Imperfect Strangers (11 page)

CHAPTER
15

Cleanliness is next to painfulness, I tell myself, silently correcting the phrase mother always used
.
I avoid letting my eyes delve into the darker shadows under bushes; if it gets too scary; I close my eyes and picture Sally’s toes, or her left eye with the little green island. I stick to the path, setting a steady pace. Not too fast though. Go too fast and it makes the shadows follow; the sound of falling feet attracts them. Stick to the path.

Led down the path.

I don’t deviate my eyes to look, but I know they’re there.

Led down the path
.

The shadows are insistent. They’re following, slithering through the shade of the bushes. They’re trying to get into my mind: the shadows and the bad memories that ride on their slithering backs. “You hold them back, little Keith. You hold them back for me.”

Led down the path.

Is that
the sound of my own footsteps getting louder? Are my footsteps pounding faster, or is it my heart?

Led down the path.

“Hold them back, little Keith. Please. Please hold them back”
I don’t want your memories.

That time with Heather Unwin begot a helter-skelter of slippage. If our lives up until then had been a difficult climb, from that point on it spiralled downward. Spiralled with sickening compulsion.
It was a slippery slope; all down hill; all snakes and no ladder. Heather didn’t even lie about us. She didn’t have to.

“That’s not you. It isn’t you, is it, little Keith?”

Of course it’s me.

“No it isn’t
.
You don’t talk like this. You’re a little boy; you don’t know words like begot and slippage and how to construct metaphor.”

Yes I do. You read
all the time, you read so many books, and you learn, and I learn what you learn. I know what you know, but you... You refuse to know everything that I know. And now there’s a woman in our lives and I want to know about her. You think I’m a child, but in reality I am as old as you. I want to know things, grown up things. What do her tits feel like? What does her cunt-suck taste like?

“Stop it. I don’t want it. You don’t talk like that
; do you hear me? You don’t talk like that, especially not about Sally. I won’t have it; do you hear? I don’t want it. I don’t want your pain, and I don’t want your anger.”

Nor do I.

It was our fault. It was always our fault. You are clumsy, Keith. You are stupid. You are bad; dirty; disgusting; horrible; nasty. Oh, why do you tell such lies and make me put you in the wardrobe?

“So now you have reached that age!” She practically spat the accusation, as she clouted me around the back of our head.

Silently I asked,
what was that for?
Silently, because if I’d spoken it out loud, she would certainly have given-me-what-for. That was a learning I made, wasn’t it? It had to be silent, because a what-for always hurts more than the punishment for that which was being questioned in the first place.

Tears brimmed in our eyes, and I fought to prevent them from falling. I had been quite happy playing with my ball not more than thirty minutes
before hand. Standing there, on the doorstep, my tears brimmed as Heather’s mum told our mother a pack of lies. She told lies about how I had pinned her daughter to the ground while she screamed. How it was my idea to hide under cardboard sheeting. How I had tried to rape her daughter. What rape was I didn’t know, not back then, so I thought that maybe I had. How can a person know if they’ve done something or not if they’re totally oblivious to what it is? You can only know what you know. We know what it is now, don’t we Keith? And I didn’t try to do it. It was a lie. Heather’s mother also told how she had caught me trying to force Heather’s legs apart. That was a lie too; I was trying to pull my hand away.

“You didn’t let the tears fall did you? You kept them at bay, because
I’ll-give-you-what-for
had a near relative who went by the name of,
Stop-your-snivelling-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-cry-for
.
Giyersomattercryfer
– that’s how she said it, wasn’t it? Like it was just one word. One word slithering from between her nasty thin lips.”

I felt that I had something-to-cry-for, though. And I did, because she was telling lies. Heather’s mother was claiming that I had done terrible things
when I hadn’t.

“That’s when her obsession over our cleanliness began, wasn’t it?”

She bathed us in a bath of bleach and cold water. “A cold bath is what you need my lad, with a splash of bleach for the germs.” Tears brimmed in our eyes, but I held them at bay.

“
Giyersomattercryfer
. That was why you held them back.
Giyersomattercryfer
. You told yourself, and held them back.”

“It’s hurting,
Mum,” I told her, but she made us stay in the bath even longer. Then tied our hands with rope.

Complaint brings harsher punishment.

“
Giyersomattercryfer
.”

When I later built the courage to tell mother that Heather’s mum had lied, she washed our mouth with soap. I never argued again, and neither did
you? But I still got the soap.

I still taste it Keith. When the memories come strong
, I taste it. I can taste it now. I tasted it back when you said that really bad word.”

“Lying is a sin,” she told me. “Boys are dirty animals. They can’t help themselves, but they must be kept clean.”

“That night, when she dragged us from the wardrobe, when she untied the rope, and you thought it was all over, you didn’t know why she then tied our wrists behind our back.
‘So you don’t fiddle and foul the sheets,’
she said.
Fiddle’n’foul. B
ut you didn’t know what she meant. You knew it had something to do with the lies that Heather’s mother had told, though, didn’t you? But you didn’t want to raise the matter again.”

*  *  *

I exit the park with no memory of passing through, and I know little Keith has led me through the shadows. It’s never occurred to me, but I wonder if I talk out loud, and if I do, did I pass anyone as I walked along? And what was I saying if I did? And what did they think when they saw me? You see them. I’ve seen them myself: nutters that amble along, muttering to themselves, shouting out at people who aren’t actually there. Am I a nutter? Am I one of them? Despite the street-lighting, despite being away from the shadows from which the darkest of memories slither, the snakes of my past start to wriggle with my worry of their hold on me.

Hold them back, little Keith. Please, hold them back.

Little Keith does not answer. All the way through the park little Keith must have had plenty to say. Little Keith is afraid of the memories too, but they’re his memories, his responsibility. It feels like they are about to rise again, and I try picturing Sally’s home.

Sally’s house is clean and yet it is a comfortable place to be. More than that, it is homely. While I was there, as nervous as I was, there was not much more than the slightest trace of a word-snake. For the first time ever a remembrance comes from the episode I just had, not the memory of the past, but some of the things that little Keith said, and the way he spoke. He talked more openly
, and less like a child. Maybe he was letting me know I can now cope without him. Maybe the thought of Sally, the thought of her sweet-smelling home, is enough to force the horrid past away. Being in Sally’s home helped me to feel better. If only I could have that experience every day.

With that thought a slip of an idea slides into my mind.

CHAPTER
16

I’m sitting on the edge of my desk hugging a mug of coffee, when Kerry bursts into the office, her face glowing with fierce brightness. “You’ll never guess what he’s done now?”

“What who’s done?” I’ve a reasonable idea of the who that she’s referring to, what’s more, I’m glad of an excuse to change the subject and turn away from the look of disbelief etched on the faces of Philippa and Colleen.

“Patel.” Kerry throws her bag onto her desk then strides across to the group. “He’s only gone and–”

“Sally’s given Keith a key to her house.”

Philippa’s interruption puts the brakes on Kerry’s tirade so abruptly that she almost falls over. “You’ve what? Given him a key to your house? You’ve
given
him
a key to your house?”

“Keith!” Philippa says again, as if there’s any way of thinking that Kerry might have misheard. “And don’t get too close, she reeks of garlic.”

“So, your landlord’s gone and–?” I take them in with a sweep of my eyes, as I raise the mug to my mouth.

“Later.” Kerry tilts her head, which means
come on, tell me everything.

I place the empty mug on the table and g
lance at the clock. “Really... Keith... he’s actually alright.” Another fifteen minutes before work begins. “He’s just...” I take a moment to choose my words carefully.

“Creepy?”
Colleen offers, which, I have to be honest, shocks me.

“
Misunderstood!” I open my arms in a manner almost bordering on apologetic and look to each of the women in turn for a glimmer of acquiescence. Keith taught me that one:
I acquiesce to your request
, and when I looked puzzled:
No protest to your request.
You should be a poet I told him, and he was delighted. With the girls there is no acquiescence to be had, although Colleen at least seems to show an ounce of guilt for her recent comment.

“I must admit, when he first suggested taking Sukie for a walk for me while I’m at work, I was a bit shocked.” I sweep the watching eyes and shrug my shoulders. “But after a while I thought, well why not? And really, like I said, he’s okay. You should talk to him
Colleen; he knows just about all there is to know about Leanne Rimes; I know you’re a big fan.”

“I like her music. I’ve got some of her albums. But I’m no anorak.”

“Well you’ve more in common with him than me. He simply loves everything about her. Talked for hours, when she was born, the dates of all her hits. He could write a book.”

“Keith?
” Philippa splutters.

“
A Leanne Rimes fan?” Says Kerry, screwing her face into an origami scowl.

“
Really?” Philippa adds.

Kerry and Philippa chortle when they look at each other. I shoot them a shut-up glare and turn back to
Colleen, as her objection to the whole idea seems to be weakening.

“Yes, really.
” Back to Colleen. “I’ve only got a couple of her tracks on my i-pod. Copied them from that CD you lent me. But he was so enthusiastic that I didn’t like to tell him I hardly know her music, and I’m into much heavier stuff.”

“So..
.” Kerry cuts in, her voice sounding as thin and sharp as a razor. “When did all this startling fanzine conversation take place?”

“I often bump into him in the park, on my way home, when he’s on his way in. So if we’ve time
, I sit for a moment and have a chat with him.”

“And how long’s this been going on?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Kerry, but a couple of weeks.”

“He’s not quite right,” Philippa warns.

“Sounds a bit too convenient.” Kerry rolls her eyes and closes her mouth around a wedge of imaginary lemon. “Bumping into you, accidentally.” Kerry forms double quotes, with her fingers, around the word
accidentally.
“Sounds like he wants access to your knickers to me.”

I let out a heavy sigh
. I almost say,
you’d know more about wanting to get into a girl’s knickers than me Kerry
. This is why I didn’t tell them sooner. It’s one thing befriending someone because they’re lonely, but quite another to be judged an idiotic fool for doing so. I now have an overwhelming need to convince them of Keith’s decency, not for how he will look to them, but for how I look to them. “You’d say that about any man, Kerry!”

“Too
damn right I would.”

“Anyway, can we change the subject
? What’s your landlord done that’s got you so rattled?”

Kerry grits her teeth
and shows a reluctance to drop Keith and move on, but the temptation is obviously too great. “For one, he’s still not fixed the boiler – flat’s freezing. Now the oven’s started playing up – he’s not interested.
‘Maybe it is that you have damaged it yourself, miss Kerreee! Maybe you have damaged it by not applicating it for its proper use.’
I use it to cook oven chips, Patel, I told him, not washing my knickers. And now – the bastard – he says the flat needs decorating, and it’s my responsibility.
‘A lick of paint is all I am asking of you. If you up and leave, how can I be renting it in this state.’
Bastard then suggests I need a man. ‘
You vomen, you need a man.’
He just wants me out, wants the place for his cousin. Wants me to marry his cousin for all I bloody know. He’d put the rent up if he could. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. You can’t let that Keith into your life, Sal. He’s a fucking freak.”

“He isn’t! He’s just lonely. He needs a friend that’s all.” I glance at the angel in the star-globe. Keith calls me an angel, and I don’t really like it; it sort of feels inap
propriate when coming from the wrong person, like babe or honey. Sickly sweet nothings have to slip from the right tongue. When I look up, the women I like to call my friends still don’t look convinced. “Besides,” I continue, “he’s really understanding. And clever too, knows all sorts about all sorts of stuff. I bet he could fix that oven.”

Kerry huffs, which I take to mean,
bring him near my flat and I’ll chop him up and pass him off as goat to Mr Patel.

“
He’s quite funny too, but without trying to be. You know sort of in an innocent, child-like kind of way.” I actually chuckle thinking about it. “I was telling him that I’ve just about had it with guys like Steve. I told him that Steve’s arsenistic, right. And he said, what, you mean he likes to burn things? And I said, no I mean he loves himself. And he said, Sally, I think you mean, Narcissistic. And then he goes all dead pan, his eyes focusing inward, like he’s reading the definition from a dictionary, like this:
having
an exceptional interest in or admiration for oneself. Especially of ones physical appearance.
And I said, oh you know Steve very well then? And he says, as serious as anything, ‘No I’ve only seen him that once’.” It’s not until I look at the dumbfounded faces of the others that I realise what a soft, lilting laugh of pleasure I fell into. “Well, I suppose you had to be there.”

Kerry shakes her head, and with a look of pitying disapproval, pulls Philippa to one side.
Colleen steps up to me and gives my arm a gentle squeeze.

“Be careful, Sally,” she says in a motherly tone, “How much do you really know about Keith
? I mean. Be a friend to him if you must, but why give him a key to your house?”

“Oh, didn’t I say?”
Colleen’s only concerned about my welfare, and to be honest is probably just saying what my mum would be saying if she were here and not in Cyprus, maybe what my older sister would be saying if she wasn’t in London, but I still can’t help colouring my question with mock sarcasm. In an attempt to take the edge off, I pick up a wodge of mail and flick through it. “Sorry. Look, Colleen, he’s ‘like’ doing me a massive favour. He’s going to let Sukie out for me in the day, perhaps take her a quick walk in the park. See the thing is, she’s taken to crapping in the living-room.” I mouth the word crapping, finding the thought of dog faeces on my living-room carpet too painful to voice out loud. “Steve used to pop home for dinner, but since he’s no longer around... well.”

Colleen
still does not look convinced that the situation is a safe one, never mind a convenient one. She glances at the clock. “Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, a key to your house.”

I know she means well, maybe the others do too, but I’m finding this a bit wearing now. Who do they think they are? Wasn’t it
Colleen herself who said I should go for a different kind of fella? Not that I have any intention of going for Keith, but–

“Look,
Colleen,” I glance at the clock myself. Two minutes past nine, I notice, and Colleen is usually very punctual – nine on the dot, usually, behind her desk, working away. I really want to shout, mind your own f-in business, but I won’t, especially not to Colleen. “They trust him to look after this place don’t they?”

“But surely he sleeps in the day?”
Colleen says, her eyes switching from the clock to me to her desk to Martin’s office. Although I don’t think she’s got anything to worry about from him any more, not after the
forward slash
incident. He gives her desk a wide berth and looks at her like she’s crazy. I keep thinking, is this
as good as it gets
, and hear Jack Nicholson saying,
we don’t need any more crazy around here, Sweetheart, we’re all stocked up.

I round my desk nonchalantly, meaning,
say what you like, think what you like, I don’t really give a damn ma’am
. “He says he doesn’t sleep much. I don’t know, maybe he dozes at night, when he’s here all alone.” I start shuffling papers in the hope that Colleen will realise she has gone against her punctual routine. I think about revealing the real reason why I started giving Keith a bit of my time, and this must show in my eyes, because Colleen not only reflects it in her expression, but underlines it with a shade of,
oh-my-god-what-is-it?

“Okay, I’ll tell you. But don’t tell Kerry or Philippa ’cause they’ll have a field
day. It’s quite sad really. See the thing is, he lives with this senile old woman. She sings all day, keeping him awake. And not only that. Please don’t laugh.” I’m warning Colleen, but I can feel an insistent smirk pulling the corners of my own mouth. “She,” I voice quietly, before drifting into a Les-Dawson-style mime. “She toilets behind the settee. Keith has to clear it up.”

Colleen
’s jaw drops. “No!” I nod. Colleen doesn’t even smirk. Finally a look of full-blown sympathy smacks Colleen’s expression. “Why does he put up with it?”

“Old friend of his dead mother, apparently. Can’t b
ear to put her in a home. And, she’s the only company he has, from what I can gather. He doesn’t talk about her much. Changes the subject whenever I mention her, like he doesn’t want to talk about her. I think he’s ashamed. You know, a man of his age shacked up with an old woman like that.”

Martin Smith leans out of his office and coughs.
Colleen jumps slightly and looks ready to scurry to her desk. Instead, she composes herself and marches there with her head held high, a subtle breath of “Morning, Mr Smith. Forward-slash, Mr Smith,” on her lips.

No thanks, we’re all stocked up
, Nicholson drawls in my head.

From the other side of the room
, Kerry casts Martin a harsh glare, while Philippa pouts at him, suggestively. Martin, looking a strange mix of aroused and afraid, slips back behind the safety of his door.

I’m only straining my ears to hear what they’re saying because I assume it’s about my friendship with Keith. I hear Kerry ask if Philippa’s still friends with Pete. Philippa went out with
Pete for a while. He works in this building, and he’s a friend of Steve’s. That’s how we met. What’s she up to? I listen more intently, thinking she’s likely trying to get Pete to have a word with Steve…

“Does
Pete still mess with photos on the computer?” Kerry says, “at that what’s-it-graphics firm? I still can’t get over that picture he did of you with the giant tits.”

“If only I could get the real thing as easy. He does, why?”

“I want him do a picture for me.”

“Really?”

Kerry purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not tits. I want him to fix a ruined picture for me. I’ve only got this one picture of my grandparents, and its torn and scratched. Do you think he’d be able to put it together and paint the scratches out, or whatever they do?”

“Re-touching
? Yeh, should think so. They do stuff like that all the time. Give it me and I’ll ask him if you like.”

“No it’s alright. I’ll ask him myself.”

I shut their conversation out as soon as I realise it’s nothing to do with me. But I get the odd twinge of paranoia as they carry on talking, especially as they share the odd cackle of laughter, and Kerry keeps looking over at me. Finally they go to their respective desks and I relax into a long morning of boring work. At least when Steve was in my life I looked forward to the end of the day, even more so to the weekend. Now it all just seems to be work-eat-sleep, with nothing to break the monotony. Maybe I should join a class or something. Wonder if Philippa and Kerry are doing anything this weekend?