I swallow and swallow but this lump in my throat won’t go. “He’s… he’ll be devastated. It’s like she was… she was… the only thing he had.”
“Mary,” he calls, and another assistant comes running, “can you help this lady fill out the relevant paperwork. Would you like the dog to be cremated or buried? You decide.”
I stare at him, aghast. “I’m a friend of Terry Jones. What do you think he’d say if he were here? He’d say you were treating me shoddily, that’s what he’d say.”
I don’t know why I dropped the name of Warrick’s dad. I just want this man to treat me with a little more respect than to be asking about burial or cremation already.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as I watch one of the ladies wash down the dog with a cloth, “but this dog is someone’s only lifeline and she just disappeared. We could all be responsible for another life ending tonight. I just don’t know.”
“Call Warrick,” the vet tells me, “he’ll know exactly what to do.”
So I do. I call my saviour. My saviour in all aspects of life.
I’m in the room alone when he answers. The nurses and vets have left me be.
He knows as soon as he hears my voice that something’s wrong.
“I’m at the vets near you. His dog was poorly. She died here. She… I don’t… I can’t…” I can hardly bloody speak. Why won’t my fucking tongue work? “I promised him I would get her back. I promised him!”
He listens to me go off on one, crying and snivelling, before he says calmly, “I can’t close down the centre. I don’t have an assistant anymore. I can’t get away. All I can do is advise you. And I advise you to take the body to him and for you to explain. Give him the body so he knows the truth. Tell him you tried to get her medicine but she was too tired.”
“But I promised him, Warrick…!”
“Hetty, you can do this. You’re strong enough to do this. Help him bury her, help him say goodbye.”
“He didn’t even seem bothered about her bleeding, Warrick. It’s like he thought she would march on forever for him but as soon as she was released, she gave up. I don’t know what to do!”
“He’s got learning difficulties, Hetty. This is going to be tough for him. He won’t understand at first which is why you have to be gentle with him and explain. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay, okay.”
“Where’s Joe anyway?”
“Oh, he went to the gym.”
“That boy lives there.”
I say nothing about my fears – my fear that Joe goes to the gym whenever he can’t handle real life. That if he’d have been given the choice this morning, he would have reared those puppies himself.
I’m in such a mess when I get off the phone that I numbly say to one of the people in the vets, “I’m gonna take her and bury her. Can you put her in something for me?”
The nurse nods. “Of course.”
With shaking fingers I fill out forms and pay the bill for a dead dog.
I don’t really care about my health right now so I stop at a newsagents and chain smoke all the way home. God, that feels so good and it covers up the smell of dead dog in my car.
I’VE SPENT THE best part of an hour trying to convince him to come to my house and now he won’t get out of my car. Don’t get me wrong I feel sorry for him but I also feel sorry for my car which he’s currently stinking out! Not to mention myself.
He hasn’t got a clue what’s happened; I’ve only told him that Kyla’s at my house and he has to come if he wants to see her.
Joe’s out with a friend tonight which I’m glad about. They’ve gone to see ‘Fast and Furious 12’ or whatever it is. I told him not to rush back and to leave the dead dog and the explaining to Mars to me. (It wasn’t easy explaining a dead dog to Joe when he walked in the door earlier, so this is going to be so much harder – telling the owner.)
He’s hugging his backpack on his knee and he’s stiff, as though he’s scared, I don’t know. Maybe he can sense the truth.
“You have to come indoors.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Cos.”
“Cos, what?”
“I’m retarded but I’m not blind.”
“What?” I demand, sounding more than a little annoyed.
“She’s dead, init. Right?”
“She’s waiting for you. It’s time to say goodbye and you know you have to do this. You do know that, don’t you?”
He sighs, everything falling out of him. He knows.
I leave the car and wait, tapping my feet on the ground. Very slowly he leaves the vehicle and rounds the car. His speech is a little stunted when he mumbles, “After this we’re done, Blue Girl.”
“The name’s Hetty,” I correct him, “Hetty.”
I take him down the side entrance of my house, through the gate that leads to the backyard. He follows, or rather shuffles.
I don’t have a garden but I don’t want Mars in my house either so he’ll have to come this way.
“She’s in here,” I tell him, showing him inside my tiny shed, which contains an old bike of mine, a few tools and now, Kyla laid out on some waterproof wrap, my fleece jacket covering her belly and all that mess there.
A cough, maybe a splutter, escapes him. Whatever the noise, I know the sound of pain when I hear it. He drops his backpack to the cold ground, crawls on his knees, and lays his head on top of hers.
“It’s all right, girl,” he says, “it’s all right.”
He pats the top of her head, kisses her and stands, facing me with blood-red, tear-soaked eyes.
“You promised you’d save her!” he accuses.
I suck in breath and draw in strength. “They gave her a painkiller and she died shortly after.”
“How’d we know it wasn’t poison, eh?”
“I paid for your dog’s medical bills today, mister. I paid for a dead creature’s treatment. So don’t you tell me I didn’t do everything I could. Don’t you dare!”
He shakes his head, as if I’m the enemy, as if I’m no different to the rest.
“I even dropped Warrick’s name! The vet knows his dad. They didn’t mug us off. They wouldn’t.”
He tuts, his eyes lifeless and numb, tears and snot drifting freely, without encumbrance. He doesn’t care how he looks.
“We went through so much,” he says, “me and that dog, we’ve fought wars together. You said you would save her! You said! And now all this has been for nothing. Nothing!”
Aware my neighbours will be complaining in ten minutes if he doesn’t stop shouting, I push him through the backdoor and into the kitchen.
“Shut the fuck up and sit down,” I demand, “and you better not mess with me. Ask anyone.”
He shakes his head in a long and laboured manner, as if he can’t stand to share the very air I breathe, his eyes like fire, his mouth a crooked slant.
“You don’t know pain like me,” he complains.
“I don’t get this,” I surmise, “I don’t get the painting. I don’t get any of this. You’ve got talent. Why are you living like this… why?”
“Me dog,” he sneers, “she’s why I’ve become, this.” He pulls at his clothes like they’re the disgusting rags they are, like he knows and recognises this state he’s in as well as anyone else might.
“Right, I’m going to stick the shitting kettle on and we’re going to talk about this.”
He’s shaking his head still, as if I’m forcing purgatory on him with my insistence of a cup of tea.
What the hell am I actually doing?
I stick the kettle on anyway and brew two teas, because everyone likes tea, right? And tea solves everything.
After he’s got a cup of tea between his fingerless gloves, I ask again, “Why is it all her fault?”
He sips loudly, or rather slurps, explaining, “What with me learning difficulties and that, they gave me a dog to help me get right. Calm me. Give me some purpose, get out walking. All th
at bullshit that people say fixes you. I was living at me granddad’s but then he popped his clogs and I was kicked out of his place, nowhere to go. Nowhere what’d have Kyla too.”
Finally, he makes sense. “Where are your parents?”
“Only Jesus and they know. They left me when I was a baby. Granddad never tell me nothing.”
I nod along. “Staffies aren’t built to last, anyway, the vet told me…”
“Best and worst thing to ever happen to me, that dog.” He splutters and breaks down, hardly able to hold the cup he’s got in his hand. I take it for him and place it on the counter.
“I’m going to call Warrick now and ask him to fix you an appointment.”
He glares. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t want nothing from either of ya.”
“I can tell people have been unkind to you, Mars. But that’s not everyone. You need to let people help you now. You do not have to live like this.”
“Don’t want judgement, don’t want help. Don’t want anything.”
I suck in breath, desperate for air, even though I’m getting all I need. “There’s only one difference between you and me, Mars.”
“Yeah, what’s that then? Ya liar. I ain’t forgot you lied today.”
I purse my lips. Then point at my head. “This.”
“What’s… this?” He sarcastically mimics me.
“I’m cleverer than you, but I’ve never been anymore privileged than you.”
“Horseshit,” he blurts.
“It’s true. Only reason I’m standing is cause I have a brain and I used it. I got blessed with brains. Without this, I wouldn’t be here. I probably wouldn’t have survived as long as what you have on the streets.”
A frown embeds itself in his forehead. He looks at his feet and the shoes there, two trainers from different pairs. He cradles his tea and sheepishly takes a sip.
“Someone give us money to do that art.”
“How much money?”
“Just a few quid,” he almost whispers, “don’t remember now.”
“Who was this person?”
He looks me right in the eye and shakes his head. “Don’t know no name.”
“What did they look like?”
He shrugs, thinking about it. “Man, grey hair, big weird glasses, huge sideburns.”
He’s exactly describing nobody I’ve ever known before in my life. Could be random. Could be nobody.
“He should’ve given you more money,” I mumble, “I mean, I know it’s not your best, but he could’ve given you more.”
“Where did it go, by the way?” He gestures at my hair.
“Washed out,” I reply instantly.
He frowns, as if he thought my hair was really naturally blue. “But it was the same colour as your eyes.”
“They can do that, colour-match.”
He looks like he’s thinking about that. Maybe there’s so much he doesn’t know.
“Another thing,” he mumbles. “Knew the minute I saw you, you were another of his waifs and strays.”
“What?” I chuckle, failing to seem light-hearted.
“Warrick, only surrounds himself with waifs and strays like himself. The man don’t believe he deserve anything in life. Ya can tell. Way he’s always trying to save others, forgets himself. Anyways, wanted to show the world that even waifs and strays can be beautiful.”
“Last of the charmers, you, eh?”
“Nah,” he says, “don’t confuse me with a straighty.”
I chuckle. “At least my boyfriend has nothing to worry about, then.”
He looks around nervously, trying to find someone hiding behind a door.
“He’s Warrick’s son, Joe. He plays football.”
“For real? A tiger… here?” His eyes light up.
“For real. He just got signed. You should see him. He’s not even opened up his stride yet. He’s going to be big.”
“Shit day just got a bit better.”
At that moment the front door goes and Joe bellows, “Only me.”
Mars’s eyes go wild, looking side to side, a rabbit caught in the headlights. I can tell he’s not used to other people’s company, well other people who aren’t homeless like him.
“Mars wants to meet the latest tiger, babe.”
“Oh…”
Joe lands in the room, all six foot two of him, and Mars lights up at the sight of my handsome man all dolled up for his date with Vin Diesel.
“I’m gonna put pizza in.”
“Great,” Joe replies. “You having some, mate?”
“Yeah… yeah.” Mars still looks dazzled.
A thought occurs to me about the man Mars just described to me, the one with sideburns and big glasses and such. Jules told me Warrick was once undercover. I reckon that must have involved some acting.
JOE comes downstairs. I sent him up there to show Mars how to use the shower, and to give the guy some fresh clothes and a towel.
Joe scratches the back of his head. “I’m not imagining…”
“He’s gay… and a Tigers fan. So… nope.”
“Fine, no, fine.”
I think Mars has a little more than a star-struck look in his eye.
“Where’s he gonna sleep?” Joe asks me, looking awkward.
“He says he’ll sleep on the kitchen floor so he’s near Kyla tonight. I said we’d help him find somewhere to bury her in the morning.”
Joe doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “You don’t even like me dirtying the shower, let alone…”
“Mars is all right, Joe. He told me what happened to him.”
So I explain the story of Kyla and why he ended up homeless. I don’t mention that Mars shows all the markers of having been sexually abused, like that look in his eyes when anyone gets too close.
“That’s so sad,” Joe agrees.
“I know. Listen, maybe we should try getting him one of Kyla’s pups, if he finds a place and you know, if the pups even survive.”
“It’d be sweet, but we’d have to see, wouldn’t we? Besides I quite want one for us to have.”
“Really? They’re mutts, you do know that?”
“Mutts are the best.” He puts his arms around me, kisses me, then moans, “I can’t… not while there’s a stranger under our roof.”
I laugh into his face. “It’s only a night, I promise. We’ll sort him out tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope so, after all, he’s been on the streets a long time. There might not be a quick fix.”
The oven bleeps and I remove the pizza. “We can but try.”
IN the night I wake in a pool of cold sweat, lurching out of sleep dramatically. Joe, beside me, groans slightly and rolls away. He doesn’t know how often this happens.
I sit up and let the air surround me, cooling me off. I wish I hadn’t smoked the whole ten-pack earlier today. I could do with a cigarette right now. But one pack was all I would allow myself. I smoked them and now I’m done. It’s a psychological thing as much as a physical one.
I lie back down but it’s not happening. Sleep’s not my friend tonight. Only nightmares will return if I close my eyes and I know this because some nights are plagued by nightmares for some reason, and feature no nice dreams whatsoever. It’s the nights when the day before has been hard, when the memories have been prescient in relation to the present. Her voice, reminding me I will fail, that I’m good for nothing, that she’ll sing and dance when I prove her right. Not becoming the hate has been the biggest test of my life, one I’ve won, but one I still have to battle everyday.
They say trauma becomes a distant memory but you can’t put a timetable on recovery. Some days, some triggers, just bring everything crashing back to you. And it’s not a distinct memory either, it’s this familiar but unwanted sick feeling inside of you, a reminder of how life used to be. A general nausea, a sweeping pain, a deathly foreboding, a reminder I was once in so much pain, I wasn’t myself. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be truly myself �
�� how God intended me to be. I don’t know if I’ll ever get her back because I’ll always be marred my psychological and emotional triggers along the way.
I leave the bed and head downstairs. I needn’t have tiptoed. He’s sat up against the kitchen sideboard, his eyes focused on the bright moon outside, almost full.
I should make tea or something but I don’t have time for that.
Instead I grab the Jack Daniel’s and it takes the edge off the nausea and the pain. It dulls the screaming voices inside my head, shadows of the past yelling and fighting one another.
I take a seat on the floor beside him. “Want some?”
“Nah,” he says, and I notice that in his hands, he’s shuffling a pack of playing cards, but not the real ones, more like the sets you get in a Christmas cracker.
“Suit yourself.” I take another hearty swig, grateful that the yells and the cries are now dulling yet more, getting quieter.
“Drank some when I was four,” he said, “didn’t know what it was. It was left out. I remember being in hospital though. I remember nearly dying. It’s why my kidneys are still fucked up.”
That explains the strange colour of his skin and the sallow texture, maybe.
“I had a nightmare,” I confess.
Maybe it’s the drink talking, maybe it’s just me. I feel if I don’t say the words though, I might split in two.
“What about?” he asks.
“Don’t remember. Only remember the feelings.”
I chuck back another drink. I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks, not with Joe around, not with my life so good.
“I never have dreams or nothing,” he states, “when I sleep, I sleep like the dead. When I wake, I’m wide awake.”
“Why aren’t you asleep now?”
He shrugs. “Kyla. I don’t want her to be alone tonight. She’ll be with the angels tomorrow, right?”
“I think she’s probably there already.”
My last sip of JD tastes acidic and unwanted, no longer a salve, but a reality now. I know when to stop.
I’m putting the bottle away when he asks me, “Wanna know why I really drew you?”
I turn my sharp eyes on his. “Tell me.”
Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off Page 23
