Butterfly Fish (36 page)

He inched closer, voice deep and full of wry humour he said, “How was it?”

“Fucking great,” I murmured, spent, as if having a near death sexual escapade was ticked of my to do list. He was striking in the light, tall and wiry. Locks grazed his shoulders; the deep, golden skin he'd inherited from his Maori father glowed. Slightly slanted dark brown eyes crinkled easily and seemed to watch you even when he wasn't looking in your direction.

We sat on the balcony in our underwear, smoking spliffs to quieten the roar inside, listening to dog howls ricocheting through the night air. I didn't ask about the wispy lock of brown hair in the bathroom cabinet that didn't belong to me, or the blue false nail studded with blinking white stones breathing beneath the bed. I didn't ask about why his tongue tasted of alcohol in the morning sometimes. He closed his bloodshot eyes, took a pull from the spliff, as if he was silently communicating with the red dog snapping in the distance, making it's way towards us. He turned towards me, New Zealand accent thick. “Do you know what happened to the gold lady's ring in my bottom drawer?” I held my hand out, he passed the spliff. I took a draw, watching smoke curling in the sudden tension. “Never seen it.” My silent fury had escaped from the confines of the false nail. The red dog bearing bloodshot eyes paused to eat it. The bed sheet wrapped around me slipped beneath my inverted breast, already turning in the carnage of items on the bedroom floor.

In that weird, smoggy state between being half asleep and awake, I watched Anon from my comfortable position on the double bed. Rangi lay curled in the opposite direction, lilac sheet tangled between us and one leg half-flung over the duvet. He breathed rhythmically, chest rising and falling, making small sounds that were an odd combination of snoring and whistling. Anon stood by the stash of
record sleeves, old albums of Jimi Hendrix, Marvin Gaye and The Shangri-Las and began rummaging through clothes strewn on the floor, lifting empty glasses of wine and the small atlas on the drawer to collect a torn, wrinkled piece of paper she stashed in my bag.

Rangi adjusted himself, making the mattress groan. Her hand stilled over his black smartphone, eyes daring me to make a sound. Sweat began to pop on my brow and the room became hazy. Rangi turned again, back muscles exposed. How could he sleep through this? She stood then in the light angling from the balcony, arms outstretched. I sat up, my heart beats loud, her accented voice in the space between them. Something in the air changed. Outside, two cats mating screamed. The water pipes whistled.

I stood up, hypnotised, longing for my rough stones and the reassuring swell in my throat from swallowing. Maybe she hadn't been looking for something. Maybe she'd been leaving something behind. We swapped mouths. Then she was holding the baby from the road, its yellow Skittles packet dropped to the floor silently. She began to feed it Rangi's missing ring. It smiled happily. The ribbons from the tub became bloody baby footprints on the hardwood floor. I listened for Rangi through the din threatening to swallow me. I knew the day after; he'd wear his animal mask to prowl after me in the dark. I stumbled around, longing for his sly-eyed penis to split me in two, for his semen to be a rushing river chasing oddly shaped stones.

Incision

A mouse's red head spun the day I met Rangi. Coincidentally, on my way out, the dead mouse lay just beyond my thick, brown welcome mat. It was mid movement, body arched, fearful final expression frozen. I swept it up quickly; holding my nose, already mummifying, a chalky residue coated its frame. I imagined its tiny head spinning in the afterlife, sneering at its previous attempts at living. I wondered about the versions of me doing the same thing, raising their heads above margins and shaking in disappointment, changing their expressions in slanted, translucent ceilings, watching small men made of debris limp away into the distance.

All morning I'd had a sick feeling of dread in my stomach and a bitter taste in my mouth I'd tried to wash down with two cups of peppermint tea and an out-of-date croissant. I'd padded around the flat, shutting windows against whistling that snuck in, then opening the windows again to release them. I'd have to talk to the centre about these medications they had me on that made me feel like a stranger in my own body, made me forget things.

I was sure of it. No, I wasn't sure of it, it wasn't the medications. It was me. I was the problem. Medications were there to help. Why couldn't I see that? Why couldn't I see it was for my own good? Why did I always have to ruin things with negativity?

Six o'clock that morning I'd sat up in bed listening to a scuttling in the ceiling, t-shirt damp from cold sweat, I shivered, willing myself to change. The scuttling continued. Maybe it had been the mouse trying to escape the death that awaited it in muted afternoon light. As my doppelgangers angled their bodies over a darkening skyline, the mouse's last expression reassembled in their stomachs.

Each borough had a local paper or magazine. Since my mother died, now and again, I'd scan the births, deaths and marriages sections, pen in hand jotting down names that caught my interest. Photography work was slow and it was another risky income stream. Suitably dressed in a black, knee length dress, green-eyed lizard brooch pinned to my breast, low kitten heels and twists curbed into a neat bun, netted navy hat perched on my head, I arrived at the service at St Mathew's church in Bow fifteen minutes late.

The wrought iron gates creaked loudly. Amongst the crackling, golden leaves on the short grey flight of steps, a crumpled twenty pound note jumped. A red line drawn over the queen's mouth was the inky ripple leaves curled into before shooting off in different directions. I grabbed the twenty, stuffing it inside the sleek leather bag on my shoulder. Tall, dark wooden doors were flung open and the hymn being sung was loud enough to muffle the sound of my heels clicking. A statue of Mary in the hallway stood before a painting of the last supper. Mary had no tongue. In the painting, her moist, pink tongue was on a platter, darting with the weight of things it had to say. I kissed Mary on her cold forehead, watched her hands change colour from grey to brown. Suddenly it was my mother standing before a last supper, arms outstretched, past scenes crumbling on her fingers into dust trying to communicate with no tongue.

I spotted the cloakroom at the far end of the hallway. Through the glass the jackets were neatly hung, sleeves lined up against each other as if they were an army of lockstepping men, while the bodies of the dead turned in red wine. The priest intoned in Latin. An
adrenaline rush hit my limbs at high speed. I never knew what to expect in these situations. Anything could happen. The important thing was to act as naturally as possible and to get the business end taken care of quickly.

I entered the cloakroom, took my jacket off, keeping one eye on the entrance. I rummaged through the pockets of coats dangling an invitingly short distance away. The beauty of it was, people left all kinds of things in their coats; jewellery, old photos, condoms. Once, I'd found torn lace panties.

The priest spoke again, his voice a calm, soothing accompaniment to the pilfering happening in the cloakroom. Anon continued to instruct me quietly and my sweaty fingers became assured in those foreign pockets. I stuffed cash, credit cards, a watch and a red ruby stoned ring into my bag. Somebody in the service dropped a coin; I heard its slow roll on the smooth marble floor.

I buckled my bag shut, left the cloakroom closing the door gently behind me.

The service was half full, I wandered in quietly, coiled tension in my back slowly dissipating. A grey haired, middle-aged lady at the front nodded at me. I nodded back solemnly fingering the new found silence of the coin I'd scooped on my way in. The wooden pews were deep, still holding the prayers and confessions of sinners long gone. Sunlight glimmering through the scene on the stained glass window behind the pulpit gave it an ethereal glow. From the window Jesus had lost his strides in the sound of a truck pulling up on a nearby street. I heard the key turning in its stiff lock, the quiet purring of the engine cooling down.

Miss Argyle, whoever she was had friends in death. One woman in the pew to my left wiped tears from her eyes, another clutched her handbag so tightly, her knuckles strained against the skin. Somebody at the pulpit was giving an impassioned dedication. On the walls the carvings of saints leaned forward, burial soil softening in their mouths. From the bright window Jesus armed with an orange tongue would have to borrow legs from somebody he'd once forgiven.

I sensed him before I saw him. Something in the air changed, a shift I couldn't quite identify. My neck became warm. My skin tingled. The smell of an earthy-scented aftershave filled my nostrils. I adjusted in my seat as the pew behind me creaked from somebody leaning back. Curious, I turned to see a lean, exotic looking man tucking a slither of silver Rizla paper into his pocket. His locked, wavy hair was tied back. He had on black jeans and a dark tweed jacket that had seen better days but was oddly stylish. His broad nostrils flared. He placed one long finger over his lips, pointed forward, indicating for me to mind my business. Liquid light brown eyes twinkled in amusement. In that moment, he seemed changeable. As if he could inch forward and his bull's head would sprout over the subdued din or his crow hand would cover my breast and flick against its inverted nipple.

As the service rolled on, the tightness in my chest returned, an angular rip that was haemorrhaging. And suddenly I was back at my mother's funeral, amongst a cluster of mourners looking for all intents and purposes a little relieved they weren't the ones being lowered into the ground. Mervyn had wiped his tears away while people's condolences swirled in my head, sentences that broke and re emerged as small wasp-like creatures, fluttering their wings between rapid eye movement.
I'm so sorry. This is unexpected. How will you cope?

A woman's coat flapped against slender legs encased in black tights. The white hyena in the sky bore down ready to swallow the scent whole so I gave it the wasps in my head. People looked into the rectangular chasm in the ground, as if their own eyes would mirror back the change of season. I spilled soil on the casket. It popped open. My mother sat up at the far right end of the silky ivory interior, picking the hem of her skirt, threads dangling out of the casket. I crawled towards her, stretching my hand at her face as it blurred and redefined itself.
There's no room for two here
. She said that in a dry, accented tone that flooded me with familiarity. I pressed my head against her chest, listening to the sound of taps running,
of warm bath water spilling. The casket was damp; I began to feel around for a leak.

Then I patted my body down for leakage.

Then I was swept into Mervyn's arms.

Then I was silently screaming, holding onto the shuddering of his shoulders, pressing my fingers against distorted shards of light.

At the party afterwards, held in a separate room that boasted large stained glass windows and an ornate mural ceiling I watched the man hiding the sliver of silver from the corner of my eye. He moved easily, interacting with other mourners. Kids ran in and out, small mountains of food dwindled. People talked about the dead woman as if she'd never made a mistake. Maybe they did this subconsciously, affected by being in God's house.
How did you know Abbie?
The inevitable question cropped up repeatedly. I made stories up on the spot, wondering how I'd ever explain to Dr Krull the strange comfort I got from attending the funerals of others, telling myself most people wouldn't realise they'd been robbed until they'd driven off and arrived at their next destination. The fleshy bodies turning in red wine began to lose their heads. I kept my eye on the exit in case I needed to bolt. Stones rolled in my bag for comfort and as part of an escape plan.

He finally approached me carrying an empty beverage bottle. The air between us was thick with promise. When he spoke it was like being knocked over unexpectedly, a kick in the gut, a rush of warmth flooded my skin.

“I didn't know her,” he murmured unapologetically. “The dead woman” he continued, smiling at the bewildered expression on my face.

I raised my shoulders to release tension. “Oh, why would you attend the funeral of somebody you don't know? It's deceitful,” I said. He looked me in the eye knowingly, an unsettling tight expression on his face. “I followed you in here. You walk like a woman I
once knew in Haiti. I'm sorry for your loss,” he offered, just a hint of mockery in his voice.

“Thank you,” I answered, surprised by the pangs of sorrow I felt.

He rummaged inside his jacket, fished out something. “You dropped this by the way.” He handed me the £20 from the steps. The Queen's silent expression had subtly darkened. “Hey! I put that in my bag.”

“Ah, you're not the only one with tricks. Come on, there's an interesting crypt space downstairs. I'll show you, don't make a scene.”