The Other Ida (22 page)

She'd been doing split shifts, so desperate to get away from the house that even the noise and heat of the pub was better than home. A teacher had ‘become concerned' and Alice was staying with their father and Terri. Bridie hadn't taken it well, the intrusion more than anything, but she was too weak to protest. They'd asked Ida to stay too but she knew they didn't mean it. If she went they'd have to employ a nurse or someone for Bridie, and besides that, Ida scared them these days with her pierced nose, home-shorn hair and cut-up arms. Despite having no children of her own Terri prided herself on being a parenting expert and had coached her niece through a teenage pregnancy. But this was something else. What did you do with a fifteen-year-old girl who broke windows, cut herself to pieces, drunk like a sailor and got in endless fights? Bryan talked about reform school and Ida laughed. If they even existed any more she wondered how they thought they'd make her attend.

Jeff, the landlord, walked past. He patted Ida on the arse out of habit rather than affection, and pinned a pink neon notice about the Christmas party on the board near the window.

“Get your tits out again this year I hope,” he said.

Ida laughed. She had only recently started at the pub, one shift a week, when they'd held the party the year before. No one had minded that she was fourteen, and had whooped encouragingly when she'd taken off her top.

“If you get me pissed enough maybe you'll be lucky,” she said.

There was still a month to Christmas. The last year had been a long one and Bridie was meant to be dead already. It was taking forever. She lay on the sofa most days, watching daytime television and crying at adverts. Ida hated the crying. Her mother had always been so fierce. The crying was one of the very worst bits. And whatever Bridie cried at –
Coronation Street
, the news,
West Side Story
– Ida knew that really, sickeningly, she was crying for herself. And no one came round anymore. Ever since Ida's last birthday when Bridie had passed out in the hall, the few people that they knew had stayed away. Peter phoned them up lots, but he was working usually, in ‘all star' cruise ship shows or in seaside farces in places like Margate. Ida had always thought she hated having guests, but life was pretty boring without them.

Ida quite enjoyed washing up. The repetition was comforting and the hot water helped to keep her awake on the longest shifts. A few times she had cut herself accidentally on broken glass or knives and now, during especially slow shifts, she would slice herself on purpose, glorious gashes she wouldn't be able to manage with the razors and blunt knives she had access to at home. Sometimes when she did it she'd go for a break, get sympathy from the chef and patch it up with a roll of sticking plaster. Other times she'd leave it to mix with the washing up water. She liked knowing that despite looking clean the plates and cups were spotted with her blood.

She had some friends at the pub, Tina and Dee, rough girls with bad teeth. Although she liked them she knew she was different around them. Her shoulders would get tense when they went down to the woods to get pissed; however much she drunk she couldn't relax. Their jokes weren't funny and sometimes they were racist, but she forced herself to laugh. And she knew she spoke differently. Not that they thought she was posh, no one ever did these days. Once she'd bumped into Tina after picking Alice up from school and Tina had raised her eyebrows, assuming Ida was babysitting some ‘rich bitch'. Even her name didn't attract much attention among this group. It was an interesting fact to introduce her with, but that was about it. When people asked if she was loaded she'd explain her mother had spent it on drink. They were the kind of people who understood it was entirely possible to spend a fortune on drink.

Despite her efforts to fit in she knew she still didn't. And after Rachel Black had shagged Tina's boyfriend, and Ida had broken Rachel's arm in a fight, Tina and Dee had looked at her with barely hidden fear. No one called the police, no one would have done. Rachel told her mother she'd fallen off her bike and now the local kids crossed the road when they saw Ida. It made little difference to her – she'd never been friends with them anyway and at least they no longer spat.

The bad thing about washing up was the space it left to think. Sometimes it was good, if she could manage to daydream, had come up with the start of a poem or had an idea for something she'd like to paint. But sometimes, if Bridie had been especially annoying or the time Ida's kind of boyfriend Danny got off with Sheila from the bong shop, then the shift could be almost unbearable.

Mostly she thought about Annie, about moving with her to Hollywood, about living in a house in Beverley Hills with a whole load of puppies they'd rescued. They'd have dinner parties for other local stars, but mainly they'd stay in bed, listening to music and smoking an endless supply of weed. Ida would be thin by then, properly thin. She'd wear painting smocks and Annie would be glamorous, with camisoles and kitten heels. And the main thing was that they'd never, ever leave – everything that they needed would get sent to them and nothing bad could ever happen.

Jeff started bringing in the ashtrays and Ida knew it was almost the end of the shift. There was a short stack of plates left and after that the floor to wash. But it was nearly over.

“Staying for the lock-in?” Tina asked.

Her white breasts were almost popping out of her shiny blouse. She was trying to get more tips to save for an ounce of hash and some decent scales to weigh it out with.

“Of course,” Ida said. She would stay for the lock-in. There was always the chance her mother would be dead when she returned and she couldn't possibly face that sober.

They shifted the worst of the regulars, the ones most likely to piss themselves and need a taxi home, and Jeff bolted the door. They were left with a mix of locals and staff, middle-aged men mainly and some of their girlfriends and wives.

Jeff emptied the tips jar onto the bar and counted it out. They would have to split it with Ray but the girls didn't mind – Ray was thick as shit but he gave them hash and mix-tapes he'd made. They had nearly three quid each, enough for a couple of pints, and the men would be sure to buy them more. Tina always did the best for tips, she was the one everyone fancied, but she was pretty nice about sharing.

Jeff was in a good mood, smiley and red faced, and he went behind the sticky bar and lined up a long row of vodka shots.

“Ladies first,” he said.

They were meant to do as many as they could, each starting at one end and meeting in the middle.

Tina rubbed her hands together. “You don't know what you've let yourself in for with us two Jeff.”

Ida stood at one end of the bar and took some deep breaths. She had never been good with spirits and normally mixed them with anything else she had to hand. But she couldn't fail in front of all these men. She imagined herself spitting one over the bar, or even worse, being sick. Behind them the men were clapping and chanting.

“Ti-na, Ti-na, Big Bird, Big Bird...”

The night Big Bird puked on her tits. She could imagine the stories. She tried to pretend Annie's life was at stake.

“COMMENCE!” screamed Jeff.

Ida picked up the first glass. She pretended she was swallowing a sword and let her throat open up. The first one went down, burning, but okay. She did the same with the second, the third and the fourth, and then, a touch on the bum from Mick or Phil, and she lost her nerve, took the fifth into her mouth and held it there, so scared she would puke.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
she prayed and gulped it down, retching, holding her hand up to her mouth to hide the worst of it. A deep breath and she managed a sixth. The end.

“Well, that's six each girls. Very well done,” said Jeff.

Tina staggered and everyone roared, including Ida, relieved it wasn't her who was making a twat of herself.

“Don't get excited gentlemen,” shrieked Tina. “I just lost my balance. Won't be falling on my back quite yet.”

Everyone laughed like it was the funniest thing ever. Ida felt that she was far away, seeing them through a screen, and she sat on the nearest chair as inconspicuously as she could.

Ida knew they were making a lot of noise when they got back. It was pitch black and she kept dropping her keys before she finally unlocked the door. It swung open and she fell through it onto the floor. Ray hauled her up with difficulty. There was no shout of annoyance or even acknowledgement from Bridie.

Despite being terribly drunk, Ray started shivering. “Man, it's colder in here that it was outside, I swear,” he said. “We should get up to your room.”

“It's always freezing. Welcome to the tomb of the unknown writer,” Ida shouted.

Ray chattered on as they walked up the stairs, mainly about the temperature. “This fuck-off fancy house and you ain't got any heating?”

“We've got heating but it's broken down. Come on.” She opened the door to her bedroom and pulled him inside, leaning down to turn on the light.

“This is a shit tip!” he said, sounding genuinely astonished. “You got rats?”

Ida looked around. No one ever came to her room, well Danny, sometimes, but he was pretty much homeless so not inclined to complaining.

It was true the carpet was completely covered with old plates and tissues, mouldy cups and magazines. But the rest of it was nice she thought – the pictures on the walls and the throw over her bunk beds. And you could smoke in there, do whatever you wanted, which she knew made it better than most girls' rooms.

There was a scuttling noise under her desk and Ray stepped backwards.

“You've got rats, I fucking KNEW it.”

“They're mice, you can't have rats and mice at the same time. The man from the council said. Mice are nice. People keep mice as pets.”

“Fucking hell.”

“I've got bunks anyway, see? You won't have to put your precious feet on the floor. No mice will be able to nibble your delicate toes.”

He jumped onto the bed and took his tin out of his pocket. “I'll start skinning up, you find us some tunes and some glasses in this bloody hell-hole, then we'll be set.”

Ida put on her tape player. It was a brown Fisher Price one she'd had since she was little and Ray shook his head, laughing. She put on a compilation he'd made her, one she didn't much like, but she knew it would shut him up. Then she found two mugs, wiped the mould out of them with the corner of a towel and hopped up next to him, filling them both with rum.

“To health, wealth and incredible happiness,” she said, and they both downed the lot in three huge glugs. Then they threw the mugs off the bed, lay back and began to smoke.

“You're so near the ceiling up here – do you ever freak out?”

“Nope.”

“You tried sleeping on the bottom?”

“No, never. I wanted them so I'd be up high. My sister's slept on the bottom, a couple of times when she's been scared.”

“You had them since you were little?”

“I got them earlier this year.”

He turned to face her and kissed her nose. “Big Bird, you crack me up.”

They started kissing properly, Ray propping the joint on the edge of the bed, and soon his hands were down her jeans.
Dreadlock Holiday
came on and Ida had to stop herself laughing.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. I'm going to get some water. Want anything?”

“Water, yeah. And, you got any cake? Like... Victoria sponge?”

“Ha. I sincerely doubt it but I'll see what I can do.”

She jumped off the bed, buttoned her flies and left the room. She stood just outside for a few seconds so her eyes could adjust to the dark. From her room she could hear Ray humming and smiled. Ray was nice. He was a twat, but a kind twat. If she could overcome him being a moron maybe something more could come of it. He made her feel safe at least.

She turned to walk down the stairs and saw that her mother's bedroom door was ajar, the dim light of her low-wattage lamp showing through the foot-wide gap. She stopped, trying to still her breath so she could hear. A car went by outside and from her room there was the regular thud of the music and Ray tapping his thigh. But from Bridie's room there was nothing, not her normal crackling breath, nor the usual sound of the television. She was probably asleep.

Ida began to walk past and tried to keep her gaze on her floor. But it was no use. With a glance she saw a pale, waxy arm, sprawled on the bedroom carpet at an unnatural angle. She looked back down at her feet, took a deep breath and kept walking. At the bottom of the stairs she stood still and hugged herself, hard.

She entered the kitchen and pulled the cord for the light. It flickered on and off and Ida could see her mother on the table, then not, standing by the fridge, then not – then lying on the floor, all her limbs broken and bent. The light came on properly, buzzing and yellow and Ida took two glasses from the sideboard, rinsed them out and filled them up. She was shivering.

At the back of the fridge was a two-week-old slice of sponge cake Alice had brought home from a party, solid as a brick, still in a pink paper bag. She couldn't believe they actually had cake. She put it under her arm, picked up the two glasses of water, and pulled the light cord with her teeth.

She went back up the stairs half facing the wall, all the while managing to avoid looking towards her mother's bedroom.

The tape player was crackling, it was the end of the side, and Ray lay snoring quietly on her bed. She put down the water and the cake, and climbed up next to him, pulling his arms around her waist and his body towards hers.

“Fucking hell, Big Bird, you're like an ice cube,” he mumbled and kissed her ear. She willed herself to sleep.

A beam of light was hitting her face and she thought that she might be dead. She inhaled violently, like someone who had been underwater for too long, and struggled to open her eyes. The light was so strong and so blue-white that she knew it was a very cold day.