Authors: Liza Cody
I Follow The Devil And His Doxy
I
saw him but he didn’t see me. He was with a woman, of course. She was a few years older, of course. Not beautiful but well constructed and carefully dressed. Of course. And of course he was charming and attentive. Of course, of course, of course.
I could smell his soap, his shampoo and moisturiser, his laundered shirt. So clean, so fresh and so inhuman. However close I came to him I could never smell his body. The Devil leaves no scent. Maybe that should’ve tipped me off.
I stood for a second, stunned, and wondering if Electra could catch a whiff of Gram Attwood. Maybe that is a dog’s superpower—distinguishing between the merely evil and the Devil by smell alone. But she stood patiently, waiting for me to move on. Dogs are sweet creatures who know nothing about evil so maybe they won’t recognise the Devil when they see him.
Gram Attwood walked across Trafalgar Square towards Haymarket without a flicker of recognition. His right hand lightly grasped his companion’s elbow. His touch was intimate, the touch of ownership. Maybe he paid for something. He’d certainly gone up in the world since I knew him. When I knew him I paid for everything—including the price of his freedom.
‘Come on,’ I said to Electra, and we followed the Devil.
The woman parted from him outside a theatre. She kissed him on the mouth, laughing and lingering a little. His smile was a work of art. I’m so interested, his smile said. Fascinated. Treat me right and I might just love you.
I was in the dock the last time I saw that smile and I did treat him right. I did exactly what he asked of me. Or rather it was what I didn’t do that was important. And you could write a hundred books about what I didn’t say. When I finally realised that he was never going to visit me, that he’d left me inside to rot, I understood what hatred actually is. Hatred is love with maggots gnawing at its living flesh. It’s love turned inside out, its guts and soft places exposed to the maggots and the acid rain.
That’s what I learned in prison. Pretty, eh?
They gave me tablets—three a day—to stop the hatred. They buried it under layers and layers of gauze which muffled sound and hung between my eyes and the world.
I fitted in better after that. Time slid by day by day without leaving footprints on my memory. It was just time and I did it the way you have to. But my personality was eaten away just like my memory.
Then it was over. I left prison and there were no more tablets. I was free. Free to hate again. Free to hurt again. I woke up one morning and the gauze that hung between me and sights and sounds had blown away. Everything hurt my eyes, ears and skin. Sights and sounds became slights and wounds. If I’d had any money I would’ve turned into a junky because they say that junkies feel no pain at all for hours at a time. But I had no money, my mother was dead and my house had been sold.
At first I did what you do to get back to normal. I tried to find a job so I could rent somewhere decent. But then I discovered that I’d been left at the bottom of a deep chasm called Debt. I’d given Gram Satan Attwood power of attorney to sell my house to cover legal fees—which is much the same as giving the Prince of Thieves the key to your treasure chest and saying, ‘Go ahead, my dearest one, help yourself.’
There I was, with less than nothing. Even so I tried to get back into the system and become a proper person again. I really did. The trouble was that I wasn’t a proper person anymore, and everyone could see it. Or maybe they could smell it; like I can every day of my life.
It’s well known how hard it is to get a job when you have a prison record and a hostel address. But did you know that you can’t get a doctor or a dentist either? If things become bad enough you can go to A & E and they’re forced to treat you. But you can’t do that when all that’s happened is that you’ve run out of Prozac or Largactil.
They give you emergency housing in a bed-and-breakfast miles away from your benefit office. You’ve got no money for the bus so you spend hours walking there, only to find it closed or they’ve invented some other reason for you not to qualify for assistance. So you trudge all the way back. It’s a filthy house, and there’s no lock on the bathroom door. The other residents are drunk, barmy, druggy, or have a cocktail of problems you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark corridor outside a dirty bathroom. Or inside.
When you can’t stand it for another second you leave and make yourself ‘voluntarily homeless’. And, know what? It’s a relief. You’re at the bottom. There’s no further to fall. You can stop trying to haul yourself back into society and concentrate on survival.
You can stop hoping that one of your job interviews will succeed. You can stop hoping you’ll qualify for better housing. You can stop hoping, period.
Hope is the great deceiver. It whispers in your ear and keeps you on the treadmill thinking that if you do everything you’re told—fill in all the forms, go to all the interviews—one day you’ll be able to climb out of the pit and live an ordinary life.
Once you’ve dumped hope you’re free. You don’t have to keep clean and respectable. You don’t need a roof over your head or food on the table. Things are a lot simpler without a roof or a table. Nobody cares if you’re crazy. It’s the struggle to stay sane which drives you mad. Stop struggling, I say, stop hoping and learn to survive. Give up hope and adopt a dog. It’s the only self-help tip I can give you.
But when you’re left in pieces by the sight of your lost demon lover with another woman you’ll need a little help from a reliable source. Mine came in a bottle. It was running dangerously low and I had to make a decision. Should I find more wine or should I follow Gram Attwood?
‘Well?’ I asked Electra. She turned her head and seemed to be watching Gram Attwood as he walked away towards Piccadilly. Maybe she
can
smell the Devil after all.
‘Your call,’ I said and we followed him.
He walked close to the kerb and I realised he was looking for a taxi. He saw one, stepped off the kerb and hailed it. The driver ignored all the other outstretched hands and stopped for him. The Devil always was a lucky bugger. I hurried closer and heard him say, ‘Harrison Mews.’ I was so close to him now that he was forced to notice me. He turned, frowning.
I said ‘Spare a little change, please?’
‘Piss off,’ he said.
‘My dog’s hungry.’
He just laughed and opened the cab door.
As the cab pulled away he glanced indifferently in my direction. There was absolutely no recognition on his handsome face. Not one jot. Either I had changed completely or he had erased me from his screen—total deletion.
‘I’ve ceased to exist,’ I told Electra as his cab disappeared. ‘I’m not even a ghost that haunts him.’ She looked at me with the beautiful gold-flecked eyes which told me I was at the centre of her universe.
‘Thank you,’ I said and crouched down to kiss her forehead and stroke her ears.
‘Get a room,’ Joss said, ‘get a man and get a life.’ Joss and Georgie were on their way down to St Martins-in-the-Fields for food and beds.
‘Get rid of the mutt,’ Georgie said, ‘and it’ll be way easier to find somewhere to sleep. No one wants to share a room with a farty old flea-bag like that.’
‘He’s talking about
you
.’ Joss thinks he’s funny.
We backed across the pavement into a doorway. The boys had to empty their bottles before going to the shelter so we all had a quick shlurp and a smoke. Joss kept an eye out for the cops.
I said, ‘Either of you know where Harrison Mews is?’
‘Kensal Rise,’ Georgie said, because he was born without the skill to say, ‘I don’t know.’ He’s an expert on every damn thing in the world.
‘Tony at the shelter has an A-Z,’ Joss said. ‘Come with us.’
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to wait outside the theatre for Gram Attwood’s new woman. Maybe I could warn her. Maybe I could kick her bony arse. Maybe I could steal her nice shoes and exchange them for a ham sandwich and a bottle of wine.
‘What’s at Harrison Mews?’ Joss asked suspiciously. ‘Evangelicals?’ He’s always joining new cults because to begin with they feed him and give him money. Then they get wise to him and give him the cold shoulder like everyone else with any sense.
‘It’s personal,’ I said.
‘People who sleep in public don’t got nothing personal,’ Joss said.
‘I got my pride,’ Georgie said, and we all burst out laughing. I wished we could stay together always.
Except of course Georgie’s a pain in the arse and Joss is paranoid and both of them stink and neither one of them likes Electra. Also if there are three of you together no one will give you any money but the cops will move you on much more quickly. We’re pathetic singly, but in a bunch we’re intimidating.
I wandered up past Piccadilly Circus and bought a couple of litres of red. Then I came back and sat down outside the theatre to feed Electra some of her biscuits and a little water. A bride and her hen party came by shrieking, trailing pink net and wings. The bride stopped and gave me a five pound note. ‘For luck,’ she said, shuddering.
I said, ‘Your kindness will save you from a fate like mine.’ They love that karma stuff when they’re tiddly. So the bridesmaids coughed up too and suddenly I had more than enough for a bed
and
a meal.
As usual, when I didn’t need it anymore, people started to be lavish with their spare change. Electra was at her best—soft eyed and dignified—acknowledging gifts with a gentle dip of her head.
‘You’re much better at me than this,’ I said. ‘I mean, you’re much better than me at this. You’re my lucky charm, my doovoo, my voodoo doll, mo myjo, my mojo.’ And I had a little drink to celebrate.
Then without me noticing, time had passed and people started piling out of the theatre. They came too fast, trampling on me and Electra, talking, talking, talking. There was no room to move, no air to breathe. Electra started shivering.
I said, ‘Hey, watch out. Give a dog a break.’ And a man said, ‘She’s drunk.’
‘My dog is not drunk,’ I said, because it was true and he had no right to insult her—him with his hair all slick with pomade and his fingernails buffed and clean. What does he understand about a dog who’s been walking all over London since six in the morning?
‘She’s mo myjo,’ I said. ‘She’s worth you of ten.’
‘Don’t shout at us,’ his wife said. ‘We don’t understand you.’ They walked away. I was going to follow and explain but then I saw her, Gram Attwood’s new woman, and I remembered why I was outside the theatre in the first place.
‘You,’ I said, ‘hey, you. I’m talking to you.’
She was with a girlfriend and they were a matching set in their silk suits and gold, talking, talking, talking, and not paying any attention. I said, ‘This is my winal fawning—stay away from Am Grattwood. He’s dangerous.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said politely and she and her friend tried to walk round me.
‘You seem like a nice lady,’ I said. ‘Listen to me. Gram’s dangerous. He’ll take you for everything.’
‘What’s she shouting about? Did she say ‘Graham’? What would she know about him?’
‘What wouldn’t I know?’ I said, trying to stop her walking away by running backwards in front of her. ‘Look at me. He did this to me. Beware.’ It came out like ‘wee bear’ so I repeated it till I got it right, ‘Beware, beware, beware!’
‘You’re upsetting the people,’ a man said. He worked at the theatre. I could tell because he had a badge which read ‘Deputy Sub-manager. Front of House.’
‘She
should
be upset,’ I said, ‘but not by me. Beware of Gram Attwood.’
Maybe I shouldn’t drink so much before delivering an important message. How could she take me seriously if what she heard was ‘Wee bear o’Fam Greatwood’? Which is what it sounded like, even to me. Why would she listen to me when she smells of
Rive Gauche
and truffle oil while I smell of dirty feet and London gutters?
I Am Advised By A Dog
E
lectra and I were all alone in Jermyn Street. We were sitting in a bookshop doorway and she was looking miserable. I tried to stand up on boneless legs but fell back down.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘You always say that,’ she said.
‘You’re a dog; you can’t talk.’
‘You always say that too.’
‘If you’re going to talk, say something nice.’
‘How can I?’ she said. ‘I’m cold, hungry and tired, and it’s all your fault.’
‘Guilt trip.’
‘I don’t understand,’ a human voice said. ‘You’re mumbling to yourself. Are you hurt? Ill? I’m Melanie Jones, Floating Outreach, Ecumenical Aid.’
‘Floating what?’ The ground was heaving slightly, but quite dry. ‘I was talking to my dog.’ I dragged my coats around my shoulders and made a half-hearted stab in the direction of dignity.
‘He’s a lovely dog.’
‘She.’
Electra said, ‘Why do they all think I’m a boy?’
‘Well
I
think you’re very feminine,’ I said, stroking her cheek.
‘Thanks,’ said Jelly Moans, or whatever her name was, ‘but not entirely appropriate. I’m here because a member of the public reported that you need help.’
‘Uh-oh, now you’re for it,’ Electra said, and I had to agree with her. Members of the public only report you as needing help if you’ve seriously upset them. The help they mean usually involves a short stay in the monkey house. Without your dog.
I sat up straight and said, ‘I do need help, actually. I was trying to find someone to direct me to Harrison Mews. Maybe they misunderstood and thought I was begging. People don’t always understand me since I had my little cerebral mishap.’
‘Stroke, eh? I was told you were roaring rat-arsed.’ Smelly Jones was not as mimsey as she looked.
‘I only had the one.’ Bottle, that is—but it’s unwise to mention amounts to Floating Outreach. It’s also unwise to claim absolute sobriety when you stink of Algerian red and you’ve been found in a heap in a bookshop doorway. ‘I was cold,’ I went on. ‘But maybe I shouldn’t drink at all these days. It only seems to take a tiny amount to affect my balance and speech.’
‘If those are the same centres affected by your stroke you probably shouldn’t.’
‘And yet doctors recommend moderate consumption of red wine to protect against strokes.’
‘Oh per-lease,’ said Electra.
‘Well,’ Moany said, ‘I’ll give you a leaflet about alcohol abuse. Meanwhile do you have a place for tonight, and enough money to pay for it? Or should I arrange hospital accommodation and assessment?’
‘There’s a three-bed women’s room at St Christopher’s, Euston,’ I said, pronouncing every word with great clarity. ‘And I have my latch money. I’m alright, thanks so much for asking.’
‘They don’t like me at St Christopher’s,’ Electra said.
‘Yes they do,’ I said, checking all my pockets. The wonder of it was that I
did
have money. I hadn’t thrown it away and no one had robbed me.
‘They have a no-dogs policy at St Christopher’s,’ Electra said. She can be such a stubborn bitch at times.
‘That’s where we’re going so, lump it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lemony said. ‘Did you just call me a bitch?’
‘Certainly not.’ I climbed cautiously to my feet. If you move slowly enough you won’t fall over and give the game away. ‘My leg’s all stiff, and that’s a bitch. You might’ve heard me mumble about that.’ I stooped and took Electra’s face between my hands. ‘Hush,’ I said, and I kissed her on the nose.
‘You really love that dog,’ Wallaby Jo said.
‘I couldn’t live without Electra.’ I took hold of her collar and we moved carefully off.
‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘I thought you wanted to find Harrison Mews.’
‘Where is it?’
‘South Kensington, near the Science Museum.’
‘Have you got a car?’ I said. ‘You could give us a ride.’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ said Electra. ‘One whiff of you in a confined space and she’ll have you sectioned.’
‘Shouldn’t you get to St Christopher’s before they lock their doors? Find Harrison Mews in the morning.’
‘Absolutely tootly right,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, and thanks for stopping by. Your concern is appreciated.’ I walked slowly and in a dead straight line. My head felt wonky but no one could possibly see that. Electra knew, of course, because she was sent to me by fairies and she knows all things and sees all things. But for once she kept her mouth shut. Although usually she’s the perfect companion, sometimes she becomes critical. I wish she wouldn’t. I’m only unwise when I’ve been under unbearable stress, and in those circumstances criticism from your best friend is the last thing you need. If meeting the Devil outside the National Portrait Gallery doesn’t count as unbearable stress I don’t know what does.
Algerian red is good for whatever ails me, except when what ails me is Algerian red.
We walked north towards Euston until I was sure I was out of reach of Floating Outreach; then I turned left. Electra wasn’t talking to me anymore but she was limping. I stopped and sat down. She lay with her head on my thigh and went straight to sleep. She’s a dog—she sleeps when she’s exhausted. She closes her eyes and she’s gone. I wish I were a dog.