Alice and the Fly (12 page)

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

I wanted to say that I loved the couch. I wanted to say it was the most beautiful piece of furniture I’d ever seen, that it was even more white and pure and beautiful than the snow outside. I wanted to tell them about its Italian origins and how it complements the curtains and prove to Mum that all this time I have been listening, I’ve just never known how to reply. But I didn’t. I just stood there wondering how long it would take them to notice my trembling legs. Wondering how I could leave without making things worse.

That’s when I vomited. It started as a cough – it was only after three or four coughs that I could taste the thin, hot bile, a similar taste to mum’s chipotle squash purée. From then on memories are vague. I remember sinking to the floor but that’s when I must have blacked out because next thing Mum was kneeling over me, her nails scratching my neck in search of a pulse, probing my mouth to scoop out sick, pinching my skin as she struggled to lift me. I heard my father telling the Hamptons to sit, finish their meal. I heard him remark on the blackened salmon.

The voices faded. Mum carried me up to the bathroom. At the time I was certain it was you carrying me. Each time I opened my eyes I saw that image of you, out in the snowy street with Scraps by your side. I don’t remember much of Mum undressing me, just the cold sting of bathroom tiles, the rumble of the bathtub filling with water, my head rocking as she peeled off my sick-covered trousers. I didn’t regain full consciousness till I was in the bath and even then it came more as a slow realisation that I wasn’t dreaming.

Mum was kneeling beside me, holding my head above the surface of the water. Her dress was wet, clinging to her arms and stomach. She wasn’t smiling. I didn’t know what to say so I just lay there, staring back at her. The water felt like a blanket. Sweat or steam gathered into a droplet at the end of my nose. I was very aware of being naked.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

Mum shushed me. She slicked my fringe out of my eyes.

She told me it’d all be OK.

I didn’t let Ken Hampton down. I got up extra early and waded to work. It was easier wading in the road because the snow wasn’t as deep but every so often a car would approach and I’d have to clamber back up onto the pavement. I don’t think I stepped on any sets of three grids but it was impossible to be sure. I was eighteen minutes late. As I arrived your father cheered and called me a ‘Snow Hero’.

I spent most of the morning making coffee. Phil’s got a night job driving up to the woods in his brother’s van to collect Christmas trees. He said that, what with the new baby, he’s saving for the best Christmas ever. I made fresh coffee every half-hour, using twice the normal amount of granules, like my sister does when she wants to maintain her dancer’s energy. I didn’t want Phil to lose concentration and cut off one of his fingers.

The coffee-drinking played havoc with Phil’s waterworks. He was rushing back every ten minutes to empty his bladder. The pipes had frozen and the toilet wouldn’t flush, so all day the aroma of coffee and urine lingered in the back of the shop. Every time the Vultures came out for a bucket they’d frown their wrinkle-faces and Phil’d just laugh and say, ‘Merry fucking Christmas.’

Eventually home time came. I’m meant to finish at 17:00 but I never get out till at least 17:15 because I have to wait in the safety and solitude of my kitchen until the Vultures (who also finish at 17:00) have vacated the premises. The Vultures take their time vacating the premises. Since Ken Hampton insisted every employee wear a black Hampton’s Butcher’s cap the Vultures have ended their Saturdays gathered in the cloakroom, trying to fix their hat-hair. They do this with a mixture of combing and spraying and applying metal clips. They like to talk about their night ahead: which bars they will go to, which songs they will dance to, which boys they will kiss. I stand in the kitchen and pretend to be mopping the long-since-clean 5ft
2
tile floor. Once I tried running the tap to drown out the Vultures’ giggling but one of them appeared at the kitchen doorway and reached in and turned the tap off and said, ‘Do you mind? We’re trying to talk here,’ so now I just stand there and wait for them to leave.

Once they’d gone I stepped out front for my wages. Your father and Phil were sitting on the counter. Your father asked if the cleaning was all done and I nodded. He said he had one more job for me.

He took me out the back to the car park. There was only one car – ploughed bonnet-deep in the snow. Your father said he’d had a little trouble getting into his usual parking space this morning. He grinned and handed me a shovel.

The snow had hardened to ice in the darkness. I hacked away, piling shovelful after shovelful by the bins in the alley. It was getting on for 17:30 and I knew I was no longer being paid but still I shovelled, all around the car and behind the four wheels. I even cleared a path to the street so your father could reverse out easily. My feet numbed and my hands stung and the ice lost all texture. I could hear your father and Phil, laughing inside.

It was just as I was finishing, hacking the snow out from under the exhaust, that I smashed a tail light. I don’t know what happened, my arm just suddenly jerked. The force of it ached my hand (the palm’s still sensitive from that cigarette burn). The bulb was bare and broken and there was red glass scattered over the ice. I considered running home, abandoning the snow and the shovel and the envelope with my wages that lay on the counter inside. I even dropped the shovel. Then I picked it up again. I buried the shards and went back inside.

The lights were off. Phil had gone. Your father was waiting in the darkness.

‘All done?’ he said.

I nodded.

He took the shovel and rested it in the corner with the brushes. He padlocked the back door and led me out into the shop. I stepped into the square and hugged my coat around myself.

He handed me my wages.

‘See you next week.’

It’s hard returning to school after an absence. It’s only when I reappear that people realise I’ve been gone. People notice me. People talk.

There was more pressing news this morning, though. Cullman was off. According to the whispers of the Vultures in form, he’s been suspended. Ian and Goose were also absent so I wasn’t able to obtain any further details via their note-tennis.

At break I went to the library. As soon as I entered I knew something was different. It was the smell. There’s normally that book smell of ink and dusty paper (which is what Miss Eleanor smells like too, I’ve noticed, when passing her in the corridor) but today the air was sweet and thick, like Mum’s chipotle squash purée. Miss Eleanor was nowhere to be seen.

There was mumbling from the bookshelves at the back. I knew it’d more than likely be other pupils up to no good.

I’d half retreated to the door when I heard your laugh.

You were in the Fiction aisle. When I knelt I could see you, through a gap in the shelves, cross-legged in the corner by Poetry. It’s days since I’ve caught your bus, days without even a sight of you and now this – you – here in my library. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if you saw me. Would you recognise me again? Would you speak to me? Your head was back as if in mid-yawn. Smoke rose from your mouth, a great curling mist of it, growing and gathering at the duct-taped fire alarm. Angela’s head rested on your shoulder, glaring at the cigarette between your fingers.

‘Holy shit,’ she said.

You took another drag. The two of you began to giggle but I couldn’t work out why.

Then came Ian’s voice.

‘My turn, ladies.’

I crawled along the aisle. Ian was over by the audiobooks, leaning back on his elbows, tie round his head, Rambo-style. Goose was beside him, grinning, waiting for his turn with the cigarette.

‘Just a second, babe.’

Angela slid down into your lap for another drag. The tip flared in your sunglasses.

I huddled against the bookcase. I shut my eyes. I pictured Goose as I’d seen him last, laid out on the canal, ducks surrounding him on the ice. I felt the static of his fleece on my fingers. Now here he was, here in my library. Not a scratch on him. Grinning away without even a chipped tooth.

Here you all were, you and Goose and Ian and Angela, here in my library.

This is what happens when I don’t see you. This is what always happens to pure perfect things, given time. Circumstances change. People change. The world moves on and I am left behind. I wanted to rewind to when it was just me and you, standing in the street. Me, you and Scraps, in the snow.

I tuned in and out of the conversation. You remained silent but Angela spoke of several things: the quality of the cigarette you were smoking, an upcoming party at Goose’s, the Christmas Dance Fantastical. Angela ranted about Cullman. Apparently he’s been suspended for having indecent images on his computer. Angela says the images were of Lucy Marlowe. She says Lucy sent pictures of her post-op breasts to Cullman in an effort to secure herself a place in the Fantastical. She said Lucy was a little bitch for trying to muscle in on her dance show. Now there are rumours the Fantastical’s been suspended, that they may be reorganising it after Christmas. Whoever heard of a Christmas Dance Fantastical after Christmas?

Angela snorted. I turned back to the missing-book gap. She was kneeling on all fours in the aisle, her face twisted in a state of extreme silent laughter. She looked like Nan’s cat Mr Saunders used to, coughing up a fur-ball.

Ian said, ‘What?’ He started laughing too. ‘What?’

‘It’s just Cullman,’ she panted between giggles, ‘the old paedo. I can’t believe he finally got caught!’

Angela dropped head first into Ian’s lap. Ian took the opportunity to lift the cigarette from her fingers. He inhaled. You were slumped back against the bookcase, that smile still over your face. Goose shuffled over and sat beside you. He kept staring at you. You were wearing your sunglasses but I could tell from the tilt of your head you were sleeping.

‘Fuck Lucy,’ Ian said, letting the smoke crawl out with his speech. ‘I don’t even care about her and her tits. She never even let me touch them.’ He held the cigarette out. Goose took it without shifting his gaze from you.

‘Younger girls are more fun.’ Ian lifted Angela’s hand and kissed it like a gentleman.

‘Is that right?’ she said.

That’s when Ian and Angela started kissing. I turned away again. All I could make out was the wet popping and peeling of lips. Angela moaned. The bookcase wobbled. A hardback of
Pride and Prejudice
tipped onto its side. The smoke was giving me a headache. I shut my eyes.

Then Angela said, ‘I’m bored, let’s go get some food,’ and climbed to her feet. She must have used the bookshelf to balance because it wobbled again and this time
Pride and Prejudice
slipped from the shelf, landing corner first on my knee. I huddled up against the wall, over by History, trying to rub the pain away.

You appeared one by one, stumbling down the aisle to the fire escape. Ian was holding Angela’s hand. Goose was holding yours. You spilt out through the doorway into the playground.

Your laughter grew quieter and quieter and quieter. Then it disappeared.

I waited in the library till the bell sounded. Then I went to English. Ian and Goose didn’t show up. They must have stayed with you and Angela. Miss Hayes didn’t show up either. The rest of us waited fifteen minutes, then left. The rule (for our year at least) is that if a teacher hasn’t shown up for class within fifteen minutes, the class is allowed to leave. I’m pretty sure this is not an actual Skipdale High rule.

I went to Miss Hayes’ office. The door was closed. I knocked but there was no answer. I checked the car park – her car was still there.

I went and knocked again.

‘What?’

I told her it was me. I asked if I could come in. She didn’t say no so after a few seconds I entered.

Miss Hayes was at her desk. Her mascara had run, gathering in the wrinkles under her eyes. I asked if she was OK but she didn’t respond. I took my usual seat.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

I told her I’d come for our meeting. I’d missed the last one because I was absent, I was sick, and for that I apologised.

Miss Hayes laughed. Not a proper laugh, just a single ‘Ha’. She stared at her hands, one holding the other on her lap. She’d placed her engagement ring in the middle of the desk.

‘I guess you’ve heard the rumours,’ she said. ‘You’re here to see if they’re true.’

I shook my head. I told Miss Hayes I had come for me. I needed her help. I asked if she had any new theories.

‘What’s the point?’ she said. ‘I’ll sit here and try to help you and you’ll sit there and won’t say a word.’

I didn’t know what to say to that so I just sat there and didn’t say a word.

‘Have you even read any of those books I lent you?’

I stared at her engagement ring.

‘Thought not.’

I wanted to show Miss Hayes my journal. Show her how I’ve used it. Show her how it’s so filled with words that the pages can’t take it any more. Show her how the spine is so cracked and worn I have to hold it together with an elastic band. I wanted to explain that it didn’t matter if I answered or not when she spoke to me, that it was OK for us to just sit in silence.

But I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the desk.

‘Just go away,’ Miss Hayes said.

So I did.

This morning as I came down for breakfast Mum was kneeling on the dining-room window seat, splitting the blinds with her thumb and finger. She was shaking her head.

‘Have you seen this?’ she said. ‘Have you seen it?’

I didn’t need to split the blinds. Even through the frosted glass of the porch I could make out the outline of the seven-foot inflatable Father Christmas Artie Sampson had erected on his front path. It grinned proudly. It nodded in the breeze. I wondered how he’d get his car in and out of the garage.

‘We all agreed,’ Mum said, ‘but he just couldn’t stick to it, could he?’