I hear mother’s voice – that’s what you gitfereatin that foreign muck. The memory of ropes burn around my wrists.
“Shut up,” I growl over my shoulder.
I forget where I am for the moment, unconcerned that my stream has wandered to the side of the bowl and is presently pooling on the tiles and running along trenches of grout. Sukie begins to lap at the offering, shaking every so often as amber spray catches her face. Foreign muck, Keith, that’sworitis – foreign muck.
“SHUT UP!!” I yell, shocking myself back into Sally’s bathroom, as Sukie turns to dart away, her claws slipping on the wet tiles a moment before she finds purchase and trundles along the landing to wait at the top of the stairs.
“No! No, no-ooo.” My mind rings with alarm as I take in the not-so-little accident. “Look what you made me do.”
My first thought is to grab the towel and throw it on the floor. The towel is so pristinely white, though, so plump and soft looking, that I immediately dismiss the idea. How would I have explained the missing towel to Sally?
Toilet roll!
I proceed to gather a bundle from the roll, wrapping it around my hand. I then use the wad to wipe the floor. Heavy with pee and beginning to break apart, I plop the sodden bundle in the toilet before gathering more. The card tube clatters as the last of the paper comes free. Fortunately I’ve managed to mop up most of the puddle. I flush the toilet and think I’m going to faint from holding my breath as the water rises and rises and rises up toward the rim. The promised flood halts mere millimetres from the top, and I draw breath when the plug of paper gives way. The floor is almost dry, but the room smells like the public loo in the park. If I can smell it, Sally certainly will. And I’m certain the grout lines were originally as white as the towel.
I knew I was a stranger to cleaning products, and I’ve already seen the basket of stuff Sally keeps under the sink, but it’s not until I enter the cupboard up here that I realise so many of them exist. Some people collect stamps, some collect coins, beer-mats even; it seems to me that Sally collects cleaning products. Taking the entire basket from the bathroom cupboard, my eyes flick over the various labels with miscomprehension, literally failing to absorb what they are and what they are for. The only thing I do recognise is a cleaning cloth, which, if discovered earlier, would have been much better suited to cleaning the floor than the half-roll of toilet tissue had been.
Idiot.
I’ve heard of Vim, not surprisingly, there’s none of that. There is however a bottle of bleach, and bleach can clean anything from bathroom floors to dirty boys’ knees. I take the cloth and squirt bleach along the grout lines. The vapour catches the back of my throat and burns in the depth of my lungs. Ignoring the snaking memories it brings, I scrub.
Yah! Yah! The tormenting voice calls, as if spurring on a team of horses. Yah! Yah! String him up in yonder tree boys.
I ignore the feel of fish bone in my throat, as I crawl across the floor, scrubbing and rinsing, scrubbing and rinsing. This isn’t Sally’s kind of clean; this is the type of clean that’s wrapped in painful tightness.
Yah! Yah!
Shush, now. Leave it.
Yah! Yah!
“SHUT UP!”
The grout lines gleam once more. They could be no whiter and my hands could be no redder. It is clean, very clean, but it is not Sally’s kind of clean. This is a harsh cleanliness, a nasty-tasting, pain-filled one. It is clean, but it is not homely-clean. The bathroom has the stench of a swimming pool’s changing area. Putting the bleach bottle back in the basket I scan the other bottles, one at a time, reading the labels. Mirror cleaner; after shower spray; lime-scale remover; coconut infused conditioner. Sally’s hair smells of coconut! That’s part of her smell. That will help. I pour some into my hands, lather it up and urgently waft the scent around the room.
What I must look like, hands covered in suds, waltzing around the bathroom like some manic, red-handed fairy.
Yah! Yah! Boys, look at the fairy.
Some of the smell ingratiates the air, but the undertone of bleach still lingers. No good. Something else. I rinse my hands, leaving a little of the suds to rub into the towel. I then peruse the bottles again. Should have read a book on cleaning. Window polish; grout cleaner, damn; bath salts; tile finisher; bath oil – tile finisher! I whip the bottle from the basket and remove the lid. I’m certain it has the smell that the bathroom had before I soiled it with the stench of raw bleach and ammonia. Kind of fruity – lemons – but flowery too, like a Mediterranean orchard basking in sunshine.
I run my forefinger along the label, a red pointer tracing the text. Pour a little onto a cloth, it says.
I do so.
Should have done this before. Could have got the cloth, wiped it up quicker, and then used this stuff that smells nice. That’s how Sally would clean. I cleaned aggressively, like Mother would have done. Time is running short, and by panicking, I’m running the risk of Sally getting home before I’ve cleaned it sufficiently well that she won’t notice.
Rub over the surface of the tile with a brisk circular action, it says
I do so, working my way across the floor, treating each tile individually and not getting any onto the grout lines.
What now? Leave for thirty minutes, then buff to a soft sheen that will repel dirt and bring the freshness of a summer meadow into your bathroom.
Thirty minutes!
In a panic I look at my watch.
Three forty five, and Sally finishes at four on Fridays. The tile finisher has removed the stench of bleach, but looks waxy-dull on the surface of the tiles. I try buffing it, but it smears and goes milky and snatches loose fibres from the cleaning cloth. The tiles not only look waxy, but they now have a felt-like finish. Turning back to the label, reading the last sentence, I learn that it must be buffed with a dry cloth and on no account before it is fully dry. No choice then. Thirty minutes. There’s just about time to get it done and leave before Sally gets home.
Resolved to waiting half an hour, I remove my socks, damp with urine and bleach and drape them over the hot radiator on the landing. Sukie looks at me as if I’m inventing a new game, and my mind wanders to that third door. I need a dry cloth for polishing. Maybe there will be a duster or something similar in there. I open the door a crack and peer in like a child searching for Santa’s grotto. A waft of new carpet laced with perfume drifts onto the hallway.
Sally’s bedroom. The carpet feels like heaven under my bare feet: warm sand, or lush grass, or clouds basking in sunlight. The living room is nice, more than nice, but unisex in style. This bedroom is a feminine room: dreamily-cosy and sensual, safe, yet dangerously enticing and sexy. I always thought of pink as childlike, but this room changes my preconception. Womanliness is exuded in every way.
On a dresser before the window a mirror reflects bottles of perfume, seven in total, all glimmering in the soft light of the room like precious gems. I give each of them in turn a spray – a little wisp of mist in the air, which I step into and inhale. I find the one I most associate with Sally and give it another spray. Passion it says, in silver scrollwork on cut glass of the deepest purple. Passion. I almost float on the vapours.
Dreamily light I wander to the bed. One of the pillows is crisp, its centre plump, whereas the other has creases of sleep on its surface. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I bury my face into the pillow. There’s a slight smell of sweat, but it’s a feminine sweat, not the putrid juice of a man. Her head has slept here, her face, her cheeks, her breath, on this pillow. This is essence of Sally. I breathe it in and make it a part of me.
When I sit up, I glance at the drawers in the bedside cabinet and gingerly lean forward, my hand shakes and my breathing becomes tremulous. On opening the drawer my eyes swim in a pool of silk, satin and lace. I stroke the topmost items, relishing the smooth softness, then delving to the bottom, draw out an old looking pair of knickers. She won’t miss these, I assure myself, as I spray them with Passion and ball them into my pocke
t.
I stand then, motionless, looking out into the park. The black of night is descending. Streetlights from beyond the park’s opposite boundary twinkle like stars through the trees. A noise at the door startles me, and I turn to see Sukie looking through the crack. When I check the time I realise twenty-five minutes have passed. Blast! What if Sally is already in the park? What if she looks across? What if she’s seen her bedroom light on, and me in silhouette peering through the window?
A cloth, a dry cloth, I think, grasping the satin ball in my pocket. One smell and I put it back. Something else, surely? I dart into the spare room. Must be something in here I can use. Has to be. A jumper’s sleeve hangs from one of the cardboard boxes. It’s a man’s jumper. It will do. The wax has dried, and I polish with such fury that I can almost feel ropes cutting into my ankles as I work. If Sally finds out, that’s it. Please don’t let her come back yet. Not yet, please.
Boys are so dirty. Filthy. Nasty.
Yah! Yah!
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
The wax comes away easily, polishing to a rich lustre, but the fibres from the cloth are more stubborn. Eventually, though, with much brisk rubbing, they come away too and leave the floor looking and smelling pristine.
It’s not until I’m at the front door, putting on my shoes that I remember my socks and rush back upstairs to get them. Good job I did too, because the doors are all open, wide open, all three of them, and they were closed when I came. I’m certain they were. Then I’m halfway down the stairs, when I hear Sukie scratching on the inside of Sally’s bedroom door, I rush up again. Christ, if she’d discovered the dog in there. I practically kick Sukie down the stairs, because she’s bounding around my feet, thinking this rushing game is a lark.
I stuff the polishing-jumper into my bag. My socks stink of dried pee and bleach, and I’m about to put them on when I remember the mug. Damn, I drop the socks and rush into the kitchen with the mug, swill it, wipe it, inspect it, swill it again while scrubbing the ring of dry tea with my finger and place it on the draining board. Splashes in the sink! She’ll see them. Splashes would have dried over the course of the day. She’ll know I’ve only just left. I rush across the living room. Sukie yelps as I trip over her and she scurries around, back and forth, head down, ears back, no doubt trying to guess which way I’ll go next. I rip the jumper from my bag, dash back to the kitchen and dry the sink and draining board.
No time for socks, I realise, glancing at my watch as I slam my feet into the laced up shoes. The tongue of one shoe bunches into a nipping-fold, the insole of both shoes crumple. I ram the socks folded in the jumper into my bag. Remembering the book I crawl over the carpet to retrieve it. Sukie spirals around me, yapping in excitement at the latest twist in the game. I backhand her flank in temper, and she darts behind the sofa with a yelp. Making certain I have the key in my pocket, a quick look into the house and I leave.
I rush up to the park gates, quickly navigating two old women. Like a toy with a tightly wound spring, the last forty-five minutes have upset my usual steady manner and my heart feels as if it’s going to pop. Feelings of guilt mix with anticipated hope and longing as I stride faster.
My mind is still racing around the house. Did I put the cloth back in the cupboard? Did I leave any of the bottles out? Did I close her bedroom door again after letting Sukie out? Did I close the underwear-drawer? Did I put the cloth back? Yes. Bedroom door? Think so. Did I drop a sock on the doormat? No! Yes.
Yah! Yah!
“Hey,” I hear.
Empty toilet roll holder!
“Keith? Not talking, today?”
Yah! Yah!
“Shut up!”
“Keith?”
With a halt, butterfly brakes clattering in my stomach, I realise whose voice I heard. “Sally.” Smiling I turn around to face her. “Hi. Sorry. Didn’t see you. Rushing. Bit late, actually.” My heavy breathing backs up my statement.
“Oh! Been running all the way?” Sally tips her head and places the palm of her right hand over her heart, her outstretched fingers lengthened by fingernails that are manicured and coated a rich crimson. “It isn’t because of taking Sukie out for me is it? Because if it’s too much trouble–”
“No!” I form a tight grip on the key to Sally’s house. “Everything’s fine,” I pant. “It was something else. Er... an errand. Yes, an errand I ran for Mrs Sewell, my neighbour. No, I enjoy walking Sukie. You know how I like the park.”
Sally smiles, and I spot the tension drop from her shoulders, just like it said in the book: Reading the hidden communication of body language.
“I, I should get going.” Gradually I back away from her, only small steps but backing away all the same. I recall that garlic smells strongly on a person’s breath. I’ve smelled it on others and thought it disgusting.
A puzzled sort of look passes across Sally’s eyes, but, even though I’ve read the book, some expressions are still too difficult for me to read. It’s a bit like listening to an intense debate in a foreign language having only learned the very basics of vocabulary. The best I can guess at is worry, that she is concerned about something.
I can smell all the scents of the day on my body, in my hair, in my pocket, in my bag, and I back off a step, maintaining four feet of distance, as Sally steps closer. Again her face contorts into a subtle, unreadable expression. Worry, perhaps. Or maybe concern? I can’t determine, but it doesn’t bode well.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, with a note of reluctance, worried that she will smell everything I’ve been up to, if not immediately then with reflection when she enters her home.
“Keith,” Sally says my name slowly. “I will go for that drink with you, tomorrow... If you still want to, that is?”
I feel a compulsion to rush forward and embrace her. But I can’t, I need to remain at a safe distance, where, hopefully she will not smell the scents of her house on me. “Yes... that would be great. Where? You choose if– Anywhere would be– I don’t really–”
“In the day though, Keith, alright? Like in a café, or something, yeh?” She ponders a moment. “Ooh! I know, that one by the library. It’s nice there. One o’clock?”
This could be the beginning of something. There’s the empty toilet roll, though; that might just bugger everything up. There’s a strong chance that if she is unaware of everything else that she will notice the toilet roll and it will ruin everything?
“Sally, I’ve got a confession. The thing is– It’s– Well I– I used your toilet. I didn’t want to but... I sort of, had too.” Instinctively I hang my head for an expected berating.
“Crikey, Keith, is that all?” Sally blows a theatrical sigh, and wafts a hand before her face. “You had me worried that it was something really awful for a minute. Thought you’d gone off me. See you Saturday then, around one-ish, OK? Bye.”
Sally swivels her hips as she turns away. She looks over her shoulder, and waves her fingers like a little girl.
“Bye.” I want to run and catch her up, kiss her full on the lips, but I satisfy the hunger with a squeeze of the satin ball in my pocket. As the distance between us increases I take the knickers from my pocket and hold them to my nose for a sniff of her scent.
CHAPTER
18
It was Paul Frazer’s idea. “I saw it in a cowboy film,” he told the mob of ten who were pinning us to the ground. “It’s how they punished people who’d done a crime.”
Under his instruction, four of them grabbed our arms, two to each.
Heather Unwin looked on, her arms folded, her face bearing the expression of violated victim come prosecutor and hangman.
Most of the mob let go and went around the playground shouting anybody want to play at army, forming a long line of arm-in-arm with all those that did. Before we could try and get to our feet, those holding our arms began to drag us. At first walking, they gradually got faster, shouting, “Yah! Yah!” as if spurring on a team of horses.
“Yah! Yah! String
him up in yonder tree boys.”
We tried to keep to our feet but we kept stumbling and our knees took the bouncing-brunt of the punishment. It was painful. We cried. Our throat hurt with the constriction of sadness and self-pity. Saliva soaked our shirt. Eventually they dropped us to the ground and ran away to play at army.
At least they didn’t string us up in a tree.
When we looked at the knees of our trousers, though, we knew it wasn’t over; we would get some sort of a stringing. It would be worse; we would get a roping: a damp roping. A what-for-roping.
Hoping for mercy, we told Mother the truth.
“Liar!” she shouted. “Why on Earth would they do that? You are a nasty little liar.”
We did not want to mention the Heather Unwin incident.
We’d already had the what-for for that one.
We admitted to lying and had to fetch the soap. She forced it in our mouth. It was a new block. Rectangular. Our teeth scraped grooves in the soap as she pushed it so far in that we gagged. Soap scraped onto our teeth as she drew it back out. In and out it went, lathering on the surface of our tongue.
“Put it back under the sink” she demanded. “Donchadare-spit. Spitting is a filthy habit. Spit, an’ you’ll know what for.”
We’d already got some what-for. We certainly didn’t want any, you’ll know what for, as well.
Rubbing our thumb over the tracks on the soap, we swirled spit around our mouth and forced against our throat’s refusal to swallow. A frothing vomit began to rise which we forced back down our throat.
“Stand there,” she told us, before she herself left the room.
Stand there we did, not daring to face the sounds she made in the kitchen. Spy-ers are next to liars.
Imperfect Strangers Page 12
