in this dump?’
‘Take it,’ she repeated. ‘Just give it a little water now and then. Not too much. Geraniums do like it quite dry.’
‘Why give it to me?’
‘For trusting me with your story,’ said Esther. ‘For giving me your story. I would think,’ she looked at him. ‘This is a story you do not give to very many people. Take the plant. It is yours,’ and she pushed the blue pot closer to him.
Damon drew the bowl towards him. He turned it slowly around, closely scrutinising both the container and its contents. ‘Nice plant,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I will take it and I will look after it. Never had a plant of my own before,’ and then. ‘Shit! Bowl is all cracked. It’s half broken.’
‘Is it?’ asked Esther. ‘I think it makes no difference to the plant. No difference at all. It will bloom. It will bloom and bloom well,’ she smiled. ‘The bowl, I feel quite sure, will hold together,’ a little laugh. ‘Like this old coat I wear, it will serve its purpose.’
Damon’s fingers outlined the jagged crack that broke the blue surface of the bowl, played with an outline that seemed, in some way, strangely familiar. He looked over at Esther. ‘It’s… er, funny… It is… Oh, shit, what’s it matter? I gotta go now,’ and he put on his dark glasses and picked up his backpack and the plant in the blue bowl. ‘Thank you for this, er… Esther.’
‘You are welcome,’ she said. She stood and opened the door. As she did so a cat miaowed, hissed at Damon and edged into the room. ‘My companion,’ said the old woman. ‘Tumbler is his name. Come in cat. Time for some food, I think.’
‘I hate cats,’ said Damon.
‘Do you? It seems to me, boy, that life is too short for any of us to waste one precious moment in hating any other living creature.’
‘Got my reasons,’ said Damon. ‘Thanks again for the plant,’ and he made his way out into the dark night and the dim shadows.
CHAPTER FOUR
There were times when the tight discomfort of his scarred face became unbearable and he longed to dig into the pain with his fingernails. Just dig into his own flesh and skewer out the rope of pink tissue and then allow the bloody remains to heal over anew. These were the worst times. Even at the best of times it was always as if that side of his face had been sewn together using a thread of quite different substance from the fabrics it tried to join – and those fabrics it tried to join appeared to be of different substances, too! One might be a knit fabric, maybe the stuff of a sweatshirt, something that was designed to give somewhat. The other fabric? Well, that was something like the denim of new Levi’s – a tight, close weave that bore no relation to the softer stuff.
As the dull ache sharpened to an acid pain he would start to cry. A half cry, this, not a full cry of any grief. The eyelid on the scarred side of the face would begin to nictate and, after a minute or so, tears would stream – but only from that one eye. There was nothing at all that he could do about it. Ride it out. Sit out the agony. Not even the rubbing, massaging into the wretched flesh a river of lotions, potions, oils, – all that had promised ease – helped much.
Face ache. Ride it out. Sit it out. After a while it would ease enough and he could get on with whatever he needed to get on with without the load of pain being uppermost in his mind.
There were other times, not too often, when he would sit at a mirror for an hour, two hours, hold a magazine, a book, a piece of cardboard in order to neatly divide the two disparate halves of his image. These were lighter times. No self-pity allowed. Indeed, the absurdity of what was reflected back more often than not would make him laugh. It was two people after all. He, Damon, was both beauty and the beast! Both could stare back at him if he chose. However, by angling the instrument of division he could, should he choose, see either the perfect self or the marred, scarred self. One half of him could talk to the other half. Bad Face and Good Face he called his reflections. Frequently such conversations would range wide. Often, these days, a certain topic seemed paramount. Scoring a girl, keeping that girl, not frightening the shit out of that girl and not letting that girl feel sorry for him.
‘You’ll need a bloody black night to hide me,’ says Bad Face.
‘Yeah. Right!’ says Good Face. ‘Black night and a stuffing miracle. Gonna write to that phantom of the whatsit guy and get him to send me a mask like he wears. Bound to have a few spares tucked away somewhere. Besides, mate, I’ll be doing things so as she won’t spot you.’
‘Yeah, yeah. You do that already,’ says Bad Face. ‘Spend bulk time looking the other way from people. You ashamed of me or something?’
‘Too bloody right I’m ashamed of you, mate,’ says Good Face. ‘Who the hell wouldn’t be?’
‘What happens when you get to sleep with the girl?’
‘I should be so lucky,’ says Good Face.
‘Just think about it,’ says Bad Face. ‘Just think about it. There you are, exhausted, you’ve done the wicked thing and, like, well, afterwards you get to go to sleep. Good deep sleep, I think. There you are, in the middle of a deep zizzz – after midnight sometime, I reckon. Don’t think it’d be any earlier than that. Could be a bit later, depending on the action. So what happens? I’ll tell you what happens. The bloody mask slips off, you dig your elbow in the poor babe’s ribs by accident and she wakes up, screams like shit… What then?’
‘Dunno, do I?’ says Good Face. ‘Guess the poor cow would think she was dead out of luck; she got to kiss that handsome prince guy and then the sod turned into a bloody frog! That’s what!’
‘Tough luck,’ says Bad Face.
‘That what you call it?’ says Good Face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Damon looked for Esther in the library. Day followed day and he didn’t see her again, began to wonder if he would see her again. Was not particularly worried about whether he did or not. On most days he would work at a library table for two, sometimes three hours. It was warm, here. Warm and comfortable. More comfortable and certainly a few degrees warmer than it was at home. Damon had become something of a fixture in the place and, most days, Lois Henderson, the librarian, would bring him a cup of coffee and share a couple of her biscuits with him and have a few minutes of chat.
‘What’s happened to the old duck?’
‘What old duck, Damon?’
‘You know which old duck I mean. The old girl in the army coat who’s usually in here and seems to talk away to herself. You know which one – that funny old lady.’
‘I know who you mean. I don’t know, love. I’ve no idea what’s happened to her. Sometimes she’s in here day after day. Sometimes not. Why do you want to know?’
‘Just interested,’ he muttered.
‘What’s her name, Mrs H?’
‘Who…? Oh, I don’t know, Damon. Not really. She’s not a member. Just comes in, sits, reads the papers, chatters or sort of sings away to herself… Why all this interest?’
‘No reason, Mrs H. Just thought you might know something about her,’ he said.
‘Nothing at all, Damon,’ said Lois Henderson.
‘Well, if you do find anything out about her, you let me know.’
‘What are we working on today?’ the librarian asked.
‘I don’t know what you’re working on, Mrs H., apart from sorting out books and stuff, that is. Me? I’m doing some English and a spot of maths.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, young man,’ the woman laughed. ‘Do you really not think, Damon, that it’s time… that you’d be better off back at school with…’
‘Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Henderson,’ Damon interrupted her. ‘And the bikkies. Gotta work now,’ and he turned away.
A couple of days later he spotted the old woman. Not in the library but out on the street up ahead of him. She beetled, head down, heedless of any pedestrian traffic. Damon kept a short distance behind her, curious as to where she was heading, what she was doing. He was undecided as to whether or not he might catch her up, greet her, speak to her. Could not make up his mind. He kept tracking.
In the event his mind was made up for him. Esther, in full flight, swerved to avoid a group of three walkers coming the other away. In doing so she stumbled, half tripped and, in righting herself, fell back directly into the path of the walker immediately behind her. Damon, closing in now, heard all and saw all.
‘Out of the way, you stupid old cow!’ a young man. ‘Whaddaya? Drunk or somethin’? Not even that late,’ and, almost as casually as swatting a fly, he pushed the old woman to one side.
Esther’s half trip, half stumble, became a full fall and she tumbled into the gutter. The young man, disconcerted at the effect of his action and undecided as to what he should do, just stood there. Damon was right on the spot now. ‘What the hell d’you do that for, mate? Push an old lady into a bloody gutter? Should bloody push you in, too!’
‘Oh, yeah?’ the young man gathered his wits. ‘What the hell business is it of yours? Stupid old cow’s bloody pissed – or worse! Bet she’s been knockin’ back the bloody meths. Wanna make somethin’ of it?’
‘Sure,’ said Damon, dropping his bag alongside Esther who, by now, had managed to sit up and start gathering herself together. ‘It’d be my pleasure, mate,’ and with one blow from a very hard right fist he knocked Esther’s assailant into the gutter.
Damon was on the point of sticking his boot into his victim’s ribs when Esther, now up on her feet, beside him, tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Come along, boy. Enough damage is done. Come along now.’
‘You all right?’ he asked, after a few paces and feeling somewhat cheated that Esther had not let him finish off an enjoyable and worthwhile job.
‘Of course I am all right. I lost my footing, nothing more.’
‘That bugger pushed you.’
‘Nonsense, boy. I tripped. It was all my fault. You would think that at my age I would have learnt to know where I was going. No harm done, other than for the harm and damage you inflicted on that poor young man,’ she looked sideways at him. ‘Such aggression. No excuse.’
‘I know. You’re quite right. That sod got what he deserved,’ grunted Damn.
‘I was talking of you,’ said Esther.
‘Jesus!’ Not a word of thanks for his gallantry. ‘He pushed you. That bastard pushed you.’
Esther gave her little bark of a laugh. ‘Push me pull me? Means little in the scheme of things,’ and she led him down into a dark lane he had not travelled before. Twisting, turning, all the while at pace until, in quite short order, they stood beneath the light over her doorway. ‘Come in, now. Time for a cup of tea, I think.’
The room was as before. Esther made tea and, for a time, they sipped the hot brew in silence. Damon did not take off his glasses. ‘You haven’t been to the library,’ he said, breaking that silence.
‘There are other places I go,’ she said. ‘Other libraries. Other places,’ she looked at him. ‘Why is it you are at that library every day?’
‘There is where I do my work.’
‘Why not do that work at school? Tell me.’
‘I had better be going now,’ Damon did not feel like an interrogation. He stood. ‘It’s late. Gotta get home.’
‘You have not finished your tea. Drink your tea, Sir Galahad.’
‘Sir what? Sir who?’
‘Another young man who came to the assistance of a lady. Sit down. Ten minutes will not hurt, one way or another. Late for what, I ask? I think you may be a law unto yourself and late for nothing at all. Tell me why you do your work in the library?’
CHAPTER SIX
‘You are a nosey old lady,’ and he smiled at her. ‘You get me to talk about myself. You tell me nothing about you. I’ll tell you why I go the library if you’ll tell me something about you.’
‘There is nothing to know, boy. Nothing at all to know that is worth the knowing.’
‘Yeah yeah yeah! I don’t believe you,’ he looked around the room. ‘How is it that an old woman like you who speaks like you do, lives in a dump like this, wears an old army coat? Where d’you come from?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Esther. ‘Everywhere. Who cares?’
‘I am asking you,’ he replied. ‘Where d’you come from? Where were you born?’
‘Romania.’
‘Romania? Where the hell’s that?’
‘Central Europe,’ she smiled at him. ‘I think you must have heard of Count Dracula?’
‘Shit! You’re not…’
‘A connection?’ and now she laughed. ‘I think not. Not that I ever heard, anyway. Romania is where I was born. My folk, my people, we were wanderers. We wandered.’
‘Wandered? Oh yeah? What d’you mean, wandered?’
‘One place to another. Travelling people. I know few boundaries. We knew no boundaries other than those that were forced upon us from time to time. Romani. Gypsy. I think you understand.’
‘Shit! Never met a gypsy in my whole life! You a gypsy?’
‘If you like. If you need some label for me.’
Damon took off his dark glasses. ‘How come you’re here?’
‘It has been a long and winding path,’ Esther smiled again. ‘Once upon a long time ago, in my youth – younger I think than you are now – I danced along a fair few miles of it.’
‘You? You danced? A dancer?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. A very good one, too. The dances of my people. Loud, loud music. Much laughter. Wine. Often, far too much wine. Coins would be thrown – and, for someone like me often they would be gold coins. Ah, yes. Success, and more than a little fame. Many many moons ago. There are times now when I think I imagined it all,’ she smiled. ‘And maybe I did.’
‘Doesn’t look like you got round to putting any of those gold coins away. You know, retirement savings for your old age? For that rainy day they talk about?’
Now she laughed loudly, the dark, near-black eyes in her narrow face lighting, dancing almost into themselves. ‘As if such things should matter a great deal to any of us. Old age, boy? When is it? Can you answer me that?’
‘For you, old woman, just about now I’d think,’ Damon said, bluntly.
She laughed even more loudly. ‘You can be honest, very honest when you want to be,
boy.’
‘What d’you mean, when I want to be?’ sharply.
‘You know what I mean,’ she looked at him. ‘Oh, yes. Talking about it, just talking about it brings so much of it back. Dance, dance, dance. Haven’t given it a thought for years. Why, for a time, boy, I danced in the retinue of the queen herself.’
‘Our queen?’ he sounded very surprised. ‘You mean our old Elizabeth?’
‘Oh, no no. Marie of Romania. Almost a madwoman she was at times. Grand-daughter of old Victoria herself, the monarch of the English. Marie. So generous. I was her favourite… well, for a time. Kings, princes, queens, too, tire quickly, lose interest quickly. Favourites are favoured – but only for a while. Besides…’
‘Besides? Besides what?’
‘Nothing at all. There, Damon. I tell you where I am from. Now you. I tell you. You tell me.’
‘You sure as shit haven’t told me all that much!’
‘Why do your work in a library and not in a school?’ she persisted.
‘Easy,’ he said, stretching himself. ‘They got rid of me from school. Got chucked out. Expelled. I’ve been to schools. I been to heaps of schools,’ he gave a dry chuckle. ‘So many bloody schools I lost count. So many schools they ran out of new ones to send me to.’
‘So?’
‘So what? It’s better by myself. Much better.’
‘No. I do not think it can be.’
‘You’re by yourself,’ pointed.
‘Well,’ and she spread her hands. ‘That’s different.’
‘You reckon? That’s a bloody cop-out, that is.’
‘I was not alone when I was your age,’ said Esther. ‘These schools who get rid of you… why? Why do they find this necessary?’
Damon’s fingers played onto the scarred side of his face. ‘That’s why,’ he said, very softly.
‘I don’t understand.’
He was silent for just a moment. ‘I think you understand quite well. You know that people can do things to you… people, well, they say things,’ silent, again, for another moment. ‘My mum, she used to say this thing to me when I was little, when I was younger, about turning the other cheek…’
Scarface and the Angel Page 2
