Die of Shame (16 page)

As always, walking through the front door, Chris breathes the house in and it feels as though he’s twelve or thirteen again. Somewhere round there, anyway. The smell is enough to do it every time – furniture polish and boiled vegetables – and some part of him wants to bolt straight up the stairs, slam the bedroom door behind him and listen to Eminem or Chemical Brothers, good and loud.

Some Pink, maybe, if he was in a very different mood. Or Christina Aguilera. The stuff his mates had never known he liked.

Back then, his mother would have been shouting at him from the foot of the stairs, urging him to turn the racket down. Now, she just beams at him and reaches out to pull him to her skinny chest, and again it’s the smell that transports him.

Pears soap and moisturising cream from the market; that hairspray that makes his nose tickle.

She’s no more than a few years older than Robin, Chris thinks, but Jesus, it looks like an awful lot more. Clean living is one thing, but working as hard as she has for so long has caught up with her good and proper. Thirty years running around after Chris’s father, cooking two hot meals a day, washing and cleaning for him and still managing to work part time doing much the same for other people, a few miles up the road in Greenwich or Blackheath. It’s worn her down…
he’s
worn her down, and Chris doubts that she’d have the strength to shout up those stairs any more, even less chase after him. His hand moves softly across her shoulder blades, then he pulls away for fear of squeezing her too tight.

‘Are you hungry, love?’ She turns and walks towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge.’

Course she has.

‘Soon warm them up for you, if you like.’

He says, ‘That’d be great, Mum,’ and goes through to the lounge to wait. He drops on to the settee, spreads his palms out and strokes the familiar brown velour. The room hasn’t changed any more than anywhere else and he wonders if his
Gladiator
and
X-Men
posters are still on the walls of the box room at the back of the house.

Nobody was to know it wasn’t actually the movies he liked, of course. He’s not even sure he knew, not back then. He smiles, remembering a conversation with Heather about it. He’d told her that he wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed and she’d made him laugh by talking about the mess Wolverine would make of the sheets.

From the kitchen, his mother asks if he wants tea with his dinner and he tells her that he does. Dinner at lunchtime, tea at dinner time. Something else he left behind.

‘I’ve got some of those mini trifles in,’ she shouts. ‘From Sainsbury’s.’

Somehow, his mother appears to have found room for even more of the hideous china figurines she loves. They are carefully arranged on the mantelpiece above the coal-effect gas fire and on top of the television. Dogs, horses, milkmaids. He knows she’ll have dusted every one of them this morning, right before getting the vacuum out. A flurry of activity in between clearing the breakfast things away and settling down in front of
This Morning
, or that show with the bald bloke who chases after scam artists and cowboy builders. He knows she’s got a soft spot for him.

She brings his food in on a thin wooden tray and sits in the armchair opposite to watch him eat. Gammon and mashed potatoes, runner beans and parsley sauce. Chris gets stuck in.

‘You’ve missed your dad,’ she says.

He grunts, mouth full.

‘You should say when you’re coming, love. Shame to come all this way and not see him.’

Chris nods and swallows. He doesn’t make the journey back to Plumstead very often, not for six months or more, but when he does he is always careful to come at a time when his father won’t be at home. He knows very well that at this time of day the old man will be happily ensconced in the pub, talking nonsense to his mates and blowing every penny of his pension, as well as any other bits he’s managed to pick up cash in hand, doing odd jobs or getting lucky at the bookie’s.

His mum is different, though; careful with what little she gets. His mum has always salted money away.

‘It’s difficult,’ he says. ‘I never know when I’m going to get time off, you know.’

‘Work has to come first,’ his mum says.

‘Unfortunately.’

He carries on eating. He can’t remember when he last ate anything like this, the last time a meal came on a plate.

‘You been to see your brother?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Not at all?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a shame.’ She watches him, smiling, her eyes following the fork as it moves from the plate to his mouth. ‘Me and your dad can’t really get up there. The cost and what have you, and it’s such a long way. I mean, we talk to him on the phone, obviously.’ She leans forward to straighten papers and magazines on the coffee table. The
Daily Mirror
, the
TV Times
,
Puzzler
. ‘I think a few of his mates visit from time to time, but it’s not the same as family, is it?’

Chris doesn’t look up. ‘I don’t really want to go.’

She nods, but it’s apparent that she’s not really listening. ‘I suppose that’s because of work as well, is it? You’re so busy and everything.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I saw one of your things on TV the other night,’ she says. ‘That one about the scientist. The one that’s handicapped, with the funny voice. That was one of yours, wasn’t it? Your producing company.’

‘Production company.’

‘I thought it was,’ she says. ‘I told your dad.’

‘We’ve just finished working on another film with that same actor,’ Chris says.

‘Him that played the scientist?’

‘And we might be getting involved with the next Tom Cruise film. It’s all in the early stages at the moment, you know. A bit up in the air. Endless bloody meetings.’

She sits back and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know… all these film stars you must get to knock about with and you haven’t once brought one of them round.’

‘I’ll have a word with Tom Cruise.’

She laughs. ‘Can you imagine?’

Chris laughs. ‘You never know.’ He holds up his fork. ‘He might be a big fan of gammon and mash.’

‘Seriously, can you imagine though? The neighbours would go bananas.’ As if the thought has prompted her to check on the houses opposite for some reason, she gets up and walks to the window. She stares out and watches a car pull up. ‘Who’s that, then?’ Satisfied that it’s nobody of any interest, she walks back to her chair. ‘You still in the same flat?’

Chris nods, busily polishing off what little is left on his plate.

‘I showed those pictures to one of the women I clean for. Over near the observatory, remember? She said it looked amazing.’

‘I’ve actually done it up a bit since then,’ Chris says. He had brought the pictures over last time he had visited. Stills from an article in a magazine he’d found in some waiting room or other.

‘We’ll have to come and visit one of these days.’

‘I’m never there,’ Chris says. ‘That’s the problem. All the travelling’s getting on my nerves, tell you the truth.’

‘I can’t remember the last time we went up west,’ she says. ‘Probably when you got us tickets to that show, remember?’

Chris nods, struggling to remember the name of the dancer he’d been seeing at the time. Someone he hadn’t thought about since. A few complimentary tickets to some shitty musical was just about all the tedious little wanker had been good for.

He leans forward and puts the tray on the table. ‘That was great. Thanks, Mum.’

‘You sure you’ve had enough?’

Chris lies back and pats his belly. He groans happily, then sits up as though he’s just thought of something. ‘Oh, listen, Mum.’ He looks at her; she’s still smiling. ‘I don’t suppose you could loan me a bit of cash, could you? Just fifty or something, and I’ll send you a cheque or whatever.’

His mother’s smile fades and she reaches down for the handbag next to her chair. She lifts it on to her lap. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘With films on the telly and all that. I probably said that last time, didn’t I?’

‘I thought I’d explained.’ He leans towards her, shaking his head. ‘It’s all about cash flow. You know what cash flow is, right?’ He doesn’t wait for her to say that she doesn’t. ‘It’s the way a company like mine works, how all the decent companies work. As soon as the money comes in from one project, we invest it in another. It’s always tied up in the company, that’s the problem. You see what I’m saying?’

She nods, but she has already taken out her purse and is staring into it. She says, ‘I don’t think I can, love.’

‘It’s only fifty. Or whatever you can spare, you know.’

‘I know, but everything’s spoken for, see?’ She prods a finger inside the purse, as though hoping to find some notes she didn’t know were in there. ‘There’s what I put away for the holiday every week, and the shopping, and we’ve just had the gas bill come in. It’s a bad time, you know? I’m so sorry, love.’ She shakes her head, and when she finally snaps the purse shut she looks devastated.

‘Don’t worry,’ Chris says. He sits back again and tries to look as though he’s already forgotten asking, but he can only think about his old man pissing fifty pounds up the wall in some pub in Torquay or Weston-super-Mare and how much those stupid figurines cost and the seven quid he’s wasted on tube and bus fares to get here.

‘Next week, maybe. If you still need it.’

‘It’s fine.’ Probably a fiver apiece. Each of those ugly milkmaids and poxy poodles.

They sit in silence for half a minute, then his mother stands up and bends to pick up the tray. Holding it, she looks down at him. ‘Now then,’ she says. ‘What about one of those trifles?’

Learning to budget was something else you needed to do during recovery. A new and important skill to master. After all, being sensible about making your resources go where they should was rarely a pressing issue when you were using.

Twenty pounds to cover food and buy heroin: spend it all on heroin.

Ten pounds to buy food: spend it all on heroin.

Heather has become fiendishly efficient when it comes to budgeting. Not only does she make sure to allocate enough of her benefit money to cover essentials, she makes sure she allocates
exactly
enough. This amount covers food and bills, but also includes treats: chocolate, magazines, the occasional takeaway. Once all those things are covered, the last thing she wants or needs is money left over.

However committed you are to resisting it, temptation is always best avoided.

She had got everything sorted: rent, bills, the lot. She had worked out every last penny that would be needed to get the things for the party she had spent so many hours agonising over. It was all going to be perfect and now sodding Caroline has come along and spoiled everything by being nice.

Heather walks into the shop, still frantically doing her sums, trying to rejuggle things. Why does someone always have to stick their oar in and screw her plans up at the last minute? This is something she has been looking forward to for days – moving slowly through the shop, crossing things off her list as she goes – but now she’s nervous and sweaty, because this isn’t the way things had been supposed to go.

She has too much money to spend.

‘I’m really happy to help,’ Caroline had said. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘It’s fine, honestly. I’ve made a list.’

‘Yeah, but why pay for stuff when you can get it for free?’ Caroline had explained that the supermarket where she worked gave away loads of food to their staff at the end of the week; gave it away or sold it to them for next to nothing. ‘I can get all sorts of stuff,’ she’d said. ‘Sausage rolls, mini quiches, all the usual party food, you know? I mean some of it might be a day or two past its sell-by date, but it’s fine, I promise.’

What could Heather say?

I don’t want your shitty free food.
I’ve made a list!

It’s a big place, and open until very late; not quite as cheap as Lidl or Aldi would be, but a damn sight cheaper than the fancier supermarkets and only five minutes’ walk from her flat. It’s run by a Turkish family. There are two married couples, or maybe they’re all brothers and sisters, Heather has never quite worked it out, but they’re friendly and they always talk to her when she comes in. How’s life, the weather, all that.

One of the men waves to her from behind the till. She smiles at him and grabs a basket, then walks quickly out of sight into the first aisle.

‘I can come along early if you like,’ Caroline had said. ‘Help you get everything set up. We’ll have a laugh.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ Heather had stopped listening by then. She had already begun to panic, started recalculating.

She walks slowly up the first aisle. She has no intention of buying any cleaning products or kitchen towel, but she never misses an aisle out. Up one, then turn and down the next; it’s the way she always does it. The basket is still empty, but it feels heavy already and she knows that in all likelihood she will require several. It’s just drinks, basically. Soft drinks and a few balloons. There’s nothing else she needs to get now, thanks to bloody Caroline.

One of the Turkish women, sister or wife, is kneeling at the top of the aisle, busy with a pricing gun. She nods as Heather walks past.

‘You shop for your party?’

Heather grunts and turns the corner, in no mood to talk. Why had she been so stupid as to mention it last time she’d been in? She’d been excited, that was why, eager to let the woman know what she’d be doing next time she came into the shop. She should have known that something would happen to balls it all up. Something almost always does.

She slows at the drinks section and takes a good long look at the shelves. She might as well put some thought into what little she can get.

She loads Coke and Diet Coke into the basket, two large bottles of each. She picks out some fancy fruit juices in cartons – mango, guava, peach – and some weird-sounding cordial in a funny-shaped bottle. She carries the basket across to the till, picks up an empty one and goes back into the aisle again. She fills the basket with bottles of water, fizzy and still, and piles on a few random cans of drinks she’s never heard of.

She goes back to the till again for a third basket. She might as well make it look as though she has a lot to buy.

The man at the till says, ‘You live far?’

Heather looks at him. What the hell does he want to know that for?

‘Is a lot to carry.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Heather moves away into the next aisle. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

There’s not much, a lot less than there’d be in Tesco or whatever, but she knows exactly where everything is. She’d mapped out her route last time she was in the shop. Now she heads for the section she had planned to leave until last.

Balloons, hats, a banner. At least Caroline doesn’t get any of this stuff for nothing. It’s probably the only fun Heather’s going to have.

Why shouldn’t she have fun? It’s her birthday, for God’s sake, her party.

She picks out half a dozen hats and a big bag of assorted balloons. These are definitely going to be down to her. She looks at the different shapes in the bag, presses her thumb against them through the plastic and remembers what Chris calls Caroline. She allows herself a smile.

Moby Dick wouldn’t have enough breath to blow up a condom.
 

Carrying her final basket back to the till, she decides that she’ll make the banner. They haven’t got one anyway, but she’ll get out her felt-tips later and make something far better than anything she’d be able to buy. Something that will be the first thing people see when they come in. Something that’s going to attract far more attention than old sausage rolls and mini quiches.

‘Finished?’ The man comes round from behind the till and heaves up the first basket. He begins ringing up the various bottles, talking as he passes each one across the scanner, but Heather isn’t really taking any of it in.

She’s looking at the display next to the till. She has too much money and she cannot take her eyes off the large plastic dispenser and the rows of brightly coloured cards.

Lucky Doubler. Super 7s. Cash Cow.

The owner of the shop comes round for her second basket.

Heather is suddenly thinking of all the things she could buy that would really make her party one to remember. A decent music system for a kick-off and fantastic presents for all her guests. She could forget all about mouldy supermarket food if she had enough cash to go on holiday somewhere decent, or get herself a car, maybe.

‘Anything else?’

She hears him, but his voice is coming from a long way away, and the fact that her heart is dancing in her chest might be terror or might be excitement, but she tells herself that it doesn’t really make a lot of difference and none of this is her fault anyway.

She tells herself that she can afford it.

She points at one of the scratch cards. It has pound signs and coloured balls and smiley faces.

‘I’ll have twenty-five of them…’