The Spoiler (32 page)

“Just one more now. Breathe in … hold it … keep very still … hold it.”

Finally, in doctors’ waiting rooms and hospital outpatient departments, she had been conscripted into the tattered army of the sick—old and young, bright and stupid, rich and poor, good and malign. The only thing they had in common was their imperfection; their bodies, the fleshy housing of their essential selves, had become their chief enemy.

“If you could just lie there and wait,” the radiologist said, as jauntily as a hairdresser, “in case we need to redo any of them, I’ll get someone to check through the films.”

Yes, thought Honor. I’ll wait. What else is there to do but wait?

Tamara made her way into the grim amphitheatre of the estate, past the carcasses of two abandoned cars, a discarded mattress with a sepia map of stains, trashed TV sets, white plastic garden chairs, arranged primly in a row as if for some interrupted postapocalypse tea party, a brace of the inevitable supermarket trolleys, upended frames like glistening webs in the sodium blaze of streetlights, and a sinister pushchair, lying on its side, its soiled fabric seat hideously slashed from top to bottom.

The place was deserted, apart from a few kids kicking a football on a sparse patch of grass. Dogs seemed to bark from every flat. She knew these were no eager Labradors or pampered lapdogs but lumps of muscle with chainsaw teeth, programmed to rip through human flesh; creditors or debtors, police or dealers, hostile adults or sleeping babies, they did not discriminate. Even their owners weren’t safe.

The open walkway that linked the flats was a foul-scented corridor of graffiti, an extended Jackson Pollock of insult—someone’s mother liked it this way, someone did it with their dog, someone was a slag—and pathetic territorial pride: SyncKrew4ever, GBlokRule, KodyisKing. As Tamara penetrated deeper into the estate, human voices joined the barks—the rumbling bass call of complaint and soprano response of protest that presaged a marital spat; a baby’s defenceless wail—and above them the choral blare of countless TV sets. Some doors were barred and covered by metal grids; cages with locks on the inside. Outside others were ragged lines of children’s shoes, pushchairs, plastic go-karts—the cheerfully chaotic paraphernalia of family life. One fortress, its smashed front window sealed with a sheet of steel, was so tightly boarded and barricaded that it was impossible to imagine anyone lived there but, as she passed, Tamara heard a murmur of voices and a TV football match, with a hectic commentator shouting over the crowd’s swelling roars. The neighbouring flat, its door painted proud pillar-box red, had an optimistic welcome mat and a plastic trough of hyacinths. The tenant was
probably an old person, a survivor of a prelapsarian age when the enemy was the Luftwaffe overhead, not the crackhead downstairs.

There was no welcome mat outside Crystal’s flat, but there was no metal cage either. Her net curtains were cobweb grey, but the windows were not broken, and at least there were curtains. Over the years, as hopes for Ross’s life had dwindled, Tamara and her mother had learned to take comfort from such small signs. Standards had plummeted, along with Ross.

After the shock of his first shoplifting conviction, news that he had only received probation had seemed like redemption. Here was the chance of a new beginning for the family. The three of them would be better, stronger people, back on track after this stumble, reinvigorated, clear-eyed. His second offence, or more precisely the second offence for which he was arrested, had earned a four-month prison sentence, rather than the threatened eighteen months, and, after the agony of foreboding before the trial, their mother had embarked on what seemed like a month-long festival of rejoicing, which had, coincidentally, eclipsed any celebration of Tamara’s A-level success. It really had seemed as if a stretch in an open prison in Northamptonshire was a shrewder career move than a degree course at Brighton Poly.

Since then, in her bitterest moments, Tamara saw that their continuing optimism about the possibility of Ross reclaiming his life—ditching the drugs, regaining his old spark, starting a job, getting a decent flat—as self-delusion on an even grander scale than her brother’s. His spell in a psychiatric hospital was, Ross had said, using the language of the group-counselling sessions, a “wake-up call.” As was the hepatitis C he acquired from shared needles, and the HIV scare, and the methamphetamine-induced coma that he miraculously came round from. They were wake-up calls in the sense that he had woken up, and immediately gone out and scored again. In the recurrent cycle of relapse and recovery, Tamara and her mother had chosen to see recovery as Ross’s default position and the relapses as a harrowing deviation from the norm. In their desperation and naivety, they had seen the syringe as half empty, rather than half full.

And still Tamara looked for signs of hope. But her brother’s phone call had not given much cause for that. The doorbell of Crystal’s flat was not working—a neutral indicator, Tamara decided—so she rattled the
letterbox, which set off a frenzied barking and the scraping and skittering of animal claws on linoleum.

“No, Rex. Sssh. Good boy,” said a croaky-voiced woman behind the door.

Bolts were drawn back, and a haggard face framed by coarse ropes of hennaed hair peered out apprehensively. The intention was Pre-Raphaelite flower child, the effect
Night of the Living Dead
.

“Oh, right. Tam. Come in. He’s expecting you.”

Crystal’s hands, knuckle-dustered with silver rings, were gripping Rex’s collar as the dog—a Border collie with one unnerving blue eye—strained to leap at Tamara.

“Don’t worry. He don’t mean nothing. He’s really friendly.” She yanked at the collar. “Down, Rex. Good boy.”

Tamara sidled into the hall.

“Really, he’s not a problem,” said Crystal, tugging at the dog as she closed the front door. “He’d only lick you to death.”

Noting the strings of saliva swinging from Rex’s jaw, Tamara smiled and kept her distance.

Crystal forced the dog into the kitchen, slammed the door on it and turned a key in the lock.

“He’s learned how to open doors. He jumps up and bites the door handles,” she said, smiling with maternal pride.

“Amazing.”

The sitting room was in darkness, lit only by an orange lava lamp and the flickering light of a TV, tuned to a children’s cartoon show in which, against a soundtrack of flatulent trombones, scurrying strings, whistles and quacks, an assortment of farm animals were engaged in a high-speed chase. As Tamara’s eyes got used to the gloom she saw six silhouettes sitting on the floor in a circle, like Hollywood redskins in a pow-wow. One of them called out her name, and Tamara’s brother took shape before her eyes—the skinny body and gaunt urchin face—as he struggled to his feet to greet her with a hug.

“Don’t get up,” Tamara said.

She crouched to accept her brother’s kiss and sank to the floor, crossing her legs, to join him. The flat smelled damp and rancid. In the artificial twilight, she tried to assess Ross’s state. He was not shaking. He did not seem manic—no unstoppable monologues, no conspiracy tales, no tears or cackling laughter, so far. Nor was he catatonic. This was all good
news. He seemed as comfortable and at ease in this squalid circle as she did at a good lunch in the Bubbles. She felt a sudden indignation; if Ross was okay, why had he dragged her all the way here, at the end of a working day, to hand over her hard-earned savings?

Someone passed Tamara a joint, damp with spittle. She handed it straight to Ross, resolving to give him the money and leave the flat as soon as possible, without touching any surfaces, or using the toilet, or breathing too deeply. But she also knew that she should not produce her purse here, in this room, flashing banknotes in front of stoned strangers. She had to get Ross outside on his own.

Crystal came in with a tray of cups.

“Herb tea?”

Tamara accepted a cracked mug bearing the slogan “Best Mum in the World”—a present from Crystal’s twins, who had been taken into care at the age of eight—and blew on the hot red liquid.

“Rosehip,” Ross said helpfully. “Full of antioxidants. Boosts your autoimmune. Very balancing.”

When he bothered to eat, Ross was particular about his diet. It had to be organic, macrobiotic and additive-free. The only reading he seemed to do was ingredients lists on supermarket packaging, and he regarded the inclusion of chemical additives and preservatives as evidence of a pernicious state plot to pacify and destroy him. He did not seem to apply the same scrupulousness to all the unprovenanced dope, speed, crack and heroin he ingested. Tamara blew on the tea again, determined not to put the mug to her lips.

The rest of the group were now in focus and, between lingering draws on the joint, Ross introduced them.

“Tam, this is Baz. Baz, Tam.”

A slack-jawed Goth with kohl-rimmed eyes nodded towards Tamara as effortfully as a narcoleptic roused from the pillow.

Sal, a slight West Indian girl with cornrow hair, was more forthcoming.

“All right, Tam?” she said, giving her a sleepy, welcoming smile.

“Chiggy. This is my sister, Tam.”

A trembling wino, his teeth a miniature Stonehenge, raised a bottle in salute. Goody, a Medusa-haired Rasta busy at a bong, squinted briefly in Tamara’s direction before returning to the job in hand. Tamara looked around the room, a broad smile masking her unease. At least there were no needles around. A tattered poster showing two dolphins
leaping through turquoise waves was pinned above the electric fire. Next to a pack of tarot cards on a wicker table were photographs of grinning twins in impeccable school uniforms, and of a defiant teenage beauty, her blonde fairy tresses crowned by a daisy chain. Dawn. Crystal’s dead sister.

Tamara flexed her foot. She was getting cramp. How did those yogis manage to meditate in this position? It was then, with a shiver of astonishment, that she saw him, on the far edge of the circle: handsome and healthy in a roomful of wrecks, razoring some powder on a CD case with the graceful dexterity of a sushi chef.

“Tam, this is Dev.”

For a moment, Tamara wondered whether she was hallucinating. Could you get stoned so quickly from secondary smoke inhalation? But no. It was him. Honor Tait’s lunch date and late-night visitor; her gigolo. And he had materialised here, right in front of Tamara, inches away, almost within touching distance. What a gift. And now the puzzle of the story resolved itself. It was suddenly clear; his taste for pricey mind-altering substances explained his sordid occupation. This pensioner’s plaything had a habit to subsidise. He bent his lovely head to the powder, his profile almost obscured by the tangle of curls as he poked a rolled banknote up one nostril and sealed the other with his index finger. Then he threw his head back, sniffed appreciatively and offered Tamara a line of cocaine.

“No thanks. I had one before I came out,” she said.

Ross gave her a quizzical look, then accepted the CD case himself.

“Don’t mind her, Dev,” he said. “My sister’s a bit of a straight.”

Tamara reddened. Just when Ross was on the brink of being useful for the first time in his life, he was trying to sabotage her, laughing at her and inviting others to laugh at her. She could have snorted a line for form’s sake, but she had so much work to do she could not afford to write off the evening, or the following morning. Not everyone was on permanent holiday. Okay, she wanted to say, so I’m straight. How else would I come up with the odd two hundred quid, see you’ve got enough to eat, bail you out when you’re in trouble? If this tip of a flat on this gruesome estate, and these tragic derelicts you call friends represent the nonstraight, “alternative” lifestyle, then give me the good old perpendicular any day.

Another joint came round, this time from Sal. Tamara hesitated. She could manage a puff in the interests of social cohesion. She took a swift
hit; it was strong stuff, skunk probably and, as she passed it to Ross, her irritation and anxiety began to dissolve. She flexed her legs, and her cramp was gone.

Minutes passed and the joint was hers again. What was that music? The cartoon soundtrack seemed to have speeded up and there were new elements: percussion, like a thousand syncopated heartbeats, and a flute so high and pure it sounded like birdsong in paradise. Now she was listening attentively; the music seemed to incorporate all the magnificence and tragedy of human experience. And Crystal’s insanitary flat was, on closer examination, a place of genuine warmth, infused with a benign, roseate glow. How could she have missed it before? Exhilarated by a new sensory expansiveness, Tamara felt supremely in control.

She looked again at Ross and his friends, and saw that they were, each one of them, beautiful, even noble, in their individuality, sparkling eyed, humorous, philosophical and heroically flawed. And most beautiful of all—the old crone Tait had taste, she would give her that—was Dev, who was gazing directly at Tamara now under hooded eyes, as she was gazing at him, with naked ardour. He wanted her and she wanted him. It could not have been simpler.

“Tam? Tam? You all right?”

Ross’s concern touched her.

“Of course. Look, I just wanted a quick word with you. On our own.”

They went into the corridor and stood outside the kitchen. On the other side of the door, Rex was hurling himself at the handle in a yelping frenzy. Tamara’s elation began to drain away. She handed Ross the money.

“Thanks, Tam. You’re brilliant. That’ll help sort out a few outgoings.”

Tamara looked at him sceptically.

“Just sort out your flat. Get back there. You and Crystal, you’re not good for each other. But I can’t keep doing this, Ross. Bailing you out. I really can’t.”

“I know, Tam. I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a little job, pay you back, get myself straight.”

That word again.

He kissed her, and she flinched. In the full light of the hall her brother’s teeth looked cracked and rust-stained, his pitted skin had a yellow sheen, his hair was matted and his fingernails were black crescents of filth. His torn jeans were too big for him, falling in grubby folds over the
tops of his soiled trainers, and the nauseating whiff of mould, she now realised, emanated not from Crystal’s flat but from Ross himself.