by Emmy Ellis
COMA
EMMY ELLIS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, and characters are fictitious or are used fictitiously, a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events, or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Coma
Copyright © 2010 Emmy Ellis
Cover art and design by Emmy Ellis
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PART ONE
Chapter One
I stared through the window of the coffee shop, and she was sitting on a bench out front. I had this nasty coffee in front of me, and it tasted bitter even with sugar. The sky was darkening, surrounding the girl so her pale face stood out. She had a head of black hair, a heavy curtain that fell forward, obscuring her features.
She fiddled with her music machine. No idea what type it was. It might be one of those iPods. Whatever, it was something with earphones. Her eyebrows met in the middle as she concentrated, probably trying to find the right song. I could almost see her brain working. She chewed the inside of her cheek. I was mesmerised, enthralled by her.
I kept wiping the window with the side of my gloved hand to remove the condensation. There was too much espresso machine steam, too many people breathing out. It smelled the same as a health food shop, all coffee beans and pecan Danish.
There were everyday people in here. A couple of mothers with their kids eating doughnuts and drinking strawberry milkshakes. An old man still wrapped in his coat sipped coffee while doing a crossword in the newspaper, and I got to wondering where his wife was. Dead? Or had he nipped out for a bit of peace and quiet?
I looked around, took in the scene. This place needed repainting. The grubby cream walls had bits of plaster coming away from the top corners. The tables could do with tablecloths, too. Mind you, I wasn’t planning on hanging about for long, so what did the décor matter? I returned my attention to the window and wiped another circle to view from. Water droplets slid down the pane, the effect resembling a jellyfish.
I remembered the only time I’d ever travelled abroad with my family. You know, Mum, Dad, and me. We went to Cairns, Australia, to visit Mum’s sister. My parents had saved for years to fly out to my aunt, years of going without things to be able to get on a plane and see a person I’d never met and play with cousins I didn’t want to know.
When we got there, though, it was a different story. The sea was like nothing I’d ever seen in England. None of this dirty grey shit with filth-tinged waves. There, the sea met the sky, was one huge thing. The crests of each wave were so white against the true blue of the water. When I paddled in it, the bottom of the ocean was visible.
Shit, I loved that place. I could see it now.
Wading deeper, I peered down, and a jellyfish glooped through the water.
The visual faded.
Someone had lit a cigarette outside, and now I wanted one. The smell of someone else’s smoke always seemed sweeter. I’d perhaps bum one from the smoker on my way out.
I just needed to sit and watch my target for a while longer.
She wasn’t doing any harm sitting there, making out like she was busy when in fact she was killing time. I could tell she was waiting. Her mum had probably just dropped her off, and her friend hadn’t shown yet. What with the night coming on, well, I reckoned she was unsure of herself now.
She must have found the song she wanted. Her head bobbed slightly to the beat, her eyes half closed. She glanced from left to right and then directly ahead. Finally, she looked into this café.
Does she see me?
I wasn’t sure, but for a second, I imagined she did. I wished she waited for me and not some dumb blonde friend whose laugh was a spider under my skull, scurrying on my nerves.
The coffee furred my tongue. I stared into the dregs of my cup then rose from my seat, bumping into the next table, and a packet of cigarettes skittered across the floor. While the table occupant ferreted about searching for his cancer sticks, I picked them up and put them in my pocket, making my way out of the café. Outside, I lit up, inhaling deeply, savouring the head rush abstinence created.
And she was still there, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing, her head bent. She picked at a hangnail, her cuffs so low only the ends of her fingers were visible. Her breath puffed out.
I made my way towards her.
The bench she sat on wasn’t really a bench but a stone slab that could seat four people. She was up at one end, and me, I sat on the other. She shifted her eyes sideways to have a sneaky look, and I toked on my ciggie, taking the smoke back.
“Cold, eh?” I smiled.
She tipped her head up and smiled back then bowed it again.
“Enough to freeze your cheeks, right?”
She nodded.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked.
She nodded again. Her hair shimmered from the lone streetlight ten yards back, which cast its amber sodium glow, giving the illusion her dark hair was strawberry blonde.
“A bummer when they’re late, eh? Especially in this kind of weather.”
“Yeah,” she said.
She sat upright, and her face was revealed. Scooping up her hair, she tucked it down the back of her coat out of the way.
She’s mine.
We paced up and down the street outside the coffee shop, waiting for her friend, who I reckoned was unlikely to show now.
“Have you rang to see where she is? I mean, she’s rude not to have rung you, really.”
“Nope. I’ll wait. She’s late sometimes. Does this a lot.” She sniffed.
“Damned if I’d hang out with someone like that. Still, it’s your life. You want me to wait a while longer? It’s getting darker, and I don’t like the thought of you out here alone.”
“If you like, but I’m used to it. Alone at home, alone outside. Whatever.”
I knew she wanted to talk, probably about her father who wasn’t present in the family unit, about the fact he’d fucked off with the woman he’d met in a bar and set up home with her. That her mother treated her like shit and hated her. Blamed her for her husband buggering off.
Funny how much you gleaned from eavesdropping.
“I’ll stay for a bit longer, then I must be off. Things to do, you know how it is.”
“Cool,” she said.
She smiled. Though her expression appeared tough, there was a twitch of sorrow just under the surface, the tic of her unhappy life.
“So what music do you like?” I nodded at the machine in her hand.
“Anything really. Anything that sounds good.”
That really didn’t tell me much, and I found myself getting angry with her, though I hid it beneath a smiling mask.
“I’m into rap,” I said. “As well as R and B, that kind of thing. What?” I slapped on my incredulous face and laughed at her surprised expression. “Don’t let my age fool you. Underneath it all, we’re still kids at heart. Sticking an Eminem track on after a hard day’s work…what?”
“You like Eminem? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Not kidding at all.”
While we’d been talking, I’d made our lengths of the street longer, eventually making it to the corner. A couple more repetitions, and she didn’t know what hit her. I cracked her over the head with a small iron bar that I’d hidden in my pocket, and she sagged. Her knees gave way, her min
d going slack on the road to unconsciousness. I caught her by her ponytail and gripped the length in my fist, holding her up beside me as I hauled her to my car.
And not a soul in sight.
I made my way home and swung the car into my tree-shrouded driveway. Pulling her out by her hair, I dragged her inside and propped her up in the corner of the larder, her head hanging, chin upon her chest. I bound her wrists and ankles with dull silver tape then locked the door.
She’ll wake soon.
That little door reminded me of the one on the hutch we had for our rabbit. I used to go outside after school and raise the hatch to feed him. I’d watch him through the mesh while he snuffled around in the hay, chomping on the cabbage leaves or carrots I’d given him. He was grey, his fur similar to a chinchilla’s—dense and soft as fuck. I loved that rabbit and felt like dying with him when he snuffed it.
I used to tell him all sorts about what I’d done at school that day, how moody Mum was since she’d started that new job. How Dad tried to placate her and nothing worked. She’d manipulated Dad, but he’d seemed oblivious to her ways. He must have been as mesmerised by her charms as he’d been the first day he’d met her.
Once that grey rabbit had gone into the ground, Dad had said he’d get me another one. Mum, though, she’d whined about the mess ‘the last fucker’ had made with the hay and all those droppings. She moaned that in the summer the garden stank of ammonia and rabbit crap, so she couldn’t invite anyone round for food alfresco with that smelly shite out there.
So once that rabbit had gone, part of me went, too. I didn’t seem to feel the same about anything anymore. For months after he’d died, I still kept opening that hatch, staring at the bare hutch, the piss stains in the corners.
I missed that fucking rabbit like crazy. Still do.
* * * *
She was using her head to knock. I went to the kitchen and peered through the little window. It gave me a start; she looked back at me directly behind the plastic. She’d managed to stand. Her breath clouded the pane. Condensation dribbled, and I was reminded of the jellyfish again.
“Let me out, you sick fuck!”
Her eyes blazed, lips twisted with frustration, curled back from teeth so white and straight. Sweat trickled out of her hair and ran past her temples.
Rabbit. My brand-new rabbit.
I smiled at her and walked away to the counter to prepare food she wouldn’t get to eat. The smell of cooking would seep through the gaps in the door, tormenting her griping stomach.
She’d become malleable.
Later, I ate the Bolognese, my audience alternating her approach by screeching or pleading. Twirling the spaghetti round the fork, forming a small pile of worms on my spoon, I enjoyed the food—and her discomfort.
Each tirade was met with ignorance, each plea greeted with boredom. I gave no sign that I knew she was even there, until she said, “I need the toilet. Please let me out to use the toilet.”
I paused slightly with spoon en route to my mouth, then continued eating.
“Please. I’m going to wet myself. Please. I can’t hold it any longer.”
I rose and took my plate to the sink where I washed it and smiled inwardly at the gushing sound the water made as it hit the base of the sink.
She whimpered. I placed the plate and cutlery on the drainer.
And left the room.
* * * *
My TV was encased in one of those cabinets that have doors. Liar Liar was on at eight, one of my favourite films. I should make a wish like that to force my boss, Gary, to tell the truth.
I went into the kitchen and pulled the doors of my goodie cupboard wide open. I selected popcorn, cans of cola, and a bag of pear drops. As I turned to switch off the light, something glistened, catching my eye.
Liquid sat in a pool just outside the larder door.
The dirty bitch had pissed herself. She was scrambling about in there now, trying to stand, to see, to plead with her eyes. I’d bet she was hoping this was all some kind of joke and I’d let her out soon.
A loud donk denoted the fact she’d fallen forward, slipped on her own piss, banged her forehead on the door.
Mental note to self: buy some hay.
Flipping the lights off, I made my way to the lounge. The movie was about to begin.
* * * *
I’d just finished laughing at the part where Jim Carrey’s pen had written all over his face—man, I loved that bit—when the noises began. Unfortunately, even with the lounge door closed, she inconsiderately disturbed my viewing pleasure.
She screeched. I tried to ignore her. God help her if she carried on for much longer.
Turning the TV up, I munched my popcorn.
She was knocking now. Actually, it sounded more like she was ramming the damn door with her shoulder. Now she was the spider under my skull instead of her friend. She was getting… On. My. Nerves.
That spider, it weaved its web, bound its silk round my brain until I thought it’d explode. Women—spiders, the lot of them, with their creepy legs and watchful eyes. They snared you and ate you.
She wouldn’t shut up, so I stormed in there and hacked off her hair.
* * * *
Her nose looked ugly. Hardwood doors would do that to a face. She was lying on the floor. She appeared older, as if she’d aged five years overnight. Her shorn head, smashed nose, and bleeding forehead resembled one of those POW women.
The door was locked, and she slumped behind it.
And I’d missed twenty minutes of my fucking film.
I gave up on the movie and went to bed, wondering if she was asleep. Images scurried through my mind, ones I knew I had to watch. This evening it was scenes of Hairy, my rabbit.
Mum stood at the open back door as I scooped Hairy up, ready to put him back in the hutch. I jumped.
“Think you’d get away with that?” she said.
My face flushed with guilt at being caught by the one person I didn’t want catching me.
She continued, “You thought, ‘Ah, she’s at work until five. She won’t know.’ Didn’t you?”
I nodded. Useless not to, pointless denying the truth, especially with her.
“I’m going to pop that fucking rabbit in a stew one of these days, Wayne. In fact, next time I see the scrawny fucker on my lawn, he’ll be our dinner the same night. Got it?”
I nodded again and clutched Hairy to me so he didn’t squirm and break free and scamper off across her lawn—become supper with dumplings later on.
“Put that manky thing back in that hutch, then get in and do your homework,” she barked.
I’d already done my homework but did as I was told anyway.
I wished I had teeth like Hairy. Really long front ones so I could bite Mum’s face off and chew on her nose. I’d rip off her ears and spit out the God-awful dangly earrings she’d taken to wearing when she’d started that new job. I’d force her to scrub off the makeup she’d taken to putting on, whip the clothes from her back, the shorter skirts, the jeans that were too hip for her. She got to be trendy, while I had to wear shit stuff and have the piss taken out of me at school because I didn’t fit in. Bearing taunts of being unfashionable: ‘Cos yer mum don’t care about you and is too busy being a slapper!’
I took it all. The slights. The insults.
I don’t like it when the tears burn my cheeks and sting my eyes.
Everything needs to go away and leave me the fuck alone.
Please. Go. Away.
Chapter Two
Alarm. Toilet. Dress.
Breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, fried bread. Nothing like a good fry-up to get the saliva flowing. And hers was flowing, too.
Her pitiful face was like a photo in a frame. She looked out at me, silent tears coursing over the crust of blood. What a mess.
“Please, let me out. I’ll do anything…”
The fat gurgled in the frying pan, and the bacon popped. My egg made noises, squawking as the albumen cri
sped. The beans warmed slowly in a saucepan. Facing her, I ate. She moaned, whimpered.
“Please!”
She wanted to play the game now. Well…tough. I had to go to work.
I left the plate in view on the table with a few beans, the rind of the bacon, and the end of a sausage. I had no time to clear it up. Besides, it’d give her something to do with her time. She could imagine eating it, escaping from her prison to cram it into her mouth. Her day would pass in no time.
* * * *
Finally. Three days, and she was quiet.
The stench coming from that cupboard wasn’t pleasant.
It was Saturday, and she hadn’t looked through the little window today. Hadn’t peeped out, nosing at me while I was eating, bugging me with her insane pleas.
My mother, Mags, exercised her will all the time, especially on me as I grew up. Gloria, the woman next door, sympathised with my mother because she was underpaid and undervalued herself, by society, her husband, and her kids. Well, that was what she said.
“I know just how you feel, Mags, I really do. Time we made a stand, d’you reckon?” Gloria had said.
And boy had the pair of them stood together. They’d made my youth a damn misery.
I blinked the memory away.
“Wake up!” I smacked the captive’s face and flicked her eyelids. “Wake the fuck up, you stinking bitch.” I kicked at her ankles, stamped on her fingers.
Tossed cold water on her face.
She was coming round.
“Drink this and you’ll be fine,” I snapped.
She appeared drugged. Her eyelids drooped, but she lapped up the water, half sitting against me. Down to basics—taking what she needs—water. Not Starbuck’s coffee, frothy and topped with chocolate sprinkles, not orange juice with fleshy bits, not Coke with a hint of vanilla…
‘Wayne, get Mum a drink, would you? Wayne, get the door, would you? It’ll be Gloria from next door. Wayne, turn the TV over, would you? Wayne, get the…Wayne, do the…Wayne…Wayne…’
