“Of what?”
“I’m afraid I might hurt myself.”
She took a breath, a long one. She was in the bedroom. She had an open suitcase on the bed. “We’ve been through this. I’ve phoned Rebecca,” she said. “She’s coming over. I’m going to pack.” She then went to the drawers and started emptying them. It was very clear to me that if I was going to hurt myself, that was my problem now.
“Forget it,” I said. “Forget I said that.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Can I help you with anything?” I said.
She shook her head and carried on with her packing and I went back to the lounge. I thought, hell, I can always hurt myself later. Which is the thing to remember about self-mutilation and suicide. There’s never any hurry, you’ve always got it as an option. I prefer to keep it that way, in reserve, as a fallback position. I turned on the TV. This was daytime, but I was watching a video so that was okay. I was watching Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. A strange feeling of contentment crept over me. Sophie hadn’t gone yet. She was still here, she was in the house, packing. The TV was on. Something would come up. I felt increasing certainty that she wouldn’t leave. A quiet inner confidence. She hadn’t left yet. She didn’t leave last night. She wasn’t going to leave this morning. Something would happen. An eleventh-hour reprieve. Sophie would change her mind.
Rebecca came around; they got the suitcases down the stairs. I could hear them whispering in the hall and banging the suitcases on the stairway. That was really my job, to be carrying suitcases. When Sophie changed her mind I’d help her get them back up. I turned up the TV so I didn’t have to listen. HAL was dying. “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do . . .”
Then I realized Sophie was standing right in front of me.
“I’m going,” she said. She had to raise her voice above the TV.
“Okay,” I said. Ha, that got her, I thought. She won’t do it. I was utterly convinced she wouldn’t do it. I turned off the TV. I listened. There was nothing. The house was empty. I went to the kitchen, my footsteps accelerating as I walked. I had a sense of impending doom, of horror and unstoppable menace.
But now that I was here, in the kitchen, alone, now that I was in complete privacy and freedom with plenty of time on my hands and no particular thing to live for that I could think of at the time, what I saw with total clarity was that I absolutely did not want to hurt myself. I saw that very clearly. What I most wanted was to treat myself with the utmost sensitivity, care and respect. I think this is where upbringing really comes into play. So when I looked at the green-handled Zwilling, what I focused on was that it had dried cheese on the blade and greasy fingermarks on the handle.
And that led me to observe that there were other dishes also. They were all over the damn place, they were stacked to the roof. No one had been thinking about things like dishes for the last couple of days—absolutely not. The conversations over the last couple of days had not been kitchen conversations. Take it from me. Sophie had gone, but the dirty dishes remained.
Then I remembered the vodka, which was in fact the whole reason I was here in the first place. The vodka was in the fridge, keeping cold in the freezer. The fridge was on my right, and the dishes were on my left, and the knife was in the middle. I had a world of choice, right there in an abandoned kitchen.
I took a step into the room. The fridge must have heard me coming because it started up. It was an old one and it made a sound like a V8. It had fins too. I was going to have a vodka. I was going to have too much vodka. But there was something I had to do first. I washed every single dish in that kitchen. I scrubbed the pots, I soaked the casserole, I even did the gas grill, which was solid with melted cheese and toast crumbs. I got the kitchen clean, and then I opened the fridge door and poured myself a large glass of cold vodka.
I told myself, Frederick, you have done well. You have shown the self-control, the maturity and strength of character to do all the dishes including the gas grill prior to getting badly and completely wasted. And if you can do that, the very day that your happiness walked out the door, you can do anything. This can augur nothing but good. I predict a bright future. I predict a long and happy life, full of successes, friends, and all good things.
I then drank the entire glass. And the rest of course is history. I woke up many hours later shoeless in the stairwell. But the first thing I thought to myself as I lay there was this: At least I did the dishes. I clung to that knowledge as I crawled up a flight. I cradled that knowledge as I dry-retched in the bathroom, as I crawled toward that lonely double bed, as I discovered that Sophie had taken the sheets. As I wrapped myself in the curtains and lay down to attempt fitful dreaming sleep. That knowledge sustained me. No life, no matter how desperate the circumstances, is without hope, just as long as you do the dishes.
Yes. Learn from me. Do the dishes. Brush your teeth—twice a day—shave, daily, wash your clothes. Don’t watch television during the day except for brief snatches in airports and the windows of appliance stores. Be kind to animals. Change all underwear every day—regardless of apparent necessity. Cook your own evening meal at least four times a week. Never drink before six o’clock. Use the vacuum cleaner. Get up in the morning. Go to bed at night. These are the things that will see you through. Things that will not help include (but are not limited to): talking to seemingly sympathetic people you don’t really know, especially while drinking, drinking, breaking small objects, flinging yourself against walls, punching bricks, failing to forward mail, kicking cats, raving wildly at friends, staring at photographs, staring out windows, staring at walls, cars, gutters, hungry people, women, the swirling waters of the Thames, electrified rails. Staring is generally not a good idea. Leads to eye strain.
It’s a nice cup of tea. In a minute I’ll do those dishes. I become vaguely aware that for a long time now I’ve been aware of yapping. Freddy frequently yaps, but never for this long and never at this time of night. I look at my watch. It’s three. I ease open the door. Mee is still there. He’s snoring gently. I step over him and go up the half-flight to Mrs. Traversham’s door. I can see Freddy through the frosted glass, a dark batlike shape leaping, scrabbling, leaping again.
I knock. “Mrs. Traversham?” No reply. I get out my key and slip inside. Freddy prances around my ankles, yapping like mad. He’s done his business on the carpet. “Mrs. Traversham? Might I intrude?”
The bedroom door is open and from the hall I can see her feet, both shoes on. She’s lying on the bed. She’s fast asleep. Freddy yaps. I tap on the door and stick my head around the corner. “Please do forgive me for intruding at such an hour . . .”
She’s lying down, fully dressed. She’s on her back, arms at her sides, perfectly still. But it’s all wrong. She’s too still. The stillness of her body is unnatural. It fills the room. Her hands are wrong. They’re at the wrong angle. So is her head. When I touch her hand it’s so cold it gives the impression of hardness, of stone. I take a step back. It’s the stillness. It’s unbearable. It rises off her, a miasma of immobility.
“Oh, God, Mrs. Traversham.” I stare and I stare. I know what this is, but I can’t think of the word. Not yet.
So still.
I keep thinking I can see her chest rising and falling, but it’s an optical illusion. It’s like the road going backward when you stop the car. Actually, there’s nothing. There’s not the slightest breath. I take another step back.
Her eyes are slitted as if she’s watching me slyly from under her lashes. Her mouth is slack, her cheeks caved inward, her jaw falling open toward her chest.
God, someone help her.
Freddy is yapping, yapping.
They arrive about the same time, an ambulance and a pair of children disguised as constables, one male and one female. The female listens to the story and takes down my details. The police don’t want her moved until she’s been seen by a doctor, so the ambulance crew go away again. The WPC offers to make me a cup of tea, which I acc
ept. We all three sit at the kitchen table.
“Did you know her well, then?” asks the WPC.
“Not so well, really, I guess. I’ve only been here a few months. I mean, I really liked her.”
“Poor old duck.” The male constable is back from the hall. He’s been looking through Mrs. Traversham’s address book by the telephone. “How many numbers do you think she had in there? Hardly a one.”
“Still,” says the WPC, “she was lucky, really. I hope to God I go like that. Quick and quiet, at home in bed. My granddad, he lingered for months. We all just had to sit there and watch him waste away, slowly, before our very eyes. Every day, he was a little thinner, a little weaker. And he suffered. God, he suffered.”
“What did he die of?” I ask.
“Cancer.”
“Yeah,” says the MPC, “but to die all alone like that. That’s sad. I’d hate to die alone. I don’t think there could be anything worse than to have your last moments alone.”
“She had the dog.”
“There’s no comfort in a dog. Not at a time like that.”
I’m beginning to think Mrs. Traversham is better company. The doctor arrives. He goes into the room alone, comes out twenty minutes later and sits down with us at the kitchen table. He’s fifty, fattish, with white hair and amazing eyebrows.
“Are you Mr. Case? The boarder?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How are the filmmaking activities?” He smiles. “She mentioned you from time to time.”
“Oh.”
The WPC looks interested. “Are you a filmmaker?”
“Yes, I’m a producer.”
“What do they do? Producers?”
“We handle the money.” They both look at me disbelievingly. “What sort of films do you produce, then?”
“We have a number of projects in development.” I turn to the doctor. “How did she die?”
“A stroke, without a doubt. She was hypertensive.”
“Really?”
“She probably felt unwell, perhaps a headache, she would have gone to have a lie down, and most likely she died very suddenly, as is suggested by her failure to remove her shoes. She probably didn’t feel a thing.” He shakes his head and his eyes moisten. “She was a dear old soul. It’s a shame she never got home. She often talked of it but she never got there.”
“How do you mean?”
He looks at me in surprise. “Didn’t you know? She was a New Zealander.”
He declines the offer of a cuppa, pats my shoulder, and leaves.
The ambulance crew come back. They go into her room, come out moments later carrying a stretcher. I stand at the door as she is carried away. It’s about five-thirty. Mee, on my doorstep, down a half-flight, is yawning and stretching and looking around. I close the door quickly. Freddy looks up from his bowl, Branston Pickle smeared over his muzzle.
I go to the window. It’s still dark outside. I try to imagine tracer bullets arcing across the darkness, flashes of light, searchlights waving to and fro, the crump of artillery, ack-ack, the drone of bombers, fighters, the glow of fires. Maybe that’s what I need. A good war. Something to get me going.
I’m trapped in Mrs. Traversham’s for another hour while Mee knocks, and waits, but eventually he gives up, and I nip downstairs to get my phone.
“Darling! How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“What are you up to at this moment?”
“As a matter of fact I’m just planning a holiday. I was wondering if I could change my mind about the cash situation.”
“Of course you could darling.”
This is not a backward step, I tell myself, when I’ve hung up. I have to have the money. I have a purpose. I have a mission. I have a place to be and someone to see. I glance at my watch again. Hell, damn and blast. It’s now six. I have to be in prison in a couple of hours.
Chapter 6
I’VE NEVER BEEN TO PRISON before so I’m not sure what the dress code is, but I’ve gone for tweed. It’s an exquisite three-piece in pale green with a mauve check. Genuine Scottish. Cost me seven hundred quid. I bought it for the premiere of Consequential Damage, which came after Flagrant Consequence. Consequential Damage established Sophie as a serious actress, capable not only of looking good in underwear but of looking intelligent in underwear. I’m wearing my Church’s brogues. I can see myself in the toes: I have to say I’m looking less than calm. My palms are sweaty and I have a fluttery feeling in my chest. I keep thinking my heart has stopped. The pills from Dr. McVeigh are in my top pocket. They come in blister packs of seven, one for each day of the week. They’re tiny, round and white. They look like tiny skulls.
WELCOME TO HISTORIC SITTLEBURY
We’re out of the cutting now and blasting past a huge Park-n-Ride, then we’re racing along the platform of a sleepy suburban station. There’s a Goth girl on a bench seat. I catch sight of her as she flashes by. Raven-haired, she’s dressed all in black. Black leather, black platforms, black lipstick. Her face made up dead white. She’s slightly hunched over, her hair falling slightly forward. Her mouth gapes wide, black lips stretched tight across white teeth. She’s yawning. The train begins to slow.
Down the hill the sleepy town of Sittlebury. Before me a giant brick wall, twenty feet high. The bricks old, the mortar crumbling. Rusty razor-wire coiled haphazardly along the top. Set in the wall a set of double gates, and set inside the gates a small postern, with a Plexiglas spy hole. On the wall a sign with a list of “don’ts” for visitors. No drugs, no weapons, no alcohol. I now understand the true horror of prison. It is more dreadful than anything I could ever have guessed. It’s exactly like school.
Waiting with me are the other visitors. A relaxed crowd, chatting amongst themselves, chewing gum, the occasional low-key joke. The dress code is mixed—a few shell suits, a smattering of fake fur and imitation leopard, and one ultra-ultramini in red plastic. I stick out like a spare prick, especially in view of the fact that I’m the only male. More than one glance comes my way.
The spy hole rattles open, then shut, and a moment later the postern opens. Silver buttons glint on a dark uniform. “All right, one at time please.” We line up. When it gets to my turn, the postern is so low I have to duck to get through. I’m inside the gatehouse. I queue again, with the women, in front of a reception desk guarded by a thick Plexiglas window. I’m panicking already. I try to copy the women, who assume an air of detached nonchalance. I wish I had some gum. When it’s my turn at the window I slip my passport through the slot and state my business.
“Frederick Case. I’m with the Artists in Prisons program.”
“The wot?”
“Artists in Prisons.”
“Got a name? Someone I can contact?”
“A Dr. Bartholomew Higgins. I think he’s with the Secure Unit.”
He shakes his head, wanders over to a phone. There’s a long pause involving repeated telephone calls. The guard comes back to the window. “Wait over there, please.” I go to the bench indicated. I wait. One by one the women go through, leaving me alone. Cheap perfume still hangs in the air. I look at my watch. It’s been half an hour already. I can feel my heart. It’s unnaturally heavy. I’m already wishing I hadn’t come. They didn’t actually ask me, they asked Sophie, but she was busy so I suggested she suggest me. I think I had some insane idea that it would be an ego boost. I wanted to go to Brixton but they got Glenda Jackson. Sittlebury Secure Unit got me.
Another guard is standing over me. He’s about twenty-five, his neck is thicker than his head and his pants are way, way too tight. “You for the Secure Unit?” I nod. He takes me through the metal door to security. The door slams shut behind me and locks. A female officer with exquisite skin, a tight shirt and piles of gorgeous hair gestures to a metal table.
“Put your bag on the table please, sir.”
I put my bag on the table while the guard with the tight pants approaches from the rear. He frisks me, thoroughly, while the femal
e goes through my bag. Tight-pants finds the pills in my top pocket, while the female with exquisite skin finds my pocket knife, my Walkman and some books. All these items go on a tray and the tray goes in a locker. They walk me through a metal detector, pass me the key to the locker and push me into a small annex with an iron-barred door looking onto a tiny, grim courtyard.
I stand by the bars, staring into space. I feel oppressed and tearful. I look at my watch. If I’m like this after forty minutes, what would ten years do?
“Mr. Case?” A tiny scruffy man in a corduroy suit is in the courtyard on the other side of the bars, squinting up at me. He can’t be more than five feet tall. He has a graying wispy beard, thick black plastic glasses held together with sticking plaster, a nose dotted with blackheads, and a fruity Oxbridge accent. “I’m Dr. Bartholomew Higgins. I’m the Secure Unit probation officer.” He smiles. “But you can call me Bart.” When he smiles his whole face crumples. That smile, in a place like this, is a drink of water. It’s a ray of sunshine, a flower in the desert. It’s one hell of a smile. I grip his hand through the bars and I never want to let go. Tight-pants wanders over, pulls out a bunch of keys, lets me through.
I follow Bartholomew Higgins, toting a huge bunch of complicated-looking brass keys, through a gate in the fence down a narrow barbed-wire alley and through another gate that opens onto the main prison grounds. Dr. Higgins points out the administration block on one side and the main prison block on the other. It’s a huge five-story Victorian brick building, row upon row of tiny barred windows staring sightlessly down on us. Rusty water weeps slowly down the blackened walls.
The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life Page 8
