Lady Bag (13 page)

Chapter
21

Smister’s Dreadful Story

E
lectra drank a lot of water and went straight to bed. She wasn’t hungry. She just looked at me with those grateful amber eyes, and I thought, What’s she got to be grateful for? Because all I’d done was rescue her from the mess I’d made for her in the first place.

‘It’s for emergencies only,’ I promised as I put the rest of the red into the fridge with the milk.

Five minutes later Smister shuffled out of the mouldy shower, clean and without make-up. He looked dejected and cowed; a girlish boy who’d been hurt or humiliated. I was surprised—pain and humiliation were usually what turned him on.

Eventually he said, ‘I’m sorry I took your card but I needed to score something I could take to Lou’s Club to deal, or share, so that I wouldn’t look like some sad loser who’d lost everything in a fire. I can look wistful and winsome, but not like a loser.’

He looked utterly like a loser, so I said, ‘Go on,’ and sat down opposite him.

‘So I used your cash card because the candy-man only takes cash. But the ATM swallowed the card and there was no cash. So either you’ve gone over your limit or you ain’t Natalie Munrow.’

What game was he playing now? He’d read the Evening Standard so he
knew
I wasn’t Natalie Munrow. Did he want to take the moral high-ground because he’d stolen something that wasn’t mine?

I said, ‘What were you going to buy with all that stolen cash?’

‘Does it matter? Get your head out of a bottle just for once and try to understand.’ He gave me his wounded fawn look and went on, ‘I was shook up so I went for a coffee nearby. Cos I wasn’t sure they’d let me into Lou’s if I wasn’t carrying. Real people go to that club, Momster, like barristers and surgeons. Why would they let
me
in?’

‘Because you’re young and pretty?’

He couldn’t meet my eyes. Then he said, ‘I’m trash. I’m the slum bum boy when I’m at Lou’s.’

‘Don’t go there then.’

‘But they give me presents and take me to parties. And like I said, there are surgeons.’

‘Oh Smister… ’

‘Don’t start that again. You aren’t listening.
Listen
. I was sitting there having a mocha when two guys in suits walk up. And suddenly it’s like—“You were observed attempting to obtain money from the ATM on Shaftsbury Avenue, we’re the Fraud Squad, what you got to say for yourself, you cheap tart, and don’t even bother talking cos we ain’t gonna believe you anyway.”

‘Cheap tart! I was wearing my Donna Karan. So they want to look in my bag, and I’m, like, “you need a warrant,” and they’re all, “Don’t be a stupid little cow, the more trouble you give us now the worse it’ll be for you later.” And, “Come with us, we’ll show you what rights you got.”

‘They seemed straight, so we went and sat in their car in an underground car park, and for a while it was okay cos I just said I’d found the card on the ground next to the ATM. And they were saying, “If you’re telling the truth, no worries, pretty little thing like you.” But then it’s, “How did you know the PlN number?” So I say, “It was written on the card.” And they say, “We’ll recover the card so we’ll know if you’ve lying.” And I say, “It was in ink, it came off in the rain.”

‘Momster, they were so freaky—one minute it’s, “I could really fancy a little doll like you,” and then it’s, “C’mon, we know you stole the card off of a dead body.” Dead body, Momster? I never saw a dead body in my whole life.’

‘Too-Tall,’ I said. ‘You saw Too-Tall.’

‘She wasn’t dead. Don’t say that.’

He suddenly slumped and laid his head on the table as if he was going to sleep. I thought I’d leave him like that because there was an ache in the pit of my stomach that only a slurp of red comfort could fill. But he said, ‘Don’t go Momster. You gotta tell me, did all that good stuff come off of a dead woman?’

I tried to pretend I couldn’t remember. ‘I don’t know. There was a dead woman but I never saw her, and one time I thought she was me. I know some of the blood was mine.’ I didn’t want to lie, but I was afraid he’d done a deal with the Fraud Squad cops.

‘You said you were Natalie Munrow.’

‘No I didn’t. Everyone in the hospital told me I was her—even the WPC with fair hair and no arse to speak of. She gave me the house keys. And that handbag.’

‘So you thought you were her?’

‘I couldn’t remember anything. When I went back to the mews house my keys fitted her door, but my feet didn’t fit in her shoes. And then I saw you with Electra, and I knew who
she
was. It’s the only thing I’m totally sure of.’

Smister ran his pearl-tipped fingers through his hair, trying to understand.

I said, ‘How did you get away from the Fraud Squad? Did they charge you? Are you going to turn me in?’

He was so young and transparent I almost believed he wasn’t going to make up a story.

‘I’d
never
turn you in.’ There wasn’t a flick of the sweet blue eyes. He shifted uncomfortably though. ‘But you were seen on telly pretending to be Natalie Munrow.’

‘No I wasn’t.
You
pretended to be Josepha Munrow, and
you
said I was your mum.’

‘You’ve got a cracking good memory for someone with amnesia,’ he muttered into his coffee. ‘The way you drink—it’s amazing you can remember your own name.’

‘But I can’t.’ What did he think I was? Simple? He was a thief and a liar. I should never forget that for a moment.

He said, almost in a whisper, ‘They tricked me. They’d seen us on the telly. They knew about Natalie Munrow and me calling myself Josepha. They knew right from the start that I was lying about the card and the PIN number. They were playing with me, Momster; they were catching me in lie after lie till there was nowhere to hide.’

I was beginning to feel sorry for him. ‘Then what?’

‘Then Jerry, the big one, said, “We got you good. We got you wriggling on a hook like a pretty little fish.” He was walking his fingers up my leg while he was talking. The other one was breathing heavy and sniggering. And then Jerry said, “Wriggle on
this!
”
And he stuck his fingers up… you know… ’ Smister paused and chewed some colour into his lower lip. He took a deep breath and went on, ‘But of course he found a bit more than he’d expected. Some of them get very cruel when they think you’ve made a fool of them. They had a torch and a screwdriver in the glove compartment… ’

I couldn’t say a word; I could only stare at him.

He stared back at me, waiting for me to ask. But I couldn’t. So I shared the only comfort I could. I took the bottle of red out of the fridge and gave it to him.

He glugged it down and said, ‘Why’re you snivelling, Momster? No one raped you with a torch and a screwdriver.’

‘Shut up,’ I yelled. ‘Shut up,
shut up!
’

I ran out of the kitchen. I was going to fetch Electra and leave forever. But she had weepy eyes too, so I took some of the packets of co-codamol and zopiclone and put them on the table in front of Smister. He let them lie. ‘They gave me something strong at St Stephens—enough for a week—and antibiotics for three weeks. I’ve got my own prescription.’

‘How did you get away?’ I asked in the end. Because, God help me, even though I was crying for him, I was still wondering how much he’d betrayed me. If he hadn’t done it for money, maybe he’d done it for mercy.

‘I didn’t. They dumped me out of the car when they’d finished.’

‘You should go back to bed,’ I said. ‘You heal better when you’re asleep.’ I was only just beginning to notice how still he was sitting, how blue the shadows under his eyes were, how pale his lips. I’d thought it was because he wasn’t wearing any make up, but in reality he was injured and unwell. I never notice the crucial stuff till too late.

Smister lay on his side with his eyes closed. I covered him with an extra blanket. After a while he said, ‘I’m not gay. Really I’m not. People like… well, no one understands. I’m not gay, I’m a girl.’

‘Okay,’ I said, thinking I should stay till he went to sleep. But if he was going to talk about it I’d have to leave.

He said, ‘No, you don’t understand either.’

‘Actually,’ I said, standing up, ‘you’re right. I don’t understand a bleeding word. Why would you want to be a girl? There’s more to it than wearing pretty frocks.’

‘I don’t want to be a girl,’ he said in a choking voice. ‘I
am
one.’

‘You think
I’m
barmy? Why do you have to be a girl? Why can’t you do the difficult thing and be a woman?’

‘Don’t go,’ he said, trying to sit up but wincing in pain.

‘Then shut up.’ I sat down again, next to him, and waited till he fell asleep.

Chapter
22

Jerry-cop And
The Mouse Momster

I
wish I could protect Smister.

Why doesn’t God spray-paint cruel people with tiger stripes so that we can all see them coming and take evasive action? And if the meek actually were blessed, nothing frightening or painful would ever happen to Electra or Smister. And when Jesuits say, ‘You are the responsible author of your own actions,’ are they talking about us suffering mortals who are always broken and battered by those with power, or are they commenting sarcastically on
God’s
little actions? Like earthquakes in built-up areas, floods, cancers and cops called Jerry? If you’d told me that Gram Satan Attwood created all that, I’d believe you. But when you tell me that God the
father
was the responsible author I have to inform you that he really must hate some of his offspring. Usually he hates the sweet ones and lets the Jerry-cops off scot-free. This is why I believe in the corporeality and power of Satan. If God exists, either he has no executive influence at all or he doesn’t give a shit about suffering mortals.

This was what I was thinking at the chemist while buying one of those post-natal rubber rings so that Smister could sit up without pain.

In the mini-mart I thought about making a healing chicken soup that all three of us could eat. But I couldn’t remember how, so I bought a few cans and a can opener instead. I brought bread and eggs as well because I could probably do something with those. It’d been so long since I had a kitchen that I didn’t know how to think about food except as something I could cadge or find in a bin. You lose skills like cooking and carpet-laying when you haven’t got a home.

Also, if I stocked up the kitchen with things Smister could prepare for himself, I could slip away with a good conscience. You see, Smister might have ratted me out. Plus he was a wounded fawn, and Satan had given Jerry-cop the power of a predator to smell him from afar, to pick him out of a crowd, pull him to the ground and tear pieces of still living flesh from his poor confused little body. He could smell Smister’s friendlessness and poverty. There would be no retribution from Smister’s solicitors, parents or influential mates.

Smister is not one of God’s children because God doesn’t exist and therefore has no children. But Jerry-cop is definitely a favoured son of Satan.

I know for a fact that Satan can smell defencelessness because he could smell mine. He picked me out of a crowd and was the responsible author of my actions. He has passed his gift on to his son Jerry-cop. So I don’t want to be anywhere in the neighbourhood when he comes calling on Smister. For Jerry-cop is like his dad, Ashmodai, the Lord of Lust and Wrath who rules his circle of hell with whips woven from scorpion tails that he uses to flay you, body and soul. Gram Satan Ashmodai.

I wished I could protect Smister. But I didn’t seem able even to protect Electra. And no one could protect me except me—if I was lucky enough to find a gossip mag to roll into a deadly weapon—an insufficient instrument to use against the son of Lord Ashmodai Attwood.

My head was in a plumber’s grip, my teeth were loose, sweat dribbled down my ribs, my clumsy hands trembled, my lumbering feet stumbled and my stomach lurched like a ship in a storm. Even so, I made it back to Cadmus Road without taking a single snort of the wine I’d bought for Smister.

I’d had the shakes, and the rattles, now I think I’ve got the DTs. But still I have to feed everyone, and heal everyone and give them good clean water and red wine. I have to wash and bandage their wounds and then wash and fill their bowls. For am I not the great mother in the sky? The enemy of the Lord Ashmodai and all his minions?

No. I’m the lowliest of all creatures—the humble mouse, feeding on crumbs and scurrying away at the first sign of trouble.

The Mouse Momster—that’s me. My children are derelict, drunk, addicted, mad and suffer with arthritic paws. They’re outsiders, inadequates, homeless and abused. They are young and confused. They are old and confused. They are dogs with no family ties. They sleep at the bottom of the barrel.