Die of Shame (5 page)

The tube journey home to Hammersmith was every bit as uncomfortable as it had been coming the other way, as it always was when Tanner was working days. Lucky if she got a seat, only to spend the journey tense and shifting position almost constantly so as not to let her feet or knees make contact with anyone. Worse still standing, crushed against the bodies of people every bit as miserable as she was; bags and hair and stink.

On the ten-minute walk from the station, she tried to shake off the stress of the journey and the day that had preceded it.

She wanted to take none of it with her into the house.

Her better half, while acknowledging how important Tanner’s job was, had made it clear early on that there were things which had no place being discussed at home. ‘Office stuff, gossip and whatever, that kind of thing’s all fine, course it is, love, but I can’t deal with anything… squalid. It’s not like I don’t know what goes on in the world. How can you not? Just turn on the television, you can’t get away from it. But that doesn’t mean I have to deal with it while we’re eating dinner or I’m lying next to you in bed at the end of the day.’

Tanner understood and, more than anything, she wanted to make the person she loved content, so she kept certain things – lots of things – to herself. It was tricky sometimes, especially on a day like the one she had just had. She had changed into a clean shirt and the spare skirt and jacket she kept at the office before leaving work, dropped the clothes she’d worn to the post-mortem off at the dry cleaner’s near the tube station. There was simply no disguising that smell and everything it meant.

She pulled her purse out as she walked, opened it to make sure she had not lost the dry-cleaning ticket.

It was odd, admittedly, having conversations that sometimes made her feel as though she might just as well be working at an accountancy firm or a call centre. But things were good at home and it wasn’t as though she herself had any desire to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of the job. She wasn’t one of those coppers, the ones who wallowed.

It worked, that was the main thing. You couldn’t argue with almost fifteen happy years together.

‘We must be doing something right,’ Susan would say.

Coming through the front door, Tanner could hear the sound of the television in the front room. She dropped her bag and hung up her coat, then put her head around the door.

It was one of those programmes on the Lifestyle channel. Houses and holidays.

Susan had dozed off, the cat on her lap and an empty wine glass at her feet. Just as Tanner was backing out of the room, Susan opened her eyes and blinked at her.

‘Sorry, love… just conked out.’ She sat up. ‘Good day?’

‘It was all right, actually.’

‘That’s good.’ She gently pushed the cat from her lap. ‘Want me to make you something?’

‘I’ll do myself a bit of cheese on toast.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah, I fancy some,’ Tanner said. ‘You stay where you are.’ She watched Susan relax back into the sofa, then lean forward suddenly to pick up the empty wine glass.

‘Can you do me a top-up while you’re out there?’

Tanner stepped across to take her girlfriend’s glass, then walked out and across to the kitchen. She took the wine bottle from the fridge, examined it and saw that it was new. She poured out half a glass. She stepped softly back out into the hall to check that Susan was still in the sitting room, then went back into the kitchen and swiftly removed the smallest knife from the block.

She carefully scored a tiny mark on the bottle; an all but invisible scratch at the level of the remaining wine.

Susan shouted through from the living room. ‘There’s some new cheese, but finish the old one first…’

Tanner placed the bottle back in the fridge, then walked over and put the grill on.

Diana sits and puts her make-up on, taking special care around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, where the lines are. She applies the
Touche Éclat
, dabs at it with the tip of her little finger, then sits back and stares at herself. She applies a little more, goes through the process several times before she is happy. Or at least as happy as she will ever be.

Silk purse, she thinks. Sow’s ear.

She stands and looks at herself in the full length mirror and wonders, as she does at this time every Monday, why the hell she goes to so much trouble to look her best. Who is she doing it for?

It didn’t help her hold on to her husband, after all.

She opens her jewellery box, and while she’s trying to decide which earrings to wear, she gives herself a good talking to. ‘Stupid,’ she says out loud. She’s dressing to please herself and, right or wrong, that’s what she’s always done.

Even as the thought is taking hold and well before she can draw any strength from it, it begins to disintegrate and she can see nothing but her daughter’s face. The accusation in it, and the blame.

She picks out the earrings, and as she’s putting them in, she reminds herself to check her phone, even though she knows there’s little point. There will be no missed calls and no messages. She remembers one of her friends telling her once that teenagers were only a hair’s breadth away from being psychopaths. They were hard-wired to be selfish little bastards, the woman had said, and utterly without feeling for anyone but themselves. Her son, who was doing very nicely at Oxford thank you very much, had not called her in days, she told Diana.
Days
. Diana had smiled sympathetically and shaken her head, but something had tightened in her belly as she tried to remember her last conversation with Phoebe, how long ago that had been.

An argument, that went without saying. Some hideous variation on the bloodletting they had been engaged in ever since the split. Her daughter had always been a daddy’s girl, but Diana had not been prepared for that kind of reaction.

Maybe if you’d made a bit more effort.
 

It’s because you’re so useless.
 

You drove him away.
 

Trying to stay calm as she watched the most precious thing she had left, the only thing, drifting from her grasp. Trying to explain that she hadn’t done anything, that for heaven’s sake, darling, he had been the one to have the affair.

You didn’t leave him any choice
…
 

Eighteen months now since her daughter had left home and she doesn’t even bother calling to ask Diana for money. She always goes straight to her father for that. Diana lies awake at night imagining Phoebe and her ex-husband talking about her. Phoebe and her ex-husband’s new girlfriend out shopping together. She lies awake and imagines all sorts of things.

She turns the bedroom light off and smooths the duvet before closing the door behind her. She’s excited as always about the meeting, if a little scared, and it’s around now that, in another life, she might have poured herself a glass, just to steady her nerves. She smiles at that, as she passes the large mirror at the top of the stairs.

She looks all right, she thinks. Bloody good for her age actually, and though Tony is far too professional to say anything, of course, she knows he thinks so too.

She makes an effort because this is the thing she cares most about now. The group is not her life, she’s not melodramatic about it, but there isn’t much else that’s as important any more. She doesn’t want to waste time having lunch with friends who will ask how she’s doing without actually caring a great deal. The trips to the salons for hair and nails and feet are purely practical and the shopping gets her blood pumping a bit, that’s all, though she knows very well that she needs to cut back.

At some point she needs to talk to Tony about that, one to one.

When she gets near the front door, her two dogs come skittering out of the kitchen, yapping and hopeful. They haven’t had a walk in several days and Diana feels guilty. She can see that they’re putting on weight. It’s not her fault, she tells herself, because she always flags a little towards the end of the week, finds it harder and harder to drag herself out of the house.

‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I promise.’

The session always gives her a fresh burst of energy and hope. A shot of confidence way better than she ever got from red wine or vodka. ‘Silk purse,’ she says to herself as she sets the alarm. ‘Silk purse, silk purse, silk purse…’

She’ll give the dogs a good long walk in the morning.

Heather and Chris are smoking on the pavement outside Tony’s house. It’s drizzling, so they both have their hoods up; shoulders hunched, keeping faces and cigarettes out of the wind. A few cars slow down as they pass, the drivers taking a good hard look at them.

‘Checking to see we’re not undesirables,’ Chris says.

Heather flicks her fag-end into the gutter. ‘We
are
undesirables.’

‘Speak for yourself.’ He waits for the next car to slow down then steps forward to give the driver the finger and laughs as he accelerates away. ‘Yeah, on your way, mate.’

Heather shakes her head. ‘That’s not very respectful.’

‘Fuck ’em,’ Chris says. ‘How respectful are they being anyway? Looking at us like we’re dogshit.’

‘Respectful to Tony, I mean. These are his neighbours.’

‘Maybe he needs to move.’

‘You should tell him,’ Heather says. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate the housing advice, from someone who sleeps in hostels or on other people’s settees.’

Chris narrows his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, shows how much you know, because I’m getting a flat, aren’t I?’

‘Yeah, you keep saying that.’

‘I swear. Hackney or Haringey or somewhere. I’ve got the letter if you don’t believe me.’

‘When?’

‘The woman from social services says it might be next week.’

‘Nice one.’ Heather punches him gently on the shoulder. ‘That’s really great news.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Chris tosses his own fag-end away. ‘All dependent on me being a good boy and all that, not doing anything stupid.’

‘Which is why you’re here, right?’ She nods towards the front door of Tony’s house. It’s grey, with a large chrome knocker and there is a sign saying
NO
COLD
CALLERS
fixed to the wall on one side. The porch has leaded lights and box trees stand on either side in square wooden pots. To the right of the small patch of lawn is a metal gate, outside which a series of recycling bins – blue, green and brown – have been left for collection.

‘Well it’s not for the company, is it?’ Chris says.

‘Cheers.’

‘The sparkling conversation, whatever.’

‘Why were you so horrible to Caroline last week, by the way?’

Chris looks at her and shakes his head like it’s a very stupid question. He takes the tin of pre-rolled cigarettes from his pocket, turns away from the wind and lights up again. He does not bother offering one to Heather.

He pulls hard on the skinny roll-up, then hisses out a thin line of smoke which is instantly whipped away across his shoulder. Now, he’s ready to answer. He says, ‘I was only being honest.’

‘Pull the other one,’ Heather says.

‘We’re supposed to be honest in there, aren’t we?’

‘Not like that.’

‘Right, so you’ve got to be honest, but only up to a point.’

‘You’re pretending to be stupid now,’ Heather says. She watches a Mercedes slow just a fraction as it passes and stares at the woman behind the wheel: blonde hair that kisses a collar as she turns her head; the soft blue glow from the instrument panel and the shining satnav. She looks back to Chris, tries to stay nice and calm. ‘There’s a difference between honesty and insulting someone because you’re a knob.’

Chris smiles. ‘I just think the rest of you are too scared to say what you’re thinking. I haven’t got time for all that fucking… politeness.’

‘We’re supposed to be making connections and supporting each other.’

Chris shrugs.

‘Say what you think if you want, but don’t make it personal.’

‘How can it not be personal?’

‘Fine,’ Heather says. ‘Any idea how personal we could get with you, if we felt like it?’

‘Bring it on,’ Chris says. ‘Like you don’t do it anyway, when I’m not there.’ He looks past Heather. ‘Oh Christ, here it comes…’

Heather turns and they both stand and watch Caroline coming down the hill towards them. Waddling. That’s the word that occurs to each of them. She is wearing a duffel coat and has a transparent umbrella with patterns on it and she lifts a hand to wave as she gets closer.

‘Seriously, though.’ Chris drops what’s left of his roll-up. ‘The state of her. At least smack keeps you nice and thin, right?’ He steps back, looks Heather up and down. ‘You should count yourself lucky. Some women pile it on when they come off the gear.’

Heather nods, like she’s grateful for the observation. ‘Really? Actually, I was just thinking that you were chunking up a little bit.’

‘Piss off, this is all muscle.’ He rubs a hand across his belly. ‘I’ve been working out.’

‘Your wrist, maybe.’

‘Blimey, it’s horrible isn’t it?’ Caroline says when she reaches them. ‘Hasn’t stopped all day.’

‘I haven’t been out,’ Heather says.

Caroline looks at her watch. ‘Should we go in?’

‘Probably should,’ Chris says. ‘You don’t want Robin beating you to the biscuits.’

Caroline looks at him, expressionless. She says, ‘Why are you such a hateful cunt?’

If Chris is taken aback, he doesn’t show it. He cocks his head. ‘I think it’s just a gift.’

Heather pushes open the gate and starts walking towards the front door. She turns and shouts to Caroline over her shoulder. ‘Honest, apparently. He’s an honest cunt.’

‘So, everyone had a good week?’

Tony looks around the group. He makes eye contact with Caroline, who nods enthusiastically. By now, someone else will have filled her in, let her know that the seemingly innocent enquiry with which he always kicks things off is a well-understood code within the group for a rather more important question.

Have you stayed clean? Are you still drug and alcohol free?

Tony is less concerned at these sessions with those behaviours that have, in some cases, replaced the more dangerous ones. It was often the way it worked when you were dealing with addictive personalities. He remains concerned about Diana’s compulsive shopping and he suspects that Robin is still regularly using prostitutes, but they are not the primary issue. Besides, not all these secondary activities have been shared with other members of the group.

Different therapists have different time frames. The one day at a time brigade usually demand that anyone attending a session must have been clean for the previous twenty-four hours, while others insist on a longer period of abstinence. Seven days works well enough for Tony. It’s what he’d become used to when he was in therapy.

‘Good,’ Tony says. ‘So let’s crack on.’

A day, a week, a month. Whatever the time frame, it doesn’t preclude simple dishonesty, of course. And addicts are very good at lying.

One member of the group will not make eye contact and Tony can’t help wondering just how ‘good’ Chris’s week has been. If he has done something rather more damaging than spending whole days playing video games or watching online pornography. Chris is the member of the circle Tony is most concerned about. He’s the most unpredictable, the most chaotic. He decides to try and talk to Chris privately when their time is up and suggest a few one-to-one sessions.

‘I’m wondering if maybe we should address one of the issues from last week.’ Tony glances down at the notepad on his lap. ‘There was a certain amount of friction between Caroline and Chris…’

‘No friction from me,’ Caroline says. ‘I was on the receiving end.’

‘He was at it again when we were outside,’ Heather says.

Chris mutters, ‘Grass,’ just loud enough for Tony to hear.

‘What were you doing outside?’ Tony asks.

‘Just talking,’ Heather says. ‘Having a fag, you know? Then Caroline arrives and he kicks off with the fat stuff.’

‘We don’t want that kind of thing in here,’ Tony says. He sits back, appearing genuinely saddened. ‘Conflict is nearly always counter-productive and we do not reject people because of who or what they are, especially because at some point that’s exactly what’s happened to
us
. Right? Chris, come on, you know how we work. You’re not a beginner.’

Chris looks at the floor, shrinks a little, like a chided schoolboy.

‘Look, it’s fine,’ Caroline says.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Robin says.

‘He should apologise.’ Diana looks for support. ‘He should just say sorry and we can all move on.’

Tony acknowledges the nods and murmurs of agreement and looks to his left. ‘Chris?’

It takes half a minute or so, then Chris raises his head and looks across at Caroline. He says, ‘I’m sorry if you were upset.’

Heather snorts her derision. ‘That’s not an apology.’

‘That’s passive, Chris,’ Tony says. ‘You’re not taking responsibility.’

‘I wasn’t upset,’ Caroline says. ‘Takes more than that, trust me —’

‘Listen, I’m sorry, OK?’ Chris sits up straight, rolls his shoulders. ‘I’m really sorry I said what I said. It was out of order.’ And he looks as though he means it.

‘Not a problem,’ Caroline says.

‘Good for you,’ Diana says.

Tony thinks of something and quickly scribbles a note to himself, while bodies shift in chairs and throats are cleared. When he’s finished, he looks up at Heather. ‘So, what were you talking about outside?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Before we started.’

‘Just chit-chat,’ Chris says, quickly bumptious again. ‘Particle physics, the problems in the Middle East. Usual stuff.’

‘Actually, we were talking about how much money you make,’ Heather says. ‘Trying to work it out. I mean, this is a massive house, so you’re obviously doing pretty well out of it.’

‘Exploiting poor helpless junkies.’ Chris winks at Heather.

‘I don’t think it’s any of our business,’ Robin says.

‘We were just talking.’ Heather seems to be enjoying the whole conversation and Robin’s objection, the stuffiness of it, makes it funnier still. ‘You know… thinking about what you probably get for an hour and a half like this, multiplying by five, then having a guess at how many of these sessions you do a week, plus all the other stuff.’

‘Don’t forget the songwriting royalties,’ Diana says.

Tony does his best to smile. ‘I don’t think they’d pay for a new kettle.’

‘That’s all, really,’ Heather says. ‘That’s what we were talking about. Just messing around.’

‘I reckon you’re on about two hundred and fifty quid just for one session.’ Chris sighs and plasters on an expression of mock longing. ‘I was thinking how long that kind of money would have got me high for a year or so ago.’

‘Well, I know you like to exaggerate,’ Diana says, ‘but from some of the stories you’ve told us, I don’t think it would have gone very far.’

Tony raises a finger. Just a small gesture, but he always likes to guide the discussions as subtly as possible. He fights shy of interrupting if he can possibly help it. ‘Well, it’s nice to know my financial situation is so interesting, but you’re basing your calculations on a false premise, I’m afraid. The fact is, not all my clients pay the same.’

‘What, us, you mean?’ Heather asks.

‘I’m not going to go into specifics,’ Tony says. ‘But look, some people pay me privately, others have the fees paid through medical insurance… a few are supported by charities or funded by social services, so…’ He pauses for a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not to reveal the other crucial factor in how he makes his living. ‘And whether the money’s actually coming from the individual or the individual is supported in some way, the fact is I charge some clients a bit less than others.’ He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Because it isn’t.

Nobody speaks for a few seconds, until Chris says, ‘For real?’

‘That’s good of you,’ Robin says. ‘I think it’s perfectly fair that there’s a sliding scale. I don’t mind paying because luckily I can afford it, but it’s right and proper that those who can’t should pay a bit less, or be helped in some way.’

‘No, that’s bollocks,’ Chris says. ‘A junkie’s a junkie, right? Doesn’t matter how much you earn, that fact should make everything the same. Obviously, because you’re minted you could afford to take better drugs and you didn’t have to rob anyone or do other shitty stuff like some of us did to pay for it. The world out there ain’t fair, we all know that, but
this
is our world now.’ He looks at Tony. ‘We should all be equal in here.’

‘We are,’ Tony says.

‘Doesn’t sound like it.’

‘I should stop gobbing off if I was you,’ Heather says. ‘You’re probably one of the ones who gets charged a bit less.’

Chris looks at Tony.

‘Like I said, I’m not going into specifics…’

Chris looks at Heather and, after a few seconds, begins to laugh. The pair of them trade stories for a while, the assorted scams and wheezes they’ve been involved in or heard about. The things junkies do to make the money they need. Tony tells the group about a former client – unnamed, naturally – who hit upon what he thought was a foolproof scheme after buying an extension lead from B&Q.

‘He’d paid with a stolen credit card, but then he discovered that the branch had this policy of exchanging faulty goods for cash without needing to see a receipt.’

‘Nice,’ Chris says.

‘Sometimes he wouldn’t even bother leaving the shop. He’d just take off the label, break it there and then and march straight over to the returns counter. It worked like a charm for a while, until he found the police waiting for him at the desk one day. Apparently the manager got suspicious because fourteen extension leads had been returned to the same branch in three days.’

Everyone laughs. Tony has used the same anecdote with other groups. It’s the kind of story that would probably raise no more than a smile with most people, but addicts always find it hilarious.

‘That’s junkies for you,’ Heather says. ‘Always get too greedy, and you’re not exactly thinking clearly when you’re off your face.’

Chris says, ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know which branch of B&Q that was?’

Everyone laughs again and, seeing the group in such high spirits, Tony decides that now might be a good time to take things in a different direction.

He raises a finger, nods towards Robin.

‘Now… last week, Robin generously volunteered to kick things off in looking at how, for some of us, shame of one sort or another may be one of the deep-seated causes of addiction.’

‘Still not sure I buy it,’ Chris says.

‘Well, maybe what you think isn’t awfully important,’ Diana says.

‘It’s fine, we’re just feeling our way into this, OK?’ Tony waits for things to settle, then turns to Robin. ‘Whenever you’re ready…’

Robin has been relatively quiet up until now; less happy than usual to chip in. Tony has noted it, well aware that the eldest member of the group is a little less garrulous than Chris or Heather at the best of times, and that throwing a comment in now and again is very different from being centre stage.

‘Right then.’ Robin straightens the crease on both trouser legs and sits up a little straighter. ‘I’ve been thinking all week about how to tell this and I suppose the best way is just to pitch right in. It’s a bit like an operation, I suppose. When you’re doing one, I mean. No point standing there dithering with a scalpel in your hand, you’ve just got to stick the blade in.’

‘All depends if the surgeon’s on drugs,’ Chris says.

‘Please.’ Tony turns to Chris. ‘I think it would be better for all of us if members of the group can do this without interruption. OK?’

Chris sighs, nods.

‘You all know I grew up in South Africa, right?’ Robin looks from face to face. ‘Well, it was a very different country then. Very different. When I was a child, my family had… servants. Black servants, goes without saying… that was simply the way it was. Now, of course, that sounds horrific, but right or wrong my father genuinely believed that he was doing a good thing, that he was giving people jobs. They weren’t paid very much, but it was regular work and accommodation was provided and everyone seemed very happy.’ Robin takes a breath and flattens his palms against his knees. ‘We had one family working for us. Mimi worked as a maid and her husband did odd jobs, looked after my dad’s car and so on and they all lived on the property. It was… well, now you’d probably call it a shed.’ He stops, searching for words. ‘They lived in a shed…

‘They had a little boy who was the same age as me, maybe a little bit older, eight or nine. Jimmy. That wasn’t his name… he had a Zulu name like everyone else, but we called him Jimmy. His mum called him that too, if my parents or I were around, you know?

‘Jimmy and I were friends. We used to muck around together, get into the usual sorts of scrapes. There were a couple of boys from school I saw now and again, white boys, but Jimmy was always there and the truth of it is, I thought I could boss him around, decide what games we were going to play, that sort of thing. We were close, though. That’s what I’m trying to say… we talked about things, our parents, whatever.

‘God, this is hard…’

‘Take your time,’ Tony says.

‘I stole some money.’ Robin says it quickly, blurts it out, then seems to relax a little. ‘Took it from my mother’s bag. It wasn’t much, fifty rand or something and I used it to buy sweets. I was showing off, trying to show Jimmy how rich I was, I suppose.’ He shakes his head. ‘Unfortunately, my mother noticed the money had gone and there was an almighty row and everyone got dragged into it.’ He looks up and the smile he gets from Heather seems to relax him. ‘I said Jimmy had taken the money, told everyone I’d seen him do it. I still don’t know why, but he didn’t even try to deny it and next thing his mother’s dragging him off and later on I can hear him crying after she’s given him a good hiding.

‘My father let the whole family go a week after that. He told me how important trust was and that there was no point once it had been broken. Said what a shame it was it had ended up that way. I’d known he was going to do it because my mother told me and still I never said anything, never owned up.’ He glances at Tony. ‘I tried to find out what had happened to them. Later on, that is. Before my parents died I asked if they knew anything, but there was no way to find out and they barely remembered it, to be honest. By then, even people of their generation were happy to forget they’d ever had black servants, you know?

‘I think about it a lot. A
lot
. What I did to Jimmy and to his family. What a liar I was and what a terrible coward. There are dreams and so on, but you don’t want to hear about them. So…’

Tony waits a few seconds until he’s sure that Robin has finished, then thanks him.

Chris says, ‘Is that it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Big boo-hoo because you nicked some money and got a kid whacked when you were eight? Seriously? What about your son?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ Diana says.

Robin leans forward. ‘I’ve been very clear about this. Losing my son was a trigger, OK? A
trigger
.’ His accent is stronger suddenly, the ‘r’ rolled. ‘I’m not denying that’s when I started using, but this is something else entirely.’

‘What happened to your son?’ Caroline asks.

Heather and Diana look at her and shake their heads.

‘Robin let everyone know early on that he’s not ready to talk about that,’ Tony says. ‘That’s absolutely his prerogative. Everyone’s free to move at their own pace.’

Robin is still glaring at Chris. ‘What the hell has losing my son got to do with any of this?’

‘You tell me,’ Chris says. ‘We don’t know how he was
lost
, do we?’