by Emmy Ellis
“Like your job, do you?”
“No. I’m going to go to college next year.”
She barked a laugh—harsh, hurtful—her black teeth rendered invisible in the blackness outside. “You? Go to college? Got ideas above your fucking station, you have. What the fuck would you do at college?”
I bit back a vile retort, said instead, “I don’t know yet. It’s something I need to think about. Maybe I could be a doctor, something like that. I want to—”
“Be better than me?” She harrumphed out a sigh and nodded absently, gaze moving from me to her own face. “Yeah, actually, I should give you some credit. You do that. You make something of yourself. Make the whole…thing worth it.”
“What do you mean, thing?”
“Never you mind. Just make your existence worth the hassle, that’s all.” She stubbed out her cigarette, reached for another. Click. Deep breath. Exhale.
“Don’t you ever want to change your life, Mam?”
She laughed again, harder this time, close to choking. Her cheeks reddened, and spittle flew from her mouth and landed on an edition of Chat! magazine. She gulped some tea, steadied herself. “And how am I meant to do that, kid? Doing this is all I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t mean your job, Mam, but your habit.”
“Oh, that. I couldn’t give it up if I tried. Got too much of a hold on me. And talking of my habit, I need a dose. You’re winding me up, getting on my nerves.” She scraped the chair back and trudged to the living room.
I followed and sat on my old chair by the window.
“Why didn’t you give me up for adoption, Mam?”
She stared at me, momentarily perplexed. Her brow furrowed—was her mind that confused that she had to search her memory to remember how to answer a simple question?
“That’s a bit personal, kid. Maybe I don’t want to answer that.” She sniffed, cuffed the end of her nose.
“Well, maybe I need an answer to that question.”
She sighed, stared at the coffee table. “I wanted…wanted something that belonged just to me, if you must know. Even when me parents kicked me out for being pregnant, even knowing how you got to be in my belly in the first place, I thought…” She stared out of the window.
“Thought what?”
“Thought everything would be okay. Then you were born and…and you looked just like him, and—”
“Like Mr Hemmings, you mean?”
Her mouth hung slack, and she blinked several times—trying to erase images of him forcing himself on her? “How did you…?”
She began preparing her medicine, and I said, “What’s it like taking that?”
Her nose scrunched, and she opened and closed her mouth—a bizarre display. “Gotta have it else I get twitchy, you know that, Dumbo.”
“No,” I said, leaning forward in my seat. “What’s it like? D’you get a rush, or what?”
She sighed, flicking the needle. “Not anymore, no. Why, you thinking of taking up the habit?” That cackle again.
“No, just that I read somewhere that you only get a good rush the first time, maybe the second, and that if you want that rush again, you’ve got to inject it in your neck.”
She shrugged, frowned, and relaxed her shoulders. “Is that right?” The needle sat slack in her palm. “Not heard that one before.” Mam stared at the net curtains, her gaze darting left to right. “Fucking dark in here. Stick the light on, will you?”
Don’t, Carmel. Someone might pass the window, see inside.
“You do it,” I said, and despite the bravado in my voice, my stomach betrayed me and flipped over.
Her eyes widened in the gloom, and she settled back against the sofa. “I’ll let that slide—the rudeness—because I can’t be arsed to argue.” She put the needle on the cushion beside her and tied a nylon stocking round her arm, slapping at a vein. Moved so close to it that her nose almost touched her skin. “Fucking bastard. Come on, rise.”
“Probably buggered, Mam. Try another.” I gripped my knees, my heart pounding.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right, kid. Not so thick, really, are you? Sod it, I’ll do what you said. Need a good rush, me.”
Mam jabbed the needle into her neck.
I stood, my knees wobbling. Walked to the kitchen and emptied her tea into the sink. Shoved her cup into my bag. Wiped the milk carton. Stole the spoon.
In the living room, I picked up some of Mam’s medicine and a needle, slipped them in my pocket, and took one last look at her.
Dead to the world.
“Goodbye, Mam.”
* * * *
The trees lining the alleyway enveloped me. Safe… Chin dropped to chest, hood up, scarf over my face, I walked away—away from the street that held the secrets of my childhood, from the house where the walls had watched my torment and stood to see me fight another day.
I turned into the park. The frosted grass crunched underfoot, and the damp wetted my shoes. Mr Moon peeked from behind thick clouds, his face yellowed and aged. The firs, oaks, and birches that witnessed Belinda’s accident swayed in the breeze, their branches waving hello.
“Hello to you, too,” I murmured.
“Talking to fucking trees now, are we?” Belinda called. She hung from the monkey bars up ahead, her arms elongated—a primate at play.
“Piss off,” I said and walked towards the swings, hands in my pockets.
The swing seat chilled my backside through my coat, and I shivered. The skin around my eyes tightened in the icy air, and I gripped the swing chains, cold against my palms. Scuffing my feet on the tarmac, I pushed off, relishing the wind freezing the tears on my face. My hood blew backwards, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up as coldness seeped through the previous warmth.
Belinda sat on the swing beside me, zipped from being static to sky-flying in a second. Our swings moved in the same direction.
“Crying, are we?” she asked.
I turned to her. Belinda’s wind-dried, eye-socket face resembled a raisin. Her chubby fingers gripped the swing chains, and her burial dress flapped up and down, her meaty knees and calves playing peek-a-boo.
Her presence rankled, and ire gathered on my tongue and broke free. “No, I’m fucking not. And if I was, so what? What the hell has it got to do with you? What do you care? You don’t understand—never have.”
I faced forward, focused on propelling myself higher, and stifled the need to kick Mr Moon’s head in. He smiled his thanks, staring at me with his sad, half-lidded eyes.
“Oh, I understand, all right. You’re nuts, aren’t you? A twisted, freaky little nutter who insists on retribution. There are other kids in this world who’ve suffered like you, and you don’t see them going round bumping people off, do you?”
My jaw clenched, and my stomach tightened. Rage built. If Belinda could die again, I’d have gladly killed her a second time. “I haven’t bumped anyone off. Those people had accidents.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Killer.”
My nostrils flared, and I inhaled. The cold air stung my nose, and tears pricked my eyes again. “I’m not a killer,” I said, so low I barely heard myself.
“So you say. Anyway, how do you feel now? Better?”
I paused, examined my emotions. Though a sense of freedom blossomed, a part of me was hollow. An empty void remained, slowly filling with the sadness of childhood memories. Would the void close over once all the hurt had been sucked inside? Could I seal it and move on?
“No,” I said. “I don’t feel better. I won’t until they’re all gone.”
Yes, sure that inner peace would claim me once he’d been sorted, I slowed the swing. Determination settled on my shoulders, snapping them straighter.
“You’re fooling yourself, d’you know that?”
I stopped the swing and stood. Belinda swung so high I hoped she’d flip right over the top bar and fall off.
Sighing, I stared at her. “Like I said just now, piss off.”
&nbs
p; I lifted my hood and left the park, intent on meeting with Richie and having a stiff drink or two in The Shackle. Belinda’s voice followed me, an eerie, melancholy wail that sent shivers up and down my spine. Tuning it out, I thought of other, more pressing things.
* * * *
The languid walk to the grey tower block did me good. Refreshed, my emotions sewn tightly into the recesses of my mind, I stood outside the entrance. Would Richie show up? What did I want to meet him for anyway?
An alibi, maybe?
That wouldn’t work, Nelson. The timing isn’t right.
But it’s something, isn’t it? Besides, I’d bet your mam’s accident would look like an overdose. Suicide, even.
Hopefully. I wonder who’ll find her?
You left the door on the latch, didn’t you, so I’d say Bob.
Yeah. Probably when he drops her next batch of medicine off. In the morning.
He’ll have to sell it to someone else now, won’t he?
I nodded and stamped my feet to keep warm. Moisture from my scarf wetted my lips.
I wonder if he’ll miss her? They’ve known each other a long time.
Miss the money she brings in, I’d say. And he won’t have a venue for Thursday nights now, will he?
No.
The door behind me swung open, and I jumped, turned. Richie stood smiling, his gold tooth an oddity beside its white companions.
“You came, then. Didn’t think you would.” He nudged my arm and shuffled from foot to foot.
I smiled. “Yeah, I came. So, does The Shackle get busy at this time of night?”
“Yeah. People round here like a drink, innit.”
We walked across the grass until we reached the pavement. Scant traffic occupied the roads, and the windows in houses and flats stared darkly, their occupants in bed. Our mouths silent on the walk to the pub, I wondered if Richie felt awkward. Tongue-tied. I glanced at him. He didn’t appear uncomfortable. A slight smile tweaked his lips, and he walk-bounced with more assurance than he had previously.
The low throb of music sounded, and we turned a corner. Ahead, a car park to the front, The Shackle stood, lights beaming from the windows, occasional laughter filtering into the night air.
“You ready for a drink, then?” Richie asked.
“Yeah. I need one after the day I’ve had.”
“Bad one, was it?” He pushed the door open, and chattering voices and music swallowed my reply. Air thick with cigarette smoke and the strong scent of hops caressed my face. I took my hood down, pushed my scarf from my face. I ran my fingers through my hair to tidy it and followed Richie, nudging through patrons to reach the bar.
“What you havin’?” he asked.
“Bacardi and Coke. A double.” I reached for my bag, remembered the cup from Mam’s. My stomach clenched.
“I’ll pay,” he said.
Settled at a corner table, we chatted like old friends. The subject matter took a sinister slant, surprising me. Why did I attract people like him? Gary was just the same—loved talking about weird stuff.
“I reckon,” Richie said, sipping his beer, “that all nonces ought to have their balls cut off. I mean, them kiddie fiddlers—think they should be hung, innit?”
I nodded. “Yeah. What do you think about people who go after them, then? You know, those abused kids growing up and bumping off their abusers?”
He laughed. “Bumping them off? I ain’t heard that expression in a long time. Well, it’s all right, yeah. Them perverts is getting what they deserve. Bastards. Reckon those that kill them are justified. Like, wouldn’t you want to kill someone who did that to you? I would.”
“I suppose.”
We yammered on, finishing several drinks. A sense of righteousness stole over me, and the alcohol loosened my taut muscles and nerves. The bar’s bell rang, signalling last orders. A ribald cheer went up, and customers scrabbled to the bar, their outstretched arms waving ten- and twenty-pound notes.
“D’you want another?” Richie asked, nodding at the bar.
“No. I think I’ve had enough. The air outside will hit me like a sack of shit, I bet. I’ve got to walk home yet.”
We rose, and my knees sagged. Head spinning, I took a moment to regain my senses. I’d never drunk so much before.
“Where d’you live?”
I followed him through the crowd and out into the night. “Not far.”
Retracing our steps, we walked in silence. Thoughts bombarded my mind. Who would bury Mam? Would Bob tell the police about me, and would they try to find me? Who would live in her house now?
The council will have to clean it out before anyone else can have it. They can’t give it to anyone yet, the shit state it’s in.
Hmm.
Reckon old snooty next door will be pleased. Did her a service, didn’t you?
I sniffed.
I hope you don’t feel bad. Your mam only did what she’d have done another time. It just happened sooner, that’s all.
Bad? I stifled a laugh. What was there to feel bad about?
Well, this kind of thing gets to people. They think it’s what they want, and then when it happens—it isn’t.
We stood outside the tower block.
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“Yeah, with me mam and Teddy. Gonna get a place of my own soon.” At the entrance, Richie leaned against the door. “Wanna meet up again some time?”
“Yeah. That’d be okay. Nice, I mean.”
“You got a bloke?” He stared at the ground and kicked a loose pebble.
“Not as such, no. I’ve got a close friend. Male. He’s cool.” I thought of Gary and how he’d react if he knew the truth about what had happened in the past few hours. Would he change towards me if I confessed certain things? Would he be jealous that I’d been out with Richie? Did I want him to be? Confused by this sudden turn of thought, I frowned.
“Ah, right. We could be mates, though, innit?” He looked up, stared at me. “Like, we could meet every now and then. Have a few drinks.”
“Yeah. That’d be cool.”
“When?” His cheeks reddened.
I smiled. “I’m not sure when I’m over this way again.”
“Well, I live in flat twenty-seven. Level eight. Stop by when you’re free.” He pushed away from the door, turned to open it, and glanced back. “See you around, innit?” he said and walked into the foyer.
The door thudded closed behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunlight filtered through the curtains. I was in bed, my mind sharp on the future, the pillow hot beneath my head. I turned it over and rested my cheek against the cold material. It was Saturday, the day I usually cleaned and took my washing to the laundrette over the road. I’d cleaned last night, so that left enough time for me to laze around. To think.
The morning passed in a haze. On my own—Belinda didn’t show, and Nelson sat quietly on top of the wardrobe—I struggled to bat away the uncomfortable emotions jostling inside me. Questions played tag with one another, unrelenting in their search for answers. Some tumbled in before I had the chance to respond, tripping and falling in an untidy heap in my mind.
Is this what you want? Even though your mam treated you badly, don’t you feel remorse? What’s it like to be the catalyst for so many accidents? Are you tainted, is that it? Were you infected with badness from the moment Mr Hemmings fucked your mam? Are you bad to the bone, destined to wreak havoc in others’ lives?
On and on they chattered, strangers’ voices inside a troubled skull. My answers inadequate, I grew more confused as time wore on. Anger, bitterness, and the feeling of being attacked stomped through me. Questions of my own formed.
Why should I be the one to feel bad? Didn’t I suffer enough to justify the accidents? Didn’t those people—like Richie said—deserve all they’d got? How come I’m the one left feeling bad—again? Life isn’t fucking fair! It isn’t right that I’m here all twisted up and confused. I’ve had enough of that in m
y life already. Stop. Just stop.
I threw the quilt from my body and darted out of bed. With a cold can of Coke from the fridge in my hand, I opened the curtains and stared at the street below. People scuttled like spiders, dodging past one another in their tasks to buy their shopping, go home again, home to warmth. To their nice families, caring people, who hugged their children, laughed, and never spoke a cross word.
Mothers pushed prams, the children in them well nourished, smiles on all their faces. Men on DIY duty entered the tool shop and emerged bearing saws, hammers, bags of screws. Off home then to put up the shelves, the new doors, fix the leaking tap. Children skipped, their eager hands shoving the convenience shop door open. Sweets. They’d be buying sweets. Spending their pocket money.
Why hadn’t my life been like that? How come I’d been chosen to suffer?
A tear plopped onto the windowsill. I clamped my jaw and blinked away the wetness.
You’ve got washing to do, Carmel.
“I know.”
Best be getting on with it, then.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Yeah, best I do that.”
* * * *
I loved the smell of the laundrette. So clean. A mixture of different washing detergents slammed into me, and I inhaled deeply, a sense of calm hugging me tight. Empty and quiet most days, this place always gave me happiness. A couple of washers threw clothing around inside them, the owners of the laundry absent.
Mam’s washing machine rarely washed anything. So old, it clanked on the spin cycle and burped out water from the filter at the bottom.
Stop thinking about things like that. Just…stop.
I hefted my laundry bag onto the bench in the centre of the room and walked over to the soap powder machine. Four different brands showed through the glass panels on the front. Daz, Bold, Ariel, Surf. Which one today? My coins jingled inside the machine’s belly, and the electricity meter under the stairs flashed through my mind. I shuddered and pushed the Daz button. A box big enough for my two wash loads clattered into a tray. I picked it up and sniffed its aroma through the box.
