Suspended In Dusk (25 page)

* * *

I should’ve stayed at the bridge. Manxy and his fucking dog. The rain hits my shoulders like small icy bullets, bleeding in through broken seams. These shoes I’m wearing, they used to be classic black. I used to wear them to the office, Monday to Friday. Now I wear them pretty much twenty-four-seven, and they’re stuck to my feet like a sheath of living leather, lined with layers of peeling skin. When I do take them off, they slide away with a shower of black dirt and the smell of vermin rotting under wet leaves. Underneath, my toes are blue and black and the nails are curling in. I peel the ends off while they’re still soft with grime and sweat.

I used to have nail clippers, but they got stolen out of my bag.

I used to have a pair of rubber slippers, too.

I used to have a lot of things.

I forget where I’m going and take the slip road that cuts behind that restaurant,
Salvatore
, just as the chef comes out for a cigarette break. I round the corner on him, and the moment he spots me his eyes bulge red and his arms fly out. He sends his lighter soaring, skittering out through the rain and toward the piles of rubbish.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he yells. “You fucking disgusting scum! You fucking low-life! Get the fuck away!”

I bend to pick up the lighter, close it in my hand.

He moves like he wants to fight me, but steps back at the last minute. His arms flail.

“I know what you are!” he screams. “I know what you fucking are!”

I keep walking until his tirade is lost beneath the sounds of the rain.

* * *

WE ARE HERE TO MAKE THE WORLD A CLEAN AND HAPPY PLACE!

Big words, those. Big Promises.

I push open the doors, and step into a reception area with a welcome desk and rows of plastic chairs bolted into the floor. The walls are papered with pictures of smiling children and matching slogans.

A BRIGHT FUTURE!

A FRESH TOMORROW!

Rain leaks off of me in a steady, sliding trickle. The girl behind the desk stands up, grabs a towel out from somewhere I can’t see, and walks over to me, all smiles. She’s wearing a miniskirt and I imagine the place behind the hem, beneath the fabric, that slide of warmth and wetness nestled between her legs.

“Welcome to Hope is Here!” she says. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Not really,” I say, taking the towel.

“Why don’t you dry off?”

She’s already fetched a mop, a washcloth. She steps outside to clean off the smudge I left on the door when I pushed it open. She mops off all evidence of my footsteps, hands me a pair of rubber slippers. My classic blacks disappear into a plastic bag.

“We’ll get you some clean clothes after you’ve had your shower,” she says, then briefly wrinkles her nose. “You smell really bad, you know? Worse than any of the others.”

“That’s not very polite,” I tell her.

“We believe in honesty, not condescension.”

“I can get behind that,” I nod.

At least, I think I can. No hidden razorblades here, so far. Still, it hurts.

She takes me into a small corner office, picks up a clipboard and a pen, and smiles at me. “Comfy?”

“I’m out of the rain.”

“We need to do a quick assessment for our records,” she says. “Top scorers get a chance at rehabilitation, so let’s hope you’ll join our club.”

I’m still wearing wet pants and my ass is starting to itch in this chair. “Will this take long?”

“That depends.”

She clicks her pen, and smiles at me with slightly yellowed teeth. Too much caffeine? Nicotine? I wish she’d offer me some. I’d kill for another of Mandy’s little lattes.

“How long have you been on the street?” she asks.

“Two years, somewhere around there.”

“Where were you before?”

“A city far, far away.”

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“No. You don’t want to know my name?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. We need to get past the important stuff first.”

The important stuff.

“How would you rate your level of happiness on a scale of one to ten?”

“Ten below fucking zero,” I say. “It’s fucking cold in here.”

She smiles, flips her hair over her shoulder, letting her fingers snag carefully through the strands. “You swear a lot, too,” she says. “Is that something you always did?”

“I don’t remember. Not to pretty girls like you. Not before. Not usually, anyway.”

“You like pretty girls?”

I stare at her. “Who doesn’t?”

“Lots of people!” she says. “So you used to swear at pretty girls, sometimes?”

“If they were being bitches, yes.”

“Do you think I’m a bitch?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She makes marks with her pen. Not writing. Ticks and crosses. She wasn’t kidding. I’m being scored.

“How did you get to be on the street?”

“A pretty girl took everything away from me.”

“How?”

“It’s ancient history and I’d rather not say.”

“Two years ago isn’t ancient history. Are the police looking for you?”

“Why would they be looking for me?”

I rub my ass around in the seat.

After a while, she looks back down at the clipboard. “Okay,” she sighs. “How about animals? Do you like animals?”

“I hate yappy little dogs with busted ears.”

She sighs. “So that’s a no?”

“I don’t know.”

I take the lighter out of my pocket and start to flick it. It flashes tiny sparks that glow against the dark creases of my hand. When she sees it, her eyes widen.

“You smoke?” she asks.

“Can’t afford it.”

“Would you, if you could?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you ever light fires?”

“Every night.”

She laughs. “No, I mean to burn things. Like buildings or… something.”

“Do you mean am I a pyromaniac?”

“Oh!” she beams. “You’ve got a good vocabulary!”

“What? I’m not a fucking idiot.”

She shakes her head to herself. “Pity about that attitude.”

“Listen,” I say sharply, staring at the plump arcs of her breasts. “If you’d lived like…”

“And about that temper.” She stands up suddenly. “Follow me,” she says.

* * *

I’m back out in the rain with a slip of paper in my hand. I’m wearing plastic slippers and I don’t have socks. I still smell like shit and rotten eggs, and the rain is still hitting me like a million tiny bullets of ice.

The piece of paper says, “Congratulations! You’ve reached Phase Two of our Rehabilitation Programme!”

Beneath this is a drawing of happy little children, joined at the hands and looking like they’re all about to start marching forward with their scribble smiles and eternal sunshine colours.

They want me back here at ten tonight.

* * *

I catch Mandy as she’s closing up. She looks different out of her apron. Tight jeans, snug black top, her hair loose and shining down her shoulders. She turns and sees me, and she smiles.

“You came to say goodnight?” she asks.

“Mandy,” I say. “I got into this rehabilitation programme. I want you to know that I’m gonna be okay. I want you to know that I’m grateful for everything you did for me. For smiling at me every time we met.”

“A programme? That’s great, Gary!” she smiles, opening her umbrella and pulling me beneath it. She smells like roasted coffee beans and cinnamon rolls.

“And when I’ve got myself straight, I’m taking you to dinner. Okay? I’m taking you to
Salvatore’s
, and you can order anything you want.”

“
Salvatore’s
?” she laughs. “You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not. I mean it. I really mean it. You don’t have to believe me just yet, but I’ll prove it to you. Just remember, okay? Just remember.”

She slides her arm through mine, like we’re lovers, like we’re friends.

Her steps slow a little. “You smell really bad,” she says. “You know that?”

* * *

Ten at night, and the doors are closed, covered from the inside by a thick heavy curtain. The door isn’t locked, though, and when I step inside I see the room is lit with dim, flickering lights. Around the room, there are hundreds of candles. They line the reception desk, they stand in corners, collected on small tables. As I move inside, I see shapes shuffling in the dark. The room smells like dead things, rotten things; things smeared and stained, and then forgotten. The shapes, of course, are all the other guys who made it into the programme. They’re hunched over under blankets, scattered through the seats. The girl I spoke to earlier comes over, the one who didn’t tell me her name and didn’t ask me mine. She takes my backpack and hands me a blanket.

“Take a seat,” she says. “The Head Coordinator will be along shortly to give you all a little speech, and then we can begin.”

She’s in a dress, a long white dress with long, loose sleeves. There are about seven or eight other girls like her, too, with shining hair and soft smiles. Angels in the light.

“What’s with the candles?” I ask her.

“They’re beautiful!” she says, “And they’re cheaper than electricity.”

I take a seat in the middle, not wanting to be too close or too far. Not wanting to seem overeager, or too absent.

Nobody talks. It must be the light, reminding some of us of Church. There’s always something about candles casting shadows in the dark that brings a kind of hush, makes things feel more sacred. I used to make use of that, before, with all those other girls.

A few more street guys come in, and I count about thirty of us. Manxy isn’t here, or any of the other guys from under the bridge.

Damn right. I wouldn’t want them here, messing the place up with their shitty jokes and that yapping dog.

After a while, a man in black jeans and a long black coat comes in through another door. His hair is dark, greased back in stiff spikes. He has a strong jaw, a perfectly symmetrical face. He’s clean-shaven, almost baby-faced. But his eyes are alert, sure. He walks with purpose and power. This man is the boss. The girls all smile at him, and move to stand in neat rows on either side; like they’re all ready to hold hands, march forward, maybe sing.

“Welcome to Hope Is Here!” he says. “I’m Aleister, head of our little group.”

A few of the guys clap. One of them whistles, and Aleister puts his finger against his lips. “Let’s have some respect, some silence,” he says. “This world we live in is a crazy, chaotic place without adding to the noise. Which is why our dream is to create a centre of tranquillity, happiness, cleanliness, and hope. Our goal is to expand beyond these walls, until every one of you is off the streets, and the world can be a perfect, sunshiny place.” He beams.

One girl steps forward, and in her hands is a long scroll. It’s a poster, and she unrolls it. Another bends down in front of her, holding the bottom down so that we can all see.

“This is our happiness metre,” she says. “Our city is an affluent one, with beautiful weather and bright clean beaches. We feel that no matter what your situation is, everyone should be able to score at least a Dawn on the scale.”

And this is how it’s scaled. Kids’ drawings of the sun, set to the time of day. Dawn, a slightly glum silver, sleepy-eyed. It shades up to Noon, which is a wide, smiling sun with lots of red and orange flames framing its face. Then the smiling suns begin to fade, smaller and weaker, until at the very top is Dusk, a miserable, fading sun smothered with blue and the smoke-black of falling night.

“
We’re
all Noons,” she says. “But in your assessments, you’re the ones who all scored a Dusk. Now we don’t know why that is, but we do know that even if we feed you and clean you up, we still can’t make you happy.” And she smiles at us sadly, a soft curve of the lips. This is Mandy’s smile, when she’s too busy to look up and see me watching her through the window.

Aleister takes the poster from her and rolls it up smartly in his hands. “We’re always looking for new recruits to join our little club,” he says, “but none of you fit the criteria, with the attitudes you displayed.”

One of the guys towards the front stands up. “What the fuck are you saying?” he says.

Aleister smiles again, a wide grin of perfect white teeth. “This is why we can’t have you,” he says. Patient, but commanding. “Anger, bad language, bad attitude. People offer to help you, and
this
is your response. We think that the less of you there are, the more room there’ll be for people to be happy. The more room for us to help the people who would actually
use
it.”