by Nicci French
‘That was quick–’ I said, and broke off because it wasn’t Charlie but Dean, clutching a beer can.
‘I waited for your old man to go,’ he said, stepping past me into the house. ‘I’m being considerate, see?’
He took a sip from his can.
‘I brought my own this time,’ he said. He looked at me curiously. ‘Been in another fight?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
He rubbed his nose as if it itched. He muttered something I couldn’t make out.
‘So?’ I said.
‘Yeah?’
‘What are you here for?’
‘You know what I’m here for.’
‘I’ve just been in hospital,’ I said. ‘I only got back a few minutes ago. Anyway, I told you, I don’t have any money. I can’t pay Vic Norris.’
‘What do you mean you can’t pay?’ Dean said, in a jeering tone. ‘This is your fucking house, isn’t it?’
‘It’s all mortgaged. I don’t have any money.’
He took a gulp of beer. ‘It don’t bother me,’ he said. ‘I’m just the person he sends to get things. I’m not the person he sends to do things. I’ll be in the shit when I tell him that you’ve done nothing but you’ll be in worse shit.’
‘I can’t…’
He walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up an ornamental green glass decanter that we’d been given as a wedding present.
‘That’s worth about a hundred pounds,’ I said. ‘You can have it.’
He dropped it on to the floor and it shattered into a thousand green fragments. ‘It’s not enough,’ he said. He drained the last of his beer. ‘You can get the money. Anybody can get money if they really have to. And you fucking really have to.’
‘If you threaten me, I’ll call the police.’
Dean placed the can on the coffee-table. Then, almost absent-mindedly, as if he were alone, he unzipped his flies, took out his little pink penis and pissed in a heavy pungent splashing yellow stream that formed a pool on the floorboards. With an awkward twist of his hips he pushed it back inside his trousers and zipped himself up.
‘What you’ll do,’ he said, ‘is get the money. If you don’t have it next time, you won’t see me again. I just do the messenger stuff. I’m the nice one.’ He walked to the door. ‘We’ll discuss it with your old man as well.’ He grinned. ‘Thanks for the use of your toilet.’
I walked to the lavatory calmly enough, leaned over the bowl and vomited and vomited until my stomach was empty. Then I fetched a bucket, a cloth and a toilet roll and cleaned up the living room, the broken glass and the piss. When it was all gone, I wiped the floor with bleach and then I wiped it with bleach again. When I was done, I looked at my palms. They were like those of a corpse that had been under water for a week.
22
I had a night of jagged dreams and woke to thoughts that were themselves like nightmares.
‘You’re ill,’ Charlie said, standing over me as I tried to get dressed. He even took me by the arm and tried to pull me back to bed but I was stronger.
I tore myself away and plucked a garment from the wardrobe. It had a creamy ruff at the neck and sleeves. I was Elizabeth I. I was a Tudor gentleman. I wrapped a scarf round my gashed head. ‘Peasant woman instead,’ I said. ‘Potato-picker. Northern Spain and donkeys, and the men just sit and drink in the shade.’
‘Listen to me, Holly,’ said Charlie. His face was very near mine, and his mouth was opening and shutting like that of a fish. I could see the veins on his skin and the individual tiny stubble hairs on his chin. I could smell his breath. I drew back. ‘You have to go back to bed now,’ he continued. ‘You have to let me look after you.’
‘Don’t shout,’ I said. ‘It’s like a rubber ball inside my head, bouncing all over the place. I could draw a diagram of the surprising angles. Arrows and dotted lines. Cut here.’
‘Holly, darling Holly, it’s not even seven.’
‘I need to work. I need to pay the mortgage. If I stop, everything will just go off the rails,’ I said. ‘Crash. Shriek of tearing metal. No one else can pick up the pieces. Just me.’
I pulled out a pair of shoes. One seemed higher than the other. Never mind. I pushed my bandaged foot into it.
‘You need to work,’ I said. ‘You need to get going, Charlie. Your life’s running away and it’s leaving you behind.’
‘Look, give me a moment and I’ll come with you. All right? You can’t go alone. I’ll put some clothes on, we’ll have breakfast, and then we’ll get the Underground together.’
‘Never again,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Never the Underground again. Never. All together like ants in an antheap, bugs under a slimy great boulder. Stone and earth above and beneath and to each side. We’re buried alive down there, Charlie, don’t you see? Stuck in this little capsule of oxygen and everyone breathing in everyone else’s stale, dirty, morning-after breath.’
‘We’ll get a bus.’
‘We can walk together, over the rickety bridge. You have to hold me tight – you never know what I may go and do.’
‘Holly, sit on the bed and wait. I’ll have a shower. You should put on some proper clothes.’
‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘Never mind me.’
‘Do you promise you’ll wait?’
‘Promise,’ I said. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
What a darling idiot to trust me. He went into the bathroom and I heard the water start. I wobbled lopsidedly down the stairs and out of the house.
I was walking but it felt oddly like being in a speeding car. Things loomed up at me unexpectedly, trees and people and walls. My feet hit the kerb and I skidded out on to the road. A horn blared and brakes shrieked. I turned and saw a face twisted up in a car window just behind me. Someone who really hated me, I could tell by their glaring, maddened eyes. I made it across the road, limping, one shoulder higher than the other.
‘Look where you’re going!’
A woman with a buggy. I could see the dark roots in her dyed blonde hair. I wanted to tell her that everything shows up. You can’t get away with tricks. You can’t fool anyone for long. We’re all ridiculous, thinking we’re pulling the wool over people’s eyes when all the time we know. Everyone’s involved in the same mad charade. I remember charades when I was a child. Film (wind your fist round and round to imitate the reel on a loop). Four words (four fingers held up). First word, two syllables, it’s Christmassy – oh, God, Christmas is coming – where was I? Yes, Christmassy, and in a carol it goes with ‘ivy’. Right, Holly. Second word, one syllable. You’ve got it at once, haven’t you? Krauss. Holly Krauss. Holly Krauss is crap. Yes, yes, yes.
I walked over the bridge. There were wisps of mist left hanging over the river. It must have been cold because I breathed out plumes of air. I could feel the bridge move beneath me. I swear it was swaying like one of those flimsy suspension bridges with half the wooden slats missing in adventure movies. I kept nearly tripping. And it looked very long, stretching out above the great drop. How would it be possible to get to the other side? I’d done it before. If I’d done it before, did it mean I could do it again? I’d done everything before, lied and laughed and got through the fucking, fucking days, so did that mean I could do it now? Is that what life was? Is that all it was?
The end of the bridge was getting nearer. I glanced around and thought I saw a familiar figure, but the wind was making my eyes water so badly that I couldn’t make out anything clearly. Cars sliced past me. People walked in wide circles round me, avoiding me like the plague. Very wise. My shoes slid on the tipping, icy surface. I put one hand on the barrier and it felt sticky with cold. If I left it there, maybe my fingers would glue to the metal and I’d have to pull off the delicate skin at the tips to get free. Left, right, left, right. What was that rhyme my father used to chant? ‘Left, left, you had a good home and you left. Right, right, it serves you jolly well right.’
‘It serves you right,’
I said aloud.
I stepped off the end of the bridge and turned right and down the hill, the wind in my face, stumbling. A strange little noise was jerked out of my throat, then another.
‘Are you all right, love?’
I stared into the face of a woman with spiky brown hair and a pointy chin, looking at me. I could see a dot of condensation on her lip, and a chipped tooth. Nice face. Brown eyes, brows slightly raised.
‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.
‘Why do you want to know?’ I said.
‘You seem in difficulty. I just wondered if I could do anything to help.’
‘Yeah, right.’ I started to laugh.
‘Who can I call?’ she persisted.
‘You’ve no idea.’
Her gloved hand was under my elbow. Someone was making a strange noise, a berserk whining moan. There were people in a circle and all I could see were faces staring down at me. I was sitting on the pavement. That must be cold, I thought. I didn’t seem to be wearing tights and there was blood on my knee. It must look very odd. Maybe they’ll think I’ve just slipped and fallen.
‘I’ve slipped and fallen,’ I said. ‘Slipped and fallen over. Got to get up.’
‘Look at the way she’s dressed,’ said a voice. ‘She’s drunk.’
‘Just disorderly,’ I said.
‘What’s she saying?’
‘Disorderly!’ I said louder.
‘She’s shouting something now. She’s on something. Call for help.’
It was true that somebody was shouting. Matters were definitely getting out of control. It was like at a party where there’s a fight going on in another room and you hear glasses breaking, but by the time you go out to have a look, it’s all over. You just see the aftermath: chairs pushed over, people getting up, shouts. It seemed to be all aftermath. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there had been a scuffle. A couple of figures were sprawled on the ground, making strange noises. I felt a burning sensation on my knees and palms. I examined my hands and saw pink grazes speckled with dots of gravel. Some people were gathering round, as if there had been a car crash. Others were walking quickly past. There was evidently an emergency but as I looked around I couldn’t see it. It always seemed to have moved just out of my line of sight. ‘It’s behind you,’ a voice said to me quietly, so nobody could hear. I tried to catch it by looking around quickly but it was too quick for me. I started to ask people what was going on but nobody was able to explain it to me coherently. Some teenage girls simply laughed at me when I asked, so I went for them to teach them a lesson but they were too quick for me, three little matadors with me as the bull.
A car pulled up and a policeman and a policewoman got out. I asked them if we’d met last night. My memory was fuzzy. I expected them to start arresting people and conducting interviews, but the policewoman approached me and looked deep into my eyes. I felt as if my face was a window and she was looking through it at something far away. The two of them took me by each arm. I tried to pull away from them but my arms wouldn’t come free. I was pushed into the back of the police car as I attempted to explain that there must be a mistake. They had the wrong person. They didn’t seem to hear, so I had to shout and scream at them and still they paid no attention. The policewoman sat firmly beside me and the car drove away.
‘I’m late for work,’ I said. ‘I’ll direct you. Unless you’re taking me home. That’s just up the road. You’ll need to do a U-turn.’ The car did not make a U-turn. ‘Are we going to the police station? I’m sorry, I’ve got nothing to add to my statements.’
But they didn’t drive me to the police station, or to work, or home.
23
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
There was a pause.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Where are you?’
‘You didn’t ask that,’ I said. You asked if I knew where I was. And I said yes. Because I do.’
Deep breath.
‘All right. Could you tell me where you are?’
‘Yes, I could. Do you mean you want me to tell you where I am?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Don’t you know? You should do. You work here.’
‘I want to know if you do.’
‘I don’t work here.’
I couldn’t stop myself laughing. The day had started badly but now it seemed comic. I felt as if a migraine had passed away, leaving me a bit lightheaded but thinking more quickly and clearly than anybody else in the room. I looked at the young woman: DR CLEEVELY, her name-tag said, in square capital letters. She had a gleaming white coat and a gleaming white smile.
‘You’re thinking hard,’ I said. ‘You’re trying to come up with a form of question that will get me to say that I’m in the casualty department of a hospital. There, I said it. Unprompted.’
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ she said.
‘Oh, no, we’re not starting this again, are we? Ever since I was brought here by a man and a woman in uniform – don’t you think there’s something about people in uniform? When I first saw them I thought they were a pair of strippergrams. I mean, admittedly, it’s unusual for strippergrams to appear when you’re walking across Suicide Bridge. Suicide Bridge isn’t its real name, of course. It would be a terrible name for a bridge. Nobody would ever want to cross it. Or go under it. It’s actually called…’ I couldn’t remember the name. ‘But it is locally known, affectionately known, as Suicide Bridge. And the reason it’s called Suicide Bridge is, one, because people keep committing suicide on it. Well, not on it. Off it. And the reason they do is, one, because it is very high off the ground. The ground underneath. And, two, because, allegedly, I haven’t checked this, but allegedly it is the only place in London where you can kill yourself by jumping from one postal district, namely N19, and landing in another, namely N something else. What was the question again?’
‘Holly–’
‘That’s Miss Holly to you.’
‘I’m going to fetch someone who will examine you.’
‘What was it you were doing?’
‘I’m just the casualty officer.’
‘Don’t apologize.’
‘I won’t be a minute.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to work anyway.’
Dr Cleevely disappeared through the curtain that was pulled round the couch but unfortunately she left me with a very large nurse who said that if I tried to get up I would be made fast. I engaged her in conversation to relax her. We had only just started talking about Zimbabwe, where she came from, when Dr Cleevely came back with another doctor, an Asian woman called Dr Mehta. She said hello and told me she was the duty psychiatrist.
‘This is the point where I say, “Psychiatrist? I don’t need a psychiatrist. I’m perfectly sane.”’
Dr Mehta didn’t smile. She was a serious young lady with a clipboard and she began by asking for my name, date of birth and address. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘I can’t do this again,’ I said. ‘I’m really too busy. If you must know, the police brought me.’
‘Why?’
‘I think they were probably tired of me. I’ve had some dealings with them lately. It’s a long story.’
‘Yes?’ said Dr Mehta.
‘All right, you asked for it. Someone threatened me and – as a matter of fact, lots of people threatened me recently and the one I’m talking about right now, well, he’s probably in this hospital at the moment because I hit him with a mirror that used to belong to my grandmother. Anyway, I’m sure it was this hospital and I was here the other day, I can’t remember which day – it’s hard to tell days apart, isn’t it? –but he only tried to hurt me because of this woman I fired, plus there’s this man who’s fixated with me. We did actually have sex, but it was nothing. I know, I’m married. I know, I know, but I’ve talked about it to Charlie, it was awful, but we’re working at it. The
n there’s this other youth who came to the house and pissed all over my floor – but I’m not allowed to talk about that. No one must know.’ I stopped. ‘I’m listening to myself as I’m talking and I realize that, from your point of view, it sounds crazy. But honestly it’s true. Ask the police about the man who attacked me. Not the ones who brought me. They probably don’t know about it. Or ask Charlie, my husband. I know I sound paranoid but it’s completely true. Just check it up.’ I stopped. ‘No, don’t check it, none of it really matters any more. It’s not relevant, is it?’ I tried to make eye-contact with her but she was scribbling on her clipboard.
She looked up. ‘Tell me what was happening when the police picked you up.’
‘I didn’t see much,’ I said. ‘I was on my way to work. There was some kind of brawl. The police got the wrong end of the stick. They should have let things take their course.’
‘Was your behaviour unusual?’
‘I don’t know what that means. What are you writing on your clipboard?’
‘I’m taking notes.’
‘Have I passed?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘You’re trying to fit me into your little boxes. You’re trying to assess me, aren’t you?’
‘Provisionally, yes.’
‘It won’t work now,’ I said, ‘because I know what you’re doing. You won’t be able to work out whether I’m telling the truth or whether I’m saying something I think you’ll want to hear or whether I’m saying something that I happen to know a sane person would say or that I’m just a sane person saying sane things or alternatively whether I’m a sane person saying insane things because she’s nervous and so is trying to imitate a sane person and failing.’
‘You’re wearing your nightclothes,’ said Dr Mehta.
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘You’ve caught me out. Brilliant. Is this some sort of game?’
‘It was just an observation.’
There was a bustle behind the curtain. Someone was trying to get through and failing comically. It made me think of the theatre, curtain down. A face appeared. A familiar face. Charlie’s.
