Sylvia stood in the kitchen, staring into the fridge. She took out a bottle of milk and sniffed it.
‘Oh my God!’
She shook her head, blinked, and then sniffed it again. ‘Can I taste it? I can’t taste it.’
She put it down, too frightened to try, reaching instead for a half-eaten packet of soft cheese. She pushed her face into it, covering the tip of her nose in its soft stickiness. She gasped, dropped the cheese, backed into the kitchen table, knocked over a chair and clutched at her face with both hands. She stood still, her two hands covering her nose, her breathing jerky and uncontrolled.
Connor was relieved when he heard her again.
‘Hello?’
She was close to the phone, panting and hesitant. She picked up the receiver.
‘Um.’
She was rubbing her nose with the flat of her palm. Her nose was now red from rubbing.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
Her response was too quick, he thought. He smiled to himself. ‘You said something before … something about a smell.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Um. Shit.’
‘What?’
‘Go away.’
‘I heard you shouting.’
‘I dropped something.’
‘You know …’ He paused for a moment. ‘Today your voice sounds a whole lot better.’
She stopped rubbing her nose. She cleared her throat. It felt empty and unobstructed. She tried to clarify her thoughts, but couldn’t.
‘Look, don’t tell anyone.’
Connor sounded thrilled: ‘Don’t tell them what?’
‘About this. The smell. It’s nothing. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘OK?’
‘All right.’
‘They’re coming.’
She slammed down the phone and ran to the sofa, jumped on to it and pulled up her blanket.
‘Oh no.’
It smelled awful. She took a gulp of air and then thrust her head under.
Connor listened to the dialling tone for a while and then hung up. He returned to his bedroom, closed the door and sat down on his bed. He thought, She’s up to something, and, whatever it is, I’m sure Sam would appreciate knowing about it.
He lay down. She’s up to something, but what the hell could it be? That girl, he decided, is a nut.
Steven was staring around the living-room. ‘This place is disgusting.’
He had brought some wine. Ruby washed up a glass and a mug.
‘Where’s your friend?’
‘Which friend?’
Steven kicked Vincent’s rucksack. ‘That friend.’
‘Out.’
She didn’t fancy explaining.
‘The photos are on top of the speaker if you want to take a look.’
He picked up the envelope, opened it and sat down in the armchair. After inspecting three or four he said, ‘These aren’t too bad.’
She uncorked the wine, poured them both some, and then slouched across the sofa. She drained her mug in one gulp and gave herself some more. Steven opened his briefcase and slid the photos inside. ‘I’ll pay you later.’
‘Fine.’
Ruby rolled on to her back and shut her eyes.
‘Brera mentioned that you were considering staying in their flat while they do the gigs.’
‘Did she?’
‘You seem fed up.’
‘Do I?’
‘You are fed up.’
Steven cupped his wine glass between his large, pale hands. His hands dwarfed the glass. He looked like an enormous gnome handling a bubble.
‘Well, if you’re intending to do it, you should tell me. The first gig is on Saturday.’
He stared at her for a while. ‘You seem disorganized.’
‘I am.’
Ruby pulled herself up. ‘Lately I feel like the top of my head’s disappeared.’
His expression didn’t change.
‘I’m not being practical. It’s my own fault.’
He opened his briefcase and took out the photos again.
‘Do they really want me to stay in their flat?’
He looked up. ‘I think they do. They don’t seem very motivated, though. No one is, apart from me.’
‘That’s your job.’
‘Well, if you do stay in Hackney, I’d have one less thing to worry about. I told them you were reliable.’
‘What about the smell?’
‘You’d get used to it quickly enough.’
‘What about when I’m out at work?’
‘She doesn’t need nursing or guarding.’
‘Brera said …’
‘Brera’s very protective, but Sylvia’s independent.’
As he spoke, he remembered how she’d looked the other day when he’d picked her up and carried her to the door. How light she’d been.
‘Sylvia’s being weird.’
Sam whispered this to Brera. Brera was sitting at the kitchen table working out their finances. Sam was standing in the doorway holding a tray which held a cup of cold tea and an untouched meal.
‘She wouldn’t eat anything. When I asked why, she said she only wanted a glass of water.’
‘Has she used her inhaler tonight?’
‘I couldn’t smell any vapour. I think she’s up to something.’
‘She’s missing her birds.’
‘Yeah, but it’s more than that.’
‘You think she’s trying to stop us from going away?’
‘Not necessarily. Earlier she asked when it was that we were going, as though she was actually looking forward to it.’
‘Maybe she’s planning to starve herself.’
‘Possibly.’ Sam didn’t sound convinced.
‘Maybe it’s still to do with her trip out on Saturday. She’s been strange ever since.’
‘Couldn’t you have a word with her?’
‘She’d think I was prying.’
‘Take her some water. Try and be subtle.’
Brera picked up a glass from the draining-board and ran it under the tap.
Sylvia was sitting in the dark, her legs drawn up, covered by the blanket.
‘I brought you some water.’
Brera tried to discern the outline of her face in the darkness.
‘Thanks.’
‘Your voice sounds good.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘So am I.’
‘Sam said you didn’t touch your dinner.’
‘Sam says put your hands in the air.’ She raised both hands and waved them above her head.
‘Don’t be silly.’
Brera offered her the glass. ‘I brought you some water.’
‘Thanks.’
Sylvia took the glass. Brera watched her. ‘Don’t you want it?’
‘Give me a minute!’
Brera sighed. ‘You want to go back in your bedroom?’
‘Obviously.’
‘You can soon, but not yet.’
Sylvia scowled.
‘Are you upset about Sam and me going away? Because you’re welcome to come too, if you feel fit enough.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I just want to be left alone.’
Brera sensed that she had already outstayed her welcome.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen, then.’
‘Good.’
She turned to leave and Sylvia said, ‘I’ll have a bath.’
Brera was surprised. ‘You had one on Monday.’
‘I’ll have another one.’
‘I’ll check the water’s hot.’
When she’d gone, Sylvia inspected the glass of water. She sniffed it and then screwed up her face into an expression of intense distaste. She was thirsty. She poked out her tongue and tentatively dipped it into the glass, then quickly withdrew it. ‘Soap.’
She pinched her nose between her finger and thumb, gulped down three or four mouthfuls then shook her head and blinked. ‘Chemicals.’
Every glass of tap water in London had been through at least twenty other people. For a while she tried to imagine the people that this particular glassful had been through, then turned her mind to more pressing issues.
Now what? Secrets. She had a small batch of them. First, the girl in the park. Second, tasting and smelling. Third, Sam’s friend. He said … What did he say? He said he wouldn’t say anything.
She chuckled. Having secrets made her feel proud and maternal. Her gut felt full of an unspecified mystery. Like she had
a pearl inside her, forming, layer by layer. She stopped smiling.
Things must return to normal. They mustn’t know. They must go.
She listened as Brera cleaned the bath and set the taps running.
What time was it? Four a.m.?
Ruby shifted in her sleep and muttered, ‘I don’t want this to end.’
In her dream she couldn’t open her eyes. Everything was too bright, and when she tried to open her eyes - the effort involved was enormous - the light made her eyes ache, as though she were staring at the sun.
But it didn’t matter. She could see perfectly clearly elsewhere, inside her head, in another compartment.
In this compartment it was dark and warm and everything smelled of wet dog. Everything felt like wet dog.
Someone was breathing. She turned to see who it was, but it was too dark.
Where am I?
Maybe … She tried to make sense of things. Maybe I’m out swimming. The water is hot. I’m out swimming and now I’ve climbed from the water on to a rock, inside a cave. The cave is warm and damp. The rock is covered in a soft, woolly seaweed.
She felt it against her skin and it made her skin tingle.
Someone was next to her. She tried to open her eyes, to stare, yet when she opened her eyes the light was too bright, so she closed them again. But this is a different dream. In this dream I can see everything.
Next to her, on the rock, was a dog - a big soggy dog. She turned her head and stared at it. Vincent! She laughed. It wasn’t a dog at all. He glared at her. She realized that she was naked.
He said, ‘I’m going to have to throw you in.’
His voice was so soft. Obviously the cave has made his voice softer, she thought.
He grabbed her arm. Is he wearing anything? She tried to see,
but when she opened her eyes everything was too bright. She felt him touch her breasts and then her belly. Again he said, ‘I’m going to have to throw you in.’
‘All right.’ She giggled. Her voice sounded stupid.
He was pulling her towards the water. She wasn’t afraid. She wanted him to pull her in. He was holding her arm, still holding it, but now she was holding his too. She said, ‘If I go, you go.’
She sensed the water close to her feet, surrounding her feet, her shins, her calves, her knees. She tried to slide in quicker, but he held her back. She felt his skin all wet and shuddered.
When she awoke her pillow was on the floor. She reached out for it, keeping her eyes closed.
Oh no. I won’t wake up from this.
Connor dragged the telephone into his bedroom. He had just made a cup of tea, tip-toeing around the flat so as not to wake anyone. Sarah had a guest. He didn’t want to intrude. The telephone cord was just about long enough. He slipped it underneath his door, pushed the door shut, then sat down on the floor and drank a mouthful of his tea. He coughed. It was still too hot. He put the cup down and dialled Sam’s number.
It rang several times and then she answered it. He shoved some hair behind his ear. ‘So you’re up?’
‘Yes.’
Already - it had only been three days - it felt strange to her: his voice, his manner so familiar.
He said, ‘We haven’t spoken in ages.’
‘How’s Sarah?’
‘Pretty busy. Someone stayed over.’
‘Who?’
‘God knows. A man.’
Sam jerked at the phone cord so hard that she almost disconnected the call.
He was irritated. He thought, What does it matter? It’s only
her
.
He said, ‘Sarah mentioned that you had some gigs lined up.’
‘Hull on Saturday.’
She sounded half-hearted. He noticed and tried to flatter himself that he was the cause of her misery.
Sam said, ‘You were in the paper today. A picture and everything.’
‘I saw it.’ He was pleased that she’d seen it. ‘We’ve got a gig tomorrow too. Subterrania.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Could I see you tonight? You left some stuff here.’
‘I don’t think so. Sylvia’s not been well. We want to spend some time with her before we go.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’d better get off the phone. I don’t want to wake her.’
‘I hope it goes well tomorrow,’ he said, sounding disconsolate.
‘Thanks. See you.’ She hung up.
Sylvia coughed. Sam turned. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘You always have to use me as an excuse. I hate it.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘You both make me sick. You and Brera. You’re always doing it.’
‘We don’t mean to.’
Sam’s eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness. She could see Sylvia propped up on the sofa, surrounded by cushions.
‘That’s the worst part of it, though. You always mean everything you do.’
Sam went back to her room. She sat on her bed and promptly burst into tears. She kept thinking, What’s going on? I can’t make sense of this. I don’t want to make sense of it.
Sylvia padded quietly into the hallway and listened to Sam crying. Good, she thought, that’s her out of the way. She could hear Brera brushing her teeth in the bathroom.
She slipped along the passage and into the kitchen. It was so bright in here. She blinked for several seconds before she could adjust her eyes.
The paper was open on the kitchen table. She paged through it, hoping for a familiar face, an image she could recognize, but nothing sprang out at her. She turned to the front and looked for
some indication of content. She found what she was searching for and turned towards the back.
Half-way down this page was the heading
STIR
-
FINE
! and a picture. She stared at the picture, her eyes widening in surprise. He looked absolutely nothing like he sounded, nothing like she’d imagined.
She was disturbed by a movement in the hallway. She spun away from the paper towards the sink, picked up a glass and held it under the tap.
Brera walked in. ‘I thought you were Sam.’
She didn’t reply.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s bloody wrong!’
She banged the glass down on the draining-board and marched out. She felt dizzy. In the sunlight everything smelled so acute, so strong. Even the newspaper, like bleach and ink - a hot, savage smell.
She was so hungry but she couldn’t eat. If I eat, she thought, I might give myself away.
She threw herself on to the sofa. Everything needs to be normal, she decided. She lay down flat. I’m threatened. By what? Alternatives. I must get
back
… the feathers, the fluttering, the catch in my throat. No senses, no sense.
She remembered Connor’s face: unshaven, so dirty, all that hair, in tangles. She thought, He kept my secret. Now I owe him something. Now we owe each other something. This notion depressed her.
She coughed for a while and then spat out the phlegm from her mouth on to a tissue. Suddenly she found it hard to swallow phlegm, to do normal things.
Maybe God is punishing me for killing that little girl. Everything is getting bigger and bigger, and the bigger everything gets, the smaller I am.
She felt minuscule.
Vincent was strolling down Argyll Street with an open can of lager in his hand and a paper under his arm. He was happy. If you ask for anything, he was thinking, you face the possibility of someone saying yes and of someone saying no. This didn’t strike him as good enough. It didn’t satisfy him.
Pigeons were everywhere: oily, skinny, puffy, mottled. He kicked up his feet as he walked, as if he were striding through winter leaves.
What kind of a commitment had he made to her? Any? None?
Ruby pondered these questions as she worked the till and the pay-out. Friday was Dawn’s half-day. As usual, it was busy.
Two-thirty now. Was the dog still all right? She’d nipped out at twelve and had taken her for a short stroll. She’d been going stir-crazy.
Where was he? Sod him.
Where was he, though?
There he was. She felt. Sick.
Two forty-five. He was going to do something she didn’t want him to do. The bastard. She’d said no to him, over and over, but he was still here, like he’d threatened. He wore her hat and a pair of almond-shaped mirror glasses. Where did he get hold of those? He looked absurd.
Jason was busy. She checked furtively. He was filling out a stationery order.
‘The whole idea,’ she’d said, ‘is stupid. People rip off book-makers all the time and they always get caught.’
‘Only the ones you hear about.’
‘But even the ones I hear about have better ideas than yours.’
‘How?’
‘Well, either way I come out of it looking like I’ve made a mistake.’
‘A small mistake. I bet you make mistakes like that all the time.’
‘Not on purpose.’
He had chosen his horse: Origami. She’d never even heard of it. Just before the off, when it was busy, he came up and handed her his slip. A queue of punters formed behind him. Jason was giving her a hand, working the other till.
She took the slip from him. This was stupid. She’d told him she wouldn’t do it. She’d said so, but now she was doing it. He’d said that he wouldn’t write out the slip properly. That was part of the scheme. Only the horse’s name and a two, two noughts, in the wrong box. Under pounds instead of pence.
She pushed the slip into her till, pressed a two, kept her finger on the nought button that little bit too long. God! She did it. Registered the bet, tore it in half, handed him his half. He gave her no money.
‘What do you call it?’ he’d asked. ‘The technical name.’
‘An over-ring. If your hand slips, or if you don’t remember to put in the decimal point at the right time.’
‘You wouldn’t notice a mistake like that straight away, not if you were busy.’
‘I would.’
‘I bet you’ve done it before, though.’
‘Accidentally.’
‘If the horse wins, you say I gave you the two hundred. Pay your till back with part of the winnings. If I lose, say it was an over-ring.’
The swine, she thought. How many times did I tell him I wouldn’t do it?
The race was off. She stood up. How long would it last? Six furlongs?
‘Jason,’ she said, ‘I want to get a Coke.’
She walked past the safety door, through the shop and outside.
‘Jason would be bound to recognize you if you came up to collect the money.’
‘I’d get someone else to collect it.’
‘Who? I wouldn’t want anyone else involved.’
‘Nobody.’
‘Anyway, if I take a bet worth over fifty quid I’m supposed to notify the manager.’
‘Not if you’re too busy.’
‘Even then.’
She picked up two crates, placed one on top of the other and sat down. It was warm here. The sun shone on her bare arms and her face.
‘What’s the point?’
‘You could buy the dog. They treat you like shit anyway.’
‘Even the thought of it makes me feel sick.’
‘That’s excitement.’
The crates were uncomfortable. They cut into her legs. Vincent tapped her on the shoulder. For an instant she thought he was a wasp, a hornet. She jerked away.
‘I told you I didn’t want to do this. I said no.’
And he’d punished her by staying away. She had been punished
.
I’m not nice after all, she realized, only weak. Weak. That was an ugly word. It made her feel ugly.
‘The horse won,’ he said, grinning. ‘At five-to-one. Origami. I chose it because my sister used to make origami swans.’
She looked up at him. ‘I said I didn’t want to do this.’
She couldn’t see his eyes, only her own face reflected in his glasses. A weak mouth. A weak chin. A weak face.
‘But you did it.’
‘I’m fidelity-bonded. Do you know what that means?’
‘No.’
‘It means that if I ever get caught doing anything illegal, I can never work with money again. Not anywhere, ever again.’
He scowled at her. Maybe she just wasn’t clever enough.
‘I’ve earned you eight hundred pounds. The horse came in at five-to-one.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Not my money, your money.’
‘I don’t want the money. You have it.’
‘I don’t need it.’
‘Then burn it.’
She stood up and walked back inside.
When she sat down again, Jason said, ‘There’s a bet here for two hundred. You should’ve told me you’d taken it before the off.’
‘It was on the off. I didn’t have time.’
He handed her the slip, settled, with the amount she had to pay out written in red ink at the bottom. She stacked ten bundles of hundreds into a neat pile and waited for Vincent to come back in. He didn’t come.
She settled other bets, took slips, counted money, handed it over. She waited. She took a slip, counted the money, took a slip …
Vincent’s writing. She looked up. A face she almost recognized. Not Vincent’s face. She picked up the bundles she’d prepared and handed them over, two hundred short. He took the money and thanked her. The spare two hundred she moved into her till.
She knew that face. Who was he?
Fuck.
Sam noticed something strange about Sarah’s complexion as soon as she met her. A roughness. A reddish, blotchy patch around her mouth, nose and on her chin.
They were at the Scala watching a matinée showing of the director’s cut of
Pretty Baby
. Sarah’s idea. Sam had been keen to talk, which was unfortunate.
‘How’s Connor?’
‘Himself. Loud.’
‘Have you been busy?’
‘No.’
‘Do you like Brooke Shields?’
‘Sometimes.’
That redness. She had been kissing someone. With stubble. That would explain it.
She took the dog out, made something to eat, began packing. Only a small bag for the time being.
Vincent arrived while she was feeding the dog. He thumped on the door and then pushed it open.
‘You should be careful. I walked straight in here from the street.’
She wanted to silence him for a minute so that she could yell at him, but he kept on talking.
‘This small guy was sweeping the stairs. He stopped me and was asking all kinds of questions. Wanted to know about the dog.’
‘The caretaker. Red hair.’
‘That’s him.’
He walked into the bathroom. She heard him turning on the taps. She returned to her bedroom and sat down on her bed. She listened to the sound the water made as it hit the enamel bath. She listened to laughter, conversation, arguments going on outside in the street. She listened to the noises the dog made, pushing her bowl around on the kitchen tiles with her nose.