Alice and the Fly (15 page)

You lifted the cigarette to your mouth.

‘Look,’ you murmured. ‘You’re meant to hold it in your lungs. Right? I’ll show you the proper way. You ready?’

You placed the cigarette to your lips and closed your eyes. The end flared, your neck flexed. You opened your mouth into an O. The faintest wisp of smoke spilt out into the air, just for a second, before you sucked it back down inside. And then time stopped. You froze. You didn’t breathe. Your mouth remained O. Your eyes were shut, so pale and naked without their lashes. Slowly smoke reappeared, crawling from inside you, out into the air around us.

You smiled.

‘See?’

I scanned the park. You told me to relax. You said your brother’s an asshole, he’d be off playing on the railway line by now. My coat-sleeve was muddy and my hands were scratched from the hedge. My palm was bleeding again, that burn from your cigarette that just won’t heal. I was shivering. Scraps bounded off across the field, chasing a flock of pigeons. They scattered into the air.

You passed me the cigarette and I took a drag. It was easier the second time but there was no way I could hold it inside for as long as you had. After less than a second it all came spluttering out.

I remembered I was still wearing your sunglasses and apologised and passed them to you. You slipped them on.

You said, ‘You probably think it’s pretty weird, me always wearing these …’

I shook my head.

‘Everyone does. They call me “Miss Cool”.’

‘You look like Audrey Hepburn,’ I said, ‘in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.’

You said you hadn’t seen it.

‘You have to.’

But by then you’d stopped listening. You were frowning. I couldn’t tell what you were frowning at because you were wearing your sunglasses. You leant forward, towards me. You reached for my eyes, just as your brother had, only this time I didn’t flinch or back away. I pressed my feet into the grass to stop the rocking of the swing. You stroked the underside of my eyelid and gently withdrew your hand. There was a single eyelash curled over your fingertip.

You held it out to me.

‘Make a wish,’ you said.

I didn’t know what you were saying. I was too busy staring, my reflection staring back from the lenses of your sunglasses. You were still frowning.

‘You have to blow and make a wish,’ you said. ‘Each of your eyelashes is a wish. Don’t you know that?’

So I did as you said. I closed my eyes and blew and when I opened them again your finger was bare. You put your hand back into your pocket. You turned from my gaze to scan the park, the backs of the houses.

You turned back to me, frowning again.

‘I have to go.’

You picked up your bag and stood from the swing.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘I’ll see you around.’

You hurried across the field to your house, your feet patting the wet grass. You reached the hedge and called out to Scraps before disappearing down the side of the shed. Scraps glanced back once and followed. I kept waiting for you to look back but you didn’t.

I stubbed the cigarette out and stood to leave. It was only then that I noticed your father, staring down from your bedroom window.

So its the middle of the night and Im huddled in bed and from the weight of my head Im certain Im sleeping when suddenly a sound like taptaptap comes from the glass of my fireescape window and at first I try to ignore the sound try to keep my eyes shut try to pretend Im asleep but as the sound persists I cant help but wake cant help but sit up cant help but notice you out in the darkness your palm against the glass your breath white and shivering in the silver glaze of moonlight and at first Im confused and a little scared because it can be a little scary and confusing to wake in the night with someones face at the window but as you raise your hand and tap once more and fix those wideblue eyes upon me all my fear and confusion subsides and turns within my stomach and I see that smile that smile and all I want is to let you in to peel back that wall of doubleglazed glass between us and admit you into the safety of my room into the softwarmness of my bed however as I reach for my fireescape windowhandle I find the windowhandle hard and immovable and my fireescape window fixed and unopenable and lockeduptight and of course my fireescape window is lockeduptight my fireescape window has been lockeduptight for years my fireescape window has been lockeduptight ever since that incident with the paragliding one of
THEM
and so as I scramble out of bed to my videoshelf to retrieve the windowkey from my
Brief Encounter
videocase to peel back the wall of doubleglazed glass between us and admit you into the softwarmness of my bed you can imagine my shock and horror to find the videocase completely sealed in a prettymuchimpenetrable layer of crinkled brown parceltape my frustration when I cant seem to be able find any kind of seam from which I can peel back the parceltape my desperation as the taptaptapping resumes and I glance up and see you there still with those eyes fixed upon mine still with that smile that smile and all I can do is tell you that Im sorry Im sorry but not to worry not to worry Ill soon have the videocase open Ill soon have the windowkey Ill soon peel back that wall of doubleglazed glass between us and admit you into the softwarmness of my bed and everything will be OK everything will be OK everythingwillbeOK but to be honest Im not entirely sure everything will be OK in fact Im not entirely sure you can even hear me because afterall the windows doubleglazed and Im speaking fairly quietly so as not to wake any of my family and your face isnt showing any sign of having heard me and is still fixed in that same vacant smile and small white flakes of snow are now drifting through the darkness settling on your hair your dressing gown the black rubber toes of your Wellington boots and youre shivering and still tapping at the window still waving and so when I do finally discover a seam in the parceltape seal of the
Brief Encounter
videocase you can imagine my relief as well as my urgency and frustration when I set about peeling and peeling and peelingpeelingpeeling only to find that there seems to be no end to the parceltape that no matter how much I peel the parceltape just keeps on going on and on layer after layer like some kind of passtheparcel parceltape nightmare gathering in reams like an enormous parceltape snake coiled on my prettymuchimpenetrable bedroom floor and so as another taptaptap comes from the glass of my fireescape window I glance up and see that the snows coming down heavy now your shivering growing into a shaking and all I want with every ounce of my soul is to unlock that window to peel back the glass to let the ovenwarmth of my bedroom settle upon you to hold and hold and hold you in the softwarmness of my bed but no matter how much parceltape I tear from my
Brief Encounter
videocase I just cant seem to get inside to that key that tiny bit of metal Ive kept hidden away for so long without ever thinking it would be so important and unobtainable and Im clawing at the parceltape now and biting at it and Im sweating and my hands are sticking to the hot wet plastic and your shaking is growing into more of a rattling and your taptaptapping more of a knockknockknocking on account of the layer of ice thats hardened over your knuckles and each time I look up at your everwhitening face youre still smiling with those everwhitening lips that smile that smile that smile and Im screaming now screaming for help from anyone who can help but theres not a sight nor sound from the rest of my family and Im trying to get the box open really I am but I cant get the box open I cant get it open and your face is frosting over like one of the pig heads in Hamptons freezer and Im smashing the
Brief Encounter
videocase against my videoshelf and Im hurling the case to the ground and stamping on it and Im on my knees clawing at it and finally as I claw through the plastic your banging halts your skin white as snow your hair frozen into solid curls of ice and as I tear back the broken box with my hot and bleeding fingers all I find is
THEM
hundreds of
THEM
thousands of
THEM
spilling from the shattered shards of plastic wriggling through my fingers spreading across my bedroom floor and

The shop was empty when I arrived. Charlie and the Vultures don’t get there till 08:30 but your father and Phil are usually at their block first thing, slicing steaks for the counter. I checked the kitchen, the toilet, even the freezer at the back but there was no sign of anybody.

My first job was to empty last night’s fat from the chicken oven. I dragged out the fat-tray, scraped the contents into the green plastic bucket and hauled it out the back to the bins. There was Phil, sitting on the steps in the alley, smoking, counting a wad of £20 notes. He scrambled to his feet, forcing the wad down the front of his jeans. He laughed when he realised it was me.

‘Gave me a heart attack.’

I lifted the lid off the fat-bin. Phil said your father had gone to the abattoir to pick up the Christmas turkeys. I tipped the bucket. I had to turn from the smell as the fat glugged out, slapping and spreading a new surface. Phil scratched his neck. He glanced over at the empty car park. He kept one hand on the buckle at the front of his jeans.

‘Do you know what happens to that?’ He nodded at the fat.

I glanced into the bin, then back to Phil. I shook my head.

‘It’s taken to the rendering plant,’ he said, ‘recycled. Used in glue and chemicals and stuff. Makeup, too. That’s why when your bird wakes up in the morning she’s always covered in spots – all the grease in the makeup.’

I shook the bucket, watching the last few lumps slip into the bin.

‘Did you know that?’

I shook my head. I slid the lid back and turned to the shop. Phil was blocking the doorway.

He rubbed his chin.

‘You won’t tell anyone,’ he said. ‘About me being out here?’

I shook my head again.

He looked up to the sky. He clawed his neck with his nails. The fat-bucket was sticky. It smelt like rotten chicken. I wanted to go inside and wash my hands. Phil nodded, slowly. He smiled.

‘Come on then,’ he said, and turned and disappeared inside.

Phil kept his head down the rest of the morning. He didn’t turn on the radio or send me to the bookies or even try to wind up Charlie. I hoped that’s how the day would play out: Phil at his block, me in my kitchen, your father off at the abattoir. Next Saturday’s Boxing Day and Hampton’s is closed and I liked the prospect of going two whole weeks without seeing your father. Then, just as I dragged off my rubber gloves and turned to go to lunch, he appeared in the kitchen doorway. He wasn’t smiling.

He told me to follow him.

There was a van out in the car park, backed up to the alleyway. Your father opened the doors to reveal stacks and stacks of turkey-crates. The turkeys were enormous, especially when you consider that lumpy white carcass is just the torso. Some of those turkey torsos were as big as yours.

‘Grab a crate,’ he said.

They were even heavier than I thought. As I lifted a pain ached, not just in my scarred palm this time, but all the way up my arms and neck to my forehead. Your father pointed out where to stack them, up on the shelves of the big empty freezer. The freezer was misty and layered with ice. I nearly slipped as I hoisted the first turkey-crate. Your father disappeared into the shop. He returned a few minutes later with Phil, leading him past me to the van outside.

I stepped out for another crate. Your father was rummaging through the glove box. He retrieved a bottle of mulled wine – a present from the guys at the abattoir. He poured two mugs and handed one to Phil and they leant against the van, drinking, watching as I shifted the turkey-crates. A couple of times a crate slipped and I had to catch it with my knee and your father told me to be careful not to dirty any turkeys. Hampton’s customers had pre-ordered months in advance and each and every turkey was spoken for.

Phil chewed his lip. He tapped the side of his mug.

‘Let’s give him a hand, eh?’ he said. He was shaking. Sweating. He must have been up all night delivering Christmas trees.

Your father said nothing.

‘Ah, come on,’ Phil said. ‘It’ll be quicker.’ He placed his mug on the roof of the van and stooped to reach inside for a crate.

Your father didn’t help. He probably could have lifted a crate on each shoulder, but instead he just leant against the wall, watching Phil and I struggle up the steps to the freezer. We had to stack the turkey-crates quite tightly to fit them inside, piling them as high as possible. Phil piled his to the left, I piled mine to the right. Slowly the two piles began to join.

We got a system going, taking it in turns to grab a crate from the van. It got to the point where Phil and I only passed each other in the doorway. Where, when I was stacking a crate in the freezer, he was fetching one from the van, and vice versa.

I was out in the van when I heard the screaming. It was a squealing sort of scream. Ear-stabbing. By the time I scrambled out into the alley your father had dropped his mug and disappeared inside.

For a few seconds it was hard to tell what was happening. The freezer was narrow and misty and Phil was thrashing about, fist in the air, blood lining the front of his apron. It was only when he fainted, his body hanging there like a passenger clutching the rail of the bus, that it became clear his arm was caught on a meat hook. Your father took his legs, lifted them over his shoulder. He hoisted Phil hook and all from the freezer and carried him out to the butcher’s block. The hook had pierced the back of Phil’s hand, its tip jutting from his wrist. Your father wrapped Phil’s arm in an apron. Blood steamed from a pool in the freezer. It had trickled down the steps, curling round the grouting of the tiles. One of the Vultures stepped out the back to check what all the commotion was. She squealed, ‘Eeeee!’ and ran back to tell the others.

Your father told me to clean up. Wipe the turkeys and get them back in their crates. He carried Phil to his car and sped off down the carriageway. By the time I got to the blood it had frozen and I had to scrape it away with a knife. I transported the rest of the crates on my own. It took all afternoon. I kept having to stop, leaning against the van to catch my breath. At one point I leant too hard and Phil’s mug of mulled wine toppled from the roof, bouncing from my shoulder and shattering in the alley. I shovelled the shards away and carried on shifting the turkeys.