The Devil's Staircase

by Helen FitzGerald

  Waking in a terrified sweat, she got up from her mattress and went to the small bathroom beside her bedroom. The house was quiet – everyone had either gone to bed or fallen asleep in the living room. She turned the tap on and drank some water, splashed her face, had a pee, then walked through the hall and back towards her bedroom. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a door in the hall under the stairs. She tried to open it, but it was locked.

  She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the residue of her nightmare. It was Francesco. She couldn’t have been making it up, could she? The chemistry? How well they’d gotten on? She longed for him so badly, but now he hated her, and she didn’t blame him. He’d specifically asked her not to break into the squat, and she’d ignored him.

  Drifting off at around seven, the dream resumed where it had left off. Bronny could make out Ursula and her Dad. They were waiting for her on the veranda, but they diminished as her leaps increased. The fear woke her at the same time as a noise. A scrape, then another scrape. She sat up in her mattress, looked out into the small garden, then out towards the hall. At first she wondered if it had been the dream – the pigs, screeching at night, perhaps. She got up and walked into the living room, but the only noise was Ray’s open-mouthed snore – he’d obviously fallen asleep in front of the television.

  ‘Ray, did you hear that? Ray!’

  He snorted and rolled onto his other side.

  There was no noise in the kitchen, none upstairs. She came back down to the ground floor and slowly opened the front door. Nothing. She walked through the kitchen and out into the tiny garden. Nothing. She went back to bed. She was going crazy.

  BANG! A huge noise this time, like a heavy wooden window shutting suddenly. Bronny jumped out of her bed, moved towards the door, and slowly opened it.

  She screamed when she saw Pete. He was standing right at her door.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Get out!’ Bronny said.

  Pete stood still.

  ‘Get out of my room!’

  Bronny listened as he shut the door behind him, as he walked up the stairs, along the landing, and went into the bedroom above hers. She shivered, and she didn’t get back to sleep.

  7

  Pete had already gone to work when I got up. Over breakfast I asked everyone how they’d slept. The casual answers indicated that no one else had heard the noises. I asked a few people what they knew about Pete. No one knew anything, but everyone seemed to like him. I didn’t.

  I asked Ray the locksmith (in a by-the-way kind of way) if he could open the door to the hall cupboard. ‘I’m dying to know what’s in there,’ I said.

  ‘No problems, soon as you get back from work,’ Ray assured me.

  My second late shift. I arrived at 3 p.m. in my ridiculous netball skirt, watered the plant by reception, and went into the relaxation area. Esther and Kate were reading books behind the towel desk and didn’t say hello. Mitt-woman remained in her room. The days were going to be long, I realised. It was other-worldly – like going back in time. Women lying reading or sleeping, donning towels then discarding them, resting and then resting some more. The digital clock behind the towel desk clicked over so slowly that 10 p.m. seemed like make-believe until it finally came.

  I arrived home after ten to find a parcel from Ursula which someone from the Royal had brought in for me. Inside was a photo of her and Dad on the veranda smiling widely, holding a sign that said: ‘We love Bron!’ There were also two huge boxes of Cheesles and a note:

  Lovely Bron,

  I miss you! I hope you’re having fun and being a bit wild. You need it. But please let me know if you need anything! I’m working too hard and looking forward to doing something other than studying. It’s hot and bright here and I have a large spider called Milly in my room. She says hello too.

  Love you,

  Urs

  xxx

  PS: Got the photo. Who’s the hunk with the tattoos? Woah!

  I stuck the photo on the wall next to my bed and sprayed the hall with an air-freshener I’d borrowed from work. Cheryl-Anne’s beer farts seemed to have taken over the house. I then placed one Cheesle-ring on each finger, and ate methodically, ten at a time, in private, so that fuckers who didn’t fully appreciate the magic of Cheesles couldn’t intervene.

  When I’d finished, I went into the living room to find everyone from next door, and some employees from the Porchester, but I couldn’t see Ray.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Fliss informed me.

  Apparently, some girl he’d met in Thailand a month earlier had texted after breakfast to say she was in France and wanted to do ‘that thing’ with him. It took him ten minutes to pack his rucksack and he was never seen again. So that night, instead of checking out the cupboard and finding out more about Pete and the noises, I threw myself into a farewell party for James the New Zealand cleaner-man.

  ‘I love this guy,’ said Hamish.

  We were taking turns to do pithy moving speeches.

  ‘The nicest bloody guy I’ve ever met in my life,’ said some girl with blue earrings.

  ‘My soul mate,’ added thingy from whats it called.

  ‘The funniest man in London.’

  ‘We love you, mate!’

  ‘We fucking love you.’

  Girls took turns stroking James and crying in his arms as he showed off his one-way ticket to Auckland, waving it wildly with excitement because his girlfriend was going to meet him at the airport and they were going to move in together and it was going to be wonderful. Boys took turns slapping his back and playing a game of pin the tail on his donkey. I took turns (a) sucking on Hamish’s bong, (b) opening my mouth for Fliss’s vodka and Red Bull funnel extravaganza, (c) sniffing white powder from Zach’s guitar, (d) playing God is Dweling in My Heart on Zach’s guitar, (e) laughing so much that my jaw tingled painfully, (f) confessing to James that – even though he had fucking fired me from a fucking cleaning job – I believed, truly believed, that I loved him more than anyone else in the room and indeed anyone in else in the entire country . . . no, the world, no, the universe.

  ‘Bronny! Bronny!’ James was tapping on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. I was damp. Early morning light was shining through the window. I was lying on the floor of the living room with at least ten others and James was panicking.

  ‘Have you seen my ticket?’

  ‘What? No,’ I said.

  James started asking round, making a lot of noise, waking people up.

  ‘Shut up James,’ Fliss – who was spooning me – said. ‘Fuck off!’ the girl with the blue earrings said.

  James shook the girl – her earrings were swinging: ‘But I was showing it to you over in the corner!’

  ‘Fuck off,’ a boy said from behind the sofa, then another three in unison, from various floor locations:

  ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’

  ‘PRICK!’

  ‘FUCK OFF, JAMES!’

  So he did. He fucked off to the phone at the Royal to argue with Qantas, then with the insurance company, and then with his (ex-)girlfriend. That night, his face was so long that it clouded our enjoyment of America’s Next Top Model – episode six, season five – and we all had to agree that James was a bit of a pain in the arse and we’d never really liked him much anyway. He moved to Earls Court not long after.

  I dragged myself from the floor of the living room some time the following morning. Cheryl-Anne, Fliss, Hamish and I had spent most of the weekend watching television, eating stodge, and trying several drugs that were supposed to help with coming down from several others. I didn’t go near my bedroom, preferring instead to stay on the mattress in the living room, and I didn’t hear any strange noises. I started to wonder if it had just been some kind of drainage or plumbing problem, especially as my room seemed to have a rancid damp smell about it.

  After I dragged myself up from the living room mattress, Hamish and I swapped our clothes back – finally – then did the whole London thing: Buckingham Pala
ce and that toyshop and Harrods. I felt so comfortable with Hamish. He was my first proper male friend. Androgynous, I’d say. Not at all pervy. If anything, he hardly seemed to look at women at all. We ate homemade peanut butter sandwiches on London Bridge.

  ‘You want to come on the Eye?’ he suggested.

  ‘I’m afraid of heights.’

  ‘How about the Dungeon?’

  ‘I’ve heard that’s really scary.’

  So instead we talked about rural Victoria, where his good friend had lived. He’d been in Ballarat before we met on the flight, and found its colonial buildings and gold-mining history really interesting.

  ‘I found two dollars’ worth of gold at Sovereign Hill!’ he said.

  ‘You realise they sprinkle it in each morning?’

  ‘I know. Oddly, that didn’t make it less exciting.’

  He was the first Canadian I’d ever met, but if he was anything to go by, then Canadians were the most down-to-earth, easy-to-be-with people in the world.

  When we got home from sightseeing, Francesco was cooking something extravagant in the kitchen and talking secretively to Pete. They were like bitchy schoolgirls – obviously talking about us. I ignored both of them and went back to watch television with my good friend Hamish.

  At around four in the morning we ran out of grass. I volunteered to accompany Hamish on a visit to Bobby Rainproof, who apparently based himself at the Polish club across the road.

  ‘So what does he do?’ I asked Hamish as we crossed the road.

  ‘He’s a drug dealer.’

  ‘Oh.’ I knew we were going to buy some stuff from him and all, but for some reason I didn’t equate that with drug dealing. After all, I was an eighteen-year-old from a good – though genetically fucked – family.

  Bobby Rainproof was sitting with three elderly Poles, who moved away from the bar when they saw me approaching. ‘What’s up with them?’ I asked Mr Rainproof.

  ‘Apparently you gave them nightmares,’ the young guy answered.

  ‘You don’t look like a drug dealer,’ I said.

  ‘Shhh. Dio cane!’ Bobby’s expletive and accent indicated that he had been christened Roberto Rainproofo. ‘You want to get us arrested?’

  He took Hamish and me into a back room where some more elderly Poles were playing poker. I wondered just how many elderly Poles with glasses there could be in London. We then followed him into an even backer back room where three large bars of dark brown ‘soap’ were laid out on a small table.

  ‘You not got any grass?’ Hamish asked.

  ‘Maybe next week,’ Bobby said.

  He chopped some of the cannabis and wrapped it in cling film. Hamish and I watched, entranced, as he ripped a piece from the industrial-sized roll and laid the plastic on the table. He did an extremely neat and thorough job of wrapping it. Hamish handed him thirty pounds and put the stuff in his pocket.

  ‘Grazie,’ Hamish said, and we followed the good-looking twenty-something from La Spezia through the back-back room, the back room, and the bar. He double-kissed us then we crossed the road to our eagerly awaiting best friends.

  Hamish, Fliss, Cheryl-Anne and I went to Oxford the next day. We got a bus, spent the day in the pub, then came home to smoke some more of Roberto Rainproofo’s most excellent shit.

  8

  Esther wasn’t happy when I was declared Employee of the Week. She hadn’t been happy for days. First, because a uniform that fitted me had mysteriously arrived at reception during my third shift. Second, because people seemed to like me. Third, because she was a fuck-face. I saw her snarl as Centre Manager Nathan put my photo on the notice board in the main reception by the gym.

  It was a big deal, Employee of the Week. It meant two things: a fifty-pound bonus, and that Esther would hate me even more.

  I saw Esther whisper to Kate. They enjoyed whispering, those two. They despised the cheerful demeanour that had helped get me the bonus and a high-five from boss-man Nathan.

  Boss-man Nathan wore a suit. He was about thirty-five, new, and keen on team-building, staff appraisal, forward thinking, mission statements and bottom lines. He liked me because whenever his female minions came to spy for him, I was always either scrubbing something, or being polite to customers. Kate and Esther, on the other hand, were either reading or chatting to each other. In truth, my hearing and fitness were better and I had tuned into the creak of the internal door between the steam rooms and the pool. As soon as it began to open, I instantly sprang into action.

  I’d never been on a pedestal at work before. At the Craigieburn Mint, I’d gone in each day at nine, sorted paperwork, filed it, and then gone home at five. I had delivered what they’d asked – robotic diligence – surrounding myself with twelve grey filing cabinets. No one knew me very well, and I’d never gotten so much as a Christmas bonus. So I felt excited at my new title, proud of myself. While the job was mostly very tedious, there were things I really enjoyed about it. I liked watering the once-dying bamboo palm beside the reception booth, and seeing how it responded to my love and attention. I liked the satisfaction a clean shower gave me, liked seeing the contentedness of the rich Arab woman who preferred two towels not one, and the smell of a freshly bleached floor. I liked how my skin felt afterwards – smooth and soft from the steam. And I liked that I felt safe, bubble-wrapped in female-only calm.

  The day after my elevation to Employee of the Week the atmosphere in the steam rooms seriously deteriorated. Esther had always kept an eye on me, but now she watched my every move, and gave regular whispery reports to Kate. At one stage Mitt-woman even made eye contact with me. She’d never done this before. Her eyes were always down as she walked into her room, down, down as she scrubbed her clients. A snarl, I’d call it, and then a knowing nod to Esther. I tried my best to get on with things, even tried making conversation with the rich Arab woman who liked two towels.

  ‘You live close by?’ I started.

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  After my shift I escaped to use the free facilities, which was the only real perk of the job, and something I did as often as I could. The pool and gym helped me sweat out the unhealthiness of life in the squat and, even better, made me very toned. In fact, I had recently copped myself cleaning the full-length mirrors opposite the showers and noticed how good my legs looked. Shapely, muscular, like someone else’s altogether. I took to cleaning these mirrors more than necessary in an attempt to convince myself that these very excellent legs actually did belong to me.

  I did forty lengths of the pool, got showered and changed, and walked past the gym, where Pete was doing bench presses. He had shorts and a singlet on, and his upper arms and shoulders were covered in tattoos. He caught my eye without flinching and then resumed a grimace-ridden bench press. He scared me.

  When I saw Nathan I smiled, but he didn’t smile back, or give his precious Employee of the Week a high-five. He beckoned me upstairs with an unhappy finger then sat me down and fired questions at me.

  What time had I left the steam rooms? How long had I been swimming for? Did I remember giving a towel to a rich Arab woman? Did I notice she had a red handbag? A brown leather wallet? Three hundred pounds in cash and three credit cards? Which locker had I used?

  Pete came into the room at this stage and sat beside Nathan. He’d just heard about the alleged incident, he said, and wanted to be present during the enquiries. Kate and Esther kept their heads down as I told Nathan that I did not remember the bag and that I had no locker. They almost managed to suppress their smiles when Nathan said he would get a female member of staff to search locker number 78 because Kate had sworn blind that she had seen me put something in it earlier that afternoon.

  Frozen in fear, I stood by locker number 78. Kate and Esther watched as one of Nathan’s female underlings opened the door.

  It was empty.

  Kate and Esther looked at each other, confused. I sighed with relief then shook my head at my accusers. Why had they tried to set me up? What on earth had
I done?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Pete asked as I walked out of the steam rooms and then out of the front entrance.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, not meaning it, but not wanting to talk to him either.

  On the way home, I felt the weight of being alone. If I was charged with a crime, who would vouch for my character?

  When I saw Francesco hovering outside the house, I squirmed. I didn’t want him to see me upset and I couldn’t tolerate another barrage of well-deserved insults. But he’d had time to think, he said, and had forgiven me. He even apologised for being so rude, hugged me, and asked if we could maybe start over.

  ‘Let me take you out for dinner,’ he said. ‘Please?’

  9

  Bronny was relaxing in the ground-floor bath and had just finished shaving her underarms, her legs and her bikini line. The date with Francesco was in an hour, and she was excited. Fliss had given her some bubble bath, which she sank into; eyes closed, and listened to the sound of wet nothing.

  Thud thud thud. A womb noise, dull and alien. She came out of the water, opened her eyes . . . And there he was again. Standing over her.

  ‘Jesus!’ She yelled, knees to chin, arms cocooning.

  Pete yelled too, then covered his eyes in a pathetic attempt to pretend he hadn’t meant to see her naked. He left the bathroom with a feeble apology.

  Bronny dried and dressed herself, then banged on his door. He opened it sheepishly, unprepared for the assault – not only words ‘arsehole’, ‘creep’, ‘police’ – but also a spectacular and well-placed cheek-slap. She then left to prepare her body for the losing of her virginity, which she’d decided would happen tonight.