by Emmy Ellis
Finished sorting my washing into two machines, I sat on the bench to wait. Forty minutes for the washes, and an hour for the dryers gave me time to read. I opened my bag.
The cup was there.
I patted my pocket; the solid shapes of the spoon and needle inside.
I swallowed, fished out my book—an Agatha Christie—and zipped up my bag.
What are you going to do with the cup and spoon, Carmel?
I don’t know.
That spoon’s all black. The medicine did it.
I nodded.
You could smash the cup into pieces and put it in one of the bins in town.
I opened my book and lost myself in the pages for a time. Machines whirred, the sound of water soothing. The air seemed thickened with scents, heat, and comfort. The laundrette door swooshed open, and a blast of cold air nipped through my jeans. I looked up.
“Carmel! I thought you’d be in here. Thank God I’ve found you.” The door closed behind a flush-faced Gary. He breathed as if he’d been running. Sweat beaded his forehead below the peak of his green baseball cap. “You’ve got to come, quickly.” He waved an arm towards the door, the sleeve of his coat crackling.
“Hello to you too. What’s the rush?” I closed my book and slid it into the side pocket on my bag. “Won a bet on the horses and need help spending the winnings?”
“It’s your mam. Something’s happened.” He stepped closer to me, eyes wide, mouth downturned.
I sighed. “Gary, you know I don’t have anything to do with her. I don’t give a shit what’s—”
“She overdosed again, Carmel.” He sat beside me, hands dangling between his open legs. He bit his lower lip and swiped his forefinger beneath his nose.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I shrugged. “Won’t be the bloody last, either.”
My washing swam round in the rinse cycle. So clean.
Bet it smells nice.
He turned and looked at me. “You really don’t give a shit, do you?”
“Gary,” I cleared my throat, “if you’d been brought up by her, you wouldn’t give a shit either. You’re basing this on how you’d feel if it was your mam. Mine isn’t like yours, is she.”
“Wasn’t, Carmel.”
“What?”
“Your mam wasn’t like my mam. Your mam’s, umm…” He took a deep breath. “Your mam’s dead.”
I moved the sleeve of my coat, checked the time. “Washing’ll be done in a minute. It’s spinning, look.”
“Bob told me about it in the pub just now. He wants you to meet up with him. Discuss things.”
“I reckon I’ll do my ironing this afternoon, Gary. Saves me doing it tomorrow. What do you reckon?”
He frowned. “You’re her next of kin. There are things you need to sort out.”
“Yeah, I’ll have a nice lazy day tomorrow. Might try and bake some biscuits in my little oven. Do you reckon they’d cook all right in there, seeing as it’s really only a grill? Or we could even go out for a pub lunch. D’you fancy that?”
He gripped my arm and stood, pulling me up with him. “Stop going on about stupid shit, will you? Your mam’s dead, and all you can think about is washing, ironing, and what you’ll be doing tomorrow?”
I yanked my arm away and plunked my hands on my hips. “You want to know the truth? Yes.” Spittle flew from my mouth. “That’s all I’m thinking about. Bob can deal with it by himself, fucked if I care. You don’t understand, okay? And you never will because you’ve been brought up proper. I, my friend, have been tainted since the day I was born.” I laughed, opened one of the washing machines, and transferred the laundry from it to a dryer. The aroma wafted up my nose, and I smiled. “So, nice of you to come and tell me and all that, but really, you wasted your time. I thought you’d have known that after all our discussions.”
Gary leaned against a washer. It danced through a spin cycle, juddering his body. His cheeks wobbled. “Yeah. I do. I just…I just thought that if it happened for real, that you’d want to know.”
“Well, I don’t. I might well go and see Bob, but I won’t go to that woman’s funeral. She can be buried alone and unloved, just like I’ve been all my damn life.” I slammed the dryer shut and fed coins into the slot at the top. “Anyway, a change of subject, yeah?”
He sighed, nodded.
“Pub lunch tomorrow?”
* * * *
The Cross Keys housed few customers. A middle-aged pair nestled in one corner, their noses close, and two old men propped up the bar exercising their elbows and jaws. Gary ordered our drinks—Guinness for him, Coke for me—and we chose a table in the opposite corner to the couple. The table I’d last sat at with Bob.
Gary’s gaze darted from side to side. He sat with his back to the wall so he faced the door. “Sit down there,” he said, pointing to the chair opposite him.
I frowned at his forwardness but did as he’d asked. “So, are we eating lunch in here, then?” I picked up a tatty menu from the table and opened it. Lasagne and chips? Chicken and baked potato? My mouth watered. “I’m going to have lasagne, chips, and a side order of garlic bread. What are you having?”
Gary focused on the door. I nudged his foot under the table.
“Are you with it today, or what?” I asked.
“Hmm?” He looked at me and picked up his glass. “What did you say?”
I sighed. “What are you having for lunch?” Irritation tinged my words.
“Oh, you order. I’m not fussed.” He gulped his Guinness and stared at the door again.
“Am I cramping your style? Or are you expecting someone? Only, you seem distracted. Like my company isn’t stimulating enough. Shit, talk about rude.” I snapped the menu shut and stood, walked away from him to the bar, and ordered our meals.
Back at the table, I said, “Lunch will be fifteen minutes. I got you the same as me. Tough shit if you don’t like it.”
“Oh, right,” he said, craning his neck to see around me. “What are we having?”
Spite narrowed my eyes.
I bet Richie wouldn’t treat you like this…
“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you? Seeing as I’ve already told you what I’m having, and you weren’t listening…”
He sat upright, looked at me, and said, “Sorry. Sorry, Carmel. I’m just—”
“Rude. Yeah, I know.”
We sipped our drinks, an awkward air swirling around us. Gary didn’t seem the same. Was it because he’d brought me the news about Mam and appeared to feel sorry for the old cow? Did I suffer from an immature burst of he’s my friend, not yours, Mam? Did I expect him to side with me at all times, regardless of what I did or said?
Yes, I supposed I did. He always had in the past, hadn’t he?
The scarred tabletop drew my attention. Whitened circles of previously spilled beer and cigarette burns decorated the wood. Chips and dents gave the table a weathered finish. No wonder they used beer mats. I picked one up and began to strip away the picture layer, disposing of the curly remnants in a large blue Fosters ashtray. Was my life like that beer mat? Was everything going to be stripped away, encouraging the inside outside? I blinked away tears. I didn’t need them falling here. Gary would think I’d finally softened about Mam and keep on and on until…
Our meals arrived. We ate in silence. I didn’t care—too hungry to be bothered about a little tension. If Gary wanted to act weirdly, that was his problem. Snotty sod.
My lasagne finished, I picked up a slice of garlic bread and took a bite. “Want some?” I asked, my mouth full.
Gary jumped. “Oh, uh, yeah. Please.”
“What the fucking hell is wrong with you, Gary?” My brows hurt from frowning. “You’re not with it at all. I may as well have gone out for lunch on my own. Some company you are.”
His eyes widened, their whites bloodshot. He cleared his throat, twitched, and dropped his knife and fork on his plate. “Uh, um…”
“What? What’s wrong? If you’ve g
ot something to tell me then spit it out. You’re pissing me off, you are.” I gulped my Coke then slammed the glass on the table. “Can’t be doing with this awkward atmosphere shit.” My head throbbed.
“Um, Carmel?” He picked at a hangnail, ripped the skin so hard it started bleeding. Finger in his mouth now, he smiled and blushed.
“Yes?” I glared at him, my anger growing.
“There’s someone,” he nodded, “behind you. I uh…I…”
I turned.
Bob, his face lined and haggard, gave a watery smile. His moustache needed trimming, as did his beard. Grey hairs interspersed with the dirty brown, and the brief thought of him finally ageing zipped through my mind.
“It’s my fault, Carmel. I made Gary bring you here.”
I whipped back round to face Gary. “You fucking b—”
My lunch swirled in my stomach and threatened to reappear. I swallowed the lump of treachery in my throat, swallowed the disbelief that Gary would do this to me.
“Don’t, Carmel,” Bob said and sat beside me. “I wanted to see you. About your mam.”
Bob’s stale odour was disgusting. I wanted to run, run the hell away from these two men and never see them again. Remaining seated, I narrowed my eyes at Gary. His blush deepened, and he sucked on his finger—hard.
Turning back to Bob, I said, “What is there to see me about? The silly cow topped herself, as we knew she would one day. Good riddance, all right? I don’t want anything to do with it all. I cut her out of my life ages ago.”
Bob placed his hand on my thigh.
I tensed and flicked his touch away. “Get your hand off me,” I said through clenched teeth. My gums ached.
Startled, Bob leant back in his seat. His slack lips worked for a while before any sound emerged. “Carmel. Please, just calm down.” Bob’s head shook as if he needed a fix, his greasy hair flicking into his eyes. “Take a walk with me, yeah? Cool down outside. Just let me explain a few things. I need to—”
“All right,” I said, the pressure too much. “Half an hour.” I turned to Gary. “You needn’t wait for me. I’ll make my own bloody way home, thanks.”
I turned and stalked from the pub, the sound of Gary’s sharp intake of breath and Bob’s unsteady footsteps behind me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
We walked away from my old territory, through an industrial estate, and down to the canal before speaking. The pebbled tow path glistened with moisture—rain had fallen while Gary and I had eaten lunch. A couple of barges lined the canal, as did thick clusters of trees, their branches static in the still air. A tunnel sat in the near distance; four people stood on top of it watching the calm water below.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked, hands bunched in pockets, gaze focused on the arch of bricks ahead. His elbow brushed against my arm, and I cringed, tuning out the contact.
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Like,” he cleared his throat, “as I’ve got older. Looked back on the stuff I’ve done. Not done. Then this with your mam…”
I glanced out of the corner of my eye. Bob’s face twitched, his nose wrinkling. His eyes bulged.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“I’ve done some bad shit, kid. I know it now and I knew it at the time, but it didn’t…doesn’t seem to matter.”
The pebbles crunched under our tread, and the air shuddered as though sighing with me. The tunnel drew closer, and a barge chundered through it, the echo of its engine loud.
“Doesn’t matter?” Anger pinched my cheeks, raised a heated blush. “The fact that you used me as a kid, took pictures of me and sold them, for fuck’s sake. That doesn’t matter?” I walked faster, my legs stiff, my arms clamped to my sides. My nails dug into my palms.
Bob quickened his pace, trotting alongside me. His foul breath soiled the air, blew in my face. The barge from under the tunnel cruised past, leaving beige, frothy water in its wake.
“No, no, that’s not how I meant it. I meant—”
“What did you bloody mean, Bob? Come on, tell me. I’m intrigued as to whether you’re going to be blatantly honest like Mam always was, or give me some bullshit excuse as to why you fiddled with kids, fucked up mine and their lives, peddled drugs, prostitution—”
“All right. All right! Stop. Just…stop, yeah? Shit.” He looked around, body jerking. “Is there somewhere we can go for some privacy round here?”
My heart thudded. If he thought for one minute… “Privacy? Get your filthy mind out of the gutter. I’m not the young, stupid, trusting little girl I once was.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to turn around now and walk back the way we came. Away from you. And if you follow, I swear I’ll tell the police all about you. Dirty, nasty, blo—”
“No. No, Carmel. I didn’t mean it like that. Listen to me, will you?”
We stopped walking just before entering the tunnel and stared at one another, our breaths heavy. Anger ticked through my blood, heated it, made me want to reach out my hands and push the filthy little bastard standing in front of me into the canal.
“Bob, you have thirty seconds to say what you have to say then I’m gone.”
His face paled, and he sniffed, hawked phlegm, and spat it into the water. “I meant that I needed the privacy for a fix.”
Inwardly smiling, I kept my face composed. “Oh. Well. That’s all right, then.” I peered through the tunnel at the landscape beyond. “There’s a field a little way ahead. I doubt anyone will see what you’re doing there. Will that do?”
“Yeah,” he said and sighed a sigh of the vastly relieved. “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”
We ambled through the tunnel in single file, Bob in front of me. The dank air reeked of mould and dirty water, intensified in such close quarters. The sound of our footsteps crackled like Rice Krispies in freshly poured milk, and a steady drip of water from the tunnel ceiling plopped into the canal. Once we were through to the other side, the daylight, though meek, bombarded my eyes, and I blinked to refocus. Light rain began falling, misting my face, and I followed Bob along the tow path again, neither of us speaking.
Bordered by hedges, the field emerged on our left. I wasn’t sure how we would gain entrance. “Keep walking,” I said. “Maybe there’ll be a gap in the hedge a bit farther along.”
Bob raised a shaking hand—he must really need a fix—and bent his head as the rain fell harder. I lifted my hood and looked to the other side of the canal. Farm fields stretched for miles, and the bell tower of the church where Mr Lawton had…where he’d… Well, it stood in the distance. Serenity reigned. The sound of rain on the canal surface, birds twittering, and our feet on the path created a pleasing melody, and I wondered if Mam watched us from the top of the star-steps.
She’s more likely looking up from the flames of Hell.
I moved my gaze to our side of the path. A slight dip in the hedge caught my attention. “Here, Bob. This is low enough to climb over.”
We scrambled over the hedge and stood in a field full of high grass that whispered as a sudden wind picked up. Three large stones jutted through the grass, and I pushed towards them.
Sitting on one, I patted another. “Take a seat. Do your thing.”
Bob crouched and set his gear out on the stone. “Shit. No spoon. No—”
“Needle? Here, I have both.”
Bob gaped at me and ran calloused fingers through his soaking hair. Drool from the corner of his mouth dripped into his beard. “What? You on the gear now?”
I smiled and dug into my pocket, bringing out the needle and spoon. Handing them to Bob, I said, “Something like that.”
He snatched them, dropping the spoon into the grass in his haste to prepare his ambrosia and inject. “Fuck. Shit.” He ruffled the grass, eyes widening, hair falling forwards, obscuring his face.
I smirked and fought the need to laugh at the pathetic specimen beside me. “Bob, calm down. It’s just there, right by your foot.”
He sighed and snatched it up.
“This shit has got a hold on me, kid. Like a demon, it is. You ought to be glad you haven’t got any demons chasing through your blood.”
“But I do. Still, we’re not here to talk about me, are we? You wanted to tell me something, didn’t you? Well, get your gear inside you and spill. I want to get home, and you’ve already had the half an hour I promised.”
I turned away from him, stood, and surveyed the surroundings. The people on the bridge had moved elsewhere. A large patch of trampled grass jostled to our right, seemingly a bargee’s dumping ground. While Bob busied himself, I traipsed over and inspected the rubbish. Black sacks and carrier bags full of refuse spilled their contents. A thick metal pole—from a tent?—and some sort of engine sat to the side nearest the hedge. A boot, a mobile phone with the screen smashed, and a wet, black T-shirt lay closest to my feet. I picked up the pole, using it as a cane on my way back to Bob. It sunk into the ground with each step, its end muddied.
Bob sat on a stone, his head hanging low, hands on his knees.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded, lifted his head, and stared at me, his eyes glassy. “Look at this,” he slurred and reached into an inside pocket of his coat. “My notes. Don’t read them until you get home.” He held out a small, red-spined book, its black cover veined with a grey marble effect. Rain plopped onto it, and I took it, slipping it into my pocket before it got too wet. “It’s all in there. Everything you need to know.”
Had he written things down that related to Mam? Were there things in that book that would help me understand? Forgive?
He stared at me still, his gaze penetrating now, and I recalled my pleasure at him noticing me, calling me his favourite girl. The years zipped backwards, and I saw the old Bob, the clean-shaven man with the bulging pockets, his short-spoken sentences. And Mam, pandering to his every whim.
Yeah, right down to selling her own daughter…
“I took too much, Carmel.”
I blinked, shrugged off the past. “Pardon?”
“I took too much gear. Just now. On purpose. Nothing left for me without your mam.” He gazed at the overcast sky, tears in his eyes. “She was the best, you know? The fucking best.”
