Sin City (42 page)

Inside, it's rather shabby with none of those glass lights or golden flowers. It smells of cigarettes, and there's popcorn on the floor, all trodden in and dirty. No one is dressed up. Most people wear jeans and a lot of men have hats on, cowboy hats or funny caps with letters round the brim. A lady in a wheelchair is talking to a slot machine. I think she's foreign because her hair is wild and black, and the words are more like babble. Beside her is a man. Or maybe it's a boy. He has a tiny stunted body with a grown-up's head on top, which looks far too heavy for it. He comes up to my waist, but his face is very lined, so I'm not sure if he's old, or just a child. It's rude to stare, so I walk the other way.

I find a roulette table, but it's very crowded with no free seats and lots of extra people standing round. The man who throws the ball isn't dressed like Tony and he doesn't smile at all, not even with his mouth. His name is Hans. It's written on his brooch.

I get my Tiger Tail out, stroke it once or twice. It works, because a lady leaves the table and I climb into her seat. People turn and look at me. My coat is in the way, so I clamber down again and put it under the seat with my gloves and plastic bag. The man beside me frowns and mutters something.

I unzip my purse. Tony said to put five dollars down, but the notes all look the same. Everybody's smoking, and my glasses have steamed up. I try and find a five. My hands are shaking. My mouth feels very dry. I'd better hurry. They're short of seats. Hans may shout at me, tell me to get down and go away. I take all the notes out, hold them very tightly in both hands. I can see the dress. Carole in the dress. Orange blossom. Happiness. I put the money on the table, all of it. The more you play, the more you win. Tony said.

Hans is passing me some chips, a huge great pile of them. I touch them with a finger to check they're really there. I never thought I'd get them. I thought something would go wrong, or he'd say I was too old to play, or dressed wrong.

I try and count them, keep on getting muddled. It doesn't matter really. I've got more than anyone. I can see that just by looking. I pick one up and smell it. It doesn't smell of anything. I can still smell orange blossom, but that's up in my head.

The chips are red, not blue. Red for shoes. Red for Lady Luck. My second name is Luck. N rah Luck. They took the o's away because o's are holes, empty lonely holes. I'm going to meet a stranger. There are lots of strangers here, but they're mostly very ugly. One has lost a finger and another has a scar across his face.

Everyone is playing, hands reaching past me, elbows knocking mine. Hans is throwing chips across the table. Then he throws the ball. It goes really fast, rattling round and round its little dish. No one speaks at all now. They all look very frightened. Someone coughs. Someone strikes a match. The man beside me bites his thumb. His shirt is half undone and long black hair is showing through the gaps. I think I'm too dressed up. I button my cardigan to try and hide the frock. The wool is thick and matted, feels itchy on my neck.

The ball has almost stopped. The man opposite is frowning and his eyes have disappeared. Hans passes him more chips. Orange ones. Orange blossom. I've got to play myself. I wish Sally-Ann was here, to make me brave. There's no one like her. The only other woman at the table has a twisted mouth and red blotches on her hands instead of rings.

I touch my silver shamrock, stroke my Tiger Tail, then put a little pile of chips on number twenty-three. Lucky twenty-three. Hans is taking money, giving people chips. His hands move very quickly, but not his mouth. Even when he speaks, his lips hardly move at all.

“No more bets,” he says. Tony said that too. You're not allowed to put chips down on the table once the ball starts slowing.

It's slowing now. I can't see where it goes because I'm down the other end and I haven't cleaned my glasses yet. I take them off to polish them. All the faces blur. When I put them on again, my chips have disappeared.

I stare down at the table. Number twenty-three is bare, without its tall red crown. My hands feel damp and a piece of steel is pressing on my head. It's because I didn't watch. Tony said you have to watch the action all the time. I put some more chips down, place my eyes on top of them this time. I choose twenty-three again, my number in the stars. The ball is quite excited, whirls so fast I can hear it bouncing, skidding in the dish. It stops at last. I hold my breath. Hans puts a little pepper-pot on number seventeen. “Seventeen, black,” he says.

“No,” I say. “That's wrong.”

Everybody stares. I don't think you're allowed to talk. It's like Beechgrove after ten. I close my eyes, pretend it wasn't me. When I open them again, things are going far too fast, like those films we had at Westham Hall where people always ran instead of walking. Everyone has more than just two hands and all the hands are jerking, reaching out. I can't see any numbers. They're all covered up with chips now. Orange, pink, yellow, green and blue. No red. I haven't got mine down yet. Quick! He's thrown the ball. I pile them on a nought. It's the only one that's free.

I watch the red, listen to the ball. Now the film is running in slow motion. The ball won't stop, goes on and on, round and round, teasing me and everyone. It's such a tiny ball, a small white egg, a little spinning marble. But everybody's watching it, begging it to choose their special number. I don't think it can hear. It makes an angry rattling noise, as if it doesn't like us.

Now it's quieter, slowing, maybe getting tired. “No more bets,” says Hans.

I squeeze my Tiger Tail so tight, my hand begins to ache. Four hundred times more luck. My other hand is tight around the shamrock. A thousand times more luck. I'm smiling when the ball stops.

“Thirty red,” says Hans, banging down his pepper-pot. He sweeps my chips away. I watch them go. Noughts are only holes. I search for eight. I like the number eight. At St Joseph's, we had something called the Eight Beatitudes which all began with “Blessed are …” Seven is blessed too. There are seven sacraments and seven Holy Angels and seven dwarfs and God made the world in seven days and seventh heaven is when you're happy here on earth.

I put some chips on eight and some on seven. The ball is really angry now, banging round its dish. I pray this time. To Lady Luck, St Joseph, to the stars. The saints turn into stars when they die and go to heaven, so they can shine down on the earth and make the nights less dark.

I'm praying so hard, I don't even hear the ball drop, but Hans already has his pepper-pot on number thirty-three. Everything starts spinning in my head then. The ball, the chips, the colours, the whole room. I fumble for my handkerchief, wipe my face and hands. I don't feel well. There's a ra-ra in my ears like the babble of that lady in the wheelchair, and the man beside me is breathing very fast. I can feel my chest panting in and out with him, his dark rough hair prickling on my skin.

I try to edge away, touch a shoulder on my other side. The shoulder growls. More people are pressing up behind me, someone's elbow digging in my back. I'm surrounded on all sides. People watching. Jeering. I can even feel the saints' eyes, staring down from heaven, cold and cross. Stars have eyes, silver ones, which only close in daytime. And Lady Luck has crept away, left me on the doorstep. I can see another baby in her arms. A pretty girl, with tiny feet and hands.

I try to swallow, wish I had a drink. My throat is scratchy like the cardigan. My hands are swelling as I look at them, so clumsy now I can hardly hold the chips. I haven't many left. Every time the ball spins, more have gone. Only seven now. They must feel very lonely. Only five. Five's my lucky number. They were wrong about the eight, or perhaps I read it wrong. The print was very faint, so it may have been a three.

I put the five on five, hold my head. My head is a brown dish and the ball rattles round and round inside it, round and round. It's hurting. My eyes and mouth are holes, holes with numbers on. Number five.

“No more bets,” says Hans again. I can't bet any more. I've no more money, no more chips at all.

The ball begins to slow. Suddenly it drops. In my stomach. In my bowel. Somewhere dark and low which hurts a lot.

Hans calls out a number. It's very close to five. But it isn't five. It's six. Lucky six.

I sit a while, staring at the table. It's very pretty, really. All the different colours are like flowers. Yellow flowers and blue flowers. Orange, pink and blue ones. Every flower but red. I don't like red. It's noisy. Fire engines and screams. I put my purse away, close my handbag, slip down off my stool.

“Goodbye,” I say, to no one.

I walk out into the street. It's a completely different street. It's night, not day, though it's brighter than the daylight. Everything is moving, even tall great buildings. I can feel the pavement breathing, hot between my legs. The whole night is ill and hot. Sweat is running down the walls, running down my face. Coloured sweat which burns. There isn't any moon. Lots of little suns are shining, spinning round and round.

The moon is pale like Norah. An empty O like Norah. There's nothing pale Downtown. The stars are scarlet mouths, screaming in the sky. The trees are coloured lights. The lights flash on off on. My eyes hurt with the glare.

“Keep still,” I whisper. “Turn off all those lights, please.”

No one listens. Nobody has ears.

I need a drink. Something safe and kind. A glass of milk. A cup of tea like Sister's with two sugars in. There are cafés everywhere, closing in on me, I can smell onions on their breath. They're serving words, not food. Sizzling words spitting in my head. BIGGER, BURGER, LIQUOR, EAT, HOT, RIB. I push a door. More words. “Twenty-four-hour breakfast, cheapest eats in town.” I step in, blink against the noise. There's music playing. Music like a pain.

“A cup of tea, please.”

It doesn't look like tea. It's very dark and black, with something floating in it. I can't see any sugar. I wish I'd asked for milk. Milk is pale and quiet. They give it to small children. It's made of grass and munching. They don't have grass Downtown.

“That's fifty cents.”

I fumble for my purse. It feels very limp and thin, like a small brown animal which no one's fed. There's nothing in its stomach, not even fifty cents. I leave my tea, walk out. I can hear the woman shouting after me. A lot of people shout here.

I check my purse again. No, it's not my purse, it's Reuben's. That was Reuben's money. I don't like Reuben and I only borrowed it.

Borrowing is stealing if you haven't asked.

A thief, a petty vandal.

A deep-dyed wretched sinner.

Gambling is a sin.

I sit down on a step outside a shop. The shop is empty, boarded up. The step is very cold. I've lost my coat. I don't know where I put it or why I took it off. I never take my coat off. That Friend who gave it to me had it since the War. I've also lost my gloves. They'll say I'm very careless and they don't know why they bother. The gloves weren't quite a pair. They were both dark blue, but one was fuzzier. I've never needed gloves before. I don't go out at Beechgrove. It's safer to stay in. You can't lose money then, or lose your clothes.

A boy and girl have stopped outside the shop. They're kissing. It's a long kiss, very long. Sally-Ann didn't kiss like that. She told me to phone her, but she didn't leave her number. I haven't got a friend now, not even Carole. I've lost her money, Reuben's money, stolen it. They won't let me come to Israel. Not a thief.

Another couple are walking arm in arm. Their hands and sides are joined like one person with four legs. You're one person if you're married. It says so in the Bible. Joined for ever. Carole will be Reuben. Reuben doesn't like me. Even before he met me, he said I couldn't come.

I get up off the step, walk slowly down the street. No one is alone. They're mostly all in families, or couples. There are also gangs of frightening-looking boys, throwing coloured streamers at each other. Some are swaying, shouting, drinking out of bottles, kicking empty cans. They're waiting for the fireworks. They set them off Downtown, a great show at nine o'clock. It can't be nine o'clock yet, though it feels very late and dark inside my head. They may put me into prison if they find me. Bars on all the windows like at Belstead.

“Hey, lady, wanna hat?”

A man has stopped me. He's holding out a golden crown, and a hat with orange feathers on. Other hats are piled up on his stall. He takes a step towards me, slams the hat right down on my head. “Happy New Year” is written on the brim in coloured letters.

“For you, lady, three dollars.”

I take it off again. I haven't got three dollars and nothing will be happy any more.

A wheelchair is blocking half the pavement. There's a man in it, a beggar. He hasn't any legs. A woman throws a bank note in his dish. He bends to pick it up and I see he's lost his hands as well. His wrists just end without the fingers. Half of him is missing. He's a stump.

I turn away. I'm a stump myself. A lot of me is missing. I feel very light and weak. I think I may be hungry. I haven't eaten anything all day. Food is lying in the gutter: a piece of bread, half a fat brown sausage. I ought to pick them up, save them for my breakfast. I peer down at the bread. There's lipstick on it; teeth-marks on the sausage.

I walk on, pass an open door. Tables, chairs, a counter; people eating clean food without lipstick on, or germs. I haven't any money, but at least I could sit down. I limp in, find an empty seat. There are great big coloured pictures on the walls. Food again. Potato chips piled on plates like firewood; chocolate cake so huge you can see its pores. The real cake looks quite small, and rather dry.

“Can I get you something, Madam?”

“I'm waiting,” I reply. “Waiting for my friend.” The waitress walks away.