Sin City (18 page)

We have flower soap here, but I didn't like to use it, and I left my hands all wet because I was scared to touch the towels. The Beechgrove towels are very stiff and thin. They were white once, long ago, but they've been washed and washed to grey. “GOVERNMENT PROPERTY” is stamped across both ends. I don't know why governments need towels.

The Gold Rush towels are red and very furry, as if they are alive. There are ten of them, all different shapes and sizes, the biggest ones so big they're more like blankets. I think they expected more of us to come. That's why they gave us all these phones and televisions, and three rooms instead of one.

I'm frightened I still smell.

There's a doughnut on the screen now, one with legs. It's singing very loud. People in America eat much more than we do, not just at meal-times, but almost all the time. My stomach must be different from the stomachs over here. I think I've got more tubes and things inside me, so there's less room for the food. One woman in that restaurant ate thirteen cakes and ten large chicken legs. I couldn't eat at all. I even left my jelly, though nobody was cross. Sister says it's wicked to waste food.

There's a war on at the moment, a very loud and noisy one with guns. I think I'll shut my eyes again. I shut them quite a lot here.

When I look again, it's a different war, with planes. Then a man comes on and says the air is poisoned. I don't know which air he means – just here or back in England, but it can't be all that bad because people start to dance and sing on a golden beach with palm trees. Then a younger man appears, not on the beach, but sitting at a desk in proper clothes and says they've dropped a bomb in …

I didn't catch the name, but I don't think it's an atom bomb because I'm still alive.

I wish Carole would come back. Even when she shouts, it's nicer with her here. She spent two hours getting dressed. She put on five different blouses, before deciding on a frock. She's got something called a paintbox with a little brush in it. She kept brushing colours on her face, then scrubbing them off again with spit and paper tissues. She even changed her hair, put it up on top. I didn't like it. It made her look older and somehow sadder. Then she sat, just frowning at herself. I think she was scared about the boat-ride. She shouted at me, twice, and she shouts when she's afraid.

There's an important Message coming up. The younger man just said so. It may be about the bomb. I sit up very straight. I'm not allowed to lean back in my chair in case I spoil the velvet. I think they watch us here. There's a spy-hole in the door so they can check that we're not stealing or messing up their things. And they have television men hidden in the ceilings.

“Make your cat a happy cat. Happy Cat stays moist and meaty-tasting all day long …”

I've never had a cat. Everywhere I've lived, pets have been forbidden. I'd like a bird, a coloured bird that sang.

“Hey, you're gonna be a happy cat …”

I think I've missed the Message. It's only cats, not bombs. Everyone is happy on the television. They keep laughing all the time, even after wars. I think it's just the date. You have to be happy when it's Christmas or New Year. They keep mentioning New Year. They've wished me a happy one at least fifty times already, and it's still four days away.

Years are never really new. And this next one won't be happy if they move me into lodgings. Miss Johnson hated cats.

“Do your hands crack in the winter?”

“How long since you had ribs?”

They keep on asking questions, but there's no time to reply.

“Are your headaches tension headaches? Do you take your job to bed?”

I used to have a job, putting string in carrier bags at Belstead. They closed the workshop years ago. They said we were too slow at it, and stealing jobs from other, normal people.

“My headache's gone,” the woman shouts. Pills in England never work that fast. Sometimes they don't work at all. Tom Bryden was on fifteen pills a day, but he still cycled down to Eastbourne and jumped off a cliff.

The woman with the headache is playing with her children. Everyone has mothers on TV. And they're mostly all dressed up, even when they're hoovering or feeding cats and dogs. I take my glasses off, rub my eyes. My shoulders hurt from holding them so stiff.

There's a church now on the screen. It's a very faint church which I think is going to fall. The doors are opening and I can see a flowerbed singing hymns. I put my glasses on again. The church stops trembling and the flowers grow faces. I like the hymns, try to sing myself.

When we've finished, a man in a white suit climbs up on a platform, shouting, “Glory glory glory glory …” I think he's wearing lipstick.

“You,
you
.” He points his finger right at me. His face gets larger and larger until it's filling the whole screen. I can see black hairs in his nose.

“Are you ready to die?”

He's asking
me
. His eyes are staring into mine, wild eyes like Tom Bryden's before he went to Eastbourne. My heart is beating very fast. Doris Clayton died and she was only fifty. They removed her on a trolley, covered with a sheet. I could see just half her hand which was trailing down one side. Tom said he saw a finger move, but she was cremated just the same.

“You're a sinner.” He's still talking to me. “A deep-dyed wretched sinner.”

I stare down at my laces. I haven't any slippers, so I've put my outdoor shoes on. I was a sinner at St Joseph's. Reverend Mother said so. She said God had punished me by taking away my mother. At Westham Hall we didn't have a God. At Beechgrove He came back again, but only on a Sunday. Today is Sunday still.

“The end of the world may come tonight – this very evening. Are you prepared?”

No, I'm not, I'm frightened. What if it ends and Carole isn't back? He's throwing up his arms now, pacing up and down.

“God has warned you through His Prophets. YOU!” he screams again. He's reading from a book now, a big white padded book with coloured ribbons. “‘The Day of the Lord is at hand, a day of fury, a day of ruin and desolation, a day of gloom and darkness …' At hand means
now
. TODAY!” He hits the book, slams it really hard. “Don't think you'll be spared. You won't. How can you, when the Lord said …” He turns the page – “‘I will bring such disasters on mankind that their blood will be poured out like water and their corpses will lie rotting on the ground.'”

I'm so scared, I block my ears. I can't hear him now, only see his teeth bared, his eyes screwed up, his finger pointing, pointing. Then he disappears and the figure 6 flashes on the screen, followed by a row of noughts.

I remove my fingers from my ears. He's talking about money. He says he needs six hundred thousand dollars. I don't know why he needs it if the world is going to end. The noughts keep getting bigger.

Suddenly, he's back, falling on one knee, stretching out his hands. He's got rings on both his hands, diamond rings and gold ones. He says his church will have to close if I don't help. If I send him just a hundred dollars, Jesus Christ will double it.

I can't follow all the words, but he says how can I refuse with all God's angels looking on? I can't see any angels, but maybe they're above him in the sky. He's taking up all the space himself, just his face again. He hasn't got a body, only eyes. His eyes are very violent. I think he needs his pills. He says for just ten dollars, he'll send me a gold pin with “Jesus, Friend of Sinners” on it, and for twenty dollars, I'll get a Bible bound in white, with coloured pictures.

He's crying now. I hate people to cry and the tears look very close. If I send the money, he promises to pray for me by name. “By
name
,” he sobs again, so loud I jump. He says he writes the names of all who send him money in a special gold-clasped book which he keeps on the altar, close to God. God reads the names each morning. I'd like God to read my name and I'd love the coloured pictures. There might be one of St Joseph.

I cut him out once, years and years ago, from a book in St Joseph's convent library. He was only small and I cut round him very carefully. I didn't take the Jesus or the Mary and there were lots of other pictures left, but Reverend Mother was so angry she went white. She said I was a vandal and a thief. I don't know what a vandal is.

They've written the address now where you have to send your money. It keeps flashing on and off. You've got to send it now, not wait until tomorrow. The man says God may take away tomorrow.

I fetch a pencil from my handbag, copy down his name. He's called the Reverend Arthur M. O'Toole. I remember now, that was Miss O'Something's name – O'Toole. She didn't have a first name. My insides heave again. Miss O'Toole would be dead and cold by now, but perhaps she sent him.

I'm very slow at writing, but I complete the final e and start on the address which disappears before I reach the town. The postman probably knows it. The Reverend looks very rich and famous. I don't think Jesus wore white suits, or rings.

My money's in the safe. Half of it is mine. More than half, because Carole's already taken some of hers. The safe is locked. It's difficult to open. Even Carole couldn't do it. She had to phone and ask a man to show her. If I wait for Carole, I could land up in Hell. The Reverend said he knew a sinner who promised to send his money in the morning, once he'd had a good night's rest. He went to sleep and woke up dead in Hell.

I pick the phone up. A voice says “Yeah?”, a girl's voice. I ask her about the bomb first, to make sure I've got some time left, but she doesn't understand. They don't speak proper English over here. At last, she sends a man up, a very big and tall one with a gun.

“Right, where's the bomb?” he asks. He's come to search my room. He didn't knock, just burst into the downstairs room and came crashing up the stairs. He's squeezing under furniture, throwing all the blankets off the beds. I think he's angry with me. He hardly speaks at all, until I explain about my money and the church. Then he unlocks the safe for me and even hands me paper from a sort of padded folder which I hadn't dared to touch. The paper's very grand, with gold all round the edges. The envelopes have crowns on.

I ask about a stamp and the man says not to worry, he'll take care of it. He seems much nicer now and calls me Ma'am. He even turns the television down. I try to count the notes so I can work out how many half is, but I've only got to six when he asks me where I come from. I say “Beechgrove” and then “Belfast” because I'm not sure which he means, and then he says he's Irish, too, from way back, and maybe we're related. He doesn't look like me at all, but I say “yes” to be polite. I wish he wouldn't talk. I can't count with him talking.

I'm not used to counting money and this is foreign money. The man is standing very close, asks if he can help. I know Carole wouldn't like that, so I just divide the notes into two big piles, put one back in the safe and the other in an envelope with crowns on.

I write my name, very big, in the middle of the large white sheet of paper, then add Carole's name underneath. I want our names very close together when God reads them in His gold-clasped book. The man's so keen to catch the post, he tries to take the envelope before I've sealed it up.

“Just a minute. I've still got the address to write.”

He hands me his own pen, a slippery silver one which makes my writing slower still. I copy down the street name, ask him if he knows the town. “Yeah, sure,” he says, but he doesn't write it on, just locks the safe again and says “Goodnight, Ma'am.”

I hear the downstairs door slam. I'm all alone again. The Reverend's gone as well. There's a fat man on the screen now, telling jokes. He's whispering, not shouting. Whispering makes me nervous. I always think they're whispering about me.

I press some switches by the door and cold air starts to blow. I can't seem to turn it off again, so I put my coat on over my nightdress, and go back to my chair. Soon it's very cold. My hands and feet feel chilled and very heavy as if they're made of cold white china like the chamberpots at Belstead.

Perhaps I'll go to bed. When I moved into my lodgings, I spent a lot of time in bed. There wasn't any heating in my room.

I'll have to take the lace off. I don't think it's for sleeping, just for show. I haven't got a waist, but the nightdress has – a tight one with elastic, so it's hard to get it off, especially on my own.

It's colder with no clothes on. The jet of air is blowing on my back, disturbing all my hair. I fetch my vest and petticoat and a pair of thick lisle stockings. My hands are cold and clumsy so it takes me quite a while to put them on. My fingers have gone bluish round the nails.

I don't know how I'll sleep with the television on. A grey-haired lady is whispering to her daughter down the phone. She says they live five thousand miles apart, but I can see them both together, both with phones. She's whispering to me now. “We're still so close,” she smiles. “Even though my daughter's moved away. Save sixty per cent evenings and weekends. Simply dial 1 and your long-distance number.”

Perhaps I could phone Beechgrove, ask Sister what to do about the pains. It's evening and weekend now, so it wouldn't cost that much. I dial the 1, then stop. I'm trying to remember the Beechgrove number which I think starts with a 6 and is very long and complicated. A man says “Room Service”, so I put the receiver down and start again. The same voice answers.

“Room Service. Can I help you?”

I pretend I haven't heard. Perhaps I shouldn't dial the 1 at all. I start with 6 this time. A different voice says “Barber Shop”.

“I'm trying to phone the hospital,” I explain.

“Are you sick, Ma'am? We have a doctor on call, twenty-four hours. I'll connect you.”