Sin City (59 page)

I'm scared of Angelique. She doesn't like me. She doesn't like her brother, never smiles at him. She only likes people if they're pretty and not ill. She's smiling on the walls, smiling thirteen times. I count the smiles. Thirteen is unlucky.

The other women all look sad or cross. They don't want me here, don't like me in their room. I think they're cross I came upstairs at all.

“I'm looking for a note,” I say. “A letter from my friend.” I like to call her friend still. Sometimes if you say things, they come true.

The room is sad as well, very stiff and clean as if it's died and someone's laid it out for burial. Everything is white. White walls. White curtains, drawn to keep the sun out, white shroud on the bed. I'll never find the note. The Death Men have cleared everything away. At Beechgrove, patients have old dolls, or dirty bits of rag, or knitting bags, or fruit drops, spread out in a jumble on their lockers. The chest of drawers is bare here. And the dressing table. There's just a vase of flowers standing on the sill. Pale green flowers which stare.

I go across and smell them. There isn't any smell. I'm not sure if they're real or not. Flowers are never green. I'm scared to touch them, scared to move at all. I stand there for a while, try to think of Carole. The thoughts don't work. I can only think of coffins and white shrouds.

There's a sudden cry behind me. The cat's walked in through the open bedroom door. Carole said it's Burmese, but she's wrong. It's a Russian Blue – Angelique told me so herself. It isn't blue, but a dirty greyish brown. I've never seen a blue cat. A lot of things are foreign here. The maid is Guatemalan. I don't know what that is, but most foreigners are cross.

The cat is snarling at me, drawing back its top lip, showing yellow teeth. I squeeze behind the bed, crouch down on the floor. There's something on the carpet, something small and coloured. I pick it up. It's a hairslide, Carole's hairslide. It's shaped like a butterfly with pink and purple wings. She wore it for her wedding. The Death Man must have missed it, which means Carole's still alive. I hold it in my palm, feel it flutter. The women on the walls are watching, muttering. I can hear them saying “Thief!”

“It's not Angelique's,” I tell them. “It belongs to Carole. And I'm going to give it back.”

They don't believe me. I think I'd better leave. They may be men, those women. They had women in the show like that, with long red nails, and jewels, and even bosoms, but the lady sitting next to me told me they were men in female clothes. Perhaps I didn't hear right. The pills affect my ears. I've started taking them again, but only half the dose. Carole said we're short of pills. Sister gave me enough for fourteen days. We've been here twelve. I think. We should be home in England with more pills. If you stop or start your tablets or change the strength, they can make you worse, not better. I feel much worse since Carole left. Since Monday.

I close the door as quietly as I can, walk on down the passage. I find another flight of stairs, just a short one, leading to a room all on its own. I walk up very slowly. I'm so hungry, there's nothing in my legs. I didn't take an apple. Eve stole just a bite of one and they had to leave the Garden and work all day instead of picking flowers.

I try the door. It isn't locked, so I push it and go in. I can see a pair of brown bare legs stretched out on the bed. Men's legs. Hairy legs. There isn't any head. The legs are jerking up and down.

“Are you all right?” I ask. If these are patients' lodgings, the man may be unwell, or epileptic. Some patients have bad fits and roll around.

There's a sudden shout and then two heads appear, one of them Maria's. No. Maria went out shopping with a man. A short dark man with curly hair. This one's short and dark. His hair is curly, wet with sweat. He's shouting. Both the mouths are shouting. It can't be Maria. She's always spoken English. This is something else, a very angry language. I may need stronger drugs. It happened once before: I couldn't understand what mouths were saying. I could see them moving, making faces at me, red and very rude, but silent rude. They gave me an injection and when I woke up, all the sounds came back again, though muffled.

It's happening now. The words are coming back. English words. Maria's foreign English. It is Maria. I recognise her voice. I think she was undressed. She's pulling on a skirt, banging things around while she searches for her shoes.

“I'm sorry,” I keep saying. I don't know what I've done, but it's something very bad.

She pushes past me, crashes down the stairs. I can hear her shouting still, slamming doors. The small dark man is zipping up his trousers. He slams his door as well, almost in my face.

I tiptoe down the stairs, hide in the toilet. I'm very frightened. I hate people to shout. She's yelling things at George now, awful things. I wait for a long time. There are blue roses in the toilet. Angelique likes blue. I like brown and green. I clutch my old brown handbag very tight. I'm glad I've got it with me. I never leave it anywhere, not now. I sleep with it beside me on the pillow. Sometimes I don't sleep at all. I'm frightened they may close the bedroom down, before I wake.

There are no windows in the toilet, only blinds. But I hear a motor-bike roar off. That's the dark man's bike. It sounds angry like Maria. Maybe they've gone shopping. Really shopping.

I wait a bit longer in case they both come back. They don't. The house is holding its breath. I can feel its heartbeat, pounding far too hard.

I go back to the sitting room. I won't leave it again. George hasn't any eyes now. They've disappeared and the skin around them is all swollen and puffed up. He's crying. Crying silently. I've never seen him cry before. His lips are opening, wriggling, but no words come out. Or perhaps they do, but I'm just too ill to hear them. We're both much worse, George as well as me.

If the maid reports us, I expect we'll have to move again. At least it's very clean here, with lots of room. The new place may be dirty, or so crowded they run out of sheets and blankets and we have to sleep on mattresses with just old curtains over us. Perhaps they've told George that we're moving and he's scared.

“You'll have me,” I say. “I'll help you.”

Unless they separate us. They may send him to one place and me to somewhere else. I don't think he could manage on his own. He can't even dry his eyes. I dry them for him on a piece of toilet paper. I lost all my handkerchiefs. They were in my suitcase and those people on the plane confiscated it. They were angry because I stole the soap.

George is still crying, stretching out his hands to me. I don't know what to do. I take his hand, just one of them. It's very fat and hot. He holds mine very tight. His fingers really hurt me. I smile, to show they don't. His tears are falling on my dress, making shiny stains. The maid will say I've ruined it, shout again, slam doors.

“Don't cry,” I say.

He cries.

I'd like to make a cup of tea. It's not allowed and it isn't tea-time yet. I rummage in my bag. I might disturb a fruit drop at the bottom. George likes sweets, all kinds.

I find a picture postcard with the Gold Rush on the front and lots of coloured lights. On the back there's just one line in pencil. “We've arrived.” The writing's very wobbly. I can't read the name at all. I don't know who arrived or where they slept. The Gold Rush has closed down. It's probably just a hole now, a big hole in the ground. You can't sleep in a hole.

I still can't find a sweet. The lining of the bag's torn, so I poke my fingers through and feel all round. There's something there. A pill bottle which rattles when I shake it. It doesn't sound like pills.

“MARY' S RING,” it says. I don't know any Marys. There were three once in the ward, but they all died long ago. Maybe it's Maria's and that's why she's so angry: I stole her ring.

I didn't. She doesn't wear a ring. Perhaps I know a Mary, but she's gone. People never stay long. Perhaps she sent that card.

I tip the other things out. Lots and lots of things. I saved all Carole's matchboxes and the stones from Bernie's dates, and some beetles from Death Valley which have died and lost their wings. I also find an Oxo cube and an empty powder compact which Nurse Sullivan threw out, and the two cartons of confetti I bought for Carole's wedding.

“Look, George,” I say. “Confetti.”

I open up the boxes, shake some in his hand. His mouth is open. He tries to stuff it in.

“No,” I say. “Not sweeties.”

He's smiling now and pointing. I think he likes the colours. I like them too, like the different shapes. There are little bows, and flowers, and wedding bells, and stars, and silver slippers. And horseshoes, lucky horseshoes, lots of them. I make a row of horseshoes, pink and blue, spread out on my lap, the open ends on top. That's the right way up for horseshoes, otherwise the luck falls out. Miss O'Toole said.

George chuckles with no noise, tries to grab them.

“Mustn't touch,” I say.

The confetti is so light, my breath makes it tremble when I talk. It wants to fly away. I wish we could fly with it. Both of us. I tip more out on my dress: yellow flowers, red hearts. I wouldn't be a horsehoe or a heart. I'd be a star. A star called Pegasus.

“What would you be, George?”

He doesn't answer, but I think he'd be a bell. He could ring then, all the time, make a noise. I put my earplugs in again, so I can hear the bells instead of just the silence. There's wedding music, too. Carole's wedding.

I unzip my bag again. I'd better find the hairslide. It's still alive, purple wings throbbing in my hand. George snatches.

“No. Give it back,” I say. “That's Carole's slide, her wedding slide.”

I have to tug quite hard to get it from his fingers. He starts to cry again. I take my earplugs out to hear, but there isn't any noise. Silent crying's sadder than the normal kind.

“All right,” I say. “You borrow it. I'll put it in your hair.”

I lean across. His hair is very fine, silky like a child's. It's hard to keep the slide in. It keeps slipping out, undoing. At last, I snap it shut, though it falls again, hangs low above one eye. His hair is mousy-pale, so the slide looks very bright. I show him in my little handbag mirror, hold it steady for him. He smiles. The smile gets slowly bigger until it fills the mirror. I think he'd like to laugh, but the noise is stuck inside him. He keeps pointing at himself, rocking to and fro, making laughing movements with his mouth.

I put my earplugs back. I can hear him laughing now, hear the bells again. I'm not frightened any more. He won't rape me. He's like an angel, doesn't have those men's bits, only wings. His wings are pink and purple, lifting off.

I pass him one box of the confetti. He opens it, starts to throw it everywhere. It's flying. The hearts are coloured kites kicking at the wind. The bows are little planes with shining wings. The silver horseshoes belong to flying horses. The stars are shooting stars.

Everything is flying – horses jumping stars; kites and petals bobbing in the sky. Pink and blue and yellow are spinning past my eyes. Silver pours like rain. Red is galloping.

I'm grey and left behind. Too solid, far too clumsy. I reach across, clutch my bridegroom's hand. He'll help me. His huge angel's wings are spreading out, unfolding.

“Fly,” I beg him. “Fly. And take me with you.”

I need another order form. There's no room on this one. I've ordered eighteen items for Norah, all with her name on, or initials. She loves her name on things. I've chosen a set of squirrel bookplates (“From Norah Toomey's Library”), a pie dish (“Pies by Norah”), a Rolls Royce car-plaque (“Custom-built for Toomey”), a shamrock butter cooler (“'Tis a Blessing to be Irish”), a monogrammed gold-plated case to hold a packet of chewing gum, a plastic wine carafe (“Vin Maison Toomey”), and seven egg cups, all with legs. That's fourteen legs, which ought to be enough for anyone. I've already bought her a load of clothes – two pairs of men's pyjamas, some flesh-pink bras and bloomers, a decent coat, and the sort of safe and ample dresses she likes to lose her body in.

For myself, I decided on a cigarette box which plays “O, Sole Mia” when you open it, a set of miniature brass cowboy boots for stamping out fag ends, and a plastic unicorn whose horn conceals a ballpoint pen. That's just the fun stuff. Mail order is a craze here. All the girls swap catalogues or splurge their extra cash on silver-plated ice cream cornet holders, or luminous plaster models of Michaelangelo's masterpieces. Okay, call it crap, but I quite like buying useless things, feeling I can waste my money if I want, and don't have to rely on hard-slog competitions for a one-in-a-million chance of winning some small luxury. I know I should be saving, but what's the point? We can't go back to England without passports, and even if we got there, I'd no longer fit. I'd never manage on the dole – not now. Just a taste of wealth ruins you for normal life. And what about a place to live? I couldn't just return to Jan's, pick up our friendship where we dropped it, as if this last eleven days had never happened. And I could never ever tell her what I've done – the Four Girl Fantasia when I was fourth girl, and all for one five-foot-nothing Jap; my double act with Kristia when we played two dykes in bed together, to turn a client on; the Drag Party when I had to dress the guy in female gear, make him up with lipstick, eye gloss, blusher, then let him fuck me while he was still in his high heels.

Jan would be appalled, maybe never speak to me again. How could I explain that it isn't that important? The first time is a shock, of course, seeing some big wheel arrive, and change from martinet to mincing girl; or watching an axe-faced senator romp naked in the jacuzzi with half a dozen females. But once the session's over, you somehow block it out. There's no real contact anyway. The sex is just a non-event, something mechanical, impersonal. I cracked just once – with client number five. He wasn't brutish, didn't treat me badly. He was ugly, yes, with a paunch and sweaty hands, a boil erupting on his back. That's nothing. You get used to sweat and acne, fungus toes, psoriasis. No, it was the way he wanted me to sit on his lap, have me call him Dad.