Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Even people what looks like you can end up derelict, like that building, crumbling. Not right among them other newer buildings in town. Something struck me the day I saw your eyes. Something… like I was looking at myself. There weren’t nobody who paid me. I made it up. Just didn’t want you to know that I could see right through you. Thought it would be cruel for you to know, that to me, you’re see-through.”

  I slide to the floor on the opposite side of the kitchen, cover my face and cry without a sound, but without breath either. My face beneath must be ugly. I cannot contain the true pain and ugliness of this anymore.

  “What did they do to ya?” he asks, still shuffling the cards, as I regain my breath and let the tears flow.

  “It was my mum.” I gulp air like it’s my last taste of oxygen, like it’s never been so needed until now.

  “Yeah, nasty ole hag were she?”

  I’m nodding.

  “And the problem is, you’re you, ain’t ya?” he asks, looking at me straight. “Y’see what other people don’t. Feel what others don’t. Know what others don’t. Cos inside you’re more sensitive than them. Cos you break easier, cos deep down, beneath the hard-nut shell, you’re more vulnerable than a million other people who ain’t been bruised by hate.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, nodding, my tears flowing.

  I stare at him as he continues to shuffle the cards, like a nervous tick. He’s not shuffling them for the purpose of any kind of game, it’s that he’s got to have something in his hands to do. Like me. When I’m at my sewing table, my hands at work, I don’t think about anything at all. I just work and veer off into my own world, where I can be at peace, where I can be me – without fear of getting hurt.

  “Trouble is,” he pauses, nodding to himself, “hiding yourself, could get you where I am now. That’s the trouble. When you cut ya’self off, that’s when you end up like me.”

  “So why don’t you try to save yourself?” I ask, pleading.

  I see a faint smile on his lips for the first time since I’ve known him. “Only society what thinks I need saving. Maybe this is what I want. To be anonymous. To be nobody.”

  “But you’re saying one thing… expecting me to change, but…”

  He turns his head and smiles at me, showing me his grimy, horrible teeth. “Like her out there, I’ll die soon too. It’s gonna happen. But you, you’ve got love, up there…” He points upstairs to where Joe sleeps.

  “Why are you going to die soon?” I feel utterly perplexed and as though he just did an about-turn. What is he saying now?

  His face turns black in places and my stomach turns, the JD curdling inside it.

  I feel very sick.

  Another dream… another dream… he doesn’t have black lips or black eyes…

  This is just a dream!

  I wake up from this dream, back in my bed.

  I’m covered in sweat. I can’t believe I just dreamed a dream about having a dream! It has to be the most vivid dream of my life.

  Then the retching starts. The overload of adrenalin. I rush to the toilet and vomit up my demons, expelling them down the toilet.

  Then I have a thought.

  A terrible one.

  I’ve barely mopped my mouth when I’m sliding down the stairs in a panic, sliding and sliding, as though falling down the endless rabbit hole.

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…

  I keep repeating the word until I find the kitchen empty but the back door open.

  “No, this isn’t happening,” I tell myself, but when I slap my face, I realise this is actually real now. This is life.

  The door to the shed is ajar.

  I walk on cold ground barefoot, clutching my t-shirt to me. Using my big toe I open the shed door fully and find empty alcohol bottles strewn all around. He’s drank my rum and my vodka and my whiskey, all swallowed down along with my stash of ibuprofen and other painkillers I had.

  Mars’s body lies on top of the dog’s.

  I cover my mouth as I lean down and feel for a pulse.

  He’s ice-cold and there’s nothing.

  I got to him too late.

  I could have saved him.

  But it was too late.

  Too late.

  Too late.

  Too late.

  I go to the door and shout Joe. He’s downstairs in a flash.

  “Call the police, call them now.”

  He sees what I see and the first thing he does is kiss my lips.

  “It’s all right baby girl, it’s all right. They’re together now.”

  I cry into his arms until I can’t cry anymore. And he holds me the whole time.

  He holds me up.

  THE RAIN’S PELTING down against the coffee shop window. I’m huddled inside a sheepskin gillet and I have a cup of tea between my cradled hands. It’s not my usual haunt but it’s where I can come without bumping into anyone.

  In a paper bag by my side are two, small cardboard boxes. One contains the ashes of Kyla, the other Mars.

  Warrick arrives, wiping his feet on the mat. He smiles when he spots me and after ordering at the counter, he sits at the two-person table opposite me.

  “The blue hair’s back,” he remarks, “looks good.”

  “Thanks.”

  A waitress brings him a cup of tea and a teacake.

  “Who’s pushing the boat out, then?”

  “Trying to take better care of myself. Jules says I’ve lost weight.”

  “And gained grey hairs.”

  He chuckles.

  “Listen,” I start, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Dangerous.” He smirks, slurping his tea.

  “You have to stop letting people sleep in the community centre.”

  He grimaces. “Seriously? After what just happened…”

  “Especially after what just happened. There are ways to help these people. You must know that, Warrick. There is hope.”

  “I don’t want to force them into anything. Besides, most refuges are full up.”

  I give him a sarcastic smile. “I think you’ll find the local refuges may have just received a few anonymous donations and suddenly have vacancies.”

  He looks me dead in the eye. “Hey?”

  I bypass his inquisition on that topic. “If you don’t stop doing what you’re doing, I’ll tell Jules. Either she, or I, will personally have the community centre shut down. You need to instead start renting out the hall, get some more staff and take a long holiday. And that’s an order.”

  He smiles. “Yes, boss.”

  I look down at the ashes and he sees what I have here.

  “Want me to take them?” he asks.

  “Nope. I’ve got a place in mind.”

  I can see him deliberating over something for a while before he comes out and says it. “So, what’s happening with you, then? Any job offers? Any leads…”

  I purse my lips. “Why do I need to work?”

  He looks stunned. I can’t tell if he thinks I’ve become a gold digger or if he realises I am actually joking. He laughs me off and asks, “So we’re all on for this Saturday? The boys are so excited.”

  It’s Joe’s first official appearance at Hull. Hopefully he’ll get to play and show off. Then who knows, maybe the sky’s the limit?

  “Yep. You know I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Warrick catches the look on my face. “What is it, Hetty?”

  “He wants kids and I don’t.”

  It’s out, just like that, and I feel better for getting it off my chest.

  “Yeah but you’re both so young. If you’re happy right now, I don’t see why this should be an issue.”

  “You know that’s rubbish, Warrick. The longer we leave it, the harder it will be to part. He’s going to resent me one day, we both know it.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no reason why you cannot or should not be a mother. Besides, he’s not going to let you go. You don’t know how determined my son is. You think he got here wi
th luck and chance? He’s the hardest worker I know. He’s not going to let you go. And he’s not got a resentful bone in his body.”

  My lips curl and I blow out an angry breath. “He wants one of those bloody puppies! That’s how it starts. You get a puppy and realise you don’t want to kill one another as parents to an animal, so maybe you might be okay as parents to a human child, too.”

  “You cannot compare the two,” he argues, with laughing eyes and half a teacake in his gob, “children are way more complex than dogs. And the emotions… the motherly instinct is the most powerful thing on earth, the way mothers lift cars to save their kid, the way mothers stand in the way of gunfire in war zones.”

  “Ugh, god. Here he goes…”

  “Listen, nobody on earth knows what sort of parent they’re going to be until they actually become a parent. I’ve seen it time and time again… the hippie mum who ends up bottle feeding and going back to work within months. The ambitious lawyer who never goes back to work… again. Ends up having a whole brood. You cannot predict it, like you cannot predict life. I mean look at Jules. She could barely take care of herself when I met her. She dotes on them boys and Joe, you’ve seen her. They give her purpose like nothing else on Earth. Children reflect who we really are, they teach us lessons nobody else can.”

  I can’t look at him at times like this. He’s so fucking… right.

  “Look at it like this,” he says, “being a parent, it’s really not about preference. It’s really a leap of faith, like life. And children are our life. They’re the future.”

  “Whatever, Dad.” I couldn’t sound anymore sarcastic.

  He laughs out loud. “All what I’m saying is irrespective anyway. Everything my son touches turns to gold… and you never know, he might even fashion a ruby out of you.”

  His words actually touch me this time and I reach across the table, taking his hand. I wipe my tear away quickly but he’s seen it. He squeezes my hand back.

  “You know, I thought I could save Mars. That night, he seemed happy… he seemed okay. He was stood around laughing and joking with Joe and I in the kitchen, stuffing his face full of pizza. I never imagined he might be thinking of ending things. I guess I didn’t see what was going on beneath. I was determined to get him sorted out in the morning… I felt so good about that, too. I guess we’ll never know what sort of life he led, obviously the sort of life that made him feel like his only purpose was to look after his dog and seek nothing for himself.”

  He tries to hide his guilt, but I see it there, in his eyes. “I think we all wanted to save him.”

  “But you know what?”

  He shakes his head.

  “He saved me.”

  “How?” Warrick looks puzzled so I elaborate…

  “You won’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Crazy? Yes. Unbelievable, no.”

  I chuckle. “The night he gave up the ghost, I had a dream which seemed to be telling me to get to him, that he was in danger.”

  “Okay…?” He tries to look ignorant on these matters but something tells me he’s not.

  “It seemed so real, this dream. In it, he was talking more coherently than real life though. He was talking to me as if he was me, but speaking through his voice. It’s hard to explain but it was like he could see right through me, like I was nothing but a pane of glass to him.”

  “And what could he see?”

  I look up at the ceiling. “That I hide because I’m artistic… because everything hurts more when there’s no filter between you and the world… because…”

  He takes my hand again and I try to stop my chin wobbling.

  “Because you’re beautiful and the world can be ugly,” he says, and I look away.

  “I really fucking hate you sometimes, Warrick.”

  “Moi? Warum?”

  I sneer at him, “Languages don’t suit you, sir. You know what I mean…”

  “No… enlighten me?”

  I grab a napkin and wipe away the stream of tears running down my face. I stare at him hard and say, “I hate you because you have some sort of celestial knowledge beyond what you let people see.”

  “And she finally understands the Michael Landon hair…”

  I’m shaking my head even as he comes round the table, puts his arms around me and whispers, “Love you too, Het.”

  I hate to be presumptive, but I know right now, if it comes to it – I’ll have the best in-laws ever.

  As he’s squeezing me in his arms, I mumble, “How often do you buy Jules flowers?”

  “Dunno. Twice a year?”

  “And in the beginning?”

  He barks a laugh. “Twice a day.”

  “Thank fuck… it’s gonna get less crowded in my house… eventually.”

  He’s still chuckling when he puts his mouth near my ear, as though about to impart something so privy…

  “Maybe dreams are the whispers of angels, or maybe they’re the mind’s way of connecting to the beyond in the only way it can.” He kisses my cheek and leaves the coffee shop, disappearing in the same way he always arrives, as if on a cloud of invisible superiority – carrying a knowledge with him that’s pretty much saved all our asses round here.

  IT’S much later the same day. I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to say goodbye. We barely knew one another and I’m not sure how much of what I dreamt was real, but Mars’s sentiment that night changed my life – and it felt pretty much real to me. And that’s the only thing that matters – what is real to us in the moment. Because if I hadn’t taken a leap of faith and got together with Joe, none of this other stuff would have happened either. Including Liza having recently informed me that finally, Gage is firing on all cylinders and improving by the day. Anyway… I have enough trouble with images in my mind, let alone conjuring pictures of them two together!

  Unlike home where it was raining all morning, it seems to have been a calm day here. There’s no rain and there’s not even much wind. I can see for miles out to sea and the air is clean, and fresh, invigorating.

  I take the ashes and pour them into one box, the dog’s on top.

  “I love it here,” I tell them both, “you really should have been homeless together here. Granted, the thrashing waves wouldn’t have been much fun in winter, you’d also have had to deal with a load of Goths descending every now and again as they flock to nearby Whitby, but there’s loads of artists here you’d have been able to teach a trick or two. Maybe you could have sold here, or maybe you’d have kept your anonymity forever.”

  I don’t know what I’m saying except it feels like it’s time to scatter the ashes now, and send them sailing over Robin Hood’s Bay for eternity.

  “The point is Mars, what happened to you could happen to anybody, really. Just a tumble down the wrong route… and that’s it. And that’s what I’ll remember as I go forward. And that’s also what I’ll treasure, is that despite all, you still knew love. And the love you and Kyla had kept you going.”

  I wait until the wind’s rushing at my back and I toss the ashes into the air all at once, watching them fly in a huge grey mass, the wind thrashing them out to sea and the rocks below.

  I walk off reminding myself that some people sacrifice everything they are for love. But it’s worth it, every time.

  * * *

  IT’S two days later. I’m having my make-up retouched yet again, for about the millionth time. I’ve been prepped and rehearsed a number of times already. A countdown starts and I’m herded to the desk in the centre of the studio where Peter Levi is having his nose powdered.

  Within seconds the tissue is removed from his collars and he bids me a quick hello.

  “Ten, nine… two, one…”

  “A week ago we reported on a mysterious work of art which appeared on the side of a building set for demolition. I am delighted to say we are joined in the studio today by the woman the street art depicts, Hetty Bernard…”

  I’m struck dumb for a moment but when he turns t
o me and smiles, I relax a little, trying to remember what I am supposed to say.

  “I’m told you know the artist?”

  “Yes, I met him through my community work,” I say, trying not to stammer, “in fact, it’s knew now. I knew him.”

  “Oh?” Peter’s tone changes.

  “I only knew the artist by the name Mars. Nobody knew who he really was. I’m sorry to say, he was homeless and sadly died last week. He was a deeply troubled individual but with an incredible, unrealised talent.”

  “That’s a terrible thing.”

  “It is. It really is.”

  “So, what do you think about the interest the artwork has gathered?”

  “To be honest,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “I wasn’t very happy to start with. I avoided the press and tried to hide myself away.”

  “Why is that?” he presses, as though he’s the Humber region’s Jeremy Paxman.

  Nerves threaten to mute me but I take a deep breath and focus on looking at him. He’s just another human being and off-camera, he’s really very friendly.

  “I didn’t give him permission to draw me and also, I didn’t want any attention. But mostly, I didn’t understand why he’d done it. It was a mystery to me.”

  “And now? Have you since learnt why he created what people are calling a shrine to you?”

  I nod, yes. “I have. He chose that building in particular to demonstrate that even when something’s about to disappear, there was once life there, and it should be remembered.” I’m bending the truth a bit, but I have a purpose for that. “I also like to think it’s not so much a shrine to me but to this city and its diversity, its intrinsic artistic heritage and wildly out-there personalities. I like to think I’ve been embraced by this city as much as I’ve embraced it. Maybe he saw that.”

  His face changes and he asks, “So how do you feel about the artwork being taken down, especially now he’s gone?”

  “I’ve started a petition online to have the wall in question taken down and placed intact somewhere else, as a tribute to other homeless people who aren’t necessarily in that situation through their own fault or ineptitude, but through the failures of our system. It already has over a hundred thousand signatures.”